Cold Peace

“I’m a member of the City Council, and I’m working on a report about employment — or rather unemployment — in Kreuzberg. Could you describe the nature of your business and tell me your turnover, number of employees and wage rates?” 

The young man, whom he had just addressed variously as Herr Meyer and Herr Mueller, answered in a staccato voice. “Our business is informal. It’s just the three of us, and we can’t afford to pay ourselves — much less anyone else. We just share out whatever we earn. Does that answer your questions?”

“Partially. What is the nature of your business?”

“We’re a cleaning company,” the blond youth answered straight-faced.

Liebherr raised his eyebrows eloquently in answer, and the ring leader replied, “When the police kidnap people, they bustle them out with what they can carry in one suitcase -- just as in the case of Herr Dr Hofmeier last week. The Ivans take whatever baubles attract them, but they rarely take clothes or furnishings. We just clean up a little.”

“I see,” Liebherr nodded, looking around again. Technically, of course, that was theft but with the Soviets stealing whole factories, their soldiers stealing anything that struck their fancy, and the Western allies turning a blind eye to both, who could blame Germans for joining the party? Stealing from the deported didn’t hurt anyone, Liebherr supposed. That was the unspoken code of it all, that it was all right to cheat the Allies and each other as long as the destitute didn’t get hurt any further.

  “You seem to have a great deal of inventory. Doesn’t that bind an excessive amount of liquidity?”

“Look, out there,” Meyer/Mueller gestured with his head vaguely in the direction of a window. “People are selling silver, porcelain and Persian carpets for a ham or a barrel of pickled herring. If we sold this stuff on today’s market, we’d be cheating ourselves. What you see here is our investment capital. We expect to make a return on it sometime in the future.”

“After the Amis introduce a real currency, for example,” the blond suggested.

Liebherr looked over at him and their eyes locked. No, these weren’t ordinary street urchins, pickpockets, and petty criminals. At least Meyer/Mueller and Schulz weren’t. “So how do you meet your daily expenses?”

“What business is that of yours?” the nervous Herr Braun lashed out, but Mueller/Meyer silenced him with a flick of his wrist and turning to Schulz ordered, “Go ahead. Show him.”

Herr Schulz opened the kitchen door with a wary expression, and Liebherr looked inside. It took him a moment to figure out what the contraption stretching across the entire counter was, and then things fell into place. With the delight of understanding, he exclaimed: “A still! You’re brewing schnapps!”

“Yes, would you like to try it?” Meyer/Mueller asked deadpan.

“God forbid! Anything that comes out of that still is likely to make a man blind sooner or later! What is the basis — Oh, I see. Potatoes. And your best customers are our dear friends the Ivans.”

The three men nodded slowly, but by varying degrees, they were also starting to smile. Mueller/Meyer undertook the explanation. “Farmers know their bargaining power, and they won’t exchange food for anything they don’t want. Most of them have enough Meissen porcelain and Bohemian glass to feed the cows on it! They aren’t willing to take any more. They want practical things. We got that refrigerator for a farmer with some illegal pigs.” 

“Yes, that makes sense. If he must slaughter unexpectedly, he needs to be able to keep the carcass cool — even in the summer. Understandable.” Liebherr nodded thoughtfully. The network of illegal activities was amazingly comprehensive and complex. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed a barter economy could function as efficiently as it did. It was almost like a parallel universe to the official economy of rations and worthless paper currency. In many ways, it was a more optimistic world, Liebherr reflected, if only because it was inhabited by people who weren’t starving, freezing, or prostituting themselves.

“Anything else?” Meyer/Mueller asked with controlled impatience. 

“What about the clothing? That can’t be particularly valuable. It will get moth-eaten or go out of fashion, while half the city wanders around in rags. Why not donate it to the poor?”

There was a moment of stunned silence as Schulz and Braun looked at Meyer/Mueller. His eyes met Liebherr’s. After what seemed like an eternity, he answered, “You’d be surprised. Good clothes are one of the few things farmers still need. But I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really,” Liebherr admitted, “but I am curious. You don’t sound like Berliners. Where do you come from? What did you do before?”

“Before what? Before the capitulation, we were all good Germans.”

“Meaning you were Nazis,” Liebherr concluded.

“Is that how you define good Germans, Herr Liebherr?” Meyer/Mueller shot back, and it was not a joke.

Liebherr knew when he’d been bested, and he tipped his head in salute. “Your score, but would you mind clearing up one last, little thing?” The young man waited. “I called you Herr Meyer once and Herr Mueller the other time. You reacted to both. Just which is it? Meyer or Mueller?”

“Does it matter what our names are?”

“No, not really,” Herr Liebherr admitted disarmingly, and with a smile, he shook hands with each of the young men in turn, “It was a pleasure meeting you all.” He squeezed his way past the refrigerator and stepped out onto the landing.  

Liebherr was half back to his apartment when Herr Mueller/Meyer called after him. “Where should I leave the clothes I decide to donate to the poor?”

With a smile, Liebherr turned back and met the young man’s eyes. “Thank you, Herr Kapitaenleutnant!”

The other two men recoiled at the use of his rank, but Herr Meyer/Mueller only smiled cynically and asked, “Oh, did you see the photograph?”

Liebherr nodded. “You can drop the clothing off at my apartment anytime I’m home. I will see it gets to the Red Cross or the Salvation Army.”