That double-breasted suit accompanied Ben into his dreams; smooth, soft fabric, beautifully tailored, with sharp creases down the trouser legs and broad, slightly sloping shoulders. But best of all were the lapels, which he could see in his mind's eye: they rose elegantly, following the curve of the chest in a gentle arc and complementing the collar at a harmonious angle. After careful consideration of the pros and cons he had decided on a button to close the jacket at waist level and four buttons on the sleeves. He had firmly decided on velvety brown suede shoes, too. They were going to have thick crepe soles.
After Podbielskiallee, the underground railway lived up to its name and thundered through the tunnel. Bored, Ben looked at the ads in the carriage. He had been familiar with them from his early childhood: the liveried men from the House of Lefevre delivering carpets: the huntsman from the Pfalz who took salt because Salz rhymed with Pfalz: the green bottles of Staatlich Fachingen water. Just before Niirnberger Strasse, sunlight suddenly shone into the carriage. A bomb had knocked a hole in the roof of the tunnel.
There were crowds of people among the ruins around Potsdamer Platz. Berlin's biggest black market was held here daily. There was nothing you couldn't find being bartered or sold. Gold wedding rings, mink coats and genuine Meissen china changed hands for nylons, coffee, chocolate. American cigarettes, in cartons of ten packets each, fetched a high price. A Leica cost twenty-five cartons of cigarettes. Single packets were more profitable, as Ben knew. The preferred currency was the Allied mark, banknotes which the occupying powers had issued for their troops, although they had soon found their way into the general currency. The old German Reichsmark was hardly worth the paper it was printed on.
Ben was in no hurry. He had to find the right taker. That man in the stained uniform jacket, for instance. Ben sized him up: just back from a POW camp, wouldn't know the current tricks of the trade yet. He walked past close to him, murmuring, 'Yankee fags?'
Then he stopped by a broken lamppost and waited. The man followed him. 'You got some?'
'Lucky Strikes. Three hundred Allimarks.' Ben showed him the packet held in the hollow of his hand. The man reached for it. Ben hung on. 'The money first,' he demanded. Allimarks, like I said.'
The man took Ben's wrist and raised the packet to his nose. He sniffed briefly and let Ben's hand fall again. 'Pelikan glue. You don't get rid of that almond smell so easily. Take care you don't get a thrashing, kid.' Ben made off. Next time he'd use UHU. The acetone dispersed at once.
'Got any Yanks?' asked a young girl. In spite of the heat she was wearing a quilted Russian jacket over her thin summer dress, and white socks below bare legs. She was fourteen at the most, but her pale face beneath the red hair reflected the experience of centuries. Ben showed her the packet. 'Over there.' The girl went ahead, into a ruined building. Ben followed, but stayed on his guard in case she had a boyfriend lurking there.
Weeds grew in the yard of the ruin. A rat scuttled away among chunks of rubble. The girl stopped, turned, and raised her skirt. The pubic hair on her little mount of Venus was bright red in the sun. 'Want to fuck? Or shall I give you a blow job? You can have ten minutes for four Yankee fags.' Ben silently shook his head.
Outside the ruins of the Wertheim department store a thin woman was hanging about in a threadbare but once elegant tailored suit, her bony cheeks slightly rouged. Her eyes greedily devoured the packet Ben showed her.
'Three hundred and fifty Allimarks,' he said, opening negotiations.
'Too much.'
'Three hundred.'
She opened her handbag, took out a couple of notes and offered the to him with nicotine-stained fingers. 'I'll give you two hundred and fifty.' She spoke educated, standard German and was obviously repelled by the bargaining.
'Two hundred and fifty, OK.' Ben took the money, gave her the packet and made his getaway. On the steps down to the U-Bahn he looked round. The woman had torn the packet open. Its contents fluttered to the ground. Disappointed, she picked up one of the snippets of paper and read the New Testament words. She laughed soundlessly. Her laughter turned to a dry cough.
Ben had found an old gentlemen's magazine in his grandparents' attic, with a picture of a man with a moustache in the English style and a firm jaw wearing an immaculate. Prince of Wales check, double-breasted suit. He kept the picture in his hiding place behind one of the rafters, along with a notebook with a black oilcloth cover where he recorded the sums he had made from his fake packets of Chesterfield, Lucky Strike and Philip Morris cigarettes. He always took the money straight to Heidi's father, Rodel the master tailor in Ithweg. Today's two hundred and fifty marks were another step on his way to becoming an arbiter of elegance. The trouble was, he couldn't let himself be seen in Potsdamer Platz too often, so the instalments were mounting up slowly. As things stood at present, he wouldn't get the shoes and suit for less than fifteen thousand marks, so Ben was trying to think of other sources of income.
Perhaps he could make something out of Mr Brubaker. Mr Brubaker was an American, and for that very reason, in Ben's opinion, rather nutty. Ben had known him since he'd found him hopelessly lost, and showed him the way to the Harnack House. Where he came from, Clarence P. Brubaker was what they called a 'nice guy'. He was no great intellectual luminary, but his father owned the Hackensack Herald, which supported the Democrats and thus the new President Harry S. Truman. The newspaper proprietor sometimes played piano duets with Truman.
Brubaker senior had pulled strings to ensure that his son and heir was spared the dangers of service in the armed forces. Instead, Clarence became a war reporter, which sounded more adventurous than it was. Daddy took care that his offspring was assigned to Allied headquarters, which like most headquarters in the military history of modern times was situated well behind the lines, so that while the generals waged war, the war itself would not disturb them.
Clarence P. Brubaker arrived in Berlin with the American army of occupation, intending to file reports from the post-war front line. A cousin on his mother's side was something quite high up in the military government. On his say-so, Brubaker was quartered in a requisitioned villa behind US headquarters and thus outside the prohibited zone. Accommodation of this quality was usually reserved for high-ranking officers with families.
The house was well furnished and in the past had belonged to one Dr Isaak, who discreetly helped the ladies of Berlin society out of certain difficulties and sent them steep bills for his services. An Aryan' colleague called Kruger made sure that Isaak was sent to a camp when Hitler came to power, and took over his villa and his practice for peanuts. He sent the wives of high-up Nazi functionaries equally hefty bills until his racket was finally busted. He too had been providing ladies with abortions.
The two doctors met again in Buchenwald. They both survived the war, and were liberated by American troops. Isaak emigrated to Palestine, where he was hanged by the British as an active member of the underground Hagannah movement. Kruger, as a victim of the Nazis, received a good sum of money in compensation and became a respected member of Dr Adenauer's Christian Democrat party.