Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [273]
I am glad to hear that Colonel O’Sullivan has found a room away from his own quarters. It will save you embarrassment. How does Uncle Ulrich look upon all of this?
I must run. Each night I read to my babies in German and I look forward to it so much. I hear them calling “Hilde” so I rush this letter to you with love.
Hilde
In downtown Wiesbaden, Die Valkyrie Club, a traditional old beer hall, had been converted into a garish, stadium-sized nightclub—Winkelmann, proprietor.
Sturdy old cement pillars were painted off-pink; sequined drums and trumpets revolved from the ceiling; purple drapes encased the band stand and special up-chuck bowls had been bought from a Luftwaffe barracks and installed in the men’s room.
Winkelmann was a decent sort of chap. No airman was cheated or mistreated within his walls. The prostitutes working out of the place had to guarantee fair play, correct prices, and no clipping or rolling.
The semiprofessionals and just plain nice kids who wanted a place to have a glass of beer and dance lent an air of respectability.
Drunks were always sent home at Winkelmann’s expense by taxi, after checking in their wallets for safekeeping.
The American authorities realized that in any military town Die Valkyrie Clubs had to exist. Actually, Winkelmann was doing them a good turn by running a trouble-free operation. All of this gave Winkelmann a great deal of pride. He took particularly good care of choice friends with his personal inner-circle stock.
Before the war he had been a poor boy who had spent his life in servitude of the arrogant Wiesbaden aristocracy, and he hated them. His coming into a position of importance paled the old Wiesbaden gentry. When Wiesbaden was Wiesbaden, bawdy houses like Die Valkyrie could never have existed! Winkelmann was a good soldier, but never a Nazi. He felt that the sponsors of the city, particularly the Rhineland industrialists, were Nazi to the core.
Nick Papas, a personal favorite, entered the tarnished portals and was led to Herr Winkelmann’s personal bar built around an oversized mock coffin with a plaster cast of a nude adorning the lid. Matches were struck on either breast.
“Hello, Nick. Was gibt’s?”
“Need a favor.”
“Of course.”
“You know Stan Kitchek?”
“Your copilot?”
“Yeah. The Looey needs a broad.”
“Send him in.”
“Stan’s a funny kid. He’s shy. Besides, he would never go for a broad on an out-and-out business deal. Something to do with his childhood training.”
“So, we’ll get him a girl who will go for car fare and cigarettes.”
“No ... I told you Stan’s funny. He’s got to feel, you know ... in love. He likes the big story, the hand-holding, the fond farewell.”
Winkelmann shook his head. “I never understand people like that. Well, it takes all kinds.”
“So, you know a broad with puppy-dog eyes and a sad story who speaks English?”
Winkelmann thought, lit up with an idea. “There’s a German restaurant two blocks down and left on the alley called Mutter Rubach’s. There’s a waitress there named Monika. I’ll give her a call and you take it from there.”
“What’s the tab?”
“For you, nothing. How about you and Captain Scott? I got three new additions to my personal stock. They just escaped in from the Russian Zone, eighteen and nineteen years old. Maybe you boys will come up to my place later and we can take some pictures and have a group therapy session.”
“Sorry ... dammit ... we got to fly the second time bloc tomorrow. After we get Stan started, maybe we’ll strafe the strasse for a quick one.”
The sudden appearance or three Amis in Mutter Rubach’s, a German sanctuary, caused the entire tone of the room to soften to a hush of suspicious whispers.
Monika was there and waiting. They played the game out. She served them. Stan thought she was very pretty. Scott said to her, my pal would like to know you better and Monika said if Stan waited in a bar down the street she would join him for a drink after she