The Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  She reached over and traced a line down his palm. “Yes, I thought so. My god, such a line. In a man. So deep. You see how straight. One, your whole life. You have a strong heart. The rest, contradictions, but not the heart.” She looked up at him. “You must be careful when you judge. The heart is so strong.” She turned to Lena, still holding his hand. “The woman who finds this one will be lucky. One love, no others.” Her voice sentimental, a professional after all. Lena smiled.

  She laid out one more set. “Let’s see. Yes, the same. Death again, close. Still the luck, but take care. We have only what might be. And deception again.”

  “Does it say who?”

  “No, but you will see. The eyes face one way now. You will see it.”

  Jake shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “Is there travel?” he said, leading them back to the fortune cookie.

  “Oh yes, many trips.” Offhand, as if it were too obvious to bother about. “A trip on water soon.” Another safe guess for an American.

  “Home?”

  “No, short. Many trips. You will never be home,” she said softly, an abstraction. “Always somewhere else. But it’s not a sadness for you. The place is not important. You will always live here.” She tapped the heart line in his open palm. “So it’s a lucky life, yes?” she said, turning over the cards and handing them to Lena to shuffle.

  “Then mine will be lucky too,” Lena said, cheerful.

  Count on it, Jake wanted to say, just pay the twenty-five marks.

  But when Frau Hinkel laid out Lena’s set, she looked at it for a moment, puzzled, then gathered up the cards again.

  “What does it say?”

  “I can’t tell. Sometimes when there are two of you it confuses the cards. Try again.” She handed the deck to Lena. “They need to have your touch only.”

  Jake watched her shuffling, earnest, the way Hannelore must have listened to the radio.

  “Yes, now I see,” Frau Hinkel said, laying down the rows. “A mother’s cards. Very loving—so many hearts. It’s important to you, children. Yes, two of them.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, two,” Frau Hinkel said, sure, not even looking up for confirmation.

  Jake glanced at Lena, wanting to wink, but she had grown pale, disconcerted.

  “Two of everything,” Frau Hinkel said. “Two men. Kings.” She looked up, intimate. “There was another?”

  Lena nodded. Frau Hinkel took her hand just as she had Jake’s, getting a second opinion.

  “Yes, there. Two. Two lines running there.”

  “They cross each other,” Lena said.

  “Yes,” Frau Hinkel said, then moved on, not explaining. “But only one in the end. One perhaps has died?” Another safe guess for anyone in the waiting room.

  “No.”

  “Ah. Then you have decided.” She turned the hand to its side. “There are the children. You see, two.”

  She went back to another row of cards.

  “Much sorrow,” she said, shaking her head. “But happiness too. There is an illness. Have you been ill?”

  “Yes.”

  “But no longer. You see this card. It fights the illness.”

  “The one with the sword?” Jake said.

  Frau Hinkel smiled pleasantly. “No, this one. It usually means medicine.” She looked up. “I’m glad for you. So many these days—no medicine, even in the cards.”

  Another row.

  “You were in Berlin during the war?”

  “Yes.”

  Frau Hinkel nodded her head. “Destruction. I see this all the time now. Well, they don’t lie, the cards.” She placed down a black card, then quickly drew out another to cover it.

  “What does that mean?” Lena said, alert.

  Frau Hinkel looked at her. “In Berlin? It usually means a Russian. Excuse me,” she said, suddenly shy, a shorthand message. “But that is the past. See how they come now? More hearts. You have a kind nature. You must not look at the past. You see how it tries to come back—see this one—but never strong, not as strong as the hearts. You can bury it,” she said oddly. “You have the cards.” Laying them on, another row of red.

  “And now? What will happen?”

  “What might happen,” Frau Hinkel reminded her, fixed on the cards. “Still two. Decide on the man. If you have done that, then you will be at peace. You have had sorrow in your life. Now I see—” She stopped, scooping her cards together, and when she began again her voice had become airier, now truly the voice of a fortune cookie. Good health. Prosperity. Love given and received.

