The Good German (Bestselling Backlist)

by Joseph Kanon

  “Beat it,” he said, hoping his tone of voice would be the translation.

  “Amerikanski,” the soldier said again, taking a drink, then suddenly pointed behind Jake and shouted something in Russian. Jake turned. In the moonlight, a rat had stopped on the porcelain basin, nose up. Before he could move, the Russian took out a gun and fired, the noise exploding around them, making Jake’s stomach contract. He ducked. The rat scampered away, but now other guns were firing too, a spontaneous target practice, hitting the porcelain with a series of pings until it cracked, a whole piece of it lifting up and flying away like the rat. Behind him, he could feel Lena clutching his shirt. A few steps and they would be in the line of fire, as unpredictable as a drunken aim. And then, abruptly, it stopped and the men started laughing again. One of them banged the roof of the cab to get the truck moving and, looking at Jake, threw a vodka bottle to him as it drove off. Jake caught it with both hands, a football, and stood looking at it, then tossed it onto the bricks.

  Lena was shaking all over now, as if the smash of the bottle had released everything her fear had kept still. “Pigs,” she said, holding on to him.

  “They’re just drunk,” he said, but he was rattled. You could die here in a second, on a trigger-happy whim. What if he hadn’t been here? He imagined Lena running down the street, her own street, being chased into shadows. As his eyes followed the truck, he saw a basement light go on—someone waiting in the dark until the shooting passed. Only the rats could run fast enough.

  “Let’s go back to the Ku’damm,” she said.

  “It’s all right. They won’t come back,” he said, holding her. “We’re almost at the church.”

  But in fact the street frightened him too, sinister now in the pale light, unnaturally still. When they passed a standing wall, the moon disappeared behind it for a minute and they were back in the early days of the blackout, when you picked your way home by the eerie glow of phosphorus strips. But at least there’d been noise, traffic and whistles and wardens barking orders. Now the silence was complete, not even disturbed by Frau Dzuris’ radio.

  “They never change,” Lena said, her voice low. “When they first came, it was so terrible we thought, it’s the end. But it wasn’t. It’s still the same.”

  “At least they’re not shooting people anymore,” he said easily, trying to move away from it. “They’re soldiers, that’s all. It’s just their way of having fun.”

  “They had their fun then too,” she said, her voice bitter. “You know, in the hospital they took the new mothers, the pregnant women, they didn’t care. Anybody. They liked the screaming. They laughed. I think it excited them. I’ll never forget that. Everywhere in the building. Screams.”

  “That’s over now,” he said, but she seemed not to hear.

  “Then we had to live under them. Two months—forever. To know what they did and then see them in the street, wondering when it would start again. Every time I looked at one, I heard the screams. I thought, I can’t live like this. Not with them—”

  “Ssh,” Jake said, reaching up to her hair the way a parent soothes a sick child, trying to make it all go away. “That’s over.”

  But he could see in her face that it wasn’t. She turned away. “Let’s go home.”

  He looked at her back. He wanted to say something more, but her shoulders were hunched away from him, waiting now for more soldiers in the shadowy street.

  “They won’t come back,” he said, as if it made any difference.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tommy Ottinger’s farewell party coincided with the end of the conference and so became, without his intending it, a Goodbye Potsdam bash. At least half the press corps were leaving Berlin too, as much in the dark about the actual negotiations as when they arrived, and after two weeks of bland releases and cramped billets, they were ready to celebrate. By the time Jake got to the press camp, it already had the deafening noise and littered bottles of a blowout. The typing tables had been pushed to one side for a jazz combo, and a sprinkling of WACs and Red Cross nurses took turns like prom queens on the makeshift dance floor. Everyone else just drank, sitting on desks or propped up against the wall, shouting over each other to be heard. In the far corner, the poker game that had begun weeks ago was still going on, oblivious to the rest of the room, cut off by its own curtain of stale smoke. Ron, looking pleased with himself, was circulating with a clipboard, signing up people for tours of the Cecilienhof and the Babelsberg compound, finally open to the press now that everyone was gone.

