by Ward Just
He handed her a little red tam and said, When you see them, make no sign of recognition. Pass by. Do not look at them. You do not know them, so there is no reason to recognize them. (He cocked the red tam on the side of her head, jaunty, just so.) Look at the animals, then circle back. When you encounter them the third or fourth time, smile briefly, as you would acknowledge any stranger in a public place.
How will you know them? Remember. Remember the time in Hamburg.
No, she said.
Gert! Remember the woman who cried, and the sarcasm of the man? Remember how tall he is, how he stoops, and how the woman always holds her chin just so? Remember them later, when they had drunk too much? You will recognize them because of me.
What?
The family resemblance. He kissed and fondled her, whispering something into her teeth. She laughed and hugged him. He said, They may say something to you.
She looked at him.
You smile, and you do not reply. Pass by, and walk quickly out of the zoo. When you see that you have excited their interest, turn and walk quickly out of the zoo. You know the route. Keep walking, no matter what. Do not run, but hurry. And return here, and wait.
Will they know me?
No, he said. Because you have already decided to be someone else. We have talked about your new identity. You will be someone you have been before, when you were modeling in Paris. Remember? You will have Paris expressions and your physical characteristics will be French. You are a young matron, the wife of a businessman. Comme ça? So they will not recognize you. No one will.
Except you, she said, and he nodded and kissed her again.
I will be close by, he agreed.
All the elements had come together at last. Things fit. A late afternoon in late autumn, the Berlin Zoo, no surprises. And still the uncertainty, no one could know how the cards would fall. It was enough that he had put them in play, Gert and the ambassador and his wife. It was a game of chance on a green baize table, an abrupt zone of insecurity, as arbitrary as the headlines of tomorrow’s newspaper. And so much depended on Gert, Germany’s child. He watched her now, as the ambassador and his wife came through the turnstile and hesitated, alert as animals in the wild, but without energy. The energy was Gert’s.
She did not expect her feet to hurt so. She was not used to walking, or taking exercise. She had a servant to clean, and on the weekends she and her husband went to the racecourse or watched television. He was an older man—a businessman! At night he liked to watch vulgar films on television. Often she went to the zoo to sit and sketch amateurishly, and consider her days as a businessman’s bored and frivolous wife.
When she saw them, she did not immediately register the fact. She was sketching a Cape buffalo, ugly creature, wide, thick horns, brutally curved. She was working on the horns, more interesting than the beast’s face or body. She saw them stroll by, the man looking around, seeing her, pausing, his hand on the woman’s arm—the woman who held her chin just so, she would be his wife—and walking on. She said something to his wife, but she did not turn. Gert concentrated on the buffalo, and when she next looked up they were gone. She completed the sketch and moved off down the path. She walked with determination, as if she were following the lines of a script. She thought of this part of the afternoon as a ballet. The wind was sharp but she was not uncomfortable. The wind fluttered her skirt, and she felt a few drops of rain. She put her sketch pad under the pullover. Then she saw them again, standing in front of the elephant house.
She veered off onto another path that would take her around in a loop. She had looked carefully at the man, at his broad back; he did not look well. He stooped, and walked slowly; his head was bent. She wondered if he were ill, the weather was so raw.
When she came around again, they were facing her. The woman was looking into her eyes. The woman smiled warmly, and Gert returned the smile, a fleeting smile, the casual, distracted smile that strangers exchange to be polite. But he was right, there was a family resemblance.
The woman said in German, “Are you Bill’s friend?”
Not Bill, Wolf.
The woman said, “You look so familiar.”
Gert said, “I am just a bourgeois housewife.”
The man smiled, and put his arm around his wife’s waist. Gert knew it was a signal of some kind. She looked into the man’s face, and was startled by his expression, so sympathetic yet intense. His gray eyes were cold, and he looked frightened. It was an expression she often saw on the faces of people that she met for the first time. It signaled confusion. She smiled at him openly, without guile, wanting to appear friendly. She expected him to speak, but he said nothing.
The woman stepped forward, saying again, “I believe we have met somewhere, perhaps in the past.” She grinned. “I, too, am a bourgeois housewife, with a desire to sketch. But I have never gone to the zoo to sketch. It’s so cold and raw today. Don’t you think?”
Gert did not reply.
“We, my husband and I, are here to meet our son.”
The man said quietly, “El, it’s not her.”
“We were to meet him here in the park, some time today, or perhaps tomorrow.”
Gert smiled, and moved to pass by them.
The woman said, “You are a very pretty young girl. May I see what you’ve sketched? What is your name?”
Gert said, “Bitte,” and walked off. She hoped that this was the right thing to say. It hardly ever failed, a simple “bitte.” But the woman seemed to recognize her, though of course that was impossible. She had never met the woman before. However, her face was familiar; the eyes, and the set of the mouth. She forced herself to remember that this was only the second encounter and she had been told, quite specifically, at the third or fourth encounter she was to leave the zoo, and go straight home.
Gert heard the woman call after her. She heard their footsteps coming up behind her.
