The Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  “I can’t promise that, Renate. I don’t know. I’ll talk to the pastor. I’ll do what I can. I’ll try.”

  “But you’ll move him from Frau Metzger? Before she gives him up?”

  “Renate, I can’t promise—”

  “Yes, promise me. Lie to me. My god, can’t you see I have to tell myself this? I have to think it’s going to be all right.”

  “I won’t lie to you. I’ll do what I can. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

  “Because I have nothing to bargain with, you mean. Finally, no more Jews.”

  Jake looked away. Every week a new list, trading yourself, until there was no other way to live. He had become one of her bosses.

  “What do they say about the trial?” he said, moving somewhere else.

  “My lawyers?” she said, a trace of scorn. “To be clever, play the innocent—that I couldn’t help what I was doing. To be sorry.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s not enough to be sorry. It’s not enough for me. I can’t make it go away. I still see the faces, how they looked at me. I can’t make them go away.”

  “One minute,” the guard shouted out in German.

  Renate drew a cigarette from the pack. “One more,” she said in English, “for the road. That’s right, isn’t it? For the road?”

  “Yes. I’ll come back.”

  “No. They won’t allow that. Only this once. But I’m so glad to see you. Someone from that world. In Berlin again; I never thought—” She stopped, grabbing his hand. “Wait a minute. I can’t bargain with it, but maybe it’s something, if he’s still there. Promise me.”

  “Renate, don’t do this.”

  “You said they were looking for him, the Americans. So maybe it’s something for you. Lena’s husband—I know where he is. I saw him.”

  Jake looked up, stunned. “Where?”

  “Promise me,” she said steadily, still covering his hand. “One last bargain.”

  He nodded. “Where?”

  “Can I believe you?”

  “Where?”

  “As if I have a choice,” she said.

  “Time,” the guard called.

  “One minute.” She turned back to Jake, conspiratorial, talking quickly. “Burgstrasse, the old Gestapo building. Number Twenty-six. It was bombed, you know, but they still use part. They kept me there before here.”

  “And you saw him there?”

  “Out the window, across the courtyard. He didn’t see me. I thought, my god, that’s Emil, why do they have him here? Is he on trial too? Is he?”

  “No. What was he doing?”

  “Just looking down into the courtyard. Then the lights went out. That’s all. Is that something for you? Can you use that?”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Of course. My eyes are good, you know, always.”

  The guard approached the table.

  “Give him some cigarettes,” she said in English, standing. “They’ll be nice to me.”

  Jake got up and offered the pack.

  “So it’s good?” she said. “One last job for you?”

  Jake nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then promise me.”

  “All right.”

  She smiled, then her face twitched, the skin falling slack, as if she were about to weep again, finally drained of all composure. “Then it’s over.”

  Before he could react, she moved around the table to Jake and, while the guard stuffed cigarettes into his pocket, put her arms around him, almost falling into him. He stood awkwardly, catching her, not really embracing her, feeling her bones sticking through the smock, brittle enough to snap. She hugged him once, then turned her mouth up to his ear, hidden from the guard. “Thank you. He’s my life.”

  She stepped back and let the guard take her arm, but put her other hand on Jake’s chest, pulling at the cloth. “But never tell him. Please.”

  When the guard tugged her arm, she went with him, looking over her shoulder at Jake, trying to smile, but the walk was clumsy, a halfhearted, forced shuffle, not even a trace of the lively steps he remembered on the platform.

  Burgstrasse was only a few blocks west of the Alex, but he drove, feeling safer in the jeep. There’d be no point in stopping, but he had to see if it was there at all, not some lie, a last attempt to keep playing the angles. The street was across the open sewer of the Spree from the smashed-in cathedral, but part of Number 26 was still standing, just as she’d said, flying a red flag. He passed it slowly, pretending to be lost. Thick walls, stripped now of plaster, a heavy entrance door blocked by guards with Asiatic faces—the familiar Russian hierarchy, Mongols at the bottom. Behind it all, somewhere, Emil looking out a window. But how could Shaeffer get in? A raid in the middle of Berlin, bullets zinging over Lena’s head? Impossible without some trick. But that was his specialty; let him plan it. At least now they knew. Renate’s last catch, her part of the bargain. He stopped near the end of the street to check his wallet—enough money for Frau Metzger until he could get Fleischman to come. One final payment, off the books.

