The Berlin Assignment (54 page)

“We'll cut the sail to fit the cloth. Let's outline a few.” Schwartz located a ballpoint inside his sweater. “We need some paper.”

Taking their order for more beer, the barmaid regarded them as raving lunatics when she was asked for paper. She didn't answer. She just trudged off tapping the side of her head. Hanbury reached into a pocket and took out his program. It had blank back pages. They set to work, leaning over the paper on the rough oak table, becoming absorbed, paying no attention to the regulars arriving. Some looked sideways at them with disgust. Schwartz's movements were concise, his script small and elegant. The notes were practical. No woolly theories of history; only simple truths. He sensed Hanbury was warming up. “Yes,” the consul repeatedly said, “That's a good point. That's absolutely true.” Germany's romantic and brooding soul:
Das Deutsche Volk
. Its sense of being special; its need for order and authority; its abhorrence of defeat; the current urge to make no move save through consensus. All this, in the professor's neat writing, found a place on the back of the consul's program. Analytical notes were added too.
A conservative nation. Individualism is disliked. Guided by group instincts – different from the Anglo-Saxon tradition
.

Schwartz's scribbling scarcely kept pace with his thinking. Germany's problem, he said, was an incompatibility between an American implanted constitution steeped in the liberal tradition of transparency and openness, and the German cultural urge to manipulate the affairs of state behind the scenes. Liberalism, the professor argued, is anathema for the average German. Their penchant is for heavy bureaucracy and state control, no different than in ancient Prussia. Hanbury asked where all this was leading. The three pages had filled up with orderly columns of points to
be grouped and developed. Schwartz sat back looking satisfied. He lifted his glass. “Review the outline,” he said, as if to a graduate student. “If you're comfortable, we'll take it further next week.” The consul refolded the program along the crease and slipped it back into his jacket. He seemed relieved. “It's like starting a voyage of discovery,” he said.

“You still haven't told me about your party,” Schwartz remarked casually. “The paper reported everybody was there. Is that true? Did Kurt Stobbe go? Do you see much of him?”

“Only that time he showed me the Stasi files.”

“We may need him for our project. At one stage we'll have to focus on the trauma of the divided German nation. Some research in his archives will be essential. And we have to keep Nazi war criminals in mind.”

Hanbury, once more his relaxed self, believed that would be no problem.

“It proves my point,” said Schwartz. “I have access to the past. You have access to the present. An ideal combination.”

“I'll drink to that,” the consul said.

“I've read about events like this, but to be inside, taking part…” Sabine's voice trailed off. She was dressed formally in a black narrow-cut skirt suit. The tailoring set off her figure, the black colour brought out the arresting blondness of her hair. The Reichstag was filling fast. The galleries were loaded with TV cameras. In one corner, members of the Berlin Philharmonic were taking their position. The section reserved for diplomats, close to the front, was just behind the political elite. A by-invitation-only ceremony with tight security. More Berlin history in the making.

“I'm glad you asked me to come.” Sabine's voice – a tremor hinted at inner excitement – was at odds with her stiff posture. Hanbury noticed it. “I'm glad you came,” he replied. He was in the royal pose, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on a knee. On the podium von Helmholtz was giving directions. His idea, the consul supposed, a ceremony in Berlin for Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan. Who else would have conceived it?

“
Mein Kollege
.” A voice nearby. Hanbury half-turned. It was the Argentine consul, a short, stocky man with thick lips and eyes sad as a Saint Bernard's. Hanbury tried to recall his name. “
Darf ich Ihnen Frau Schwartz vorstellen?
” he said, politely offering to introduce his companion. “But of course. But of course,” said Argentina. Sabine offered a hand. Argentina took it, bent forward and pressed his mouth against it. A slobbering Saint Bernard. A long, probing Latin look into her eyes sought a reaction, but Sabine turned away. Argentina made small talk. He had information Reagan would not be coming. “But Gorbachev will.” Another passionate glance at Sabine. “Gorbachev is reliable.” Hanbury shrugged, as if to say,
Win some, lose some
. Argentina wandered off. “What a preposterous little man,” Sabine said. “A colleague? Are they all like that?”

“They vary.”

