Читать книгу Battlefield Berlin - Reginald Rosenfeldt - Страница 4

The next morning, Michael Herold wakes up with a slight headache. Accordingly, he was in a bad mood, and after a light breakfast, which consists only of coffee and biscuits, he drove into the publishing house, and enters his office. The appearance of the small room was just as messy, as he had left him, and Michael stood at its center point. For a moment, he looked out of the window, and noticed then the surrounding chaos. On the desk lay the incoming mail of the last two days, the ficus plant had dropped some leaves, and the calendar had to be renewed.

Disgusted, Herold pushed the red arrow with the index finger on the 4th of October and allowed himself a slight sigh. 1985 was far too quickly gone by, and now it was again near December with its enormous time pressure. The editorial expected a brilliant idea for the newly introduced Sunday papers, the Christmas-market moderation weighted on his shoulder like the weight of the world, and the manuscripts were done best yesterday.

Michael Herold grimaced sourly the face, and looked superficially through the mail. Then he took the red stapler that waited in the inbox for so many days. The quarterly statistics was so alarming, as he had feared it, and Michael cursed silently. Instead of write down the events of the last evening, he began to study the tables, and cursed the publisher.

Dr. Candidus has delayed the costly, but vital modernization of the "Havelländische Kurier" again and again since 1979. Red numbers punish her bad decision, and Sybille Candidus had no other choice, but to approve the merger with a large media company. The new partnership frightens, as expected, the regular readers, who had appreciated the "Courier, because of his critical distance to the Berlin tabloid press. Now, as a direct result of the circulation, the sales fell within one month by 47 percent.

"Forty-seven percent" muttered Michael and closed the stapler, after looking at the also gone back by half advertising revenue. Frustrated, he occupied a comfortable position in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to meditate, until the bells of the nearby catholic Church of St. Mary rang the Angelus. 12 clock; high time that he get something warm in his stomach. Michael walked to the canteen on the first floor, ordered a serving of “Königsberger Klopse” and ate the meatballs, which lay in a warm caper sauce. Somewhat satisfied, he digests an Espresso, ignited then the obligatory second cigarette of the working day, and walked back to his office.

Here waited unfinished work on him, and so he grabbed an article on the illegal dump at the Mulberry-Avenue. He started the proofreading and threw after the third revision the pen on the sheet. For today it was really enough lousy work and besides, it was time for a strong coffee.

Michael leaned forward, pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, and grabbed the necessary utensils for his "afternoon coffee". With the brown metal bushing and a filter bag in his hand, he went to the file cabinet and clicked the automatic water boiler. Then he put the paper bag in a porcelain filter, filled him with three spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee from Italy, and stuck him upon a small pot. When the first steam was rising from the water boiler, he poured the hot water over the powder, and within minutes an aromatic fragrance filled the room. Michael let the coffee draw a moment and then poured himself a cup. Reconciled with himself, he went to the window and sipped the invigorating drink. Yes, the coffee had exactly that taste, which he estimated for so many years; strong, spicy and flavored with a hint of salt.

Michael enjoys a second sip and looked more relaxed on the uncomfortable world beyond the misted glass. Beneath his window floated an army of black umbrellas over the sidewalk and the damp fabric mushrooms remembered him not for the first time at the shiny exoskeleton of an ant-convoy. Tirelessly crawled the wet army through the Neuendorfer-Street and by the bizarre sight returned slowly Michaels good mood. Grinning, he ignored the passers-by that battled against the rain, and looked on his own reflection. At first glance, it sprayed the usual charm, that was so popular by ladies, and in his gray eyes sparkled obvious a hint of irony.

"Tough, old boy!" Michael cast another look at the familiar face and wrinkled involuntarily his forehead. Somehow, his smile seemed a little bit unreal, and the beard stubble gave him not a younger look. Yes it was true, the first gray stubbles was a silent reminder at his fortieth birthday last Year.

"All right, still a pinch world weariness more?" Michael Herold winked to his likeness, while behind him quietly opened the door. The reflex of a volatile shadow flitted across the window glass and a throaty voice asked: "A little bit vain today? Do you like what you see?”

"Let's say I'm not surprised." Herold turned around and looked unabashed at the new volunteer. "I suppose, you see me not only to improve my mood?"

