The Butchers of Berlin (38 page)

In a world of such shifting alliances, she sided with whomever she was with. She suspected Gersten would kill her if he learned she was about to betray Stella. She suspected Gersten would kill
her anyway, given half a chance. She was smart enough to see she was offering Stella to Grigor as a substitute for herself. Stella she had to pretend to fall a little bit in love with, blanking
Lore from her mind.

Gersten was hardest. She told him Grigor was susceptible.

‘Let’s play the long game. I am rather enjoying the idea of my little agent in an act of deep penetration.’

The occasion was another of Gersten’s nocturnal visits. Gersten sat on the end of her bed, making a show of keeping his hands to himself. She suspected he was about to make his move, but
he stood up and said, ‘Side with him all you like but remember you have to deliver to me. Don’t get out of your depth or I will push you under.’

He leaned down and pressed his palm hard against Sybil’s forehead, held it there for long enough for her to see his intent, then stopped as suddenly as he had begun.

‘No news of your beloved?’ he asked as he strolled out.

Sybil told Stella there was a back entrance and the elderly couple upstairs were too frightened to go out much, and the wife was ill anyway.

‘It’s not very glamorous but they’re an easy catch,’ Sybil said, trying to sound casual. ‘We could meet afterwards for lunch. I’m told twelve is the best time
for them.’

‘Who told?’

Sybil was ready for that. ‘My mother. She’s a fortune teller.’ She gave a brittle laugh, in imitation of Stella.

‘Copy me any more, darling, and you will become me.’

It was said so lightly Sybil could not tell if malice was intended.

‘My mother knew these people.’

‘Stop trying so hard. It will all be fine. Yes, let’s meet for lunch. I’ll check them out.’

They were alone in the day room. Stella was immaculately turned out as always, with hat and kid gloves. She said, ‘Have you noticed how women are wearing hats less? All those terrible
scarves. So unflattering.’

She checked her handbag. ‘I have a better idea. Why don’t we meet at twelve and go up together. It’s your catch as much as mine.’

Sybil supposed she would go early and warn Grigor to make himself scarce. Would Stella suspect?

‘Better still, come with me now. Let’s go window shopping. I feel we have missed out on knowing each other. We will make up for lost time. It would brighten my day to spend it
together.’

Sybil had to spend the morning being chatty and vivacious as they strolled down the Ku’damm arm in arm.

Stella said, ‘There’s a bittersweetness to everything, don’t you find, in our situation?’

Sybil agreed it could hardly be otherwise.

‘Appetite for life counts, I believe. It stands to reason. We only get one chance. I am not responsible for the situation we’re in but I am damned if I am going to give up on their
terms. They’re such monsters, some of it is bound to rub off.’

She laughed her trilling laugh, to Sybil’s ears the most heartless in the world. Would she watch as Grigor flayed her? Sybil was in no doubt Stella would watch Grigor do it to her, given
the chance, transmitting her sexual charge.

‘What’s the matter, darling? You look nervous.’

It was five to twelve. They were downstairs in the yard of Alwynd’s block. Sybil pictured Grigor standing behind the door, knife ready.

Sybil said it was her first time.

‘A virgin! You must go first, I insist.’

She suspected Stella had known all along. It was why she had not let her out of her sight.

‘Darling, do go in first. Take my coat. It will bring you luck. And my hat. Now give me yours.’

Sybil protested it was a silly game. Stella stopped pretending, sniffing the air.

‘Is that a rat I am smelling? If you don’t do it, darling, I will know something is wrong.’

She still contrived to sound coquettish and beguiling.

Sybil put on the coat and hat and feared Grigor would be too fast for her to warn him. She would lie on Alwynd’s floor watching her blood pool, thinking her last thoughts of Lore.

Stella pushed Sybil into leading.

She reached the first landing and turned back to see Stella’s eyes glisten with excitement, willing Sybil up into the trap.

Stella followed, always waiting behind Sybil, whose messy thoughts revolved around naked survival and reluctant admiration for the simplicity and elegance of Stella’s trap.

Sybil reached the top of the stairs. She turned back and looked at Stella, who said, ‘Go on. Knock on the door and when there is no answer, which there won’t be, try the handle
because it won’t be locked.’

