Chapter 3

I watched Helga getting ready for work as I lay on her bed. I didn’t think it improved her looks one iota, but rather, concealed it, like a mask you put on at one of those French balls. She put on the same dress I first saw her in the bar down near the docks. She rolled up some nylon stockings she probably got given by some GI. Eventually, she stood before the mirror and examined herself. Deciding all was correct, she turned.

“See you later, Mountie,” she said, breezily, blowing a kiss like some American film star.

“Don’t you ever run into trouble?” I asked.

“Such as?”

“Such as getting roughed up by some pervert or a client stiffing you the fee?”

“It’s cash up front, sweetie,” she said, “and, as for being roughed up?” she reached into her purse and produced a Mauser pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at the wall, holding it in two hands. “I can look after myself!”

“Still...”

“Don’t get all protective,” she chided. “The nice clients tell me exactly the same thing and I tell them the same thing back. I don’t need a pimp or some guy watching over me. I do my own business my own way and if you don’t like it, spend your money somewhere else.”

“I’m not a client and don’t treat me as such.”

“Well, don’t act like a client.”

“I’m not, dammit, and what the hell is wrong with me displaying concern?”

“‘Concern’ or ‘ownership’?”

“Oh, bullshit, you’ve taken me the wrong way.”

“Listen, perhaps I was wrong in encouraging you, ah, to become attached.”

“Attached? We spend the night screwing in your bed and you expect me not to become a little fond of you? What the hell kind of brick do you think I am? It was nothing to you?”

She stood and sighed, deeply, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I never expected this to happen. I thought a little game...”

“A game?”

“Yes, a girlfriend, boyfriend kind of thing. It was fun, but you will move on and I will carry on dreaming of the lingerie shop, checking the shipping notices, and giving some GI a happy memory of his time in Germany. That is what I do. And how will you change anything, huh? Running from place to place and never staying long enough for your lies to be uncovered. One day, they will catch up to you and lock you up and, if you’re really unlucky, send you to Berlin to be traded for some spy the Soviets caught. Do you expect me to run after you and visit your cell on the weekend? Do you want me to cry over your grave after the KGB finishes with you?”

“No, of course not, but today we are free. Tomorrow? Who knows?”

“Who knows? My make up will run,” she sniffed.

“Here,” I said, grabbing a tissue from her dresser and carefully sponging the tears. “There, all fixed!”

She stood, shaking her head. “Fuck, I am stupid. No, don’t kiss me. You’ll smudge the lipstick,” she said, pushing me lightly away. “I hate you for doing this to me. Turning my life inside out. A fucking Bolshevik spy, shit!”

“I’m not a spy,” I told her, kindly. “Just a soldier.”

“Fucking soldiers, huh! Just boys pretending to be grown men. All they really want is their mothers.”

“And what do you want?”

“Money. Just give me the money and leave me the hell alone.”

“I have no money,” I smiled.

“Well, aren’t you unlucky,” she smiled back. “No cash, no company. They are my rules.”

“That so?” I said and grabbed her around the hips, pulling her against me.

“No, no, no, not now, I have to work.” I advanced towards her lips, but thought better of it. Instead, I nuzzled her neck so as not to disturb her make up. “Ok, ok, that’s enough, Mountie,” she giggled. “Let me go, now. I’m on the time clock and I don’t give it away for free. Russian, please!”

“Ok,” I said, letting her go. “I’ll see you when you get back. Maybe take you out to a late night movie?”

“Oh, sure, and I’m paying, I suppose?”

“Fairs fair. I paid last night, remember?”

“All, right then. We’ll see what happens. Who, knows, it might be dead out there and I’ll get home early?”

“Maybe?” She blew me another kiss and flounced out the door.

Helga seemed to be compulsively untidy, even for a teenager. The little apartment might have a bit of room if everything was folded and put away. The military are obsessive about tidiness and order. When you have so many young men living in close quarters, you have to be careful with your stuff, regardless of bullying sergeants who have exquisite punishments for recruits who fail to tidy up after themselves. I thought of a particular sergeant and how he would be apoplectic if he came across such as this little apartment. So, I spent the afternoon tidying up, finding places for things and neatly folding her clothes. A good hour or two and, I thought, she wouldn’t recognise the place. I then took a pile of her laundry to the ancient washer in the courtyard building. It was a hand cranked affair, but better than the old tubs and washboards we used to have. I strung a line next to the boiler in the basement and hung them out.

