He could hardly believe it. He knew having friends in the right places would pay off. The Ink Spots wailed at him from the small gramophone in the corner.
“Whispering grass, don’t tell the trees.”
His spine tingled, and he put the letter back into its manilla envelope and placed it neatly on the polished coffee table. He may be on the brink of disturbing a hornet’s nest, and this knowledge did not sit comfortably in his whirring mind. These hornets wore cheap brown suits and had greasy hair and even greasier palms.
The kettle whistled for attention in the kitchen, so Bill stood up and wandered out to rescue it. He filled the small teapot and, cradling it in both hands, gave it a swirl. His Aunt Nelly used to tut loudly when he did that at home: If you’re going to make tea, make it like an Englishman! Bill smiled at his late aunt’s memory and carefully placed the teapot on the worktop. It was a strange-looking art deco piece of lime-green ceramic he had swapped for a packet of American cigarettes on Unter den Linden.
Barter was the new currency in Berlin. When society collapses, the man holding the most valuable goods is king. In this city, that was usually cigarettes. Enough cigarettes could get you fed, drunk or laid.
Barter-central was in the Russian sector of the city. The streets were mostly filthy, and most of the inhabitants and their new masters were even filthier. It was a strange sort of huddled mass of bombed-out Berliners, refugees passing through, and other poor souls. They were selling their worldly possessions for enough to buy a bite to eat at one of the makeshift beer halls or to swap for a threadbare greatcoat to keep out the worst of the biting winter. The winter of 1946 had not arrived on time. Its tardiness had been a great blessing for Bill, who had turned up in November expecting the worst. It had given him enough time to make some contacts and settle into life in this alien land before the worst weather hit.
Bill peered out of the window at the dirty moonscape below. The omnipresent rubble and dust that plagued everyday life gave this new Berlin a strange other-worldly air at dusk. His apartment block looked out onto a giant stone-filled crater where there were once grand facades and other buildings more in keeping with the street than this newly obliterated quarry, care of the Royal Air Force. Since Bill arrived, the walking dead locals seemed to be making slow progress clearing the site. They often sneered in contempt as he passed by to get home. He watched as the last two dust-covered workers gathered their coats and scrambled down the rubble mountain. It was bitterly cold out, but the two ghosts walked off down the street in shirt sleeves with their coats under their arms, their hot breath visible in the dying of the light.
Bill poured a cup of Earl Grey into a chipped china cup and returned to his chair. He leaned forward, carefully placing another log from the wire basket into the fireplace, and picked up his pipe. He watched the dancing flame of the match for a moment, then lit up. A sip of his tea and he returned once again to the letter to see if the text had changed while he was away. To his disappointment, it hadn’t. He had work to do. He gathered up the telephone and, lifting the receiver to his ear, dialled the number. He then gave the operator the two-digit extension of the office.
The Berlin telephone system was nothing short of a miracle. Straight after the occupation, the allies had quickly got an efficient telephone system running. Most telephones in the city could be dialled directly, with most significant buildings and military departments requiring assistance from an operator for the extension only. Moreover, they had set up Bill’s apartment with the ability to dial internationally, too, a novelty usually reserved for those that had pre-booked at the rather hefty sum of 120 Marks. That was about twelve US Dollars.
“Mr Fuchs to speak to Mr Weber, please.”
“Hold, please,” replied the female voice.
There was a long silent pause.
“Yes?”
“Mr Weber, it’s Mr Fuchs from the BBC. I was wondering if we might meet to discuss the story I am working on?”
“Ah! It’s good to hear from you so soon. I would love to meet to discuss the story. I will go and get my schedule book from the drawer, just one moment.”
In a somewhat muffled voice, Bill could hear him ask his secretary to retrieve his diary from her office.
“Okay, she’s gone. Did you get my letter, Bill?”
“I did. Where can we meet?”
There was an uncomfortable pause. In the background, the Ink Spots continued to offer their melodic advice. “Whispering grass, don’t tell the trees.”
Bill was all too aware of how insecure the telephone lines were. He even had an operator in the exchange in his pocket who listened to calls for him.
“Do you remember where you introduced me to the Hamiltons?”
“Of course,” Bill quickly replied.
“Tomorrow at thirteen hundred hours.” Bill could hear the secretary had re-entered the room. “Yes, here we are. How does midday on Thursday sound?”
Bill hung up. He knew Albie would give the secretary a good show but ultimately cancel the appointment. He looked down at the note one last time before throwing it into the fire.
NEED TO MEET. VITAL INFO ON YOUR MAN. AMIS BACKED US OFF. BLUE EYES IN BERLIN - HAVE ADDRESS.
