Shadows of Berlin полностью

Inside the lager building, they are separated from the population who are headed for the trains. Some are even assigned rooms with a door that they are authorized to close. They are permitted a bed, a chair, and lamps, a table to place a phonograph upon. Emil selects a record for the turntable and lightly drops the needle. A well-­known chanteuse warbles. Sing, Nachtigall, sing.

Emil Cronenberg. Tall, slim, handsome as a wolf, but most importantly blond like any Aryan. He is always happy to explain his ancestral history. A Mischling grandmother and an Aryan grandpa, or was it the other way around? Every time he reviews his family tree, the good German branches tend to change. The tree is never the same twice. But this much Angelika is sure of. He comes from nothing. The factory slums. And even with his fancy leather trench coat and snap-­brim fedora, he holds himself like a prole, hunched against the world. He sounds like a prole. It only takes a few shots of Gilka and he reveals himself as an Urberliner from Neukölln. “Ick gloob’ meen Schwein pfeift!” he shouts in disbelief. I think my pig is whistling!

But there’s a boyishness to him, underneath the leather trench. A defensive posture. It’s obvious to her in his obsession over the phonograph. So proud of it is he. She thinks it means more to him than the glossy blue French Citroën that Dirkweiler has authorized for his use in touring the town on the hunt. The phonograph’s dark mahogany case, the polished brass trumpet. A little slum boy with this elegant possession. It is touching. Having that phonograph, she supposes, is proof that he is someone now. Like all men, he wants to see himself as a force to be reckoned with. And in many ways, he is. A charming force. A brutal force too.

There are other catchers in the Grosse Hamburger Strasse. She works briefly beside a true killer, a man called Grizmek, but he stabs his Stapo handler on a train and vanishes. Why does she not do the same? Why would she? How can life as an underground Jew possibly compare? When Dirkweiler pairs her with Emil, it is a successful match. They grab four U-­boats on their first outing together.

Emil is driving the Citroën up the Friedrichstrasse, a blond forelock hanging out from under the brim of his hat, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He likes the Bulgarian brand. Makedon Perfekt. They are rough smoking, just like he is. Angelika can hear her own voice, edging toward seduction. “Emil Cronenberg… Who is this Emil Cronenberg?”

But really, even as she asks, she wonders: Who will ever know the answer to such a question? That night, they have intercourse on Emil’s bed while the phonograph plays. Rosita Serrano’s chilly “Roter Mohn.” Red Poppy.

Colder weather for Berlin at this time of year. The windows of the Café Bollenmüller are steam-­clouded. The noise of the café’s lunchtime service is subdued. The accordionist is taking a break for a smoke. Angelika and Emil share a table. She wears a long, trimly cut black woolen coat with Bakelite pinwheel buttons and a thick lambswool collar. A black felt hat with a wide, dipping brim and a single pheasant feather tucked into the velvet band. She knows where they came from, these clothes. They came from those who will no longer need such glamour rags.

A shabbily clad girl, skinny as a pike, enters the café and stands anxiously alone by the bar, rubbing her fingers for warmth.

“There’s one,” Emil says. “You see her? The skinny broom that just walked in.”

Angelika looks closer. She wants to learn. He says she has the gift. All she needs is to learn the tricks. “What gives her away?” she asks.

“You tell me. Does she look Jewish?” he asks her.

Angelika squints. This question feels like a trap. “I don’t know. Do you look Jewish? Do I?”

“Pay attention,” Emil instructs.

A pause as she studies the prey. Smoke drifts across her line of sight from Emil’s cigarette.

“She’s frightened.” Angelika can see that.

“Yes, but more. What else?”

“Her clothes are patched,” Angelika offers.

Emil shrugs as he taps a bit of ash into the tin ashtray. “Many people patch their clothes. It’s rationing. But you’re close,” he tells her. “What else?”

Another pause. Her eyes go deeper. Deeper. Then it strikes her like a match struck to a flame. “Her shoes.”

Emil shows her an approving smile. “Good. You have it. She’s a U-­boat. She walks everywhere, day and night, searching for a place to hide, so her shoes are falling off her feet.”

A dark-­headed youth in an old winter coat enters and touches the skinny girl’s arm. She is startled but then relieved. They confer quietly, and the youth guides her to a table.

“Now, he looks Jewish,” Angelika decides.

But Emil is shaking his head. “No,” he tells her. “Never trust that. Never trust the propaganda. Hooked noses, Jewish earlobes. It’s rubbish. See beyond it. You can. You have the hunter’s instinct.”