by Joseph Kanon
“You really think—?”
“I don’t know, but they’re still in the car.”
It was a long ten minutes before more headlights appeared, moving fast, then turned to the back gate, a few people getting out, heading toward the building as the driver parked the car.
“That must be Ferber. It’s a station car. Let’s give him a few minutes.”
“The other car’s still there.”
“Waiting for Erich.”
“You’re so sure.”
“No. Careful.”
“Ouf. Then let me. I’ll give him the tape and we’re finished.”
“No. Ferber’s expecting me. You had nothing to do with this. You want to be able to say that. No idea what Erich was doing. Remember?”
“And if I knew? What then?”
“You’d need Sasha. And he isn’t here anymore.”
He reached up, fiddling with the overhead light.
“Now what?”
“It goes on when you open the door. They’d see. Okay, sit tight and keep an eye on them. If there’s any trouble, start blowing the horn.”
“You’re serious. You think they—?”
“They’re still there, aren’t they?”
He opened the door and crept out, still in the café’s shadow, then crossed the square on the lower side, away from the park. When he reached the front steps and the overhead light, he climbed quickly, the envelope jammed under his arm.
A reception desk off the foyer, on the other side a waiting room with magazines.
“Yes, please?” the receptionist said, surprised to see someone at this hour.
“Herr Ferber. I have an appointment.”
“Herr Ferber’s at the theater.”
“He just came in. Call him. Studio one-ten. Tell him his interview is here.”
The receptionist picked up the phone, put out and hesitant, but Ferber responded immediately and came running down the hall.
“But where is—?”
Alex handed him the tape. “He’s here. Splice in questions or just run it with an intro. It’s just what you want—everything we said.”
“But where—?”
“Safe. I couldn’t take the chance.” He touched the envelope. “It’s the real thing. I guarantee it.”
“Thank you,” Ferber said, putting his hand on Alex’s arm. “I’m not sure why you’re doing this, but I thank you.”
“They’re Germans in the mines.”
“You should come over to us,” Ferber said, almost offhand.
Alex met his eyes for a second, then looked down the hall. “Is there another door? That way?” he said, nodding away from the park side.
“Mettestrasse, yes,” he said, his voice careful, the way you talk to a drunk. “There’s some trouble?”
“No. But it’s bright out there. Why give anyone a look.”
“I won’t forget this.”
“You have to. I was never here.”
“Just a messenger.”
“That’s right. A boy.”
They’d reached the side door.
“Listen tomorrow,” Ferber said, holding up the tape. “You’ll thank him? He’s brave to do this.”
“He’s dying. That makes it easier.”
“And you?”
Alex looked at him, not sure how to answer, and opened the door.
He walked back, away from the entrance light, circling around the car from behind.
“Oh, I didn’t see you,” Irene said, startled.
Alex closed the passenger door. “Everything quiet?”
“So suspicious. Someone just got in. A woman. They were waiting for her, not you.”
“Good.”
He started the car without the lights, turning right, away from the park, down to Wexstrasse.
“It went okay?” Irene said.
“He’ll air it tomorrow.”
“So that’s that,” she said, looking down. “And now he doesn’t come back.”
“No.”
“So. And now?”
“Now we get you home. You weren’t feeling well, remember? I forgot to ask Ferber. How the play was.”
“How would it be? A triumph,” she said, a radio critic’s voice. “A landmark.”
“See those lights?” he said suddenly, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Is it the same car?”
“Oh, not again. So they’re going this way too. It’s a busy street.”
“Not that busy.”
He stopped for a red light at Innsbrucker Platz, the other car still coming up from behind, then looked both ways quickly and stepped on the gas, shooting though the intersection. The car followed, running the light.
“See that.”
At the next fork, he went right on Hauptstrasse.
“We’re going back to Tempelhof?”
“That’s what they’ll think. They don’t know we’ve already been.”
“Yes, and maybe they just keep going to Potsdamer Platz,” she said, skeptical.
