Berlin: A Novel (61 page)

Not in fine weather,' he told her.

The Arrivals and Departures of American Overseas Airlines were temporarily accommodated in a side area of Tempelhof airfield, which had been two-thirds destroyed. The rest of the space belonged to the US Air Force. Civilian air traffic had resumed two weeks earlier. There were few flights, and they were taken only by relations of the soldiers stationed in Berlin and a few official visitors.

Senator William Bullock was a massive man in a white Stetson. He stood surrounded by reporters, uttering a few platitudes. 'There he is! Hi, Bullie darling!' Waltraud sailed towards the senator with arms outstretched. With great presence of mind, Ashburner turned her round and gently but firmly pressed her down on a seat. 'You don't know the senator,' he quietly informed her. 'He'll come over to you.'

'OK. I get it. So no one notices and tells his old lady.'

They were sitting back to back with two passengers waiting to fly out. 'Hitler's right-hand man a Berlin allotment gardener!' Ashburner heard one of them say behind him. 'They were taking you for a ride, Clarence Preston Brubaker, and a good long ride at that.'

A mistake, Dad. I admit it.'

'If I hadn't flown straight over and told Dick Draycott of UP to check the story out, right now the Hackensack Herald would be the laughing stock of the press. Cost me a pretty packet of dollars getting Draycott to keep his mouth shut, I can tell you.'

'I'm sorry, Dad.'

'You'll be even sorrier when I tell you there'll be no more foreign assignments for you. In future you can stay home and run the Puzzle Corner of the paper.'

'Yes, Dad. Here comes our plane.'

John Ashburner watched with mixed feelings as the silver bird flew in between the ruined buildings at the Neukolln end of the makeshift runway. Ethel had announced that she was coming in a few brief lines. Her letter said not a word about divorce, and without her consent he stood no chance. The laws of Illinois were on Ethel's side. He had not told Jutta that his wife was coming, and he felt very bad about that.

'Don't move until your flight is called,' he told the girl beside him. And stay away from the senator. Have a good journey.' He rose.

All clear. And thank you very much.' Ashburner made off before Waltraud could clasp him gratefully to her opulent bosom.

As he passed, he took a look at father and son. Dad had a fat, jowly face. Brubaker Junior was colourless as a glass of water. The captain opened the newly glazed door of the lounge and stepped out into the open air. Nearby lay the burnt-out skeleton of a four-engined plane. 'The last Lufthansa flight from Barcelona,' a young air-force sergeant told him. A Junkers 290. An incendiary bomb hit it after it landed. That was back in April.'

The DC4, with its port engine roaring, came in under the badly damaged suspended roof of the arrivals area. Two men rolled the steps out. A stewardess appeared at the top of them, looking out over the smoke-blackened remains of the former central airport as if it were a sunny, fairy-tale landscape. With routine civility, she said goodbye to the few passengers who made their way down the steps, then returned to the shelter of the cabin.

Ethel was wearing an old trench coat and an all-weather hat. She never had bothered much about her appearance. 'So there you are.' He took her travelling bag and case.

Are you getting enough to eat?' She had read about the starvation rations in Germany.

'Oh, you can get all you need in the PX. Or I go and eat dinner at the Harnack House.' He put her baggage in the jeep. The day had turned hot. A cloud of dust drifted over from the ruins on Berliner Strasse.

'People really might clean the place up a little better,' she grumbled as they drove through the rubble.

'If the German Luftwaffe had reached Venice you wouldn't talk such nonsense,' he snapped, and realized with surprise that he was defending the city and its inhabitants. He braked, because a horse-drawn cart, laden with rubble, was crossing the road.

'How primitive. Don't they have any trucks?'

'No,' he said crossly. At the same moment he realized that he was showing more hostility with every word he spoke. He changed the subject. 'Tell me, dear, what's new at home?'

'They brought in Jesse Rollins as pitcher for the Chicago Cubs.' Ethel was an admirer of the baseball pros.

'Is Rollins still having a relationship with the mayor's wife?'

