by Joseph Kanon
It was then, stupefied, that Jake noticed the bullet hole, the dark matted fabric where the blood had been. Behind him men were still shouting in Russian, but suddenly he was back in one of those Chicago rooms, everything disrupted. The eyes were open. Only one riding boot, the other pulled away by the water. How long had he been dead? He felt the jaw, clenched tight. But there was no coroner to turn to, nobody dusting for prints. He felt the blunt tip of a gun in his back.
“Snell,” the Russian commanded, evidently his one word of German.
Jake looked up. Another soldier, pointing a gun, was waving him away. As he stood, the other grabbed the camera, saying something in Russian. The first soldier poked the gun again until Jake raised his hands and turned around. On the terrace the Big Three were being hustled into the house, only Stalin still rooted to the spot, assessing, an anxious look like the one from the Chancellery steps. A sharp crack of rifle fire startled the air. A few birds bolted up out of the reeds. The men on the terrace froze, then hurried quickly into the building.
Jake looked toward the sound of the shot. A Russian officer, firing into the air to stop the riot. In the silence that followed, the guards stood still, watching the rest of the money blow toward the Neuer Garten, sheepish now, afraid of what would follow, their perfectly arranged afternoon turned squalid, an embarrassment. The officers ordered them into line and took back the notes. Jake’s Russian pointed again to the house. Lieutenant Tully, who was afraid of flying. Four Russians were picking him up, flinging the money belt onto his chest as if it were evidence. But of what? So much money.
“Can I have my camera back?” Jake said, but the Russian yelled at him and pushed him forward with the gun, back to the photographers. The lawn was swarming with aides now, directing everyone back to the cars like tour leaders. Apologies for the disruption, as if Tully were a drunk who’d spoiled the party. The Russian guards watched, sullen, their one piece of luck blown away.
“Sorry,” Jake said to Liz. “They took the camera.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot. What were you doing down there?”
“It was the guy from the plane.”
“What guy?”
“Tully. The kid with the boots.”
“But how—?”
“Let’s go, let’s go.” A brusque MP. “Fun’s over.”
They were herded behind the others to the car park. Before they reached the gravel, Jake turned, looking back toward the lake.
“What the hell was he doing in Potsdam?” he said to himself.
“Maybe he’s with the delegation.”
Jake shook his head.
“Does it matter? Maybe he fell in the lake.”
He turned to her. “He was shot.”
Liz looked at him, then nervously back to the cars. “Come on, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”
“But why Potsdam?” In the park, a few of the bills still bounced along the grass, like leaves waiting to be raked. “With all that money.”
“Did you get any?”
He uncrumpled the salvaged note in his hand.
“A hundred marks,” Liz said. “Lucky you. Ten whole dollars.”
But there’d been more. Thousands more. And a man with a bullet in his chest.
“Come on, the others have gone,” Liz said.
Back to the press camp to drink beer. Jake smiled to himself, his mind racing, no longer walking dazed through ruins. A crime. The way in. His Berlin story.
II
OCCUPATION
CHAPTER 3
Word had already gotten around the press camp by the time Jake got back.
“Just the man I’m looking for,” Tommy Ottinger said, looming over the typewriter Jake was using to peck out some notes. “First thing that’s happened all week and there you are, right on the spot. How, by the way?”
Jake smiled. “Just taking some pictures.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Dead soldier washed up in the lake.”
“Come on, I’ve got to go on tonight. You can take your own sweet time with Collier’s. Who was he?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, you might have checked his tags,” Tommy said, waiting.
“I wish I’d thought of that.”
Tommy stared at him.
“Really,” Jake said.
“Some reporter.”
“What does Ron say?”
“A John Doe. No tags.”
Jake looked at him for a second, thinking. “So why did you ask me?”
“’Cause I don’t trust Ron. I trust you.”
“Look, Tommy, here’s what I know. A stiff washes up. Dead about a day, I’d say. He had some money on him, which got the Russians all excited. The Big Three left in a hurry. I’ll give you my notes. Use whatever you want. Stalin’s face—it’s a nice touch.” He stopped, meeting Tommy’s stare. “He had tags. I just didn’t look. So why would Ron—?”
Tommy smiled and took a chair. “Because that’s what Ron does. Covers ass. His own. The army’s. We don’t want to embarrass the army. Especially in front of the Russians.”
“Why would they be embarrassed?”
“They don’t know what they have yet. Except a soldier in Potsdam.”
“And that’s embarrassing?”
“It might be,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette. “Potsdam’s the biggest black market center in Berlin.”
“I thought the Reichstag.”
“The Reichstag, Zoo Station. But Potsdam’s the biggest.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s in the Russian zone,” Tommy said simply, surprised at the question. “No MPs. The Russians don’t care. They are the black market. They’ll buy anything. The others—the MPs’ll make a sweep every once in a while, arrest a few Germans just to keep up appearances. Not that it matters. The Russians don’t even bother. Every day’s Saturday on Main Street in Potsdam.”
Jake smiled. “So he wasn’t attending the conference.”
“Not a chance.”
“And Ron doesn’t want his mother to read about her boy in the papers.”
