by Joseph Kanon
“Not all of us survived.”
She moved her hand away. “No, not all.”
“It’s convenient for you, maybe, that Peter’s gone. In your new life.”
Only her eyes reacted, a quick wince.
Jake glared at him. “Listen, you bastard—”
Lena waved her hand, stopping him. “We’ve said enough.” She looked down at Emil. “My god, to say that to me.”
Emil said nothing, staring at the table.
Lena went over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a snapshot.
“I have something for you,” she said, carrying it over. “I found it with my things.”
Emil held the picture in front of him, blinking, his shoulders sinking as he studied it, everything softening, even his eyes.
“Look at you,” he said quietly.
“And you,” Lena said over his shoulder, so intimate that for a second Jake felt he was no longer in the room. “Would you like it?”
Emil looked up at her, then pushed the photograph away and stood, holding her eyes for another minute before he turned and without a word crossed the floor and closed the bedroom door behind him.
Jake picked up the picture. A young couple, arms around each other on a ski slope, goggles pushed up over their knit caps, smiles as broad and white as the snow behind them, so young they must be someone else.
“When was this?” he said.
“When we were happy.” She took the picture from him and glanced at it again. “So that’s your murderer.” She put it down. “I’ll get Erich. You can do the dishes.”
“Don’t look for me. I will see you,” Gunther had said, and in fact when Jake and Emil arrived at the parade he was nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere in the crowd of uniforms that bunched around the Brandenburg Gate and then straggled out through the wasteland of the Tiergarten on the Charlottenburger Chausee. The Allies had won even the weather-the humid, overcast sky had turned bright and cloudless for the parade, with a breeze strong enough to flap the marching rows of flags. Posters of Stalin, Churchill, and Truman hung from the arch, and through the columns Jake could see the troops and armored vehicles beginning to flow toward them down the Linden, thousands of them, with more crammed along the pavement to cheer. There were only a handful of civilians-grim-faced curiosity seekers, small bands of apathetic DPs with nowhere else to go, and the usual packs of children, for whom any event was a distraction. The rest of Berlin had stayed home. Along the gray avenue of charred tree stumps and ruins, the Allies were celebrating themselves.
When Jake got to the reviewing stand the first bands had already passed, an overture of blaring horns. He thought of the other parades here, five years ago, the trees of the Linden shaking from the heavy thud of boots back from Poland. This was looser and more colorful, the French almost playful in their red pompoms, the British marching so casually they seemed already demobilized, shuffling home. The spit and polish had been left to the 82nd Airborne, wearing shiny helmets and white gloves under shoulder straps, but with the music and scattered applause the effect was more theatrical than military, show soldiers. Even the reviewing stand, with bunting and microphones for speeches later, rose up from the street like a stage, filled with generals in uniforms so elaborate they looked like bassos ready to burst into song.
Zhukov was the gaudiest, both sides of his chest lined with medals that ran all the way to his hips. Next to him, Patton’s plain battle jacket and few ribbons had a kind of defiant simplicity. But the drama was in the positioning. Zhukov, front and center, would take a step forward only to find Patton moving up with him, so that by the time he reached the railing, finally upstaged, they had become a bobbing vaudeville turn of generals. The press responded, snapping pictures from their own viewing stand, and Jake saw that even General Clay, usually somber, was trying to suppress a smile, almost winking at Muller, who answered with a tolerant roll of his eyes, silver-haired Judge Hardy still, suffering fools. For a second Jake wished he were just covering it all for Collier’s — the noisy air, the absurd jockeying, the backdrop curtain of the burned-out Reichstag in the distance. An interview with Patton maybe, who would remember him and was always good copy. Instead, anxious, he was searching the crowd for a face. What he thought, as more troops marched by, was that he had never seen so many guns in his life and that Gunther had been wrong, he didn’t feel protected at all. Any one of them, milling around, waiting to make a move.
“We’re going to watch the parade?” Emil said, puzzled.
“We’re meeting somebody,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “It won’t be long.”