I had only a dollar left to my name, but it was enough for a meal at a nearby cafe washed down with a glass of gassy, American beer. A small container of unfiltered, Camel cigarettes was on the counter to give away to customers. I took one and lit it with a petrol lighter the size of a paperweight. ‘Mein Host’ was an ex-Wehrmacht drill sergeant who wore a towel over his left arm all the time. When not dealing with customers, he would be continuously polishing the glasses, blowing into them, before holding them up to the light.

“Come far?” he bellowed in my direction.

“Hamburg.”

“You should go back,” he said. “Better class of whore, eh? Am I not right?”

“They’re just fine, here,” I grinned.

“That Helga,” he said, clicking his tongue. He came over and leaned towards me. “You pimping for her?”

“No. Just staying for a few days.”

“Ach! She is too classy for that game. If she was my daughter, I’d pull her out of those bars and put her in school. You a relative?”

“No, just a friend.”

“A friend, eh? Whores have pimps and customers, they don’t have friends. I watch over that girl, you here?” he said, moving closer so I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “If I hear of anything, you will be sorry, understand? I have snapped the necks of better men than you.”

I stared back into his watery, bloodshot eyes. I do not like threats, but I understood the man’s intent. “I would not harm a hair on her head,” I said, evenly. “Do you think I am happy she is out in some bar somewhere, sucking the dick of some Yank in an alley or screwing them in a stinking hotel room? Like, you, if I had my way she would be in school, or running a dress shop and meeting friends for lunch. But, she is proud and independent, and does what she wants. I like it as much as you!”

“Ah!” he straightened up. “Then, that is the way of it,” he shook his head. “You are in love with her! You a soldier?”

I was becoming tired of that question. Try as I might, I couldn’t avoid it no matter who I met. “Yes, I am a soldier,” I told him.

He rolled up his sleeve and displayed the ‘GD’ symbol in Gothic scrolling tattooed on his forearm. “Grossdeutchland Division, Eastern Front,” he said, rolling the sleeve back down.

“281 Light Observation Squadron, 10th Army, Ukrainian Front.”

“Russian?” he said, raising his eyebrows. He slapped me firmly on the shoulder then commenced to belly laugh. “Well, then, Bolshevik, let me buy you a whiskey? From old adversaries, to friends who understand each other, no?” He then fetched a bottle from under the counter and poured me a stiff belt. Pouring himself the same, he raised it, ‘Prost!”

“Nastrov’ya!” I tossed back the shot, then he poured me another.

I was on the third, when ‘Mein Host’ looked past me to the door. “Helga,” he exclaimed, “come, a wine, perhaps, or maybe a little pick-me-up? I was just getting to know your man, here. I think he is too old for you, but he is a good man, smart and honest - for a Russian.” He nudged me in the ribs, such that I almost fell from my stool.

“What?” she said, aghast. “Otto? What the hell is this? Anton, what the fuck have you been telling him, you idiot? I leave you for five minutes...”

“Calm down,” Otto told her. “Take a shot and come talk to Otto. His boys and ours were taking potshots at one another back in the war. I saw many of their flying coffins circling overhead like seagulls. You have to respect someone who flew that rattling box of bolts against our Luftwaffe, no?”

“Are you idiots swapping war stories?” She said, incredulous.

“It’s ok,” I said, calmly. “Everything’s fine!”

“Come, get that down?” Otto told her, pushing a shot glass across with a generous slug of whiskey.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, taking the glass and tossing it down. “No, no more, thanks, Otto,” as he went to refill it. “I’m tired and I want to go home.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Take your man home and take care of him. Love,” he said, quietly, “love is all that matters in these times. You have that, you have the world.”

“Your full of it, Otto!” she told him, shaking her head.

“But, I’m right,” he replied.

We walked back to the apartment in silence. When she saw the clothesline she looked at me quizzically. Upon opening the door, her mouth fell open. She walked slowly, running a finger down a stack of perfectly folded clothes, then to the dresser, where her cosmetics and things had been neatly arranged - her old wooden crate gone to the boiler room for kindling. “What the hell have you been doing?” she said.

“Tidying,” I replied.

“Tidying? Seriously? But, I don’t know where everything is.”

“It’s easy,” I explained, “over there you have all your dresses and skirts with tops beside it. Underwear? Knickers, that drawer...”

“Ok, ok, stop it!” she said. “Did the army train you as a maid, or something? Why would you do such a thing?”

“I can’t stand mess,” I shrugged.

“But, I know where everything is,” she said. “It’s my mess and I’m used to it.”

