The Good German (Bestselling Backlist)

by Joseph Kanon

  “Yes, he did, Lena,” he said quietly. “He did.”

  “How do you know? Because of that paper? How do you know what they ordered him to do? What he had to do? Look at Renate.”

  “You think it’s the same? A Jew in hiding? They would’ve murdered—”

  “I don’t know. Neither do you. He had to protect his family too—it could be. They took families. Maybe to protect me and Peter—”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you? Read it.” He flung open the folder. “Read it. He wasn’t protecting you.”

  She looked down. “You want me to hate him. It’s not enough for you that I’m with you? You want me to hate him too? I won’t. He’s my family, what’s left of it. He’s all that’s left.”

  “Read it,” Jake said evenly. “This isn’t about us.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s about some guy in Burgstrasse with blood all over his hands. I don’t even know who he is anymore. Not anyone I know.”

  “Then let him tell you. Let him explain. You owe him that.”

  “Owe him? As far as I’m concerned, he can rot in Burgstrasse. They’re welcome to him.”

  He looked at her stricken expression and then, angry at himself for being angry, left the room, closing the bathroom door with a thud. He splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth, as sour as his mood. Not about them, except for her unexpected defense, guilty with an explanation, what everyone in Berlin said, now even her. Two lines in the cards. Still here, even after the file.

  He came back to find her standing where he had left her, staring at the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She nodded, not saying anything, then turned, poured out the coffee, and brought it to the table. “Sit,” she said, “it’ll get cold.” A hausfrau gesture, to signal it was over.

  But when he sat down, she stood next to the table, her face still troubled. “We can’t leave him there,” she said softly.

  “You think he’ll be better off in an Allied prison? That’s what this means, you know. They try people for this.” He put his hand on the folder.

  “I won’t leave him there. You don’t have to do it. I will. Tell your friend Shaeffer,” she said, her voice flat.

  He looked up at her. “I just want to know one thing.”

  She met his gaze. “I chose you,” she said.

  “Not that. Not us. Just so I know. Do you believe what’s in here? What he did?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding, barely audible.

  He flipped open the cover and turned the pages, then pointed to one of the tables.

  “This is how long it takes—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Sixty days, more or less,” he said, unable to stop. “These are the death rates. Still want to get him out?”

  He looked up to find that her eyes had filled, turning to him with a kind of mute pleading.

  “We can’t leave him there. With them,” she said.

  He went back to the page with its spiky typed numbers and pushed it away. Two lines.

  They avoided each other most of the morning, afraid to start in again, while she tended to Erich and he worked up the rest of his notes about Renate for Ron. The story they all had to have, but at least his would be first, ready to send. At noon Rosen turned up and examined the boy. “It’s a question of food only,” he said. “Otherwise he’s healthy.” Jake, relieved at the interruption, gathered up his papers, eager to get away, but to his surprise Lena insisted on coming along, leaving Erich with one of Danny’s girls.

  “I have to go to the press camp first,” he said. “Then we can see Fleischman.”

  “No, not Fleischman,” she said, “something else,” and then didn’t say anything more, so they drove without talking, drained of speech.

  The press camp, depleted after Potsdam, was quiet except for the poker game. Jake took only a minute to drop off the notes, grabbing two beers from the bar on his way out.

  “Here,” he said at the jeep, handing her one.

  “No, I don’t want it,” she said, not sullen but melancholy, like the overcast skies. She directed him toward Tempelhof, and as they got nearer, her mood grew even darker, nothing in her face but a grim determination.

  “What’s at the airport?”

  “No, beyond. The kirchhof. Keep going.”

  They entered one of the cemeteries that sprawled north of Tempelhof.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to visit. Stop over there. No flowers, do you notice? No one has flowers now.”

  What he saw instead were two GIs with a POW work party, digging a long row of graves.

  “What gives?” he said to one of the GIs. “Expecting an epidemic?”

  “Winter. Major says they’re going to drop like flies once the cold sets in. Get it done before the ground freezes.”

  Jake looked beyond a cluster of tombstones to another set of fresh graves, then another, the whole cemetery pockmarked with waiting holes.

  Peter’s was a small marker, no bigger than a piece of rubble, set in a scraggly patch of ground.

  “They don’t keep it up,” Lena said. “I used to take care of it. And then I stopped coming.”

  “But you wanted to come today,” Jake said, uneasy. “This is about Emil, isn’t it?”

  “You think you know everything he did,” she said, looking at the marker. “Before you judge him, maybe you should know this too.”

  “Lena, why are we doing this?” he said gently. “It doesn’t change anything. I know he had a child.”

  She kept looking at the marker, quiet, then turned to him. “Yours. He had yours. It was your child.”

  “Mine?” he said, an involuntary word to fill the space, taken up now by a kind of dizziness, an absurd rush of elated surprise, almost goofy, caught off guard in some cartoon of waiting rooms and cigars. In a graveyard. He looked away. “Mine,” he said, guarded again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why? To make you sad? If he had lived—I don’t know. But he didn’t.”

  “But how—you’re sure?”

