Katherina was silent for a long while, shivering again. Anastasia fussed with the blanket, tucking the edges under Katherina’s legs. “There’s something else I have to tell you. I don’t know if it will bring you any peace, but one of Schalk’s businesses after the war, when he was still trading black-market goods, was selling war souvenirs. Objects from both sides: SS uniforms, concentration-camp objects, medals, passbooks, and most of all, small arms, both Nazi and Red Army. He specialized in sidearms, like the pistol that killed your father.” Anastasia paused, to let the implication sink in.
“I don’t think your father committed suicide at all. It probably was not even his gun. I believe Schalk murdered him after he refused to let him meet you. Schalk simply forced him outside at gunpoint, thinking to avoid being heard by the housekeeper, and shot him in the garden.”
Tears filled Katherina’s eyes. “Murder makes much more sense. There simply was no good reason for suicide, even if he was homosexual. After all those years, he didn’t have to fear blackmail any longer. Yes, I’m sure we can prove it now.” She stared for a while through the windshield, not seeing. “Imagine. My father, who called himself a coward, lost his life trying to protect me.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Anastasia said. “The police just never considered investigating for murder. Unless Raspin’s body is completely charred, they could get prints and match them with the gun. It seems unlikely, though, that the Vopos will cooperate with the West-German police.”
“So why are we running away? Why can’t we just explain everything to the garrison commander?”
“Ha,” Johann snorted. “Do you think for a moment anyone in the DDR government will admit they were tricked into signing a business agreement with a sadist, to broadcast a gang rape and possible murder? Anyhow, now that he’s dead and someone in the DDR’s own border guard apparently killed him, you can be sure the evidence will disappear.”
“How filthy it all is. You’re right. I just want to get out of here.”
“That’s the idea.” Johann finally turned on the headlights and pressed the pedal to the floor.
XXXIII
Accelerando
Katherina was grainy-eyed with exhaustion when they reached Wernigerode, but the clock on the dashboard of the van read only a little before two in the morning. They had arrived with time to spare at the featureless concrete building that was their destination. The metallic sign across the top row of windows read Fernsehen DDR/Wernigerode. There was no sign of life anywhere around the building when they pulled into the lot behind it.
When she and Anastasia descended from the service van, Johann was taciturn and businesslike, waving off their thanks.
“Just tell Boris we’re quit now. I don’t want any more of this.” With that he drove into a garage to park the van and remove all evidence of the night’s undertaking.
“The car’s over there.” Anastasia pointed toward a dark blue rental car parked half a block away from the television substation. “There’s a change of clothes for both of us in the trunk.”
The night-quiet of the street was suddenly broken by the sound of a truck engine. Before the two women could get out of sight, a military truck swung around a corner and rumbled toward them. They froze, caught in the truck’s headlights.
Katherina muttered, “Scheisse.” Her mind raced as she tried to think of a plausible explanation as to why a Soviet soldier and a half-naked woman in a blanket would be standing in the middle of the street at two in the morning. There was none. None whatsoever. Her instinct was simply to run, but Anastasia took hold of her arm.
“They’re Russians. Let me do the talking.”
Katherina frowned. “No argument here,” she muttered back. “Your uniform. Are you an officer, or what?”
“I have no idea. This is one of Anne’s costumes. Let’s just hope it’s dark enough so they don’t notice.” Anastasia adjusted her cap and tugged her tunic down over her hips.
The truck stopped directly in front of them and they both moved around to the side of it, out of the blinding headlights. Katherina could see now it was a Soviet troop carrier. The motor continued pounding noisily even in neutral, and the gray-painted fender, which rose almost to her shoulder, was slightly dented. At the rear, the truck bed was enclosed by low wooden siding. Poles at the four corners held a canvas roof that was rolled up, and some dozen men in field kit sat huddled beneath it. Most of them seemed to be hanging over one side staring at them.