“Let’s see,” he said, swerving onto a side street, dark, lined with tenements.
In a few seconds, lights appeared in the mirror.
“We have to get back to the main road,” he said. “They’ll trap us here.”
He saw the car in Lützowplatz, screeching, cutting him off.
“What do they want?” Irene said nervously.
“Erich,” Alex said, turning left, back to Hauptstrasse.
“Erich,” she repeated, working this out.
“And whoever’s helping him. Hold on. I’m going to speed up.”
He shot into Hauptstrasse, making a sharp turn to avoid an oncoming truck, racing the motor.
Irene swiveled around, facing the back. “They’re there.”
Alex went faster.
“And if they catch up?”
“They’ll try to cut us off. Christ, a light,” he said, slowing for a red, too many trucks crossing to risk not stopping.
“They’re coming,” Irene said.
Lights brighter now, flashing in the mirror, pulling onto the left lane to overtake them.
Green light. Alex felt the car jerk as he hit the gas pedal, a plane taking off. The other car now close behind. Then suddenly alongside, racing to get ahead, anticipating, beginning to move right, as if it were already in front and could make Alex stop by cutting him off. The cars almost touching. Alex moved farther right, away from the car, close to the curb now, then veered sharply left, into the other car’s lane. A squeal as the car braked to avoid being hit, then the crunch of fenders, a jolt from behind. Alex kept speeding ahead, trucks coming from the opposite direction, boxing them in, a narrow raceway. Another bump from behind as the car tried to make them move over.
“What are they doing?” Irene said, alarmed. “They’ll kill us.”
“Hold on.”
They were almost at the big intersection, traffic going in several directions, the streets like spokes. Alex held the left lane to continue on Hauptsrasse, then suddenly swerved farther left, then again, a U-turn effect, horns blaring, a truck’s air brakes hissing, cutting off the chase car as Alex crossed back over Hauptstrasse and shot east toward Tempelhof. A tiny sound from Irene, too shaken to say anything, the car filled with the sound of their breathing, horns still blowing behind. An adrenaline calm, blood pulsing but his hands steady on the wheel. No need to be careful anymore, the speed carrying him with a life of its own, some rushing stream. The lights were back in the mirror, getting closer.
“Alex, stop,” Irene said, her voice breaking, scared.
“We can’t.”
“You’ll kill us. We’ll die here.”
“Here or Sachsenhausen. What do you pick? That’s what it means.”
“What, helping Erich?” she said, bewildered, a wail. “Oh God, look. Behind again. So fast.”
An oncoming truck blinked its lights, a slow-down signal.
The car engine louder, making shuddering noises.
“They’re st
ill there. We can’t get away,” Irene said, almost sobbing with fear now.
“I know.”
Alex had stayed in the left lane but now realized that if they gained on the right they could push him into the trucks. He banked right, the lesser of two evils, trying to straddle the lanes to block the other car. The Horch was beginning to throb from the strain, the car behind close enough again to smash into the bumper. They lurched forward, Alex hitting the steering wheel, Irene pitching farther, into the dashboard, her head knocking against the windshield. She clutched her chest, gulping air. Alex again moved right, near the overpass bridge wall now. The other car pulled sharp right, pushing them into it, a loud crunch as Alex hit the wall before he could yank the steering wheel left. The sound of scraping metal, Irene thrown against the door.
“All right?”
A grunt, no time for more, her eyes fixed on the other car.
“Alex!”
The car had gained again, about to repeat a push to the right, forcing them into the wall. Fenders near.
Alex slammed on the brakes, the stop throwing them both forward again, his chest on the wheel, Irene tossed into the dash, bracing herself with her hands then falling back, limp. The other car, caught in its own momentum, swept in front of them, across the lane, brushing against the wall as the driver tried to pull it out of a spin, jerking back left. The car swerved around, fishtailing back against the wall, now just a temporary wooden fence, the speed of its turn flinging it against the slats, splintering them. And then suddenly the back wheels were off the edge, the car stopped with its lights raised off the road.
