Riptide

§ 4

Ten days later Bruhns found himself flipping the lid on a couple of steins of wheat beer with his old pal Willi. He and Willi went back to the twenties together-to their schooldays. They’d hated their teachers then. Now they hated their officers and met every so often to drink beer-wheat beer was great for inducing that delicious, deliriously sodden feeling; a nice heavy, cloudy brew, heavier still since the Reich had seen fit to boost public morale by raising the alcohol level of beer to ten per cent-and to moan about their bosses. Willi was in the Abwehr, a corporal in Military Intelligence-it was something to write home about, but Bruhns’ job was the more interesting. Not everybody got to work for a flash bastard like Heydrich. At best Willi got to pass Admiral Canaris in a corridor-he’d never even spoken to the man. And not everybody got the afternoon off to go to a top-notch Nazi funeral. All that goose stepping and dreary music, but it had to be better than working. Another thing he and Willi had in common, they’d both volunteered to avoid the draft. Get their pick of regiments. Bruhns had even joined the party for appearances’ sake-the trouble he’d had learning the Horst Wessel song! Didn’t make either of them into loyal Nazis-as far as Bruhns was concerned they were just two blokes trying to get by, occasionally get laid, and more often get rat-arsed. His old man had been a paid-up Commie, but he had no politics one way or the other. Nothing against the Jews-well not much, anyway-and for all he cared they could bring back the Kaiser-silly little prick with his wonky arm and daft hats. He should care.

‘You get to see the body then, Gunther?’

Bruhns was puzzled, but too pissed to want to argue-daft question all the same.

‘Nah. Mind, I saw his hands though.’

‘Mis hands?’

‘The boss had ‘em cut off.’

‘Cut off? Why?’

‘Search me. One minute he’s quizzing me about tattoos and things-wants to know if that body was Wolfie Stahl-next thing he’s damn certain it is and rushes off to tell old ‘Dolf’

‘Keep your voice down! Do you want us both to end up in a camp?’

‘Wossitmatter? Nobody’s listening.’

‘Gunther-this is Germany. Everybody’s listening. It isn’t just walls have ears-the floor, the ceiling, the doorknob and the garden shed have ears.’

‘Well if they’re listening, let ‘em ‘ear this. If that body was Wolfie Stahl, then my name’s Fatso Goering! Now it’s your round. Get ‘em in.’