Berlin: A Novel

'Oh. Erik, that would be wonderful.'

'Come and see me after work tomorrow. Then I'll know more.' He wrote his new address down for her.

'See you tomorrow evening.' She embraced him passionately.

The military governor was expected. The army band's gala uniforms had to be cleaned. Sergeant Chang had told his staff to work a late shift. Karin helped to sort the items of clothing, and thought of Erik. He would be having dinner with his friend now. Tomorrow she'd know if he could do anything for her.

She was tired of cleaning clothes for the Americans. The cinema was her world. The studios in Babelsberg were up and running again. UfA was now known as DEFA. And a man from Poland was shooting his first production in a former poison-gas factory in Spandau. He had brought a case with him, full of dollars from heaven knew where, to finance it.

She was on the station platform in time to catch the last U-Bahn train. A couple of GIs and their girls were standing at the far end; the rest of the platform was in darkness. A figure emerged from behind the newspaper kiosk, long closed at this time of night. Why, she wondered in surprise, was he wearing a motorbike cap and protective goggles? Then a chain came around her neck, clinking. She tried to scream, but the chain constricted her throat. Her attacker dragged her behind the kiosk as if she were livestock.

She flailed her arms helplessly. A barely audible rattle came from her throat. Avid fingers pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties. Burning pain tore her vulva. Her tormentor was gasping with excitement. With relief, she felt herself losing consciousness. Her last thought was: I hate death scenes.

CHAPTER TWO

INGE DIETRICH SERVED out breakfast: two thin slices of rye bread each. With it the family drank brownish ersatz coffee made from roasted chestnuts, with half a spoonful of powdered milk which refused to dissolve and floated on top of the coffee in little lumps. 'Funny, I thought we had more left,' she said in surprise as she cut the bread.

'That's the way with rations,' said her husband equably. 'Well, at least you boys get school dinners.'

'It's always bean soup,' complained Ralf.

'I had a real bit of bacon with the rind on it in mine the other day,' Ben said, glad that his mother wasn't pursuing the subject of the bread.

'Have you packed your school bags?'

'Sure. Come on.' Ben hauled his brother off his chair. He had decided to go to school today for a change. On Wednesday they had physical education, art and geography, which left gratifyingly little time for Latin and maths. Most important of all, the sixth lesson was religious instruction. He was going to turn the pathos on for Pastor Steffen. He urgently needed a New Testament.

Captain John Ashburner put down the piece of paper and leaned back in the chair at his desk. Outside his window, which had a view of Garystrasse, two adolescents were washing a few of the Military Police jeeps. Sergeant Donovan had come up with a practical method of recruiting youths for carwashing: he simply arrested a few of them for hanging about. 'Gives those damn Hitler Youth kids something sensible to do,' he announced, pleased with himself.

The captain went on reading. It was upsetting. The German inspector had kept his promise, and sent him not only the results of the autopsy but a translation too. Not particularly edifying reading. He thought of home, where these dreadful things didn't happen, where the worst you got was a straightforward murder because someone was jealous or drunk, and even that was a rare occurrence. He had been elected sheriff in Venice, Illinois for the fourth time when he had to report for army duty. But he hoped to be home again soon. Not that he was missing Etheclass="underline" she'd be fully occupied running the fan club of the local baseball team. What he liked was making sure folks in his county were law-abiding, going out and about talking to people, looking in at Bill's Bar for a quick coffee.

Donovan's jeep braked outside the door, squealing. The sergeant was a jerky driver, possibly because he was more used to handling bridle and reins back home on his ranch in Arizona. He got out and nodded to his passenger to follow him.

'Morgan, sir,' he announced a few moments later.

'Read that, sergeant.' Ashburner handed Donovan the autopsy report. Donovan read it, his expression grim. Ashburner turned to the young soldier. 'Dennis Morgan, Army Signal Corps, is that right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You know a German Fraulein called Karin Rembach?'

'Yes, sir. Karin works in the dry cleaners' at Uncle Tom's.'

'Your girlfriend?'

'Yes, sir.' The young soldier continued standing to attention.

'Sit down, boy, sit down. Do you know why you're here?'

'No, sir.' Nervously, Morgan took a chair.

'When did you last see Karin?'

'Four days ago. We went to the movies.'

'Will you be seeing each other again soon?'

Dennis Morgan hesitated. 'Tomorrow, sir, I hope.'

The captain noticed the almost imperceptible hesitation. Was it the soldier's uncertainty at facing a superior officer? Or did he know that Karin Rembach was dead? That would be a very suspicious factor. Neither the military newspaper Stars and Stripes nor the military radio station AFN had reported the murder. The US Army media weren't interested in dead German girls, and it was unlikely that Morgan read the German papers.

Sergeant Donovan intervened. 'Your Karin's very pretty, eh?'

'Yes, sergeant, very.'

Donovan adopted a confidential tone. 'Good in bed, is she, Dennis?'

The young soldier blushed. 'I don't know, sergeant. I mean, yes, I guess so.'

'What do you mean, you don't know?' Donovan persisted.

'I meant to say I don't know what you mean by "good in bed", sergeant.'

'Because you're not sleeping with her. We know that from her colleague Gerti. Because she won't let you touch her. In spite of your invitations and gifts. Because that makes you disappointed and furious. Because you're afraid it might get out. A word from her would make you look ridiculous, right?'

'I don't know, sergeant.'

Am I right?' bellowed Donovan.

Dennis Morgan bent his head. 'We're good friends,' he said quietly. 'Captain, what does all this mean? Why am I here?'

Sergeant Donovan took him by the shoulders. 'Because your Karin is dead.'

'Dead? Karin's not dead. We have a date tomorrow, see, it's at seven, we're meeting by the guard on the main gate in Uncle Tom's.' Morgan spoke fast, as if trying to convince himself.

Donovan shook him. 'She's dead. And you know why? Because someone murdered her. In the most brutal way. Who was it, Morgan? Who killed Karin?'

The young soldier was weeping soundlessly. 'Go easy, sergeant,' Ashburner told him. 'That's all, Morgan,' he said mildly. The GI jumped up and stood to attention. He saluted, tears running down his face, stiffly did an about-turn, and left. John Ashburner leaned back again, thoughtfully. 'He seemed genuinely shocked.'

'Or else he's putting on a cold-blooded act for us.'

'You think he killed her?'

'It's possible, sir. I checked his alibi. Morgan was on guard duty in McNair Barracks from 21 hours to 3 hours on Tuesday. Alone, by the back fence of the motor pool. He could easily have borrowed a car, and he'd have been back in plenty of time before the guard changed.'

'The question is whether he really did it. And why.'

'I see it this way, sir: she won't let him touch her. First he's disappointed, then he's furious, finally he starts to hate her. If he can't have her, then no one else will.'

With all due respect to your home-grown psychology, Mike — that lad's probably as innocent as you or I.'

'Maybe, captain. And anyway, one Fraulein more or less, what's the difference? They all sleep around, and not just with our boys. Why wouldn't it have been a German?'