by Joseph Kanon
“I don’t know yet. I thought I’d look up some people I used to know, see what happened to them.”
“Hearts-and-flowers stuff.”
Jake spread his hands, not wanting to be drawn in. “The poker game then, I guess.”
“In other words, sit around with the rest of us and do what Ron here says,” he said, raising his voice. “Right?”
“If you say so, Tommy,” Ron said, shooting him a wary look across the table.
“Handouts. We can’t even get near the place. Stalin’s afraid somebody’s going to take a potshot at him. That it, Ron?”
“I’d say he’s more afraid of being quoted out of context.”
“Now, who’d do a thing like that? Would you do that, Jake?”
“Never.”
“I can’t say I blame him,” the congressman said, smiling. “I’ve had a little experience in that department myself.” His manner was looser now, a campaign geniality, and Jake wondered for a second if the stiffness on the plane had been nothing more than fear of flying, better hidden than the young soldier’s. His wide tie, a dizzying paisley, was like a flash of neon at the uniformed table.
“You’re Alan Breimer, aren’t you?” Tommy said.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding, pleased to be recognized.
“War Production Board,” Tommy said, a memory display. “We met when I covered the trust hearings in ‘thirty-eight.”
“Oh yes,” said Breimer, who clearly didn’t remember.
“What brings you to Berlin?” Tommy said, so smoothly that Jake saw he was working, the line to Ron only a way of reeling Breimer in.
“Just a little fact-finding for my committee.”
“In Berlin?”
“The congressman’s been looking at conditions all over the zone,” Ron said, stepping in. “Technically, that includes us too.”
“Why not Berlin?” Breimer said to Tommy, curious.
“Well, industrial capacity’s your field. Not much of that left here.”
“Not much of that anywhere in our zone,” Breimer said, trying for a backroom heartiness. “You know what they say-the Russians got the food, the British got the factories, and we got the scenery. I suppose we have Yalta to thank for that too.” He looked at Tommy, expecting a response, then switched gears. “Anyway, I’m not here to see factories, just our MG officials. We’ve got General Clay tomorrow, right, lieutenant?”
“Bright and early,” Ron said.
“You’ll want to see Blaustein over in Economics,” Tommy said, as if he were helping to fill the schedule. “Remember him? He was the lawyer from Justice at the trust hearing.”
“I remember Mr. Blaustein.”
“On the other hand, you weren’t exactly best friends.”
“He had his ideas, I had mine,” Breimer said easily. “What is he doing here? ”
“Same idea. Decartelization. One of the four Ds.”
“Four Ds?” Jake said.
“Military Government policy for Germany,” Ron said in his briefing voice. “Demilitarization, de-Nazification, decartelization, and democracy.”
“And the least of these shall be decartelization. Isn’t that right, congressman?” Tommy said.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“American Dye and Chemical’s in your district. I seem to remember they held the North American Farben patents. I thought maybe you’d come over to see—”
He waited for Breimer to take the bait, but the congressman just sighed. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Same one Mr. Blaustein kept barking up.” He shook his head. “The more successful a business became, the more he wanted to tear it down. I never did understand that.” He looked straight at Tommy. “American Dye’s just one business in the district, just one.”
“But the only one with a German partner.”
“That was before the war, Mr. -? Who did you say you were with?”
“Tom Ottinger. Mutual. Don’t worry, we’re off the record.”
“We can be on the record for all I care. I’m not here for American Dye or anyone else. Just the American people.”
Tommy grinned. “Now that makes me homesick. You forget people talk like that in Washington.”
“I’m glad you find us so funny.” He turned to Ron. “Well, I can see I’m not winning any votes here,” he said, an unexpectedly graceful exit. Then, unable to resist, he turned back to Tommy. “You know, it’s easy to attack business. I’ve heard it all my life, usually from people who don’t know the first thing about it. Maybe we ought to keep in mind that those companies, the ones you want to break up, won the war for us.”
“They almost won it here too. Now they’re war criminals. I wonder where the boys at American Dye would be if things had gone the other way.”
