‘What became of her?’
‘I never heard,’ Praschko said. His little eyes were roughly hacked in the old bark.
From their corner still, the clean faces watched without expression; four pale hands lay on the table like weapons put to rest. The loudspeaker was calling Praschko: the Fraktion was waiting for him to appear.
‘You betrayed him,’ Turner said. ‘You put Siebkron on to him. You sold him down the river. He told you the lot and you warned Siebkron because you’re climbing on the band wagon too.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Bradfield. ‘Be quiet.’
‘You rotten bastard,’ Turner hissed. ‘You’ll kill him. He told you he’d found the proof; he told you what it was and he asked you to help him, and you put Siebkron on to him for his trouble. You were his friend and you did that.’
‘He’s crazy,’ Praschko whispered. ‘Don’t you realise he’s crazy? You didn’t see him back in those days. You never saw him back with Karfeld in the cellar. You think those boys worked you over? Karfeld couldn’t even speak: “Talk! Talk!”, Praschko’s eyes were screwed up very tight. ‘After we saw those bodies in the field… They were tied together. They’d been tied together before they were gassed. He went crazy. I said to him: “Listen, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault you survived!” Did he show you the buttons, maybe? The money from the camp? You never saw that either, did you? You never went out with him and a couple of girls to have a drink? You never saw him play with the wooden buttons to start a fight? He’s crazy I tell you.’ The recollection moved him to despair. ‘I said to him, sitting here: “Come on, let’s go. Who the hell ever built Jerusalem in Germany? Don’t eat your heart out, come and screw some girls!” I said, “Listen! We got to get hold of our minds and press them in or we all go crazy.” He’s a monk. A crazy monk that won’t forget. What do you think the world is? A damn playground for a lot of crazy moralists? Sure I told Siebkron. You’re a clever boy. But you got to learn to forget as well. Christ, if the British can’t who can?’
There was shouting as they entered the lobby. Two students in leather coats had broken the cordon at the door and were standing on the stairs, fighting with the janitors. An elderly deputy was holding a handkerchief to his mouth and the blood was running over his wrist. ‘Nazis!’ someone was shouting. ‘Nazis!’ But he was pointing to a student on the balcony and the student was waving a red flag.
‘Back to the restaurant,’ Bradfield said. ‘We can get out the other side.’
The restaurant was suddenly empty. Drawn or repelled by the fuss in the lobby, deputies and visitors had vanished in their chosen directions. Bradfield was not running, but striding at a long military pace. They were in the arcade. A leather shop offered black attaché cases in fine box calf. In the next window a barber was working up a lather on the face of an invisible customer.
‘Bradfield, you must hear me: my God, can’t I even warn you what they are saying?’
Saab was dreadfully out of breath. His portly body was heaving under his greasy jacket; tears of sweat lay in the pouches under his yellow eyes. Allerton, his face crimson under his black mane, peered over his shoulder. They drew back into a doorway. At the end of the corridor, calm had descended on the lobby.
‘What who is saying?’
Allerton answered for him: ‘All Bonn, old boy. The whole bloody paper mill.’
‘Listen. There are whispers. Listen. Fantastic what they are saying. You know what happened at Hanover? You know why they rioted? They are whispering it in all the cafes: the delegates; Karfeld’s men are telling it. Already the rumours are all over Bonn. They have been instructed to say nothing; it is all a fantastic secret.’
He glanced quickly up and down the arcade.
‘It’s the best for years,’ said Allerton. ‘Even for this doorp.’
‘Why they broke the line at the front and ran like mad dogs for the Library? Those boys who came on the grey buses? Somebody shot at Karfeld. In the middle of the music: shot at him from the window of the Library. Some friend of the woman, the librarian: Eich. She worked for the British in Berlin. She was an émigrée, she changed her name to Eich. She let him in to shoot from the window. Afterwards she told it all to Siebkron before she died. Eich. The bodyguard saw him fire, Karfeld’s bodyguard. In the middle of the music! They saw the fellow shooting from the window and ran to catch him. The bodyguard, Bradfield, that came in the grey buses! Listen, Bradfield! Listen what they say! They found the bullet, a pistol bullet from an English pistol. You see now? The English are assassinating Karfeld: that is the fantastic rumour. You must stop them saying it; talk to Siebkron. Karfeld is terrified; he is a great coward. Listen: that is why he is so careful, that is why he is building everywhere such a damn Schaffott. How do I say Schaffott, for God’s sake?’