Night Sky (11 page)

It was ten-twenty and David hurriedly finished his meal. The last train might well leave before eleven and it would be stupid to miss it.

Outside the station he waited for a bus to Stettiner Bahnhof. But when none had appeared after five minutes he decided to walk. It would do him good. Anyway the station wasn’t far, just ten minutes’ walk along Invaliden-strasse. He relaxed again. There was plenty of time. He needn’t have worried.

Ellen said he didn’t worry enough, and there was some truth in it. Yet he did worry about things that mattered, like Cecile and her education and her happiness. What he couldn’t see any point in fretting about was money or the cost of living or politics or any of those things.

When David arrived at Stettiner Bahnhof he discovered he had ten minutes to spare. The last train for Hennigsdorf was due to leave at ten-fifty-five.

He sat on a bench to wait. Somehow he had known he would have plenty of time. He often got a feeling about things. He had a feeling about his shortwave research project. He just knew that somehow, somewhere, it would go ahead. It was just a question of waiting and putting his case before the right people. Whether his talk with Doenitz had helped or not he did not know, but it had certainly stirred things up a bit. Schmidt had been purple with anger. David smiled and thought: Well, it can’t do any harm.

The Hennigsdorf train arrived and he got into an empty compartment. Eventually the train drew out and began its slow journey into the suburbs.

David watched the bright lights of the city pass by and considered his project. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was to get the thing off the ground. They all said the idea was impossible. They said that no valve could ever produce the sort of power he needed. True, nothing existed at the moment – but it
could
. It
would
. He would make one.

The train drew into Hennigsdorf and he got out, turning the matter of the valve over in his mind. He went out of the station and automatically turned left towards home. He walked with his head down, deep in thought. At present there were two kinds of valve, the klystron and the magnetron. If he could take the best qualities of both and combine them … keep the magnetron but use a closed resonator …

He was passing a shop and something in the window caught his eye. He looked up. It was a large notice pasted across the window. It said, simply:
Jude
!

David realised it was old Finstein’s shoe shop. He stood staring at the window for a long time. He knew this happened in the centre of the city, but here, in Hennigsdorf? This place was so quiet, so safe. Everyone knew each other. Damn it, everyone knew old Finstein.

He walked slowly on, thinking of what Hans had said. He couldn’t believe there was really a risk of losing his job. For others, well, he had to admit that it was not a good time to be in business or one of the professions. But the Jews had been through times like this before. As he’d said to Hans, there had been some unpleasantness before the Great War, but it had passed like these things always did. The new laws would make marriages like his and Ellen’s illegal. Well, he repeated to himself, they couldn’t
un
marry two people who had been married fifteen years. As for Cecile, nothing would happen to her. She was a second generation
Mischlinge
, or mixed-blood. She counted as German. Nothing would ever happen to her or to Ellen. And as for making him leave – well, they were doing that to the poor and to the business people but they would never do that to him. They
needed
him; they knew it and he knew it. There was no more to be said.

He turned into the street where he lived and felt the familiar warmth of anticipation. Whenever he walked up the slight hill under the row of linden trees, he looked forward to the first sight of his small house, so neat and pretty. It gave him a peculiar thrill to think that this was his own small patch.

The house was dark, as he knew it would be, and he opened the door very quietly so as not to wake anybody. He checked that all the doors were locked and then climbed the stairs. He paused on the landing and crept towards the open door of the back bedroom. He looked in and saw Cecile’s dark hair spread across the pillow.

He knelt beside the bed and caressed her hair.

He whispered the words he had always whispered, ever since she was a baby. ‘I love you,
meine kleine Rosenknospe
, I love you.’

He thought: What a lucky man I am, to have so much – my work, my house, my family. And you, my
Liebling
, most of all, to have you.

And then he whispered out loud, ‘I will love you and protect you always. Always.’

T
HE TOLLING OF
a single bell echoed faintly over the city. Vasson thought: Is it really Sunday? He’d quite forgotten.

Mea culpa! Mea culpa!
Lord forgive me, for I have sinned …

To hell with it. He hated Sundays.

It was a perfect August day, clear, sunny and not too hot. The sunlight was bright yellow, transforming the drab streets of the
dix-huitième
into brilliant ribbons of light. Vasson screwed up his eyes and walked slowly across the Place du Têrtre. A couple of artists sat doggedly at their easels, painting yet more bad pictures of the Sacré-Cœur. They were probably English or American like most of the so-called artists in this quarter. Vasson had heard that many were packing their bags and disappearing back to their own countries. Apparently the wealthy American tourists had already left their expensive hotels and crowded aboard the transatlantic liners in Cherbourg.

Let them go, Vasson thought. They’re no loss to anyone. Life in Montmartre would be just the same without them.

He walked gently towards Pigalle – gently because his head ached and his eyes hurt and he had a stinking hangover. He should have stayed in bed.

On the street corners and in the cafés the news-vendors were doing a roaring trade. It seemed that all the residents of Montmartre wanted a newspaper today and when Vasson tried to buy
Turf
, the only paper he ever bought nowadays, he found it had sold out like all the rest. It was annoying. He was planning to bet on a big race at Longchamps and now he wouldn’t be able to study the form.

The world had gone mad; everyone was behaving like a lot of frightened rabbits. So the Germans were going to swallow up the Poles. So what? Vasson couldn’t see how that affected France. Poland had nothing to do with France. At least it damned well
shouldn’t
.

