The Pathfinder

The Russians lifted the blockade at one o’clock in the morning of the twelfth of May. Railways and highways to Berlin across the Soviet zone of Germany reopened and the first trucks and trains, draped with banners and garlands, began the hundred-mile journey to and from the city. At a meeting of the City Assembly in the Rathaus, people stood in tribute as the names of the fifty-four men – American, British and German – who had died in the airlift were read out, and huge crowds began to gather in the square and the neighbouring streets outside to celebrate.

A deputation of Berliners arrived at RAF Gatow to make speeches of thanks, give presents and flowers, sing songs and embrace every blushing airlift pilot or crew member they could find, and many others as well. Tubby, who had been hugged and kissed by several Berlinerinnen, appeared in the Mess dishevelled and greatly touched. ‘Considering we reduced them to dust not so very long ago, it’s jolly moving to see how grateful they are now, don’t you think?’

‘Their finest hour,’ Tubby agreed. ‘And the dawn of a brave new era. No more being beastly to the Germans. We stand shoulder to shoulder from this day forward. And have you heard the best news of all, dear boy? No more bloody Pom. Fresh potatoes from now on. Hallelujah!’

He said slowly, ‘The only trouble is, Berlin’s still an island set in a Soviet sea. That hasn’t changed and we can’t change it. Their troubles aren’t over yet, Tubby – not by a long chalk. I have a feeling the Russians aren’t going to stop playing silly buggers.’

He was proved right. The petty interference in road and rail and barge travel continued and so, in consequence, did the airlift – though without quite the same grim intensity. There had been an amazing victory. A triumph against all the odds. And the winter was over, the weather warm. Some street markets appeared, selling fresh vegetables and fruit unseen for months or years – lemons and oranges, cucumbers – and fresh fish.

He had been out to the apartment in Albrecht Strasse in the hope of finding Lili there and talking to her. He had rung the bell again and again and hammered with both fists on the doors until, at last, he heard the sound of somebody the other side. For a moment, he had expected that it would be Lili who opened it to him. Instead, it had been an old woman. A hag out of Grimm, dressed in black with a knitted scarf tied round her head. She had spoken no English and he had floundered with his few words of German.

Ausgezogen meant gone away. And he had understood, I live here now. When he had started to ask where Lili had gone, she had slammed the door shut in his face. He had rung the bell several more times and hammered on the door some more, but the old woman had refused to open it again.

He had gone from there to Nico Kocharian’s office, where the door was open and he had walked straight in. He had found the inner room empty. No desk, no chair, no telephone and bare bookshelves. No clue of any kind as to what had happened or where the Armenian had gone. The only evidence of his occupation the lingering smell of Turkish cigarettes, hair oil and exotic cologne. He thought of his father’s comment: I rather gathered they thought pretty highly of him all round. The Intelligence chaps generally knew their stuff. The whole truth about Kocharian, he realized, would probably never be known.

In early June he learned that he was to be posted back to England. Tubby, occupying his usual chair in the Officers’ Mess bar, sighed when he heard the news. ‘I’ll miss you, dear boy. When are you off?’

‘Put in a good word for me when you get back, will you? Ask around and see if there’s a place for an ageing pen-pusher. Something nice and cushy, if you can manage it.’

‘Well, if you want my opinion – and I can see by your face that you don’t – she did you a good turn. Best thing all round. Of course, you don’t look at it that way now, but give it time. Give it time.’

As the Dakota took off soon after dawn and climbed into the sky, he turned to take one last look in the direction of the ruined city before it vanished.

In London the trees were in leaf, flowers in bloom, the grass in the parks a fresh new green. It looked better than he had seen it for years. A little less war-worn, a little less weary, a little more prosperous. At the mansion flat he sorted through the accumulated post: a couple of letters, some circulars, two party invitations, another to a wedding. There was a postcard from the watchmakers: at long last his Omega was ready for collection.

He poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette and stood at the sitting-room window, looking out down onto the Fulham Road. They were still queuing at the greengrocer’s – a patient little line of housewives with their shopping baskets over their arms, waiting for their turn – but the queue was shorter than he remembered.

He wondered how London would have looked through Lili’s eyes. What would she have thought of it? Would she have liked it? Would she have been happy – as he had so wanted her to be and believed he could make her? He had gone through all the stages of rejection: disbelief, misery, rage, and, finally, resignation – though he would never understand. He would have risked anything and everything for her. Yet, after all, she had not been ready to do the same for him.

He finished the cigarette and the drink, lifted the telephone receiver and dialled a number. He listened to the ringing tone and to the clear, English voice answering at the other end.