A Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  He swerved right off the pavement into a dark space in the rubble. A cul-de-sac, like a moon crater, one of its rims backing onto the Chancellery itself. He thought of Liz snapping pictures. The long gallery and then the smashed office opening out to the back. No one would be collecting souvenirs now. He clambered up another apron of rubble to the ground-floor window and vaulted through, finally out of the street. He stayed down for a minute, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and started across the room, hitting his shin against an overturned chair, then retreated back to the wall, feeling his way toward the next window. More light here, just faint enough to see that the long gallery was still a mess, a minefield of broken furniture and fallen chandeliers. He moved farther along the wall, avoiding the booby traps of debris in the center. Shouts outside again. They would have reached the roadblock, would be doubling back now to pick their way through the ruins, a rat hunt. Get to the end of the room somehow, toward the bunker. Maybe the guards hadn’t been alerted yet. The element of surprise.

  He had reached another chair, stuffing spilling out of the ripped upholstery, when the tall doors banged open, flung back in a hurry. He dived behind the chair, holding his breath, as if even a slight rasp would give him away. Sikorsky with a few men, one of them a Mongol guard from outside. Machine guns and flashlights waving around the still hall. Sikorsky motioned with his hands for them to spread out. For another second no one moved, letting the noisy echo of their entrance die down, then Sikorsky took a step toward the wall with the chair and Jake froze, the back of his neck tingling. Not fear; a trickle of blood running down, soaking into the shirt. How much had he lost?

  “Geismar!” Sikorsky shouted into the air, another echo, looking now toward the end of the gallery, where the office and garden windows were. “You cannot leave here.” Not through the garden anyway, and not back into the street either. “No more shooting. You have my word.” All the while motioning to the others to begin their sweep, guns ready. In Stalingrad they’d fought building by building, a war of snipers. “We have Brandt,” he said, cocking his head to hear a reply. Jake let out a breath, half expecting it to echo. But did they? No, they’d raced around the Adlon too fast, not stopping for anything. A poor chess player.

  Sikorsky nodded and his men began to move with their flashlights, only one of them left stationed by the door. But armed. Jake followed the lights. They’d sweep to the end, then back, until they were sure. No way to get to the garden. He raised his head a little, glancing out the window. Distract the Mongol, make a break for it across Voss Strasse. But the open car was there at the corner, ready to fire, maybe a second Mongol still posted on the steps. Back the way he had come, to the moon crater? Every step echoing in the giant room, no weapon except a splintered armrest. Endgame.

  The Russians were nearing the end of the hall, shining lights into the office where GIs had chipped off pieces of Hitler’s desk. Two of them dispatched to check the room, then back, returning now toward Jake’s end. How many? Four, plus Sikorsky. He heard the crunch of glass, a chandelier globe caught underfoot. Minutes. Then they stopped, heads swiveling, alert to a sound. Had Jake moved, paralyzed behind his chair? No, a different sound, not in the room, getting louder-a pop, a grind of motors, raucous whoops. Jake strained a little closer to the window, looking out. Rumbling down Wilhelmstrasse, almost in the headlights. “It’s over!” he heard in English. “It’s over!” Football game yelling. Then he could see the jeep, soldiers standing with beer bottles, fingers raised in Churchill Vs. In the light now. Americans, like some phantom rescue party out of Gunther’s westerns. If he could get through the window, he’d be almost there. The Russians at the roadblock, too stunned to react, looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. Then, before Jake could move, the GIs, still whooping, started firing into the air, victory fireworks. “It’s over!”

  But all the Russians heard was gunfire. Startled, they started firing back, a machine gun strafing the jeep, one GI flung back, then whirling, falling forward over the windshield.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” a GI screamed, the reply lost under another barrage of shots.

  Then the GIs were crouching, firing too, into the roadblock, and Jake saw, horrified, that it was the Potsdam market again, a confusion of screams and bullets, real combat, men actually going down in the crossfire.