“Who?”
“The man who got you out of Kransberg.”
“Tully? You said he was dead.”
“His partner.”
“So it’s another trick. No Americans.”
“I told you, I need you as bait. Then we’ll go see your pals.”
“And the files?”
“It’s a package deal. They get you both.”
“You won’t do that.” You re sure.
“You can’t. Think what it will mean for Lena, a trial.”
“Wonderful how you’re always thinking of her. Listen, you’re getting out with your life. That’s more than you can say for the workers at Camp Dora.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Then go to hell,” he said, turning to go.
Jake grabbed his arm. “Try it and I’ll shoot you in the foot. I’d enjoy it, but you wouldn’t.” They looked at each other for a moment, stalemated, then Jake dropped his hand. “Now watch the parade.”
Jake scanned the crowd. Not a single familiar face. But why would it be someone he knew? On the stand Zhukov had leaned farther against the railing, ready to take the salute from his lancer unit. More stage uniforms, a pounding thud of jackboots, swords actually drawn and raised, flashing in the light, but no longer comic, Goebbels’ old warning, the scourge from the east. A small huddle of DPs turned and started away from the crowd, looking back at the swords, and Jake saw in the cowed hunch of their shoulders that it was really a Russian show, all of it, the rest of the Allies harmless extras. The message wasn’t victory but the crushing boots. No one can stop us. It was a parade out of the next war. Smiles faded on the stand. What happens when it’s over, he’d wondered. Another.
It was then, watching the Russians, that he felt the poke in the small of his back.
“Quite a show.”
He whirled around, hand on his holster.
“Steady,” Brian said, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Hello again,” he said to Emil. “No uniform this time, eh?”
“What are you doing here?” Jake said. Brian? But he’d already had Emil once.
“What do you mean? Everybody’s here. Nothing like a parade. Just look at old Zhukov. Bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. Coming to the press stand?”
“Not now, Brian. Scram.”
But Brian’s eyes were fixed over Jake’s shoulder at the lancers. “Be in Hamburg before Christmas by the looks of them.”
“I mean it. I’ll see you later.” He glanced to either side of him, expecting Gunther to arrive, everything happening too soon.
“You might let me wait out the swords. You don’t want to get in the way of that.” He turned, peering at Jake. “What is it? What are you doing now? ”
“Nothing. Just scram,” Jake said, still looking nervously to the side.
Brian stared at him, then Emil. “Three’s a crowd? Right. I’m off. Save you a place?”
“Yeah, save me a place.”
“If young Ron lets the rope down. I’ve known headwaiters with better manners. Christ, here come the pipers.” He looked again at Jake. “Watch yourself.”
He pushed his way through to the front, hesitating as the last of the Russians passed, then sprinted across the sudden gap to the viewing stands. Jake lost him as he picked his way through the crowd to the back stairs of the press stand, then saw him reappear on top, talking to Ron. Why not Ron? Who�
��d left the dinner table at Gelferstrasse that night to play poker but could have gone to the Grunewald. Who now had the perfect vantage point to spot Jake in the crowd, waiting for the right moment, a nod of the head to close the trap. But neither he nor Brian was looking in Jake’s direction, busy with themselves. Jake checked his watch. Where was Gunther? Only a few minutes to the agreed time-he had to be in place somewhere nearby. Then why hadn’t he come forward when Brian approached them? What if it had been him, smoothly leading them away without even a snap of the spring?
He almost jumped when the bagpipes started wailing, cutting right to the nerves. On the stand, the British now stepped forward, rearranging the line so that the visiting dignitaries with the generals came into view. Breimer, just behind Clay, in a double-breasted suit, who stayed and stayed, with unfinished business in Berlin. Jake imagined how it might happen-the sighting from the stand, the quick excuse to the others, the unsuspected walk across to Emil, a waiting car. Jake looked behind. No car. And Breimer would never risk anything himself. He was where he belonged, on a speakers’ platform, out of combat. Even Ron was more likely. He glanced back at the press stand. Huddled now with a cameraman, lining up shots of the parade. No one, in fact, was looking toward Jake. But someone must be.
