Leaving Berlin: A Novel

by Joseph Kanon

  “You’re a doctor.”

  “Now you sound like the Americans. A doctor should answer to a higher authority. What authority, an oath? The conscience? Then everything breaks down.”

  “Everything has,” Alex said quietly.

  Mutter looked up. “All great humanitarians, the Americans. When it’s someone else on trial. What would they have done, do you think?”

  “I didn’t come here to put anyone on trial. I just want medicine for Erich. He’s sick. You’re a doctor.”

  Mutter turned away, hesitating, then went over to the dispensary bureau. “Wait a minute,” he said, rummaging through the drawer. He came back with a tube and a handful of vials and small bottles. “For the legs,” he said, handing Alex the tube of salve. “Once a day only. These twice, once before food, yes? It’s not much, but it should help. Believe it or not, rest and liquids are even more important. The old remedies. Of course, this does nothing for whatever’s really wrong. Working in mines—the dust, think of the damage. The conditions were harsh?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Well, I don’t put anything past the Russians.”

  “No.”

  He glanced up, catching Alex’s expression. “Or the Germans? Is that what you were going to say? You don’t come to judge, but you do. Such terrible people. So now we’re all guilty. Do you include yourself?”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  “No? Why, because you already know? Someone not even here? How can I tell you what it was like? What we had to do? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Start with my parents. They were—what? Racial impurities? Now they’re nothing. Smoke. Start with them.”

  “And you blame me for that?”

  “Who do you blame? I’d like to know. Or do you think it happened all by itself?”

  For a minute neither said anything, then Alex held up one of the bottles.

  “Thank you for this. I won’t say where we got it.”

  Mutter half turned, waving his hand in dismissal, no longer meeting Alex’s eyes. “He needs antibiotics,” he said quietly. “Streptomycin. Get him to the West.”

  * * *

  Alex fed him soup and more tea and put him to bed, under the covers.

  “But it’s your—”

  “I’ll take the couch. We can switch when you’re better.” He held Erich’s head up, spooning him medicine. “Gustav said this would bring the fever down.”

  When Erich lay back his face became Fritz’s, the same tall forehead and high cheeks, so that for a second Alex felt he was nursing the old man, some odd transference. Not blustering for once, eyes half closed, a child’s trust. Alex lifted the edge of the sheet and started spreading the salve on Erich’s leg. “Gustav said these were rat bites. Yes?”

  “In the barracks. At night. They waited for you to go to sleep.” He reached over to Alex’s arm. “I won’t go back there.”

  “No.”

  “But if they come?”

  “They won’t. Go to sleep. I’m just outside.”

  But what if they did? Alex walked through the apartment. A good view of the street from the windows. An armoire, big enough to hide in, if this were a French farce. The back door out the kitchen led to service stairs, a utility closet on the next landing, not locked, something Erich could reach in seconds. Alex looked up—presumably the stairs went all the way to the roof. But why would anyone come, unless they’d been told, in which case they’d search everywhere and there’d be no real escape. The only way to be safe was to be nonexistent, unseen, unheard. Alex scoured the apartment for listening bugs—lightbulb sockets, behind the watercolor of a Wilhelmine street scene, the telephone mouthpiece. Nothing. A trusted guest of the Soviet Military Administration.

  Erich was asleep when Alex left for the reception at Aufbau Verlag. A table with coffee and cakes had been set out in the boardroom, the staff crowded around it, curious and deferential. The art director showed him mock-ups of the jackets for his books. There was a polite joke about the author’s photo, now a good ten years old. Aaron Stein, after a public toast, introduced him to smaller groups, department by department, then led him into his office.

  “I know, I should give them up,” he said, offering Alex a cigarette. “Helga says they’ll kill me. Well, something will.” A cultured, almost elegant voice that reminded Alex of his mother. Someone who’d been to school, who could play the piano.

  “The new editions look wonderful. Thank you.”