'He's having a relationship, yes, but not with Millie Walker.' She giggled as if she had heard a good joke. For the rest of the drive she talked about the neighbours. 'Liz Lunnon's expecting her fourth. Folks say it's not her husband's. Dick and Ella Jarwood are getting divorced - because she wants to leave Venice and he doesn't. Vanessa King's at loggerheads with the mayor. She says America is a free country and she won't take that Lady Chatterley book out of her window.' She chuckled. 'I read it. All that about the gardener fellow sticking flowers everywhere ...'

He listened, and thought of Jutta. Would she be bored in Venice, like the lively Ella? Maybe not if she made friends with Vanessa. She was a bookseller too. But Ethel still stood between them, and so far she hadn't said a word to indicate what she thought of their divorce.

They stopped at the entrance of the US enclave. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' he explained.

'I wept over that story when I was a little girl.'

'I don't mean the book -- it's the name of the U-Bahn station and the area round about, right, Ted?'

'Yes, sir.' The young military policeman grinned and raised the barrier. Ashburner turned right at the corner.

Acacias, how pretty,' she cried, delighted. 'They cut them all down at my parents' in Springfield when the telephone line went underground.'

He carried her case and bag into the bedroom and put them down beside the bed. 'It has clean sheets on it,' he told her, earning an amused glance. 'I'll be sleeping on the sofa next door. Can I make you a coffee or a tea?'

'I'd rather have a drink. Any bourbon here?' She settled comfortably in the armchair, kicked off her flat loafers and stretched her legs uninhibitedly. She reminded him of the athletic, tomboyish high-school girl he'd married ten years earlier.

He poured two whiskeys. 'How was your journey?'

'Endless. The bus to Chicago, then the "Century" to New York. Six hours' flight from New York to Newfoundland. Refuelling in Gander. They have to be full up to reach Shannon in Ireland. That's the shortest way to Europe, the stewardess told us. Ten hours over the Atlantic, just imagine. Not to mention four hours going on to Frankfurt and almost two hours to Berlin.'

'You must be exhausted.'

'I never felt more awake, and I'm ravenously hungry. I'll just shower, and then let's go and have dinner in your Harnack House, OK, Johnny?' That was what she'd called him in the first years of their marriage.

'OK.' He admired her energy.

She was fresh and slightly pink from the shower, which suited her, like the way she'd pinned up her damp, shining brown hair. She wore high heels and a full-skirted summer dress, blue with white spots and a blue bolero. He hadn't seen her look so chic in a long time. She pulled the dress up to her thighs to adjust her suspenders.

Limousines and army vehicles were parked outside the Harnack House. A band was playing inside. 'Capt. & Mrs Ashburner', he wrote in the visitors' book. That was the rule, like showing his ID card. Germans could come in only accompanied by Allies.

Harold Tucker and his wife crossed their path. Myra Tucker was obviously tipsy. All go smoothly at Tempelhof, John?' asked Tucker.

'Yes, sir. This is my wife Ethel. Colonel and Mrs Tucker.'

'Hi, Ethel. Just call me Myra,' babbled Mrs Tucker, seeking support on her shoulder.

'Delighted to meet you, Mrs Ashburner. You and John must visit with us sometime soon,' said the colonel, trying to gloss over the difficult situation. 'Come along, Myra.' He led his swaying spouse away.

'Seems to have a problem, poor woman,' said Ethel dryly.

Ashburner pulled her chair out for her. The waiter brought the menu. They chose veal goulash with rice, and a Rhine wine to drink, with apple tart and vanilla ice to follow. Ethel talked vivaciously about trivialities. When they reached coffee, he couldn't contain himself any longer. 'You did get my letter?'

'Swing, that's great!' she cried, clapping. 'Come on, Johnny!' She led him away from the table to the nearby nightclub. Engineers had converted the horseshoe-shaped auditorium of the Harnack House, turning the rising tiers of seats into terraces with little tables. The bar was at the top. Down below, where Max Planck had once delivered his lectures, they were dancing to swing.

