A Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry to miss your explanation,” he said to Jake. “An interesting moment. Frau Brandt, there isn’t much time. I suggest you save the details for later.” He looked at Jake. “Send your husband a letter. Perhaps Mr. Geismar will help you with it.“ He raised his head and barked out something in Russian to the other room, evidently answering a question only he had understood. ”Of course, it’s better like this. The personal touch. But hurry, please. I’ll only be a moment-a small office matter, not so dramatic as yours.“ He turned to go.

  “Why should he help you with a letter?” Emil said. “Lena?”

  Sikorsky smiled at Jake. “A good starting point,” he said, then crossed over to the bedroom with another burst of Russian, leaving the door open so that the sound of him was still in the room.

  Jake looked away from the door, his eyes stopping at the crack in the wall, another collapsing house, suddenly back there again, the creak of joists whistling inside his head. No newsreel cameras waiting outside this time, machine guns, but the same calm panic. Get her out before it comes down. Don’t think, do it.

  “Why do you bring her?” Emil said. “What do you have to do with all this?”

  “Stop it,” Lena said. “He came to help you. Oh god, and now look. Jake, what are we going to do? They’re going to take him. There isn’t time—”

  He could hear the sound of Russian through the open door, low, like the rumbling of the settling wall in Gelferstrasse. He’d just walked out the door. A hero. People saw what they wanted to see. I’ll only be a moment.

  “Time for what?” Emil said. “You come here together and—”

  “Stop it, stop it,” Lena said, tugging at his sleeve. “You don’t understand. It was for you.”

  He did stop, surprised by the force of her hand, so that in the sudden quiet the sound of Russian in the next room seemed louder. Jake glanced again at the crack. One more move. The element of surprise.

  “No, keep talking,” Jake said quickly. “Just say anything. It doesn’t matter what, as long as they think we’re talking.” He took off his hat and put it on Emil’s head, lowering the brim, testing it.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe. Keep talking. Lena, say something. They need to know you’re here.” He started tearing off his tie. “Come on,” he said to Emil, “strip. Hurry.”

  “Oh, Jake—”

  “He’s crazy,” Emil said.

  “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

  “Get out? It’s not possible.”

  “Take off the goddamn shirt. What have you got to lose? They’re giving you a one-way ticket to Nordhausen, except this time you’re one of the guys in the tunnel.”

  Emil looked at him, amazed. “No. They promised—”

  “The Soviets? Don’t be an ass. Lena, help. And say something.”

  She looked at him for an instant, too frightened to move, then Jake nudged her toward Emil and she started unbuttoning his shirt. Pale white skin. “Do what he says. Please,” she said. Then, raising her public voice, “You know, Emil, it’s so difficult, all this.” The words dribbled out, a kind of nervous gibberish.

  Jake dropped the holster belt on the couch and unzipped his pants. “We’re the same size. Just keep the brim down on the hat. They don’t know me. All they’ll see is the uniform.”

  Lena was keeping up a patter, but flagging. Jake stepped out of the trousers. This would be the moment. Caught literally with his pants down.

  “Quick, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You know about Nordhausen?” Emil said.

  “I was there.” He flung the pants at him. “I saw your work.”

  Emil said nothing, staring.

  “Jake, I can’t do it,” Lena said, struggling with the buckle.

  Wordlessly, almost in a trance, Emil unhitched it and dropped his pants.

  “Right. Now it’s your turn,” Jake said to Emil. “Put these on and say something. Loud, but not too loud. Just a little spat. Lena, come here.” He nodded at Emil to start talking and took her by the shoulders. “Now listen to me.”

  “Jake—”

  “Ssh. You walk out of here with the uniform.” He jerked his head toward Emil, putting on Jake’s pants. “Like nothing happened. The guards don’t care about us, just him. We’re the visitors. Don’t say anything, just go. Casual, see. Then you go downstairs to Brian and get out fast. Tell him it’s an emergency, now, understand? But keep him with you. If Brian doesn’t have a car, take the jeep. It’s on the Linden, keys in the pants there, got that? Then go like hell. They’ll follow.