So, final confirmation that Misselwitz was indeed in the city. Bill clenched his teeth as he watched the letters on the page dissolve into ash and up the chimney, just as Ernst Misselwitz had helped so many disappear up chimneys. Bill thought back to the old SOE file on him. SD, Gestapo and police special actions in France—Nazi euphemism for mass murder.
Bill took the time to loop through the giant park they laughably still had the audacity to call the Tiergarten. The centuries-old woodland was once a cultural celebration of all things German, back when there was anything worth being proud of. Wagner, Mozart and many of the kings and emperors of old Prussia used to keep a watchful gaze on the transient visitors and Berliners out enjoying a walk or a picnic surrounded by their stone heroes of old.
Rumour had it that apart from the forlorn statues now resting on their side in the mud, some had been buried somewhere nearby to protect them from the Russian artillery. The trees had long gone. Just another two hundred thousand Berliners wiped out for a pointless war. Due to the dire shortages of coal, they had been methodically cut down to provide the city with firewood. Bill remembered the warm apartment he had left earlier in the day and tipped the invisible forest a nod, silently thanking it for its sacrifice.
He watched as barefooted children dragged a toddler around in an old toy cart. The exuberance of youth was all around the city. Most of what was left were the old and the very young. They knew no different. The ruins of Berlin were their playground. Hardly the quasi-Roman new world planned by Hitler’s personal architect, Albert Speer, as a tribute to his thousand-year Reich. The grandiose Nazi plans had been cancelled, although evidently, no one thought to tell the Russians, who had continued with the demolitions on their behalf.
Bill passed through the various allotment plots where, among patrolling soldiers and police, feeble old men and their bedraggled wives tended to potatoes and other vegetables. It made him wonder how the gardener back at his home in Kent was doing with the vegetable garden. Bill was one of those people who was happy to eat vegetables but had no idea how they worked.
He pulled up the collar on his navy-blue long overcoat over his scarf, tipped forward the peak of his heavy felt fedora and continued briskly into the biting Prussian wind. His leg started to throb. The old wound always gave him pain in the winter.
Arriving twenty minutes early had given Bill time to survey the area, double back twice to ensure he wasn’t tailed and find a dark corner to wait for his man. Albie Weber arrived a little before one o’clock and waited under the Brandenburg Gate like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Take it easy, Albie. You’ll have a heart attack. Let’s take a walk. Look casual.”
“I really don’t like any of this, Bill. What is this all about?”
“What do you mean? I’m just looking for this guy to follow up a rather sensitive story.”
“L … look, Bill, I want to help, really I do. I don’t understand what the BBC wants with this guy or why the Amis are interested in him.”
Bill stopped and turned. “Yes, the Americans. What did they say?”
Albie looked suddenly spooked. “Well, your man with the blue eyes showed up. There was a crash in the American sector, a couple of guys in a Jeep got injured, the paper covered the story, and one of the witnesses gave his name as Ernst Witzer. That’s him, right? Your man? Anyway, we went down and took some statements and had a photographer with us. This Witzer really didn’t want his photo taken. Anyway, we used a few quotes from him, among others from a couple of beggars on the corner there, wrote the article and sent it off for print.
“I was just about to telephone you and let you know your man was on the radar when my secretary took a bizarre call from the US Headquarters, Berlin District. The gist was to remove any mention of Ernst Witzer’s name and censor a crash scene photograph. They didn’t leave a name or number. Later that day, we had a visit from the Berlin Police to check the changes had been made before the full print run. Anyway, I figured a simple message to let you know might be better than a call they may listen in on.”
“Good thinking. It sounds to me like the Americans contained the incident. Maybe one of the casualties was a VIP or something? Did you get their names?”
“No, by the time we arrived, the ambulance had gone. We know only that one was a sergeant in the Air Force and the other a lieutenant.” Albie looked over Bill’s shoulder, noticed a police patrol, and turned to continue walking.
Bill followed his lead. “Do you have anything else to help me find him?”
“Here’s the address he gave us, the photo and the article pre-edits.”
“Thanks, Albie. I can tell you the BBC in Berlin appreciates the help. Let me put your mind at ease, you did what they asked, and nothing will blow back on you. Dollars again?”
“Ideally, thanks. If there is a decent story at the end of all this, will you give The Post a chance to get it to print before the rest get their claws in?”
“Sure. Take care, Albie, head back and let me know if you hear anything else.” Bill pulled out eight ten-dollar bills and handed them to Albie, who looked down in his hand at the green-hued President Hamiltons, smiled and headed back towards the Gate.
The address was in the American sector. He would need to be paying Ernst Misselwitz a visit. Bill watched Albie leave, looked up at the statue of Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory, on top of the half-destroyed gate guarding the city and shook his head at the irony.