  Inside the Chancellery, Sikorsky’s men raced toward the doors, stumbling over pieces of debris, shouting to each other. Gunfire must mean that Jake was out there. They ran out onto the steps, saw the American jeep at the roadblock, and started firing. The Russians in the street, caught by surprise shots from the side, automatically swerved and fired back. Open stairs, nowhere to hide. The Mongol was hit first, falling headlong, the others ducking. Sikorsky yelled out something in Russian, then clutched his stomach. Jake watched, amazed, as he sank to his knees, bullets still raking the columns behind him. “Fuck! Ed’s hit!” somebody yelled. Another round into the blockade from the jeep. Then a hoarse scream in Russian from the steps, and all at once it stopped, the soldiers in the roadblock looking, dazed, at the Chancellery, Sikorsky still kneeling there, his uniform finally visible to them as he rolled over.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” the GI yelled, bent over his friend. “You shot him!”

  The Russians, crouching for cover, held their guns out, waiting to see what would happen, not ready to believe they weren’t under attack.

  “You shoot!” one yelled in broken English.

  “You idiot! We’re not shooting. You’re shooting. It’s over!” The soldier took out a handkerchief and waved it, then stepped tentatively out of the jeep. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  A Russian stood up beside the car and took a step toward him, both holding their guns. Then no one said anything, a stillness you could touch, the others beginning to move from their places in slow motion, staring at the bodies in the street, appalled. The Russian looked toward the steps, terrified, as if he expected to be punished, still not sure what had happened. The Mongol, not dead, called out something, and the Russian just kept looking, stupefied, not even moving when Jake limped out of the building, went over to Sikorsky, and picked up the revolver near his hand.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the GI called, spotting him. A man in civilian clothes.

  Jake looked down at Sikorsky. His eyes were glazed but he was still alive, breathing hard, struggling for air, his front coated with blood. Jake knelt down next to him, holding the revolver. The other Russians still didn’t move, confused, as if Jake were another inexplicable phantom.

  Sikorsky twisted his mouth in a sneer. “You.”

  Jake shook his head. “Your own men. It was your own men.”

  Sikorsky looked toward the street. “Shaeffer?”

  “No. Nobody. The war’s over, that’s all. The war’s over.”

  Sikorsky grunted.

  Jake looked at the stomach wound, welling blood. Not long. “Tell me who he was working with. The other American.”

  Sikorsky said nothing. Jake moved the revolver in front of his face. The Russian in the street stirred but made no move, still waiting. What would they do if he fired? Start killing each other again?

  “Who?” Jake said. “Tell me. It can’t matter now.”

  Sikorsky opened his mouth and spit at him, but weakly, without force, so that the strand of saliva fell back on his own lips.

  Jake put the gun closer to his chin. “Who?”

  Sikorsky glared at him, still sneering, then looked directly into the gun. “Finish it,” he said, closing his eyes.

  The only one who could tell him, slipping away, the last thing that would go wrong. Jake looked at the closed eyes for another second, then took the gun away from Sikorsky’s face, drained.

  “Finish it yourself. It took my friend about a minute to die. The one you killed. I hope it takes you two. One to think about her. I hope you see her face.”

  Sikorsky opened his eyes wide, as if in fact he were looking at something.r />
  “That’s right, like that. Scared.” Jake stood up. “Now take another for the kids in the boat. See them?” He stared for another second, Sikorsky’s eyes locked on his, even wider. “Steel,” he said, then walked down the stairs, not turning even when he heard the strangled gasp behind him. He handed the gun to the stunned Russian.

  “Will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on here?” the GI said.

  “Speak German?” Jake said to the Russian. “Get your men out of here.”

  “Why did they shoot?”

  “The Japs surrendered.” The Russian looked at him, dumbfounded. “These men are wounded,” Jake said, suddenly dizzy. “So are yours. We have to get them out. Move the car.”