  Don’t go through the Brandenburg, they’ve got a checkpoint. Okay? But fast. Pull Brian away if you have to. Go to the flat and stay there and keep him out of sight.“ He pointed his thumb to Emil, dressed now. ”Ready?“ he said to him, straightening the army tie. ”See, a real American.“

  “What about you?” Lena said.

  “Let’s get him out first. I told you I would, didn’t I? Now get going.”

  “Jake,” she said, reaching for him.

  “Later. Come on, say something,” he said to Emil. “And keep the hat down.”

  “And if they stop us?” Emil said.

  “They stop you.”

  “You’ll get us all killed.”

  “No, I’m saving your life.” Jake looked up at him. “Now we’re quits.”

  “Quits,” Emil said.

  “That’s right. For everything.” He reached up and took off Emil’s glasses.

  “I can’t see,” Emil said feebly.

  “Then take her arm. Move.” He reached for the door handle.

  “If you do this, they’ll kill you,” Lena said quietly, a pleading.

  “No, they won’t. I’m famous,” he said, trying for a smile but meeting her eyes instead. “Now, quick.” He turned the handle, careful not to make noise. “Don’t say goodbye. Just go.”

  He stood behind the door, opening it for them, waving them out with a frantic shooing motion. A second of hesitation, more dangerous even than going; then she looked at him once more, biting her lip, and slipped her arm under Emil’s and led him out. Jake closed the door and started talking, so that his voice would reach the other room, reassuring everyone, even the guards, with the sound of conversation. Use your smart mouth. But how long would the Russians keep talking? In the hall by now, approaching the stairs. Just a few minutes, a little luck. Until Sikorsky came out and reached for his gun. Because of course Lena was right-they’d kill him. No more moves left.

  He started buttoning Emil’s shirt, trying to think and talk at the same time. A holster belt on the couch. Why hadn’t he told them to pick up the gun downstairs, or would Brian be sober enough to grab it on his way out? Making his excuses at the table, following them across the field of rubble to the street, not running, stumbling in the dark. They’d need time. He looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a closet, a Wilhelmine armoire. The bathroom was next door, off the bedroom. Nothing but a door to the machine guns and a window to Goebbels’ garden. A soft landing, but not from two stories up. No, three, a hopeless drop. In prison movies they tied sheets together, a white braid, like Rapunzel’s hair. Fairy tales. He glanced again at the couch-one sheet, nothing to anchor it but the radiator under the windowsill, visible to the Russians through the open door. Even the simplest knot would take too long. They’d shoot before he made the first hitch.

  He reached for the belt to Emil’s pants, wondering why he was bothering to dress at all. There had to be something, some way to talk himself past the guards. They all wanted watches, like the Russian behind the Alex. But he was Emil now, not a GI with something to trade. He looked toward the window again. An old radiator that probably hadn’t felt heat in a year, even with the control handle all the way open. Old-fashioned, shaped to match the door handle. From the next room there was a sudden burst of laughter. They’d be breaking up soon. How long had it been? Enough time for Brian to get them to the Linden? He talke
d again to the empty room, the scene Sikorsky had been sorry to miss.

  He started threading the belt through the pants loops then stopped, looking up again at the window. Why not? At least it was something to minimize the drop. He picked up the holster belt. Thicker, not the same size. Still. He pushed the end into Emil’s buckle, squeezing it to fit, forcing the metal prong through the thick leather, then pulling it tight. If it held, the double length would give him-what? six feet? “Do you have any better ideas?” he said aloud, as if Emil were still there arguing with him. And the holster buckle was an open square, big enough to slip over the radiator handle, if he was lucky. I’m saving your life.

  More laughter. He moved silently toward the doorway, sweating. He wiped his palm dry, wrapped the end of the belt around it, gripping it, and held out the buckle, fixing his eye on the radiator. If it took more than a second, he’d be dead. A short intake of breath for good luck, then he darted forward, slipped the buckle on the handle, and scrambled over the sill. A small clink of metal as it hooked on, evidently unheard over the Russian talk, then a strained grunt as he dropped, catching the belt with his other hand, holding on, trying not to fall, his feet dangling in open air. He held tight for an instant, not trusting the belt yet, then felt himself slipping, a raw burning as the leather slid through his hand until it reached the other buckle, something to grip. Both hands now, his entire weight hanging by a single brass prong, his arms beginning to cramp.

