Bloom

'Flight Sergeant Bloom!'

Oh God, it was that Army prick. Lieutenant Double-Barrelled.

'Sir!'

Bloom's arm swept up lazily, he let his fingertips graze the edge of his forage cap, and then let his arm drop like a marionette's.

Double-Barrelled waved a pace stick wrapped in a pair of leather gloves in the direction of his own peaked cap,

'Need a vehicle, chop-chop. Sector 1.'

He wasn't even part of the Section. Section V. Oh, Bloom had seen him around Vienna HQ, but he was with the Grenadier Guards. Some people said he was related to the CinC Vienna. In fact, Bloom himself was an odd fish. The Air Force battledress drew a few glances amongst all the khaki Most people knew he was 'attached' to the High Speed Wireless Troop in the Castle. Bloom knew people had been told not to ask about Section V personnel, and that suited him, tickety-boo. Still, he was at a loose end. Bloom's clearance could get him a vehicle easily enough. Double-Barrelled did seem like the kind of officer whose men would follow, if only out of curiosity. Bloom was a curious fellow himself. That came with the job.

The officer almost caused a problem at M.T. Didn't want to take the Opel they'd been offered, wanted one of the old requisitioned Mercs. Fancied himself in Baldur von Schirach's old jalopy, no doubt. The corporal on the desk raised his eyebrows at Bloom. Bloom winked at him.

'Sorry, Sir. No Mercedes available. We've got a bike and sidecar?'

'We'll take the oldest Kapitan, Corporal,' Bloom said.

The corporal pushed the keys over the counter.

'Needs fuel, Flight,' the Corporal pointed in the direction of the pumps.

Bloom wasn't surprised when the Captain sat in the back seat.

The car pulled out of the Hauptor onto Schloßallee , Bloom looked into the rear view mirror,

'Where to, Sir?'

'Sector 1.'

Bloom turned the Opel right onto Mariahilferstraße.

'Got a date, Sir?'

The captain tutted.

'Just drive. I'll let you know when to stop.'

'Here! Here, man, here!' The captain was at the door lever before the Opel stopped.

They'd come to a halt in Judenplatz, Bloom smiled, it was almost as if the Nazis had never changed it. The officer dashed out, didn't say wait, come back. Didn't say anything. Bloom watched him dart down Futtergasse and parked the Opel up. He'd take the chance on the fuel in the tank. If someone popped the boot and stole the jerry-cans, well...That was just bad luck. The officer was turning right off Futtergasse about half-way down. There was plenty of shadow between the street-lamps. By the time Bloom had made the same turning off Futter, Double-Barrelled was turning right again. The man wasn't what the Yanks called a spook, he was far too easy to follow. By the time the army officer had boxed the compass, Bloom knew that despite his lack of tradecraft, he at least did not care to be followed. A nearby clock struck 11, the curfew had only just been lifted, but the streets were deserted except for cars travelling too fast to be on legitimate business. The desultory pursuit continued until both of them reached the Herrengasse. The street was full of urban palaces now used as government departmental buildings. The Amis and the Brits vying with each other to see who could find the most damning paper from the previous seven years, before hiding it from each other and the French. No one seemed to think the International Military Tribunal might have prior claim to anything found. Austria's scapegoat was Von Schirach, he would have to do.

Bloom was just passing the Palais Porcia, 25 Herrengasse, when the woman running down the steps of the entrance fell into him.

'Verzeihung!' Bloom's apology was drowned by the woman's scream.

The woman was slim and looked like Patty Andrews. She was trying very hard not to cry. The fur collar on her coat had looked better on whatever animal it had come from. The nap of the coat was shiny under the street-lamp.

'Arschloch!' She spat the word at him.

Bloom let her go, but she started to fall. So he grabbed her by the arm. Captain Double-Barrelled disappeared from view. He guessed the officer was looking for some fraternization, with one or other sex, and therefore wasn't of great interest to Section V. He looked down at the angry woman and thought that maybe she was.

' 'Was zum trinken?'

'With you? I don't drink with Amis.' She said.

No accent to speak of, just the Mittel-European consonants

'Good job, I'm a Britisher, then.'

