by Joseph Kanon
“Just give me a second.” He took Irene’s hand, bending low to her ear. “Can you hear me? You’re here as Elsbeth. Gustav will take care of you.”
Her eyes opened, confused.
“If they check, there is no Irene. Do you understand? She’s not here.”
She took this in, then smiled faintly. “No, in Wiesbaden.”
“Somewhere. Anyway, not here. You’re safe this way.”
Another twitch, almost a smile. “Clever Alex.”
“You must leave her now,” a nurse was saying.
“Remember, you’re Elsbeth, yes?”
She nodded, then clutched his hand. “Those people. They’re dead?”
“You fell in the dark. In the street. That’s all you remember. I’ll be here. Just outside.”
She grasped his hand again. “You were right. They were waiting for us.”
“Ssh. No more. Remember, you’re Elsbeth.”
The wait in the hall seemed endless, a movie scene in a maternity ward, pacing, smoking, staring into space.
“No ribs broken,” Gustav said, finally coming out with an X-ray folder. “Just a bad bruise. The concussion is something else. No major clotting. But a concussion is always serious. Let’s see how she is in the morning.”
“But she’ll be all right?”
“I think so. But let’s see how the night goes.” He glanced at Alex. “Do you want to tell me how she did this?”
“Does it matter? I mean, for the diagnosis?” He caught Gustav’s look. “In a car. We stopped too fast for a light. She hit her head.”
“I see. And that’s why it’s important no one knows who she is.”
“Can I see her now?”
“In the morning. We’ve moved her upstairs. She’s asleep.” He began taking off his white jacket. “So good night.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“In the getaway car? I don’t think so. I’ll call a taxi. I’m finished with this.”
“But you’ll be back in the morning. To see how—”
“Of course. I’m her doctor.” He looked over at Alex. “And her husband.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Gustav said. “For something like this. A criminal act.”
“A small one. To keep her safe.”
“And me?”
“Don’t get caught. Then you’ll both be safe.”
Outside he checked the car for damage. There were dents on the bumpers and scratches on the side where he’d scraped the overpass wall, but nothing that would attract notice in a city of patched- together heaps. He moved the car back to the Charité faculty lot and picked up Irene’s purse, fishing for her house key. Put her at Marienstrasse.
He made noise on the stairs, enough to reach Frau Schmidt’s block warden ears, then knocked on the door while he slipped the key in so that it sounded as if Irene were opening it to him. Entertaining a visitor, the usual. Alex spoke to the empty room, a phantom Irene, hoping his voice would carry, and shut the door behind him, imagining Frau Schmidt below, nodding her head, pursing her lips. Or maybe already in bed, but aware of the sounds above in the flat, Irene moving about, making tea for some new friend. He left the curtains open so that the light would be visible, Irene at home.
In the bedroom there was the smell of her, powder and perfume, gifts from Sasha, and he stood for a minute breathing her in, staring at the bed. Where they’d made love. Where others had too. And now where she imagined some new life together, trusting him, living off his privileges. He gripped the bedpost, suddenly aware how impossible that would be now. He’d planned the evening to evade her watchdogs, but anyone following her would have stopped them earlier. Certainly at the airport, the escape hatch. But no one had. Instead they’d been waiting at RIAS, knowing he’d be coming with Erich. Which meant they knew about him. They’d been waiting for him. He felt a shiver of cold. They knew. How much? But just helping Erich would put him in Sachsenhausen. And the car burning on the S-Bahn tracks? Being Alex Meier couldn’t protect him anymore, not the privileges, not the pictures in Neues Deutschland, the ode to Stalin. They knew. He had to get out.
He went back to the main room, breathing fast. Take some tea, think it through. Dieter’s advice. He went over to the heirloom shelf and picked up the candlestick. Washed clean, no sight of blood, still their secret. Why say Markovsky was in Moscow? Toying with him, a cat with a mouse, knowing Sasha wasn’t in Wiesbaden. Who knew about Erich’s interview? Ferber? Who sent an assistant out to the waiting car? But that one was easy, just a matter of listening to RIAS tomorrow. If they broadcast the tape, then it wasn’t Ferber. Someone else. They’d been waiting for him.