"Oh, I am sorry. Normally I blurt not so easy in, but the colleague on the third floor, this somewhat conservative, with the strange sense of humor..."

Michael Herold laughed softly. "This is probably the most accurate description from Harald Seib, I've heard in years. A headline could not express it more appropriate.”

"Thank You. Colleagues Seib is hard to ignore. He asked me personally, to present you this information; he say, it's damn hot!"

"Very cooperative, but watch it, Christine. A few more of these errands and you start an apprenticeship at the post office."

"Do not worry, I leave me not exploit so quickly, and, besides, I was already on the way to this floor. It smells always so delicious, and just today I couldn't resist a cup of good coffee.”

"Well, then, you are cordially invited." Herold opened the drawer again and fumbled a second cup out. He poured carefully the still steaming coffee in the china cup and handed it to Christine. "Enjoy it alone, I see now just through that documentation."

"Do what you want" Sipping at the black poison, leaned the girl against the table. Michael ignored her provoking long legs, and pulled out of the brown envelope a thin booklet.

"A message from the Spandau district office; Seib is surely not in his right mind. These illuminations from the town hall reach me without his help." Annoyed Herold turn around the cardboard-cover and glanced fleetingly at the first page: "Commercial use of Palas 85/86" proclaimed the headline under a drawing of the Julius tower. Michael paused and looked now with more attention at the rough recycling leaves. That was not a mandatory advertisement for the Spandau Christmas market, but a catalog for a number of exhibitions in the citadel. For the next month promised the bold lines: “November 1985. Visit the crown exhibition! Crowns and royal insignia from eight European countries! See them in the shadow of the Julius tower."

"Incredible!" Impressed Michael lowered the booklet and mustered the cover picture. "Really! Apparently they are finally woke up in the town hall and try to obtain the budget of their problem child on her own account."

"Don’t be angry, but do you mean this old building just beyond the ship sluice?" Christine touched playfully the stylized emblem of the fortress, and smiled disarmingly. "Sorry, I came only a year ago from Osnabrück to Berlin."

"No need to apologize; your description of the old fortress is quite right. For so many people is the Citadel in fact nothing more than a dusty museum. Yes, this is an absolutely forgotten area, where you can only play with your grandkids at a Sunday-afternoon, or spit from the Citadel-Tower into the river. A matter of course, as the moat around the old town and the Nikolai Church, and this is a ignorance, that the Citadel does not deserve. After all, she is the oldest Renaissance fortress north of the Alps, and parts of the main building even date back to the time of Albert the Bear."

"Sorry, I've missed a real gem."

"No problem, you have a lot of reason, to sneer!" Michael Herold looked the young woman deep in her green eyes. "In the end, you are not so wrong. Not even my fellow countrymen stroll at the weekend to the Citadel, and how should they? For the fortress there is neither an effective advertising concept, nor integration into the Berlin tourism. In practical terms, the official side of the citadel is dead and now, suddenly this enlightenment!"

Herold opened the catalog again and pointed with his index finger on the announcements on the second page: "Februar 1986: Dali Retrospective 1920-1980. Graphics, objects, and designs. Summer 1986: Pyotr I. Alexejewitsch-Russia’s opening to the West. Woow! What for attractive local themes, and here as the icing on the cake, the crown exhibition."

"By the way," the volunteer fished an envelope out of the stack of letters, "This message belongs to the info. Seib accepted no absence from the fete, and there is free beer!"

"Well, fantastic!" Michael slits the envelope with the thumb and looked at the contained card. "An invitation, and naturally, of course, for tonight. At 20:00 clock, the head of the art-office present the finer details of the exhibition in the citadel. For dining and drinks will be provided, good humor, and enthusiasm everyone must bring his own."

Herald's looked at his wristwatch. "I love these timely notifications! This is so typical for Bergmeier!”

"Well, I don’t want to disturb you much more. So, thank you for the delicious coffee. Ciao!" Christine walked with a skillful pelvic thrust out of the room, and Michael looked again at the invitation. Nothing against a celebration in the citadel, but before that, he had a very urgent meeting with the old Bronslav.

Sighing, Michael slipped a hand into his jacket, and weighed thoughtfully the car keys in hand. Normally, he would cancel the meeting, but Bronslav was simply the only person in town, who owns vital information about Poland Charlie's last days and hours.

