The Good German (Bestselling Backlist) Read online

  “Well, thanks anyway,” he said, his voice dropping. “I guess that’s that.” But what had he expected?

  “People do turn up. I said it was—”

  “I know. Anyway, nice of you to come.”

  “No,” Bernie said, embarrassed again. “It wasn’t that. I mean, there’s something else.”

  Jake looked up.

  “Something interesting,” Bernie said, his five o’clock shadow creasing in another smile. “I found out why Muller didn’t want you to see the other sheet. You were right. There was a ballistics report.” He pulled a carbon from his pocket and paused, making Jake wait. “It was an American bullet.”

  CHAPTER 6

  It wasn’t hard to find Ronny’s. The British had drawn the flashy stretch of the Kurfürstendamm in the partition, and the swarm of British army vehicles outside the club marked it like a neon sign. Drivers sat smoking on the fenders, keeping guard, catching snatches of music as officers pushed inside, holding girls by their waists, some of them already weaving from drink. In the street only a few cars passed the broken storefronts and gutted hotels. Bicycles had disappeared with the fading light. In an hour, the Ku’damm would be as dark as a country road, lit by a sliver of moon and the phosphorus strips left over from the blackout.

  Jake parked behind a British jeep and walked along the cleared sidewalk to the entrance. The store next door was in ruins, the old plate glass replaced by plywood covered with pieces of paper and bits of cardboard with messages, set inside the window to shelter the ink from rain. It was just light enough to see. Some of them had been neatly written out in the formal Gothic script of the gymnasiums, but most were hastily scribbled, the scrawls carrying their own sad urgency. “Winter boots. Felt lined. Excellent condition. Will trade for children’s shoes.” “Any information Anna Millhaupt. Previously at 18 Marburgerstrasse.” “Your future revealed. Madame Renaldi. Personalized charts. 25 marks or coupons.” “War widow, two children. Attractive. Seeking German husband. Must have flat. Excellent cook.” Jake turned away and opened the door to a blast of music.

  He’d expected a basement cave, something out of the old Grosz drawings, but Ronny’s was bright and noisy, decked out with white tablecloths and pictures on the wall. Waiters in starched shirts wriggled past the cramped tables like eels, carrying plates, holding them away from the jostling on the small dance floor. A five-piece band was playing an uptempo “Sweet Lorraine,” and a crowd of Allied uniforms and girls in summer dresses bumped around the packed floor in a quick foxtrot. The girls were dressed to go out—real dresses and bright lipstick and open-toed shoes, not the uniform trousers and kerchiefs of the rubble cleaners. But the familiar smell had penetrated even here, lying unmistakably under the smoke and perfume. It occurred to him, a detail for a piece, that on the raucous, crowded floor they were literally dancing on graves.

  Gunther was sitting in a thick haze of smoke at the end of the raised bar that ran along the side wall. Jake walked past a burst of laughter and a rattle of glasses as a small group of Russians banged the table for service. The band, without a pause, switched to “This Year’s Kisses.”

  Gunther was huddled with another civilian and barely acknowledged Jake when he reached the bar, giving a quick nod and then a jerk of his head toward a table in the corner.

  “He’s over there.”

  Jake followed his eyes to the table. A young soldier, thin hair slicked straight back like Noel Coward’s, sat between two bottle blondes eating dinner, heads bent over their plates.

  “But I have some news,” Jake said.

  “Let me finish my business,” Gunther said. “I’ll join you. A moment.”

  “The gun,” Jake continued. “It was American.”

  Gunther looked at him directly, his eyes alert behind their brandy film. “So,” he said, noncommittal.

  “Who’s this?” the other German said.

  Gunther shrugged. “A new man from the Alex,” he said, the old headquarters. “I’m breaking him in.”

  The other man found this funny. “From the Alex.” He laughed. “That’s good.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Gunther said, nodding again at the table with the blondes.

  Jake squeezed between tables until he reached the English soldier. A kid, skinny and bright-eyed, not the grizzled thug he’d imagined.

  “Alford?”

