Using his takings to buy a hot broth near Schlesischer Bahnhof yesterday lunchtime, he had overheard people on the next table discussing a man who had promised money for information. Fritze couldn’t understand everything, but there was talk of an escaped lunatic and it sounded very much like Hannah. Even so, it wasn’t until he heard the word scar-face that his ears really pricked up. It wasn’t a cop who was looking for her, nor a warder from the asylum, but the man who’d chased her out of Bahnhof Zoo! The man who was trying to kill her, if what Charly said was right. Aunt Charlotte. He had liked her, had thought she trusted him, yet here he was back on the streets.
Görlitzer Bahnhof wasn’t a great spot. Most people were from Cottbus or Breslau and barely had money for tickets, but today the sun was out and good weather put people in a good mood, which made them more generous.
As usual he kept an eye out for Hannah as he put the moves on passers-by, when all at once he saw something familiar. Not a girl with a red beret, but a man with a dark winter coat and bowler hat. And a strange, unrhythmic gait.
He looked again, but the man had disappeared. Were his eyes playing tricks? The lady he’d asked for fare money shook her head as he hared off in pursuit of the bowler hat. Forget the money! This was his route back to Charly.
He was too small to make out the hats bobbing up and down, but luckily there weren’t many bowlers. Most wore flat caps like his own. Four or five hats appeared again and again in the sea of heads, but only one moved erratically.
Fritze didn’t know what to do. Tell Charly? He had already taken forty pfennigs this morning. Should he spend ten on a call? Charlottenburg was a long way away. By the time she got here he might have lost him. His eyes flitted between the telephone booths on Spreewaldplatz and the crowds.
76
Hannah stood in the yard feeling unspeakably alone. Noises she had scarcely heard moments before suddenly seemed very loud. Wind rattling sheet metal. The thunder of the elevated railway. Was that something from the workshop? What if they caught Felix in the act?
Don’t get worked up, girl!
Ten minutes, he’d said. How long had she been waiting already? She decided to count to pass the time and distract from her fear.
Twenty-one, twenty-two…
Stay calm, she told herself. You’re not doing anything illegal just standing here.
… thirty-nine, forty…
There’s only you.
How did he know she was Jewish? Had they discussed it? Unlikely, it was hardly important. Perhaps she looked Jewish? She had never thought about it before.
Just keep counting.
… eighty-seven, eighty-eight…
Reaching one hundred and eighty-seven she heard footsteps from somewhere beyond the bend, from the alleyway that led onto Köpenicker Strasse and which was invisible from here.
Shit! They should have gone to the country after all. But… it didn’t have to mean anything. Why shouldn’t someone be approaching? It didn’t have to be a worker, and certainly not a cop.
She started whistling. She didn’t know many tunes and plumped for Üb immer Treu und Redlichkeit.
She tried not to look, making as if she were more interested in one of the other doors leading onto the courtyard, as far away as possible from the cabinetmaker’s workshop where Felix had vanished.
She whistled louder and for a moment the footsteps appeared to die, but then they drew closer and from the corner of her eye she saw a shadow. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be heading for the workshop. That was good, but they were coming towards her.
Feverishly she tried to think of a story, when suddenly the shadow made a strange, lopsided movement, as if the person it belonged to was drunk or had a… limp!
She ceased whistling, the final note stuck in her throat.
‘Do carry on. It’s such a lovely tune.’
That familiar old voice… She turned around and there he was, twisting his scar-face into a grin. He was on her at once, with astonishing speed, much quicker than she’d have thought possible. Huckebein was still nimble, still strong. A soldier. He’d been the same in the Crow’s Nest, despite his leg.
He had boxed her into a corner. In his right hand was the long dagger which, he used to boast, had seen off countless Frogs and Tommys. Her eyes darted this way and that. If she could get past him maybe she’d have a chance. Goddamn blind alley!
She lunged right, only to swerve left, and he fell for it. She had just about evaded him when there was a stabbing pain in her arm and side, and she felt herself seized by an ice-cold hand. She was losing her balance, tumbling with him to the floor. The dagger slid across the cobbles with a clink. She must have knocked it out of his hand, or he’d lost it in the fall. Either way the thing was a few metres behind them on the pavement, so too his bowler, spinning around like a drunken whirligig.
Huckebein was no longer armed, but then neither was she, and he had her in his grasp.
She defended herself but, as ever, had no chance. After a brief, wordless tussle, he forced her onto her back and kneeled on her arms. She thrashed her legs, but it was no use. He had her at his mercy. Her impotence made her angry, gave her newfound strength, but still she was no match. Only now did it occur to her that she wasn’t alone. That she could cry for help. ‘Felix!’
The grin made his face even more repulsive.
‘Your Felix is long gone. Who do you think it was that shopped you?’ She let out a shrill cry, and he held her mouth closed. ‘There’s no one here. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.’ His hands gripped her throat. ‘You could have had a quick and painless death, but you know I prefer it this way.’
She gasped for air, felt the strength being sucked from her body. Desperation kicked in, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t move her arms under the weight of his knees, didn’t even reach him with her legs. She wriggled like a fish on dry land until her panic was replaced by fatigue, and a desire for peace. Why not just yield?
All at once she felt the pressure on her neck subside and the weight on her arms grow lighter. Hope returned and, with it, the will to live. She gulped air into her lungs as Huckebein’s shadow emerged through blurred streaks of light, waving its hands as if to banish an invisible swarm of wasps. She heard her frantic breath, and Huckebein’s cry.
Then all was still.
77
It was early for cognac, but the glass Rath poured after finishing breakfast (mainly coffee) helped dispel his hangover. The telephone had wakened him around ten. He staggered over, but by the time he got there the caller had hung up.
Charly, was his first thought, but he had resisted the temptation to call Greta. There was no question that’s where she was. Other women might go to their mother; Charly went to Greta. What was up with her? How could she let a harmless discussion about politics spiral like that?
After she had gone he had smoked two cigarettes, fed Kirie and left her in the care of the porter, and headed out along the Ku’damm to the Kakadu-Bar.
Despite the national uprising, business was much the same. The music was still good and American, the booze likewise, and, with the right change in your pocket, you could forget about the world outside, which was precisely what Rath intended to do, sampling a few drinks as he listened to the music and the chatter of his fellow patrons.
Still, Charly was on his mind and he had spent the evening being angry at her, longing for her, and drinking himself into a stupor. Back home he reached for the cognac, and so found sleep.