The driver poked his head out through the truck-cab window and Anastasia saluted him. Katherina fervently hoped it was the right kind of salute. The two began talking in a rapid Russian and Katherina tried to detect signs of anger or suspicion. Would there be any point in running from twelve men with service rifles?
Anastasia’s voice had dropped to a lower register, below the pitch she had used for Octavian, but still high for a mature man. Would she be able to pull it off? What could she possibly be saying that would explain them?
Oh, hell. The driver was opening the cab door, stepping down onto the ground. He was dressed almost identically to Anastasia, except that he had a sidearm. A critical difference. He gawked for a moment at Katherina, and she realized, for the first time since fleeing the Brocken dressing room, that she was still in full stage makeup. Half naked and painted like a clown, she must have looked like a madwoman to him.
Anastasia seemed to realize the problem as well and laid her hand on the man’s shoulder, turning him away from the bizarre spectacle and guiding him toward the street corner. Was she giving Katherina a chance to flee in the other direction? She waited for a signal, anything that would tell her what to do. But Anastasia simply continued in Russian, gesticulating and pointing up the street.
When the two returned to the truck, they seemed to be arguing, though without anger. The driver kept repeating, “Nyet, nyet!” and Katherina’s heart began to pound again, ready for flight.
But whatever was wrong, it did not involve attack or arrest, and though the driver was still agitated, he climbed back into the truck cab and put the engine into gear. In a moment, the truck had turned around, leaving Katherina in full view of the soldiers squatting in the wooden truckbed. One of them called out something, and then all of the soldiers joined him in their calls. She recognized only one word: suka. Bitch. She didn’t mind the seemingly automatic hostility. As long as the word was not preceded by “Someone should arrest that…”
Then, mercifully, the truck pulled away and rumbled up the street they had just come with Johann ten minutes before.
“What just happened?” Katherina asked.
Anastasia guided her over to the blue Mercedes. “Come on, get in the car where we won’t be seen again, and I’ll explain.” She opened the car trunk and lifted several articles of clothing out of a suitcase. “We can change in the backseat.” She handed Katherina a dark skirt and a sweater.
The two of them climbed into the car. Relieved to finally be free of her blanket, Katherina pulled on the sweater first, relaxing into the warmth. The skirt, she noticed, was a bit long. In spite of the urgency of the moment, Katherina chuckled as she rolled it at the waist. “I see. The soprano gets the skirt and the mezzo wears the pants.”
“Hey, I just saved our lives out there. It was the toughest trouser role of my career.”
“Gods, yes, and you were superb. We both owe Anne a lot for that. Who could have known she’d be accurate enough to fool the real thing.”
“Apparently I am a praporshchik, a warrant officer. While it’s obvious I was in violation of regulations being with a woman on the street alone at two in the morning, I was one rank higher than the soldier in charge of the transport, who was only a podpraporshchik. While theoretically he could have reported me, I think I won him over.” She slid off the military trousers and pulled on blue jeans. “I had no good excuse ready, so I just suggested they had interrupted me in the middle of something manly, and he was momentarily distracted trying to imagine what you look
ed like under the blanket.”
“Oh, so that was dirty guy-talk you were having with him.”
“It started that way, but then I recognized his accent. He was from Leningrad and I got him to talk about that. You know, the two of us, homesick for the Neva and hot Russian women.” Anastasia struggled out of the officer’s tunic and drew a sweater over her head.
“But you were gabbing there for five minutes. All about Russian women?”
“No, we traded opinions on the subject men talk about everywhere. Sports. I said I’d been away too long and asked if he knew how Zenit, the Leningrad soccer team, was doing and whether Nikolai Larionov was still their top scorer.”
“You follow Russian soccer?”
They moved to the front of the car and Anastasia started the motor. “No but Boris does. Zenit is a famous team. Fortunately I just remembered the name Larionov. One of the few times I spent a Sunday in front of the television with him.”