“You now have room to move about without treading on clothes and stuff,” I said, helpfully. “Look, there’s the floor.”

Helga sat heavily down on the bed. “Mama used to do this when I was little.” She looked around her, shaking her head. “I couldn’t have anything of my own lying about or she’d tidy it up out of sight. Like the library at school, or a milliner’s shop. Nothing could be out of place. Books all indexed and all in perfect order. If the librarian found anything wrongly shelved, she’d go nuts. It’s all very Prussian, isn’t it? This obsession with order.”

“It’s a military thing.”

“Yes. Hitler said we were a military race and were to bring order and discipline to all the inferiors. My parents both believed. My Mother said there were Jews and Bolsheviks everywhere and they were ‘polluting’ the German race. That is how she put it, ‘pollution’, like taking a dump in the river. My father talked about ‘our virtues’ being ‘cleanliness and order.’ He said Africans didn’t wash properly and that is how they came to be Black. He would have many stories like that. I was raised on that stuff - neatness, tidiness, order, purity and cleanliness. My mother once told me if I didn’t tidy my room I was only fit to marry a Jew.”

“So, you’re rebelling against your mother? You leave your room like a rubbish tip and sleep with a Bolshevik.”

“And I’ve had sex with a Jew,” she grinned. “Papa was always military. He was always away on a posting somewhere, so I barely saw him. He would blow in from time to time, criticise the shit out of Mama and me and tell me a bedtime story. Then he would be gone. Otto, he was there for me when I came back to Bremen. He was the nearest thing to a proper Father I ever had. He’s overbearing, sometimes, but he means well. He was my Papa’s regimental sergeant when he was a Colonel of Grenadiers. He’s known me since so high - always looked out for me.”

“I like him,” I said. “He’s larger than life.”

“Sure, is. And, he’s no fool. Strong as an ox. You’d be wise to watch what you say. He expects men to be men - doesn’t take shit from anybody. Don’t ever arm wrestle him. Strong as you are, he’d snap your arm like a matchstick without blinking.”

“I’ll remember that,” I chuckled. I watched her as she scrubbed off her make up. “Busy day?”

She turned slowly and looked at me. “Slow. Why do you want to know?”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask when you get home from work?”

“I don’t know, is it? A couple of hand jobs and a hump in the hotel. 12 bucks minus a meal and a buck and a half kick back from the bar. Is that what you want to know?”

“Not really.”

“Thought so. Let’s keep my work separate from this, ok? I know you have a problem with it, so lets not spoil it. Let me take you out to the Kino for the late show and we’ll drop into Otto’s on the way back, ok? Afterwards? Well, afterwards, we can cuddle together and you may tell me I’m beautiful again. I might even kiss you - just for the practice,” she smiled.

“Sounds like a good night!”

Later that night, we walked home arm in arm after having a few beers at Otto’s. Helga was slightly drunk, although not as sloshed as I’d expect from such a slender girl after a good many glasses. Holding ones liquor was an essential part of her line of business, and she did it well. She leaned into me, slightly, and stumbled now and then. Otherwise, there was little sign she’d been drinking. “Mountie? Can I ask you your real name? It’s, just, that I want something to remember you by. You tell me your’s and I’ll tell you mine.”

“You name’s not Helga?”

“Well, okay, it is, but I thought I’d arouse your curiosity. It’s not Anton, is it? It doesn’t suit.”

“Peotr Ivanovich Azovesky - surname granted to my family by Peter the Great in gratitude for helping to storm the fortress of Azov held by the Turks - sometime around 1696, I believe. I’m unclear what my ancestor actually did, but he was granted a piece of land outside Rostov. It was sold by a later Azovesky to pay gambling debts around 1800. We were titled aristocrats, who couldn’t keep a kopek jangling in our pockets for more than a minute. We provided first sons to the Tsar’s army and second sons to the Black Sea Fleet. In 1917, the first son went off to fight for the Whites and the second son threw in his lot with the Red Navy. As you might guess, I have cousins in France who I know nothing about. First son, you see, fled to France after the White cause collapsed.”

“Peotr, Peotr, hmm? ‘Peter’ in German?”

“And English.”

“Pete? You’re a ‘Pete’?” I nodded. “Fancy that. I’d never have guessed you were a Pete.”

“They called me ‘Vyal’ back in the squadron. It is short for the Russian word for ‘limp’”

“Limp?” She burst out laughing. “As in...” She made a movement with her hand like a penis wilting. “Like, this? Oh, that’s wonderful, glorious...”