  A disappointed half-smile. “Yes. I can count. You don’t have to be a mathematician for that.”

  “Emil didn’t know?”

  “No. How could I tell him that? It never occurred to him.” She turned back to the marker. “To count.”

  Jake ran his hand through his hair, at a loss, not sure what to say next. Their child. He thought of her face in the church basement while he read. The way it would have been.

  “What did he look like?”

  “You don’t believe me? You want proof? A photograph?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” He took her arm. “I want it to be. I’m glad we—” He stopped, aware of the marker, and dropped his hand. “I was just curious. Did he look like me?”

  “Your eyes. He had your eyes.”

  “And Emil never—”

  “He didn’t know your eyes so well.” She turned. “No, never. He looked like me. German. He was German, your child.”

  “A son,” he said numbly, his mind flooded with it.

  “You left. I thought for good. And here it was inside me, this piece of you. No one would know, just me. So. You remember at the station, when you went away? I knew then.”

  “And you never said.”

  “What could I say? ‘Stay’? No one needed to know, not even Emil. He was happy, you know. He always wanted a child, and it didn’t happen, and then there it was. You don’t look at the eyes—you see your own child. So he did that. He was the father of your child. He paid for him. He loved him. And then, when we lost him, it broke his heart. That’s what he was doing—while he did all those other things. The same man. Do you understand now? You want to let him ‘rot’? There is a debt here. You owe him this much, for your child.”

  “Lena—”

  “And me. What did I do? I lied to him about you. I lied to him about Peter. Now you want me to turn my back on him? I can’t do it. You know, w
hen Peter died—American bombs—I thought, it’s a punishment. For all the lies. Oh, I know, don’t say it, it was crazy, I know. But not this. I have to put it right.”

  “By telling him now?”

  “No, never. It would kill him to know that. But to help him—it’s a chance to make it right. A debt.”

  He took a step back. “Not mine.”

  “Yes, yours too. That’s why I brought you here.” She pointed to the marker. “That’s you too. Here, in Berlin. One of us. His child—your child. You come in your uniform—so easy to judge when it’s not you. All these terrible people, look what they did. Walk away. Let’s go to bed—everything will be like before.” She turned to him. “Nothing’s like before. This is the way it is now—all mixed up. Nothing’s like before.”

  He looked at her, disconcerted. “Maybe one thing. You must still love him, to do this.”

  “Oh my god, love.” She moved forward and put her hands on his chest, almost pounding it. “Stubborn. Stubborn. If I didn’t love you, do you think I would have kept it? It would have been so easy to get rid of it. A mistake. These things happen. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to keep you. I looked at him, I could see you. So I made Emil his father. Love him? I used Emil to keep you.”

  He said nothing, then took her hands off his chest. “And this would make it right.”

  “No, not right. But it’s something.”

  “He’ll go to prison.”

  “It’s for certain? Who decides that?”

  “It’s the law.”

  “American law. For Germans.”

  “I am an American.”

  She looked up at him. “Then you decide,” she said, moving away to start back. “You decide.”

  He stood for a moment, looking from the row of graves down to the marker, the part of him that was here now, then turned slowly and followed her down the hill.

  III

  REPARATIONS

  CHAPTER 16

  The first part of Shaeffer’s plan was to get the location moved.

  “They’ve got too many men at Burgstrasse.”

  “You mean you can’t do it?”

  “We can do it. It might get messy, that’s all. Then we’ve got an incident. Hell of a lot easier if you get him moved.” He scratched his bandage through his shirt, dressed now. “An apartment, maybe.”

  “They’d have guards there too.”

  “But not as many. Burgstrasse’s a trap. There’s only one entrance. To think he’s been there all along—How did you find out, by the way? You never said.”

  “A tip. Don’t worry, he’s there. Somebody saw him.”

  “Somebody who?” Schaeffer said, then looked at Jake’s face and let it go. “A tip. What did that cost you?”

  One small boy. “Enough. Anyway, you wanted to know. Now all you have to do is get him out.”

  “We’ll get him. But let’s do it right. I don’t like her at Burgstrasse. That’s cutting it close, even for us.”

  “I still don’t see why you need her at all. You know where he is. Just go in and get him.”

  Shaeffer shook his head. “We need the diversion, if we want to do it right.”

  “That’s what she is, a diversion?”

  “You said she agreed to do it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? Come on, stop wasting time. I’ve got things to work out. But first, see if you can get him moved.”

  “Why would Sikorsky do that?”

  Shaeffer shrugged. “The lady’s got delicate feelings. She won’t want to start her new life in a cell—gives a bad taste to it. Might make her think twice. I don’t know, figure something out. You’re the one with the smart mouth—use it on them for a change. Maybe you don’t like it, since you’re making the delivery. That still the way you want it?”

  “I go with her or she doesn’t go.”

  “Suit yourself. Just cover your own ass. I can’t worry about you too—just Brandt. Understand?”

