Then We Take Berlin (40 page)

He never did.

Wilderness burgled a dozen apartments over the next few weeks in every sector except the Russian.

“I’d love turn over one of the bastards. But what’s the point? We know who they work for.”

“I was thinking more of Germans living in the East.”

“Too risky. You get picked up on the far side of the line . . . you’d be gone for good. Not a damn thing I could do about it. You said it yourself . . . ‘if the Russians get you . . .’ As things are you get picked up this side of the line, I’d still find myself disowning you.”

§128

March 1948

“Not a moment too soon,” Rose Blair said.

“For what?”

“Burne-Jones phoned. I rather think he expected to find you here. Instead—”

The telephone rang. She picked it up.

Wilderness heard her say, “Yes. He’s here now.”

Then she thrust the phone at him without a word and went back to making toast.

Burne-Jones said, “Get over to Elssholzstraße. You’re interpreting for General Robertson. My sources tell me Sokolovsky is up to something. You don’t just translate. You take mental notes. I want to know everything.”

Then Wilderness heard the click as Burne-Jones rang off. No goodbye, nothing.

“What’s at Elssholzstraße?”

Rose Blair had a mouthful of toast and gulped it down to answer.

“Allied Control Council. Or did you think Germany ran itself?”

“I’m their interpreter, it seems.”

“Then you’d better get over there. They start at half past two.”

“Surely Eddie Clark’s their English–Russian interpreter?”

“Of course, I stood him down not half an hour ago. Burne-Jones wants
you
there. After all, you’re supposed to be some sort of spy aren’t you? So, try spying for a while—at least you won’t be needing your kid gloves and your rubber-soled shoes. And they probably won’t want to buy any coffee either. I imagine Eddie’s sold them a lifetime’s supply by now. It’ll be a change for you on both counts I should think.”

Elssholzstraße lay in Schöneberg, in the American Sector—a little over a mile away—in a Prussian palace that had been the Central Court before the war, the Kammergericht.

When Wilderness got there General Clay’s Cadillac, its Stars and Stripes fluttering in the March breeze, was already parked in front of the palace. So was General Robertson’s Rolls-Royce—a happy little fat man leaning on the bonnet, nose-deep in a volume of Penguin
New Writing
.

Eddie smiled when he saw Wilderness.

“Sent for you have they? Must be serious.”

It was.

“How often you done this?”

“Done what?”

“Interpreted for Robertson.”

“Lots. Every time I drive the general, I do the chatting too. Not much to it. Stenographers take down everything in three languages after all. Anything Sokky says in Russian, you pass on to the general in English. You never translate what he says into Russian. Leave that to the other side. Stick to that and you can’t go wrong. Personally, I think Sokky speaks English, and for that matter probably French too, but he’ll not utter a word except in Russian. And afterwards they throw a nosh-up that makes us look like beggars. Caviar, cream cheese . . . you name it. Other ranks included. And they get narky if you don’t eat. I quite fancy an afternoon off, as long as you bring me out some grub. I’d miss the grub.”

Wilderness saluted and introduced himself to Robertson. He was seated just to the right and just behind the general. He rather thought he might be the only man in the room without a row of ribbons on his chest.

And then Marshal Sokolovsky walked in—“Hero of the Soviet Union” with five Orders of Lenin to his name, and to his chest. Forty or more medals, not as symbolic ribbons but real medals, pinned to his tunic. Marshal Sokolovsky reminded him of nothing quite so much as a Christmas tree. Or a walking scrapyard. Wilderness wondered how the man breathed. Wilderness felt . . . naked.

Ten minutes later Marshal Sokolovsky rattled out. No caviar, no cream cheese.

§129

Eddie was still leaning on the Rolls, still reading.

Wilderness came up running.

“Look sharp, Ed. Robertson’ll be out in a second and in a stinker of a mood.”

“What happened?”

“Sokolovsky just bunked off.”

“So . . . he’s Russian. That’s what they do.”

“It had all the hallmarks of permanence. A great fuck-you, ‘Xуй тебе.’ Meet me at Paradies at six. I have to report to Burne-Jones, and I have to find Frank.”

§130

“Just like that?”

“He let General Clay get as far as currency reform before he walked out.”

“What do you mean by ‘let’?”

“He was bristling. From the moment he walked in he was never not going to do this. He wasn’t listening to Clay or Robertson or the French bloke. He was playing with them. He’d no intention of staying. Whatever the plan is it’s in place. And I took a gander at the reception room as I was leaving. Normally they lay on a feast. There was nothing. They’d no expectations of entertaining anyone. No more free lunch.”

The line went quiet, so quiet Wilderness wondered if they’d been cut off.

Then Burne-Jones said, “That’s it then. It’s over. Nobody’s kidding anybody any more. As you so aptly put it, no more free lunch.”

§131

“What did he mean by ‘over’?” Frank asked.

“Quadripartite rule of Berlin is over.”

“Quadri what?”

“Four sectors, four military governments trying to act as one. That’s over.”

“Oh is that all? Well . . . fukkit . . . I thought you meant the peace was over.”

“It is.”

“I don’t hear any tanks rolling.”

“Frank . . . try rolling with this. The Russians have given up. The temperature has changed . . . it may not be a raging hot war . . . but it might be, to paraphrase Harry Truman, a bollock-freezing cold one.”

“And that affects business how exactly?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what the Russians do next. They’ve got us surrounded after all.”

“You think they’d cut us off?”

Spud and Pie Face had sat silent throughout, as had Eddie—but it was Eddie’s turn.

“They can cut us off Frank, and they will.”