“So what were these guys doing here at two in the morning, anyhow? Obviously not on patrol.”
“They were lost. They were being transferred from the base at Sperenberg, just south of Berlin, up to the Brocken garrison and they made a wrong turn. Their radio was out too—to give you a sense of the efficiency of the Soviet military—so they couldn’t radio for help. They just wandered around looking for someone who could give them directions. I explained the way to him. He was so happy to find someone he could talk to in Russian he didn’t seem to care much what I was doing with you. I’m sure he assumed it was something unsavory, but had no interest in confronting me about it. He was already in trouble himself. Still, he may report what he’s seen, so we’ve got to get moving.”
“Thank God for male bonding.” Katherina shifted focus. “Do you have any cold cream or something similar so I can take off this makeup?”
“Yes, good idea. It was so dark coming down the mountain I never thought about it. There’s hand lotion and tissues in my bag.”
While they drove, Katherina rubbed a layer of lotion over her face and throat and removed as much as possible of the pancake and mascara. A final washing would have to wait until they were safe and near hot running water. “Okay, then. What now?”
“Now we cross the border. “It’ll be risky, crossing at this hour, but it’s still our best chance. If we’re lucky, the Brocken guards are still stumbling around on the mountain. Tomorrow they’ll know for sure you’ve escaped and they’ll have sent out an alert for you at the border. You do have your pass and visa, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s the only thing I grabbed from my dressing room. What about you? I thought you were persona non grata in the DDR.”
“I am, but I’m carrying a fake passport. It’s not a very good one, though. Boris used to deal in those, after the war, but he’s lost contact with the people who made them. He had to patch one together from an old counterfeit he still had. So we have to hope no one scrutinizes it too closely. I tried to warn you that I was on my way, but I couldn’t get through to you.”
“You tried to call me?”
“I did. Several times. I always left my number. But you didn’t call back. I thought at first you were angry. Then it occurred to me that Raspin would try to isolate you.”
“Good guess, he did isolate me and blocked my messages. But I got your package. My agent forwarded it to me. The doll that you left for me in Salzburg. Very sweet.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Though it would have been more to the point if you’d gotten it in Salzburg so you’d have known I didn’t dump you. I had to leave, but I didn’t want you to forget me.”
“I never did for a moment. If you only knew.”
Anastasia let the remark stay in the air. Katherina wasn’t sure whether she wanted to avoid a dangerous subject or was simply exhausted. Katherina was beat too, battle-fatigued both physically and mentally.
They were outside of Wernigerode now and on the highway, alone on the road. “Do you really think Raspin murdered my father?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes, though I doubt we can ever put together the whole story. My guess is that first he tried to denounce your father to the police, for homosexuality, or identity fraud, or both. If so, the issues were probably so trivial and obsolete that the exposure had no effect except to put the government machinery in motion that identified Sergei Marovsky as a survivor of the Battle of Stalingrad. With the possibility of blackmail now removed, your father was free to turn Schalk in to the police at any time.”
Katherina stared out the car window, embarrassed. “Do the Cyrillic entries also tell about his being homosexual?”
“Yes, in a very poignant way. You can read the translation as soon as we’re safe. Right now, let’s decide what to do at the border crossing.”
“One obstacle after another,” Katherina muttered. “So this is what it feels like to be a fugitive. Which one of us is the bigger liability, I wonder. You, who are wanted for defection, or me, who’s wanted for murder?”
“Let’s hope the border guards are so enchanted by our pretty faces that they don’t stare too long at our documents.”
“Let’s also hope there are no opera lovers on duty who might recognize us.”
Anastasia laughed. “Opera fans on night duty in the backwoods of Sachsen-Anhalt? How likely can that be?”