  “Danny. You Gunther’s friend? Have a drink,” he said, pouring one. “Gunther said to fix you up. Anything you like.”

  “Is it okay to talk?” Jake said, looking at the girls as he sat down.

  “Who, them? Right as rain. The only word they know is fuck. Isn’t that right, Ilse?”

  “Hello,” one of the girls said, evidently her other word, and went back to her plate. A piece of gray meat and two potatoes the size of golf balls. Danny must have eaten elsewhere; there was nothing in front of him but a bottle of scotch.

  “Don’t know where she gets the appetite,” Danny said. “Does the heart good, doesn’t it, to see her go at it? Now, was there something special you like? Something a bit out of the way, or just straight up? You’re an officer, right?” he said, glancing at Jake’s shoulder patch. “They won’t go unless it’s an officer. But they’re all clean. I insist on that. Checked once a week. We don’t want to take any surprises home, do we? Was there something special?”

  “No,” Jake said, embarrassed, “it’s not that. Not girls.”

  “Right,” Danny said, picking up his glass but not missing a beat. “My mistake. Now, the boys are a bit more, you understand. They’re only out once a night. Get used up otherwise. You know.” He looked at Jake. “All Hitler Youth, every one of them. With uniforms, if you like.” Cheerful as a street vendor in Whitechapel.

  Jake, flustered, shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for some information.”

  “You a copper?” Danny said, wary.

  “No.”

  “Well, a friend of Gunther’s. You’d have to be all right, wouldn’t you?” He lit a cigarette, watching Jake while the end caught. “What sort of information?”

  “A man made ten thousand dollars Monday. You hear about anything like that?”

  “Ten thousand,” he said, impressed. “In one go? That’s very nice. Friend of yours?”

  “An acquaintance.”

  “Why not ask him, then?”

  “He’s gone back to Frankfurt. I want to know where he made it.”

  “Want to do a little business yourself, is that it? What are you selling?”

  Jake shook his head again. “I want to know what he was selling.”

  Behind them there was applause as the band stopped for a break, the vacuum of the sudden quiet soon filling with louder talk.

  “Why come to me? Ten thousand, that’s not girls, that isn’t.”

  “Gunther said you’re a guy hears things.”

  “Not this,” Danny said firmly, squashing his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Want to ask around? I could pay.”

  Danny peered at him. “You could pick up a phone and get Frankfurt too.”

  “No. He’s dead.”

  Danny stared at him. “You might have said. Shows a want of trust. Maybe you’d better piss off. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “No trouble. Look, let’s start over. Man I know came to Berlin Monday to do some business and got killed. I’m trying to find out who did it.”

  “Gunther know him too?”

  “No. He’s helping me. The man only spoke English. Gunther thought you might have heard something. A man gets killed, people talk.”

  “Not to me they haven’t. Now piss off.”

  “I just want to know if you’ve heard anything.”

  “Now you know.” Danny took out another cigarette. “Look, I make a nice little living here. A bit of this, a bit of that. No trouble. I don’t have ten thousand dollars and I don’t shoot people. And I keep my nose to myself. You get all kinds here. Live and let live and you live
longer. Isn’t that right, Ilse?”

  The girl looked up and smiled blankly.

  “If someone did have ten thousand dollars, what would he buy with it?” Jake said, switching tack.

  “In one go? I don’t know, I never had that much.” But he was intrigued now. “The big stuff, that’s more of a swap, like. Friend of mine got hold of a factory shipment—lovely cloth, parachute quality—and the next thing you know he’s got trucks coming in from Denmark. Tinned ham. Now he’s got something. You can sell that anywhere. But no money till it hits the street, if you see what I mean. Cash? Antiques, maybe. But, see, I wouldn’t know one from another, so I steer clear of that.”

  “What else?”

  “Medicine. They’d pay cash for that. But that’s a dirty business, medicine. I won’t touch that.”

  Jake looked at him, fascinated. Ham but not penicillin, a new kind of hair-splitting.

  “He was carrying it with him, whatever it was,” Jake said. “No truckloads, not even a box. Something small enough to carry.”

