There was some advantage in wearing Hans’s discarded greatcoat and cap, for I was able to stop the first lorry that came along. The truck was a Bedford, one of a continuous line that moved through the night from the FASO apron to Berlin. I suppose the driver took me for one of the German labour teams slogging my way home. I climbed in and lay back on piled-up bags of flour that tickled my nostrils with their fine dust as we clattered over the pot-holed road We went into Berlin by way of the An Der Heer Strasse with its glimpse of Havel Lake where the Sunderlands had landed through the summer. There were lights along the An Der Heer Strasse, for the power, like that of Gatow itself, came from the Russian Zone. But darkness closed in with the trees of the Grunewald and the broad, straight line of the Kaiserdamm was like a dark cleft in the waste of ruins dimly seen from the swaying back of the lorry.
At length the truck slowed and the driver shouted to me,’ Wo wollen Sie hin?’ ‘Anywhere in the centre of Berlin will do,’ I answered in German.
‘I drop you at the Gedachtniskirche.’
The Gedachtniskirche I knew — the Kaiser Wilhelm memorial church, one of the most conspicuous buildings in Berlin. It had been pointed out to me more than once during operational briefings. ‘Danke schon,’ I said.
A few minutes later the lorry stopped again. Leaning out I saw a gigantic, ruined tower rearing above us into the darkness. A train hooted eerily and clattered by, wheels rattling hollow on the rails of a viaduct. I climbed over the tail-board and dropped to the ground. ‘Danke schon,’ I called to the driver. ‘Cute Nacht.’ ‘Gute Nacht.’ His voice was almost drowned in the roar of the engine as the heavily-laden lorry rolled on with its load of flour. I watched it disappear round the bend of the platz and then I was alone in the darkness with the monstrous hulk of the Gedachtniskirche above me, its colossal tower so battered by bombs, that it looked as though it must topple into the street.
I turned and walked slowly up the Kurfurstendamm. This had been the Piccadilly of Berlin. Now it was a broken, ruined thoroughfare, the shops ground-floor affairs of wood and plaster board whose flimsy construction seemed constantly threatened by the rubble of the upper stories. There was no lighting in the Kurfurstendamm; all allied Berlin was under drastic power-cut now that fuel had to be flown in. But it was possible to see as though the thousands who huddled- behind the broken facades of the buildings emanated a sort of radiance.
It was past midnight now, but despite the cold there were still prostitutes on the sidewalks, wandering up and down past the deserted street cafes. There were cars, too — black-marketeers’ cars and taxis with American Negroes trading currency. Prowlers moved in the shadows, pimps and currency dealers, men who brushed by with a muttered, ‘Funf Ost fur eine West.’ Bundles of rags lay huddled in doorways or dragged slowly along with a clop of wooden shoes as they searched the dustbins in the rich heart of Berlin.
I drifted up the Kurfurstendamm, only half conscious of the dim, shadowy life around me, my mind suddenly face-to-face with the problem of what I was going to do now. Until that moment my only thought had been to escape from the organised world that centred around the airlift at Gatow and so avoid being.flown out on the P 19 passenger service in the morning. But now, in the heart of occupied Berlin, dressed half as a British civilian flier and half as a German labourer with no German money and no one I knew, I felt suddenly lost and slightly foolish.
But I wasn’t cold any more and I had food inside me. My head was painful, but my mind was clear as I grappled with the problem. A dim figure slid past me with its muttered, ‘Ich tausche Ost gegen West.’ I stopped him. ‘Do you exchange English pounds?’ I asked him in German.
‘Englische Pfunde?’ ‘Ja’
‘You want Deutschmark or Bafs?’
‘West Deutschmark,’ I answered. ‘What is the rate of exchange?’
‘I give you thirty-two Deutschmark for one pound sterling.’ Gold teeth glittered with a drool of saliva as the lights of a car slid past. The man had a wide-brimmed black hat and his face was swarthy with greasy sideboards. The long Semitic nose was thrust inquisitively into my face. A Greek or perhaps a Pole — certainly not a German.
I changed ten pounds with this shadow of the Berlin underworld and with the Deutschmark forming a wad in the pocket of my flying suit I felt that the first hurdle was past. But what next? I stood on a corner by one of those circular poster hoardings that look like overgrown pillar boxes and wondered how I could get Tubby out of the Russian Zone. If I could get Tubby out, then there’d be no doubt about my story.
But in all Berlin I had no friend to help me.
CHAPTER NINE
To have no friends, no sense of security, in a city occupied by one’s own people is not pleasant. There was no one I could turn to. I thought of Diana’s brother — Harry Culyer. Maybe he was still in Berlin. But would he believe me when my own people didn’t? And to contact any of the Allied headquarters and clubs would only be putting me back into the situation from which I had just been at such pains to escape.
I don’t know what made me think of it. Maybe it was the prostitute who murmured in English, ‘Hallo, darling,’ from the shadowy gloom of the sidewalk. The soft.warmth of her voice came like the nuzzling of a friendly bitch. And when I didn’t turn away the dim shadow of her slunk to my side. ‘You are American?’ she asked. The power of the dollar was strong on the Kurfurstendamm.
‘No. English,’ I answered.
I saw her eyes, soft and hungry in the darkness, looking me over and noting my clothes. Probably she thought I was a deserter. Deserters would be bound to make for the Kurfurstendamm. But she asked no questions. All she said was, ‘You come with me, honey? I have a room only two blocks away and it is comfortable.’
I didn’t answer because her German accent had started a train of thought in my mind.
‘Please come.’ Her voice was suddenly desperate. ‘I have been here all evening and I am hungry. You take me to a cafe. I know somewhere is cheap, very cheap.’ Her hand reached out and slid along my arm. ‘Please, honey. I sing for you, too, perhaps. I was in opera once. I only do this when my baby and I are hungry and nobody will pay to hear me sing. My name is Helga. You like me? I give you love and music — you forget everything. Come on, honey.’ She dragged at my arm. ‘Please, honey.’
‘Where is the Fassenenstrasse?’ I asked.
‘It is just near here. You wish to go? I take you if you wish.’ The voice was harder now, desperately urgent. ‘Please. It is cold standing here. Please, honey.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Take me there.’
‘Okay.’
We moved off together up the wide cleft of the Kurfurstendamm, her hand clutching my arm. She was tall and her hip was level with mine, pressing against it. She hummed a little aria, something from Verdi. ‘Where is this place you wish to go, honey?’ she said, stopping at a corner. ‘Here is the Fassenenstrasse. It runs right across the Kurfurstendamm. Which part do you wish?’
‘I want Number 52,’ I said. ‘It’s near the Savoy Hotel.’
‘Ach. So! Das Savoy. It is this way.’
She took me down a tram-lined street and underneath the iron girders of a railway bridge, and then we passed the Hotel Savoy and were at Number 52. She stared at the blank face of the closed door. ‘Why you bring me here?’ she asked. ‘This is not a club. We cannot eat here. Why you bring me, eh?’