“Nah . . . they wouldn’t dare . . .”

But Wilderness was nodding.

“Aw shit, kid . . . just when life was getting so fucking sweet.”

“
Geld schmeckt süß
,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Frank.

§132

On April 1 Russian troops stopped every American train on the Frankfurt–Berlin line at Marienborn on the Eastern Zone border, citing “technical problems” and introducing new “temporary regulations.” Despite the date it was not a joke.

On April 2 General Clay ordered USAF C-47s to begin airlifting supplies into Tempelhof. He wasn’t joking either.

That evening the
Schieber
s gathered at Paradies Verlassen.

Spud was last to arrive. He put a plain, off-white packet in front of them, like a cardsharp letting the punters see the full deck before he shuffled.

“Wossat?” Pie Face asked.

Spud tipped out two cigarettes.

“Try one.”

Pie Face stuck one in his mouth and lit up. Frank picked one up with a muttered, “Why not? First in two years.”

Spud was poised and smiling now.

Pie Face exploded, red-faced and coughing.

“Fuck me! What is this?”

Frank coughed once and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

Spud said, “They’re called Droogs, the tobacco’s Bulgarian, and they’re everywhere.”

Pie Face took another drag.

“I suppose you could get used to ’em but . . .”

“But it tastes like dried shit?” Wilderness said.

“Yeah. It does. Dried dog shit to be exact. Where d’you say you got ’em, Spud?”

“Tiergarten, where else?”

“How much?”

“Twenty-four reichsmarks a pack. But . . .”

“But what?”

“The bloke selling ’em will tell you the price in marks but only takes dollars.”

Wilderness admired the way Spud had strung this out.

“Any chance you recognised the bloke?”

“Dunno his name, but he was one of Yuri’s ‘Silents.’”

Frank said, “So the bastard’s undercutting us? In our own briar patch?”

“Hardly the point, is it?” Wilderness replied.

“OK Corporal Smart-ass, what would be the point?”

“The point is . . . he’s taking only dollars . . . but he’s paying us in reichsmarks.”

“So,” Frank mused. “He’s building up a stash for something.”

“I’d guess he has no intention of getting stuck with any reichsmarks when the big day dawns—our marks or their marks.”

“Weeeell . . . fuckim.”

“I think we need a word with Major Myshkin.”

They thinned out at the cabaret—little of it was to the taste of Spud or Pie Face. (“Wot’s the point of strippers who never get their bleedin’ togs off?”)

“What’s the plan kid?”

“What Spud said just confirms what I’ve been thinking. We need to change tack.”

“I been thinking the same.”

“Me too,” said Eddie.

“Now . . .” Frank went on. “I’ve said all along that we should be in commodities. I was right, and that was then. But right now, I’d say we need to be in cash.”

“Why?”

Eddie answered, “It’s perfectly clear to me, Joe. Currency reform’s definite. It’s going to happen. It changes the game. They mean to control inflation, get rid of rationing, get rid of the black market—above all else, get rid of the black market. What it all adds up to is an end to barter of any kind. The economy normalises . . . nothing is scarce . . . nothing is hooky . . . and those of us who take easy pickings off it all are out of business.”

It had sounded to Wilderness like the opening of one of Eddie’s not infrequent “Workers’ Educational” lectures. The result of reading Penguin books and the
Manchester
Guardian
.

“Ed’s right,” Frank said. “We’re better off out of goods and into cash. Means we take a loss at conversion, but we’ll ride it out.”

Wilderness made them pause. Sat silent while Frank got more drinks in.

“Spit it out, kid. I feel like we’ve just suggested skinning your grandmother and tanning her hide.”

“No,” said Wilderness. “It’s not going to happen that way.”

“Sez you. Currency reform’s just a matter of time. Goddammit, we flew the bills in by the million as long ago as January.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. Yesterday, the Russians cut us off . . . today they flood the West with cheap, dodgy fags.”

“Yeah . . . and tomorrow they’ll plug us back in. It’s just a stunt.”

“No it’s not. It’s a teaser. It’s a foretaste of what they’ll really do come reform. They’ll turn this place into a fortress. West Berliners will get their deutschmarks . . . they’ll revel in having real money for a day or two . . . the shops will fill up with all the stuff that’s been hoarded for months till the price was right . . . then the gates of hell will slam shut again . . . West Berlin will become an island in a Soviet Sea and stuff will become as scarce as it was in 1945. So . . . I say we stay in goods.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Ed, pass the bottle. The kid is frying my brain.”

Eddie, pushed the bottle towards Frank, looking at Wilderness.

“So, what do we do?”

“First, we stop taking reichsmarks altogether.”

“That cuts our market.”

“And we spend what we have. Start offloading reichsmarks now. Buy anything and everything you think we can sell. And when we sell we take only dollars. Pay over the odds if it gets rid of reichsmarks. Let’s have nothing left to convert when conversion comes . . . because we’re going to be in no position to convert . . . that’s when all the questions will be asked and we’ll find ourselves nicked. From now on we’re a dollar economy.”

“Just like Yuri, huh kid?”

“As I said, we need to talk to Major Myshkin.”

§133

“Bastards. Fokkin’ bastards!”

“Yuri, you’re raking in every dollar West Berlin has with your crap fag racket. You don’t want to get stuck with worthless currency, and nor do we. From now on it’s dollars. You pay us in dollars.”

“Or what?”

“It’s not a threat. It’s just terms of business. We supply you with very good stuff. For your dollars you get Pall Mall and Lucky Strike. For their dollars West Berlin gets Droogs. Think about it. We’re not a flea market . . . Fortnum & Mason.”