  “See the conference site?” he said to Jake. “Of course, you’ve already been.”

  “Not inside. What’s in Babelsberg?”

  “See where Truman slept. Very nice.”

  “I’ll pass. What are you so happy about?”

  “We got through it, didn’t we? Harry’s gone back to Bess. Uncle Joe’s—well, who the fuck knows? And everybody behaved himself. Almost everybody, anyway,” he said, glancing at Jake, then grinning. “Seen the newsreel?”

  “Yeah. I want to talk to you about that.”

  “Just part of the service. I thought you looked pretty good.”

  “Fuck.”

  “The thanks you get. Anybody else’d be pleased. By the way, you ought to check your messages. I’ve been carrying this for days.” He pulled out a cable and handed it to Jake.

  Jake unfolded it. “Newsreel everywhere. Where are you? Wire firsthand account rescue ASAP. Collier’s exclusive. Congrats. Some stunt.”

  “Christ,” Jake said. “I ought to make you answer it.”

  “Me? I’m just the errand boy.” He grinned again. “Use your imagination. Something will come to you.”

  “I wonder what you’ll do after the war.”

  “Hey, the movie star.” Tommy came over, putting his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Where’s your drink?” The top of his bald head was already glistening with sweat.

  “Here,” Jake said, taking the glass out of Tommy’s hand. “You look like you’re drinking for two.”

  “Why not? Auf wiedersehen to this hellhole. So who gets my room, Ron? Lou Aaronson’s been asking.”

  “What am I, the desk clerk? We’ve got a list this long. Of course, some people don’t even use theirs.” Another glance at Jake.

  “I hear Breimer’s still around,” Jake said.

  “Take an act of Congress to get that asshole out,” Tommy said, slurring his words a little.

  “Now, now,” Ron said. “A little respect.”

  “What’s he up to?” Jake said.

  “Nothing good,” Tommy said. “He hasn’t been up to anything good since fucking Harding was president.”

  “Here we go again,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Bad old American Dye. Give it a rest, why don’t you?”

  “Go shit in your hat. What do you know about it?”

  Ron shrugged pleasantly. “Not much. Except they won the war for us.”

  “Yeah? Well, so did I. But I’m not rich and they are. How do you figure that?”

  Ron thumped him on the back. “Rich in spirit, Tommy, rich in spirit. Here,” he said, pouring a drink and handing it to him, “on the house. I’ll see you later. There’s a nurse over there wants to see where Truman slept.”

  “Don’t forget about the room,” Tommy said to his back as he melted into the crowd. He took a drink. “To think he’s just a kid, with years to go.”

  “So what do you know, Tommy? Brian said you might have a story for me.”

  “He did, huh? You care?”

  “I’m listening. What about Breimer?”

  Tommy shook his head. “That’s a Washington story.” He looked up. “Mine, by the way. I’ll crack the sonofabitch if I have to go through every patent myself. It’s a beaut, too. How the rich get richer.”

  “How do they?”

  “You really want to hear this? Holding companies. Licenses. Fucking paper maze. Half the time their own lawyers can’t trace it. American Dye and Chemical. You know they were like that wi
th Farben,” he said, holding up two fingers folded over each other. “Before the war. During the war. Share the patents and one hand washes the other. Except there’s a war on and you don’t trade with an enemy company. Looks bad. So the money gets paid somewhere else—Switzerland, a new company. Nothing to do with you, except, funny, there are the same guys on the board. You get paid no matter who wins.”

  “Not very nice,” Jake said. “Can you prove it?”

  “No, but I know it.”

  “How?”

  “Because I’m a great newspaperman,” Tommy said, touching his nose, then looking down into his drink. “If I can get through the paper. You’d think it would be simple to find out who actually owns something, wouldn’t you? Not this time. It’s all fuzzy, just the way they like it. But I know it. Remember Blaustein, the cartel guy? Farben was his baby. He said he’d give me a hand. It’s all there somewhere in Washington. You just have to get your hands on the right piece of paper. Of course, you have to want to find it,” he said, lifting his glass to his colleagues in the noisy room, dancing with WACs.