Gert had one encounter to go. But she did not mind being in the zoo, she knew it so well. The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to break through the belt of clouds, low and layered on the horizon. It was late now, almost four. All they would see would be a sunset, the last rays of light before dusk. November in northern Europe was very gloomy, always.
She moved quickly left, then right through the shrubbery to the narrow path that led back to the entrance. It was likely she would encounter them again there, for the third time; and then she could leave the zoo grounds. Her new shoes squeaked, clicking on the path. She heard something behind her and turned again, this time right. She knew exactly where she was, though there were no landmarks. She was deep in the park, where Berlin’s rooftops were not visible, and the street noise muffled. It seemed to her unnaturally quiet. She slowed, listening carefully; she heard no footsteps behind her, but she knew also that she was not alone.
Gert wondered what the woman had meant, that they had met before “in the past.” She said it as if the past were a location, like a house or restaurant in Berlin or Leipzig, a specific place existing perhaps only in the memory. But they had never met, she was certain of that. Blood pounded in her temples, and she stopped a moment to allow the blood to subside.
Gert was at a crossroads.
She felt the presence of the woman before she saw her. She smelled expensive perfume, and felt the atmosphere change. Her head cleared and she waited, poised. The voice at her side said, “We do not mean you harm.”
Gert did not turn, but continued to stare straight ahead, every sense alert. They were familiar words, she had heard them many times; and they were always false.
“But we must know. Are you Bill’s friend?”
The voice was soft and seductive, but others had been. People used words like weapons, the more seductive, the more lethal.
“Do you want to take us to him?”
Gert said, “I don’t know you, I’m afraid.”
The woman said, “There is no need to be afraid.”
Gert smiled.
“I’m Bi
ll’s mother. I’m Elinor North.” The woman touched her on the elbow, but Gert did not return the gesture or react in any way, so the woman removed her hand. Gert turned her head, and the woman smiled encouragingly. Gert did not know what kind of woman she was, but believed that she was strong, like the statue in the square. Perhaps even heroic. She wondered where the man was. They have taken different paths.
“May I see your sketch pad?”
Gert shook her head, and made as if to go.
“Tell us what to do, and we will do it. My husband and I are exhausted. Do you understand?” The woman was no longer smiling. “We don’t know what he wants of us. Where he wants to meet. We are willing to meet with him, wherever. But it must be now. So if you want to walk away, do so. Tell him that we are here. We will stay another hour. No longer. Do you understand me?” The woman stepped back, Gert watching her. The woman’s German was grammatically perfect, but the accent was faulty. Gert knew that the woman was trying to prepare her for—something. She felt tremendous danger. “I know you are Bill’s friend. It’s hard for me to talk.”
Without knowing why, Gert wanted to delay a moment. On impulse she handed the woman her sketch pad.
“This is quite good,” the woman said. “The Cape buffalo, and Bill and me. I like the horns.” She handed the sketch pad back. “We will be here another hour. Tell him that. Tell him there is no one with us. We are alone.” Gert began to move away, but the woman followed. Gert turned, reaching into her handbag, and the woman stopped dead. They stood staring at each other, five feet apart.
Gert thought the woman did not know what she was saying. She did not know where she was. This was not the past, but the present. She said she was Bill’s mother; perhaps that was true and perhaps it wasn’t. Gert hated her soft words, and full sentences. She talked too much. Now and then her hand went to her left ear, to touch a gold earring; a nervous gesture. She was not moving now. Gert’s hand gripped the little .25 in her purse. She was waiting for an impulse. It began to rain again, little drops, barely more than a heavy gray mist. She heard a voice behind her, “Gert,” so soft no one else could hear it, though the woman seemed to react. Gert withdrew her hand from her purse and let the purse swing from her shoulder. She moved back calmly, a step at a time. She stood with her sketchbook in her hand, feeling the thick cardboard and the soft sheets in between. The woman had said, Quite good. She liked the horns. Now her face seemed to soften, her mouth moving, her fingers touching her lips. The woman was looking over Gert’s shoulder, rising on the balls of her feet, concentrating, staring as if Gert weren’t there. She made a sudden movement and then Gert was running, and in a moment was out of sight, left and right and left again down the narrow paths. She knew she was free to go home, and wait for him there. Then they would be together again, all business concluded, free at last. A bitter day, Gert thought as she ran, the purse banging against her hip; the day left an acid taste on the tongue. These people had no business here. They were foreigners, intruders in Berlin. She accelerated, flying around a curve in the path, then slowed to a walk. She thought, What will I do if he leaves me, goes away back to America?
4
ELINOR SAID, “Hello, Bill.”
“Where is he?”
She looked at him. He was standing behind a hedge. The hedge was waist-high and in his green loden coat he looked to be part of the scenery, a motionless green man. He seemed bigger, thicker around the shoulders, but perhaps that was only the coat. His hair was longer than it had been the last time, in Hamburg, neatly combed, the color more natural. He was clean-shaven, the skin drawn tight over the bones; the planes of his forehead were straight as rulers. She took a step forward but he shook his head. His face carried authority. It was a hard male face. Not a Washington face or a Boston face or a Lake Forest face, God knows; not an American face.