The door to number 25 started to open and she dragged Bloom into the shadows. The kiss was not unpleasant. Although she kept an eye on the doorway throughout. She broke away wiping her lips and he guessed the door was closed once more. She walked down Herrengasse and turned towards Bloom,

'Come on then, big guy.'

Bloom almost laughed, it was like watching a schoolgirl pretending to be Dietrich.

The drink had turned into several. She'd taken him to a kabarett in a street even Bloom hadn't known. The singer was drunk and hadn't seen forty for more years than the war had lasted. Two G.I. Officers were fraternising. Again, nothing for Section V to worry about, unless the girls they were with had had very low Party numbers. When the G.I.s made like the wind, she told him a name, it might even have been hers. Cäcilie, Cäci to friends.

'What happened at number 25?' Bloom asked.

'What always happens,' she took a drink. A rum and coke. Bloom's idea of a joke. Most of the bars sold Coke now, the G.I.s were what the owners wanted. The Brits were a poor substitute.

'What's that?'

'I wanted …' She waited, looking Bloom up and down. Dismissing the uniform as that of someone unimportant. 'Papers. I wanted papers.'

'From there?'

'They never threw anything away, you know.'

'It's a library, Cäcilie.'

'It's the Library of the Administration.'

'So?'

'I need a Persilschein, I've got to get out.'

'Persilschein? They don't exist.'

She looked at him for a long time. Then packed her compact, cigarettes and lighter in her bag.

'Don't waste my time.'

Bloom watched her walk out of the club. She had really good legs. He wondered where she'd got the nylons.

The tall trees were waving in the Prater when he saw her next. He'd parked the Opel outside the Library for a couple of weeks, asked around inside after that. The clerks all denied ever seeing such a person. And then one evening, in the huge park, he saw her, an Ami on her arm. A G.I. MP; the Brit Military Police called them Gimps, a word they'd learned from the Yanks themselves. The regulations did not permit even the MPs to fraternize. Rumours abounded that Ike's directive would be lifted soon. There was little point in an unenforcable regulation, after all. Bloom followed them along the tree-lined paths. The Riesenrad loomed over the park. Only fifteen gondolas since the bomb damage. Still huge, like some giant's toy. Cäcilie and her Ami stopped at the entrance to the Riesenrad. This kiss was long and looked tender. The MP walked away and didn't look back. Cäcilie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Bloom covered the last few strides to her in a jog-trot, seizing her elbow before she could turn away.

'Guten Abend, Fräulein.'

'Ach, Du....'

Bloom put a hand over her mouth.

'Persilschein, why would you need a Persilschein?'

Her teeth were sharp as she bit him.

'Who said it was for me?'

'Who then?'

'Someone...no-one.'

'Let's take the wheel, Cäcilie.'

Vienna looked safer from the high wheel. You couldn't see that it was cut in four, divided as the victors' spoils. Four. Four was important in Vienna. Four-in-a-jeep. Four power agreements. Four weeks since a Lieutenant Foxe-Blount had disappeared. Perhaps it was coincidence that Bloom had lost interest in following him, once Cäcilie had stumbled into him.

'Still, looking for papers, Fraulein Schild?'

The corner of her mouth turned up,

'I have them.'

'May I look?'

'At my papers?'

'Whose, if not yours?'

She laughed. Drew out the Ausweiß. It looked genuine, worn from use. The Nazis had liked papers for everything. Identification papers especially. These even bore the name she went by. The name on her file at Vienna HQ. Bloom thought about that and handed the papers back.

'Have you a cigarette, Sergeant?'

'Flight Sergeant.'

Bloom handed her a Lucky Strike and put one to his own lips. The Yanks were good for some things. Cäcilie seemed to agree, she lit both cigarettes with a Zippo. Bloom took it from her. It had the Ratliners' crest on it. He wondered who she knew in the 430th CIC.

'Present?'

'What is the Latin? Quid pro..?

'Quo. It's quid pro quo. What's a lighter worth?'

She laughed again. At him, with him or at nothing, he couldn't tell.

She stepped forward, kissed him hard and went to the door of the gondola.

'A lighter's not worth as much as a brother,' she said and she stepped out into the void.

Bloom heard the scream, and realised he sounded like a woman.