  He looked below. Rubble, not a flower bed. He’d need all of the belt, every foot a hedge against a broken ankle. The windows in the back were holes in a smooth facade, no lintels, nothing to break his fall but a pipe that branched off from the corner and snaked across the wall. Europe, where they put the pipes outside. He tried to guess the distance. Maybe just close enough if he let the belt out, something to hold his feet until his arms came back. Then a close slide down, grabbing the pipe in time, a drop in stages. A cat burglar could do it.

  He moved his hands carefully off the buckle, just an inch, to the thinner leather of Emil’s belt. One over the other, his hands stinging from the leather burn, as if he were gripping nettles. Still no sound from above, just his own ragged panting and the scrape of his shoes against the plaster. Almost at the pipe.

  And then it gave. Either the radiator handle or the other buckle, impossible to tell which, broke off, and he plunged with the belt, his feet hitting the pipe and bouncing off, his hands reaching out for anything on the wall until they met the pipe and clutched, stopping his body with a wrench of his shoulders. He held on, his body jerking, trying to stop his legs from flailing, and then he was going lower again, the pipe bending, weakened, too light for his weight, a groan at the joint near the corner and then a crack, like a shot, as it snapped and a loud crash as he went down with it, metal clanging against the rubble and his own cry as his body smashed against the ground. For a moment he seemed to black out, an absolute stillness between breaths, then another piece of pipe clattered down and he heard shouts from the window, the air filled with noisy alarm, as if dogs had started barking.

  Move. He raised his head, wet at the back, a flash of nausea, and rolled slightly on his shoulder, wincing from a sharp pain. His feet, however, seemed all right-just a dull ache in one of the ankles, throbbing with the shock of the fall but not broken. A white shirt anyone could pick out in the darkness. He rolled toward the wall and pulled himself up, bracing against it so that if he fainted he’d be falling backward, not into firing range. Louder shouts now, probably the guards. He sidled toward the recess of a doorway, still in shadow, then jumped, startled at the sound of the blasts, a machine gun firing at random down into the yard. The first thing he’d learned about combat-how the sound exploded in your ears, loud enough to reach inside you, right into the blood.

  He pressed into the doorway, away from the bullets. Was it open? But the hotel was a trap, the last place he’d be safe. And what if they weren’t out yet? Head away from the Linden, a few more seconds of diversion. He looked around the yard, trying to fix its layout. An unbroken wall to the corner, then another, seamless. No, a gap where it had been damaged by shelling. Which might not lead anywhere, a rat hole. But the yard itself was impossible-one streak of his white shirt and the bullets would have him. And now there was more light, slim shafts from flashlights, darting in confusion, then raking steadily across the rubble, strong enough to poke into corners, picking up piles of debris and the dull gleam of the pipe, coming toward him. In a minute he’d be in the beam, trapped, like one of the boys huddling against the Volga cliffs, easy target practice.

  He bent down, picked up a piece of brick, and hurled it right toward the broken pipe, a desperate ring toss. It hit. A sharp clang, with the flashlight beams jerking back, another burst of shots. Without even testing his ankle, he bolted left toward the gap, hearing the crunch of broken plaster under his feet, more shouts in Russian. Just a few more steps. Endless. Then the light was back, shining against the wall and the shelling hole, drawing fire again. He crouched down in a feint, making the light follow him, then leaped away from it and dived into the gap, rolling downward on his bad shoulder and covering his head as the bullets ripped into the plaster at the opening, a furious ricochet whistling, just a foot or so too high. His whole body shaking now, finally in the war.

  He rolled again, away from the opening, on a floor covered with glass and scattered papers, office litter. Bullets still tore into the room, one of them hitting metal with an echoing zing. He took his hand away from the back of his head, sticky with blood, opened when he’d hit the ground in the fall, and thought of Liz’s throat, gushing. Just one bullet. All it would take.

