Man Who Wanted Tomorrow Read online

  Inside, the warmth enveloped him and for a moment he paused, enjoying the comfort. He’d grown very cold in the park, he realized. Far below he heard the clatter of a train. Only a second, he thought again. He’d hardly feel anything. It would be just like the cyanide that he’d carried for so long and conditioned himself to use. Near the cash desk, he saw the tariff and smiled. The last laugh, he thought. He’d commit suicide with the money that the Jews had provided. He passed over the mark, turning his face as he received the ticket and the thirty pfennig change. The doubt began to snatch at him as he descended the stairs. In five minutes, maybe less, he’d be dead. He pictured the injuries his body would sustain under the wheels and actually stopped on the stairs, but the flow of people behind pushed him on. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so quick. Anything could happen. Someone might see him move forward and try to grab him at the last moment, deflecting his fall. Perhaps the driver would even be alert enough to stop the train.

  But he had to die. Had to. And where else, but in Berlin? Just as the Führer had done. He carried on down the stairs, trying to push back the fear. In five minutes. That’s all. Just five minutes and it would all be over. Far away there was the rumble of an approaching train, like someone clearing their throat. The noise built up, gradually. It was as if his body had its own motivation, moving through people on the platform, while he stood aside, watching what was happening to himself. He gazed over the edge. One line would carry electricity, he realized, for the first time. It would burn. Would he feel the pain before the agony of the train? The noise was very loud now. Warm air gushed from the tunnel mouth, pushed ahead of the approaching vehicle. Three steps. That’s all. Just three steps. Then fall forward, keeping his body stiff, so he would encounter both sets of wheels. Three steps. Only three steps. He’d be able to do it. The awareness of the courage came suddenly and the knowledge warmed him. He’d definitely be able to do it. From the blackness of the tunnel he saw approaching lights.

  He took one step forward.

  “That wouldn’t be right, Heinrich, would it?”

  He jerked around, noises clogging in his throat, the determination to die kicked away like a ladder being snatched from beneath a workman. Smiling at him was the man who’d ridden in the front of the Mercedes. And the driver who had threatened to crush his hands. They moved around, interposing themselves between him and the track, destroying the opportunity.

  “Can’t have you committing suicide,” said the driver, casually. “That would be far too easy. You haven’t run far enough yet. Not standing up to it at all well, are you?”

  The train hissed into the platform and people surged forward. He pressed against them, eyes bulged at the two men. The bastards. The filthy, scheming bastards. All the time they’d followed him, ensuring that he was performing to their prepared scenario. Perez had probably filmed it, for later showing at the university … “and here’s how he scuttled through the Berlin where he had once strutted in his S.S. jackboots …”

  And all the students would smile and giggle, knowing it was one of the jokes introduced to make their learning easier. He knew he was sobbing, but like the shaking in the Mercedes, he couldn’t control it. Both men laughed at him. He edged bask, away from them, pushed now by the disembarking passengers.

  “And you’d better have this,” said the man who had been the passenger. “Don’t want any uncertainty about who you are, do we?”

  The man tossed at him the Russian passport he’d tried to conceal in the rubbish basket. Everything, thought Kurnov, helplessly. They’d watched everything. The document struck him on the chest, then scattered on the floor.

  “You’ve dropped something,” shouted the driver, over-loudly. Hurrying people hesitated and looked. Kurnov snatched it up, clutching it against him, hypnotized by their ridicule.

