The Berlin Assignment by Adrian de Hoog

“Belched like power stations. Whenthe Wall came down Ossis switched to western cars. That cleaned the air fast. Not many Trabis around now. Becoming collector’s items. Buy Trabis, Herr Konsul. Store them. Last year you could get one for two hundred marks. This year, they’re up to five. In a few years they’ll be worth a fortune.” But nothing from the back, not a word, not even a grunt. When Sturm saw in the mirror that the consul looked out the window at a bus, he tried public transport. He described how Berlin’s U-bahn lines were being reconnected after decades of multiple dead ends. And what a joy to see the trams again. Trams went out of fashion in West Berlin, but not in the East. The East maintained traditions. “I love those trams,” he said. “I hope they’ll come back everywhere.” A wait by Sturm. Bait taken? No. More silence. He next explained the problems of the city’s electricity supply – why electric clocks in West Berlin had gone berserk when the two grids were connected. “Powerful stuff, that Eastern juice,” Sturm concluded.
    As this and other East-West subjects floundered in the shoals of taciturnity, Sturm gave up. It was then that he decided to ask a straightforward question:
What’s in Spandau
? He considered the answer –
a citadel
– more than condescending and in a huff he fell silent too. “Take me there. Take me to the citadel” the back seat suddenly commanded. “Then you can stand down.” “No I can’t,” argued Sturm. “I have to take you back to the hotel.” When the voice, resonating as if from the inside of an urn, answered that wasn’t necessary, he could not suppress derision, “And how will you get back? It’s getting dark. And look up. Those are rain clouds, Herr Konsul. A downpour isn’t far off. You visit the citadel, I’ll wait.” “I’m not here to visit the citadel,” the voice informed the chauffeur. “I have other things to do. To the citadel, Sturm. Then let me out.”
    After the citadel stop, the Opel lurched back into the traffic with tires squealing. Pedestrians looked up. Had the driver seen a ghost, or was he in the grip of a catatonic fit?
    Hanbury, in contrast, was serene as he left the car. Gripping him was nostalgia. The citadel, the river, the locks, the foot paths, Sabine’s sunny voice instructing him in Spandau history. He recalled how, when it came to the history of her own time, her voice hardened. She described the day the Wall went up around the western edge of Spandau not far from where she lived. Through barbed wire they watched the torment of neighbours on the other side. Then came concrete blocks and the view – and sense of neighbour – disappeared. The sinister permanence of the Wall made everyone feel violated. The communists, Sabine said bitterly to Tony, had sealed her in. “Maybe not sealed in,” he replied, pointing at a bright side. “Maybe the other side got sealed out.” Sabine didn’t argue. “Sealed in. Sealed out,” she said with resignation. “Sealed off.” Hanbury wasn’t much affected by such local history. He enjoyed Sabine doing the talking as they walked along the river. In their cocoon he liked the feel of their arms around each other and of their hips moving as one. And now, walking through unchanged streets to where she then lived, still hearing their past merriment, he was thinking of phrasing an apology.
    At a gate with a familiar, small bronze sign,
Albert Müller – Rechtsanwalt und Notar
, he pressed a bell. At first, no answer. He pressed again, longer. A speaker built into the gatepost crackled. “
Schon gut. Schon gut
. Alright, alright. No need to bring the house down. Who is it?” Hanbury leaned forward to the gate. “
Albert? Tony Hanbury hier
.” There was a silence, then Müller came back on.