Poland Charley, or as his real name was, Joseph Zcybulski; united with Lech Bronslav a fierce love-hate relationship, that still stemmed from the old country. The two men fought already on the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk shoulder to shoulder for their ideals, and braved so long the Russian winds, until they had to migrate in an unloved country. There, in the cold streets of West-Berlin, Zcybulski succumbed very quickly the dark side of life, while Bronslav over the years became the shepherd of the ever-growing Polish community. His word now had top priority, and probably, not even a leaf fell from the trees at the faraway river Weichsel, without Lech’s blessing.

Amused, by this not so absurd idea, Herold leaves the publishing house, and hurried to his Datsun. Automatically, he activated the car radio and heard the refrain of "Ebony and Ivory" in the RIAS (Radio in the American sector) . Michael turned the sound a little louder, started the car, and reached a few minutes later the Lynar-Street. The old road was named after the architect of the Citadel, Count Rochus of Lynar. Directly in front of the red block of the hospital with the same name, he parked the car, and mustered for a moment the tenements on the other street side.

Most of the four-story houses were buildings from the eighties of the last century, and behind the dirty windows of Bronslavs apartment flickers no lights. Michael knew that it did not mean much, and crossed the dam. With great strides he climbed to the second floor of the house and beat in the appointed rhythm against Lech's door. After a moment answered him a rough voice, "Yes, yes, I'm coming! Will it not be so hasty, or has the last judgment finally arrived? Would it not surprise me in this accursed city!"

Reluctantly, the door opened a crack, and Lech blinked short-sighted through his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. "Oh yes, there is only one so ruthless man in Spandau!" With a shaky hand removed Lech the safety chain and shuffled back into the living room. He scrambled awkward to his just abandoned couch and pulled the faded camel-hair blanket up to his mouth. Breathing heavily, he stared defiantly against the wall and Herold nodded duly impressed. "You look not especially happy, my friend. Shall I go back?"

The old man snorted contemptuously through the nose and wrapped the blanket tighter around his fragile body. His voice sounded strangely stifled through the felted fabric. "Can you save your irony and make yourself useful! Grab two glasses, a small sip have you surely in your big pockets.”

Obediently pulled Michael Herold a duty-free Polmos Bottle from his coat pocket and looked at the table plate, which was covered with travel brochures. "What, still the same dream of the south?" Lech growled only irritably. "Really, at this time of the year is the Riviera surprisingly mild, I think, this will certainly pleases your old bones."

Herold pushed the catalogs aside and put the bottle on the vacated area. Then he opened the glass door of the dark stained dresser and grabbed two small tankards. As a precaution, he holds the glasses, which was originally filled with sweet mustard, against the window and wiped them carefully with a paper towel. Bronslav, that the procedure annoyed not the first time, snorted contemptuously. "Do you want to insult me again? Do I have enough eyesight to keep everything in good shape! I know at any time, what is important in this lousy town."

"Sure Lech, no doubt about that." Herold filled the vodka three fingers high in the tankard and placed him next to Lech lounger on the ground. "Hail to our little dreams and the dirty reality!"

The brandy was lukewarm and the fluted glass sticks to Michael Herolds fingers. Bravely, he gulped down the first sip of decency, and looked then on Bronslavs living room. Nothing has changed here since his first visit, even the dusty silk rose adorned the rosary that still dangled near the door. The pea-sized prayer-beads consisted of dark polished amber, just like the corpus of the wooden cross that has his place between the windows. Thoughtfully, Michael remained before the crucifix, and looked down to the faded photographs.

Joseph Zcybulski: Unusual laughing before the restored convention house of the Marienburg, the once so mighty castle of the templar knight. Joseph, shag-pipe smoking in Gdansk, near the Krantor, and with rolled up sleeves at the shipyard in Szczecin.

“Stir not thy hard heart?" Lech Bronslavs voice was bitter. "All these beautiful shots of Joseph brave face. God in heaven, what was he for a modest young man. Dumb and idealistic, he still dreamed of a free country."

