by Ward Just
She thought a moment. I wouldn’t mind, she said.
Tomorrow?
Of course, Jana said.
I’m very happy you called, Dix said.
I thought you would be, Jana replied.
PART THREE
Berlin, March
17
THE DAY was sunny so Dix waited for Jana on the steps of Mommsen House. When she came up the driveway he recognized her at once by her walk, a determined duck-footed shuffle. She was wearing a tan trenchcoat and a seaman’s watch cap, and when she removed the cap, shaking her hair loose, he saw that she had hardly changed in the many years since he had seen her. Evidently the same could not be said of him, for she avoided his eyes as she strolled up the driveway, pausing to inspect the sundial, checking the time against her watch; and then, when they were within a few yards of each other, she broke into a startled smile and said, Dix. He embraced her, shaking his head, saying that she was exactly as he remembered her, even the trenchcoat.
No, no, Jana said. Look at the gray in my hair and the wrinkles. And I am five pounds heavier, five pounds at least.
But thank you, she said.
And you, too, are the same.
You didn’t recognize me, he said.
I have never seen you in an overcoat. An overcoat changes the look, wouldn’t you say? She stepped back and appraised him as if she were a tailor estimating his height and weight. She said, The last time we talked it was summer, late at night. The fog coming from the river, no one about. I was waiting for someone, you were out for a stroll with a glass of schnapps in your hand. I couldn’t imagine what you were doing there. We talked about Herzog’s films, which you loved and I detested.
And you disappeared the next day.
Was it the next day?
Yes, Dix said.
I had had enough, she said. So I went away.
We were worried, all of us were worried. We didn’t know what happened, we thought you had drowned. There was a police inquiry, an inquest—
A person has the right to go away if she chooses, Jana said.
“Presumed dead by misadventure” was the verdict.
Yes, I heard.
And you didn’t care?
I had had enough. So I went away.
Dix turned away, too relieved to be angry. Jana seemed to have no grasp of what she had done. He said, You should have told someone. You should have told the one you were meeting on the bridge.
She looked at him strangely.
He said, Who was it?
You don’t know?
No, Dix said.
I thought you knew, it wasn’t a secret. I was meeting Billy Jeidels. He liked to take long walks at night and we often met in the park by the bridge. He said he was interested in the Sorb people so I told him all about us, our language, where we came from, and the things we believed, including the right to go away when we chose to.
They walked up Glienekestrasse, Jana bringing him up to date. No, she was not married. She had been married but it hadn’t worked out so her husband left her for another woman, not a Sorb. One Sorb in a lifetime was enough for him, he said. They lived now in Stuttgart with their child. Jana remained in Berlin after the divorce because she found it exciting and because she had a job she liked, security guard at the Brücke Museum in Grunewald, with its expressionist canvases and limited visiting hours. She had a small apartment in Kreuzberg near the Landwehrkanal. A health club was nearby, and there were many galleries and avant-garde theater groups in the district. Often in the evening she would go to plays. Recently she had been involved with someone but now that had ended and she was living alone and finding it pleasant. On the whole, she preferred living alone, for the privacy it afforded. She had her solitude at night and her security work during the day, and she could do as she liked. Dix waited for her to continue, but that was all she said. He wondered where the excitement came in.
On an impulse he suggested they take the ferry to Kladow and lunch at the Italian restaurant on the quay. Had she ever taken the ferry across Wannsee Lake? No, never. This was her first visit to Wannsee. They stood at the rail for the twenty-minute journey, watching the single sculls slice through the water. He told her the story of the retired accountants but she did not seem interested. He stood with his back to the bow, shielding his face from the wind.
After they ordered lunch he told her about Claire, now adrift in Asia on someone’s airplane. He said he had frequent messages from her but nothing for the past few days. He was never in when she called. He was worried about her because she did not sound like herself, yet there was nothing specific to cause alarm. There was trouble on the set of the film she was making. He and Claire were often apart and they both knew that the set was a dangerous place, easy to lose your bearings. Still, her messages on the machine were—perhaps erratic was the word. She seemed to be in another zone of time. Dix spoke to Jana as if she were an old friend. Perhaps it was only that she figured in his distant past and he was grateful that she was alive.
I worry, he said.
Haven’t you always been independent?
Yes, Dix said.
She is exercising her independence.
In Asia, Dix said.
Why not? Jana said.
After a moment, she said, So you finally found a wife. You said you had been tempted many times. I am glad you gave in. And I notice you are wearing the same wedding band.
Very observant, Jana.
Why did you lie to me?
Not for the obvious reason, he said.
That’s true. So there was a reason not so obvious.
I wanted you to trust me.
An unmarried man is more trustworthy than a married one?
In some circles, yes. But it was a mistake.
I knew you were lying. Billy told me.
Helpful Billy, Dix said.
Jana smiled. As you said, the set is a dangerous place.
Did you find it dangerous?
Not dangerous, not really.
Alluring?