Jörg Menger slouched against the wall of the guard station at Seesen trying to stay awake. At four in the morning, with nothing to do but paperwork, he kept feeling consciousness slip away. His sergeant was sick and so only two men were on duty, and still nothing for them to do. Seated at the station table, Theo rolled himself another cigarette and leafed through his television magazine. Having contempt for both diversions, and no radio to listen to, Jörg felt stupor encroach again. If he could have gotten away with it, he’d have snatched a nap, but the military had removed all sturdy horizontal surfaces that could be adapted for dozing. Even the worktable was metal, with metal stools rather than wooden chairs, and the unheated station was so cold that he preferred to stand through his shift.
His boredom lifted momentarily when he saw the headlights in the distance. On the other hand, it was his turn to go out into the cold. He zipped up his field jacket to the throat and shouldered his rifle. As military protocol required, Theo watched from inside, the phone to headquarters at one hand and his rifle within reach of the other.
The car pulled up to the barrier and Jörg relaxed immediately. Two women in their thirties. Attractive ones, too. But then he was suspicious. It was almost 2:30 a.m.
“Passports, please,” he said, with just the right balance of authority and courtesy, and perused the documents by the light of his flashlight. He read the name on the first one and stared at the picture. It looked familiar, but the name said nothing to him. The second passport gave him a start. It was a name he recognized, but the impossibility of it being her was so great he was sure it was simply a coincidence. He shone his flashlight on the passport holder on the passenger side, and his jaw dropped. The woman was a little disheveled, but he recognized the face from the newspaper photographs. He couldn’t believe his luck.
“You are Katherina Marow?”
“Yes,” she said meekly.
“The opera singer?”
“Yes.”
It was true! His heart leapt. He had never met an opera singer face-to-face, and now a beautiful and famous one was right there in front of him. He wished he could invite her in for coffee. Her papers seemed in order, but he didn’t want to let her go without at least exchanging a few words with her.
“I read about you. You sang Tosca in Berlin, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” was all she said again. The repetition was getting monotonous and Jörg wished she’d say more. What was the point of meeting an opera singer if she had nothing to say? The encounter would make a good story when he called his mother, but there would not be much to tell. He had to think of a good question to get the singer talking.
“I love opera. My
mother sang in a choir and we listen to opera on the radio all the time. Last week they played Rosenkavalier. Have you ever sung that one?”
“Yes, last month, in Salzburg.” Katherina’s voice was very small.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Salzburg.” Jörg persisted, trying to elicit conversation. Why was she so stiff? And who was the other woman?
“It’s a nice city,” Katherina said.
“Do you sing too?” He shone the flashlight on the driver who seemed paralyzed. Then he recognized her. The famous Russian mezzo-soprano. He nearly fainted; he had two beautiful opera singers in front of him. No one would ever believe him.
“I love Rosenkavalier,” he said, unable to think of anything better at such an early hour. “Especially the end, you know, the trio. Uh, well, I guess everyone loves that part.” He was beginning to feel foolish, saying stupid things, but he didn’t want them to leave. He wanted to invite them in, maybe have his picture taken with them. Something to show his mother and his friends.
“How was the performance?” he asked Anastasia.
“It went very well, thank you.” She avoided eye contact with him at first, then abruptly seemed to change her mind, as if suddenly she found him interesting. She glanced up and smiled, and then he knew for sure it was her. She was so beautiful, more than on the covers of the recordings his cousin had smuggled in for him. He was surprised at her short hair, which is why he didn’t recognize her at first, but at second glance, he liked it.
“Not everyone likes Rosenkavalier. It’s an acquired taste,” she said, with the warmest, sexiest voice he had ever heard. “It’s wonderful that you’re such a serious listener. Do you like the other Strauss operas? Electra, for example?”
Jörg blinked, speechless that she had actually complimented him. A beautiful and famous opera singer had noticed his existence long enough to say something nice about him, and to ask him a question! He was utterly smitten. Had she invited him to give up everything and flee with them both, to simply sit in their dressing rooms every evening while they went onstage, he would have gone. What had she just asked him? Oh, about Strauss.
Mephisto Aria Page 21