Lech pushed himself up and seized with trembling fingers the greasy glass. For a moment he stared into the back and forth sloshing vodka, and then he waved him accusingly in Herolds direction. "And what’s about you? Has Joseph influenced you so strong, that you want to cheat me? For months, you no longer see me, and then, out of the blue, you have just today time for a little chat? Oh, come on!”

Michael Herold was about to reply, but Lech just waved wearily. "Must you not justify yourself. Is there really no reason for any excuses or sentiments. Did you come here only for Joseph, so let us talk only about him."

With an energetic movement Bronslav gulped the vodka down and whispered hateful: "Do you really want to know what makes me almost sick? It is this horrible feeling to have totally failed at the crucial moment. You must know, I have invoked Joseph, I have roared, where is your faith? What is with the eternal values of mother church, signify they nothing more for you? At this point, he grinned cheekily, and then I know, how much Joseph despised our old ideals. Yes, whatever seemed sacred and beautiful in his youth, he has shamelessly banished from his life. Betrayed, for the cursed Mammon, who still brought nobody really luck."

“Sorry, Lech! Now you are cheating yourself! After all I know, you tolerate Joseph’s dirty deals for so many years!”

"Not that unholy money! God help him, Joseph had sold himself like a whore to the wretched heretics!" Undisguised anger swung in Bronslavs words when he spoke again. "I had been able to forgive him much, but not his partnership with the traitor. I begged Joseph, literally begged; you must cancel and forget this business with Leo."

"Leo?"

"Leopold Oblonsky! Don't tell me, I have never mentioned this pig? He brings shame over the community with his Russian whores and the dirty video library. Weapons, Snow, he supplies you with everything you want! Leo makes money from dirt and now he wanted to start with Joseph the so called big deal. The big deal! You should have seen how Joseph's eyes lit up, as he talked about it. That idiot, he never realized that Leo only used him for his unholy transactions!”

"Said Joseph anything about the nature of these transactions?"

"You ask this not seriously? It was you, that he finally sold his crap for an expensive price. No, my friend, I'm probably the last person on earth, that Joseph entrusted information."

With a shrill ringing the phone interrupted Lech Bronslav. Startled, he sat up and sighed overwhelmed. "Have mercy with my poor soul! Will nobody give a penny for my needs? I have said it more than a thousand times that the afternoon is sacred for me!"

Lech picked up the receiver from the phone and listened for a moment the distant voice. Two times he answered in vain, then his mouth moved menacingly down, and he cursed loudly into the mouthpiece. When the stranger on the other side not reacted to the angry Polish words, Lech slammed the receiver on the phone. Outraged, he stared with a heavy breathing on Michael.

"This cheeky cretin! He dares simply to call me a liar! Will he not simply believe that Joseph is dead now! And anyway, why knows that damn guy my number? I am not in the phone-book!"

"But in Joseph's black notebook ..."

"What are you trying to tell me? Joseph knew full well, that I canceled every contact with the skipper. They all have skeletons in their closets! Very dirty secrets!"

"How naive are you? Joseph has sold your address, sells her very expensive! That is the simple truth! "Michael Herold shook his head regretfully and walked to the massive cabinet. Slowly, he opened the lid of a wooden box, chose two figures, and held both fists against Bronslav. The old man tapped on the right hand, and Herold placed a white pawn on the chess table, that stands next to the bed. Then he divided the remaining chess pieces on the table and sat down across from Lech.

With difficulty, he tried to concentrate himself on the game, because Lech hated nothing more than a opponent, that was only fighting half-hearted. For him each move had the status of an almost religious act, and for this reason, Herold played the game with a lot of patience. During the rest of the afternoon, he bravely fought two draws and a narrow victory, and raised then his hands apologetically.

"Excuse me, but for a rematch, my time runs out. I have to be at least in 90 minutes in the citadel, and before that, a little rest is not wrong."

"Oh yeah! Do not play the innocent. I know that you cannot wait to drink with your colleagues! On that occasion, if it just happens, that you see the woman from the “Youth and Social Affairs”, please do me a big favor. Ask her, when will the community finally get the new club room? I have previously submitted three requests and still waiting for their gracious permission!"

"No problem, I drink in your name a little Chablis with Mrs. Mendel." Herold stretched his stiffened limbs and grabbed his jacket that hung over the arm of the chair. "If I do not contact you, we meet again at Joseph's Requiem next Monday."