  When Lena gave her the money, smiling, Frau Hinkel patted her hand in a kind of benediction. But as she opened the curtain for them, it was Jake’s arm she took, holding him back.

  “A moment,” she said, waiting until Lena was in the other room. “I don’t like to say. What will be. It’s not my place.”

  “What is it?”

  “Her cards are not good. You cannot hide everything with hearts. Some trouble. I tell you this because I see your cards mixed with hers. If you are the protector, protect her.”

  For a second, flabbergasted, Jake didn’t know whether to laugh or be furious. Was this how she got them all to come back, time after time, some worrying trick? Thoughts that go bump in the night. A hausfrau with a waiting room full of anxious widows.

  “Maybe she’ll meet a handsome stranger instead. I’ll bet you see a lot of those in the cards.”

  She smiled weakly. “Yes, it’s true. I know what you think.” She glanced toward the other room. “Well, what’s the harm?” She turned to him again. “But who’s to say? Sometimes it’s right. Sometimes the cards surprise even me.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep an eye out—looking both ways.”

  “As you wish,” she said, dismissing him by turning her back.

  “What did she want?” Lena said at the door.

  “Nothing. Some American cigarettes.”

  They started down the stairs, Lena quiet.

  “Well, there goes fifty marks,” Jake said.

  “But she knew things,” Lena said. “How did she know?”

  “What things?”

  “What did she mean—close to death, a woman?”

  “Who knows? More mumbo-jumbo.”

  “No, I saw you look at her. It meant something to you. Tell me.” She stopped at the doorway, away from the glare of the street.

  “Remember the girl in Gelferstrasse? At the billet? She was killed the other day. An accident. I was standing next to her, so I thought she meant that. That’s all.”

  “An accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. It was just an accident.”

  “Frau Hinkel didn’t think so.”

  “Well, what does she know?”

  “She knew about the children,” Lena said, looking down.

  “Two.”

  “Yes, two. My Russian child. How could she know that?” She looked away, upset. “A mother’s cards. And I killed it. No hearts for that one.”

  “Come on, Lena.” He put his hand to her chin and lifted it. “It’s all foolishness. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know. It was just the child. I don’t like to think about that. To kill a child.”

  “You didn’t. It’s not the same thing.”

  “It feels the same. Sometimes I dream about it, you know? That it’s grown. A boy.”

  “Stop,” Jake said, smoothing her hair.

  She nodded into his hand. “I know. Only the future.” She raised her head, as if she were physically pushing the mood away, and took his hand in hers, tracing the palm with her finger. “And that’s me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such a line. In a man,” she said, doing Frau Hinkel’s voice.

  Jake smiled. “They have to get something right or people won’t come. Now, how about the bath?”

  She turned his hand over to see his wristwatch. “Oh, but look.
Now it’s late. I’m sorry.” She leaned up and kissed him, a peck. “I won’t be long. And what will you do?” she said as they started for the square.

  “I’m going to find us a new place to stay.”

  “Why? Hannelore’s not so bad.”

  “I just think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why?” She stopped. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

  “I don’t want you to be bait anymore.”

  “What about Emil?”

  “Hannelore’s still there, if he comes.”

  She looked up at him. “You mean you don’t think he’s coming. Tell me.”

  “I think it’s possible the Russians have him.”

  “No, I won’t believe that,” she said, so quickly that Jake looked over at her, disturbed. Two lines.

  “I said it’s possible. The man who got him out of Kransberg had Russian money. I think he was selling information—where Emil was. I don’t want them getting to you.”

  “Russians,” she said to herself. “They want me?”

  “They want Emil. You’re his wife.”

  “They think I would go with them? Never.”

  “They don’t know that.” They started again across the square, where the women were still sorting bricks. “It’s just a precaution.”

  She looked up at their building, standing whole in the stretch of damage. “It’s not safe anymore? I always felt safe there. All during the war, I knew it would be all right.”

  “It’s still safe. I just want something safer.”

  “The protector,” Lena said wryly. “So she was right.”

  “Come on, get in,” he said, swinging up into the jeep.