  “It’s we who should thank you. Our writers are so important to us now. To know there is another Germany, of culture, not just Nazis. If that’s our only history, we’ll die of shame. We are more than that.”

  Alex nodded another thank-you, waiting, watching Aaron fidget with his cigarette, working up to something.

  “Alex—you don’t mind I call you Alex? I wanted to have a word. Something—delicate.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows.

  “Martin tells me—you know he’s a great admirer of your work? He tells me you had—a reservation, perhaps. About the Festschrift. For Stalin.”

  “No, I said I’d do it.”

  “Yes,” Aaron said, uncomfortable. “We appreciate that.” He paused. “I don’t want you to feel that you are being asked to do something against your will.”

  “No, I said I would. A Kulturbund project.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I wanted you to know, so there’s no misunderstanding, the project did not originate with us. The SED asked. Of course, it was an appropriate idea, we were only too glad to help.” He looked up. “You know, it needn’t be long. The fact that so many contribute is really the point. For him to know he has our support.”

  “I understand.”

  “The Kulturbund—sometimes we find ourselves in an awkward position. To make German culture live again. And also to please the occupation authorities. A question of balance. Anyway, we are so pleased to have you with us.”

  Alex nodded again.

  “So,” Aaron said, evidently finished, then looked down at his cigarette, rolling it against the rim of the ashtray. “You know, there are fashions even in politics. Today, something is popular, tomorrow not. Things change. Sometimes even the logic of things. But the logic of the Socialist system, that doesn’t change. Nobody ever said it would be easy to make a new society. Think who must be against it. So, sometimes a disappointment, sometimes a compromise. But how else to get there? And think what’s at the end. A just society must be worth a few sacrifices, no?”

  Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck. A phrase he’d used himself.

  “And you cannot have a just society without a just economic system. That’s the logic that never changes for me. The rest—” He waved his hand.

  “Can I ask you something then? I heard that you resigned from the secretariat last year.”

  “And you want to know why, if I’m such a good Communist?” Aaron said, a wry smile forming around the cigarette. “Well, it’s a question. Should I say I’m too busy here with my work? That I wanted more time with my family? No, you ask, I’ll tell you. A change of fashion maybe, like I said before. I come from the Comintern days when there was an international ideal. All Communists, the same belief. But now the SED answers only to the Russians, to their issues. I understand. Germany lost the war. You have to expect a certain amount of—what?—hardship. Looting, all the terrible things of war. But three, four years later, they’re still dismantling factories. Our soldiers are still prisoners. Four years later. This isn’t good for Communism, only for Russia. If it really is good for them, who knows? But it’s not good for Germany. Why did I resign? I want the SED to be Socialist and German.” He stopped. “Well, I’m giving you a speech. You didn’t ask for that. Anyway, you think they were sorry to see me go? An old Cominterno who went to the West? Another fashion. If you went to the West you’re suspect. Cosmopolitan. Although that’s only another word for Jew. Whenever you hear that, you know what’s coming—” He sto
pped again. “A good time, maybe, to mind your own business. Until the fashion changes.”

  “That’s what people thought before.”

  Aaron looked away. “Yes, I know. The head in the sand.” He shifted in his chair. “But this will pass. It’s not possible, you know, anti-Semitism in a Socialist state. A contradiction. It’s against the logic.” He took off his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief, his face suddenly boyish, pale. “So there’s an answer. About the secretariat. Maybe I wasn’t practical enough for political work. My wife thinks that.” He smiled. “It’s true. But it’s just as well. There is so much to do here. Can I stop them taking a factory? No. And in the end, what’s more important? Today’s problem, which goes away, or to bring German literature back to Germany?”

  “But what about the forced labor? I heard that’s why you—”

  “No, no, no,” Aaron said, cutting him off, head up now, glasses back on, alarmed. “Nothing like that. Such nonsense. Berlin, you know, is a great place for rumors. People will say anything. But come,” he said, standing up. “I’ll walk with you. You’re taking a tram? From Hackescher Markt?”

