Leaving Berlin

by Joseph Kanon

  “You’ll kill him!” Irene screamed. “Stop! My God, you’re choking him.”

  A growl from Markovsky, beyond speech now, tightening his hand to end it, all of his strength pressing into Alex, his eyes fixed on him, waiting for the sign, so that he didn’t see Irene grabbing the candlestick off the floor, out of the jumble from the fallen shelf, see her raise it over him like a club.

  “Stop! You’ll kill him!” she said, bringing it down, not planning it, just some way to get his attention, surprised when she heard the crack, the bone splitting.

  Markovsky reared back, stunned, blood welling out of the wound.

  “Stop it!” she shouted, bringing the brass base down again, a splatting sound this time.

  For a second Markovsky went rigid, his legs straddling Alex, his hand still on his throat, then he slumped, the hand loosening, and Alex pushed up, the body falling on its side.

  “My God,” Irene said, a whisper now. “My God.” She looked at the candlestick, the first time she’d seen it.

  Alex now changed positions, leaning over Markovsky, putting fingers at the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.

  “My God. Is he—?”

  “No. He’s alive.”

  “What do we do? What do we do?” Talking to the air.

  Markovsky’s face moved, a twitch, then an eye opening, a grunt. Alex looked down. Blood on his head, the eyes open now, but stunned, the same look as Lützowplatz. If he lived, they would die. The simple mathematics of it. No witnesses. Another gasping sound, coming back. Alex put his hands on Markovsky’s throat and pushed. The eyes opened wider, a choking gurgle, his body moving, trying to gather strength. Alex pushed harder, feeling the body writhe beneath him, trying to move him away. A soldier, trained, would know what to do, how to smash into the windpipe, end it. Alex just held tight. A rasping sound now, struggling for breath.

  “Alex,” Irene said. “My God.”

  Don’t think. Do it. If he lives, we die. Harder. The last line. An extra push, crossing it. And then a spasm, Markovsky twitching, a protest, the last effort. Hands tight, no air at all, keep pushing. Almost. And then he was there, the body suddenly slack, no sound at all. You could feel it, a split second, the rasp then the sudden quiet. He looked at his hands on the throat, no longer needed, and slowly moved them away, staring at Markovsky’s face, blank, still. His own breath coming in shallow gulps, hands trembling. What it felt like. Murder.

  He looked over at Irene, on her knees now near the china, the candlestick still in her hand. Blood on the base.

  “It was my mother’s,” she said, in a daze. “Schaller. From her side.” Something important to establish. She picked up one of the smashed plates. “It’s the last of the china.”

  “Get dressed,” Alex said. “Do you have an old towel?” And then, at her look, “For the blood.”

  “The blood,” she said, an echo. She put her hand over her mouth, stifling a yelp, bewildered, like a wounded animal. “My God. My God. What do we do now?”

  “I know,” Alex said. “But we can’t—think about it. Not now. We have to get rid of him. Clean up.” Lists, tasks, the reassurance of the ordinary. “Frau Schmidt’s away. So that’s one thing.”

  “Alex,” she said, shaking, still on her knees. “I can’t. My God, look. What do we do?”

  “Help me,” he said steadily, offering his hand up. “We have to get him out of here. Find someplace for Erich. You’ll need a story—” More lists.

  “It was this,” she said, holding the candlestick. “Imagine. My mother’s. Brass. To kill somebody with this.”

  “I killed him,” he said, taking her by the shoulders.

  “Both,” she said. “Both of us. That’s what they’ll say anyway. Maybe he would have died just from the head.”

  “But he didn’t.” He waited a second. “Get dressed. I’ll start here.”

  The cleanup didn’t take long. Broken china in the dustbin, the shelf put back, candlestick washed, blood wiped.

  “There’s not so much,” Irene said. “I thought there would be more.”

  “Not after his heart stopped,” Alex said, matter of fact.

  “Oh. No, not after that,” Irene said, staring at Markovsky. “Well, now I’ve done this too.” Her voice soft, distant.

  “He’s heavy. I’m going to need you to help. You all right?”

  She nodded. “Where do we take him?”

  “The river. It’s not far. We just have to get him there.”

  “He’ll float. You saw bodies floating there. For weeks.”

  “We’ll weight him down. He has to disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  “To give us time.”

  Irene looked at him, not understanding, but nodded anyway.

  “Okay, get his other side. We can use the banister, slide him down, but in the street we’ll have to prop him up.”

  “Carry him? Sasha?”

  “Like this. We’re getting a drunk home.”

  The stairs were more difficult than he anticipated, Markovsky’s feet dragging and getting stuck, so they finally had to carry him, Alex under his shoulders, the rescue position, Irene his legs. They were sweating when they reached the building door.

  “All right, ready? Put his arm around your neck. We’re carrying a drunk.”

  He opened the door.

  “Oh God,” she said, closing it quickly. “His car. It’s a Karlshorst car. There’ll be a driver. Someone waiting.”

  “All night? He does that?”

  “Well, not when—” She thought for a second. “Can you manage? A few minutes.”

  “Here. Against the wall.”