“That’s a hell of a thing for an American to say.” Tommy raised his glass. “But you’d defend to your death my right to say it.” He took in Breimer’s blank expression. “Oliver Wendell Holmes. Another troublemaker in the Justice Department.”
“No, Voltaire,” the Judge Hardy lookalike said mildly, the first time he’d spoken. “If he said it. He was probably misquoted too.” A sly smile at Tommy.
“Well, somebody said it,” Tommy said. “Anyway, it’s the right idea. Don’t you think?” he said to Breimer, his glass still raised.
Breimer stared at him for a moment, a politician assessing a heckler, then lifted his glass with a forced smile. “I certainly do. To the Justice Department. And to the gentlemen of the press.” “Bless their little hearts,” Ron said.
They drank, then Breimer turned back to Ron, placing his fleshy hand on a paper on the table. “But Clay’s a direct report to Ike,” he said, as if they had never been interrupted.
“That’s right,” Ron said quickly, before Tommy could jump in again. “The army’s here as support, but Military Government reports in to Ike. Technically, to the Allied Control Council. That’s Ike, Ismay, and Zhukov. We’re USGCC, U.S. Group, Control Council.”
He was drawing boxes on the paper, an organization chart.
“Control Council’s the final authority for the country, at least for the sign-off, but the real work’s here, in the Coordinating Committee. That’s Clay, as Ike’s deputy, and the other Allied deputies. Under Clay you’ve got your executive staff line, like Colonel Muller here,” he said, turning to Judge Hardy, who nodded.
“Nice to put a face on a box,” Breimer said eagerly, but Ron was already moving down the sheet.
“Then the functional offices-Political Affairs, Intelligence, Information Control, and so on.”
Jake watched the lines and boxes spread across the bottom of the page, a kind of bureaucratic family tree.
“The functional divisions down here are the ones that work with the Germans-Transport, Manpower, Legal, and so on.”
Breimer was studying the chart with care, familiar with the world as a pyramid of boxes. “Where does Frankfurt come in?”
“Well, that’s USFET, G-5, civil affairs.” ‹›“USFET. The army’s got more damned alphabet soup than the New Deal,” Breimer said, evidently his idea of a joke, because he looked up. Ron smiled obligingly.
“In other words, overlap,” Breimer said.
Ron smiled again. “That I couldn’t say.”
“No, you don’t have to.” He shook his head. “If we ran a business this way, we’d never make any money.”
“We’re not here to make money,” Muller said quietly.
“No, to spend it,” Breimer said, but pleasantly. “From the looks of things, we’ve got a whole country on relief and the American taxpayer footing the bill. Some peace.”
“We can’t let them starve.”
“Nobody’s starving that I can see.” ‹›Muller turned to face him, his expression grave and kindly, Judge Hardy lecturing Andy. “The official ration is fifteen hundred calories a day. In practice, it’s closer to twelve hundred, sometimes lower. That’s only a little better than the camps. They’re starving.”
His voice, as precise and rational as one of Ron’s boxes, stopped Breimer short. “Unless they work for us,” he went on calmly. “Then they get a hot meal every day and all the cigarette butts they can scrounge.” He paused. “They’re the ones you see.” Jake glanced over at the serving man, quietly removing plates, and noticed for the first time his thin neck bobbing in its oversized collar.
“Nobody wants anybody to starve,” Breimer said. “I’m not a hard peace man. That’s that nut Morgenthau in Treasury.” He glanced over at Tommy. “One of your trust-busters, by the way. Wants to make ‘em all farmers, take the whole damn thing apart. Dumbest thing I ever heard. Of course, those people have their own agenda.”
“What people?” Tommy said, but Breimer ignored him, sweeping along.
“I’m a realist. What we need to do is get this country back on its feet again, not put ‘em on relief. Now, I’m not saying you people aren’t doing a fine job here.” This to Muller, who nodded dutifully. “I’ve been in Germany two weeks and I can tell you I’ve never been prouder to be an American. The things I’ve seen- But hell, look at this.” He pointed to the chart. “You can’t do much when you’re spread this thin on the ground. One group here, another in Frankfurt—”
“I believe it’s General Clay’s intention to combine the organizations,” Ron said.