Bill smiled as he gave the young woman the notes. The Allied Occupation Marks, as they were clumsily called, were merely supposed to be temporary. But, over a year on, they were still the only official currency in Berlin. Used throughout the city in all sectors was proving a gold mine for the US troops who were swapping their soap and cigarette rations for thousands of marks and then using them to buy US postal orders to send back home. Highly illegal and exploitative, the practice was outlawed, and the powers-that-be were keen to stop the practice among their troops, to little avail.
As Bill passed the blue-and-green Monopoly money over to her, he noticed the remnants of old stitching marks on the breast pocket of her tunic. She looked down and, pulling her shawl across herself, attempted to hide the unmistakable star-shaped outline ghosted by the sun and dust. Bill reached into his pocket and added a few more notes. She nodded obligingly and continued to stare at the earth.
The apartment building was large, impressive and largely undamaged. There was a small rope around the entrance, not unlike the Ritz in London. Through the spotlessly clean windows, Bill could see there was a concierge at the front desk in a cartoonishly large maroon-peaked cap and matching uniform. Glancing around, he spotted a small cafe almost opposite with a clear view of the front entrance. It had a grand flagpole above the large windows. No flag hung there. Its absence made it all the more apparent. The ever-present zeitgeist of Nazism still loomed large. Crossing the quiet street and opening the heavy glass door with its giant brass handle, Bill took off his hat and sat inside facing the window.
“Could I take your coat, sir? What can I get for you?” the wide-eyed young waiter asked in a kind of mock high-German, copying the ludicrous forced accent of the late Führer. Bill guessed this manner of speaking had become synonymous with class in Berlin high society.
Bill would be keeping his coat and his gun close to hand. “What time is it?”
“It’s just turned eleven, sir.”
“Excellent, then I will have a Scotch.”
“We only have American whiskey, sir.”
“I guess that will have to do then … Hans,” Bill replied, reading from the man’s name badge.
Bill had spent a lot of time with Americans. Living in the American sector, now it was almost a necessity. He found them loud and brash, with little to say and taking far too long to say it.
He had become a big fan of jazz, blues and swing music from his frequent trips to Café de Paris in London before the war and was now finding it increasingly difficult to get hold of new records. Ironically, even the black market here didn’t care for music of that particular hue. Bill could never understand how the Americans could hold the moral high ground over anyone while their own people lived entirely segregated lives.
The jazz bars had some records, of course, but were hardly likely to want to sell them on when replacements were nigh-on impossible to obtain.
The waiter returned and placed a cut-glass tumbler, a third full on a small card coaster and a little steel cup of ice with a set of toy-like mini tongs, like something straight out of The Nutcracker. He pulled out the Berlin Post he had brought with him and pretended to read. The building opposite was as quiet as the bar. He might be wasting his time here. Bill noticed Wagner was playing subtly in the background as two elderly women forced their way into the airlock to get safely out of the bitter cold. They walked with conviction towards some destination beyond him. He felt their disapproving look at his chosen beverage as they sat behind somewhere and ordered a pot of English tea.
Bill flipped once again to the article. Misselwitz had not changed much. His hair was a little longer and unkempt, but he still had that chiselled bottom jaw. His youthful appearance had perhaps become more mature than pin-up-boy. The intel was good, though. He was going under the name Witzer. The rest of the article was of no interest, the crash appeared unconnected, and the quotes used were of no value to intelligence. It looked like Misselwitz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now his cover was blown wide open, much like his head would be if Bill got his way.
Entering the building, Bill could smell the distinct fragrance of lavender. The floor was like an ice rink of curiously patterned marble, and the front desk looked like it could have withstood the Hiroshima bomb. The concierge stood up to greet him, and Bill placed his hat down on the monolith between them. The small man beyond it looked dwarfed by both it and his oversized uniform.
“Hello, sir, my name is Schmidt. I am the concierge here. How may I be of assistance?” the polite shrunken man announced.
“I’m looking for an Ernst Witzer. I believe he lives here?”
“He does indeed, sir, but I’m afraid Mr Witzer is not currently here.”
“Do you know when he is due back?” inquired Bill.
“I’m afraid to say; I am merely covering for the usual concierge who is temporarily away due to ill-health. So, whilst I know the faces and names of our residents, their routine is still unknown to me.”
“I would like to leave a message for him if I may?”
“Of course, sir. I will ensure he receives it immediately upon his return.”
“Thank you, Schmidt.” Bill slid the envelope across the desk with a crisp ten-dollar bill on top. The Allied Occupation Mark may have been the legal currency in Berlin, but Uncle Sam’s coupons were king.
Schmidt’s face lit up, pocketing the note as he took a cautionary look about the marbled lobby. Then, turning, Schmidt placed the empty envelope into one of the small pigeon-holes behind him, and as Bill collected his hat, he looked to see a small brass plaque below the slot with the number six engraved in copperplate font.