“Where is he?” Again, in rapid German, as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Perhaps that was it, Bill Jr. speaking to her in German, his lips curling around the words; it was easy to sneer in German. She noticed that his shirt collar was frayed, and missing its top button. She replied in English, “He’s here, somewhere in the zoo. Or are we in the Tiergarten now? He’ll be back in a moment, you know Dad. He took another path, perhaps he’s lost his way.” Then, smiling, her tone still conversational: “I spoke to your friend, and looked at the sketches she made. She showed them to me. She’s good, she’s a talented girl. And very pretty. Lovely dark eyes, we noticed her at the entrance, and knew right away that she was your friend. It was not difficult. We’ve always known your tastes, Bill.” He said nothing, nor did his expression change. She thought it was like talking to a sardonic tree. She said, “Dad was here a minute ago.”
“How many are with you?”
“No one's with us, we’re alone.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No security?”
She said in German, “Do we need security?”
He nodded slowly. “Listen. I want you to get him, and bring him here.”
“What is her name, your friend? Or is she your wife? You’ve been together so long, are you married?” She wanted him to know that he was not a total mystery to them. She thought that if he once spoke familiarly, the mask might fall. Or break. She was obliged to believe that he wore a mask, had taken a role, because he spoke to her as though she were a casual acquaintance, or a servant. The laundress, someone to patch his collar and replace the button. She was no more than five feet from him but the space between them was charged, a magnetic field. She could feel it. They spoke across a great chasm.
“Get him now, and tell him to return here.”
“Then what?”
He said, “You leave. Tell him to return here alone.”
She said, very slowly, in English, “We travel together, your father and I. We always have.” His face seemed to flush, but in the drizzle and the gathering dusk it was hard to tell. She said, “We are inseparable, as you know.” Except right now. She had no idea where he was, and she wasn’t sure where she was. The Landwehrkanal separated the zoo from the Tiergarten, and she could not remember if they’d crossed the little bridge. He had gone one direction, she another. Wherever she was, he wasn’t there. And she wanted him near her. She wanted them together. She wanted him to talk to the boy, he had always been more successful at it. She said, “We used to be inseparable as a family, your father and I, and you. All the odd places we lived, do you remember Africa at all, when you were very little? The time your father was hurt, and I burst into tears over the telephone when I heard the news. You were right there beside me, and reached over to touch my arm, but I couldn’t stop crying. We didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. Do you remember that?” She leaned forward, feeling the drizzle on her cheeks, trying to recognize him as a part of her. She said, “I liked meeting your friend. She must have a name, what is it?” He lifted his chin, as if about to speak; but he said nothing. “And I have a name, too. Why don’t you use it? Or don’t you need names? In the new order, will names be eliminated, like private property? A nation of nameless citizens, parents, sons, all nameless. Interchangeable parts, everyone anonymous, like the modern art I hate so. White on white on white.” She hesitated as her voice rose, her temper nearly out of control. His eyes moved left and right, and it occurred to her suddenly that he was not listening to her. It was as if he had the ability to suspend his hearing. Her words moved around him, like rushing water around a boulder. She felt herself growing lightheaded under his erratic gaze, opaque as marble.
He said, “Get him.”
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me.” Her mouth went dry. She had never allowed herself to be bullied.
He said, “So?”
“You want him, you get him.”
“Yes,” he said.
“What is it that you want from him, Bill? Or from me.”
“I remember Africa,” he said in English. “The rains, the heat, the little Ford car, the market, the houseboys. The boy who cooked. The bo
y who cleaned. The boy who mowed the lawn and tended the flowers. The boy who mixed the drinks. And what was he then, a second secretary? Lowest rung of the ladder.”
“You were very young,” she said. She tried on a smile, but it didn’t fit. “You were only a little boy. You have a remarkable memory, Bill. We worried so about taking you to Africa.”
“Why were you so worried?”
She shrugged, it was so long ago.
“There must be a reason.”
He seemed genuinely interested, and when she replied that they were worried about the insecurity of the countryside—the government’s authority did not extend much beyond the capital military district, and its hold even there was fragile—and disease in general, he smiled thinly. She added that they had wanted very badly to see the African continent, not that they had much choice. The Department’s postings were to suit the Department’s convenience, not the convenience of a Foreign Service officer. Certainly not second secretaries, or their wives or children. “We were given all the shots,” she said, “except you were so young. There were one or two shots they refused to give you, fearing a reaction. It worried us because Africa was Africa.” She said, “But no one got sick, and your father and I and you, too, loved Africa.”
He said, “Remember, a year later, when I began to have nightmares?” He was speaking German again, so softly she had to lean forward to hear him. “I had them every night, for a long time. What was I? Five years old?”
“I don’t remember,” she said truthfully. “I don’t remember that you had nightmares. Why? Do you remember them?”
“No,” he said. “But they were frightening. Of course so much is frightening to a five-year-old. Yet at that age, a child is resilient. I have forgotten the plot of the nightmares, but I remember the effect. I remember what it was like, alone in the bed.”