Lech Bronslav nodded silently and wrapped himself into the protective cocoon of his camel-hair blanket. He looked toward an imaginary point on the wall and whispered full of resignation: "What are you waiting? Did you have it yet so hurry, to finally disappear!”

"Don’t worry; I'm practically on my way. Oh, and Lech, you try not to annoy me on purpose? Forget it, no later than next week I am back on your threshold, whether you like it or not."

Michael Herold knocked goodbye on the door frame and left without looking back, Bronslavs apartment. He rushed quickly the stairs down and cursed extensively his good nature. Once again, he had not brought it about his heart, Lech leave at the right time, and now it simply was not enough time for a return in his own four walls.

Angry with himself he started his car and turned after a short drive into the street, that leads to the Citadel. Old chestnut lined the moat of the fortress and behind him lurked the outlines of the Bastion-King in the darkness. Powerful and undefeated, guarded they for over four hundred years the commandant's house, and Michael smiled pleased, as he headed for the building. Actually, it was touching how the Head of the Art-Office always tried to give his problem child a festive atmosphere. Two additional headlights illuminated the Brandenburg coat of arms on the gable and in the middle of the passage fluttered a banner with the red eagle of Spandau.

Everything under the slogan: "It's still something special to be a citizen of Spandau". Amused, Michael Herold rolled across the wooden drawbridge, crossed the three-aisled hall to the courtyard, and drove to the red fairytale castle of the Palas. Before the front side of the medieval building stand a good number of cars, and Michael parked near the main entrance. Tired, but in a good mood, he opened the door of the so-called gothic hall, and immediately attacked him the opening bars of "Alexander's Ragtime Band". The distorted music blared merciless from the speakers of the beer bar, and Michael nodded fatalistic. As he had it expected, besieged the usual coterie of Spandau the bar counter and in the midst of the largest swarm waited Harald Seib.

The colleague from the local-editorial waved with two foam-covered jars and Herold walked to one of the anywhere established beer-tons. With moderate interest he watched, how Seib orbited with an indicated Passé step a heavily flirting couple, while he rolled full of understanding his eyes. The two jars landed with a loud noise on the makeshift table, and Seib licked his lips with relish.

"Cheers, old boy! I didn't think that you appear right on time."

"No jokes that was a hard day!"

"You need not to mock me." Seib beat playfully on Herald's upper arm. "Over there is a pack of thirsty wolves, a fine bunch of real binge drinkers, and you, you know them only too well."

"All right, Harald, the chick from the artists club cannot be overlooked, and then, naturally, the lords and ladies of the town hall."

"Speaking of town hall, by the way, where is our host?"

Michael gestured silently over his shoulder at the front wall of the hall. Almost obscured by a column stands the grumpy politician on a pedestal and checked with hectic finger tapping the operational readiness of the microphone. He had the sleeves of his plaid shirt casually rolled up, and when he just not wiped the sweat from his forehead, he adjusted pedantic his wide suspenders.

"For me, he is the classic image of a whole blood Socialists! As the third child of a hard-working, but poor family, he completed his schooling in night school, while he worked all the time tirelessly for the party."

Amused, Herold took a deep draft and nodded to his colleagues. "Honestly, Bergmüller is the real heart of the town, but his party comrades see that probably not in the same way."

"They have no reason to moan, after all, he found with the brewery a potent sponsor. This is more, than his comrades had did in the last season. And what his future exhibitions will bring... But hello!" Harald Seibs professionally gazed over the long legs of two women that strolled past them. "Too bad, that this blonde double not protects the crowns, because, the criminal energy of most men would just stick in the pants.”

"You know, how much I love your pubescent bon mots."

"And I love this crazy little black dress. But seriously, a better choice than the Palas, Bergmüller really could not meet."

"The security conditions are in fact optimal, and Bergmüller is a cunning old fox. He draws the businessmen the worms with the right arguments from the nose."

"But he is terrible at war with the technology, because as he tortures the micro, the official part of the evening begins at the earliest in an hour. Also, I miss city mayor David and his vassals. Bets, they sits all in the citadel-tavern and sip a well-chilled Riesling.”

"Pinot Grigio! Italian white wine is currently the trendy fashionable drink and not this wash water." Michael Herold pushed the beer contemptuously to the side and looked challengingly to Seib. "Let's go outside. For today, I have inhaled enough stale air."