Yes, I would say alluring. I was so young, barely fifteen. Trude and Marion were a little older. We stole money from our families and left home to have an adventure, to see what the world was like without answering to anyone. I suppose to learn about the people who lived elsewhere. We had never been out of our village in Lusatia and we knew there were many things that were different outside. Another time zone, as you would say. Of course we had no idea what we were looking for and what we would find. We had no idea, really, where we were going. We were only girls looking for an adventure, and boys were part of the adventure. So we made our way to Gölitz and across the Czech border and back into East Germany in order to find our way west. No one paid much attention to us. We had only the vaguest idea that the West was closed to us, and I imagine if we had known the difficulty beforehand we never would have tried. But we crossed from East to West, never mind how. And one day in that little café in Franconia you found us, and the next thing we knew we were acting in a movie. At first I liked it, I never knew where working left off and playing began. I didn’t see any difference between the two, and my friends didn’t either. There were no movie houses in our village so we didn’t know what to expect, do you see? So we went along with everything, why not?
She laughed then, covering her mouth with her hands. The things we said to each other when we were alone, speaking our own language. We knew we were involved in a scandal. We were forward with the boys. Jana looked across the table and smiled apologetically.
You seemed much older than fifteen, Dix said.
Everybody thought that, Jana said. They thought I was twenty then. And sometimes they think I am twenty today.
I can hardly believe it even now.
I lived in a village, she said. But I was never an innocent.
You said you were twenty, Dix plowed on.
Of course, she said. What else would I say? You were offering me a role in a movie. What did you expect? Can you imagine what that meant to me and to Trude
and Marion? Coming from where we came from, with the life we had led? I would have said anything you wanted me to say, and if what you wanted was something impossible, I would have said I didn’t understand the question. I understood little enough as it was. But I didn’t mind, it’s fair to say. When I was that age I believed that the moment you understood something was the moment that it became boring. When Dix smiled, she said, Why do you suppose I left home?
He looked out the restaurant window at the single sculls. There appeared to be no wind but the men were working hard in their jockey motions. In the distance the passenger ferry approached. The scullers eased up and allowed their craft to drift, and in a moment they were rocking in the ferry’s wake. One of the passengers waved and the scullers waved back, resting on their oars. Dix glanced at Jana and remembered the encounter in the café so many years ago, the girls whispering, their heads together, he and Billy approaching their table with an interpreter, offering to buy them a Coke or a glass of beer, the interpreter introducing them, Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Jeidels from Los Angeles, America, in Franconia to scout locations for a film; and the doubtful expression on the girls’ faces but accepting Cokes all the same, trusting the formal manner of the interpreter, beginning to giggle as the Americans explained what they were doing and the time they would need. Trude and Marion asked for cigarettes, Jana declined. They sat around the café table, asking the girls where they came from and whether their summer was free—and would they mind reading a few lines into the camera—and their eyes widening as they realized the Americans were serious. He remembered Billy’s playful nudge; deal closed. And Billy saying later, My God, Dix, aren’t they the most ravishing girls? That one especially, meaning Jana. They don’t have to act. They only have to be.
I think I was frightened, Jana went on. Nothing was familiar. My English was poor so I had to guess what was wanted of me. This was difficult in the beginning but not later on, I thought the set was an atmosphere you could become addicted to, and that was exciting. I saw nothing wrong with addiction. Addiction meant thrills, and wasn’t that what the world promised? Wasn’t that why we had taken money and left home? To meet you in the café was a dream beyond imagining. That day, we opened the door to a room we hadn’t known existed. And it must have been wonderful for you and Billy. Everyone wanting to please you. All of us trying so hard to do what you wanted us to do, smile on cue, take our clothes off, stand here, stand there, blush, speak louder, speak softer, be silent. Even me, though I pretended not to care. To receive a nod or a smile, a pat on the back, a word of encouragement, to be welcomed into the society. Three girls from a village near Görlitz, a village that isn’t even on the map. Whoever heard of Lusatia? Sorbs, always in the minority, always second-class citizens, barely better than Gypsies. To be on the set. You and Billy, so in charge of things. I wondered where you found the confidence, though of course you were Americans, and Americans always had confidence. Born with it.
We weren’t as confident as we looked, Dix said.
We didn’t know that, Jana said.
We knew we had something, we didn’t know what.
Be serious. You knew more than that.
We hoped it was good. We thought we had something newborn, something never before seen.
And so you did, Jana said. Everyone said so.
Yet you went away. You had had enough.
I had enough, true. And I was free to go.
Enough of what? Dix said, dreading the answer.
Taking my clothes off, she said. Tired of sleeping with Billy.
Billy?
Yes, Billy. What’s become of him?
He makes television commercials. You were sleeping with Billy?
Billy was sleeping with me, Jana said. I assumed you knew.
Dix moved his shoulders, yes and no.
Which is it? she asked sharply.
I suspected, he said. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t know you were fifteen and needed a chaperone. I was focused on the film, concerned with the set, only that. Billy, he began, but did not finish the thought. Billy Jeidels was sovereign in his realm, never a second thought, no regrets. The world was made up of jesters assembled to amuse him.