  “If anything happens to her—”

  “I know, I know. You’ll hunt me down like a dog.” Shaeffer picked up his hat, eager to go. “Nothing’s going to happen if we do it right. Now, how about it? First have your little talk with Sikorsky. You’re in luck, too,” he said, glancing at his watch. “He’s in the zone. Control Council meets today, so you won’t even have to go out to Karlshorst. You can see him at the banquet. There’s always a banquet. Nobody’ll even know it’s a meeting—you just happened to run into him. With something to offer. How much are you going to ask, have you decided?”

  “How much?”

  “It plays better if you’re selling her. Just don’t go overboard—she’s not the husband. You want this to happen. The point is to set it up, not make a score.”

  Jake looked away, disgusted. “Fuck you.”

  “Try to get him moved,” Shaeffer said, ignoring him. “But either way, give me a day or two. I still have to lay my hands on some Russian uniforms.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, we can’t go in with American uniforms, can we? Might look a little conspicuous in the Russian zone.”

  Cowboy stuff. Improbable. “I don’t like this. Any of it.”

  “Let’s just get it done, okay?” Shaeffer said. “You can grouse later. Right now you just sweet-talk the Russian and get the door open. We’ll do the rest.” He grinned at Jake. “I told you we’d make a good team. Takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”

  Guards had been posted at the driveway entrance to the Conrol Council building, but Muller’s name got him through. He swung around to the gravel forecourt facing the park, then had to find a place in the crowd of jeeps and official cars. The work party had done its job—the park had been cleaned up, everything neat and polished, like the white-scarved sentries. Officers with briefcases rushed through the heavy doors, late or just self-important, a blur of motion. Jake followed one group into the chandeliered hall without drawing a glance. The meeting room, off-limits to press, would be another matter, but Muller’s name had worked once and might work again, so he headed down the corridor to his office. His secretary, nails still bright red, was just on her way to lunch.

  “He won’t be out for hours. The Russians don’t start till late, then they go on all afternoon. Want to leave a name? I remember you—the reporter, right? How did you get in here?”

  “Could you take a message in?”

  “Not if I want to keep my job. No press on meeting days. He’d kill me.”

  “Not him. One of the Russians. Sikorsky. He’s—”

  “I know who he is. You want to see him? Why not ask the Russians?”

  “I’d like to see him today,” he said, smiling. “You know what they’re like. If you could take in a note? It’s official business.”

  “Whose official business?” she said dryly.

  “One note?”

  She sighed and handed him a piece of paper. “Make it quick. On my lunch hour, yet.” As if she were on her way to Schrafft’s.

  “I appreciate it,” he said, writing. “Jeanie, right?”

  “Corporal,” she said, but smiled back, pleased.

  “By the way, you ever find that dispatcher?”

  She put her hand on her hip. “Is that a line, or is it supposed to mean something?”

  “Airport dispatcher in Frankfurt. Muller was going to find him for me. Ring a bell?”

  He looked up at her face, still puzzled, then saw it clear.

  “Oh, the transfer. Right,” she said. “We just got the paperwork. Was I supposed to let you know?”

  “He was transferred? What name?”

  “Who remembers? You know how much comes through here?” she said, cocking her head toward the filing cabinets. “Just another one going home. I only noticed because of Oakland.”

  “Oakland?”

  “Where he was from. Me too. I thought, well, at least one of us is going home. Who is he?”

  “Friend of a friend. I said I’d look him up and then
I forgot his name.”

  “Well, he’s on his way now, so what’s the diff? Wait a minute, maybe it’s still in pending.” She opened a file drawer, a quick riffle through. “No, it’s filed,” she said, closing it, another dead end. “Oh well. Does it matter?”

  “Not anymore.” A transport ship somewhere in the Atlantic. “I’ll ask Muller—maybe he remembers.”

  “Him? Half the time he doesn’t know what comes in. It’s just paper to him. The army. And they said it would be a great way to meet people.”

  “Did you?” Jake said, smiling.

  “Hundreds. You writing a book there or what? It is my lunch hour.”

  She led him down the corridor to the old court chamber, breezing past the guards by holding up the note. Through the open door Jake could see the four meeting tables pushed together to form a square, smoke rising from the ashtrays like steam escaping from vents. Muller was sitting next to General Clay, sharp-featured and grim, whose face had the tight forbearance of someone listening to a sermon. The Russian speaking seemed to be hectoring everyone, even those at his own table, who sat stonily, heads down, as if they too were waiting for the translation. Jake watched Jeanie walk over to the Russian side of the room, surprising Muller, then followed the pantomime of gestures as she leaned over to hand Sikorsky the note—a quick glance up, a finger pointing to the corridor, a nod, a careful sliding back of his chair as the Russian delegate droned on.

  “Mr. Geismar,” he said in the hall, his eyebrows raised, intrigued.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “No matter. Coal deliveries.” He nodded his head toward the closed door, then looked at Jake expectantly. “You wanted something?”

  “A meeting.”

  “A meeting. This is not perhaps the best time—”

  “You pick. We need to talk. I have something for you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Emil Brandt’s wife.”

  Sikorsky said nothing, his hard eyes moving over Jake’s face.

  “You surprise me,” he said finally.

  “I don’t see why. You made a deal for Emil. Now you can make one for her.”