There was a table free by the dance floor. 'Champagne,' she demanded. That was something new, too.

He played along; he had to keep her in a good mood. 'Cheers,' he said, raising his glass to her.

'Cheers, Johnny.' She emptied her own. 'Let's dance again.' He had no choice. Luckily the slow foxtrot kept her high spirits within bounds. But she pressed so close to him that at every step her knee came between his thighs.

'Hey, you're not drinking,' she cried when they were back in their seats. He emptied his glass in a single gulp. Another followed when they returned from the dance floor for the third time, feeling heated, and then another too. On the way home he realized that he had drunk a little too much.

'How about talking now?' he asked in the bedroom.

'Tomorrow, Johnny.' She let her dress slip to the floor beside the bed. She looked very sexy in her suspender belt and panties.

'OK, tomorrow, then.' He took a blanket from the cupboard and went to settle down with it next door.

'Will you help me off with this?' He waited for her to turn round so that he could undo her bra. It fastens in front.' He groped clumsily between her breasts until they leaped out at him. Suddenly it dawned on him that she had planned this all along. Now they were closely intertwined, just as they had been on those hot Sundays at the beginning of their marriage, when they couldn't get enough of each other.

'So what's your new girl like?' she asked later, in the dark. 'I've heard these German girls are good in bed. Congratulations.' She laughed softly. 'Our goodbye fuck, Johnny. I hope it was fun for you. I'm going to Chicago with Jesse Rollins. We want to get married. I came to sort out all that divorce stuff with you.'

'You devil!' He turned her over and took her wildly.

Inge Dietrich wrapped up two sandwiches for her husband. He put them in the briefcase that he strapped to the carrier behind his bike. 'Coming home the same time as usual?'

'I don't know. Don't wait up for me.' He kissed her: his thoughts somewhere else entirely. That indefinable feeling wouldn't let go. A feeling that he'd missed something important. He'd run right into it and never noticed. He had lain awake half the night, searching for something he couldn't grasp. Towards morning the answer had seemed close enough for him to reach out for it, before it ran through his fingers again.

Inge was worried. She knew that the murders of those women pursued him into his dreams. He had taken up the gauntlet thrown down by the sinister killer. To him, it was a man to man fight that he had to win.

She cut bread for the others. It was grey and sticky; the baker had stretched the dough with minced potato peelings. Yesterday she had been to Frau Kalkfurth's for a special ration of syrup made from the waste left after processing sugar beet. Her father trickled the thick, dark brown goo on a slice of bread. 'I'm worried about your husband. He's been asking when the security services firm will be starting up again.'

'He wants to go back to his old job once these dreadful crimes have been solved.'

'I wouldn't if I were him,' the district councillor said. 'If he stays with the CID they'll take him on in the police force officially, and that'll give him pension rights. You have to think of the future.' Hellbich helped himself to another spoonful of syrup.

Ben bit into his second slice of bread and inspected the semi-circle stamped in it by his teeth. There was no more, but that couldn't dampen his high spirits. The suit was waiting for him. In half an hour's time he could take that tailor-made dream home.

His mother appeared in headscarf and jacket. 'The pharmacist has peppermint tea off the ration. It'll make a change from the chestnut coffee, and it's good for the bronchial tubes.' In fact no one in the house had bronchial problems except for her father, who was plagued by a permanent smoker's cough, but she liked to look on the bright side of everything. It was her way of countering the bleak misery of everyday post-war life.

The district councillor reached for his hat. Ralf put his school bag under his arm. 'Coming, Ben?'

'You go ahead,' called his brother from upstairs. From out the window, he saw his grandfather, Ralf and his mother leave the house. He took the suede shoes out of their hiding place. His socks had holes in their left toes, but the shoes hid them. The collar of the shirt he'd worn for his confirmation was two sizes too small and wouldn't do up, but the striped tie from Father's wardrobe held it together at the neck. He tucked the shirt into his trousers and put his sweater over it. He deposited his school bag in the garden shed.