by Joseph Kanon
“Why does Markus blame you?” he said, starting to walk again, away from Kurt.
“He blames everybody. So angry and he used to be so nice, remember? Well, you can imagine what it was like there for him. People being taken away. No mother—”
“He said his mother is still there.”
“Well, buried. She must be by now. They sent her to one of the camps. Siberia, wherever they send them. And they don’t come back.”
“Sent her why?”
“Why. A spy, probably. Isn’t that what they used to say about all of them? She was German, that was really the reason. They purged the Germans.”
“Not all of them.”
“No, so imagine what the survivors are like. Well, we know. Lapdogs. Please don’t arrest me. A wonderful incentive for loyalty. You ask them now, they say it was right that people were taken away. Their colleagues. Anyway, poor Markus. A child. They tell him his mother is an enemy of the people. And after a while you believe them. What choice? Everyone else does. And you want to be like everyone else. It must be true. So that’s how they make a Markus. Show us you’re not her. A model Communist. Sasha says that first group who came back, the German Communists—” She tapped the side of her head. “Nothing here but the Party. You had to watch yourself. Maybe they’d report you.”
“Then Moscow will have nothing to worry about. When they pull out.”
“No, just us. They protect themselves—the rest of us don’t matter. Even Sasha is surprised sometimes, how they go along with everything. As long as it doesn’t touch them.”
“Like what?” Alex said, trying to sound indifferent.
“I don’t know. Labor quotas, things like that. People don’t like to work in the mines. Sasha says it’s difficult, there are never enough.”
“So they force them? Work gangs?”
“No, they pay them. It’s not Siberia. The labor exchanges assign all the workers anyway. That’s how it works—go where you’re needed. But no one likes the mines. So the SED has a hard time filling the quotas.”
“But they do?”
“Not always, so it’s a headache for Sasha.”
“He’s in charge?”
“You’re so interested in this?”
“No, I’m interested in him. He’s—somebody you’re with.”
“You don’t have to worry about him. It’s not Kurt. Or you. Something useful, that’s all.”
“Useful.”
“Well, to have a friend at Karlshorst. He works with Maltsev.”
“Who’s Maltsev? What does he do?” Any information, Willy had said.
“What they all do. Give orders. Anyway, important. You know how I know? Markus. I could see it in his face, the first time he saw me with Sasha. This way,” she said, leading him, “it’s a shortcut.” The street branched off to a wide connecting footpath. “It’s better at the Luisenstrasse end. They cleared all the streets near the hospital first.” There were lights finally, people at home. “You see how lucky we were here. Not too bad, only some top floors. Fires. It was like that. Not too bad in one place and then one street away, everything gone. I’m just down there, near the end.”
They passed under the sound of a radio, loud enough to be heard through the closed window. Waltz music, which Alex heard somewhere in the back of his mind, the rest preoccupied with SED quotas. Sasha says it’s difficult. Would any of this be useful? What else? And then suddenly the music stopped and the lights blinked out, the street pitched into darkness.
“A power cut,” Irene said, a weary resignation. “Careful where you walk. It’s all the time now. But they say it’s worse in the West.”
“How long have you been with—” Alex started, not wanting to let Markovsky go, then stopped, blinded, as a bright light swung into the street behind them. Two lights. Headlights, the same shape as the car in Lützowplatz. He swung his head away and grabbed Irene’s elbow. But where was there to go? A long street, straight, impossible to outrun a car, no heaps of rubble to duck behind, the footpath back at the corner. No Willy to help this time. In the Russian sector, no questions asked. Run. Where?
Without thinking he pushed Irene into the building entrance, pressing her into the doorway corner. Get out of the light. A couple huddled in a doorway. The car began to race toward them, close to the curb, headlamps blazing, tracking. Alex pressed more tightly, away from the street. Make them come for you, get out of the car, not just run you down. He raised one arm, a shield, ready to swing it around in defense, waiting for the crunch of tires stopping in the snow. The car swept past. He took a breath, then realized he’d been panting, running over the rubble again. He looked over his shoulder. Almost at Luisenstrasse now, not even aware of him.
