The Other Side of Love (48 page)

“Is it bad news?”

Clothilde was looking at her.

Kathe dashed a hand across her eyes.

“No, a friend’s been redeployed,”

she mumbled. Why was she lying? Clothilde would have to know.

Kathe muffled her tears until her mother slept. When the sirens, wailed, Clothilde was snoring fitfully. Kathe didn’t even consider waking her to go to the shelter. After the Christmas raid that had made the cellar unusable, the block warden had insisted they dig a shelter in the garden. Even in good health, they seldom used the dank tunnel because of its unfortunate resemblance to a crypt.

Over the roar of planes and the rumble of faraway destruction, she heard a faint sound. It was as if a branch were tapping on the glass. But there were no trees near the window. Deciding her ears had deceived her, she rolled over. But no. There. Another slight riffing on the pane. Maybe somebody’s brought news about Sigi, she thought. Tying her robe, she tiptoed hastily to the other room, opening the door. The garish clouds over Berlin shed a half-light. She could see nobody in the overgrown garden.

She jumped. As if by supernatural means, a cadaverous figure had materialized a few feet from her.

“Who are you?”

she asked shakenly.

“Fraulein Kingsmith?”

The whisper was near-inaudible.

“What do you want?”

“It’s Heinrich Leventhal.”

“Herr Leventhal! Come down here.”

He followed her towards the lake, where a copse of firs grew.

“But Herr Schultze told me you’d been relocated.”

“Relocated,”

he echoed.

The quiet yet mordant intonation, so like Wyatt’s, reminded Kathe of love and warmth. She touched Leventhal’s arm, feeling the bone.

“Weren’t you?”

she asked.

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‘I was smiling at the charming euphemism. Yes, I was relocated. Have you ever heard of BergenBelsen?”

Among the Most Secret files had been accusations of the obscenities committed at the BergenBelsen concentrationcamp, as well as accusations of murder on a scale that defied belief.

“Oh my God.”

“Take it from me,”

Leventhal said,

“the Almighty never shows His face at Belsen.”

“But you escaped.”

“A long story. Fraulein Kingsmith, I’d never put your neck so near a noose, but Berlin’s really caught it! Should I clap my hands or weep? Schultze’s apartment’s not there any more, nor any of the other safe houses I know. D’you have any idea where Schultze is?”

Kathe swallowed.

“The building was hit last November. An incendiary. Everybody in the cellar suffocated.”

The reddish light flickered on Leventhal’s skull face.

“Poor old Schultze. A good man, a decent man. I’ve known him all my life. His father worked for my grandfather … Schultze was head of Leventhal’s deliveries, did you know that?”

After a sigh, he asked:

“What about the rest of the network?”

“I never even knew their names.”

“Well, that’s that,”

he said with a sigh.

“The Americans have crossed the Rhine near Cologne.”

“Already?”

“At Remagen, Hans Fritzsche reported tonight. Could you make it that far?”

“If there’s one thing I can thank the Fuhrer for, it’s resourcefulness.”

There was enough murky light to see the wooden clogs worn without socks, the torn and filthy trousers, th tniform tunic with sleeves far above his wrists, the shaved head.

“Some things of my father’s are left,”

she said. She and Clothilde had given away most of Alfred’s wardrobe to bombed-out friends, or exchanged warm garments for a chicken, a half-pound of butter.

“I’m sorry, they’re very old.”

“Sorry? Fraulein Kingsmith, you’re offering.me the world.”

“The first door you come to upstairs, they’re in the wardrobe. Be careful, some of the steps are rotted.”

“That’s an epitaph!

“Here lies Heinrich Leventhal, BergenBelsen escapee who broke his neck climbing a flight of stairs.”

“

They made chuckling sounds that fell short of laughter. Then she went back into the chauffeur’s quarters, searching in the darkness tor bread, the long-life sausage, margarine, the small piece of Kilgel she’d been saving for Sunday.

She was wrapping the food in a worn towel when Clothilde mumbled sleepily:

“What are you doing?”