  “So what’s Breimer doing in Berlin, then?”

  “Plea bargaining. Help his old friends. Except he’s not getting very far.” He smiled. “You have to hand it to Blaustein. Make enough noise and somebody finally listens. Hell, even we listen once in a while. Result is that nobody wants to go near Farben—the stink’s too strong. MG’s got a special tribunal set up just for them. They’ll nail them, too—war crimes up the kazoo. Not even Breimer’s going to get the biggies off. He’s trying to kick the teeth out of the de-Nazification program with all those speeches he makes, but even that won’t do it this time. Everybody knows Farben. Christ, they built a plant at Auschwitz. Who’s going to stick out his neck for people like that?”

  “That’s it? Speeches?” Jake said, beginning to feel that Ron might after all be right, that Tommy was riding a hobbyhorse, barely touching the ground. What else would Breimer be doing?

  “Well, he does what he can. The speeches are part of it. Nobody’s really sure what de-Nazification means—where do you draw the line?—so he keeps whittling away at that and pretty soon you’re a lot less sure than you were. People want to go home, not try Nazis. Which of course is what American Dye is hoping, so their friends can go back to work. But not everybody’s in jail. What I get is that he’s offering employment contracts.”

  Jake raised his head. “Employment contracts?”

  “They already have the patents. The idea is to get the personnel. Nobody wants to stay in Germany. The whole place’ll probably go Commie anyway, and then where are we? Problem now is getting them in. The State Department has this funny idea about not giving visas to Nazis, but since everybody was a Nazi and since the army wants them anyway, the only way in is to find a sponsor. Somebody who can say they’re crucial to their operations.”

  “Like American Dye.”

  Tommy nodded. “And they’ll have the War Department contracts to prove it. The army gets the eggheads and American Dye gets a nice fat contract to put them to work and everybody’s happy.”

  “We’re talking about Farben people? Chemists?”

  “Sure. They’d be a natural fit for American Dye. I talked to one. He wanted to know what Utica was like.”

  “Anybody else? Not Farben?”

  “Could be. Look, put it this way. American Dye will do anything the army wants—their business is the army. Army wants a wind tunnel expert, they’ll find a use for him, especially if the army gives them a wind tunnel contract. You know how it works. It’s the old story.”

  “Yeah, with a new wrinkle. Jobs for Nazis.”

  “Well, that depends what kind of stink comes off the record. Nobody’s finding work for Goering. But most of them, you know, just kept their heads down. Nominal Nazis. What the hell, it was a Nazi country. And the thing is, they’re good—that’s the kicker. Best in the world. You talk to the tech boys, their eyes get all dreamy just thinking about them. Like they’re talking about pussy. German science.” He shook his head, taking another drink. “It’s a helluva country when you think about it. No resources. They did it all in laboratories. Rubber. Fuel. The only thing they had was coal, and look what they did.”

  “Almost,” Jake said. “Look at it now.”

  Tommy grinned. “Well, I never said they weren’t crazy. What kind of people would listen to Hitler?”

  “Frau Dzuris,” Jake said to himself.

  “Who?”

  “Nobody—just thinking. Hey, Tommy,” he said, brooding. “You ever hear of any money actually changing hands?”

  “What, to Germans? Are you kidding? You don’t have to bribe them—they want to go. What’s here? Seen any chemical plants with Help Wanted signs out lately?”

  “And meanwhile Breimer’s recruiting.”

  “Maybe a little on the side. He’s the type likes to stay busy.” He looked up from his drink. “What’s your interest?”

  “He’d have a lot of money to throw around,” Jake said, not answering. “If he wanted something.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tommy said, peering at Jake. “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing. Honestly. Just nosing around.”

  “Now why is that? I know you. You don’t give a flying fuck about Farben, do you?”

  “No. Don’t worry, the story’s all yours.”

  “Then why are you pumping me?”

  “I don’t know. Force of habit. My mother always said you learn something every time you listen.”

  Tommy laughed. “You didn’t have a mother,” he said. “Not possible.”