  She glanced again at the building, then climbed in, waiting for him to start the motor. “Safe. At the hospital they wanted me to be a nun. Wear the robes, you know? ‘Put this on, you’ll be safe,’ they said. But I wasn’t.”

  Pastor Fleischman had lost whatever flesh he’d had—rail thin, with an Adam’s apple jutting out over his white collar. He was waiting in front of Anhalter Station with a handcart, so that in his clerical suit he looked, oddly, like a porter.

  “Lena. I was getting worried. See what I found.” He pointed to the cart. “Oh, but a car—” He looked eagerly at the jeep.

  Lena turned to Jake, embarrassed. “You wouldn’t mind? I don’t like to ask—I know it’s not permitted. But they’re so tired after the train. It’s such a long way to walk. You’ll help?”

  “No problem,” he said to the pastor, then extended his hand and introduced himself. “How many are you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps twenty. It’s very kind.”

  “We’ll have to take them in shifts, then,” Jake said, but the pastor merely nodded, unconcerned with details, as if the Lord would multiply the jeep, like the loaves and the fishes.

  They waited on the crowded platform, open to the sky through a rib cage of twisted girders. Fleischman had brought another woman to help, and while she and Lena talked, Jake leaned back against a pillar, smoking and watching the crowd. People sitting around in clumps, dispirited, holding on to rucksacks and bags, the usual station clamor slowed to a kind of listless stupor. A pack of teenage boys, feral, looking for something to snatch. A Russian soldier wandering up and down, probably after a girl. Tired women. Everything ordinary, what passed for peace. He remembered his going-away party, the platform alive with champagne and crisp uniforms, Renate winking, getting away with something.

  “How is it you speak German?” Fleischman asked, something polite to pass the time.

  “I used to live in Berlin.”

  “Ah. Do you know Texas?”

  “Texas?”

  “Well, forgive me. An American. Of course, it’s a large country. There’s a church, you see. Fredericksburg, Texas. A Lutheran church, so I think maybe German people once. They’ve offered to take some of the children. Of course, it’s a chance for them. A future. But to send them so far, after everything—I don’t know. How do I select?”

  “How many do they want?”

  “Five. They can take five.” He sighed. “Now we send our children. Well, God will take care of them.”

  Just as he did here, Jake thought, looking at the scorched wall.

  “They’re orphans?”

  Fleischman nodded. “From the Sudeten. The parents were killed during the expulsion. Then Silesia. Now here. Tomorrow, who knows? Cowboys.”

  “I’m sure they’re good people, if they offered.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It’s the selection. How do I select?”

  He moved away, not expecting an answer, before Jake could say anything. Names in a hat. Outside, the light was fading. People were still milling aimlessly. The train was now an hour late.

  “I’m sorry,” Lena said. “I didn’t know. Do you want to leave?”

  “No, I’m fine. Here, sit. Get some rest.” He sank to the bottom of the pillar, pulling her down with him, her head against his shoulder.

  “It’s boring for you.”

  “No, gives me time to think.”

  But what he thought about, his mind drifting in the half wakefulness of waiting, was the cards, eyes facing in two directions. Deception. Nonsense. He wished he had a crossword puzzle, where one clue led to another, rational. A man gets on a plane, one across. With no baggage but a piece of information, the one thing you didn’t have to carry. Worth money. Russian. So information to a Russian. In Potsdam. Where he’s dead by nightfall. How did he spend the rest of the day? Not looking for Emil. But neither was the Russian at Professor Brandt’s. A possibility, Gunther had said, they already know where he is. But then who wanted Tully dead? Not the paymaster, presumably, or why pay in the first place? Maybe he just got in the way. Whose?

  His head dropped onto his chest, nudging his eyes open. For a second he wondered if he was really awake. The station had grown black, dotted with harsh little pools of light from a row of bare bulbs strung between the pillars, a dream landscape where things crept in the dark. Lena was still leaning against him, breathing softly, safe. He closed his eyes. You couldn’t solve a crossword without the key. No matter which way he worked it, the central piece was always Emil, who knew where the columns met. Without him, it was just tea leaves, the chance arrangement of cards. Sometimes they surprise even me. But people heard what they wanted to hear.