He sat down, still in his coat, cold again, thinking of that first night at the Adlon when he lay in a cold sweat feeling the dread creep over him. And now it had finally come. They knew. Think about the interview. He tried to work through the chronology, when, who knew, eliminating. Until there were two. Two. And Irene. Who didn’t want to go West. Who wanted to make a life with him. He looked at the piano shelf, lined with framed photographs. Irene at DEFA, Irene in the old house, her hair now a period touch, Irene with a man who must be Gerhardt, in a flashy topcoat, Irene with Elsbeth and Erich, a golden summer, before anything had happened. Remember who you are. Who learned to do anything to survive. Who’d just had another Russian in her bed.
He stopped. He was mixing things up, confusing the issue. They knew. For how long? How much time did he have? Just leave now and walk through the Gate, into the park, his first morning again. And do what? Go to Föhrenweg, to people who didn’t want him back, had never wanted him. Think of something. Make them want you. He was a mouse, wriggling in the cat’s claws, waiting for the inevitable. He had to get out.
He switched off the light and crept quietly down the stairs, still in Irene’s bed in Frau Schmidt’s hearing. In the street he didn’t bother to look around. If they were going to pick him up, they would. Or toy with him some more. Maybe wait to see if Erich was still with him. No one who’d followed his car from RIAS had survived. Irene had been home in Marienstrasse. So there was only Erich to account for, still stashed away somewhere.
He walked up to Nordbahnhof, then caught the late tram that ran along Danziger Strasse. You have to trust somebody, Dieter had said. He sat looking through the tram window at the dark city, juggling memories, what people had said. One more story. But even if his instinct was right, two now one, what he didn’t know was who else knew.
He got off just before Prenzlauer Allee and walked down Rykestrasse. No waiting car parked in front, still in the cat’s paw. On his door an envelope had been pinned with a tack. Inside he turned on the overhead light. An official envelope, in Russian and German. A summons to appear at the trial of Aaron Stein, a perverse gift of time. Maybe enough to work something out. They wouldn’t come to get him until he’d helped them destroy someone else.
8
BRANDENBURG GATE
ERICH WAS ON THE radio in the morning, crisp and clear, as if he were actually in the studio. Just as Ferber had promised. Alex imagined the interview playing at breakfast tables all over the East, the Erzgebirge slave camps no longer just rumors, Erich’s fare paid.
He’d been up early, at the typewriter, drafting the letters he’d need later, ready to be retyped on official paper. Then his speech, weighing the words, getting the language right. The only writing he’d done since he’d come to Berlin. He looked at the small pile of manuscript on the desk, untouched, something from his former life. Leave the flat as if you’d just gone for a walk. But what writer would leave an unfinished book behind? He took out a large envelope and sealed the manuscript inside. A look around the room. Neat, but not abandoned, the bed still unmade. If anyone checked.
He walked past the water tower, its red bricks like embers in the pale winter sunshine, then down the hill to the park. Gretel, a sentimental pick, where he’d waited the first time. Wondering if he could do it, be two people.
“Th
ey get off?” Dieter said, joining him. “No trouble?”
“One of them did. She’s still here.”
Dieter waited.
“Answer me something.”
Dieter opened his hand. Go ahead.
“What Gunther found. Did you tell anyone else?”
“No.”
“I mean anyone.”
Dieter shook his head. “Why?”
“You once told me I had to trust somebody. So now I am,” he said, nodding at him.
“When did you decide, before the question or after?”
“Before. But you like to be right.”
“And to what do I owe this honor?”
“Instinct. And a few other things.”
Dieter grunted. “So?”
