Pfarnkuchen
Speciality of the city. Everyone else in Germany calls them Berliners. Jam doughnuts, by any other name.
Streuselschnecken
Rhubarb Snails
Similar to a Chelsea Bun (p. 136, Bread, Biscuits and Cakes) but filled with fruit (in this case rhubarb) and topped with a rough crumble mixture. Schnecken (snail in German) perfectly describes the shape of the coiled buns and this would be an excellent use of rhubarb which is often plentiful when other fruit is scarce and one is looking for another use for it once it has been stewed, pied and crumbled.
He came out from under the trees. He must have been watching her approach. It was early. Few people about but still he seemed wary. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Same hat, same raincoat.
‘You looked different last night,’ she said.
‘In the day, out here, it is best not to look too prosperous,’ Kurt said. ‘Come. I know a place, not far.’ He put a proprietorial arm round her shoulder. ‘A small café. We can talk there.’
He took her to a place near the Brandenburg Gate. How quickly these places had popped back up again, business as usual between the ruins and the rubble. Small tables covered in oilcloth. The coffee served in thick cups.
He ordered coffee and a little plate of jam doughnuts.
The coffee came black, coarse ground and bitter tasting, more than a little of the ersatz about it. Kurt bit into one of the doughnuts, red jam oozed from the centre.
‘You have to try,’ he dusted sugar from his fingers. ‘They are a speciality of the city.’
She picked one up, the crisp dough still warm from the fryer, coated in ground sugar.
He was still wearing that ring, heavy gold and carnelian. She remembered the last time they’d been together like this, outside that café in Heidelberg and marvelled how little she felt for him now. Gone was the lovelorn girl, her heart torn into bleeding pieces. Gone was the woman who had run the bath to overflowing to hide her sobs as she mourned the loss of love. He had betrayed her, many times over, now it was her turn. For her. For those lost women. For Elisabeth.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. He still pronounced th as s. She remembered trying to teach him, them laughing together.
‘Oh, nothing.’ She tore open the doughnut. ‘Just wondering where they got the ingredients.’
‘British, Americans. They trade like everybody does.’ He dusted the sugar from his hands. ‘But we’re not here to talk about that.’
What were they there to talk about?
‘You have been looking for me,’ he said it as a statement of fact. ‘Now you’ve found me.’
‘I found Elisabeth,’ Edith corrected. ‘Elisabeth found you.’
‘What does she want? Do you know?’
Edith thought quickly. ‘A divorce. She wants a divorce.’
‘And you?’ He sat back. ‘What do you want?’
‘Not me, exactly.’
‘If not you, then …’ His face cleared. He gave that tight smile, hope sparking light into his blue eyes. ‘Leo!’
‘Yes,’ Edith spread her hands. ‘You have it in one.’
He sat forward, excited now, hands tightly clasped to control his agitation.
‘When? What will happen?’
‘You will be contacted,’ Edith got ready to go. She didn’t have the first clue. If there were plans, no one had told her what they might be.
‘Edith, wait,’ Kurt caught her hand and held it. ‘Don’t leave yet. I have more to say. This is my best chance. I know that. My only chance if I’m not to end up in Moscow but I must see her.’ He looked up at Edith, his eyes at their most pleading. ‘We parted badly. If she wants a divorce so be it, but I won’t go anywhere unless you promise that she will see me.’
‘It’s really not in my power,’ Edith took her hand from his. ‘But I’ll make sure they know.’
Back at the hotel, Dori and Adeline were waiting in her room.
‘And? What happened?’ Dori asked.
Edith took off her coat. ‘I told him Leo wanted him,’ she said simply.
‘How did he react?’
‘Like a drowning man who’s just been thrown a life buoy. What I didn’t know is why you want him. No, that’s not right.’ She turned to Dori. ‘I know why you want him, but don’t know what the plan is, if there is one, of course.’
‘Of course there’s a plan!’ Dori looked stung.
‘So? What is it?’
Dori sat back in her chair, thinking fingers steepled. ‘Okay. The plan is … The plan is to get him out. Out of the Russian Sector for a start, then out of Berlin and on his way south. To Italy. For that we need help from the Americans. They use ratlines all the time to get “visitors”, as they call them, out of Europe.’ She looked over to Adeline. ‘Adeline’s arranging a meeting with Tom McHale tonight.’
‘You’re going to help him escape!’ Edith looked from one to the other, completely at a loss. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘No,’ Dori cut in. ‘He’s not going to escape. He’s not going to escape at all. Just the opposite. But we need to be in an arena where we can take control. He’s no good to anyone in the Russian Sector, is he?’