Alex grabbed the gearshift, moving without thinking. Here or Sachsenhausen. No witnesses. He pressed on the gas, aiming for the front of the other car.
“What are you doing?” Irene shouted.
He heard the crunch as he rammed into the other car and hit his brake, then watched, a moment that stretched, like a held breath, as the car jerked back, the lights pointing upward now as it plunged down to the S-Bahn tracks. Distant screams. Irene gasped. Across the road, a truck was slowing. Move. It was then that he saw the other car had taken another chunk out of the damaged bridge, a jagged edge of pavement where Alex’s front tire had caught and for a terrible moment he imagined the hole growing, bits of concrete falling away, wider and wider, until the side of the bridge was gone, swallowing the Horch, their own plunge down just seconds away.
He shoved the stick into reverse and gunned the engine but the sudden lurch had the effect of making them jerk forward, not back, he could feel it in his stomach, the right front tire slipping, heading into a fall. Then the rear tires gripped, pulling them back, even the right front, tugged up over the jagged edge, the car shooting backward until he braked again, then shifted and started away, the air around them suddenly flashing bright. More trucks stopped on the other side, one driver climbing down from his cab and running across the road, looking over the broken guardrail. The light must have been the gas tank exploding. How many in the car? Had anyone been conscious when it burst into flames, felt the sudden heat? More truck drivers on the road, shouts, yelling for Alex to stop. Don’t stop.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Like a chant, hysterical.
Don’t stop. No one behind, the traffic all airlift cargoes, heading away from Tempelhof.
“Oh my God, you killed them. Killed them.” Covering her face with a hand.
“What’s that?” Alex said, noticing the dark oozing. “Blood?”
“I don’t know. My head—” She leaned back against the seat. “I hit my head.” She turned. “How could you do that?”
“They were already over.”
“No,” she said vaguely. “Not over. Not yet. First Sasha, now— Oh, it’s so hard to breathe.” She clutched her stomach, a corset hold and sucked in air. “I feel—”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Dizzy.” She put a hand to her head. “There’s blood. How is there blood?”
“You hit your—”
But she had slumped over, a thud as her head fell against the car window.
“Irene.”
No sound, just the trucks and planes outside.
He took the first left out of the traffic, toward Viktoriapark, everything suddenly dark without the truck headlights.
“Irene.” He tried to remember her smashing against the windshield. How hard? But he’d been looking behind, dodging. He said her name again, frantic now. More blood.
He pulled over to the curb. No one following. The blood was still welling on her head, a sign of life. He felt for a pulse on her neck, then tried to shake her awake, as if she were just napping. He took her hand, feeling her slipping away, like the smooth slide of the car going down. And she’d been right. It hadn’t been over. Not yet. He’d pushed it. No witnesses. The car waiting at RIAS. Who’d known he’d be coming.
He took a breath, then another. No time to think about that now. Irene was unconscious, a head wound, not a hangover you slept off. Think. If Sasha were alive, he could call Karlshorst. But Sasha was lying in a drawer. Or in Wiesbaden. Or in Moscow. Why say that? To see her reaction. Or his. He looked over at her. Motionless. Think. Not Marienstrasse. A hospital.
He propped her against the door, head back, afraid to rearrange her limp body. A broken rib could puncture a lung. A hospital. He put the car in gear and headed toward Yorckstrasse to cross the Anhalter switching yards. The woman had come out of RIAS just after he went in. A leak, alerting the waiting car. Someone close to Ferber. Or sent by Ferber himself? Who went to birthday lunches at the Adlon, turned up at the Kulturbund, comfortable in the East. Who knew Erich was coming.
He glanced over at Irene, still quiet, breathing shallow. Faster. Pallasstrasse. Past the ruins of the Sportpalast, where Hitler had made his speeches. A thousand years. Where Elsbeth and Gustav must have raised their arms, shouting, glowing. Now home from the theater, with any luck still up.