  The Prenzlauer building was an old tenement block, three courtyards deep. He followed Renate’s instructions to the second, strung with laundry, then up two flights of murky stairs lighted by a hole some shell had punched through the ceiling. He had to knock a few times before the door finally opened a suspicious crack.

  “Frau Metzger? I’ve come about Erich.”

  “You’ve come? And what’s the matter with her, too busy?” She opened the door. “It’s about time. Does she think I’m made of money? Nothing since June, nothing on account. How am I supposed to feed anyone? A boy needs to eat.”

  “I’ll pay for what she owes,” Jake said, taking out his wallet.

  “So now she’s found an American. Well, it’s not my affair. Better than a Russian, at least. Lots of chocolate for you now,” she said, turning to a child standing near the table. About four, Jake guessed, skinny legs in short pants, with Renate’s dark eyes, but larger, almost too large for the face, wide now in alarm. “Come on, let’s get your things. Don’t be afraid, he’s your mother’s friend,” she said, not unkind but brusque, then turned back to Jake. “Her friend. She’s a fine one. While the rest of us—No, it’s too much,” she said, looking at the money. “She only owes for two months. I’m not a thief. Only what’s owed. I’ll get his things.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’ll send somebody for him. I can’t take him today.”

  “What do you mean? She’s not dead, is she?”

  “No.”

  “Then he goes now. I’m going to my sister. You think I’m staying here, with the Russians? I’ll give her one more week, I said, and then—But anyway, here you are, so it’s all right. Come. I won’t be a minute. There’s not much. Get me clothing coupons, I told her, but did she? No, not her. She couldn’t come herself? She has to send an Ami? You can see how he’s frightened. Well, he never says much. Say hello, Erich. Ouf.” She waved her hand. “Well, he’s like that.”

  The boy stared at him silently. Not fear, a numb curiosity, an animal waiting to see what would happen to him.

  “But I can’t take him today.”

  “Yes, today. I waited and waited. You can’t expect—” She began emptying a drawer, putting things in a string bag. “The war’s over, you know. What does she expect? Here. I told you, there’s not much.”

  She handed him the bag, past arguing.

  Jake pulled out his wallet again. “But I can’t—let me pay you something extra.”

  “A gift? Well, that’s very nice,” she said, taking it. “So maybe she’s lucky now. You see, Erich, he’s all right. You’ll be fine. Come, give auntie a hug.”

  She bent down, barely clasping him, an indifferent send-off. How long had they been together? The boy stood, not moving. “Go on,” she said, giving him a little push. “Go to your mother.”

  The boy jerked forward. Jake looked at her hand on the boy’s shoulder, stung, his heart dulled
by every terrible thing he’d heard in Berlin and now moved finally by this, a single moment of casual cruelty. What had happened to everybody?

  The boy took a step, looking down. Frau Metzger flicked through Jake’s bills, then shoved them in her apron pocket.

  “That’s all you can say to him?” Jake said. “Just like that? He’s a child.”

  “What do you know about it?” she said, eyes flashing. “I took care of him, didn’t I? While she had her good times. I earned every mark. And how long will you last, I wonder. Well, tell her not to come back when it’s over—the hotel is closed.” She had reached the door and held it open, then looked down at Erich with a twinge of embarrassment. “I did the best I could. You, you be a good boy, don’t forget. Don’t forget your auntie.”

  And then they were in the hall, the door closing behind them, a soft click, maybe the only thing the boy wouldn’t forget, a click of the door. They stood motionless for a second, and then the boy lifted his hand, still not speaking, just waiting to be led away.