  Then the dam broke. He turned and began running, as fast as he could, fighting against the tight breath and the pain in his legs, trying to take steps two at a time, pushing around people, uncaring of their shouts. At the barrier, he thrust out the unused ticket. The collector opened his mouth, but Kurnov shoved by, still running. But he was too tired. His feet began to stumble and he knew he would soon fall. And if he fell, he wouldn’t be able to get up. He knew his legs would refuse to support him. So he’d be caught. He slowed, to a walk, but still the fatigue ached through him. It was like trying to walk through a weed-thick stream. He hadn’t slept for almost forty-eight hours, he accepted. Or eaten, either. No one could go on, harried like he was being, for much longer. The idea of death pushed away, the need for sanctuary filled his mind. He looked behind, then to either side, wildly. There was no one obviously watching him. But they’d be there, he knew. They’d rehearsed it, very carefully, schooled by Perez with his conviction he could read every thought and anticipate every move. So they’d definitely be there, somewhere. Watching. And perhaps recording. The thoughts of being filmed annoyed him. He’d always filmed stress experiments, for later examination and analysis. And he remembered the reaction, when he’d shown them at Buchenwald or Auschwitz.

  “Better than anything Chaplin could have done,” he remembered Bormann saying, on one occasion.

  Now he was performing, for their amusement. He imagined the sniggering at his helplessness, the remarks about his appearance. It was obscene, he felt, like taking hidden pornographic photographs in a whore’s bedroom. He snatched at his wavering determination. He had to break their control. He had to escape their surveillance. That would upset them. Once they lost him, they couldn’t maneuver his collapse. Perez wasn’t that good. He couldn’t anticipate everything.

  And he would die, he assured himself. He’d snatch the final victory to become just another tidy cross in the cemetery. Perhaps in St. Thomas Kirchhof, like Heini.

  He suddenly laughed aloud, ignoring the reaction from people around him. All along there had been an escape … a hiding place. He’d even prepared it, when he had arrived in the city; but Perez had wiped his mind clean, like a teacher erasing instructions from a blackboard.

  Kurnov paused, halted by a sudden, illogical thought. What a team they would have been, he mused, he and Perez. The combination of their minds would have been incredible. He fought against the idea, recognizing the symptom. It meant he was ceasing to oppose the man, switching his feelings to those of admiration. And once he allowed that feeling to settle, the domination would be almost complete. And he wouldn’t allow the other man that control. He knew how to win because he had carefully discovered where Gerda lived. That’s where he could hide. And sleep, too. That would spoil the bigoted account that Perez would deliver. “… And I regret at this point, the Nazi was too clever for us and escaped …”

  He was going to prove himself superior to Perez, he knew. The challenge arranged itself in his mind. He was superior, he repeated, wondering at the need for reassurance. He’d prove it, definitely. Again the arrogance arrived on the back of euphoria.

  It would be easy to fool Gerda, of course. She would not recognize him. He’d be a stranger to her. He’d have to be careful to avoid frightening her, though. She’d be convinced of his death, after all these years, so the reason he gave for suddenly appearing upon her doorstep would have to be convincing. He’d say he was a friend. That was it. A friend whom Heinrich had always said could approach his wife. What about if she had read the newspapers? He thought back, trying to hurdle the gap of thirty years. She never had, ever. Her only interest was fashion magazines. How would he know where she lived? He discarded the problem, casually. He could maneuver the announcement easily enough so that she would be too confused even to consider such doubt. Very easy to maneuver, he thought again. Why? he wondered. Why had the thought appeared again? Did he have to prove his own ability to manipulate, to restore his crumbling confidence? Perhaps. So what? Daily everyone performed mental dance steps to support their own ego. So Gerda—or the control of her—became another experiment. It was fitting she should prove some use after so long. As a wife, she had never been
any use, just an embarrassment. He’d known the jokes that Goebbels and Himmler had made up about her. And of the damage to his progress to even higher honor in the Party her presence had caused. Yes, it was fitting she should belatedly help him. He looked around again, seeking the watchers. There would be cars, he knew. So there was no point in trying to leap suddenly into a passing taxi. And anyway, he had insufficient money. So there was no way. Yes, he contradicted, immediately. Yes, there was. The answer was in the U-Bahn. If he rode the Underground, there was no way any vehicle could pursue because they would not know a destination. Of course people on foot would follow. But he would have reduced the surveillance. And that would give him an advantage. Ahead, the station appeared. He smiled, buoyed by his reasoning. Once again he entered, purchased his ticket and moved easily down with the crowd.