“Good,” Breimer said, annoyed at being interrupted. “That’s a start. And here’s a whole other group just for Berlin.”
“Well, you know, the city’s jointly administered, so there’s no way around that,” Ron said, still on his chart. “The Coordinating Committee set up the Kommandatura to deal with Berlin. That’s Howley-we see him tomorrow after Clay.”
“Kommandatura,” Breimer said. “That the Russian name?”
“More international than Russian, I think,” Ron said, evading. “Everyone agreed to it.”
Breimer snorted. “The Russians. I’ll tell you one thing. We don’t get these people back on their feet, the Russians’ll come in, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that’s one way to stop the drain on the American taxpayer,” Tommy said. “Let Ivan pick up the tab.”
Breimer glowered at him. “That’s not all he’ll pick up. Well, have your fun, have your fun,” he said, sitting back. “I suppose I’m making speeches again and ruining the party. My wife’s always telling me I don’t know when to stop.” He gave a calculated smile, meant to disarm. “It’s just, you know, I hate to see waste. That’s one thing you learn in business.” He glanced again at Tommy. “To be a realist.” He shook his head. “Four Ds. We ought to be putting these people to work, not giving them handouts and breaking up their companies and wasting our time looking for Nazis under every bed.”
A plate crashed, like a punctuation mark, and everyone turned to the door. The old man, distraught, was looking at the floor, held at the elbow by the short, wiry American who had just bumped into him. For a second no one moved, suspended in a stopped piece of film, then the reel caught again and they tumbled forward into a kind of slapstick, the gray-haired woman rushing out, hands to her cheeks, the old man moaning, the American apologizing in German. When he bent down to help with the pieces, the files under his arm slid onto the floor in a heap of papers and broken crockery. More excited German, a fuss too elaborate, Jake thought, to be about a plate-the fear, perhaps, of losing a job with its one hot meal a day. Finally the woman shooed both men away from the china and, with a bow, pulled back a chair for the late arrival.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” he said to the quiet room, busy stacking files on the table. He had a terrier’s sharp nose and nervous energy, his face covered with a dark five-o’clock shadow he hadn’t had time to shave. Even the air around him seemed to be running late, his tie loosened from its open collar by the same hurried gust.
“Congressman, your three o’clock tomorrow,” Ron said wryly. Captain Teitel, Public Safety Division. Bernie, Congressman Breimer.“
“Pleased to meet you,” Teitel said quickly, extending his hand and almost colliding again with a plate of stew the serving man had brought. Jake watched, amused, as the old man hesitated behind him, waiting for a safe opening.
“Public Safety,” Breimer said. “That’s police?”
“Among other things. I’m de-Nazification-the guy wasting our time looking under the beds,” Teitel said.
“Ah,” Breimer said, unsure how to proceed. Then he stood.
“No, don’t get up.”
Breimer smiled, pointing to the tall soldier standing at the door. “My ride.”
But Bernie wasn’t ready to let go. “Frankfurt tells me you have a problem with the program,” he said, lowering his head as if preparing to ram.
Breimer looked down at him, ready for another heckler, but Tommy had wearied him. “No problem,” he said, mollifying. “Just a few questions. I’m sure you’re all doing a fine job.”
“We’d be doing a better one if we had more staff.”
Breimer smiled. “That seems to be the general complaint here. Everybody I meet wants another secretary.”
“I don’t mean secretaries. Trained investigators.”
The old man now slid the plate between them onto the table and backed away, as if sensing that they were squaring off.
“Well, we’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Breimer said, preparing to go. “I’m here to learn. Afraid I can’t do anything about personnel, though-that’s up to MG.”
“I thought you were writing some kind of report.”
Breimer held up a wait-a-second finger to his driver. “No. Just making sure we’re keeping our priorities straight.”
“This is apriority.”
Breimer smiled again, back on familiar ground. “Well, that’s what every department says. But you know, we can’t do everything.” He indicated the organization chart. “Sometimes I think we let our good intentions run away with us.” He put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder, an uncle giving advice. “We can’t put a whole country on trial.”