  It was no better in the jeep. He sat quietly, passive, watching the streets go by, like the children from Silesia. Down the gentle slope of Schönhauserallee, then out past the pockmarked walls of the schloss to the Linden. Bicycles and soldiers. The plane wreckage in the Tiergarten. Registering everything without a word. He took Jake’s hand again on the walk from Savignyplatz.

  “My god, who’s this?” Lena said.

  “Another one for Fleischman. Erich.”

  “But where did you—”

  “He’s Renate’s child. You remember, from the office?”

  “Renate? But I thought all the Jews—”

  He stopped her. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. First let’s get him to the church.”

  “First some food, I think,” she said, kneeling down. “Look how thin. You’re hungry? Don’t be afraid, it’s safe here. Do you like cheese?”

  She led him over to the table and brought out a small block of rubbery PX cheese. The boy looked at it warily.

  “It’s real,” Lena said. “That’s the color it is in America. Here, there’s still some bread. It’s all right—eat.”

  He picked up the bread dutifully and took a nibble.

  “So Erich, it’s a good name. I knew an Erich once. Dark hair, like yours.” She reached over and touched it. “It’s good, the bread? Here, try some more.” She broke off a piece and offered it to him by hand, gently, the way you would feed a stray. “See, I told you. Now some cheese.”

  She fed him for a few minutes, until he began to eat on his own, taking in the food as quietly as the sights on the drive. She looked up at Jake. “Where is she?”

  Jake shook his head, a not-in-front-of-the-child gesture. “He’s been living with a woman in Prenzlauer. I think he’s had a rough time. He doesn’t say much.”

  “Well, it’s not so important, is it, to talk?” she said to the boy. “Sometimes I’m quiet too, when things are new. We’ll have something to eat, then maybe a little rest. You must be tired. All the way from Prenzlauer.”

  The boy was nodding at her, reassured, Jake saw, by her German, familiar, without Jake’s accent.

  “We should get him to Fleischman,” Jake said. “It’s getting late.”

  “There’s plenty of time,” she said easily, then turned. “But if she’s alive—You’re taking him from his mother? To Fleischman?”

  “I promised her I’d find a place. I’ll explain later,” he said, feeling the boy’s eyes on him.

  Lena offered him another piece of cheese. “It’s good, yes? There’s more—take as much as you like. Then we’ll sleep, what do you say?” Her voice soft, lulling.

  “Lena,” Jake said, “he can’t stay here. We can’t—”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, not really hearing it. “But for one night. That basement. You can see how tired he is. It’s all strange for him. You know my name?” she said to the boy. “It’s Lena.” She yawned, an exaggerated gesture, raising her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so tired too.”

  “Lena,” Jake said. “You know what I mean.”

  She looked at him. “Yes, I know. It’s just for tonight. What’s the matter with you? You can’t send him away like this. Look at his eyes. Men.”

  But the eyes were still wide, not drooping, moving from one to the other as if he were making a decision. Finally he fixed them on Jake, got up, and came over to him, lifting his hand again. For a second, confused, Jake thought he was asking to leave, but then he spoke, surprisingly clear after the long silence.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Lena smiled, laughing softly to herself. “Well, you’re good for that,” she said as Jake led him, two men, to the toilet.

  After that there was nothing to do but let her take charge, whatever he’d planned slipping away like a card move turned by an unexpected joker in the deck. From the table, he could see her settle the boy on the bed, running her hand over his forehead and talking softly, a low, steady stream of words. He lit a cigarette, restless, then glanced at his notebook. Renate being picked up in the café, an idle flirtation, the greifer’s greifer. The story Ron wanted him to share. He looked again into the bedroom, where Lena was still talking the boy to sleep, and, not knowing what else to do, started putting the notes in order to block out the story, wondering how to tell it without the one thing that had really mattered. But when he took a sheet of paper, it seemed to frame itself, opening with Marthe Behn, then dissolving to the first café and working its way back, one sinking twist after another, to the moment of the nod. Not an apologia; something more complicated, a crime story where everyone was guilty. He wrote in a rush, wanting to get it done, as if it would all go away once it was on paper, just words. The shoes, the mother, Hans Becker, trading favors. Still beyond belief. What had happened to everybody? A city where he used to drink beer under trees. How many had even looked up in the café when the men arrived? Not accomplices, people looking the other way. Except Renate, who still saw the faces.