  “But what do I say? To explain?”

  Jake looked down at a Russian in the street, spattered with blood. As stupid and pointless as it always was.

  “I don’t know,” he said, then turned to the GI, feeling the back of his head. He brought his hand back down, bloody. “I’m hurt. I need a ride.”

  “Jesus.” The GI turned to the Russian. “Move, you fuck.”

  The Russians looked at them both, uncertain, then waved his hand at the driver to start the car.

  In the party jeep, the men moved to make a place, one of them still holding a beer bottle.

  “So the war’s over?” Jake said to the GI.

  “It was.” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  He awoke to find Lena’s face floating over his.

  “What time is it?”

  A faint smile. “After noon.” She reached up and felt his forehead. “A good sleep. Erich, go get Dr. Rosen. Tell him he’s awake.”

  There was a scampering in the corner, then a blur as the boy darted out of the room.

  “How did you do it?” she said. “Can you talk?”

  How? A bumpy ride in the jeep, getting off in a Ku’damm swarming with headlights and blaring horns, packs of rowdy GIs with girls dancing out of the clubs into the street, then a blank.

  “Where’s Emil?” Jake said.

  “Here. It’s all right. No, don’t get up. Rosen says—” She smoothed his forehead again. “Can I get you something?”

  He shook his head. “You got out.”

  Rosen came through the door with Erich by his side and sat down on the bed, taking a pinpoint light out of his bag and shining it into each of Jake’s eyes.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Peachy.”

  He reached behind, checking the bandage on the back of Jake’s head. “The stitches are good. But you should see an American doctor. An injury to the head, there’s always a risk. Sit up. Any dizziness?” He felt below the bandage, freeing his other hand by passing the light to Erich, who put it carefully into the bag. “My new assistant,” Rosen said fondly. “An excellent medical man.”

  Jake bent forward as Rosen prodded with his fingers.

  “A little swelling, not bad. Still. The Americans have; an X ray? For the shoulder too.”

  Jake glanced down and saw an ugly splotch of bruise, and moved the shoulder, testing. Not dislocated.

  “You got this how?” Rosen said.

  “I fell.”

  Rosen looked at him, dubious. “A long fall.”

  “About two stories.” He squinted at the bright afternoon light. “How long have I been out? Did you give me something;?”

  “No. The body is a good doctor. Sometimes, when it’s too much, it shuts down to rest. Erich, would you check for fever?”

  The boy reached up and rested his dry palm on Jake’s forehead, looking at him solemnly. “Normal,” he said finally, his voice as small as his hand.

  “You see? An excellent medical man.”

  “Yes, and now sleepy,” Lena said, her hands on his shoulders. “He stayed up all night, watching you. To make sure.”

  “You mean you did,” Jake said, imagining him slumped next to her in the easy chair.

  “Both. He likes you,” she said pointedly.

  “Thank you,” Jake said to him.

  The boy nodded gravely, pleased.

  “So you’ll live,” Rosen said, gathering his bag. “A day in bed, please. In case.”

  “You too,” Lena said, moving the boy. “Time to rest. Come, I have coffee for you,” she said to Rosen, busy, organizing them, so that they followed without protest. “And you,” she said to Jake. “I’ll be right back.”

  But it was Emil who brought the coffee, closing the door behind him. Back in his own clothes again, a frayed shirt and thin cardigan.

  He handed Jake the mug stiffly, averting his eyes, his movements shy and prickly at the same time.

  “She’s putting the boy to sleep,” he said. “It’s a Jewish child?”

  “It’s a child,” Jake said over the mug.

  Emil raised his head, bristling a little, then took off his glasses and wiped them.

  “You look different.”

  “Four years. People change,” Jake said, raising his hand to touch his receding hair, then wincing in surprise.

  “Broken?” Emil said, looking at the bruised shoulder.

  “No.”

  “It’s a terrible color. It hurts?”

