1948
Berlin always tastes of coal smoke in late November, the evening mist sticking to the warmth of your skin. I always noticed the little things in this city, always have. The graze of the bare branches on the old brickwork, the heat the stone slabs where the sun hit. This old city was alive, a breathing carcass of reused stone, aching to listen to your secrets. I left at six every evening from the publishing buildings, my face down, feeling my lungs inhaling sharply against the cold. I didn't like seeing the men looking. If I didn't look up, I couldn't wonder what they were thinking.
That evening was calmer, the streets quieter after finishing a little later at seven, the coal smoke from the chimneys drifting out in flumes across the crooked streets. I pulled my gloves up my wrists to hide my watch. It was dark now, I did not wish to stop to give the time. I remember every detail of that night, as if it was stitched into my soul. Someone had left a boot hanging from a burnt out lamppost in Lucker Strasse, it's laces fluttering in the wind. Probably a cruel trick of some schoolchildren, but the sight was eerie all the same. The streets were littered with discarded papers, their titles strewn half forgotten in the gutters. The oil in the puddles lit up blue, violet in the window light.
I can still smell the coal smoke, the dry burn of washing powder. I remember everything. I remember the smell of the leather of his glove as it hit my mouth, forcing the air from my lungs and rendering me too shocked to scream. The crumble of brick dust from the wall as he pushed me against it. My mind ran like film frames wildly, trying to control my flailing body, to put a face or reason to this attack. He was closer now, his hat shielding his eyes in shadow, his hand down on my shoulder, his cologne thick and heady, mixed with hot liquor. He doesn't touch me, just stares intently. I'm not sure why I don't scream out. We stand there, me shaking, under the gaze of the streetlight.
"I thought it was you. " He says, drunkenly, his fingers heavily clamping on my skin. German isn't his first language, and I desperately attempt to put a nationality to his accent. American?English? I speak it well, but he is too drunk for me to identify him. I don't reply, just stare coldly into his eyes. If he sees he doesn't know me, perhaps he will let me go. I wonder whether to direct him to the brothels on Ackerstrasse. He is breathing heavily, closer now. "Helene. It's you. Don't pretend. "
My name hits me with as much force as his hand, and I stare at him sharply. No one knows me here, least of all by my national name. I'm anonymous, the faceless filing girl, the woman in the blue jacket. "I don't know who you mean. " I whisper back hoarsely. I hope he is just an acquaintance, will believe me and walk away. Deep down, I know the truth. Impossible. He doesn't take it, shaking his head and slamming his hands on the side of the wall, either side of my head.
"You don't recognise me, perhaps. But no one forgets a face like yours. " He lifts his chin and for a minute I see two dark, glittering eyes. Oh, I know him all right, I realise, and try not to pull away instinctively. To do so, or show I am who he thinks I am, would be a death sentence. I stare at him blankly.
"A lot of women look like me,sir. " I answer as directly as I can, trying to pronounce my words with a hard Munich 's' to throw him off. He is taller than I remember, stronger too, but the cruelty is still there, the determination, the obsession. He doesn't fall for it, laughing sharply. I can see his face fully now, the pale skin, the thin cold lips, those dark, hellish eyes. I want to run. I want to run far away from what he did to me, faster than I can in any dream, any race, any nightmare. But I can't. In my mind I see him grabbing my arms again, my hair, pulling me back and forcing each fist into my skin. I don't let him see. I am Hellen now. Hellen with the Munich 's'.
"Its over, Helene. " There is a new edge in his voice. "You ran and I found you. You ran, and I found you. " He smirks, a laugh rising in his throat. He starts humming mockingly, the old English song he used to play over and over all those years ago.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.