  He’d been writing for a while, lost in it, before he realized that the murmuring in the bedroom had stopped, the only sound in the flat the faint scratch of his pen. Lena was standing in the doorway watching him, a tired smile on her face.

  “He’s asleep,” she said. “You’re working?”

  “I wanted to get it done while it’s fresh.”

  “Sewing with a hot needle,” she said, a German expression. She sat down across from him, taking one of the cigarettes. “I don’t think he’s well. I want Rosen to look at him, just in case. I saw him again today—he’s always here, it seems.”

  “He takes care of the girls.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little flustered. “I didn’t realize. Still, a doctor—”

  “Lena, we can’t keep him. You don’t want to get attached.”

  “Yes, I know. But for one night—” She stopped, looking at him. “That’s the terrible part, isn’t it? Nobody’s attached to him. Nobody. I thought, standing over there, it’s a little like a family. You working like this, him sleeping.”

  “We’re not his family,” he said, but gently.

  “No,” she said, letting it go. “So tell me about Renate. What happened? He won’t hear now.”

  “Here,” he said, moving the papers across the table. “It’s all there.”

  He got up and went over to the brandy bottle and poured two glasses. He set hers down, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the page.

  “She told you this?” she said, reading.

  “Yes.”

  “My god.” A slow turn of the page.

  When she finished, she pushed the papers back, then took a sip from the glass.

  “You don’t mention the child.”

  “She doesn’t want anybody to know. Especially the child.”

  “But nobody will know why she did it.”

  “Does it matter, what people think? The fact is, she did it.”

  “For the chil
d. You do anything for your child.”

  “That’s what she said,” he said, slightly jarred. “Lena, this is what she wanted. She doesn’t want him to know.”

  “Who he is.”

  “That would be a hell of a thing to carry around with you, wouldn’t it? All this,” he said, touching the paper. “He’s better off this way. He’ll never have to know any of it.”

  “Not to know your parents—” she said, brooding.

  “Sometimes it can’t be helped.”

  She looked up at him, then put her hands on the table to get up. “Yes, sometimes,” she said, turning away. “Do you want something to eat? I can fix—”

  “No. Sit. I have some news.” He paused. “Renate saw Emil. She told me where he is.”

  She stopped, halfway out of her chair. “You waited to tell me this?”

  “There wasn’t time, with the boy.”

  She sat down. “So it’s come. Where?”

  “The Russians are holding him in a building in Burgstrasse.”

  “Burgstrasse,” she said, trying to place it.

  “In the east. It’s guarded. I went to see it.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s guarded. You don’t just walk in.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We don’t do anything. We let Shaeffer’s team handle it—they’re experts at this.”

  “Experts at what?”

  “Kidnapping. That’s what it will mean. The Russians aren’t going to hand him over—they probably won’t even admit they have him. So Shaeffer needs to figure out a way. He wanted to use you. Kind of a decoy.”

  She looked down at the table, taking this in, then picked up the glass and finished her brandy.

  “Yes, all right,” she said.

  “All right what?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No, you won’t. People go to the Russians, they don’t always come back. I’m not taking that risk. This is a military operation, Lena.”

  “We can’t leave him there. He came for me—he risked his life. I owe him this much.”

  “You don’t owe him this.”

  “But Russians—”

  “I told you, I’ll talk to Shaeffer. If anybody can get him, he can. He wants him. He’s been waiting for this.”