St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(105)

Berlin smiled at her. It wasn’t the clouds or the rain or the bumps. It was the memory of searchlights and flak bursts and a city ahead and below ringed in flames.

The 727 appeared to land faster than a 707 and when the under-carriage tyres bumped and screeched on the runway and the nose wheel settled, the airport buildings visible outside Rebecca’s window were passing at incredible speed. He leaned forward against his seatbelt as the sudden reverse thrust of the engines slowed the plane. He looked down and saw that his hands were wrapped tightly around the ends of the armrests and he could feel the tension in his biceps.

Though they had gone through German immigration formalities in Frankfurt, there were more to do at Tempelhof. The city was deep inside Soviet Bloc territory, surrounded by hostile forces and ringed by minefields and a barbed wire-festooned, high concrete wall lit up at night by searchlights. The crew-cut Yanks were ushered straight through, while Berlin was held up briefly by a security officer who was bemused by the fact that a man named Berlin was landing in a city named Berlin. He even showed Berlin’s passport to a senior officer, who just shrugged and handed it back.

***

They left the airport terminal, Berlin pushing a luggage trolley, and walked out into a flurry of snow. A cab detached itself from the waiting line and pulled up next to them, the driver getting out to put their suitcase into the boot. Inside the taxi Berlin soon forgot about the cold as he looked out the windows at a city still showing obvious marks of wartime destruction. The contrast of modern office buildings interspersed with older residential premises and vacant lots was stark.

Some of the vacant lots were piled with rubble while others were bare and neat, swept clean of any sign of what had once been there. On the faces of many of the remaining older buildings, pockmarked in the stone and brickwork, were obvious memories of the bitter back and forth street battles of April 1945 when the Germans fought to the last and the Russian Red Army fought for victory and for revenge.

The driver glanced back at them as they waited at a traffic light and said something in German. Berlin thought he heard the word ‘Charlie’ somewhere in the middle.

Rebecca smiled and shook her head. ‘Nein, Danke.’ and the taxi rolled forward as the lights changed.

‘He asked if we wanted to go and see Checkpoint Charlie on the way to the hotel. It’s the crossing point between East and West Berlin. I said no but we can if you want to.’

Berlin shook his head and Rebecca took his hand. ‘How can you always have such warm hands, Charlie, even without a good coat in this weather?’

The check-in at the Hilton was efficient, the clerk behind the counter spoke excellent English, and within ten minutes of arrival they were in their room. The hotel room was warm and bright and elegant with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across the city.

While Rebecca unpacked their suitcase, Berlin lay down on the large, comfortable bed. He heard the shower running, the sound of Rebecca moving about, felt her lips softly on his forehead and then the click of the door to the room. He willed himself to wake up, to get up, but he was held back against the bed, pressed by the weight of memories.

He pulled the greatcoat tighter about himself, wished for a scarf and for something warm to drink and watched as the young Jewess stared at him and then Gerhardt Scheiner, his black SS uniform stark against the white landscape, pulled the trigger all over again and Berlin woke.





FIFTY-THREE


Rebecca’s note on the Hilton Hotel stationery said she had gone to buy film and to take some photographs. The note was sitting on top of a room service menu with the second key to the room. Berlin considered ordering some coffee but he suddenly felt the need to be outside, to walk.

Music played in the carpeted elevator on his way down to the lobby. A map in the leather-bound folder in their room had indicated the zoo was within walking distance and the clerk at the reception desk gave him directions when he collected his passport. He scribbled a note to Rebecca and left it with the room key at the desk.

A blast of cold air hit him as he left the hotel and he buttoned up his raincoat. He might need a heavier coat, the doorman suggested, and gave him directions to a nearby shopping street where he could buy one. Berlin found the zoo easily enough but left it within five minutes, shivering. It was partly the cold and partly the sight of the animals in confinement.

He found the clothing store the doorman had suggested and bought a dark blue, double-breasted, woollen overcoat, a thick scarf and gloves. The shop assistant was young and pretty with passable English and she helped him with the ritual of the traveller’s cheques and smiled at his Australian passport and said she had a pen pal in Sydney and perhaps did he know her? Berlin smiled and shook his head and then surprised himself with some words in German that came back from some place hidden deep inside his brain. It was Kriegie Deutsch, POW-camp German, and some of it the girl understood and some of it mystified her. Berlin hoped none of it was cursing.

His purchases made a big difference when he stepped back out into the street. He had no idea of their cost in Australian money but decided it was well worth whatever he had paid. The shop girl had given him the change from his American dollar traveller’s cheques in German notes, which were now in his pocket. He walked in what he thought was the direction of the hotel but by now it was dark and he realised he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He found himself in a square full of rugged-up people with their heads down against the cold, hurrying in different directions, and then he could smell food. At one side of the square he saw a stand where a man was grilling sausages, putting them into bread rolls for a line of waiting customers. He joined the line and when he reached the front he pointed to what appeared to be the most popular item. The storekeeper handed him the sausage-stuffed roll and Berlin handed him a note from his overcoat pocket. The stallholder shook his head and said something in German.