One week later Karl Schneider ended his Friday shift at 7.30 a.m. as usual and stopped by Rudi’s kiosk.
“Morgen,” grunted Rudi. Schneider nodded in acknowledgement as Rudi retrieved a folded Berliner Zeitung from beneath the display in front of him and handed it over. “News from the East today,” he muttered without emphasis. Schneider nodded again and without uttering another word, headed for the tram stop.
He chose not to read his newspaper on the tram, keeping it folded and secure on his lap as he watched the bustling activity of a Berlin morning through the window. He arrived at his apartment block at eight and met Frau Brucker locking the door of her ground-floor flat dressed in hat and coat, clearly on a mission.
“Morgen, Herr Radler.” She seemed uncharacteristically jolly and emitted a pungent scent that reminded him of the Paris brothels during the war. An important assignment indeed.
“Morgen, Frau Brucker,” replied the agreeable gentleman she knew as Heinrich Radler. “Are you going somewhere nice today?”
She made a poor attempt at appearing casual, lifting her chin and touching the back of her hat in an affected manner. “I’m going with a friend to the Reichs Gallery. They have a new exhibition of Kirchner. Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid not,” he lied. He knew Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s work well. An anti-Nazi expressionist who shot himself in 1938 because the Nazis judged his work “degenerate” and by all accounts made his life a misery. A natural draw for a fat old Jew like Frau Brucker, notwithstanding the artist’s tendency towards risqué and controversial. But Schneider/Radler never expressed an opinion on any subject, made comment or revealed anything of his knowledge, interests or background. It served no purpose.
“Oh well, you should go. You’d love it!”
Hardly. He indulged himself in a brief moment of entertainment.
“Rather early for the gallery, isn’t it?” The question sounded innocent enough.
“Oh well.” She blushed and giggled coquettishly. “We’re meeting for breakfast at the Café Royal. Then we shall visit the gallery and perhaps have a spot of lunch afterwards.” She preened with delight and for no other reason than his own amusement, he decided to probe further.
“You do have a busy day ahead of you. Have I met your lady friend?”
“Well actually, Herr Radler, it’s a gentleman. Herr Warburg is in banking, but loves the arts.”
It fired his imagination. Two fat ugly old Jews lying naked on their backs in post-coital ecstasy, satisfied expressions slowly turning to horror as he sits astride them and presses a pillow over each face.
“Really. You are well connected. Do have a lovely day.” He bowed almost imperceptibly and brought his heels together, careful not to make a noise. She smiled nervously at him and trotted out into the sunshine.
Once in his apartment, he made some coffee, put some pumpernickel and cheese on a plate and opened the newspaper. It revealed a brown envelope containing ten thousand Deutschmarks, a large black and white photograph and a single sheet of paper. He studied the photo carefully and spent the next hour reading the information on the page, repeating it out loud until he had memorised it perfectly. He placed the documents back in the envelope and put it under the doormat. He would repeat the exercise later and then burn the papers before returning to the Regent for his shift.
In the bedroom, he closed the curtains and set his alarm for three hours, although he rarely needed that long and was usually awake before it went off. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes in silent contemplation. Tomorrow. Before the evening shift. It is a matter of some urgency, apparently.
***
The disappointment in Petra’s voice was evident.
“I was hoping we might go for a walk in the park. Take a picnic. Get some fresh air for a change.”
“I’m sorry. Something’s come up at work and I have to deal with it. Maybe we can go tomorrow afternoon?”
“Don’t you remember? We’re going over to Gisela and Conrad’s for lunch.”
Harry looked up from his Saturday paper, and felt the colour rise in his neck.
“Oh damn. I forgot about that. Sorry.” He returned to his paper to avoid her steely look.
“You don’t sound very upset about it, Harry.”
“I am. It’s just that they’re your friends, not mine.”
“Well, you don’t have any.”
“No, what I mean is,” he continued, ignoring the jibe, “I probably forgot because I don’t know them very well and I didn’t make the arrangements. That’s all.”
“What are you saying?”
“I may have to work Sunday morning too.”
“Oh, Harry!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it. These things come up.”
“What things?” She was angry and frustrated and he knew it was partly because he would never explain. “I mean if I knew a little about what you got up to, I might find it easier to understand.”
“What I get up to?”
“You know. Your job. All I know is you work for the government.”
“Civil service.”
“Whatever! But I don’t know whether you’re a pen-pusher or an assassin.”
“Neither.”
“I don’t need you to tell me any state secrets. I just want to share it with you a little, like we share everything else. It would make life a lot easier.”
Harry puffed his cheeks and blew a long breath and then rubbed his forehead. He didn’t look forward to socialising with her friends or anyone else for that matter, which is probably why he’d put it to the back of his mind. He had nothing interesting to say to them; he had no hobbies, no interests, had nothing in common with them and couldn’t discuss his work. He could only nod and smile and look interested while everyone else had a good time. He was probably just an embarrassment.
She was waiting.
“I can’t.”
“Okay! Fine! You go and do whatever it is you do and let me know when you’re available.” She was on the verge of tears and he reached out to touch her arm but she pulled it away and stood up.
“Petra!”
But she was gone. He heard the front door slam. He smashed his fist down on the table in a rare moment of rage. He hated himself just like he hated everyone and everything else. Everyone, apart from her.