On my way to the lavatory,”

Kathe responded, wondering why she was lying again. Her mother would approve.

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Shivering in the icy fir-scented air, she waited.

Alfred had been a stout man, and the dark suit billowed around Heinrich Leventhal’s skeletal frame. Still, the waistcoat, tie, shoes and socks branded him with acceptability. Many a bombed-out Aryan went around looking more of a clown.

“In case you’re hungry,”

she said, her face growing hot as she extended the wrapped-up food.

He was silent.

“I’m sorry, but it’s all we have.”

“Fraulein Kingsmith,”

he said in choked whisper,

“I have no faith left in German humanity, so you must be an angel. Promise me one thing. If I come out of this intact, don’t let anyone else do favours for you. Leave that to me.”

IV

The following morning as Kathe wheeled her bicycle to the street, she found the gate blocked by a stubby Volkswagen. Two SS noncoms sat in front. Seeing her, a corporal jumped out. The left side of his, face was slickly red, as if from a healed burn.

“Fraulein Kathe Kingsmith?”

he asked politely.

Gripping the handlebars, she nodded.

“If you’ll be so good as to get in the car.”

“I’m due at the Bendlerblock,”

she said, raising her chin in a try for arrogance.

“Can’t you find anything better to do than arrest essential workers?”

“Arrest? Who said anything about arresting you? The Untersturmfiihrer”

- SS equivalent of a second lieutenant -

“wants to talk to you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Officers!”

The unscarred side of his face loosened in a smile.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

He put his hands below hers on the handlebars.

“Like me to wheel this back up to your house, Fraulein?”

His geniality had no menace in it, but the black uniform did. Thinking of her mother coughing in bed, Kathe said:

“It’s safe behind the hedge here.”

As they skirted through bomb-damaged suburbs the two men exchanged quaint sayings of their children, who had been evacuated to an SS hostel in southern Austria. Kathe, alone in the narrow back seat, heard the commonplace conversation as the babbling of madmen. They turned into the Potsdam road. Houses gave way to vegetable patches, vegetable patches stretched into fields. Glossy black crows cawed and swooped at the furrowed earth.

The Volkswagen swerved on to a rutted lane, bouncing down an incline to a large new farmhouse and outbuildings that had

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been invisible from the road. The high barbed-wire fence that enclosed the yard proved this no ordinary farm. At a beep, a sentry, his black tunic unbuttoned, emerged from what appeared to be a barn to open the gate. Dobermanns sprang across the yard, snarling.

The scarred corporal whistled.

“Down, Hansi, Ensi. Good boy, Bodo, good boy.”

The guard dogs jumped playfully around them as she was escorted to the house. Evidently the animals had been trained to go no further than the door. Inside, all pretence at camouflage ended. The long wall was adorned with a mural of muscular golden-haired gods in SS uniforms. As she was hurried along, Kathe glimpsed an office with a huge map, men smoking in a mess-hall. They went up three steps and along a dimly lit, narrow corridor.

Using a key, the corporal said affably:

“In you go.”

The cell was small, but the ceiling was high. The glass was gone from the barred clerestory window, and the air seemed far colder than outside, maybe because of the dampness. The furnishings consisted of a coverless plank bed, a washbowl with a light skin of ice, a latrine bucket whose cover didn’t fit so that a foul odour escaped.

“How long will it be?”

Rubbing his scarred cheek, the corporal winked jovially.

“Don’t you worry, Fraulein. You’ll be eating lunch with your friends at the Bendlerblock.”

The heavy door banged shut. A chain jangled, a bolt was shot, a key turned. She was triple-locked inside the cell. She sank down on the plank bed. After a few minutesAie was shivering uncontrollably. She began pacing the cell’s lemgth, four steps up, four steps back, swinging her arms and stamping. Although she felt no warmer, activity jarred her brain. Why had she been brought here? Whatever the corporal said, it wasn’t likely, was it, that she would have been driven this distance to be returned to Berlin after a few questions? What did the Gestapo want with her? The possibilities were numerous. First, she had committed the undeniable crime of being Sigi’s sister. Or maybe they had picked up Heinrich Leventhal with clothes and food donated by her. Or had the grouchy ticketseller at the Grunewald station spilled the beans about the strips of filmed secrets? Or was she tripled-locked because of her letters to Ulla-Britt Onslager? Her rebuff of Groener?