Sybil faced the door, with her hand raised. She froze. She listened to Stella’s light footsteps, was briefly aware of Stella turning the handle, followed by the force of her own weight
throwing the door open as Stella pushed her in, turned and scampered downstairs laughing. She saw Grigor facing her, his arms raised. She supposed a split second of recognition stopped him from
pulling the trigger. She hadn’t imagined a gun or silencer.

She felt foolish and afraid, dressed in Stella’s coat and hat. She sank to the floor weeping. She would have to go back to Grosse Hamburger Strasse and brazen it out with Stella, who would
inform Gersten, who would throw her to the wolves. And Grigor would suspect her of double-crossing him, however much she might protest.

Grigor meanwhile was putting himself in a position to console her, taking her in his arms, faking concern, using the fact of near death to turn one thing into another. Sybil went limp, too
defeated to resist. He surprised her by taking her more tenderly than she was expecting. It was just fucking, she told herself, that old animal instinct to preserve life. She stared at the ceiling,
imaging herself looking down on the unfortunate wretch lying like dead meat under the thrusting man.

Schlegel, abruptly woken in the middle of the night, groggily tried to put his shoes on and was ordered not to by two guards shouting, ‘Get up! Quick!’ They
frog-marched him down the corridor. Everything done at the double, being made to go shoeless – it could only end with being hustled onto the hanging trapdoor, the noose slid over his neck and
the lever pulled, all within seconds, and being conscious still, after hearing the terrible snap of his neck, as his legs bicycled uselessly in the air. They marched him down endless flights of
stairs until deep underground and shoved him through a door, which shut behind him.

It was dark in the space. He couldn’t tell how large. He sensed another presence. He stood still, trying to breathe silently.

‘There is something you should see.’

Gersten’s voice came out of the dark. He flipped a switch and in front of them lit up. They were in a viewing gallery like a trench and beyond the glass screen was what looked like a huge,
empty aquarium, harshly lit. Sand on the floor contributed to the impression of a fish tank. The far end was covered with old doors, much splintered. Sandbags covered the sides of the space. A
narrow set of rails ran down one edge, at the end of which stood a large trolley. Schlegel supposed they were in a deep pocket of silence where all noise went unheard. He didn’t notice a
functioning door to one side until it opened. After a long pause a spindly, broken figure, wearing only a tatty vest with long johns, his face horribly smashed, was thrust blinking into the light.
He cowered where he stood, staring myopically and wringing his handcuffed hands. That he was barefoot alarmed Schlegel, making him think he must be next.

It was Lazarenko, almost unrecognisable without his glasses and for being so beaten.

Gersten wore Lazarenko’s coat like a trophy.

Lazarenko opened his mouth to let out a wail or shout in defiance – it was impossible to tell as the range was sound-proofed – then the force of the bullets spun him round and the
shooting seemed to go on and on, its sound carrying only as a vibration. Lazarenko stood pinned against the splintering doors, twitching and jerking like a man with St Vitus’s dance his
underwear soaked red, a broken artery in his arm pumping like a hose to form a clotted puddle in the sand, and all the while the head jumped up and down in what looked like vigorous agreement.

They were machine-gunning him. As his remains slid down the wall, the gunner stitched a line up his torso, reaching the head, which exploded. Lazarenko pitched forward, rolled over, gave a huge
convulsion, then abruptly sat up as if levered on a hinge, until another round of bullets hammered him back down.

Gersten said, ‘You can go now.’

Again Schlegel was woken from the bleak sleep of defeat by the same guards. This time he was allowed to put on his shoes and he was taken without handcuffs. He decided his turn
must have come. Gersten had laid down his cards. Nothing was left, other than for Gersten to enjoy his moment.

Instead Schlegel found himself being taken up and led down normal corridors which ended in the building’s reception area. The pillared marble hall was a quiet empty space with smart men
standing around. Schlegel was astonished to see Morgen among them, next to a scowling Gersten. Morgen was back in uniform, accompanied by two young equally impassive men, also in black. He looked
older and severer, his face a mask of haughty authority.

Gersten, protesting, said, ‘He’s mine.’

Morgen said, ‘I have the wherewithal to re-arrest this man.’