‘So you’re giving him to the Americans? They want him as much as Leo does and for the same reasons!’
‘We want them to think they’ve got him. Then we’ll step in.’
‘Double-cross them?’ Adeline frowned. ‘That’s a big risk, Dori.’
‘I know!’ She turned on Adeline, eyes blazing. She didn’t like being questioned like this. ‘I’m working with War Crimes and Drummond. We know what we’re doing – you’ll just have to trust us!’ She turned her dark gaze, still sparking, to Edith. ‘Now, I’ve got a question for you. How did you know to meet Kurt in the Teirgarten?’
‘A message. From Frau Schmidt.’
‘How did she know you would be in Berlin?’
‘Elisabeth, I suppose.’
‘So, Frau Schmidt knows that you, a British Control Commission Officer, are looking for a German war criminal and she’s setting up a meeting with him in the Teirgarten? No, no, no!’ She shook her head rapidly. ‘That doesn’t wash in any way!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You could have arrived with a troop of Military Police ready to cart him off to Spandau. Think about it, Edith!’
The telephone rang. Adeline answered.
‘Driver’s here.’
Dori stood up and put on her coat. ‘I arranged for Jack to come and pick us up. I told him to wangle a Jeep. I want to have a look at where Herr Doktor von Stavenow lays his head.’
Edith thought about it all the way through the Brandenburg Gate, into the Russian Zone and down the wide thoroughfare. Bare now of trees. Unter den Linden, without the limes. Of course. It was obvious. There had been no message from Frau Schmidt. Which meant it came directly from Elisabeth. Which meant that she must have been in touch with Kurt somehow. Edith stared, distracted, seeing, but not seeing. Elisabeth hadn’t said anything about that. Not a word …
‘Up here. Turn left.’ Dori was directing Jack.
It was impossible not to feel exposed here. The city was really no different, but this side felt even more desolate, the streets empty of people, the walls adorned with huge photographs of Stalin, painted hammers and sickles, Communist slogans in Roman and Cyrillic script.
‘Now right. Left again.’ Dori consulted the note on her lap. ‘This should be it.’
The curving street was residential, or had been. They looked out for house numbers scrawled on walls, or pillars, or in a few cases still on the actual buildings.
The house stood alone. The dwellings either side reduced to a few jagged walls jutting from reefs of fallen masonry.
Jack coasted the last few yards. The Jeep came to a stop outside a small café. Jack made a show of trying the engine, the turning motor sounding harsh and loud in the quiet street. He got out and opened the bonnet. Dori went into the small café to ask for help. ‘Danke. I’ll try across the road,’ she said loudly and walked across to Kurt’s house. Jack took off his jacket and dragged a bag of tools from the back.
‘It’ll be the carburettor full of muck. It’s the petrol. Full of God knows what.’
Edith and Adeline went to the café and sat down at one of the rickety tables to watch as Dori went up the steps and peered at numbers. Had Elisabeth been in touch with Kurt? Edith thought back. She’d shown her the address on Monday. Not really time for messages to go back and forth. That was when she showed it to you, the insidious, precise little voice of suspicion whispered. You don’t know how long she’d had it …
Adeline jogged her arm. ‘She’s in!’
A man was coming out of the building, tipping his hat to Dori, holding the door open for her.
She showed you the address because she knew you were going to Berlin at the weekend, the voice in her head continued to reason. Then she set up the meeting …
Adeline nudged Edith again. A small woman was coming out of the café, wiping her hands on her washed-out wraparound apron. Edith explained that they had broken down. The woman nodded, pushing a lock of dark hair, streaked with grey, back under her faded kerchief. So the other lady had said. No telephone. She indicated the drooping web of lines. The other side, maybe. Meanwhile would they like something? The Streuselschnecken was very good.
‘Das klingt shön,’ Edith said. ‘Und Kaffee bitte.’
The lady went into the café. Adeline lit a cigarette and stared across the street. Jack carried on peering into the engine, muttering to himself and making a play with various spanners. Of course, they had been in touch with each other. It had been in Kurt’s eyes when he’d asked about her …
The proprietress came out with coffee and cakes on a tray, a plate for them and one for Jack. He wiped his hands on an oily rag and leaned against the side of the Jeep.
‘Ta, love.’ He took a swig of coffee and scoffed his cakes in two bites each. He made a thumbs-up sign. ‘Sehr gut!’
The cakes were warm. Edith bit into one. The filling was a surprise.
‘Rhubarb?’
The woman beamed. ‘Yes, growing in the garden.’
‘It’s very good. I haven’t come across that before.’
