Steelie 19

The boy was growing tired. Von Stehle could see it in the way his head lagged to one side and the way he no longer caressed the material like he was stroking the back of his mum’s hand. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to Charlotte, while keeping his eyes on him. ‘Tell him we’ve got enough for now and we’ll come back later. It’s better coming from you.’

He missed what Charlotte said to him, but it gave him a chance to get a better look at her when she drifted away. That old cliché, he thought, she didn’t look pregnant but she looked radiant as a bride. Lighter and brighter.

She’d place a gentle hand on Mole’s shoulder. Knelt, on one knee, beside him, holding his upper arm as she spoke, staring into his eyes. Her grip loosening as she spoke and hand slid down his arm and stroked his wrist and took ownership of his hand.

Mole, sleepy faced, thick curled eyelashes, a thin face with untouched beauty, nodded in agreement. He was captivated almost as much as Von Stehle. Charlotte guided him back to the counter, hand in hand, chatting as they returned.

Mole’s threadbare attire cast a long shadow. Elderly shoppers and a gloved floor supervisor, dressed like a mannequin, stared at him in passing. Von Stehle’s nostrils flared. When the floor supervisor glanced at him, he stood tall and haughty. Stared him down, like one of the ancestral paintings that hung on his walls. Rich with splashes of gold and purple and deep hues of red, men that brooked no argument. He tapped his signet ring on the counter. The clink of gold against marble.

Something of the coldness settled on the way he viewed Charlotte. She mentioned the price of coat.  ‘85 Reichsmarks, or three times her salary,’ she joked. ‘A fortune, even for a man of his lineage.’

Thick navy wool, double-breasted, with horn buttons. It smelled of new dye and the antiseptic tang of the department store’s heating vents.

‘Much less than the champagne that you quaff by the bottle in a night out with Diels.’

‘You want me to wrap the jacket, Sir?’

‘No Charlotte, it’s too cold a night. Put it on Mole with his nice new boots and a warm hat.’

She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but she rubbed Mole’s head. ‘Let’s get you ready,’ she said, with forced enthusiasm.

‘Would the Baron like us to charge it to his account?’ She stepped back from the counter and came back with a ledger. Everything in triplicate, but it would only require his signature.

‘I’m sorry, Charlotte,’ he said as he signed the papers put in front of him.

‘Would the Baron like to pick up the other packages later?’ She stared through him. ‘Or would Sir like the packages delivered?’ She glanced at the documents and reeled off the address of his townhouse. ‘Fasanenstraße 27, Charlottenburg, Berlin.’

It was a universe away from the barracks Mole stayed in. Old money. Nestled among embassies and art galleries.  Not far now. Just a short walk (about 5 minutes) from Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten and adjacent to Tiergarten park. Convenient for just about everything, but far enough away for those that wanted to keep to the shadows.  

Charlotte sucked in her breath and stared hard at the counter. A tear the size of a raindrop in the corner on her eyes. She sniffed and her knuckles whitened until she could move and speak. A note of desperation in her voice as she whispered over Mole’s head. ‘Can I come and see you?’    

‘Of course. At your earliest convenience.’

‘You sure?’

He nodded, meeting her tearful gaze and offering a shrug and bashful smile. ‘I’m sure.’ He’d liked to have gripped her hand to reassure her further, but there were too many watchers. ‘If you can just get the boy ready,’ he said in a pompous voice that carried to those that might have been eavesdropping.

‘Yes Baron,’ she almost curtsied, but her newfound smile was real enough.  

She pushed Mole towards the changing room.

 Black shoes, black socks, black shorts. His brown shirt lacks a Swastika with a name and number of which Hitler Youth Group he was to belong. His coat folded over his arm.

‘You look lovely,’ said Charlotte.

‘You think so?’ he grinned.

‘Positively devastating.’

His face flushed and Mole became even smaller.

Von Stehle laughed. ‘Let’s get you out of here before you run amok with all the prettiest girls.’

Charlotte returned with Mole’s old clothes. She wrapped them in brown paper and string. His clogs adding weight and substance to a threadbare existence. She held out the package for Von Stehle to take but he waved her away.

‘Just burn them,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure we’re allowed to do that,’ she answered with a mischievous grin.

 ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘We can only burn books. That’s right. I’d forgotten…Bin it, then.’

‘Perhaps somebody could use them?’

‘I doubt it.’ Von Stehle waved as he guided Mole towards the lift. ‘I’ll leave that to you.’

‘I’ll be in touch, soon,’ her voice small swallowed by the room’s richness and her need, balanced on tiptoes as if waving them away on a long voyage.

The station lights behind them and the Brandenburg Gate in front of them. Fresh snow buried their tracks but Mole was no longer shivering and, in some cases, led the way, even though he didn’t know where he was going. Helping Von Stehle along as if he was an old man, which he knew he was. But it felt nice to be needed. Nice to be helped. The wind picked up again, whispering like wind on the roof of the trenches. The screams and the quiet mixed in his own body before his batman Willi dug him out of a rat-hole. No longer breathing. His heart no longer beating.