  And then suddenly the bullets stopped, replaced by more shouting. He kept rolling until he reached a hulk of metal, a filing cabinet, and crawled behind it, raising his head to look out. There were heads at all the windows now, looking at the yard, yelling to each other, but none at Sikorsky’s, the machine guns redeployed, no doubt racing down the stairs, already after him.

  He felt his way through the dark room to another, heading toward what he thought must be Wilhelmstrasse, a diagonal from the Adlon wing. Keep going away from the Linden. The next room was lighter, open to the sky, and he saw that he had left the standing part of the building behind. Now there was just a small hill of rubble, then an open patch to the ruined shell of the front. He started running toward the street. They’d come through the courtyard behind. He’d have a few seconds to get out, melt into the ruins while they searched the back of the Adlon. But when he came to an opening, ready to spring, he could hear the boots clomping in the street. Front and behind.

  He headed right, snaking his way around another mound of bricks, still parallel to the street. They’d go first to the room with the filing cabinet, hoping to find him dead, not down Wilhelmstrasse. He took in the street again through the building shell. Just keep going. Another room, big, with twisted girders sticking up like teepee frames. Behind him, he could hear the boots entering the building. All of them? One more room, quietly. He stopped. Not just rubble; a small mountain, even the shell collapsed in, a dead end in the maze. He’d have to go back. But the boots were there again, crunching, fanning out through the building. He looked up toward the dark sky. The only way out was over.

  He started up the pile, terrified that a slip would dislodge the bricks, send them tumbling down like alarms. If he could make the top, he could get to the next building, breathing space while they searched this one. He reached up, shoulder aching, scrambling on all fours. Bricks moved, settling and falling away as he found one foothold after another, but no louder than small clinks, not as loud as the Russians, still yelling from room to room. But what if the mound dropped sheer on the other side, propped up by a standing wall?

  It didn’t. When he reached the top, lying down, he saw that it became one of those aprons of rubble that spilled into the street, without a connection to the next building. He also saw, ducking his head, lights sweep into the street, an open Sov
iet military car, Sikorsky jumping out, gun in hand, then pointing the car down the street, away from the Linden. Sikorsky stood for a minute, looking everywhere but up, and it occurred to Jake that he could just lie here, perched on his mountain, the one place they’d never look. Until when? The morning sun caught his white shirt and they surrounded him with guns? Another car came down the street, idled while Sikorsky gave a direction, and moved on to Behrenstrasse, the next cross street down, blocking that route. Now the only way out was the unbroken western side of Wilhelmstrasse, if he could get there before the headlights lit up the street. He watched Sikorsky take one of the soldiers and head into the building. Now, while the car was still turning into Behrenstrasse.

  He inched down the rubble on his back, as if he were sliding down a sand dune, but the bricks rolled with him, a small avalanche, not sand. In a few seconds they’d hear the clattering over their engine. He crouched, then took a breath and started running down the slope, pitched forward by gravity, flying, so that he thought he’d reach the pavement face first. He staggered from the jolt of hitting flat ground, then hurled himself down the street. How long before they turned? His shoes smacking the pavement now, in shadow and racing south, putting space between him and the wrecked ministry. Getting away with it. Until the air exploded again with a spray of bullets. The Behrenstrasse car, catching his shirt in its lights. He ducked but kept running, looking frantically for another open space in the wall of rubble. Shouts behind him, more boots-probably Sikorsky and his men responding to the gunfire, back in the street.

  One long dark stretch, the other Soviet car visible now at the end, standing in the middle of the Voss Strasse intersection, by the Chancellery. Head right somewhere, behind the buildings, the wasteland near Hitler’s bunker. But the rubble ran in an unbroken line here. Shouts in the dark. There would be guards at the bunker, even at night, watching for looters. Who would they think he was, running away from guns? The street would end any second now, with the roadblock, and someone had started firing again, maybe at random, maybe at the pale glow of his shirt.