Sabine could see that for herself. Others were arriving. Hanbury greeted them with perfunctory nods. Some came over to shake hands. The affable Finn lingered. Hanbury told him he had heard Reagan might not be coming. “No? That would be a pity. But I compliment you. As always, you are so well informed.” Hanbury indicated he heard this from Argentina. “Exactly. Both of you. You are both always so well informed.” Finland moved on too.

The Berlin diplomatic corps, with its morbid desire to spend time in the vault of democratic horrors, always turned out in numbers for Reichstag functions. The consul and his escort observed the influx.

It had been like this for weeks. The more Hanbury saw of Sabine's husband, the more he saw of her. He normally approached Schwartz first. His polite suggestions amounted essentially to a question that would have sounded crude:
Can I borrow your wife?
The answer from the husband was steadily affirmative:
It's good for Sabine to get out
. Then he'd go to
Bücher Geissler
to ask Sabine if she'd like to join him. She replied she'd check at home, to avoid overlapping social obligations.
There never were any. In this way, Sabine began attending functions she never knew existed.

Hanbury suspected she enjoyed them even if it didn't show. In public, such as now in the Reichstag, they behaved as a couple that's been together so long there's little left to say. Their mutual nonchalance towards one another confused the consul's colleagues.
Who is the elegant lady
, they wondered,
and why does Canada treat her with such indifference?
Sabine was becoming a fringe topic on the cocktail circuit. The diplomatic corps speculated that if Canada had hidden this beauty for so long, he might well be hiding more.

Argentina was right. The Old Gipper had decided not to come. Gorbachev alone would have the limelight. The packed Reichstag erupted into sustained applause as the Chief of Protocol led Mikhail and Raisa to their places.

The program started. The Berlin Philharmonic played a solemn Beethoven movement. Speeches followed, each one about the last half-century of German penance. Then a video: the Soviet military driving through the Brandenburg gate on May Day 'ffl; footage of post-war street signs some months later –
You Are Now Leaving the American Sector
– and of Soviet and American tanks staring each other down at Checkpoint Charlie; the Wall rising in '61; Kennedy there in '63; Ronald Reagan ascending a platform in '87 with the Wall behind him and behind it, two steps inside East Berlin, the Brandenburg Gate. Berlin celebrating its 750th birthday that year and Reagan putting on a show. The video shows him challenging the President of the Soviet Union:
Mr. Gorbachev! Open this gate! Mr. Gorbachev! Tear down this Wall!

Hanbury could see Gorbachev at the front. He and Raisa were listening to the Russian soundtrack through earphones. Gorbachev was studiously impassive, watching the Hollywood President.

The video moved on: September '89, the fortieth anniversary of the
East German communist dictatorship; Gorbachev joins the celebrations in East Berlin and kisses Honecker; Honecker claims his totalitarian paradise will last forever; Gorbachev – studiously impassive then too – listens; later, he walks in East Berlin and mingles with the people; they want to know what he thinks of a regime that denies its people foreign travel. The camera zooms in. Gorbachev speaks calmly:
History punishes those who act too late
. Translation: Honecker is on his own, because Soviet tanks won't roll again against the people, not like in '53. With that remark the rug is pulled out from under forty years of German Communism. Two months later the regime is swept aside. Trabis invade West Berlin; Ossis and Wessis kiss and embrace.

The video over, after more speeches, Gorbachev (with Reagan in absentia) joined Bismarck as Honourary Citizen of Berlin. At a reception in the foyer, Sabine stood in a circle with Gorbachev who answered questions through an interpreter. She was ambivalent. She could not forgive the Communists for walling off her city. On the other hand, with his dancing eyes and dark spot on his forehead, he was a fascinating man. Upon leaving the Reichstag she described to Hanbury what she felt. “It was a remarkable event,” he agreed.