"No problem, I despise most of the faces." Seib grabbed his almost empty jug and Herold followed him in the cool of the night. The two so dissimilar men stood silently for a moment in front of the palace, and climb then up the steep ramp to the Bastion King. At the end of the narrow way, looms the silhouette of the Julius-tower in the starless sky. Over his illuminated battlements chase rain clouds and Michael glanced involuntarily on the rough stone wall. Then he touched the mighty blocks and knocked on the safe-door, that was the only entrance to the tower.

"That`s real German workmanship! According to the attached table, the monster door weighs 3000 Kg. That's a lot of metal; nobody blows that easily in the air."

“At least, not without the demolition of the entire Tower.” Impressed, Seib leaned against the arch of the building. "Can you still remember how many gold pieces Kaiser Wilhelm had hoarded behind those walls?"

"1871? Not precisely. But I guess the French war indemnity amounted at that time to about 120 million. Together with the Prussian war chest, of course! This is handsome mountain of money and more than enough, for a cozy bathroom like Uncle Scrooge's."

"Let rain down the valleys on your bald head, I know! Better, we drink on the millions that we never will call our own!" Harald Seib turned the pitcher and dripped the last sip on the Brandenburg sugar sand. Sneering, he looked a moment into the puddle between his shoes, and strolled then slowly to the parapet of the bastion.

Leaned against the dirty stones, he stared at the lights of the old town, and his voice sounded strangely thin, when he suddenly asked: "Has our friend Kowalski expressed any suspicion?"

"I beg you, you know, how slowly his boys worked, and besides, I'm the last that he would honored with a scrap of his wisdom. No, at the moment, information arrives only through the official channels."

"Then, radio silence." Seib looked at the sea of houses at the other side of the river. Powerful lighting tore the town hall tower and St. Nicholas-church from the darkness, and high above the two Spandau landmarks flashed now the position lights of a jet. Disgusted, muttered Seib: "Look at that! A handful fragile life on his way to the airport Tegel! Oh God, shitty autumn blues!"

With a soft, for forgiveness pleading laugh Harald Seib put both hands on the damp masonry and came back to topic of the conversation. "For me, Kowalski is a rightmost old sow! If he might mop up the district in his own way..."

„Forget him! We no longer require his information’s; Bronslav showed me this afternoon, what really shakes his heart."

"Lech? I can't believe it! He talks not even under oath before a court!”

“Joseph’s death has his normally stubborn silence more than shaken. Just as the pain raging inside him, he doubts even the sacred solidarity in the Polish community. For him apply not even the old agreements, you know? No confessional secrets among friends, no sealed lips before strangers!"

Thoughtful wandered Herald glance over that part of the dark sea of houses, which hides Bronslavs apartment. "No, if Lech really wants revenge for Charley's death, he must finally talk, and sacrifice the only black sheep in his flock."

"What? Lech know the identity of Charley's business partner?"

"Oblonsky, Leopold Oblonsky."

"Sleazy Leo? Oh my God, the rascal is a member of Lech’s community? Well, then Lech has a real sunshine under his wing. Contraband, stolen goods, prostitution, there is probably no crooked business that his stinky finger has not touched. He operates from the Potsdam-Street; supposedly he is involved there in several bars. Organize fresh women from Russia. Only here in Spandau, he keeps a low profile. No wonder, nobody pours the waste before his own front door."

"Lech mentioned a video store."

"The greasy guy uses the sex shop only as a legal figurehead. You know the dirty little shop in the Kinkel-Street. The newly opened baths-shop is on the other side."

"Sounds really welcoming for me!"

"You will love the shop and if you're already there, maybe you buy me the latest Theresa video." Harald Seib leered and began to stroll along the almost shoulder-high defensive wall. When his shoe collided with a dented cola can, he kicked her playfully away. Rattling hit the tin can against the battlements and Seib threw in an imitation of a successful goal-scorer his arms in the air.

“At last, you’re again the old, familiar sunny boy!" Herold applauded the slender, almost skinny figure in the tight poplin coat. "To keep your good mood for a while, I'll buy you tomorrow a glossy calendar.WET DREAMS, is that right for you?"