“I need your help. Someone tried to kill us last night. Down at RIAS. Hear anything yet on your grapevine? A car going over a bridge?”
“No. So they must be calling it an accident. But they know you’re involved, with the broadcast?”
“Not the people in the car. Not now.”
“But somebody.” He thought for a second. “And me? Do they know about me?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”
“No, just go. If they know, it’s no time for heroics. I heard the broadcast.”
“They want me to condemn somebody first, so that buys us a little time. A little. I have to do this right.”
“Do what?”
“What I came to do.”
Dieter looked at him, puzzled.
“I’ll explain later. First I need you to do something for me. You in?”
“It’s your life you’re playing with. You know that.”
Alex nodded. “Go to the Charité. Irene’s there. Under the name Elsbeth Mutter.”
“Who?”
“Just a name. The point is, nobody knows it’s her. Which means she’s safe. Tell her to stay there.”
“Another Wiesbaden? Or is she really sick?”
“She hit her head last night.”
“On the bridge?” Dieter said, looking at him.
“Somewhere.”
“And I’m the one you trust.”
“Maybe she’s better now. I don’t know. But she has to stay there. Okay? Then call Campbell and tell him to meet me at BOB.” He glanced at his watch. “Noon, a little later.”
“You can’t—”
“What’s the difference. I’m no longer a protected source. Tell him to wait if I’m late.”
“It’s against all the rules. What’s so important that—?”
“I’m going to tell him where Markovsky is. In my own way. So don’t ruin the surprise.”
Dieter stared at him. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Now you trust me. It works both ways. Just be ready when I call. One more thing. Do you have a gun I could borrow? Just in case.”
“Just in case.”
“You must keep one in the flat.”
“No, I keep it here,” Dieter said, patting his coat pocket. “Just in case.”
“Can it be traced?”
“I was in the police. I know how to do things.” He took the gun out and handed it to Alex, one hand covering it, as if they were being photographed. “The safety’s here. When you shoot, point outwards, not at yourself.”
“I’m not expecting to shoot it.”
“And that’s why you asked for it.”
Alex turned to go, then stopped, taking Dieter’s hand. “Thank you. You’ll see Irene? Now. So you’ll be back when I call.”
“I can follow orders. Frau Mutter.” Dieter looked across the fountain. “Remember the first day? In the snow? You were offended, I think. I called you an amateur. And now look. Be careful,” he said, touching Alex’s arm. “Better an amateur than dead.”
He caught the tram down to Alexanderplatz and walked past the palace. Scaffolding and scorched walls, what he’d seen that first night with Martin, everything circling back today, a completed loop. He stopped for a second on the bridge, turning around, wanting to remember it, the way Berlin looked now.
Around the corner from Markus’s office a makeshift café had been set up in a bomb site, a few tables outside with people wrapped in coats, their faces turned up to the weak sun. Inside, under a sloped temporary ceiling, a coffeemaker was steaming, people holding cups and leaning across tables to talk, couples and— He froze, just for a second, then caught himself and kept going. A second, but long enough, Roberta looking out, meeting his glance, her eyes suddenly wide. She looked back to the table before Markus could notice. Coffee with Markus. How she’d paid for Herb. A small price, except you kept paying. Coffee every week, powdered milk and little betrayals, the neighbors, the Kulturbund, Herb’s architect friends, all overheard now. Alex stumbled across the street. Markus’s new GI. And another tomorrow and another, Markus and his coffee cups multiplying because there would never be enough. And after a while Roberta would forgive herself. They all would. It was just the way things were. Remember this, not Alexanderplatz. This was the future.
He’d been heading for Markus’s office but Markus wouldn’t be there, not until he’d heard Roberta out, so he kept going the few blocks to the Kulturbund. Martin was surprised to see him.
“I thought the trial was today,” he said tentatively.
“Not until four. The Soviets never start anything early. Hungover, probably.”
“Herr Meier,” Martin said, but smiled a little.