  She fluffed her hair, then clutched the top of her coat. “Does it look as if I have clothes on under this? Can you tell?” He shook his head. “Good. I’m just out of bed.”

  He watched out of the crack of the open door as she went over to the car, leaning in to speak to the driver, pretending to feel the cold with only a nightgown on, then hurrying back.

  “What did you say?”

  “He’s staying the night. He’ll call for another car in the morning. Go get some sleep.”

  “Why didn’t he come down himself?”

  “Too much to drink. He passed out.”

  “Good. That’ll work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got a witness. That he was here, alive.”

  “And when he doesn’t call?”

  “Didn’t he? He left before you were up.”

  “And they’ll believe that?” she said, nervous.

  “Let’s hope so. Why would you lie? What motive would you have? He’s no good to you dead. Anyway, he’s not dead. Not until they find him. He’s just—gone.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Anywhere but Moscow. He was worried about that all evening. Ivan will back you up. Ivan suggested it. He was afraid of going back. He was afraid it was a trap. For all we know, he was right.”

  She looked at him. “When did you learn to think like this?”

  “Ready?” he said, not answering. “Shift most of the weight on me.”

  They started down Marienstrasse, dark without streetlights. At the corner, an S-Bahn train clattered overhead, on its way to Friedrichstrasse. Alex pointed north.

  “Not the bridge?” Irene said.

  “Too busy. Just this short block, then over.”

  But suddenly there were car lights heading down Luisenstrasse. They huddled in a doorway, Alex’s back to the street. A couple taking advantage of the dark. If anyone noticed.

  “Oh God, I don’t think I can do this,” Irene said.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “But if we don’t report it—”

  “Then they don’t have a body.” He shifted his weight, pushing Markovsky farther in, as the lights passed. “And we have a little time.”

  They moved back into the street. Up ahead, the lights of the Charité, but everything around them dark, rubble and deserted bui
lding sites. When they reached the riverbank, the bomb-damaged Friedrich-Karl-Ufer, he sat Markovsky down on a pile of bricks covered with a tarp.

  “Fill his pockets. So he’ll sink.”

  Across the water, he could see the hulk of the Reichstag, like a jagged shadow in a nightmare. The Spree bent here, then again farther up, the arc of the Spreebogen, sluggishly winding its way toward Lehrter Station. An industrial stretch, bombed out, the empty Tiergarten on the other side, not likely to draw many visitors. As safe as anywhere, if they could get him to the bottom.

  He handed her the bloody towel. “Tie this around some bricks,” he said, loading Markovsky’s pockets.

  “And what if he comes up? What if they find him?”

  “He should have been more careful at night. Big shot in the SMA? There must be a line a mile long waiting to knock his head in. Take the money out of his wallet, just in case. Maybe a robbery. Anyway, if he does float, let’s hope the current takes him. You don’t want him found here, so close. Moabit, anywhere downstream. Not here.”

  “But they’ll know he was with me. The driver—”

  “And it was still dark when he left—you were half asleep—and that’s the last thing you know. Berlin’s a dangerous place to walk around at night. Look what happened to him.”

  Involuntarily, she glanced down. “He wasn’t so bad, you know.”

  “No, he just wanted to lock you up with an interrogator doing God knows what. Not so bad.”

  “He wasn’t always like that.”

  Alex looked up, surprised, then nodded. “All right, fine, remember the good times. It works better that way. You’re upset he’s missing. He tiptoed out of the flat because he didn’t want to wake you. He was thoughtful that way.”

  “Don’t.”

  “No, I mean it. You’re upset about him. They need to think that.”

  “Shh. There’s someone.”

  They both stopped, listening for footsteps. A smoker’s cough, then the sound of spitting.

  “Quick,” Alex said, moving Markovsky off the pile of bricks. “Cover him. Lie on him,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “I’ll lie on you. He’ll just see a couple, not what’s underneath. Quick.”

  She dropped to the ground, lying faceup on Markovsky’s body. Alex covered her, his open coat draped over them. They listened for a second, trying not to breathe. Irregular steps, unsteady, probably a drunk trying to find his way home, not a watchman or a guard. Closer, near the river, as if he were just out for a stroll. Irene’s breath in his ear now, warm. The steps stopped.

  “Move,” Alex whispered. “Make him think—” Feeling her beneath him, the idea of it, public and reckless, beginning to excite him, the way they used to do it, the risk itself part of it.

  Another cough, spitting again, then a noise of surprise, startled not to be alone. Alex imagined him looking at the moving coat, figuring it out.

  “Hure,” the man mumbled. “Quatsch.” Disgusted, something offended in his voice, but moving on, not stopping to watch. In another minute, it was quiet again.

  “In the street,” Irene said.

  “But he didn’t see a body,” Alex said, lifting himself off.

  “And if he had come over? Then what?”

  Alex looked at her, not answering. No witnesses.

  “Get his feet,” he said finally, lifting Markovsky from behind.