Unexpectedly, the pipers stopped for a demonstration, a blast of jangling air, forcing the unit behind them to mark time. Jake moved his head slowly from left to right, as if he were looking through binoculars, tracking across a field. What combat always came down to: a hunt for prey, every sense on edge, watching for a sudden movement. But everything here seemed to be in motion. People came and went along the parade line, the generals shuffled in the stand, even the stationary pipers were working their bags. Heads bobbed in the crowd, straining to see or falling back for a smoke. A field full of deer, moving at will, none of them stopping long enough to stay in a rifle sight. He turned in a complete circle, away from the parade, taking in the Tiergarten. Already past time and still no Gunther. I can take care of myself. But could he? As he turned back to the parade, sweeping the stands again for a face, it occurred to him that he had got it backward-he was one of the deer, alert but not knowing what to look for. The hunter, lying still, would be watching him.
He was following the pipers as they started up again when he caught it, a flicker near the corner of his eye, the only thing in the swirl before him that was not moving. Absolutely still. A row of pipers passed. If it turned away, he’d be wrong, but another row of heads went by and the dark glasses were still fixed on him. Maybe just watching the parade. Then Shaeffer raised his hand, as if he were going to salute, and took off the glasses, folding them with one hand and slipping them into his pocket without even blinking, his eyes steady on Jake, hard as steel. Not even a nod, just the eyes. Only the mouth moved, more a grim tic than a smile. Snap. Shaeffer. Another row and now they were locked on each other, that split second in a hunt when no one else was in the field. Not surprised to see him, knowing he’d be there, waiting for the crosshairs to clear. Jake held his breath, caught by the eyes. We won’t know who, Gunther had said, but now he did, there was no mistaking the look. Not surprised. The man who’d come for him.
The bagpipes were almost gone and Shaeffer took a step forward, but the waiting unit behind moved up into place, blocking him with a new row of heads. How long before he could cross? Near the Brandenburg Gate there was a clunking roar, like thunder, and involuntarily Jake darted his eyes toward the line of march. Soviet tanks, heavy and massive, crunching the already torn pavement and coming fast, refusing to be idled. Shaeffer hadn’t even bothered to look, his eyes still frozen where they had been, on Jake. Sikorsky’s face in Liz’s picture, ignoring the crowd at Tempelhof. Shaeffer. Follow the points. Who had the right gun. Who’d debriefed at Kransberg-the perfect opportunity, the perfect cover. Above suspicion for netting the Zeiss engineers-worthless? — while he was cherry-picking the rocket team instead. Who could have tipped off Sikorsky before the Adlon meeting. Who looked for the files. And finally, all that really mattered, who was here, knowing Jake would be here. And who was now waiting to cross the street.
Jake looked quickly behind. No Gunther, just an exposed swatch of park. Two to spring a trap. But why bother at all? All he’d wanted was to know. The point now was to get Emil away before Shaeffer could get to him. The jeep was farther down the chausee, close but too far to reach if someone chased them. Another look to the side, the only place Gunther could be. No civilians, only uniforms. I want you to betray me, he’d said, and maybe Gunther had, keeping his options open after all. Or had Shaeffer got to him already, keeping him somewhere, making sure? Jake took Emil’s arm and saw Shaeffer lift his head and step forward again, ready to spring.
“What is it?” Emil said, annoyed.
If they moved, he’d bolt across, right through the marchers. Jake scanned the crowd again, all oblivious except Shaeffer, no protection at all. Wait for the tanks. Even Shaeffer wouldn’t make a dash through rolling tanks. Hold his eye, make him think they’d wait, stuck.
“Listen to me,” Jake said in a monotone, barely moving his lips, not wanting Shaeffer to read any expression in his face. “We need to get over to the press stand. After the tanks. When I say go, just follow me. Fast.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Never mind. Just do it.”
“Another trick,” Emil said.
“Not mine. The Russians‘. They’ve sent someone for you.”
