Berlin: A Novel

'Evening, Herr Claasen,' Ben greeted him politely. He tapped his school bag. 'Five cartons of Philip Morrises, is that OK?'

The Dutchman put the sponge down on the saddle of his motorcycle. 'Come in.' They entered the house. Claasen disappeared up to his shoulders in the sideboard and came out again with a pair of shoes. 'Brought them back from Nijmegen on my last trip. Try them on.'

Ben cautiously stroked the velvety brown suede and pressed the thick crepe soles, testing them. 'Oh, wow!' he groaned, overwhelmed. The fact that the shoes were half a size too big did not lessen his delight. Claasen cut insoles out of several layers of newspaper. Ben slipped the shoes on. Doing up the laces was like a ritual act. The first steps were a revelation. He walked across the room as if on cotton wool. Carefully, he took the shoes off again. They would get their baptism at the same time as the suit. Only two more weeks, Herr Rodel had said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE CRIMEAN ORANGE crop was particularly good this year. Consequently, the manager of the Red Sun kolkhoz arranged a celebration in honour of the victorious Red Army, and after delivering a stirring speech, which was followed by some rousing songs performed by a choir of Young Pioneers from Odessa, he sent a cart full of the deliciously aromatic fruits on its way 'to our brave sons in the conquered capital of the Fascist enemy'. His calculated move was noticed by the Soviet press and inflated out of all proportion. Soon the word was that a dozen freight trucks of oranges were on their way to the West — a welcome alibi for the manager, who then sold the lion's share of the harvest on the black market at a hundred times its proper price.

The single cart of citrus fruit did in fact reach Berlin. By that time half the oranges were rotten. The Soviet city commandant had the other, edible half distributed to soldiers with families. Two crates ended up in the hands of the cultural officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Talin. He was not a family man, but was very fond indeed of a young blond dancer, a soloist called Heinzotto Druschke, and gave him one of the crates.

Druschke had survived the Hitler era in the bed of a high-ranking SS officer, thus preserving himself from the concentration camps. 'Pure selfdefence. The man had shocking bad breath,' he drawled to friends after the liberation of the city. As a victim of Nazi persecution he received an apartment on Eschershauser Weg in Zehlendorf, where he exchanged the oranges with his neighbour Frau Molch for two bottles of cherry brandy. He intended to use the sweet, sticky alcohol to pull young boys.

The crate of oranges, along with two smoked hams, ten hundredweight of coal briquettes, three hundredweight of potatoes, five litres of cooking oil, and two kilos each of pearl barley, dried peas and haricot beans were the price paid for Frau Hermine Hellbich's Persian lamb coat. 'I have my good, thick-wool coat,' she explained, embarrassed. The boys need something hot and nourishing in winter, and it won't do the rest of the family any harm either.' She had even acquired six packets of Stella cigarettes for the district councillor.

She put five of the oranges in a bag. 'Take that to your father at the police station,' she told Ralf. 'The vitamins will do him good.'

Ralf hurried off. Perhaps he'd get to see a handcuffed criminal at the police station. But Papa was just sitting at his desk. He took the oranges with pleasure. 'What a nice surprise. Have one yourself, Ralf. And sit quiet in the corner until we're finished. Would you like one?' The inspector offered the bag to Sergeant Franke. 'So what else is new?'

'Orders from the top brass, no raid on those black marketeers at Schlachtensee station like we planned. Seems they're displaced persons and we can't touch them. Riffraff, if you ask me, inspector.'

'Looks as if our hands are tied there. So let's keep concentrating on the search for our man.' Klaus Dietrich put a segment of orange in his mouth, pressing it against his palate with his tongue until the cells burst. The delicious, refreshing juice ran down his throat. Another one, Franke?'

'Thanks very much. I'll take it home to my wife.' Franke tied the precious fruit up in his handkerchief. 'Take my word for it, inspector, when we find that motorbike we'll find the murderer too.'

'I admire your perspicacity. So can you also tell us where to look for the motorbike?'

'In Frau Kalkfurth's garage,' said a voice from the corner.

Klaus Dietrich was startled. 'What did you say?'

Ralf flicked an orange pip into the waste bin with precision. 'Her cat was sitting on an old eiderdown. It was covering up a motorbike.'

'When was this?'

'Couple of days ago.'

Franke was sceptical. 'So the bike was just standing in the garage where anyone could see it?'

'You have to get past a whole lot of old junk first, and it's pretty dark in there,' Ralf told him.

'Is there any other way into the garage?' his father asked.

'Yes, a door out the back.'

'Come here.' Klaus Dietrich put his hands on his son's shoulders. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

'Didn't know you were looking for it. Did someone nick it?'

'Listen, son. What we've been discussing here is strictly secret. Police business. You're not to say a word about it to anyone else. Even Mama or Ben.'

Ralf's chest swelled with pride as he walked home. He was in on strictly secret police business!

Franke was convinced. 'So the Kalkfurth son wasn't killed in Poland at all. He survived the war and now he's killing again. His mother's hiding him and the motorbike. Why don't we put the lady through the wringer? A few hours in the cells will soften her up. We can find some excuse.'

'Take it easy, sergeant. If there's anything in what you say we'd be giving him advance warning. And we have no evidence.'

'He's alive and he's killing, I feel it in my guts,' Franke insisted. 'What do you suggest, sir?'

'We keep a watch on the garage. If our suspicions are right, he'll come out some time or other with the motorbike and go hunting again.'

Franke was sceptical. And we chug along behind in our wood-gas racing car?'

The inspector picked up the phone. 'Hello, Captain Ashburner. Dietrich here. I think we're on the trail.' He passed on Ralf's information, concluding, 'We're going to watch the garage. The problem is, if something happens how do we follow the motorbike? Our mobile stove does fifty kilometres an hour at the most. Of course, if we had a jeep…'

'You can dismiss that idea from your mind, inspector. The Military Police isn't a car-hire firm. And since by now it's clear you're after a German killer, and he's been thoughtful enough not to murder any American girls, I have strict instructions to confine myself to an advisory function.' Ashburner looked at the silver-framed photograph on his desk. All the same, it's possible I might be able to help you. I'll call you back tomorrow. Goodbye.'

The captain straightened the photograph: the cleaning lady had knocked it out of place while she was dusting. The picture showed him and Jutta, arm in arm outside the door of the Wilskistrasse building. They had taken it with the delayed action shutter release, much to Jutta's amusement, because he looked so funny racing back from the camera on his long legs to stand there beside her. To him, it was more than just a snapshot. It was a public statement of his love. Even Sergeant Donovan, not noted for sensitivity, refrained from making a comment.

Colonel Tucker was less tactful. The city commandant's adjutant clicked his tongue. 'Pretty blonde Fraulein. Nice little morsel for the Uncle Tom killer, don't you think?'

'Keep your tasteless comments to yourself, Tucker.'

'Only a joke. You know what I hold against that damn murderer most, captain? Killing our Helga. Myra's back on the gin bottle now.'