Berlin: A Novel

Ben had worked it all out precisely. Sergeant Allen would be reporting to the Signal Corps colonel, Corporal Kauwe would be helping the girls with their doll's house. The coast was clear. He pushed Brubaker towards the cellar door. You could get a good view of the drama group's rehearsal stage through its barred window. The timing was perfect. The 'robbers' were just singing, at the top of their voices, 'We live a life of liberty'.

'The Werewolves' battle song,' whispered Ben. 'They sing it before any major operation. Better not go so close to the window. They shoot on sight. See that man under the stairs? That's him.' Ben pointed to the caretaker.

'Hitler's right-hand man,' murmured Brubaker, much impressed.

Appel was emptying a couple of mousetraps. 'We beat the drum, we all rejoice, to hear the weeping maiden's voice,' sang the robbers' chorus, while Herr Appel set his traps, this time with popcorn. Heidi Rodel was sitting on the front of the platform swinging her bare legs and watching with a bored expression.

'They have girls in the Werewolves?' said Brubaker, surprised. And very pretty girls too.'

'That's Dynamite Heidi. She carries out special operations.' Ben cheerfully continued to spin his yarn. He was enjoying this more and more.

'Can I speak to him now?'

Ben had thought this out carefully in advance. 'Slink over to that garden summerhouse, keeping under cover, and wait for us there.' He watched with interest as Brubaker wriggled his way from shrub to shrub in his best Boy Scout manner, and covered the open stretch of lawn between the last forsythia and the summerhouse with a racing dive, making use of his training in the Hackensack High School baseball team. His body was much quicker off the mark than his brain.

Ben went into the cellar. Heidi was still dangling her legs. You didn't come the other evening.' She pushed herself slightly forward on the edge of the stage, and her dress rucked up a little further.

'What, skinny-dipping with the entire bunch?' Ben snorted with derision.

'What about with just me?'

'Dunno.' He looked at her brown thighs and wondered what they felt like.

Gert Schlomm clapped his hands. 'We're going back two pages. Moor kills Amalie. Come on, Heidi, and die a bit more slowly this time.'

Ben did not wait for the deadly blow, but strolled back to the caretaker between the improvised rows of seats. 'Hi, Herr Appel. Do you have a moment? There's a Yank out there, he's a newspaper reporter and he wants to write something about German allotment gardeners.'

An American taking an interest in Appel's kohlrabi! The caretaker hid his delight behind a reluctant, 'S'pose I can take a look at him.' He did not stop to wonder just how the man from overseas knew about him and his allotment. 'Does he speak German?'

'Not a word of it, but I can interpret.' Ben steered him into the summerhouse. 'This is Herr Appel.'

Brubaker had his pencil and notepad ready. 'The Fiihrer's right-hand man, is that correct?'

Although Herr Appel spoke no English, he would certainly understand the word 'Fiihrer'. Ben reacted like lightning. 'Is it true that the Fiihrer took a great interest in German allotment gardeners?'

Herr Appel's eyes bulged a little more. 'Could be. Him being a vegetarian and all, he only ate vegetables. But I can't say any more for sure. I was never in the Party, I'd like to say that loud and clear.'

'I was always at his side,' translated Ben.

'Where is he now?' Brubaker was trying to make these earth-shattering questions sound casual.

'What's your own favourite vegetable?' Ben interpreted.

'Cauliflower. Brassica oleracea argentinensis, the Argentinian variety. Grows almost of its own accord, delicious with black butter. Ha, butter, did I say?' Herr Appel gave a brief bark of laughter.

'Dead. Or maybe in Argentina. Or both,' Ben translated the gardener's culinary observations.

'If he's alive, would you by any chance know his address?' Brubaker persisted.

'Baked with a topping of breadcrumbs?'

'No,' said Herr Appel.

'No.'

Outside, a whistle was blown. Sergeant Allen was back, and summoning his baseball team. 'Got to get back to work,' Herr Appel grunted. 'Don't forget to write how difficult it is for us German allotment gardeners to protect our crops from thieves these days. Only last week, for instance…'

'The alarm signal. They've got wind of our meeting. I have to leave at once,' Ben translated, pushing the Fiihrer's right-hand man out of the summerhouse door.

Another verse of the robbers' song drifted over from the building. 'Mercury's the god for us, a trickster, he was ever thus…'

'Inspector Dietrich with his witness, sir,' Gertrud Olsen told her boss. 'To look at the card index.'

Curtis S. Chalford glanced out at the corridor. The visitors were waiting at the end of it. 'I'm busy. You see to it, Gertrud. Show them the card index and then get them out of here. We really do have better ways to spend our time.' He shut his office door.

Gertrud put two boxes of index cards on the table in the outside office. 'There you are, gentlemen. Hurry up, please. Mr Chalford's not in a very good temper. All the same — would you like a coffee?'

'No thank you, Frau Olsen,' said Dietrich, much to Miihlberger's disappointment. 'We don't want to strain Mr Chalford's temper unduly.' They went through the card index. Miihlberger proudly pointed to his own photograph, and Dietrich also recognized the picture of Ziesel the garbage truck driver. But he was out of contention as the murderer now.

The inspector pulled the card index of women employees towards him, although it was not really of any interest in this context. Under A he found Henriette von Aichborn's card. There was a black t after the name. 'The boss marked the other four with a cross too. He's very meticulous that way.' explained Gertrud Olsen, noticing Dietrich's surprise.

'Respectful sort of fellow.' said Miihlberger with heavy irony. 'Can we go now?'

'I'll drive you home.'

Chalford, watching from his office window, saw the wood-gas Opel lumber into motion. 'What is it, Gertrud?'

'Frau Weber is here.'

'Show her in.'

Jutta entered the office. 'Good morning, Mr Chalford. You sent for me?'

'Yes, it's some time since we saw each other.'

'Not since you hired me, in fact.'

'Sit down, please.' Chalford indicated a chair and got back behind his desk. 'I hear that Sergeant Panelli is very pleased with you. He praises you a lot, says you're a damned good cook, Frau Weber.' He stroked back his thin fair hair. 'I'm always happy when an arrangement I've made proves successful.' When he moved from English to German, his heavy American accent made his German seem clumsier than it really was. 'So what delicacy are you serving for lunch today?'

'Konigsberger Klopse.'

'Kounigsboorger Klapse,' he tried to say, and laughed at his own mispronunciation. 'What's that?'

'Something like your own meatballs. Served with caper sauce and boiled potatoes. This is the third time the boys have written it on the board where they can say what they'd like. It's all ready, and Sergeant Panelli is going to finish the cooking. I have a couple of days off.'

'Wonderful. Then I'm sure you'll have time to dine with me — this evening, perhaps?'

'Thank you so much for the invitation, but I'm going to see my parents in Kopenick.' She was glad that she didn't have to invent an excuse.

If he was disappointed he didn't show it. 'Frau Weber, it's because of your cooking skills that I asked to see you. Mr Gold of the State Department is looking for a first-class cook. In his position, he often has important guests to dinner. You'd have many privileges, but a good deal of overtime too. How about it?'