  Alex looked up, surprised. Everything abrupt now, rushed. Coats, a word with his secretary, and then they were on the street, walking up to Unter den Linden.

  “What is it?” Alex said, stopping.

  “Nothing. I—” He stifled a cough. “Please, walk. It’s better. Forgive me. You learn to be careful.”

  “About what?”

  “Forgive me,” he said again. “You know, you’re with us now and I’m so pleased. But not everything is perfect. This matter of the forced labor—it’s a great sensitivity.”

  “So we have to go out here to talk?”

  “Yes, maybe a foolishness. But people listen. Herschel—a journalist, a friend—wrote about this and he was arrested. A Kulturbund member. A book coming from us. We can’t have that kind of trouble. What I said to you before—it’s old news. What Comrade Stein is always saying. But this—they don’t like talk about this. I’ve been warned.”

  “But it’s not a secret.”

  Aaron shook his head. “No, that’s the hypocrisy. I said not everything is perfect. People know about this. Thousands sent to the mines. How can you keep that a secret? But the Russians pretend it is. They don’t want to talk about it. Well, of course, it makes them unpopular. But it also makes the SED unpopular. To go along with this policy, forcing their own people—” He shook his head. “So shortsighted. So I resigned. You ask the reason, that was it. I think the SED should protect Germans from this. I won’t lie to you. But I can’t talk about it there,” he said, cocking his head back toward the office. “I don’t want to make trouble. You’re disturbed—I can see in your face—but the final logic is still correct. You were right to come. Don’t ever doubt that.” His voice earnest, a hand on Alex’s arm. “You know, with everything else, the Russians try to work with us. Look at the subsidies to Aufbau. A priority for paper. The schools. The theaters. But this—on this one thing, an iron fist. So all the rest of it, all the good efforts—who gives them credit for that when people are being worked like this? Like slaves. So they don’t want them to know. The Siberia mentality—people disappear. No one knows where. No one talks. So here too. They don’t want any talk. Then it doesn’t exist. Just the good news in Neues Deutschland. Forgive me,” he said, slowing, his voice calmer. “There is good news, you know. Real progress. We mustn’t forget that. This is—a problem. And you know, problems can be solved. The underlying logic is still right.”

  “But the West—you’d think they’d have a field day with this. The propaganda. If they really want to hit the Soviets.”

  “It’s hard to get information. Not so many leave now. And of course the ones who do speak are discredited. So it’s rumors.” He looked up. “Conversations like this.”

  “Which we’re not having.”

  “No,” Aaron said, a faint smile. “Literary conversation only.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry—about the committee. Thank you for being so frank.”

  “Frank. Indiscreet, Helga would say.” He looked up at the sky. “You know, it’s not always like this here. It’s just a sensitivity, the mines. When you think—how desperate they must be to risk all this good will, for pitchblende.”

  “Maybe they don’t care.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s that,” Aaron said, thoughtful. “I hope not. How can we do this without them?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make a new life for Germany. The Russians are here. What other choice is there? When I was in Mexico I used to think how it would be, when the Nazis were finally gone. When it was our chance. And now it is.” He looked over at Alex. “So you work with what you have. Well, I’m talking too much. I should get back to the office. You can find your way?”

  “Were you ever tempted to stay? In Mexico?”

  “In Mexico? My God, no. I couldn’t wait to get back to—” He stopped, laughing at himself. “Civilization.” He looked around at the ruins. “Well, it doesn’t seem so now, does it? But you know, we are a civilized people.” He paused. “Don’t worry, you’ve done the right thing. We’ll clean all this up. You’ll help. And then we’ll see what we can be.”

