by Ulla Lenze
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Duquesne suddenly stepped toward him out of the darkness.
“Herr Duquesne?”
“Will you quit saying my name?”
He felt stupid and helpless. He could see the whites of Duquesne’s eyes, they were staring right at him, waiting, as if he were counting the seconds. Josef reached for his collar, as if it were too tight.
“No, I don’t have anything to tell you. I want to know what all this is about, what we’re doing. I’ve been pulled into something that could have unwelcome consequences. I want to know if we’re in danger. I’m, I want . . .” He stopped talking. Duquesne had given a surly, involuntary jerk, as if he had no sympathy for him, or at least wasn’t prepared to offer any fatherly guidance, and in the echo of his stammered words he realized that he sounded tearful and confused.
“Do you know what the problem is? You! People like you are going to ruin everything for us!”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t! You don’t understand a thing!”
He saw Duquesne cross the dark street, but now with a careless, shuffling gait that he hadn’t had before. Josef stood frozen. Only when Duquesne was out of sight did he start moving.
By the time he reached the Brooklyn Bridge, the city lay beneath an apricot-brown sky.
25
New York, July 1939
NOTHING. THEY DIDN’T SHOW UP. HE WAITED IN VAIN FOR them on Sunday—not that he missed Max and Ludwig, but their absence, without any explanation, was unsettling. Had something happened to them?
The next morning his sheets were tangled and untucked. When he got up he went through his routine fearfully, taking the utmost care with everything—feeding the dog, putting on coffee—as if this way he could counteract last night’s tossing and turning.
Shortly before eight o’clock he took Princess out. The July sun rose festively over Harlem. The children all tried to pet Princess’s head. She reacted cheerfully at first and then, as the hands started coming from all sides, with mounting uneasiness. He came to her rescue with a whistle. On the weedy vacant lot he threw her a little ball. She leapt after it, nudged it playfully with her snout, and wagged her tail.
Then she trotted over to the water’s edge and looked back at him, waiting for his permission. He threw a stick, and she plowed excitedly through the water. Finally she was swimming; from the bank he saw a dog’s head bobbing on the pale green surface.
He undressed and followed her into the cold water in his underwear. Worse than the cold was the soft, slimy silt of the riverbed that surged up between his toes. He dove under and enjoyed the firm embrace of the water. He swam a few strokes, saw the shimmering surface above him and below him a murky gray. When he came back to the surface, he was far from the bank, ducks swimming around him, self-contained in their smooth plumage, like little boats.
Princess barked. He could sense her fear. He swam over to her, and together they went back to the shore. He didn’t have a towel with him, and so he dried himself off with his shirt and buttoned his suit jacket over his bare chest. Let people think what they wanted about him.
Back at the apartment he turned the radio on, smoked a Bremaria Brinkmann that Max had left behind while Glenn Miller’s “Oh, Baby” played, and enjoyed the feel of the salt water on his body, the smell of algae and oil, of silt and earth. Crumbling bits of dirt were spread out on the wooden floor; he had left his shoes on. Work at the print shop didn’t start until noon, so now he folded open the New York Times, searched for the name, read that Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg was his favorite opera and that he expected international Jewry to bear all costs for the emigration of their own people from Germany. In an article on the same page he read that both Cuba and Florida had refused a ship with over nine hundred refugees and sent it back to Germany. He put the paper away and stared into space.
Now the radio was playing Emily Post, speaking about “America and its etiquette”: A man was to take his hat off when a woman stepped into the elevator with him, because the elevator was the equivalent of a room. In the hallway however, which was more like a street, he might put his hat back on. He turned to the next station to hear more music.
The buzzer rang. He quickly put on a T-shirt and answered.
Someone was coming up the stairs, slower than usual. It was Schmuederrich. Panting, he stomped past him into the living room and looked around. Beads of sweat on his forehead.
“What’s this, you’re alone? Figured I’d meet your little girlfriend here. You’re still together, aren’t you? Will you make me some coffee?”
Schmuederrich’s body seemed to take up the whole room. His broad neck and the black chest hairs curling out from his collar took up Josef’s entire field of vision. He went into the kitchen, put some water on to boil, and tried to understand the situation. “Milk?” he called out.
“And sugar,” Schmuederrich called back.
Back in the living room Josef placed the cup in his hand directly so Schmuederrich wouldn’t sit down anywhere.
“What brings you here, Hans?”
“Did you know that up until very recently the United States was the only country in the world that didn’t have a decent counterintelligence operation?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Every other country is happy to put its spies here. Up to now the FBI’s hands were tied, they were more responsible for domestic matters. Which didn’t exactly make them popular. But last year Hoover and his men finally landed a big success. It’s showing at the movies now—we can all go watch. It’s like this: we have to work harder. The FBI has been granted broader powers. Things are getting dicey. The Japanese are good spies. Better than us.”