  On the platform, he stood far back from the track, studying the Underground map and the advertisements. Several people gathered between him and the line. One of them would be to prevent him making another dash forward. The realization gave him an idea and he smiled again. The approaching train grumbled nearer. Kurnov’s eyes went from face to face seeking the slightest recognition, but no one responded to the attention. That was to be expected, decided Kurnov. The men watching him would be professionals, trained against exposing themselves. Would it work? he wondered. He stopped examining the crowd, aware of the risk of exposing himself. He huddled lower in his coat, anxious for the concealment it afforded. The danger would be greater on the train, he realized. A hat would help. He wondered if there would be one in Gerda’s apartment.

  The train came in, breathlessly. And suddenly Kurnov moved, lurching forward. Immediately he pulled back, but the movement had been sufficient. Two men directly in front had sprung together, forming a wall. So they were not professional after all, thought Kurnov. They stood, looking foolish, and Kurnov moved slowly around them, boarding the train.

  The two Jews hesitated, uncertainly, angry at being shown up. Just before the doors closed, one hurried in, moving down the train. As it took off from the station, Kurnov saw the second running back up the stairs.

  The behavior of the two men was important, judged Kurnov. It meant that despite the charade on the platform, the watchers were still under instructions not to expose him deliberately. The pendulum was swinging to his advantage, decided Kurnov, omen-seeking again. Quickly the confidence built up. He shrugged his collar higher, happy at the way the logic was presenting itself in his mind. Perez had failed to unsettle him to the degree intended, decided Kurnov. He had positioned himself carefully with his face towards the window, always conscious of the need for protection. But it was not very effective, he thought, gazing at his own reflection as the train bustled through the blackened tunnel. His crumpled appearance was mirrored to every occupant in the carriage.

  He began counting. Three people were reading newspapers, two holding them in such a way that his picture was displayed, like a “wanted” poster. And there was a discarded copy of Die Welt lying on a seat, again with his photograph uppermost. He pulled further into the window, lowering his head.

  At the next station, the platform appeared against the door before which he was standing. He squeezed to one side, unwilling to move further into the carriage where he would be visible to all the other passengers. Several people coming aboard jostled him, annoyed at his refusal to retreat, and one woman stared directly at him, angrily. The perspiration broke out immediately, stoked by the nervousness, and he turned away, avoiding her.

  He tried to recall the stops to the Tiergarten, wondering if he would be able to complete the journey.

  He looked away from his own reflection, seeking the man who was obviously watching him. The Jew sat on a corner seat, slumped miserably. Kurnov hoped the Israelis were as hard upon the operatives who made mistakes as the Nazis and the Russians.

  Kurnov was suddenly aware that he was being watched, by someone else. Stupidly, he searched along the carriage, and saw it was the woman who had been annoved at his barring her entry at the last station. Quicklv, he jerked away. In the window’s reflection he saw her look at the discarded Die Welt, then towards him. The initial look had been casual, without any reason. Now she frowned, going back to the newspaper, then up again for comparison. Kurnov turned completely away from her, risking exposure from the other direction. A station arrived, but entry was from the opposite door this time. It was getting crowded now, he thought, gratefully. The growing number of passengers gave him some protection from the woman. And the watching man. He felt pressure against him and stiffened. Behind there was a muttered apology and he glanced down, identifying a guitar case. There were several, all carried by chattering youngsters, longhaired and jeaned. There was even a double bass, he saw, fleetingly, before turning back to the window. An advantage, he decided. The cases and the people provided a definite barrier.

  The woman was the biggest risk, Kurnov recognized. He edged around, staring from the corner of his eye. She had picked the newspaper up, intently studying the photograph, then going forward, trying to see his reflection better. Quickly he pulled around again. It would have to be the next station, he thought. Her uncertainty wouldn’t last. The photographs were too good.

