Renate Schlegel was on her own. Her husband had fallen at Narvik, at the very beginning of the war. After that she had two affairs, one with a bank manager who was too old to fight in the war and died of a heart attack in the shelter during an air raid, the other with a Swiss businessman who hurried home before the Russians arrived. The American seemed to be a quiet, undemanding man. Renate agreed.
Chalford rang the bell. He had keys, but he liked it her to open the door to him, neat in a flowered overall, a wooden spoon in her hand, the mixing bowl close to her big, soft bosom. 'There are pancakes for dessert,' she told him, beaming, and went back to the kitchen.
The dining room, the big sitting room and the master of the house's study were on the ground floor of the villa. Chalford worked in the study for half an hour every evening. He would sit at the desk in front of the cupboard where he kept his papers, bending over exercise books from which he took notes. A correspondence course in bookkeeping,' he told her. 'My job here in Germany is only for the short term. I have to think of the future.' She admired his ambition and industry,
Today, as usual, he spent half an hour in the study before closing the cupboard and going upstairs to the bathroom. Ten minutes later he reappeared in a comfortable casual jacket. 'What's for supper?' he inquired good-naturedly.
'Pork chops in breadcrumbs, with young carrots and roast potatoes.' She brought him a beer.
He looked at her with pleasure, and that was where his interest in her ended. He wanted only her comfortable presence. She wondered if he had a family. A photograph of a young brunette and two little girls suggested that he did, but he never mentioned them. She hoped he would stay a good long time. She liked their arrangement.
'Do they know any more about that new murder?' she asked. 'It's the fourth victim, isn't it?'
He drank from the bottle. 'They're calling him the Uncle Tom killer. I heard that from a German inspector who visited the office today. They don't have any good leads yet.'
'Well, I hope they catch the brute soon.' She went to put the pork chops in the pan. Soon a promising aroma wafted out of the kitchen.
He waited in the shelter of the decorative shrubs outside Club 48 in the morning. He had to see her, had to imagine over and over again how he would possess her as soon as he had the opportunity. He had buttoned the officer's trench coat with the big tear over the left-hand pocket up to his chin, turning his collar up against the rain. From a distance he could just as well have been an American as a German, except that a Yank would have thrown the trench coat away or given it to a German long ago because it was torn.
She was punctual, as she was every morning. She got off her bicycle, pushing up her raincoat and dress in the process so that her knee and part of her thigh were visible. She untied her headscarf and shook out her long blonde hair. He swallowed in excitement.
It stopped raining. The sun broke through, promising a hot day. He hurried off as if hunted, as if he could escape his own thoughts. But they wouldn't let him go. Even work did not distract him.
When it was dark he took the motorcycle out of its hiding place. Restlessly, he rode through the night, going the same way as usual, but she must have stopped work early today. Women were so unreliable. Disappointed, he put the bike back in the garage.
John Ashburner opened the door when Jutta rang. 'You're early; he said, pleased.
'By popular request Sergeant Varady is cooking a genuine Szegedin goulash, so my culinary skills weren't called for and I was allowed to go.'
He was still in his basketball gear. They had formed an army side and an oMGUS side, and turned the gymnasium of a school in Dahlem into a basketball arena. The captain's height made him a very welcome member of his team.
They hugged and kissed, and for a moment it seemed they might go straight to bed. Then he turned away and poured himself a bourbon.
'What's the matter, John?'
'Nothing. Or rather, nothing but trouble. Colonel Tucker was in my office today, expressing the city commandant's displeasure in no uncertain terms. The general wants us to work more closely with the Germans to make sure more women aren't murdered. The public are getting uneasy. On the other hand, he doesn't want the Military Police to intervene directly in German affairs. So I have to confine myself to an advisory role.'
'My poor darling. You're between a rock and a hard place.'
'You could say that.' Ashburner sipped his whiskey. 'Sorry, would you like one?'
'I'll make myself a coffee.' She plugged the electric kettle in.
And by the way, I've written two letters back home to Venice. One to Tony Mancetti, who wants to sell his pasta bar. With my discharge bonus and a loan from the local bank, I could buy it. The red check tablecloths can stay if you like. The other letter was to Ethel. I've told her I want a divorce. She can keep what we've accumulated these last ten years — the house, the life insurance, the Ford and so on. What do you think?'
She put her arms around his neck. 'I think you ought to consider all this very carefully. Because you'll never get rid of me again.'
'If you like, I'll find out whether we can get married in Berlin. Then we could ask your family, and a few friends. Klaus Dietrich and his wife, for instance.'
And that good-looking Russian with the white sports car?' she teased him.
'Maxim Petrovich? Why not? What about your parents? You must introduce me to them.'
'Father will be delighted. Mother will burst into tears. Both for the same reason: because I'm going to America. I'll fix a time for us to go and see them next week.'
He pulled her close. 'Will you stay tonight, or shall I drive you home?'
'Would you take me home, please? I have to digest all this.' She picked up her shoulder bag. 'That murderer — will you catch him soon?'
'He's very clever. He could even be taunting us. Inspector Dietrich thinks it was no coincidence that his latest victim was found hanging from the third floor.'
'Who was she?'
'Marlene Kaschke, one of the usherettes at the Uncle Tom cinema. Do you remember — those girls with the funny bows in their hair? She obviously knew her murderer. He was visiting her at her home after curfew.'
'Poor thing,' said Jutta, her voice filled with pity.
MARLENE
FRIDAY WAS PAY day. Lene could tell from the strength of the alcohol on her father's breath whether he'd drunk more than half his wages on the way home. More than half meant she'd have to go and see Herr Pohl at the front of the building. He had a skull shaved bald, he smelled strongly of cologne, and he would watch calmly as the fourteen-year-old undressed. Sometimes he fingered her first, sometimes he sat her straight astride his prick, which luckily wasn't very large. Then Herr Pohl would begin snorting, clutching her tight.
Not that it hurt. Lene got the painful part behind her at the age of eight, the first time she was told, 'You go off to Herr Pohl now and ask him to wait for the rent. And don't make a fuss about it.' No, it didn't hurt now, it was just damp and cold in Herr Pohl's basement apartment, summer and winter alike, and Lene shivered, waiting for the moment when the caretaker would finally be finished and she could get dressed.
And tell your Dad he's got to pay next week, see? Otherwise it's eviction for you lot,' Pohl told the girl as she left.
'Eviction', that dreaded word, loomed over the back yards of Berlin- Moabit like the black smoke from the AEG and Borsig chimneys. For the Kaschkes, father, mother, Marlene and her two little brothers, the bleak picture of a family turned out on the street with their few sticks of furniture and no idea where to go was a familiar sight. Egon Kaschke was on good terms with his foreman at Siemens and had overtime now and then, earning a little extra. That saved them from the worst, usually at the very last moment.