“No, just the guilty ones,” Bernie said, looking at him steadily.
Breimer dropped his hand, the easy get-away lost. “That’s right, just the guilty ones.” He looked back at Bernie. “We don’t want to start some kind of inquisition over here. The American people don’t want that.”
“Really? What do we want?” Bernie said, using the pronoun as a jab. ‹›Breimer stepped back. “I think we all want the same thing,” he said evenly “To get this country going again. That’s the important thing now. You can’t do that by locking everybody up. The worst cases, yes. Get the big boys and put them on trial-I’m all for it. But then we’ve got to move on, not chase all the small fry.” He paused, avuncular again. “We don’t want people to think a minority is using this program to get revenge.” He shook his head. “We don’t want that.” The voice of the Kiwanis Club lunch, bland and sure of itself. In the awkward silence, Jake could feel Tommy shift in his chair, leaning forward to see Bernie’s response.
“We’re an even smaller minority here,” Bernie said calmly. “Most of us are dead.”
“I didn’t mean you personally, of course.”
“Just all the other Jews in the program. But we speak the language, some of us-one of life’s little ironies-so you’re stuck with us. I was born here. If my parents hadn’t left in ‘thirty-three, I’d be dead too. Personally. So I think this is a priority.” He touched the pile of papers on the table. “I’m sorry if it interferes with economic recovery. As far as I’m concerned, you can file that under T for ’too bad.‘ I’m a DA back home, that’s why they tapped me for this. DAs don’t get revenge. Half the time, we’re lucky to get a little justice.”
Breimer, who had turned red during this, sputtered, “I didn’t mean—”
“Save it. I know what you mean. I don’t want to join your country club anyway. Just send me more staff and we’ll call it quits.” He pulled the chair beneath him and sat down, cocking his head toward the door. “I think your driver’s waiting.”
Breimer stood still for a moment, furious, then visibly collected himself and nodded to the quiet table. “Gentlemen.” He looked down at Bernie. “We’ll talk tomorrow, captain. I hope I’ll be better understood.”
The entire table watched him go. Jake looked around, waiting for someone to speak, feeling the room grow warmer, as if the quiet were letting in the sticky night air. Finally Muller, staring at his glass, said dryly, “He’s here to learn.”
Tommy smiled at him and lit a cigarette. “I wonder what he’s really doing here. Guy doesn’t take a leak unless American Dye tells him to go to the bathroom.”
“Hey, Tommy,” Ron said, “do me a favor. Lay off. I’m the one who gets the complaints.”
“What’ll you do for me?”
But the earlier mood was gone, replaced by something uncomfortable, and even Ron no longer wanted to play.
“Well, that was nice,” he said to Bernie. “We have to live with this guy, you know.”
Bernie looked up from his stew. “Sorry,” he said, still on edge.
Ron took a drink, looking at Tommy. “He seems to bring out the best in everybody.”
“Small fry,” Bernie said, imitating Breimer’s voice. “Whoever that is.”
“Anybody but Goering,” Tommy said.
“Small fry,” Bernie said again. “Here’s one.” He reached into the pile and pulled out a few buff-colored sheets. “Otto Klopfer. Wants to drive for us. Experienced. Says he drove a truck during the war. He just didn’t say what kind. One of the mobile units, it turns out. The exhaust pipe ran back into the van. They’d load about fifty, sixty people in there, and old Otto would just keep the motor running until they died. We found out because he wrote a letter to his CO.” He held up a sheet. “The exhaust was taking too long. Recommended they seal the pipes so it would work faster. The people were panicking, trying to get out. He was afraid they’d damage the truck.”
Another silence, this time so still that even the air around Bernie seemed to stop. He looked down at the food and pushed it away. “Fuck,” he said, embarrassed, then stood up, gathering his files, and left the room.
Jake stared at the white tablecloth. He heard the old man quietly clearing the plates, then the muffled scrape of chairs as Muller and the MG end of the table got up to leave. Tommy ground his cigarette into the ashtray.