“Alex—”
He dropped his arm. “Sorry.” Still catching his breath.
She put her hand up to his face. “What is it? You’re shaking.”
“I thought I knew the car. Saw it before.”
“Saw it before?” Hand still on his cheek. “When?”
Well, when?
“Before. Following us.”
“Following us? Why? You think Sasha—? No. He doesn’t—” She stopped, looking up at him. “My God, how this feels.” The hand now behind his neck, drawing him down, kissing him, kissing each other, tasting her, his breathing still ragged from fear, now something else, blood rushing to his face, pushing up against her in the corner. “Alex,” she said, kissing him again.
He pulled away.
“Come upstairs,” she said, a whisper, her breath warm on his cheek.
“No.”
“It’s dark. No one will see.” A small giggle. “Really no one. If we can find the stairs.”
“Irene—”
“I knew it would feel the same. When I saw you.” She touched his temple. “All gray. But I knew it would be the same.”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t care.” She put her head next to his. “I just want to feel like before.” The words warm in his ear. “It’s not so much. When we were nicer. Just that.”
“Irene—”
“Why? You don’t want to? What a liar you are,” she said, reaching down, feeling him. “Cars following us. So maybe that was an excuse too.” Playing, oblivious to the look on his face. Another kiss, his mouth opening willingly. “Nobody ever wanted me like you. Nobody. Remember on the beach? My God. And now you don’t want to anymore?” She shook her head, still close to his, her hand gripping him below. “What a liar.”
He looked over her shoulder at the threshold, another line to cross. Don’t. This betrayal worse than the other, or maybe just part of the same one now. What they wanted. More.
“I know you,” she said. “Don’t I?”
Already betrayed, so that when he nodded, his head filled with her, nobody ever wanted me like you, the nod seemed like a small lie.
* * *
“Be careful in the hall. Don’t make too much noise.” She was whispering, her breath faster, the same reckless eagerness as before, the way he remembered. “Frau Schmidt. I think she listens at the door. She used to be the block warden. Now she can’t stop.” She put her fingers to her lips, turning to the door, opening it slowly. A small foyer, the stairs opposite. “Can you see? Should I light a match?” Still whispering, conspiratorial. She turned, holding him again. “Maybe it’s better. You can’t see me. How I look. We’ll be the same,” she said, kissing him again. “This way. It’s better by the stairs.” The one visible part of the room, under a skylight.
Her foot bumped into something—a pail, a child’s toy, something that clattered.
“Ouf.” She giggled again. “Now she’s setting traps. Wait.” She reached into her purse and took out a match, lighting it, and waving it over the floor. “Okay.” She took his hand, leading him to the stairs. “Just hold the rail. Here. It’s the first step.”
A faint noise, furtive, from out of the dark, beside the stairs. “Irene.”
She froze.
“Ov
er here.”
Someone moved away from the wall, approaching them. “Thank God. I’ve been waiting.”
Almost there, the thin pale face ghostlike in the dim light.
“Erich,” she said. “Erich?”
“I didn’t know if you were still living here.” Both whispering.
“Erich.” Almost a sob now, falling on him. “My God. How you look. So skinny. My God.”
They held each other for a minute, Erich shaking, a nervous relief, exhausted.
“Shh. It’s okay,” Irene was saying, patting him. “Everything’s okay. Erich.”
“I have to hide. Can you hide me?”
“Hide?”
“We escaped—” He raised his head, noticing Alex for the first time. An odd, startled look, seeing the dead. “Alex?” His eyes darting, confused. What had he heard, waiting by the stairs? Irene giggling, intimate.
“Yes.”
“It’s you?” An inexplicable presence.
