police documentation. ‘We’re sorry to bother you.’
The man looked at Roy, who raised his hat slightly by way of
greeting. He regretted it the moment he had done so. He and Hans
had been through this before. I can’t explain, Hans had said, but a German would never do it like that. You’re declaring you’re English as clearly as if you said: how do you do? Just nod briefly, if you have to do anything. But reflex had kicked in again. König didn’t seem to register it.
‘May we come in, please, Herr König?’ asked Hans.
‘Of course,’ said the little man hurriedly. ‘Sorry. What was I
thinking?’ He opened the door and they entered a shabby dwelling.
The wide hallway gave on to what had once been a grand drawing
room but which had been ransacked. Plaster cornices hung peril-
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carpet or rugs. The furniture was gathered at one end of the room:
two sofas and a random collection of dining chairs. Everything was
coated in a thick layer of dust.
König was unshaven and collarless in his shirtsleeves. His eyes
carried the bleariness of a night’s drinking. From the smell of stale sweat, he had evidently not bathed for some time. He looked at
them beseechingly, as if lost.
‘It’s about a guest of yours,’ said Hans.
‘A guest?’ asked König.
‘That’s correct. Klaus Müller?’
‘Ah. Klaus. An old school friend. He’s just staying here a couple of nights or so. I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’
‘No. So we understand. He’s at work?’
‘I’m not sure where he works,’ said König.
‘No, you wouldn’t be,’ said Hans thoughtfully. ‘But it doesn’t
matter. Klaus isn’t due to return shortly?’
‘How should I know? I’m not his mother. But no. I don’t think so.’
‘It’s not important. It was you we wanted to speak to anyway.’
Hans took out a notebook. ‘Can we just begin with one or two
questions about yourself ? You work as a waiter?’
‘That’s right. Zum Goldenen Bären in Karl- Liebknecht Strasse.’
‘And you have a clean criminal record?’
‘You should know that.’
‘We do. But, please.’
‘Yes, a clean criminal record.’
‘No involvement with National Socialism? No work for the Party?
No official work for the National Socialist regime?’
‘Absolutely not. Those scum –’
‘Indeed,’ said Hans sharply. ‘It seems no one ever supported
them. It’s a wonder they ever came to power.’
There was a pause.
‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ said König. ‘I’m afraid all I can get hold of is ersatz.’
Hans softened slightly. ‘I may be able to help.’ He took from his
pocket a small paper packet of real coffee and proffered it to König, who lifted it to his nose and inhaled the aroma with evident
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pleasure. ‘I may be able to find some more in my pockets. Depend-
ing on how things go.’
Roy nodded at him, prompting.
‘And while you’re making the coffee maybe we could have a look
in Herr Müller’s room.’
‘Certainly. This way.’
They were led into a darkened fusty room. Roy clicked the light
switch. There was no power. He drew back the heavy curtains and
sunlight poured through filthy panes. Motes of dust hung in the air like pauses in time. The bed was unmade, the crumpled sheets filthy grey. A small suitcase lay open at its foot.
‘Well then,’ said Hans, and the little man went to the kitchen
with his small bag of coffee.
It was hot in the room. Roy and Hans took off their greatcoats,
piling them on a chair, and surveyed the task ahead. There was little to look at here. The wardrobes had been looted. A quick glance
through the suitcase, under the mattress and under the bed itself.
The sound of a pan clattering came from the kitchen.
‘Keep our friend company,’ said Roy, ‘and carry on pumping
him. This won’t take long. We’ll come back tomorrow with our
pals.’
Hans left the room and Roy began his desultory search. No weap-
ons, as they had assumed. There would be nothing material here.
No clues. There was, after all, no mystery. Grab your man and go
back to base. Back to Hannover in a couple of days, once Müller
was processed. A depressing thought. Where had Taub got to with
that man König?
He heard a plate smash and stood up, stiff and alert. Moving
swiftly and as noiselessly as possible, he pulled the service Webley from his coat pocket as he left the room. He edged down the corridor and could see the light in the kitchen shining through the open door. Drawing closer, he looked through the door jamb. He was
met by a pair of eyes gazing directly at him, wild and afraid.
‘Come in, English,’ said the little man. ‘Careful. Always careful.’
Roy could see Taub kneeling in front of the man, facing the door.
The man was sitting on a chair and had grasped Taub around the
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neck, the edge of a kitchen knife pressing against the skin of his
throat.
‘Careful,’ said the man. He then spoke in German, which Hans
translated breathlessly.
‘He says you must come into the room immediately or he’ll slit
my throat.’