In the Prater, near the broken body of Cäcilie, Bloom was standing near the start of a joke. An Englishman, an American, A Frenchman and a Russian were looking at the corpse. The Russian was pointing a Makarov at Bloom. The American was smoking, the Frenchman was looking at the dead woman's underwear and the Englishman was talking, talking, talking. Bloom wasn't listening, he was thinking about the price of a brother and to whom it had been paid. The American dropped his cigarette, ground it out with a dainty movement of the toe of his brogan shoe. It was dress uniform for four-in-a-jeep, a compromise to ensure each of the Allies' representatives looked as smart as the others. Bloom guessed none of them were happy to have stumbled upon a body in the Viennese park.

'Flight Sergeant Bloom, right? Captain Garfield.'

The Yank held out a hand, the English Captain rolled his eyes. There was a rota for having the ranking officer in the Jeep patrols of the city. The gewgaws and braid on the Frenchman's unifor meant nothing, for the Russian's rank was equivalent to Major. He kept pointing the gun. Bloom shook the hand. The American went on,

'Who you with? Thought all you Air Force guys were at Schwecat or all the way over in Klagenfurt.'

'Detached.'

The British officer held Bloom's eye and gave a shake of the head.

Captain Garfield grinned, 'Like that is it?'

The Russian's gun finally wavered,

'So what we do with him?'

'Your sector, old chap. Leopoldstadt.' The English Captain smiled.

The Russian looked sick. Garfield laughed. The Frenchman said,

'Why don't we ask him what happened?'

'Well?' Garfield said.

His British counterpart blew out his cheeks.

'We went...' Bloom pointed towards the wheel. 'Up. I'd paid her... You know.'

'Then you push her out?' The Russian's voice rose an octave, Bloom could see Garfield trying not to laugh.

'No, she jumped.'

'You English are such terrible lovers,' the French Capitaine laughed.

'I think he'll have to be arrested by you, Whittle.'

Bloom saw that whatever the rank of the Russian, Garfield was in charge.

'Can't we leave it to the civilian authorities?' Whittle looked like a man who'd bitten into a rotten apple.

The Russian and the American laughed. The Frenchman said,

'Her underwear was expensive.'

The four officers smoked and avoided talking at all until the ambulance arrived, followed by a battered Hanomag Rekord. Two Austrian policemen got out, their uniforms missing insignia and buttons. They noticed Garfield, who spoke to them in Viennese-accented German. The Allied group moved away from the body, the Frenchman took Bloom by the arm.

Bloom and Whittle stood next to the Austin Ten, watching Garfield drive away in the Patrol's Jeep. The Russian Major had left in a two-and-a-half ton truck, while the Capitaine was picked up in a drophead coupe driven by a man wearing a silk-scarf and a fedora.

'You're with the Section. Section V,' Whittle said.

'Ummm...' Bloom rubbed his hands over his face, then yawned.

'I know, I know...Listen, you've to wait here in the car. I'm going inside, I've got to make a phone call.'

Bloom knew he was going to 'phone the British Liaison Officer or at least his number at the Yanks HQ. He wondered who would answer and what they would say. About an hour later, Whittle came out, he looked a little pale even under the sodium lights. Whittle got into the driver's seat of the Austin, turned to look at Bloom.

'You're to report to your superiors,' he said.

'Can I have a lift, Sir?'

'I rather think not.'

Bloom made to get out of the car. Whittle put a hand on his arm.

'Garfield: you know he's... some people call them the Ratliners.'

'Is he now?'

'They must know... The government, the U.S. - what they're doing?'

'Who? The government?'

'Have you seen those camps? I have: Auschwitz-Birkenau, for one. And they're helping them . Helping them get away...'

'Don't be ridiculous, Sir!'

But he wasn't being ridiculous, that's what Section V was for. To find out. That's why Bloom was there. It was bizarre, how had they overlooked his name? There it was, they had, and the fox was guarding the chickens. V just wanted to know who had gone, and where. Bloom wanted other people to know too. The Service had sent himself and one other to Dachau six months ago, to interview the KL-staff. To check the facts, to check up on experiments and research, to see if anything or anyone was useful. Bloom and Wilson had agreed to report that there was nothing of interest. Then came the uniform and the assignment to Section V.

Bloom left the car and began the walk back to the British Sector.