As a crook of substance she began fabricating excuses.

She kept glancing at her wristwatch, which ticked slowly, impervious to her chafing dread. Outside the dogs snapped and barked, n the corridor, occasional footsteps and voices. By two o’clock her mind was rubbed raw. Is this what they mean, softened up?

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V

There was no electricity in the cell, so she couldn’t see her watch, but she estimated it to be around eight when the air-raid alert howled. Footsteps were pounding in the corridor. In the yard commands were shouted to get to the shelter. Nobody came to move her. The roar grew louder until the deafening throb against her eardrums told her a formation of bombers was passing directly overhead.

Suddenly the darkness beyond the window turned bright. From her cot she could see Christmas trees, the nickname for those weirdly beautiful red and green phosphorus markers that delineated the area to be bombed.

This fake farmhouse was the target!

Kathe had never been one of those people who went to pieces during a raid; but, then, again, she had never been locked up during one. At a deafening roar, the cell shook. She darted to the inner wall.

The chorus of yelping dogs grew yet more frantic. Something either a tree or an outbuilding burst into flames, and burning scraps of debris showered between the bars on to the wooden floor. Kathe jumped about, stamping on the embers. When all were extinguished, she realized that two of the window-bars had been jarred loose, leaving a space.

Her mind suddenly went cold and clear.

Get out of here. Get out!

The dogs had reached pandemonium level. There were no human shouts. She dragged the plank cot to the window. Adrenalin strength flooded through her, and she used her arms to haul herself on to the embrasure. Clutching the rusty insecure bars, she breathed shallowly because of the smoke. Fire was everywhere. Flames shot up from the barn. Several trees blazed, their branches etched with fire. She could see no sentry. Go, she told herself. Go!

She jumped.

A terrified Dobermann lunged towards her, pointed teeth bared and eyes gleaming red in the flames.

“Ensi, Hansi, Bodo,”

she screamed, remembering the names by a miracle.

“It’s all right, boy, all right.”

The dog whirled away to rejoin the frenzied pack.

The roar of engines was drowned out by the thunder of flames. Coughing, eyes streaming, she ran towards the smoke-shrouded entry. The heat forced her a step backwards.

But there was no going back.

The air was sucked from her as she edged around the burning gate. Then she was sprinting along the unpaved lane that led to the Potsdam road. The fire blew a tropical gale. At a deafening crash,

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she whirled around. The barn had collapsed. Tongues of fire spat white sparks. She ran yet faster. Miles away, to the north, the sky was ablaze. Thoughts swerved past her brain. Poor old Berlin, getting it again. Mother, alone and ill, she must be frantic. Has the house been bombed? How she loathed the smell of fire; once the war was over, she’d never have a fire. There weren’t any German fighter planes. The bombers could dump their bomb-loads wherever they chose. Damn them, damn them, she thought, sprinting at full speed.

Suddenly she was hit in the back.

The blow caught her by surprise. As she went down, she thought: Is it a bomb? Wyatt, is this death?

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“

7945-6

GERMANS SURRENDER

Headline of the

“New York Times’, Monday, 7 May 1945

TODAY IS V-DAť

CHURCHILL SPEAKS AT 3 P.M., PHE KING AT 9;

TODAY AND TOMORROW ARE NATIONAL HOLIDAYS

Headline of the

“News Chronicle’, Tuesday, 8 May 1945

THE TASK OF HOLDING GERMANY WILL NOT BE A

HARD ONE-IT WILL BE MUCH HARDER TO HOLD

HER UP.

Postwar speech to Parliament by Winston Churchill