Sipping a hot drink in the Opera Café, they still talked about the ceremony. It symbolised a wrapping up of a chunk of world history that coincided with their lifetimes. They talked about the feel of the period when they lived together and the changes since. Sabine then casually asked what Tony and her husband did when they went drinking. He explained they were collaborating on a project. “It's working out well,” he said. The dialogue paused. Sabine studied the enlarged reproductions of old Berlin prints on the walls. They portrayed a quiet, uncomplicated, orderly Unter den Linden a century and a half before. Something about that time was right, but something about the last few months was right too. She mused aloud that no one could have predicted a day would come when she and Tony would be going out like this. Or that Tony and Werner would
become collaborators on a project. She told the latest stories of Nicholas who enjoyed sport, like her father. She switched to her work, talking of friends who dropped by the store, Tony now one of them.

Hanbury listened. He liked it when Sabine talked. Publicly she said little, but privately she didn't stop. It was this way whenever they were together, she drawing him into a world where cold professional contacts had no standing, but where simpler things did.

More than the deepening friendship with Sabine was making the weeks special. The consul felt embraced by the city. He absorbed its moods, its sunny and its dark sides. He breathed the air of expectation and acceleration. He listened to the cacophony of renewal. Berlin was making up for lost time and Hanbury sensed that he, too, was on a forced march into a shimmering future.

It was the process of becoming. But becoming what? It was impossible to know. He believed that a kind of height of land had been crossed, that he was moving with the current now, not against it. An anticipation for a destination gripped him. He tried to put his finger on the moment when he crossed the divide. Was the party in his residence the turning point? He remembered the hours as if they had been filmed – the night with Gundula and the continuation the next day of the mood of fulfilment. But the afternoon – talking to Irving Heywood and seeing von Helmholtz – brought setbacks. Yet, during the evening's drink with Schwartz some lost ground was recouped. After that day, his assignment in Berlin was different. He was coasting. Everything was working out.

The call from Heywood had been disturbing. Unctuousness traversed the ocean through the phone line and Heywood's words jolted loose a sense of foreboding. The feeling had remained with him even as he stood next to von Helmholtz on the balcony, where it was replaced
by something worse. The Chief of Protocol had been dignified. Hanbury recognized he had a crude task to perform for unknown others. Hanbury restrained himself so as not to make the situation more difficult. Upon leaving city hall, Hanbury had racked his brains to see a context for what von Helmholtz had said. Was Günther Rauch really the focus? Was being spied on in
Friedensdorf
a unique event, or was it part of something bigger? He thought back to Zella's visit, her phantoms, his dismissing them. Was that part of it? Or the notation on his Stasi file? Where in all of it did that fit? And what about the timing of Heywood's ingratiating call and the vague reference to some people having an expectation? Was all this coincidental, or was it linked? And, if so, was there a centre? Hanbury couldn't get the pieces to add up. The end effect was that he had a sense of having been invaded, that something was at work intending to take him apart.

How ironic then that that same evening there was relief. And that Heywood's request for reports was part of it. When Hanbury entered
Das Klecksel
, not wanting to talk to Schwartz about Günther Rauch, or about feeling invaded by unseen forces, he got Heywood's remarks off his chest instead. The professor's offer of assistance with political reporting helped focus his thoughts away from the balcony talk and onto something do-able. Von Helmholtz's suggestion to stay away from Günther Rauch for a few months occasionally crossed his mind, but, Hanbury reasoned, the time would go by fast enough and in the interim, collaborating with Schwartz on the reporting project was proving satisfying and productive.

Hanbury made careful notes at all the
Klecksel
sessions. The professor talked; the consul wrote. Subject:
the Nazis and the Modern German
. Main Points:
– lay bare the excesses; – describe the legacy; – address responsibility and objectify guilt; – draw out aspects of the national socialist agenda which could have been positive had the leadership been less parochial; – set out the main elements of a neo-conservative platform which Germans intuitively want
. In a slow, sure voice Schwartz summarized
books, described learned articles, drew irresistible conclusions. Afterwards, at his office computer, the consul fleshed out the notes and reconstructed the professor's encyclopaedic verbal essays. He didn't find the going easy. Sometimes one hour produced one sentence. He pursued the subjects elsewhere. Schwartz suggested he talk to politicians, journalists, essayists, a slice of the intelligentsia. Frau Carstens arranged appointments. When a report was done, once it had been revised, tightened and discussed one last time with the professor before the final polish, it would be dispatched with pride to the tabernacle readership.