Emil looked at him, skittish. “For me?”
“Just do what I say. Get ready.”
A clanking of heavy metal as the tanks ground into place before the stand. Zhukov raised his arm, puffed up and solemn. Below him, Shaeffer stood rigid, eyes still looking across, as if he could see through the steel plates as well as the gaps in between. When half the unit had passed, the tanks slowed to a halt, motors still throbbing as they began revolving their gun turrets in a display salute. For an instant, as the row of guns turned in place, Shaeffer disappeared behind the long barrels. Now.
Jake started moving left, toward the front of the unit, but the guns kept swinging around and Shaeffer spotted them through the suddenly empty space. His head jerked up, alarmed, and he left the curb, darting across between two rows of tanks. How long would it take? Seconds. Jake glanced behind. Still no Gunther. No one, in fact. An exposed back. The gun turrets had almost finished circling, the tanks ready to start up again, an impenetrable moving wall soon, with Shaeffer on their side of the parade.
Jake grabbed Emil’s arm and dragged him in front of the nearest row of tanks, his protest drowned out by the deafening motors. Run. Could anyone in the high turrets see them, ignore the command to start moving? A crunch as the gears shifted. Jake yanked at Emil’s arm, sprinting as the creaking tread belts began to roll forward. Jog to the left, ahead of the row. One slip to fall underneath. They were almost at the last tank when he saw it was coming too fast to outrun. He stopped short, steadying himself as Emil bumped into his suddenly still body, and stood wedged sideways between two tanks, waiting for the column to pass. Just enough space after this one if he timed it right. He stared at the treads, almost counting them, then lurched forward the moment the tank passed. “Go!” he shouted, tugging at Emil’s sleeve and pulling him toward the amazed spectator line, barely missing the next set of treads, but there, finally across.
“Where’s the fire?” a soldier said to him, but he kept going, pushing through bodies until they were surrounded, just part of the crowd. They were behind the press stand before he stopped, taking in a gulp of air.
“Are you crazy?” Emil said, panting, his face white.
“Go up there and stay with Brian-the man from the Adlon. He knows you. Try to keep out of sight. And don’t go anywhere, with anyone. Got it?”
“Where are you going?”
“To make a diversion.”
“It’s still not safe?” Emil said, worried.
Wasn’t it? Who would snatch them in front of the press cor
ps, safer in the end than the army itself? But who knew what Shaeffer would do? His last chance.
“He’s still out there. He may not be alone.” A man who could get Russian uniforms for a raiding party. Jake turned.
“You’re leaving me here?” Emil said, glancing around for an opening, ready to bolt.
“Don’t even think about it. Believe it or not, I’m the best chance you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. Now go on up. I’ll be back.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then all your problems will be over, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Emil said, looking at him. “They will.”
“But you’ll be on a train to Moscow. Plenty of time to think things over then. Right now, just do what I say if you want to get out of here. Come on. Now.”
Emil hesitated for an instant, then placed his hand on the wooden rail of the stairs and began to climb. Jake squeezed his way back to the front of the spectators. Get Shaeffer’s attention before he looked toward the stand. But the eyes were already there, frantically searching through the crowd on Jake’s side, then stopping, a surprised glowering, when they caught his face. Another Russian unit was passing in tight formation. Head away from the stand. Jake started to move left, just behind the front row, still visible but surrounding himself with other heads, so that Emil’s might be one of them. Across the street, Shaeffer followed, his tall frame stretching up over the crowd to keep Jake in sight. Jake pushed toward the thicker crowds at the gate, brushing past clumps of indifferent GIs. Away from the stand. He glanced over the columns of marchers. Still there, head turned toward Jake as he moved, the same determined eyes, exasperated, waiting for a break in the line. He must have seen by now that only Jake’s head was moving down the street, Emil left somewhere behind. Why keep coming? Not a diversion anymore, a running to ground. First Jake, then go back for Emil. Who would believe him, relieved to see the friendly debriefer, and close his own trap.