“Not that way.” Tommy looked behind Jake. “Do you, Ron?”
“I want to talk to you,” Ron said to Jake, visibly annoyed. “Where’d you get the pass?”
“I didn’t. Nobody asked,” Jake said.
“You know, we’ve got a waiting list for press credentials here. I could free up a slot any time I want.”
“Relax. I didn’t see a thing. See?” He waved at the paper in the typewriter. “Geranium star. Lots of chimneys. Local color, that’s all. Unless you’ve got an ID for me?”
Ron sighed. “Don’t push me on this, okay? The Russians find out there was press there, they’ll make a formal protest and I’ll have your ass out of here on the first truck.”
Jake spread his hands. “I’ll never go to Potsdam again. Okay? Now have a beer and tell us where the body is.”
“The Russians have it. We’re trying to get it released.”
“Why the delay?”
“There’s no delay. They’re fucking Russians.” He paused. “It’s probably the money. They’re trying to figure out how much they can keep.” He glanced at Jake. “How much did he have?”
“No idea. A lot. Thousands. Double whatever they give you.”
“I’m on tonight,” Tommy said. “You going to have an official statement?”
“I don’t have an official anything,” Ron said. “As far as I know, somebody got drunk and fell in the lake. If you think that’s a story, be my guest.” Jake looked at him. No tags. No bullet. But Ron was rushing on. “We will have a release on the first session, though, in a couple of hours. If anybody cares.”
“Warm greetings were exchanged by the Allies,” Tommy said. “Generalissimo Stalin made a statement expressing a wish for a lasting peace. An agenda for the conference was approved.”
Ron grinned. “And to think you weren’t even there. No wonder you’re the best.”
“That’s what they tell me.” He turned to Jake. “Stay in town. I mean it.”
Jake watched him walk off. “When did the Russians close off Potsdam?” he said to Tommy.
“Over the weekend. Before the conference.” He looked at Jake. “What?”
“He’d only been in the water a day.”
“How do you know?” Tommy said, alert.
Jake waved his hand. “I don’t, for sure. But he wasn’t that bloated.”
“So?”
“So how did he get into Potsdam? If it was closed off?”
“What the hell. You did,” Tommy said, watching him. “Of course, you have an honest face.”
The piano music was coming through the open windows, not Mendelssohn this time but Broadway, party songs. Inside, the house was filled with uniforms and smoke and the clink of glasses. Gelferstrasse was entertaining. Jake stood for a minute in the hall, watching. There was the usual hum of conversation, laced with Russian from a group standing near the spread of cold cuts, and the usual music, but it was a cocktail party without women, oddly dispirited, looking for someone to flirt with. Men stood in groups talking shop or sometimes not saying anything at all, lifting glasses from the trays passed by the old couple and tossing them back quickly, as if they knew already that nothing better was going to come along. The host seemed to be Colonel Muller, whose silver hair moved through the crowd as he introduced people, occasionally getting clamped on the shoulder by a friendly Russian, as awkward and unlikely in the role as Judge Hardy himself would have been. Jake headed for the stairs.
“Geismar, come in,” Muller said, handing him a glass. “Sorry we had to requisition the dining room, but there’s plenty of grub. You’re welcome to whatever’s left.” In fact, the dining table, pushed against the wall, was still heaped with ham and salami and smoked fish, a banquet.
“What’s the occasion?”
“We’re having the Russians over,” Muller said, making them sound like a couple. “They like parties. They invite us to Karlshorst, then we invite them here. Back and forth. It greases the wheels.”
“With vodka.”
Muller smiled. “They don’t mind bourbon either.”
“Let me take a rain check. I can’t speak a word of Russian.”
“A few of them speak German. Anyway, in a while it won’t matter. It’s always a little awkward at first,” he said, looking toward the party, “but after they’ve had a few, they just say things in Russian and you nod and they laugh and we’re all good fellows.”
“Allies and brothers.”
“Actually, yes. It’s important to them, this stuff. They don’t like being left out. So we don’t.” He took a drink. “This isn’t what it looks like. It’s work.”
Jake held up his glass. “And somebody’s got to do it.”
Muller nodded. “That’s right, somebody does. Nobody told me I’d end up feeding drinks to Russians, but that’s what we do now, so I do it. And I could use a new face to liven things up.” He smiled. “Besides, you owe me a favor. Lieutenant Erlich says I’m supposed to chew you out, but I’m going to let it pass.”
“You’re supposed to?”
“You mean, who am I? I guess we didn’t meet. With the congressman giving speeches. I’m Colonel Muller. Fred,” he said, extending his hand. “I work for General Clay.”
“Doing what?”
“I look after some of the functional departments. Keep them in line when I have to. Lieutenant Erlich’s one of them.”
Jake smiled. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
Muller nodded again. “I’d take the Russians any day. They’re touchy, but they don’t write home. Your bunch is more trouble.”
“So why are you going to let it pass?”
“You getting out to Potsdam? Ordinarily I wouldn’t. But I don’t see that it’s done anybody any harm.” He paused. “I served with General Patton. He said to look out for you, you were a friend to the army.”
“Everybody’s a friend to the army.”