  The shriek of the train whistle woke everybody. People scrambled to their feet, the dim rails growing brighter as the engine headlight inched its way toward the platform, as if the weight were too much for the engine to pull. People covered the roofs of the cars and hung along the sides, perched on running boards or just holding on to whatever piece of metal was available, like the trains he’d seen in Egypt, bursting with fellaheen. A few boxcars with feet dangling from the open sliding doors. Everyone worn and stiff, so that when they dropped onto the platform they moved slowly, awkward with cramps. A hiss, finally, of exhausted steam, and a clang of brakes. Now the platform crowd moved forward with their bundles, shoving to get on even before the train had emptied. In the confusion, Pastor Fleischman was running back and forth, trying to locate his charges. He waved Lena over. Frau Schaller, the other helper, was already lifting children off the train.

  Their heads had been shaved for delousing, skeletal. Short pants, legs like sticks, slips of paper hanging on strings around their necks as makeshift IDs, faces dazed. As people pushed around them, they stood fixed, blinking. A few had dark blotches on their skin.

  “Look at that. Have they been beaten?” Jake said.

  “No, it’s the edema. From no food. Any sore will bruise.”

  Pastor Fleischman began loading the smaller ones into the handcart while the others looked on blankly, huddled together. No luggage. A little girl with mucus crusted under her nose. Another story Collier’s would never run—who had really lost the war.

  Jake leaned over to help with the loading, reaching for one of the younger boys, but the child reared back, screa
ming, “Nein! Nein!” Some of the platform crowd turned in alarm. Lena stepped between them, bent down, and spoke softly to the boy. She looked back over her shoulder at Jake.

  “It’s the uniform. He’s afraid of soldiers. Say something in German.”

  “I only want to help,” Jake said to him. “But you can go with the lady if you like.”

  The boy stared at him, then hid behind Lena.

  “It’s like this sometimes,” she said, apologetic. “Any uniform.”

  Jake turned to another child. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No. Kurt’s afraid. He’s young. See how he wet himself?” Then he pointed to Jake’s pocket. “Do you have chocolate?”

  “Not today. I’m sorry. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”

  The boy looked down—too long away to imagine.

  Frau Schaller had opened a bag and was handing out chunks of bread, which the children held to their chests as they ate. They began moving down the platform, Pastor Fleischman pulling the cart, the others straggling behind, Lena and Frau Schaller herding from the rear. The older children were looking around, eyes wide. Not the Berlin they’d heard about all their lives, Ku’damm lights and leafy boulevards. Instead, swarms of refugees and fire-blackened walls and, through the arches, dark mounds of brick. But the grown-ups were reacting in the same way, literally staggering through the doors. Now that they were here, where did they go? Jake thought of the weary DPs in the Tiergarten that first day, just moving.

  They managed to squeeze the youngest group into the jeep, Lena holding the boy who’d wet himself. The nursery was in a church in Schöneberg, and before they were halfway there the children had begun to nod off, back in the rocking motion of the train. No sense of where they were, the streets a maze of moonlit ruins. What about the people who hadn’t been met? Jake remembered walking out of Tempelhof that day, as confused as the refugees tonight, getting lost in the streets on the way to Hallesches Tor. And he knew Berlin. But of course they had been met, Breimer bundled into his official car, Liz and Jake piling in with Ron, everyone taken care of. Except Tully. How was it possible? A hasty trip, as if he’d been summoned, Brian thought. Left to find his way through the debris, someone who didn’t know Berlin? He must have been met. Berlin sprawled. Potsdam was miles away. No taxis here, Ron had said. Certainly not to Potsdam. Someone in the crowd at Tempelhof. He thought of Liz’s picture of Ron, a fuzzy background of uniforms. Why couldn’t she have taken one of Tully, made everything easier? He must have been there somewhere, one of the blurs in the doorway. While Jake had been staring across the street at rubble, missing it. Take another look. Maybe it was there, the connection. No one just arrived in Berlin, except refugees from Silesia.