His feet were aching by the time he put them up on the desk in Section V, in the basement of HQ. It was puzzling, they hadn't searched him. Not one of the patrol officers had even suggested it. Bloom put the packet on the desk. The dead woman's handbag hadn't contained much else, just the photo which Bloom laid beside the packet. There were two people in the photograph. It was a studio pose. Surprisingly the man was not in uniform. The woman was Cäcilie. The couple seemed stiffly intimate, uncomfortable in the photographer's studio. The man was about 34, he had a rabbity look about him. Bloom turned the photograph over, a neat hand had written Ralf and Marta, June '43 above the photographer's stamp. Schickel and Sohn, Photographers, Adelstraße, 23, Linz.

He turned the packet over in his hands. It was wrapped in brown paper. The markings on it were irrelevant, he supposed. Someone had found a use for the paper from an old parcel. Bloom used a penknife to cut the string. The packet contained two Ausweisse, and various papers to cement a legend for a married couple. The photos in the passes showed Ralf and Marta/Cäcilie. The rest of the packet was mostly mimeographed papers. Military orders, documents marked “Geheim” and “Offiziel”. Bloom read the German easily: they pertained to an Oberst Helpmann, camp adjutant at KZ Mauthausen-Gusen. One of the typed sheets had a photo attached, it showed Ralf Helpmann, it had been taken for an SS identification card. So far, so what? Bloom reckoned. He went back to some of the mimeos. Two different documents had been marked up in pencil. Two other names apart from Oberst Ralf Helpmann's appeared frequently and were underlined each time. Dr Aribert Heim and Professor Karl Gross. Certainly the first name was familiar, wasn't there a nickname? Something the prisoners had called him? One other name stood out on the document referring to Heim. Doctor Josef Mengele.

Bloom went back to the other two typed sheets: two Certificates of De-Nazification, Persilscheine, in the names of Rutger and Cäcilie Schild.

Bloom resealed the packet. Wondered if Cäcilie had known before she read the contents. Probably not: still she had jumped. Out of love? Or disgust? Maybe both. The phone rang, the black bakelite vibrated on the cheap desk. Bloom picked it up,

'Five, Flight Sergeant Bloom.'

'Bloom?'

'Yes.'

'Home, James, Home.'

There was a click as the receiver was replaced.

Bloom placed the packet in his greatcoat pocket and walked out of the building. He saluted various officers after failing to acknowledge the first. He listened to the dressing down with half an ear. How was he going to get to Jauregasse,12 without transport? It would be daft to sign out a vehicle, not when Flt Sergeant Bloom was about to disappear. Outside the grounds of the Palace, he spotted a young man lean his bicycle against a lamp-post. Bloom heard the sigh as the young man relieved himself against a nearby wall. He was one hundred yards down the street before the man began his futile chase.

It was dawn by the time Bloom propped the bicycle at the kerb and strode up to the Embassy entrance. The Military Policeman at the gate asked for ID, Bloom said,

'James is home.'

'I need the ID, Flight Sergeant.'

But he didn't, that wasn't the protocol. So Bloom wasn't going in; James wasn't going home. He ran to the bike and was very glad that, like most Military Policemen, this one couldn't shoot for toffee.

The Westbahnhof was busy. Uniforms from all four powers swarmed the platforms. The few civilians moved with less purpose. Bloom made for the platform hoping to catch the Linz train. On board, the compartments were full of the same uniforms. As he made his way down the train, Bloom brushed passed the few civilians there were. Until he reached the end of the train. The last compartment was occupied by a single man in a suit shiny at the knees and elbows.. The man flinched as Bloom entered the compartment. His gaunt features added years he hadn't lived to his appearance. Bloom greeted the man in German and he replied in kind. A gesture towards the empty seating, and Bloom sat down, removing his greatcoat as he did so. The stranger eyed the battledress with suspicion.

'You speak good German for an Englander.'

'And you for a Pole.' Bloom replied.

'Or even a Jew, perhaps?'

'Masldik mensch, jo?”

The stranger held out a hand, the tattoo-ed numbers appeared from under the frayed cuff of his shirt,
'Simon, pleased to meet you.'

'Bloom. Likewise.'

He offered the man a cigarette,

'See! Lucky.'

The man called Simon glanced at the packet and laughed,

'Yes, so lucky... so very, very lucky.'