  “Sure. Even Breimer’s got one,” Jake said lightly. “I’ll bet she’s proud as anything.”

  “Yeah, and he’d sell her too if you put the money in escrow.” He put the glass down on the table. “Probably runs the goddamn garden club while her boy’s collecting envelopes from American Dye. It’s a great country.”

  “None better,” Jake said easily.

  “And I can’t wait to get back to it. Figure that one out. Listen, do me a favor. If you come up with anything on Breimer, let me know, will you? Since you’re just nosing around.”

  “You get the first call.”

  “And don’t reverse the fucking charges. You owe me.”

  Jake smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Tommy.”

  “Me and your bad tooth. Now what the hell is he up to?” he said, cocking his head toward a drum roll coming from the band.

  Ron was standing in front of the combo, holding a glass.

  “Listen up. Can’t have a party without a toast.”

  “Toast! Toast!” Shouts from around the room, followed by a chorus of keys tinkling against glasses.

  “Come on up here, Tommy.”

  Groans and whistles, the good-natured rumble of a frat party. Soon people would be balancing bottles on their heads. Ron started in on something about the finest group of reporters he’d ever worked with, then grinned as the crowd shouted him down, held up his hand, and finally gave in just by raising his glass with a “Good luck.” Some airplanes made of folded yellow typing paper floated in from the crowd, hitting Ron’s head, so that he had to duck, laughing.

  “Speech! Speech!”

  “Go fuck yourselves,” Tommy said, which hit the right note, making the crowd whistle again.

  “Come on, Tommy, what do you say?” A voice next to Jake—Benson, from Stars and Stripes, slightly hoarse from shouting.

  Tommy smiled and lifted his glass. “On this historic occasion—”

  “Aw!” More hoots and another paper plane gliding by.

  “Let’s drink to free and unrestricted navigation on all international inland waterways.”

  To Jake’s surprise, this brought down the house, prompting a whoop of laughter followed by chants of “Inland waterways! Inland waterways!” Tommy drained his glass as the band started playing again.

  “What’s the joke?” Jake said to Benson.

  “Truman’s big idea at the co
nference. They say the look on Uncle Joe’s face was worth a million bucks.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Who could? He actually insisted they put it on the agenda.”

  “I thought the sessions were secret.”

  “That one was too good to keep quiet. They had five leaks in about five minutes. Where’ve you been?”

  “Busy.”

  “Couldn’t get him off it. The way to lasting peace.” He laughed. “Open up the Danube.”

  “I take it this didn’t make the final agreement?”

  “You nuts? They just pretended it wasn’t there. Like a fart in church.” He looked over at Jake. “Busy with what?”

  After that, the party grew louder, a steady din of music and voices that kept rising until it finally became one piercing sound, like steam whistling out of a valve. Nobody seemed to mind. The nurses were getting the rush on the dance floor, but the noise had the male boom of all the occupation parties, nearly stag, civilian girls confined by the non-fraternization rules to the shadow world of Ku’damm clubs and groping in the ruins. Liz waved from the dance floor, signaling for Jake to cut in, but he gave a mock salute and went to the bar instead. Fifteen more minutes, to be polite, and he’d go home to Lena.

  The whole room was jumping now, as if everyone were dancing in place, except for the poker game in the corner, whose only movement was the methodical slapping of cards on the table. Jake looked down at the end of the bar and smiled. Another pocket of quiet. Muller was putting in a reluctant appearance, more than ever Judge Hardy, silver-haired and sober, like a chaperone at a high school dance.

  Jake felt an elbow, then a slosh of beer on his sleeve, and moved away from the bar to make a last circuit around the room. A burst of laughter from a huddle nearby—Tommy at it again. Near the door, a corkboard hung on the wall, cluttered with pinned-up sheets of copy and headlines clipped out of context. His Potsdam piece was there, the margins, like all the others, filled with scribbled comments in code. NOOYB, not one of your best. A story on Churchill leaving the conference. WGWTE, when giants walked the earth. The back-slapping acronyms of the press camp, as secret and joky as the passwords in a schoolboys’ club. How he’d spent the war.