So I decided to disappear, she said.
And you succeeded. You succeeded very well.
How long did you look for me?
I don’t remember. A week, ten days. The police came with professional divers. Tommy Gwilt never believed you were lost, but he was heartbroken all the same. She’s gone away somewhere, Tommy said.
He wanted me to run away with him, Jana said after a moment. He had it all worked out. I would disappear and in a week we would rendezvous somewhere. I forget where. Some city in the West, Freiburg or Cologne. Remember, shooting was almost finished, and all my scenes were completed. So that was the plan. I would disappear and we would meet again in Freiburg or Cologne and we would be together forever. He had an idea that after a while we would go to the United States, and I would have a film career like his. But when there was an inquiry, he became frightened and did not make the rendezvous. Somehow I neglected to think there would be an inquiry. I thought I would be a simple missing person, a Sorb girl no one cared about. We have been disappearing for years and no one ever thought to look for us. Why would they now? So my life turned out to be different from what I expected because Wendt lost his nerve.
Wendt was his film name, Dix said. His real name was Thomas Gwilt.
I know. But I always called him Wendt.
What did he call you?
Jana, she said. But the difference is, Jana is also my real name.
So many identities in the film business, Dix said. Hard to keep them straight sometimes. He looked out the window to see the ferry nosing up to the dock. They were the last customers in the restaurant. No waiters were in sight. He finished the last of his coffee, paid the bill, helped Jana with her coat, and soon they were on the landing. A wind had come up and with it a winter chill. They stood silently watching passengers disembark, mostly women carrying grocery bags. He turned to Jana but she was in her private world, staring out over the water. She pulled the watch cap over her ears. The breeze brought color to her cheeks, making her appear even younger. Perhaps she could give an evening lecture at Mommsen House, how a young woman got her start in American film, had enough, disappeared, and decades later saw the director’s picture in a German newspaper and decided to get in touch; and what she had made of her experience in the movies, and her situation now, the apartment in Kreuzberg, security guard at a museum, divorced. Then Dix remembered the last time he saw Billy Jeidels, in a Los Angeles parking lot with his family, Billy touching his son’s hair and the boy’s fierce rebuke, Don’t. He would not be surprised if Billy thought of Jana for a moment or two every day of his life, and he would not be surprised if he didn’t.
Jana said, I suppose it is not true that my life turned out to be different than I expected. I didn’t expect anything. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know you were supposed to expect. I was not brought up with the idea of expecting. Do you think most people expect a certain life? When they are fifteen years old, do they think out what lies ahead? And where they want to be?
It’s a long time since I was fifteen, Dix said.
Well, I didn’t.
It isn’t absolutely necessary, he said.
Did you? Did growing up in America guarantee that you had a right to expect things?
I wanted to be a film director, Dix said. It’s an outlaw business and I wanted to be one of the gunfighters. It never occurred to me to do anything else. And that’s what I did until the audience went away and the ideas ran out. I don’t remember which came first.
You were fortunate, then.
I made Summer, 1921 and the two others that I liked, and two that I didn’t like, though they play better now than they did then.
I saw Summer, 1921 six times and then I stopped going because people would look at me strangely and once, when a man approached and asked
if I was Jana, I had to invent a story. He didn’t believe me and I don’t blame him. I haven’t seen it now for ten years, maybe more. Each time I saw it, I found something new. All these years later, it still has something scandalous about it. I always hoped that I would see Trude or Marion on the street or in a Café somewhere and we three would go, and when the picture ended we would rise and take a bow before disappearing.
Have you been unhappy in your life, Jana?
Not really, she said. It was difficult for me the first few years. I had no money. I did not want to go back home. I was a nomad in the West. For a while I worked in a carnival as a clown, and that was what I enjoyed the most, because carnival people are kind. Everyone in a carnival is running away from something. I worked in a bookstore in Bochum, a jewelry store in Düsseldorf. I had offers all the time to be an artist’s model, but I knew where that would lead and I didn’t want it. I worked in one place or another and found myself at last in Berlin. Berlin is like a carnival, you can disappear in it. I have a job I like. I have my apartment. Did I tell you I have a cat? I enjoy Berlin, my evenings at the avant-garde theater. Perhaps sometime we could go to the theater.
Alas, I have no German.
I could translate.
All right, then. We’ll go to the Berliner Ensemble.
Jana wrinkled her nose. There are more progressive theaters, she said. Places you never heard of. Places in basements, churches even.
Dix handed their tickets to the ferry’s mate and they stepped aboard. The scullers had gone and the sun had dipped below the shoreline. The breeze had raised a chop on the lake and to the north high clouds were building. Jana preferred the open air so they stood in the stern, watching the mate cast off. The vessel swung, gathering speed, and Kladow receded.
She said, Thank you for lunch.
He said, Would you ever do it again?
Act? Perhaps. I don’t know. I doubt it.
You have it in your bones, he said.
Do you think so?
You never lost it, he said.
Hard to know, she said. All those years.