‘On what charges?’

‘Corruption. Selling confiscated property for personal gain.’

‘The lesser charge, you will find.’

Morgen produced an order and presented it peremptorily to Gersten, who flicked it back and walked off.

Morgen appeared no friendlier with Gersten gone. He nodded at one of the underlings, who stepped forward and snapped a handcuff on Schlegel’s wrist.

The angry march of Gersten’s departure rang down the corridor.

Outside a car was waiting, with a driver. Morgen sat in front, saying nothing and lighting up. Schlegel sat squashed between the two men, who were not generous with their space.

Schlegel watched the passing city and craved ice cream of all things. How depressed everything looked, as though he was seeing it with other eyes for the first time. He supposed he was facing
three years’ hard labour. Stoffel had been right. Morgen was not to be trusted.

Ten minutes later, Gersten was fucking Stella Kübler, hard from behind. As he did, he was as admiring of Lazarenko’s coat, which he kept on, as he was of her
magnificent arse. Stella was spread face down across his desk, gripping its edges. Her hot breath misted the brass inkstand in front of her. Gersten liked that detail and filed it for later. His
mood improved. He had wanted to hike up her skirt but she didn’t let him, saying it would crease, and had taken it off instead, then performed a slow striptease of rolling down her stockings
while feeling him up. He couldn’t be bothered to argue, just as he didn’t care if she was faking her orgasm, wanting only his own immediate relief. He stared at the fleshy whiteness of
her hips as she ground them faster, and started to buck under him, moaning. He kept up the scything motion as he came, gripping her neck, calling her a Jewish cunt, which she responded to with a
throaty laugh, whether in accord or at him he could not tell. She hadn’t let him kiss her, in order not to spoil her make-up. The last time he had squashed her face in one hand and smeared
off the lipstick with the thumb of his other and made her suck him, for the only time because he was nervous she would bite off his cock. He told Stella how he had once stuck a gun up a
woman’s arse as he fucked her and pulled the trigger and the convulsion gave him the most spectacular orgasm of his life. She didn’t believe him but made a show of enjoying his stories,
running her tongue round her lips. Gersten suspected such lascivious depravity was her way of keeping him interested and herself alive. She was never wet when he started fucking her.

Afterwards they sat in opposite armchairs and Stella told him about Sybil’s deception.

‘Have her beaten up. Join in yourself. You’ll enjoy it. She won’t hang around. It will set her off running back to Grigor. If she turns up in a bad way he will be more inclined
to believe her.’

The car came to a stop. Morgen told the men to take off Schlegel’s handcuff. The one on the pavement side took his time getting out and gave Schlegel a look of amused
contempt.

Morgen said, ‘Thanks, boys,’ then addressed Schlegel. ‘Not easy to get you out of the holes you dig yourself into.’

Schlegel never could have guessed their destination. They were at the bar with the green door.

Another surprise inside; Morgen said to the barman, ‘Give the man back his hat.’

It was produced from under the counter. Morgen said nothing. Schlegel fingered the brim, feeling careless and ashamed. He hoped Morgen would not lecture him about taking responsibility.

Morgen wasn’t drinking and asked for tonic water with Angostura bitters.

The barman observed there was alcohol in the bitters. Morgen said, ‘You can’t call that drinking, not really. Give our friend a beer. He’s allowed only the one as he has been
ill.’

Morgen never said where he had been. When Schlegel had failed to show for the third day, Morgen said, ‘I even asked your mother.’

Not him too, thought Schlegel, added to her conquests.

‘Day four, it was clear you were dead or arrested. You weren’t among the dead but you turned up on the Gestapo arrest list as Unidentified Man, Paperless.’

Morgen drained his bitters. ‘Next time hold on to your hat, Schlegel.’

Everyone ignored Sybil being beaten up in the common room of Grosse Hamburger Strasse, to the extent of a foursome continuing to play the table-tennis game known as Around the
World, which required them to run from end to end.

They had set into her without warning. She was sitting reading a magazine, hoping to bluff it out, when Stella breezed in, waved cheerfully, and looked on in thrilled expectation as Sybil was
pulled to her feet by a thin man with a wiry frame, much stronger than he looked, and reputed to be one of Stella’s lovers.