All of Schlüterstrasse was dark, another electricity cut, but there was a flicker of candlelight coming from the front room. Alex stopped the car, put it in neutral and ran to the door, ringing the bell and knocking at the same time, everything urgent. A pinprick of light at the foyer door, Gustav peering out.
“Quick!” Alex said. “Open.”
Gustav held the door ajar. “What do you want? Coming here at such an hour?”
“Irene’s been hurt. Quick. Come with me.”
“Irene?” Elsbeth’s voice, coming from behind. Still dressed for the theater.
“Do you have admitting privileges at the Charité?” Alex said.
Gustav, not expecting this, gave an automatic nod. “But the Elisabeth is closer. Magdeburger Platz.”
“That’s where you volunteer?” Alex said to Elsbeth.
She stared at him, too startled to answer.
“They’d know you there, then. But you never go to the East.”
“Why this—? What do you want?” Gustav said.
“I want you to give her your name. A loan,” Alex said to Elsbeth.
“My name?”
Alex looked at Gustav. “You admit her as Elsbeth Mutter. No one will question it. Your wife.”
“What has she done?”
“Nothing. She fell in the dark. Charité was the nearest hospital. So you brought her there.”
“To admit her under a false name? Are you crazy? To think I would do such a thing?”
“You’ll do it.” He turned to Elsbeth. “She’s in the car. Unconscious. We don’t have time to argue. You used to borrow her clothes. Now she’s borrowing your name. Just until we see what’s wrong. And we can move her.”
“Get out of here.”
“Gustav, my sister—”
“First the brother. Now this. What has she done? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I never heard any of this. Leave us alone now, please. Go.”
“She’s hurt,” Alex said. “She needs your help.”
Gustav started to close the door. Ale
x put his hand up, pushing through, then shoved Gustav against the wall, hand on his chest.
“Now listen to me. Carefully. I have an old friend at Clay’s headquarters whose idea of a good time is putting Nazis away. One call and I’ll have him reopen your case. One call.”
“They can’t prove anything.”
“Maybe not. But do you want to go through it all again? Defend yourself? And meanwhile your license gets suspended while they try to decide just how guilty you are. That usually takes a little time. Which we don’t have. So decide.”
Gustav glared at him. “Jew.”
Alex went still for a second, then let it go. “Your wife just tripped in the dark. A nasty fall. Her head. You’ll want her seen right away.” He dropped his hand. “Get in the car.”
“How can you talk to Gustav this way?” Elsbeth said.
“She’s hurt,” Alex said. “And that’s all you can say? Be nice to Gustav?”
“He’s a good man,” Elsbeth said vaguely, not really following. “We’re decent people.” Shoulders back, the von Bernuth posture.
Alex looked at her, dismayed, then turned to Gustav. “Do you need anything? To admit her? Papers?”
“Just my signature.”
“Then let’s go.”
Gustav checked Irene’s pulse, her pupils, feeling lightly for broken bones.
“How long has she been unconscious?” he said, daubing the dried blood on her head with a handkerchief.
“Half an hour. Maybe more.”
“Let’s hurry, then.”
In the car, Gustav was sullen.
“It’s illegal, what you’re doing.”
“I’m keeping her safe. If anyone checks the hospitals, she’s not there.”
“And why would they check?”
Alex ignored this. “Remember, she tripped. In the street. No car. Nothing that needs to be reported.”
“Except you. Like gangsters. What is it, something with the black market? I thought she didn’t need that. Sleeping with Russians.”
“When we get there, you’re not just a doctor. You’re her husband. Worried. Got it?”
They went to the emergency entrance and got Irene onto a gurney, wheeling her into the exam room, her eyes fluttering open, surprised, then closing again.
“She’s awake,” Alex said.
Gustav, on his own turf now, paid no attention, handling the admitting staff with efficiency, a doctor who knew what he was doing. Alex was asked to wait in the hallway.