Schmuederrich nodded, letting his words sink in. Josef tried to keep the unimpressed look on his face. Schmuederrich put his cup down on the table in front of the radio.
“Stop trailing our own people, Josef.”
“I didn’t trail anybody.”
“And don’t ever think about going to the FBI again.”
This time he didn’t say anything in response. He immediately felt a heavy weight on his chest, pressing all the way up to his throat.
“What do you think you’re doing, little man?” Schmuederrich took a deep breath, in and out. “Life’s been good to you. Just look at the weather today. Beautiful. And that swell girlfriend of yours. But we can’t afford to make any mistakes. Amateurs are too dangerous in the long run.”
Josef looked over toward the door; the bits of muck leading that way were now completely crumbled. Could he get past Schmuederrich? Princess lay on her side, her tail wagged nervously up and down.
“You’re done. Where’s the radio you built for us?”
Had he heard right? Or was it a trick—was he about to get beat up?
“Show it to me.”
He went into the bedroom and pulled the box out from under the bed. Thought for a second about locking the door from the inside. He didn’t trust Schmuederrich.
“Where are you? Do you need some help?”
It didn’t sound like a threat. Schmuederrich had slid back into his chummy voice, like they were wallpapering a room together.
His hands were shaking all the same when, a moment later, he laid the parts out on the table. Princess was standing in between them by now, her ears turning in all directions.
“Do you have someone who can finish building it for you?”
“That’s none of your goddamn concern. And once Germany has conquered the world, don’t think there’ll be a job waiting for you.”
“No, of course not, Hans.”
Schmuederrich threw everything into a bag—it was made of thin fabric; the parts made bulges and sharp outlines in the material—and off he went toward the door, just like that, like a character in the propaganda movie.
“Stay,” whispered Josef. The dog had politely started following Schmuederrich to the door.
“Not a wo
rd to anybody.”
“Of course not, Hans.”
“Including that girlfriend of yours. And by the way, we know where your brother lives.”
“You’re trying to scare me, is that it?”
“You just leave his letters lying around out in the open,” said Schmuederrich angrily.
After Schmuederrich had left, he washed the river water from his body, then he left the apartment and headed for the print shop. On the way he imagined telling Arthur everything immediately, relieved that it was over, and outraged that Schmuederrich would threaten him.
But when he arrived, he just nodded to Arthur and got right to work. The clatter of the machines in his ears was more pleasant than ever, the familiar hand motions calmed him down, as if time had been turned back, as if he’d woken up from a nightmare. They were gone. He would write Lauren a postcard; he would apologize and send flowers. Flowers were good.
26
New York, July 1939
LAUREN WAS LATE. “SORRY, THE SUBWAY, THE MISERABLE packed subway on a rainy day!” she said, but it sounded like she was blaming him. He helped her out of her coat; it was heavy with rain. “That’s actually his job,” she said with a glance at the waiter, who was running back and forth between patrons, visibly overwhelmed, his face glowing red.
“But I’m happy to do it,” he said quietly.
He led her to their table by the window, which he had asked for specifically on account of the view, but the glass was fogged up; you could only see the blurry glow of headlights and neon signs.
“It’s rather warm and loud in here.”
“I’m very happy that you’re here, Lauren,” he said stiffly.
She nodded mercifully. With a touch of self-pity she looked over at some more people who were just coming in. “Now it’s going to get even louder in here!”
“Should we go someplace else, Lauren? You did say you wanted to go to Amalfi, since we couldn’t get a table last time.”
“That’s true.” She looked him in the eye, for the first time since she’d arrived.
He had written her a card:
Sorry for the disagreement the other day. Please let me take you out to dinner to make up for it.
“Thank you for the card,” she had said on the phone. Nothing about the flowers. Clearly the words weren’t enough, not these words.
Lauren’s gaze followed a newly arrived couple as if they were criminal intruders.
“Is something bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
He gave up and signaled the waiter.
She studied the menu very closely. She kept flipping between pages. Meanwhile he was trying to find pizza and instead found a lot of Italian words he didn’t understand. When the waiter stepped up to the table, Lauren resurfaced.
“We’ll start with antipasti,” she announced. “Genoa salami, Sicilian olives, pickled eggplant, squid with saffron sauce.”
“A very good selection,” the waiter said appreciatively. “And for your second course?”
“The chicken soup with egg, fennel, and artichoke hearts,” she continued. “And for the main course the monkfish.”
“Dessert?”
“We’ll decide later.” The waiter gave a bow and hurried off. Lauren had an intimidating air about her. Josef had to clear his throat before he could get himself to speak.
“Are the flowers still blooming? The courier promised to deliver them immediately. It was a very hot day.”
“I got rid of the yellow asters. The color clashed with the red roses and the bluebells.”
The mix of colors was the thing he’d liked most. He’d put the arrangement together himself.