‘English?’ The woman looked from one to the other. ‘American?’
‘I’m English.’ Edith pointed to herself. ‘My friend is American.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ She spoke in English. ‘That is correct?’
Edith nodded.
‘I like to practise. We don’t see so many of you here. I am Frau Becke.’ She laughed. ‘Named for my trade. I know.’
‘Can I have the recipe?’ Edith asked.
‘Of course!’ Frau Becke’s small, lined face creased with pleasure at Edith’s interest. She patted her pockets, ‘I write it for you.’
‘No need,’ Edith smiled back. ‘You can tell it to me. That’s fine.’
Edith took out notebook and pen to write down the recipe, it would go in the cookery book she’d told Harry she was going to write. Louisa would like it. Something else to do with rhubarb. And it would stop her mind ranging back and forth looking for clues, following a breadcrumb trail of duplicity across this whole new hinterland of deception that had suddenly appeared.
She forced her attention back to Frau Becke who was running through the recipe, indicating the dry ingredients with her hands, from cupped palms to a pinch. The table became her worktop as she mimed mixing, rolling, spreading on filling, rolling again and cutting. Edith noted each stage down. The recipes were like a diary, fixing times and places, people and faces. She would pair this with the Pfarnkuchen. Her time in Berlin.
‘Sprinkle on the streusel. Heat the oven medium hot and bake the rhubarb snails—’
‘Snails.’ Edith looked up.
‘It is not the right word?’
Edith thought of the fat little coiled buns as she wrote schnecke. ‘Yes, it’s perfect.’
‘Bake five and twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
Edith shut her notebook. She took out Reichmarks and a packet of cigarettes and put them on the table. She could be wrong, of course. There could be some other explanation. Edith took temporary refuge in that thought. It stopped the creeping feeling that she’d been completely fooled.
They all looked up at the sound of a car slowing down to cruise past them. The car stopped. Two men in civilian clothes, hats and long overcoats, got out.
‘Polizei.’ Frau Becke muttered. ‘Gestapo. Same as before.’
She scooped up the money and the cigarettes and disappeared inside.
Just at that moment, Dori came out of the house. She turned smartly to the right and set off walking.
The two policemen stepped towards Jack.
‘Oi! Mate!’ Jack shouted in English. ‘Can you gis a hand? Gib mir hilfe?’ He nodded towards the engine. ‘Ist kaput.’
The men stopped and took a look. They bent over the open bonnet examining the innards of the Jeep with reluctant curiosity. Jack got into the driver’s seat.
‘Hold that down while I try it. That’s it. What do you know? Started first time. Verschliessen?’ One of them released the catch. The hood fell down with a slam. ‘Thanks, mate. Danke.’ He was revving the engine hard now. ‘Hop in, girls.’
Jack executed a neat U-turn and roared off towards Friedrichstrasse. He slowed when he reached Dori, stopping long enough for her to jump in.
‘Think we’ve got away with it,’ he said.
Edith turned round. The long, green, shiny snout of the German car was just visible, nosing out of a side street, chrome grill glinting.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
Jack looked in the mirror. ‘OK. Hang on to yer hats.’
Jack drew alongside a green-and-cream tramcar, pulling past it. He turned the wheel sharply, crossing the lines then cutting sharp right into a street narrowed by heaps of bricks and rubble spilled across the potholed surface like intersecting mounds of scree.
‘Still behind us?’
Edith and Adeline turned, trying to see through the dust thrown up by the Jeep without losing their grip on the sides.
Edith caught a glint of glass. ‘Yes, they are.’
Jack took a left and tucked the car behind the fallen frontage of half-destroyed building. The wall ran at a fractured diagonal, starting high up and descending in a series of jagged steps.
‘At least it ain’t a Tiger tank,’ Jack whispered.
Nevertheless, they all crouched instinctively at the sound of the car approaching, nosing along cautiously, like a predator seeking out its prey. Edith felt the sharp prickings of fear as she listened to the low growl of the engine, the wheels bumping over the detritus that littered the road. The thin skin of bricks seemed flimsy protection. Then the engine noise changed as the car reversed sharply and left in a skidding crunch of tyres.
Jack waited until the sound had gone altogether before reversing the Jeep and turning towards the road. He pulled out cautiously. The coast was clear.
‘Phew! That was—’
‘Don’t speak too soon.’ Dori nudged his arm. The German car was coming up fast, getting ready to overtake the slow-moving Jeep.
‘Right!’ Jack shouted. ‘If that’s the way they want it.’