“What do you mean, escaped?” Irene said, now studying his face. “You’re all right?” She looked down. “Like a skeleton.” Her voice broke, a whimper at the back of it. “My God, what have they done to you?”
Alex looked at him, the boy they’d hidden under the stairs. His hair, once the color of Irene’s, was now indeterminate, cropped short, prison style, easy for delousing. Dirty, streaked with grime, his skin drawn tight over the bones, so that his eyes seemed to bulge out, too big for his face. Holding onto the newel, some support.
“Come,” Irene said. “Alex, help me with him. Just hold onto the rail.”
A flickering light appeared, a candle coming out of a door.
“Who is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s only me, Frau Schmidt. Another power cut—it’s hard to see.”
Erich swerved away, his back to the candle.
“Frau Gerhardt,” Frau Schmidt said, holding the candle higher. “Two visitors?”
“Can I borrow the candle?” Irene said, breezy. “For the stairs? So kind. I’ll replace it tomorrow. Thank you.” She took the candle before Frau Schmidt could object.
“It’s late,” Frau Schmidt said. “For parties.”
“It’s not a party,” Irene said. “It’s my—” Then stopped, catching herself. “Well, it’s to make sure I got home safely.”
“And now you are home.”
“Yes,” Irene said, not biting. “Thank you again.” Moving up the stairs, the others shuffling behind.
At the door, she asked Alex to hold the candle while she fumbled for the key, Erich leaning against the wall, holding himself, drained. “In the old days, she’d make a report,” Irene said. “The old witch. Quick, inside. Erich, can you walk? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just tired.” He sank onto the couch, looking dazed. “Alex,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Never mind,” Irene said, fussing with his jacket. “We’ll explain later. You’re freezing. You don’t have a coat?”
“A coat,” Erich said with a laugh, some joke only he knew.
“Here, put this around you.” Irene draped an afghan around his shoulders, then began stroking his face. “What’s happened to you? Are you hungry?”
“Something to drink maybe.”
“Alex, it’s over there,” she said, nodding to a side table. “My God, so cold.” Rubbing Erich’s hands.
“Well, the truck. No heat.”
“What truck?”
“Rudi had a cousin with a truck. That’s how we got away. But no heat in the back. Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from Alex, then looking up. “I don’t understand. You’re in Berlin? I thought you were—”
“I came back. Drink. It’ll warm you up.”
Erich tossed it back, then shuddered.
“Are you hurt?” Irene said. “Escaped from where?”
“The camp. Where they shipped us, the POWs. Back to Germany, but not home. Slave labor.” He looked over. “People die in the camp. They get sick. I can’t go back there.” His voice wavering, involuntary tears.
“Shh. You’re here.”
He looked again at Alex. “You’re with Irene?” The confusion nagging at him.
“I just brought her home. From a party.”
“A party.” Something unimaginable.
“Did they feed you? You look—”
Erich shook his head. “They don’t die of that.”
Alex and Irene looked at each other. The illogic of hunger.
“There’s plenty here,” Irene said. “Sasha sent—” She stopped and went over to the kitchen counter. “Some cheese maybe?”
“Do they know?” Alex said. “About the break?”
Erich nodded. “It’s only because of the truck we got away. Rudi’s cousin. Usually they catch you. In one of the villages. The police track you down. German police. Our own people. Sometimes you can get to a bigger town, it’s easier to blend in, but you still have to get through the roadblocks. That’s the Russians. The whole area, all the towns, are blocked off. So they always get you.” Talking partly to himself.
“Well, not here. You’re safe now,” Irene said. She cocked her head to the door. “Except for Frau Schmidt.” Trying to make a joke, but Erich looked up, alert again.
“They’ll come here. I can’t stay here.”
“Don’t be silly. Where would you go? I’ll get Sasha to help—”
“Who’s Sasha?”
“A friend.”
“A Russian friend?”
“Yes,” she said, turning her head, embarrassed.