  “And you call yourself a scientist,” Jake said lightly. “Yes, it hurts.”

  Emil nodded. “So I should thank you.”

  “I didn’t do it for you. They would have taken her too.”

  “And that’s why you changed the clothes,” he said skeptically. “So thank you.” He looked down, still wiping. “It’s awkward, to thank a man who—” He stopped, putting away the handkerchief. “How things turn out. You find your wife, then she’s not your wife. I have you to thank for this too.”

  “Listen, Emil—”

  “Don’t explain. Lena has told me. This is what happens now in Germany, I think. You hear it many times. A woman alone, the husband dead maybe. An old friend. Food. There’s no one to blame for this. Just to live—”

  Was this what she’d told him, or simply what he wanted to believe?

  “She’s not here for the rations,” Jake said.

  Emil looked at him steadily, then turned away, moving over to sit on the arm of the chair, still toying with the glasses. “And now? What are you going to do?”

  “About you? I don’t know yet.”

  “You’re not sending me back to Kransberg?”

  “Not until I know who took you out in the first place. They might try again.”

  “So I’m a prisoner here?”

  “It could be worse. You could be in Moscow.”

  “With you? With Lena? I can’t stay here.”

  “They’d grab you the minute you hit the streets.”

  “Not if I’m with the Americans. You don’t trust your own people?”

  “Not with you. You trusted them, look where it got you.”

  “Yes, I trusted them. How could I know? He was-sympathetic. He was going to take me to her. To Berlin.”

  “Where you could pick up some files while you were at it. Von Braun send you this time too?”

  Emil looked at him, uncertain, then shook his head. “He thought they were destroyed.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I thought so. But my father-I couldn’t be sure, not with him. And of course I was right. He gave them to you.”

  “No. He never gave me anything. I took them. He protected you right to the end. God knows why.”

  Emil looked at the floor, embarrassed. “Well, no difference.”

  “It is to him.”

  Emil took this in for a moment, then let it go. “Anyway, you have them.”

  “But Tully didn’t. Now why is that? You tell him about the files and then you don’t tell him where they are.”

  The first hint of a smile, oddly superior. “I didn’t have to. He thought he knew. He said, I know where they are, all the files. Where the Americans have them. He was going to help, if you can imagine such a thing. He said only a
n American could get them. So I let him think that. He was going to get them for me,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Out of the kindness of his heart?” Collecting twice.

  “Of course for money. I said yes. I knew they weren’t there-I would never have to pay. And if he could take me out- So I was the clever one. Then he delivered me to the Russians.”

  “Quite a pair. Why the hell did you tell him in the first place?”

  “I never had a head for drink. It was-a despair. How can I explain it? All those weeks, waiting, why didn’t they send us to America? Then we heard about the trials, how the Americans were looking for Nazis everywhere, and I thought, we’ll never get out, they won’t send us. And maybe I said something like that, that the Americans would call us Nazis, us, because in the war we had to do things, and how would it look now? There were files, everything we did. What files? SS, I said, they kept everything. I don’t know, I was a little drunk maybe, to say that much. And he said it was only the Jews who were doing that, hunting Nazis-the Americans wanted us. To continue our work. He understood how important that was.“ His voice firmer now, sure of something at last. ”And it’s right, you know. To stop now, for this-“

  Jake put down the mug and reached for a cigarette. “And the next thing you knew, you were off to Berlin. Tell me how that worked.”

  “It’s another debriefing?” Emil said, annoyed.

  “You’ve got the time. Have a seat. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Emil sank back onto the armrest, rubbing his temples as if he were trying to arrange his memory. But the story he had to tell was the one Jake already knew, without surprises. No other Americans, the secret of Tully’s partner still safe with Sikorsky. Only a few new details of the border crossing. The guards, apparently, had been courteous. “Even then, I didn’t know,” Emil said. “Not until Berlin. Then I knew it was finished for me.”