“You wouldn’t know it from the papers back home. They come over here, don’t know the first thing, just point fingers to get themselves noticed.”
“Maybe I’m no different.”
“Maybe not. But a man puts in time with the army, he’s more likely to see the whole thing, not try to make a mountain out of a molehill.”
Jake looked over the rim of his glass. “I found a man’s body, and so far nobody’s even asked me about it. Is that the molehill you had in mind?”
Muller stared back. “All right, I’m asking you. Is there anything we should know?”
“I know he was shot. I know he was carrying a lot of cash. I may be a friend to the army, but you try to keep what I do know quiet and it’s like waving red meat at a dog. I get curious.”
Muller sighed. “Nobody’s trying to hide anything.” He looked away at the party, then back at Jake. “Nobody’s going to start anything either. There are almost two hundred reporters assigned to Berlin. They’re all looking for something to write about. So they go see the bunker, cash in some cigarettes over at Zoo Station. Next thing you know, everybody’s in the black market. Well, maybe everybody is, a little. What’s ordinary here isn’t ordinary at home.”
“Is it ordinary to get shot?”
“More than you’d think,” he said wearily. “The war’s not over here. Look at them,” he said, indicating the Russians. “Toasts. Their men are still all over, drunk half the time. Last week a jeepload of them start waving guns down in Hermannplatz—our zone—and before you could say boo, one of our MPs starts shooting and we’re back at the O.K. Corral. Three dead, one ours. So we protest to the Russians and they protest back and there are still three people dead. Ordinary.”
He turned to face Jake, his eyes gentle. “Look, we’re not angels here. You know what an occupation army does? It occupies. They pull guard duty. They stand in front of buildings. They’ve got nothing but time. So they bitch and chase girls and make a little money selling their PX rations, which they’re not supposed to do but they figure they’re entitled, they won the war, and maybe they’re right. And sometimes they get into trouble. Sometimes they even get shot. It happens.” He paused. “But it doesn’t have to be an international incident. And it doesn’t have to make the army look bad. It’s what happens here.”
“But they’ll file a report. It’s still not that ordinary, is it?”
“And you want to see it.”
“I’m curious, that’s all. I never found a body before.”
Muller looked at him, appraising. “It might take a while. We don’t know who he is yet.”
“I know who he is.”
Muller raised his eyes. “I thought there weren’t any tags.”
“I knew his face. We were on the plane together. Lieutenant Tully.”
Muller said nothing, just stared, then slowly nodded his head. “Come to my office tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do. Elssholzstrasse.”
“Which is where?”
“Schöneberg. Behind Kleist Park. The drivers will know.”
“The old Supreme Court?”
“That’s right,” Muller said, surprised. “It was the best we could find. Not too much damage. Maybe God has a soft spot for judges. Even Nazi judges.”
Jake grinned. “By the way, did anyone ever tell you—”
“I know, Judge Hardy. I suppose it could be worse. I don’t know, I haven’t seen the movies.” He glanced at Jake. “Tomorrow, then. That’s two favors you owe me. Now come and meet some Russians. Sounds like things are revving up.” He motioned toward the front room, where the piano had switched from Cole Porter to a thumping Russian song. “They’re the real story in Berlin, you know. They’ve been running things for two months—it’s their town. And look at it. Remind me to show you another report tomorrow. Infant mortality. Six out of ten babies are going to die here this month. Maybe more. Die. Of course, that’s politic
s. Scandal sells papers.”
“I’m not looking for any scandal,” Jake said quietly.
“No? You might find some, though,” Muller said, his voice weary again. “I don’t suppose your lieutenant was up to much good. But if you ask me, that’s not the real scandal. Six out of ten. Not just one soldier. Life’s cheap in Berlin. Try that story. I have all the facts you need for that one.” He stopped, catching himself, and finished off his drink. “Well. Let’s go promote some Allied cooperation.”
“They seem to be doing all right,” Jake said, trying to be light. “It’s turning into a Russian party.”
“It always does,” Muller said. “We just bring the food.”
But language had divided the party into its own occupation zones. The Russians Jake met nodded formally, tried a few words in German, and retreated back into their steady drinking. The piano had returned to the American zone with “The Lady Is a Tramp,” but the Russian player hovered behind, ready to reclaim the keyboard for his side. Even the laughter, getting louder, came from isolated pockets, separated by untranslatable jokes. Only Liz, gliding in with a quick wink to Jake, seemed to bring the party together, suddenly drawing both sets of eager uniforms around her like Scarlett at the barbecue. Jake looked around the room, hoping to find Bernie and his armload of questionnaires, but got caught instead by a burly Russian covered with medals who knew English and, surprisingly, also knew Jake.
“You traveled with General Patton,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I read your dispatches.”
“You did? How?”
“It’s not forbidden, you know, to read our allies.” He nodded. “Sikorsky,” he said, introducing himself, his voice accented but amused and sure of itself, an officer’s gift of rank. “In this case, I confess, we were interested to know where you were. A very energetic soldier, General Patton. We thought he might even reach Russia.” His face, fleshy but not yet sagging with jowls, creased with good humor. “I read your description of Camp Dora. Before the general pulled back to your own zone.”