Free A Few Words for the Dead by Guy Adams

ancient pavements.
    The Wall loomed over us as we approached Grauber’s block, lit by its constant arc lights. The snow was getting heavier, settling on the pavements and the top of the wall, sharp white sparks coiling in the night sky.
    Unlike the elaborate frescos for which the Wall itself would later be famous, the block’s pale grey skin was tattooed with rough graffiti. Great whorls of green and red spray paint, the signatures of those who ran through these streets trying to leave their mark in the only way they knew how.
    Engel and I walked up the short ramp to the block entrance. Sat on the adjoining wall, her legs swinging, heels pounding out a bored rhythm against the bricks, was a young girl. She looked to be about eight or so, her blonde hair pulled into pigtails, her face a rebellious sneer as she watched the two of us approach.
    ‘Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it?’ asked Engel.
    She smiled, the street lights only catching half of her exposed teeth.
    ‘Do what I want,’ she replied, rattling a box of matches at us as if to prove as much.
    ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.
    She opened the box and plucked out a single match which she lit and stared at as it crackled in the half-light. ‘Wherever I want.’
    She took the lit match and popped it into her mouth, the flame hissing out on her wet tongue.
    Engel made to say something then thought better of it. What was there to say? Don’t do that? It was done, and besides, the girl had made it quite clear how uninterested she was in our opinions. He shook his head and we continued on our way to the entrance.
    Engel pressed the buzzer for Grauber’s apartment. There was no answer. I pulled up the collar of my coat, but the chill of a Berlin winter cared little for my weak attempts to keep it from my bones. I looked to the young girl, meaning to block Engel from view as he forced the lock on the door, but she had jumped down from the wall and was dancing in the street, twirling around in the heavy snow.
    Behind me, I heard the door open and Engel and I made our way inside and towards the building’s elevator.
    ‘Eighth floor,’ he said, consulting the sign next to the graffiti-scrawled metal doors. Apparently Klaus was going to burn the world, or so he had promised in bright yellow spray paint.
    Engel pressed the button calling the elevator and we waited a few moments, doing our best to appear utterly at home in the damp, tatty foyer.
    On the wall there was a poster warning tenants not to dump their rubbish in the communal areas; another advertised the services of an affordable plumber; yet another invited callers to express their desires to Claudia over the phone. Premium rates would be charged but Claudia insisted it would be worth the caller’s while. I wondered if Claudia was, in reality, a tired housewife doing her best to make ends meet. Did she moan her way through the tedium? Pouring impossible fantasies into the ears of the lonely as she dreamed of a burgeoning bank account?
    The elevator arrived and Engel and I stepped inside. Engel pressed the button for the eighth floor and the elevator began to rise.
    ‘Reminds me of the building where I grew up,’ said Engel as the cables creaked above us. ‘I couldn’t wait to get out of it.’
    ‘It’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘We’re just seeing the shell. Home is what you make it.’
    Engel shrugged but was clearly unconvinced. Having had the good fortune not to grow up in a divided city, I shut my mouth on the subject.
    The elevator doors opened and we walked out into the cold once more. Up here, a wind forced a tunnel of snowflakes along the balcony before us. Looking down I saw the young girl was still dancing in the road, now striking matches and flinging them into the air around her where they glowed orange for a second before winking out.
    Arriving at number 114, I hung back as Engel knocked on the door. We had no idea about Grauber, he might be friendly enough, but an intelligence officer