“Sorry, Joe. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You know what you remind me of?” he asked.
“No, what?”
“A cat. First it comes trotting up to you, and then once it gets a few feet away it stops and starts frantically cleaning itself.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’re nervous. Are you afraid of me?”
She shook her head and held tight to her napkin.
They didn’t say a word until the wine and appetizers came. The waiter placed the little dishes closer to Lauren’s plate than to his, as if she were a goddess who had to be appeased. Lauren tasted a slice of salami, her fingers splayed.
He raised his glass. She calmly dabbed at her lips, then she raised hers.
“So, when we’re done are you going to pay for all this with the Third Reich’s money? I’m not stupid, Joe.”
“No, you are not.”
He saw red lipstick on the napkin, the impression of the mouth that had just said these words to him.
“Joe?”
He raised his eyes. “What?”
“I’m glad you aren’t trying to deny it.”
“Since when,” he hesitated, “since when have you thought this about me?”
The waiter came and took the appetizers away. Lauren lit a cigarette, and when they were alone again she said, “Since the movie. It was obvious you knew what you were talking about.” She paused for a moment and looked straight at him. It was hard for him to hold her gaze.
“And?” he asked. “What now?”
“You don’t want to be in the wrong, but you know that you are, and you’re trying to keep it a secret from yourself.”
He was amazed how much she knew about him. He purposely blew smoke over the chicken soup that now sat on the table before them. He was teetering between the urge to go ahead and fully confide in Lauren and the stronger impulse to make a run for it.
“Please trust me, Joe. I think you’ve stumbled into something and now you can’t find your way out of it!”
“I told them I quit,” he said gruffly.
Her face remained just as kindly and approving, as if this were exactly how she’d imagined this conversation would go. “Good. That’s a start.”
Then she put her cigarette out and started eating her chicken soup.
27
Neuss, August 1949
AN EVENING LIKE MOST ANY OTHER: THEY SIT IN THE kitchen, Carl writes invoices, Edith darns socks, the children read. He has the newspaper spread out in front of him, smoothing it out with his hand every now and then, while his eyes scan the articles. A club wishing to put on a party can apply for exemption from the entertainment tax. New information about the allocation of land for small garden plots in Rommerskirchen and Otzenrath.
He’s searching. He’s searching for news that could apply to him. You have to keep your eyes open. You need patience. This is what he can do.
The last important piece of news he read was four years ago. December 1945: General Lahousen, head of sabotage for German military intelligence, gave an interview to the international press in Nuremberg.
He glances over at Carl. Sometimes when he’s concentrating his brother will push his tongue out between his lips and forget it’s there.
“Paul?” It takes a few seconds for the boy to look up at him. “Paul? What’s the tallest building in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Empire State Building.”
“How tall is it?”
“Four hundred forty-three meters—that’s including the antenna,” Josef tells him.
“That’s tall.”
“Are there a lot of suicides in New York?” asks Täubchen.
“What could possibly make you think of such a thing?” asks Edith, stunned.
“Since the buildings are so tall. It makes it easy.”
“Makes a whole heap of work for the people down below, though,” Josef says with a wink.
Täubchen laughs. Carl looks up briefly from his invoices and exchanges glances with Edith.
Edith has started tidying up in his room again. This too is something between him and her: no one knows that she stopped, and no one, only he, knows that she started again.
“Time for bed,” Edith says to the children. And stands up herself, says som
ething needs taking care of, something to do with the laundry.
To be left alone with Carl all of a sudden is always jarring, like when a half-full box of rice is tipped over and the contents shift to one side. Without Carl having to say anything, he senses that his brother’s heart, like his, is beating faster.
Carl no longer says outright when something is bothering him. His face says it all. Josef starts to wonder what he could have done wrong this time. Was it that he walked barefoot through the kitchen? That he scratched his ear at dinner? That he found a station that plays jazz and cranked the volume? When Carl asked, “What is that?” he only answered, “Music.” Carl gave him a look, drained and disappointed. He clearly felt he’d been misunderstood, and turned away.
Carl has now been staring at his papers for a while without writing anything.
“Got all the invoices done?” asks Josef.
And Carl answers, “Tell me. Now. Or else you have to go.”
“What?”
“Whatever it is you’re hiding.”
Josef looks to the left and right, as if there were other people around. The next moment he feels like he did back then, when they came into his apartment, pushed him up against the wall, and put sharp handcuffs on him. Which nevertheless he barely felt—it was only when thinking back on it, because his wrists were bruised and hurting for days afterward. And suddenly it’s very easy. He just says what he said in court.
“I built a portable radio.”
“And what’s illegal about that?”
“For German military intelligence.”
When describing what happened, only say what everyone can agree on. Whatever else happened, and whatever you might think about it, omit at all costs.
“And what made you do it? How did it start?”
“With a lie. At first it was supposed to be about business. And then there was no getting out of it.”