“He’d turn me in. They have to. It’s a rule with them.”
“They know you’re in Berlin?” Alex said.
“I don’t know. Rudi’s cousin left us in Lichtenberg. If they trace the truck, they’ll know we got that far. So maybe yes. Then it’s the first place they’ll look. Here.”
“I’m Frau Gerhardt, not von Bernuth, so how would they know?”
“They’ll know,” Erich said, irrational now. “They know these things. And then they’ll take you for helping me. Make you work. In the slime. No boots. That’s how they get sick.”
“What slime? Erich—”
But he was standing up. “No. They’ll come. Both of us. I have to hide.”
“All right,” Irene said, humoring him. “But first something to eat. There’s some soup. Let me warm it up for you. If they come, Frau Schmidt will sound the alarm. She’s good for that at least. What’s that on your legs?”
“Sores,” he said, looking down at two lesions. “From the slime.”
“What slime? You keep saying—”
“I can’t go back there. I’ll die.”
Irene took his hand. “You’re safe. Do you understand? Now let me get the soup.”
“They have to get us, you know, so the others won’t find out. Then everyone would—”
“It’s a POW camp?” Alex said.
“POWs, criminals, anyone they can find. They don’t care what happens to us. If we die. People think we’re dead already.”
“No,” Irene said from the stove. “I never thought that.”
“It’s worse than in Russia. They don’t want anyone to think he can get past the patrols.”
“How did you?”
“Rudi’s cousin drives the truck for the TEWA plant. In Neustadt. The same run, every week. So the Russians know him. They don’t look in the back.”
“So they don’t actually know how you got out.”
“They will. Someone always talks. Then they have to track you down.”
“Look,” Irene said. “Across the street. Lights. The power must be back.”
She turned the switch, then stared, appalled at Erich in the light.
“What about upstairs?” Erich said. “Is there an attic?”
“It’s open from the bombs. You’d freeze.”
“Then I’ll find something.”
“Ouf, be sensible. It’s safe here. Where would you go?”
“Th
ey’ll come,” he said stubbornly. “They’ll find me here.” Pacing now, determined.
“Come with me then,” Alex said. “They’ll never look for you at the Adlon.”
“The Adlon?” Erich said, another confusion.
“You can’t get a room without papers,” Irene said. “If he stays with you they’ll report—”
“Not with me. There’s a room he can use. Someone who’s out of town,” he said vaguely. “They’ll never look there. He’ll be safe, at least for a day or two. Until we figure out what to do.”
She lowered her head, thinking, then looked up at him. “You’d do this? It’s a risk to you.”
“So was the SA. Remember, under the stairs?”
“Yes,” she said, still looking at him. “How could I forget that night?”
“This’ll be easier. I just have to talk him in. You can’t go like that, though. Let’s get you cleaned up. Look like you’re actually staying there.”
“At the Adlon?” Erich said, slightly dazed.
“I’ll light the geyser,” Irene said, busy. “It never gets really hot, the water, but it’s a bath. Just don’t run it too fast. A trickle, then it’s warm. I still have some clothes from Enka.” She went over and opened a closet door, assessing. “The coat will be big but you have to have a coat. Who walks into the Adlon without a coat? Shall I come with you? We’ll have a drink, everything normal, then you say good-bye—”
“No. We don’t want to draw attention. You kept his clothes?”
“Most I sold. On the black market. That first year, how else could you live? But I never sold the coat. It’s a Schulte, hand tailored. Enka liked things like that.” She watched Erich go into the bathroom, then turned back to Alex. “So much for old times,” she said softly, a faint shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, it was nice, that you wanted to.” She put her hand on his arm. “How things turn out,” she said, then folded her arms across her chest, holding herself, as if she were going to spill out. “What are we going to do? Look at him.”
“We’ll hide him until he’s better.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll do something else. First, let’s get some food in him. Did you keep any shirts? He can’t wear this.”