He emerged on to the Boulevard Rochechouart and walked the last few yards into Place Pigalle. The club was situated in a tiny street leading off the circus. In the harsh light of day the façade looked drab and slightly seedy, but in darkness, when the name was illuminated in scarlet and the doorway open to reveal the softly lit staircase, the effect was inviting and seductive.

Vasson went down the stairs into the darkness of the club, grateful to rest his eyes from the painful sunlight. The floor had been washed and the chairs were upturned on the tables. He walked round the edge of the room to the bar. Without a word the barman poured him a coffee and pushed it across the counter.

Vasson pulled a chair off the nearest table and sat down wearily. He cast a critical eye around the room. He had the feeling that the previous night’s takings must have been high. The club had been crowded from ten onwards and most of the customers were big spenders. But … He sighed. There was so much room for improvement. The takings could be so much better, maybe even
double
, if only—

If only—

He knew exactly what made a successful club. He had analysed the ingredients countless times during the last four years.

There was the music. Now that was the one thing this club could boast about. Its music was much classier than you generally heard in the small intimate clubs. Instead of an accordion or solitary piano, there was a three-piece band, with piano, bass and drums. And the band was good. They played a few of the new-style swing numbers for those who wanted a wild dance, but for the rest of the time they stuck to slow romantic stuff. Perfect for getting the customers close to the girls and keen to spend their money.

The décor: now that could be much better. It was very out of date, all red plush and gilt. From the look of it nothing had been changed since 1910. Vasson would have liked to see mirrored walls, chromium furniture and a black linoleum floor, the kind of simple sophistication which was all the rage.

But the main problem was the girls. Some of them were distinctly rough-looking even in the near-total darkness of the club. Only the drunkest or blindest customers managed to find them attractive. They should be replaced, and straight away. It was stupid to economise on the girls’ wages. Much better to pay more and get top class women who would not only attract the money but be highly skilled at extracting it.

He sighed. This club could be one of the best small places around, if not
the
best.

He downed his coffee and took the cup back to the bar. The barman was washing glasses. Vasson called, ‘Hey, how
were
the takings last night? They must have been good.’

The barman eyed Vasson impassively. ‘Good enough, I should think.’

‘But I mean, a record or what?’

The barman stared and there was a hint of insolence in his expression. Vasson was irritated; the man was being less than co-operative. He said impatiently, ‘Look, I need the information if I’m to run this place properly. That
is
what I’m meant to be doing, you know, running the place!’ He knew he sounded peevish, but he couldn’t help himself.

The barman smirked and shrugged his shoulders. Vasson wanted to hit him.

Suddenly there was a voice at Vasson’s shoulder, so close that it made him jump. ‘Yes, you run the club – but it’s me that runs the money. And don’t you forget it.’

Vasson flushed and turned round. It was Birelli. Birelli was small, fat and bad-tempered. He was wearing a flashy suit and expensive gold cufflinks. He looked every inch the proprietor of a small club.

Which was precisely what he was.

Birelli owned three clubs, and this was one of them.

Vasson said nothing. Birelli wanted a reaction and he bloody well wasn’t going to get one.

Birelli took out a cigar and slowly lit it, his beady eyes watching Vasson through the clouds of smoke. Finally he said, ‘While I’m the owner of this place, I will worry about the takings, and no-one else.’ The little man exhaled and the stench of garlic hit Vasson’s nostrils. Instinctively Vasson pulled back, but Birelli moved closer and said with emphasis, ‘You would do better to mind your own business and stick to your job, such as it is. If you go on poking your nose into things that do not concern you, you’ll be amazed at how quickly you’ll be out in the street.’

Vasson shivered. He had the urge to crush the man’s head against the wall. He wanted to chant obscenities at the pompous self-satisfied little pig, then beat him into pulp. And to think he had actually put up with this cheap little crook for more than six months. It was obscene!

Birelli was watching Vasson’s reaction with satisfaction, and Vasson realised the little man knew exactly what was going through his mind.

Birelli drew breath and said, ‘Furthermore, while we’re on the subject of you and your incompetence, I’m tired of hearing about your grandiose ideas. They are idiotic rubbish; they’re not worth anything. You have no idea what makes a club go. You can
spend
money, oh yes! But you have no idea what
makes
money. You think your ideas are so much better than anyone else’s. Well, if you’re so brilliant why aren’t you a tycoon, eh? Why don’t you own all the clubs in the area? Eh?’

Vasson gripped the side of the bar and waited. He wanted the heat to go out of his anger so that he could think clearly. He needed to be calm when he decided what to do next.

The coolness came over his body and then he knew.

Very slowly he reached forward. At first Birelli looked bemused, then realisation dawned and he turned white. As Vasson’s hands closed round his neck, he screamed and tried to step backwards.

Vasson’s hands closed rapidly round the fat neck and he began to shake the man, slowly at first, then rapidly so that the head snapped backwards and forwards like a puppet’s. Then he lifted him by the neck, thrust him against a wall and started to smash his head against the hard surface of the red flock wallpaper.

Birelli had been screaming but now, as his head thudded dully into the wall, his breath came in long gasps. Blood began to smear the red flock and his eyes were round and staring like little white eggs.

Vasson found the movement of the head hypnotic as it snapped backwards and forwards; he wondered what it would take to make the head snap right off. He had got into a rhythm now and it was strangely satisfying. He wanted the rhythm and the feeling of satisfaction to continue.

Suddenly an arm encircled Vasson’s neck and forced him to let go. Vasson felt an overwhelming disappointment and then, almost immediately, relief. He was sorry that the disgusting little man was going to escape lightly. On the other hand, he was glad he had been stopped. He had forgotten himself, and he didn’t like doing that.