“Are you going to testify?”
“No, no one from the Kulturbund,” he said, clearly relieved. “Only people from Aufbau. The editor, his assistant.”
Alex imagined them on the stand, facing the judges, not looking at Aaron.
“Good. For you, I mean. Not to have to do that.”
“Of course, if asked, I would do my duty,” Martin said, correct, a public answer.
Alex looked at him. His duty. Aaron in prison.
“Was there something you wanted?” Martin said, eager to move off it.
“I wondered if you’d do me a favor.”
“Herr Meier, of course.”
“I hope you won’t think it’s asking too much. I’d pay— I mean, I’d reimburse the Kulturbund for the tape. I know supplies are—”
“The tape?”
“Yes. You know I have a son in America. He has a birthday coming up, and it would be wonderful if I could record something to send him,” he said, nodding to the machine. “So he could hear me wish him happy birthday. Hear my voice. Like a telephone call. I’d pay you—”
Martin held up his hand. “Herr Meier, please. I’d be so happy. A lovely gesture.” He stopped, a sudden thought. “You know, of course, that a censor would have to play it. Any tape in the post.”
Alex smiled. “I’m not going to say anything that a ten-year-old shouldn’t hear. I think we’ll be all right. It’s fine, then? Would you show me how to use it?”
Martin busied himself threading the reels and setting the microphone levels, showing off a little, a teacher.
“When you’re finished, just switch it off here. Well, I’ll leave you. I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, moving to the door, his bad leg making a shuffling sound.
Alex took one of the typed papers out of the big envelope and faced the microphone. The testimony Aaron would never hear, another gift to Ferber. His own airfare. He told the story everyone already knew: the exile returning to Berlin, the excitement of homecoming, the Socialist hopes. Then the disillusionment, the growing alarm at the Party’s abuse of its own people, finally his refusal to condemn an innocent man. His decision to leave the East, burning every bridge now, every smiling Neues Deutschland picture turned upside down. Voting once more with his feet. He imagined Brecht hearing the broadcast, dismissing it, a foolish self-immolation, maybe framing some sardonic twist to excuse the rest of them. But no turning back now.
He finished and put the tape in his pocket, feeling his heart racing, some clock tickin
g in his head. Almost there. When he left the office, waving thanks to Martin, he wondered if anything showed on his face. How did a man look with a gun in one pocket and a grenade in the other?
Markus was still out but his mother was at the office, perched on the edge of a chair in the waiting area, her eyes darting around the room, on guard.
“Alex,” she said, her shoulders relaxing. “How nice.”
“You’re waiting for Markus?” he said, just to say something. Her face, if anything, looked thinner, skin stretched tight over the bones.
“He wanted to see me. The Commissar,” she said, a wry edge to her voice. Alex looked up. A Berliner still.
“Won’t they let you wait in his office?”
“I like it here. Where I can see. And you, you’re well?”
“Yes, fine,” he said, sitting down next to her. “How is it going with you?” He touched her hand.
“Well, how would it go with me? The coughing keeps me up at night.”
“But you’re comfortable? Your room—?”
“They watch, I think.” She looked down. “Well, maybe they don’t, I don’t know. But then it’s the same, isn’t it, if you think it?”
He said nothing, remembering Oranienburg, the months after, an eye at every window.
“Maybe Markus will find a bigger flat, so you can be together.”
“Then he watches.”
“Well, but to be together,” Alex said, not sure how to respond to this. “It’s a big adjustment. So many years.”
“You know some of the German children, the young ones, were given away. To Russian families. So they’re Russian now. Impossible to find. Even if you knew where. And the others? Dead, most of them. I never thought I would see him again. But all the time he’s at the school. For the ones they wanted to send back.” She stopped, going somewhere else. “Do you know what I remember? How your mother played the piano. The music in that house. Do you play?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s not like eyes or hair, is it? Something passed down. Maybe you’ll come one day for coffee. We can talk.”