  * * *

  It was already dark, Unter den Linden like a long open field swept every once in a while by the headlights of military transports, high off the ground, and the fainter beams of a few cars. In the quiet he could hear the airlift planes overhead. How to get Erich out? Train, car—the usual exits were closed. Getting to the frontier now would mean traveling across the Soviet zone, a desperate risk for a POW on the run. He could walk to a Western sector in Berlin, but that was no guarantee—the Soviets picked up people wherever they felt like it, snatched them right off the streets. He thought of Lützowplatz, the squeal of tires. And who would hide him? Gustav, with one hand already on the phone, doing the right thing? Willy might have done Alex the favor of getting him into the American hospital, but Willy was dead. Any approach now to BOB would put both of them at risk. And Erich would still be in Berlin. He looked up. The only way out was by plane, and for that he’d need more than a favor.

  It took him a few seconds to realize the sidewalk was being lit up by a car behind him. Not speeding, not passing, trailing at his pace. Instinctively he glanced away from the road. The buildings were set back from the sidewalk here, not flush as they’d been at Lützowplatz. Any grab would involve leaping the curb, pinning him in with the car. A showy maneuver, drawing attention. If that mattered. The bridge soon, the blackened city palace beyond, the light still steady behind him. His throat felt dry, the saliva drained away. Then the light moved up, alongside.

  “Alex.”

  Impossible to pretend he hadn’t heard, impossible to run. He turned to the car, the rolled-down window. Markus.

  “Come, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “I don’t want to take you out of your way,” Alex said, leaning toward the window.

  “Not at all. A pleasure. Get in.” Not quite an order, the voice genial.

  The car was warm, a heater blasting from under the dashboard.

  “A cold night for a walk,” Markus said. “I thought it was you. The other man, that was Stein?”

  “Yes, there was a reception at Aufbau. To meet the staff. A nice occasion.”

  “And then he came out to walk with you.”

  “Just for some air. He had to get something, I think. I don’t know what.”

  “Cigarettes, perhaps. A great smoker.”

  “Yes.” Not saying anything more, waiting.

  “A serious conversation. What were you talking about? Do you mind if I ask?”

  “My books. They’re bringing out new editions. They showed me the jackets earlier.”

  “You found them attractive?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “So you’re pleased with Aufbau? Good. He’s very respected, I think, Stein. For his literary opinions. What else did you talk a
bout?”

  Pressing. Or testing? What if the walls did have ears?

  “Books, mostly. A Festschrift they’re putting together. For Stalin’s birthday.”

  “Ah yes? That will please him, I think. A loyal gesture. You’re contributing?”

  “Yes, I was pleased to be asked. Being new here.”

  “So, a change of heart since ’39? No more objections to the nonaggression pact? All is forgiven?”

  “Anyone can make a mistake. He made it right in the end. That’s all that matters now.”

  “This is not—do you mind my saying?—the version of history you should offer in the Festschrift.”

  Alex looked over. As close as Markus could come to making a joke. He was smiling, pleased with himself.

  “No. Anyway, it’s a long time ago now.” A new thought. “How do you know I objected to the pact? You were, what, fourteen, fifteen?”

  “It’s in your file.”

  “I have a file?”

  “Everybody has a file. Some, more than one.”

  “Really. And what’s in mine?”

  “Good things. Don’t worry.”

  “Just curious. Why would anybody be interested?”

  “You were invited to be a guest of the SMA. Naturally such invitations are only extended to persons who are—reliable.”

  “Well, then I must have passed.”

  “Oh yes. Your statement to the Fascist committee was really admirable.” Said warmly, without his usual innuendo. “And you have made a good impression here.”

  “Oh,” Alex said, not expecting this.

  “Yes, it’s very pleasing. Not just to me personally—you know, to see an old friend so well received. But it makes it easier.”

  “Makes what easier?”

  “People are comfortable with you. They’ll talk to you.”

  For a minute, Alex said nothing, letting this sink in.

  “Which people?” he said finally.

  “For instance, Comrade Stein. He is sometimes outspoken, sometimes not. What does he say to you? It would be interesting to me. To know that.”