  They half dragged him to the embankment edge. A drop, not high, just a small splash, all the drunk would hear. Feet over, positioning him so gravity could help slide the rest of him in. The body moved and then stopped, sleeve caught, the coat beginning to come off. Alex leaned over, frantic, pulling on it, away from the snag, some rusty rod sticking out of the blasted concrete. And then it was loose, the body falling away in a rush, hitting the water and sinking, the heavy coat stuffed with bricks dragging him under until there was just water, the wet shine of the surface. Gone.

  “Come on,” Alex said, holding her. “Before anyone else comes.”

  But there was no one out now, even Luisenstrasse deserted, not a single car heading for the bridge. Everyone asleep—where they were too, in their stories.

  “Stay with me,” she said at her door.

  “I can’t. I can’t come here now. Not until it’s safe again.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  He put his hand up to her hair. “Not you.”

  “But how will I see you?”

  “I’ll come to DEFA tomorrow. Fritsch offered me a tour, remember?” He smoothed her hair back. “That’s all we can do now. Meet in public. You never could have done this alone. Get him to the river. So they won’t suspect you unless they think—” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “It’s just for now.”

  “They’ll find out,” she said, shivering.

  “Not if we’re careful. There are no witnesses.”

  But on the walk back, the city looming up around him, threatening, it occurred to him, a new wrinkle, that there had been a witness after all. Two people in the room. He imagined the small cell in Hohenschönhausen, one bright light. And she will tell us. That’s the ending. If they suspected her. In her hands now.

  In Rykestrasse there were no cars watching the street, no one in a doorway. He tapped gently three times before he used the key, but Erich hadn’t heard, sound asleep. In the bedroom, the smell of medicine and night sweat, Erich’s face had changed again, not Fritz anymore, but Erich as he had been, a boy, at peace. The living room was quiet too, the sleeping city outside. Only his heart seemed to be awake, beating fast, knowing he was running out of time.

  5

  SPREEBOGEN

  HE WAITED FOR A few minutes by Little Red Riding Hood, then moved on to Snow White, making a circle around the fountain basin. Just walk in the park, Dieter had said, and I’ll come. But how would he know? There was morning traffic on Greifswalder Strasse, a roar of trucks loud enough to cover the sound of the airlift until they stopped for a red light and the droning came back, there even when you weren’t aware of it, like a nervous tremor. He couldn’t stay here forever looking at fairy tale figures. Maybe Dieter had meant him to walk through the park, toward the rubble mountain.

  “Good morning,” Dieter said, coming from behind.

  Alex turned, almost jumping. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I live across the street,” he said, motioning with his head. “I keep a lookout. My cinema. You have a cigarette?”

  He bent forward while Alex lit it for him.

  “Something’s wrong?”

  “I need to hide someone. A safe place. For a while.”

  “One of us?”

  “A German. POW. He escaped.”

  “And you want to help him? Take a risk like that? In your position? Didn’t they teach you anything? Your training?”

  Alex shook his head. “They just threw me off the dock and told me to swim. Can you help?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Somebody from the old days. He’s sick. He needs to get to the West.”

  “Not an easy trip to make these days.”

  “He has something to offer. They had him working in the mines. In the Erzgebirge.”

  Dieter raised his eyebrows.

  “So he has information. I’m sure we’d be interested. But first I have to hide him somewhere. He can’t stay with me.”

  “With you? Are you crazy? You have an escaped prisoner in your flat? After we went through all this trouble—?”

  “If they catch him, they send him back. Worse. Can you help?”

  “When?”

  “Now,” Alex said. “They know who he is. His family. There’s a link to me, so they’ll ask.”

  “Wonderful,” Dieter said, drawing on the cigarette. “All right, bring him to me.”

  “You? I didn’t—”

  “See the building across? With the missing plaster? Flat five. I’ll be there waiting. What else? You seem—”

  “When does Campbell get here? I
need to see him.”

  “Why?”

  “Something’s come up.”

  “That you can’t tell me.”

  Alex said nothing.

  “So, now we’re careful. Before, let’s hide a fugitive under the bed, no problem at all, but now we’re careful.”

  “It’s important. I need to talk to him. Is he here?”

  Dieter thought for a minute. “Go to the Adlon. Later. Four, five, maybe. See if any mail came for you.”

  “Then he is—”

  “I don’t know yet. Just ask. By then, maybe I’ll have news. There’s some hurry?”

  Alex looked at him.

  “All right,” Dieter said, not pushing it. “What else? Have you seen Markovsky?”

  “Last night. He was celebrating. They’re sending him back to Moscow.” Keep him alive, even to Dieter.

  “What?” Dieter said, genuinely alarmed.

  “I know. So much for our source.”

  “He’s being recalled?”

  “Promoted. Although there’s some question about that. He seemed worried about it.”

  “Well, Moscow,” Dieter said vaguely.

  “The new guy’s Saratov. Ever hear of him?”

  Dieter nodded. “An old Stalinist. Close to Beria. And they’re sending him here?” He tossed the cigarette, brooding. “Why, I wonder. The mines, there’s some trouble there? Did Markovsky say?”

  “No. He thinks he’s doing a great job. They’re making their quotas anyway. You think it means something, bringing Saratov in?”