Slowly, Roy worked his way around the door and into the kit-
chen. He held the revolver before him pointing in the direction of
the chair. There was no possibility of a shot. He might well kill
Taub or miss altogether.
‘Ah,’ said Roy as casually as he could. ‘I see. Herr Müller, I
presume.’
The little man did not reply. He whispered and Hans continued
to translate. ‘He says to put the gun down on the floor.’
‘All right. I’m going to do this very slowly. We don’t want any
little accidents, do we now?’
He bent at the knees and placed the weapon carefully on the rut-
ted kitchen floor.
‘The safety catch is on,’ he said, and Taub translated.
Müller spoke again in his feverish whisper. His eyes, wide and
darting, betrayed near panic. This is tricky, thought Roy.
‘He says to slide it over here. And then leave the room.’
‘ Righty- ho.’
He stared into Taub’s eyes. Taub returned the look and his mes-
sage of acknowledgement was clear.
‘All right, then. I’m going to slide the weapon with the bottom of
my foot. Gently does it.’
Taub translated and Roy placed his large boot on the top of the
Webley, pushing it forward with an amount of force he estimated
not quite sufficient to carry it to Müller. The three men watched
intently as the hunk of destructive metal skittered its progress
across the floor. It came to rest about halfway between Roy and the other two men.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘not worked out too well. Would you like me to shift it a bit closer?’ he addressed his question to Müller, and observed him as Taub translated.
&nbs
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‘No,’ was the angry reply. ‘Just go.’
Roy turned and walked out, peering back through the door jamb.
Müller was evidently working out his next options, none of which
was without risk. To reach down for the gun while keeping Taub
under control with the knife at his neck could prove difficult. To try to leave the apartment without the gun appeared to present even
greater dangers. To attempt to kill Taub with the knife before reaching for the gun would have uncertain consequences.
The universe narrowed to this next sequence of events. Their three
lives hinged on these moments. To Roy, it seemed as if time had slowed and all activity had focused on an inviolable centre: here and now.
Müller had made his choice. Roy watched as he prepared himself
for his next move, taking a deep breath. He was, it seemed, a careful man. This was the cue for Roy to tense his own muscles.
Müller shoved Hans forwards and made a leap for the gun. Roy
judged this a bad move, and rounded the door swiftly, diving towards the same small area of floor. Hans, recovering, attempted to trip
and barge Müller. He stumbled and they found themselves, the
three of them, on a trajectory to the prize. Müller flailed blindly with the knife as he moved, to keep the other men away. But each
would be prepared to take a few slashes to the body to survive this.
They came together, each wild and panicking as he scrabbled
almost comically for his existence. Roy felt he would undoubtedly
win this battle, with his training and his experience, but the little bureaucrat was nimbler and stronger than he had counted on. Hans
became the likely loser, but perhaps Roy could save them both. The
absurd thought occurred to him that whatever happened there
would be the most almighty administrative and political difficulty
afterwards.
They wrestled desperately. Blood spattered as the knife con-
nected with flesh. A loud bang brought a sudden split second of
silence and stillness. Then the revolver boomed again. A longer
silence, before Müller ran from the room.
He sat, bleeding profusely from a wound in his upper arm. Blood
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blotter. He would live, unlike his unfortunate comrade. The shots
had been fired from beneath his jaw as he struggled with Müller, the weapon close between them against their chests. They had taken
clean half his face off, leaving an angry mess of red flesh, cords and blood, garish muscle and white bone. Grey brain matter had spilled
negligently on to the floor. An eyeball stared madly, freed of its
socket but connected to the optic chiasm by the fragile membra-
nous wet skein of the optic nerve.
He collected his breath. He felt cold. He did not, yet, feel pain.
Perhaps he was dying after all. But no, he would not die. He looked again at the mess that had been the face. He crawled over to the
body and checked the carotid artery for a pulse. There was none, so far as he could establish in his own weak state. Absurd, he thought, just going through the motions. He reached under the shirt for a
name tag. There was none. It must, like his own, have been left with their uniforms at the Berlin barracks.
He left the gun on the floor and stood, uncertain on his feet. He
vomited profusely on the floor. It did not purge him. The image of
the face would not leave him. He staggered along the narrow corri-
dor of the apartment, in part to seek warmth, in part just to get
away from there. Finding the bed, he pulled on the greatcoat and sat again, shivering uncontrollably. He heard the sound of boots clattering on the stairs before he passed out.