  “Jewelry, then. Now that’s a specialty, of course,” Danny said, as if he were referring to one of his girls. “You have to know what you’re about.”

  “Would you ask around?”

  “I might. As a favor to Gunther, mind. Ah, here we go again,” he said, seeing the band come back on the stand. He poured Jake another drink, warming to the subject. “Small enough to carry? Not gold—too heavy. Paper maybe.”

  “What kind of paper?”

  The band had started in on “Elmer’s Tune,” causing a new rush to the dance floor. Jake felt his chair pushed from behind. A Russian maneuvered through with his hand stuck firmly on a girl’s behind. Another Russian now loomed over the table, smiling at Ilse and twirling his finger in the international sign language for dance.

  “Piss off, mate. Can’t you see the lady’s eating?”

  The Russian reared back, surprised.

  “He didn’t realize she was with you,” a voice behind them said in accented English. “Apologies.” Jake turned. “Ah, Mr. Geismar.”

  “General Sikorsky.”

  “Yes, an excellent memory. Excuse my friend. He thought—”

  “He’s a friend of yours?” Danny said to Jake. “Well, that’s all right, then. Ilse, give him a whirl, there’s a good girl.”

  “You dance?” she said to the Russian, getting up and taking him by the arm.

  “Thank you,” Sikorsky said. “Very kind.”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Danny said, all geniality. “What about yourself?”

  “Another time,” he said, looking at the other blonde. “Good to see you again, Mr. Geismar. A different sort of party.” He glanced toward the dance floor, where Ilse and the Russian were already locked together. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

  “Aladdin’s cave,” Jake said, trying to remember.

  “Yes. Perhaps we can discuss it again one day, if you’d like to visit our sector. It is not so lively as this, though. Good night.” He turned to Danny and made a little bow, preparing to move off. “My comrade thanks you for your help.”

  “Mind you bring her back,” Danny said, teasing.

  Sikorsky looked at him, then took out a wad of bills, peeled a few off, and dropped them next to Danny’s glass. “That should cover it,” he said, and walked away.

  Danny stared at the bills, stung, as if someone had slapped his face. Jake looked away, his eyes following Sikorsky across the room to the bar, where he was saying hello to Gunther’s friend.

  “It bleeding well doesn’t cover it,” Danny was saying. “Red bastards.”

  “What kind of paper?” Jake said, turning back.

  “What? Oh, all kinds. You ask me, what would you buy with ten thousand dollars, and it comes to me, I have. I buy paper. You know, deeds.”

  “You own property here?”

  “A cinema. That was the first. Now it’s flats. Of course, you want the right areas. But now a cinema, that’s always worth something, isn’t it?”

  “What happens when you go home?” Jake said, curious.

  “Home? No. I like it here. Lots of girls—they can’t do enough for you. And I’ve got my property. What have I got in London? Five quid a week and thank you very much? There’s nothing in London. You’ve got all the opportunity in the world right here.”

  Jake sat quietly for a minute, at a loss. Another Collier’s piece they’d never want, the cheeky private with a corner table at Ronny’s.

  “I doubt he was selling deeds,” he said finally.

  “Well, that’s just an example, isn’t it? Here, have one more,” he said, pouring, enjoying himself. “It’s single malt, not your blended.” He sipped some. “Lots of valuable things on paper. IDs. Discharge papers. Get you an honorable, if you like. Fudged, but who’s to know? Of course, the Germans are the ones for paper.”

  “Persilscheins,” Jake said. “To wash away your sins.”

  “That’s right. You might get two thousand for one of those, if it’s good. Sell a few more and—” He stopped, putting down the glass. “Hang on a minute. I’ll tell you what has been going around. Haven’t seen one myself, of course, but I did hear—very good prices, too.”

  “What?”

  “Camp letters. Character witnesses. Some Jewish bloke writes that so-and-so was in the camp with him, or so-and-so tried to keep him out of the camp. Best sort of persilschein—cleans the record up right away.”

  “If it’s authentic.”

