from the tap, and only one bar of soap. One of the policemen came back with a large pail of boiling water. The rest of them stood aside so that the inspector could wash first. He indicated that I should use the other sink.
'What do you make of it?' said the inspector as he rationed out a measure of the hot water into each of the sinks.
'Where would a body turn up?' I asked.
'Spandau locks, that's where we fish them out,' he said without hesitation. 'But there was no one in that car when it went into the water.' He took off his jacket and shirt so that he could wash his arms where mud had dribbled up his sleeve.
'You think not?' I stood alongside him and took the soap he offered.
'The front doors were locked, and the back door of the ambulance was locked too. Not many people getting out of a car underwater remember to lock the doors before swimming away.' He passed me some paper towels.
'It went into the water empty?'
'So you don't want to talk about it. Very well.'
'No, you're right,' I said. 'It's probably just a stunt. How did you get the information about where to find it?'
'I looked at the docket. An anonymous phone call from a passerby. You think it was a phony?'
'Probably.'
'While the prisoner was taken away somewhere else.'
'It would be a way of getting our attention.'
'And spoiling my Christmas Eve,' he said. 'I'll kill the bastards if I ever get hold of them.'
'Them?'
'At least two people. It wasn't in gear, you notice, it was in neutral. So they must have pushed it in. That needs two people; one to push and one to steer.'
'Three of them, according to what we heard.'
He nodded. 'There's too much crime on television,' said the police inspector. He signalled to the policeman to get another bucket of water for the rest of them to wash with. 'That old English colonel with the kids' football team. . . . he was your father, wasn't he?'
'Yes,' I said.
'I realized that afterwards. I could have bitten my tongue off. No offence. Everyone liked the old man.'
'That's okay,' I said.
'He didn't even enjoy the football. He just did it for the German kids; there wasn't much for them in those days. He probably hated every minute of those games. At the time we didn't see that; we wondered why he took so much trouble about the football when he couldn't even kick the ball straight. He organized lots of things for the kids, didn't he. And he sent you to the neighbourhood school instead of to that fancy school where the other British children went. He must have been an unusual man, your father.'
Washing my hands and arms and face had only got rid of the most obvious dirt. My trench coat was soaked and my shoes squelched. The mud along the banks of the Havel at that point is polluted with a century of industrial waste and effluents. Even my newly washed hands still bore the stench of the riverbed.
The hotel was dark when I let myself in by means of the key that certain privileged guests were permitted to borrow. Lisl Hennig's hotel had once been her grand home, and her parents' home before that. It was just off Kantstrasse, a heavy grey stone building of the sort that abounds in Berlin. The ground floor was an optician's shop and its bright facade partly hid the pockmarked stone that was the result of Red Army artillery fire in 1945. My very earliest memories were of Lisl's house - it was not easy to think of it as a hotel — for I came here as a baby when my father was with the British Army. I'd known the patched brown carpet that led up the grand staircase when it had been bright red.
At the top of the stairs there was the large salon and the bar. It was gloomy. The only illumination came from a tiny Christmas tree positioned on the bar counter. Tiny green and red bulbs flashed on and off in a melancholy attempt to be festive. Intermittent light fell upon the framed photos that covered every wall. Here were some of Berlin's most illustrious residents, from Einstein to Nabokov, Garbo to Dietrich, Max Schmeling
'What do you make of it?' said the inspector as he rationed out a measure of the hot water into each of the sinks.
'Where would a body turn up?' I asked.
'Spandau locks, that's where we fish them out,' he said without hesitation. 'But there was no one in that car when it went into the water.' He took off his jacket and shirt so that he could wash his arms where mud had dribbled up his sleeve.
'You think not?' I stood alongside him and took the soap he offered.
'The front doors were locked, and the back door of the ambulance was locked too. Not many people getting out of a car underwater remember to lock the doors before swimming away.' He passed me some paper towels.
'It went into the water empty?'
'So you don't want to talk about it. Very well.'
'No, you're right,' I said. 'It's probably just a stunt. How did you get the information about where to find it?'
'I looked at the docket. An anonymous phone call from a passerby. You think it was a phony?'
'Probably.'
'While the prisoner was taken away somewhere else.'
'It would be a way of getting our attention.'
'And spoiling my Christmas Eve,' he said. 'I'll kill the bastards if I ever get hold of them.'
'Them?'
'At least two people. It wasn't in gear, you notice, it was in neutral. So they must have pushed it in. That needs two people; one to push and one to steer.'
'Three of them, according to what we heard.'
He nodded. 'There's too much crime on television,' said the police inspector. He signalled to the policeman to get another bucket of water for the rest of them to wash with. 'That old English colonel with the kids' football team. . . . he was your father, wasn't he?'
'Yes,' I said.
'I realized that afterwards. I could have bitten my tongue off. No offence. Everyone liked the old man.'
'That's okay,' I said.
'He didn't even enjoy the football. He just did it for the German kids; there wasn't much for them in those days. He probably hated every minute of those games. At the time we didn't see that; we wondered why he took so much trouble about the football when he couldn't even kick the ball straight. He organized lots of things for the kids, didn't he. And he sent you to the neighbourhood school instead of to that fancy school where the other British children went. He must have been an unusual man, your father.'
Washing my hands and arms and face had only got rid of the most obvious dirt. My trench coat was soaked and my shoes squelched. The mud along the banks of the Havel at that point is polluted with a century of industrial waste and effluents. Even my newly washed hands still bore the stench of the riverbed.
The hotel was dark when I let myself in by means of the key that certain privileged guests were permitted to borrow. Lisl Hennig's hotel had once been her grand home, and her parents' home before that. It was just off Kantstrasse, a heavy grey stone building of the sort that abounds in Berlin. The ground floor was an optician's shop and its bright facade partly hid the pockmarked stone that was the result of Red Army artillery fire in 1945. My very earliest memories were of Lisl's house - it was not easy to think of it as a hotel — for I came here as a baby when my father was with the British Army. I'd known the patched brown carpet that led up the grand staircase when it had been bright red.
At the top of the stairs there was the large salon and the bar. It was gloomy. The only illumination came from a tiny Christmas tree positioned on the bar counter. Tiny green and red bulbs flashed on and off in a melancholy attempt to be festive. Intermittent light fell upon the framed photos that covered every wall. Here were some of Berlin's most illustrious residents, from Einstein to Nabokov, Garbo to Dietrich, Max Schmeling
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