He jerked the wheel, pulling the car into a side street that had been only partially cleared. The piles of rubble practically met in the middle.
‘We’ll never get through there!’ Adeline grabbed Edith’s arm.
‘They won’t, that’s for sure. Hold on tight.’ Jack used the sloping rubble as a ramp and took the Jeep up on two wheels to get through the smallest of gaps. For one frightful moment, it felt as though they were going to overturn, then the Jeep bounced down onto the road again. ‘That should fix ’em.’ Jack laughed. ‘I haven’t had this much fun since I was bombing round Normandy in a scout car.’
He waved two fingers and roared away.
‘Reckon I know where we are now,’ Jack said, ‘there should be a crossing point. Bridge over the Spree.’ He nodded towards the oily, slow-moving river. ‘Full of bodies, so they say.’
‘They say that about everywhere, Jack,’ Dori stared down at the black, turbid waters choked with all kinds of wreckage.
The crossing point back to the British Sector was on a bridge. The Russian soldier frowned down at the various documents while Dori spoke to him in rapid Russian. She offered him a cigarette. He took the packet, inspected the rolled cylinders of notes packed inside and raised the barrier. The British checkpoint waved them through after a cursory glance at their papers. It was Sunday afternoon and the guard was keen to get back to a fresh brew-up and his game of cards.
Jack dropped them at the hotel. There was a message from Harry. Delayed. Sorry. See you later. She folded the note and put it in her pocket, glad that she had other things to occupy her.
‘Did you find anything?’
Dori had hardly spoken except to get them through the checkpoints.
‘Research papers. My guess is he’s been back to the Charité to get them. Gives him something to trade.’ Dori dug into her pocket and took out a tiny cassette of film. ‘It’s all on here. I’ll pass it on to War Crimes.’ She took out a miniature camera, gave it to Adeline. ‘There’s more in this.’
‘A Minox,’ Adeline took the tiny silver lozenge of a camera and turned it over. ‘Where did you get it?’
Dori shrugged, hands in pockets. ‘We were issued with all kinds of kit during the war. Some didn’t make it back to the stores. Can you develop it?’
‘I guess. Might take a while.’
Adeline had converted the adjacent bathroom into a temporary darkroom. She’d tacked Out of Order to the door. Such inconveniences were not uncommon, to be met with a shrug and a trip to the next floor.
Dori stared out of the window, distant and abstracted, still in her coat, arms wrapped close, as if she was cold.
Some of Adeline’s latest photographs lay on the table. Trümmerfrau passing rubble hand to hand; women standing in line, waiting outside shops, waiting for trams, just waiting; a young woman stretched on a sunlit bench, eyes closed, in winter coat and hat; an older woman in a head scarf, pushing a pram, her feet wrapped in rags; a couple pulling a cart between them, yoked like mules; a woman pegging washing across a space where a fourth wall should be, her apartment now a balcony. Children at play. A boy had made a slide out of a steel girder. Two others were turning a tank tread into a car. Two little girls piled up stones in some arcane game. How resilient these children were, she thought, how inventive. They had lost everything. Homes. Fathers. Mothers. Their young lives had been shattered like their surroundings by a war that was no fault of theirs but they still managed to conjure a playground out of a bombsite. If this country had a future, it lay with them.
There was a darker side. Photographs of graffiti scrawled on walls that showed the things the children sometimes drew in the classroom, especially those from the east: soldiers with guns, bodies on the ground, men hanging from lampposts, crude depictions of rape. The things these children had experienced, the things that they had seen, they would carry those images the rest of their lives. Sometimes it was hard to keep hope alive. Only real security, good food, warm clothes, comfortable homes, proper education would turn this black tide of horror and they were very far from providing any of these things.
Edith picked up another photo. Two girls, a few years older. Dressed in polka-spot halter tops, sitting with GIs, the men’s presence shown by a trouser cuff, a cap on the table, a uniformed arm. The girls nursed bottles of Coca-Cola, their eyes hidden behind dark glasses, their pale faces puffy, pan-cake makeup covering skin eruptions. Tell-tale signs of bad diet. The puffiness and makeup made them look older, but Edith placed them in their early teens. Bodies barely pubescent; painted fingernails bitten to the quick.
A quick scrawl in china pencil: Germany As It Is Now.
Dori turned, as if she’d made her mind up about something.
‘I found something else. It was on his desk.’ She held up an opened envelope. Basildon Bond notepaper. The address written in Elisabeth’s large, distinctive, European cursive. ‘How much do you trust her now?’
Before Edith could reply, Adeline stepped into the room.
‘Are you ready? I think you should both come see what Dori found.’