  “Well, the writer is. Of course, most won’t do it, you can understand that. But if you really need the money—to get out of the country, say, something like that—well, what’s one letter?”

  Jake stared at his glass, appalled. Exonerate your own murderer. Always something worse. “Christ,” he said, a sigh of disgust, almost inaudible under the noise of the band.

  Danny shifted in his seat, uncomfortable again, as if Jake had thrown more money on the table.

  “I don’t see it that way. You can’t hold a grudge in this life. I mean, look at me. Three years in that POW camp and it was hell, I can tell you. This’ll never be the same.” He touched his ear. “Deaf as a post. I picked that up there. But I picked up some German too, that’s the bright side, I didn’t know it would come in handy, and now that’s all over and done with and what’s the use of going on about it? You have to get on, that’s what I think.” For a wild moment, Jake heard Breimer’s voice, an unlikely echo.

  “It was a different kind of camp,” Jake said.

  “Let me tell you something, mate. When you spend three years POW, you tell me how different it was.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s all right,” Danny said expansively. “No offense taken. Tell you the truth, I’m not much for camp letters myself. Stinks, really, after what they’ve been through. I mean, it’s not like they’re volunteering, you know what I mean? Need the money is what it is. Poor bleeders—you can see them here, they’ve still got those pj’s on, it tears you right up. So the letters—I won’t touch stuff like that. It’s taking advantage.”

  Jake looked at him, the man with boys in Hitler Youth uniforms. “Can you find out who’s peddling them?”

  “Why?”

  An appointment with a Public Safety lawyer. Maybe a connection after all. He thought of Bernie’s office, stacked high with paper.

  “A hunch. It’s not jewels—that doesn’t feel right. Let’s follow the paper trail.” He glanced at Danny’s dubious face. “I’d pay you, of course.”

  “Tell you what. Friend of Gunther’s. I’d like to oblige, as far as it goes. Let me poke around a bit. No promises, mind. Anything turns up, I’ll set you a price. You can’t ask fairer than that, can you?”

  “No.”

  “Hello, Rog,” Danny said, looking up at a British private. “All set?”

  “I’ve got the major outside.”

  “Right. That’s you, darling,” he said to the blonde, who put down her napkin an
d took out a lipstick. “Just as you are, love. No sense doing your mouth, given where it’s going. Off you go.”

  “Wiedersehen,” she said politely to Jake, getting up and following the private.

  “Safe home,” Danny called after her. “Choice goods, that one. Enjoys it. Sure you don’t want a go?”

  “Can I ask you something? Why—” Jake said, then stopped, not sure how to ask it. “I mean, I thought all it took was a couple of cigarettes. So why—”

  “Well, some gents are shy, like. That’s how it started. See, I’m not shy, so I was in a way to make a few introductions. Some appreciate that. The convenience. Officers, they don’t want to pick something up off the street. You don’t know what you’re getting, do you? A little surprise for the wife. Hello, what’s this? Nasty. It’s the hygiene, really. I’ve got a doctor checks them. Decent chap. Takes care of any accidents too, if you know what I mean. Of course, the girls prefer it—saves wear and tear, all that walking about.”

  “Why only officers?”

  Danny smiled. “Got the money, for a start. But, you know, it’s really the girls. All the same, aren’t they? Looking for love. And a ticket out. London, why not? Anywhere but here. Now, an enlisted man isn’t going to do that, is he? You need an officer.”

  “And do they?”

  “What? Take them home? Naw. Quick suck and a poke is what they like. Still, you never know. I always tell the girls, look on the bright side. There’s always a chance. Just put your heart and soul into it and maybe something will come of it.”

  “And they believe you.”

  Danny shrugged. “They’re not whores, see. Nice girls, some of them, temporaries. They’re just trying to get by. You have to give them something to hope for.”

  “What do you tell the boys?”

  “That’s just a side,” Danny said. He ran his hand over his slick hair, embarrassed again. “It takes all kinds.”

  “Are they really Hitler Youth?”

  “’Course. Viktor, anyway. He’s Ilse’s brother.”