  The tunnel wall began changing, growing lighter. He flexed his legs, surreptitiously. When the moment came, it would have to be sudden, but until then he had to appear relaxed and unprepared to move.

  The station wall was before him now and he waited for the break that would mark the beginning of the platform. The station sign appeared and the hidden tension flowed away. Again the platform was against the opposite door. Very carefully he relaxed. The watching Jew was growing frightened. So big was the crush of people now that it was almost impossible for him to keep Kurnov in view. The Israeli stood, surrendering his seat, pushing up on tiptoe to see over the heads of those who had intervened. The woman was completely hidden, too. The train jerked out. Kurnov readied himself once more, right against the door. It would have to be timed to the second, he thought. Too soon and the man would be behind him. Too late and the opportunity would be missed. He was sure he could not travel to a further stop without challenge.

  Again he located the woman. She was standing now, leaning over towards the window, trying determinedly to see his face properly. For a few seconds their eyes touched, the looks bounced back by the window. Conviction registered. And shock, too. Her eyes stared and she opened her mouth. He hunched, waiting for the scream, but there was no sound. Her mouth moved, trying to assemble the words. The platform gradually unwound alongside and the doors opened. He pulled to one side, letting the disembarking passengers ebb around him. Ironically, it was the woman who made his escape work. She began waving her arms, trying to gesture to the man sitting alongside. He glared up, irritated. Kurnov stayed near the open doors, tensed for them to close, watching her tug at the man’s arm and indicate toward the opening. The Israeli could stand it no longer, getting up and trying to squeeze past the musical instruments. Then the woman finally shouted. Once the block was broken, the sounds screamed out, seizing everyone. Instinctively, the Jew stopped and turned. And at that moment, the doors began to close. The observer turned back, hurriedly, but the crowd were moving against him, trying to see the reason for the woman’s yells.

  Kurnov had timed it perfectly. As he stepped through, the rubber lining of the door actually tugged at his coat, but not sufficiently to activate their automatic reopening. He swiveled, to see the Jew pressed against the door. Behind him, the woman was shouting and gesticulating. Other people seemed to be shouting, looking bewildered at one another, but no sound was audible. Like human goldfish, thought Kurnov, laughing aloud in delight. Even that gesture encouraged him. There had been no hysteria in the sound, he decided. Perhaps such euphoria would be acceptable, he reflected. He’d done it! He hurried from the station, even the tiredness receding at the knowledge that he’d broken their observation.

  Immediately outside, he moved into the backstreets, ch
anging direction several times. It would only be minutes before the man got off at the next station, but he had more to worry about now than just Jewish surveillance. Within minutes of the woman’s account, supported perhaps by others who had identified. him once he had cleared the train, the district would be blocked by police. He paused, stopped by a sudden thought. The police would be able to make extensive sweeps and move faster than he could on foot. He smiled as an idea settled in his mind.

  There was an obvious way to clear out of the area in a hurry. Ahead he saw the sign and quickly hurried down into the U-Bahn again, knowing it was the last place where they would seek him.

  (20)

  For two hours he hid in the Tiergarten, growing increasingly colder as night approached. Gerda would have to be home before he made an approach, he had decided, reluctantly. He could only risk once running the gauntlet before the concierge. What else did such people do all day, but watch television or read newspapers? The caretaker would be bound to recognize him unless he was careful. So he stuck by his earlier decision, seeking safety in open spaces. He kept carefully from other people and not once in the two hours was there any risk of identification. The only problem was the cold. It became so bad that an ache started in his legs and feet, but even then he resisted moving from the park prematurely, enjoying the personal experiment in will power. It was further proof he could withstand what Perez had done to him. Six o’clock was sounding from an unseen clock before he moved out into the streets again. He hunched down into his coat, needing the warmth generated in his body by the movement. The darkness was a help, too, he decided, walking through the streets without the nervousness he had felt during the day.