5
He was taken to a Russian military hospital and swiftly transferred to the British sector. He later learned that this was on the orders of Karovsky, who did not want the complications of explaining the
incident to his superiors. In the British hospital they cut the suit from his body. He noticed irrelevantly in the haze of pain that its right arm was now black with blood that obliterated the pale stripes of the cheap suit. They tended to the incision that had cut neatly
into both the deltoid and the biceps muscles. He was told that his
injuries were serious but not life- threatening. The sharpness of the 162
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knife had done him a favour. In time the chances were that he would regain full mobility in his right arm, but there would be a lengthy period of convalescence.
A captain from the military police came to interview him two
days later.
‘Courtnay,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I’m Craig. I need to interview you about this little incident. Bad luck all round, if you ask me.’
‘Yes?’ he said blankly.
‘There are added complications when dealing across the sectors.
So as neat and tidy as possible, eh?’
He nodded.
‘What I propose is that I take you through what happened and
you confirm whether or not my version is accurate. That all right
with you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Wonderful.’
He read out the order issued by the Control Council. He ran through the conversation with Karovsky and his offer of support. He confirmed that three Red Army soldiers had been deputed to assist
them.
‘Those boys will get a roasting for going AWOL. In our internal
report at least. Not that we’d think of sharing our criticisms with the Russians. Things are quite difficult enough as it is. Now, time is pressing so can we move to the critical part, please?’
Craig consulted a report he held in his hand, prepared, he said, by the Russian military police. The British had been given access to
neither the scene nor the Russian investigators.
‘Now, they list the weapons found at the apartment. I’ve pieced
most of it together, but do correct me if I’m wrong about the
sequence of events. This Müller chappie sees you outside and invites you into the house. You assume he’s the owner. König, I believe.
Quite naturally. You weren’t to know. You go into the apartment
and he goes into the kitchen. You chaps follow him. He pulls a carving knife from a drawer and threatens you both. You attempt to
dispossess him but he manages to slash you. You’re out of action.
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The knife clatters away somewhere and your colleague Hans goes
in search of it. But our Mr Müller makes a dash for his bag and lo
and behold pulls out a pistol. Your interpreter, brave man that he
was, though perhaps foolish, grapples with him and the blighter
shoots him, drops the gun and runs off. Does that sound about
right?’
‘Almost. It’s just the gun –’
‘Yes, the gun. We’ve looked into that. Service- issue Webley. Our
records show it was issued in 1942 to a private in the Yorkshire Regiment. Reported lost in Bielefeld in April 1945, probably stolen during the final push. Or at least that’s what our records show now, and
that’s what we’re telling the Russkies. All right with that, are we?’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly.
‘Wel
l, that’s all tickety- boo, then. Sorry about your pal. Rather it were a Kraut interpreter than a British officer, though, eh?’
6
He attended the funeral, this dry ritual the only testament to the
death aside from the desultory investigation. Their unit had been
broken up and the others sent back to Aldershot. He liked to think
they would have attended if it had been possible. Evidently the
major had better things to do. The padre had not researched any of
the records, so it was a short service. It seemed that in death Hans Taub was an embarrassment all round.
He had asked whether he would be sent back to England. If he
particularly requested it, it might be organized, they said. There
was a convalescent facility near Bad Oeynhausen, the headquarters
of the British Army of the Rhine. No, don’t worry, he’d said: HQ
BAOR would be fine. He’d be back to full fitness before too long.
At the convalescent centre he was reunited with his belongings.
In the battered suitcase he found some chocolate saved for a rainy
day. This was some rainy day. He ate three bars in quick succession, then had to rush to the heads to throw up.
There was confusion over his medical records. They had been
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lost in transit at some point in the war. He was chided by the physician appointed to his case for having left his dog tag with his
uniform, but later a medical orderly told him it had the wrong blood group anyway. ‘Happens all the time,’ said the orderly cheerfully.
The days passed in a familiar routine that bred in him contempt. In the mornings he had physiotherapy to attempt to bring life back to
his arm. By and by, it began to work. Lunch was at twelve sharp. In the afternoons, if the weather was fine, those patients who were
mobile would generally be encouraged to go for a health- giving
stroll. If it was raining there was a library of dog- eared books. In the evenings there were organized indoor games: bridge or quoits or,
worse still, charades. He avoided them assiduously.
He had no visitors. He received a letter from one of his staff, who wrote from Aldershot. He did not reply. His senior officers had better things to do than to visit and be connected with an invalid, a
failure.
Periodically he saw an army psychologist. They, whoever they
might be, must be concerned about his withdrawn behaviour. Or