The Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  “You must come out,” he said gently, going over to her. “It’s not safe.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know. It’s all I have, you see,” she said, looking down at the picture. A boy in a Wehrmacht uniform.

  He took her elbow. “Please,” he said, leading her away.

  She began to walk with him, then stopped at an end table near the doorway and picked up a porcelain figurine, one of those pink-cheeked shepherdesses that gather dust in parlors. “For Elisabeth,” she said, as if she were apologizing for taking her own things.

  The house, having held its breath for a few minutes, now exhaled again with a loud thump in the back. She started, and Jake took her by the shoulder to keep her going, so that his arm was around her when they came out on the stoop.

  “Hold it.” The voice, oddly, of a policeman catching looters. But it was only Ron, next to the newsreel camera. For a brief moment, as they stood on the stoop, Jake realized that it was running and, worse, that what it had hoped to catch was his death. American journalist killed in Berlin—something finally worth filming.

  “Anna!” the other woman shouted, hysterical. “Are you crazy? Are you crazy?”

  But Anna was undisturbed now, the picture clutched to her chest. She left Jake’s side, walked calmly down the steps, and handed the figurine to the other woman.

  “Fucking Boy Scout,” the MP said to him.

  “Ain’t he, though?” Tommy said. “Probably do the same for a cat.”

  “Where is fucking Helmut anyway?” the MP said, disgusted.

  “It’s her son,” Jake said. He turned to the truck. “Get a good picture?” he said to Ron. “Sorry it didn’t fall down for you.”

  “Maybe next time.” Ron grinned. “Come on, hop up. Next stop, Allied games. The boys who fought together play together. Collier’s will love it.”

  Jake looked up at him. The truth was, Collier’s would. The Allies in peace, conference table to playing field. Not Nazi cops and homeless Berliners. He could file this week, before the impatient telegrams started coming.

  “The Russians too?”

  “They’ve been invited.”

  “Hey, buddy,” said the MP, subdued now. “Ask them if they’ve got someplace to go.”

  Jake spoke with the women, standing now arm in arm, their backs to the soldiers.

  “She has another sister in Hannover.”

  “She’ll need a travel permit for that. Tell her we’ll get her to the DP camp down in Teltowerdamm. It’s not bad.”

  But the word, once translated, jolted them, the clang of a cell door closing. “Not a camp!” the woman with the figurine shrieked. “Not a camp. You can’t make us.” She clutched Jake’s arm.

  “What’s lager?” the MP said.

  “Camp. They’re afraid. They think it’s a concentration camp.”

  “Yeah, like the ones they used to run. Tell them it’s an American camp,” he said, certain this would be a comfort.

  “They look to you like they ran anything?”

  “What the hell. Krauts.”

  Before Jake could answer, the side wall finally gave way, collapsing inward and taking the weakened body of the house with it in a roar. There was a crack of wood splintering and masonry smashing down, all the sounds of an explosion, so that when the dust rose in a cloud from the center it seemed the house had been bombed after all. One of the women gasped, holding her hand over her mouth. Everyone stood still, mesmerized. In the truck the cameras were running again, grateful for a little spectacle after the dud rescue. Some of the neighbors had run over and joined the crowd, standing away from the two women, as if their bad luck were catching. No one spoke. A part of the back wall buckled. Another crash, more dust, then a series of thuds, like aftershocks, as bits of the house detached themselves and slid into the center heap, until finally the noise stopped and they were looking through the standing façade at another one of Ron’s decayed teeth. The woman holding the figurine started to cry, but Anna simply stared at the wreck without expression, then turned.

  “Okay, okay,” the MP said, waving his white stick, “let’s break it up. Show’s over.”

  Jake looked at the house. Hundreds of thousands of them.

  The truck driver started the engine, a signal to the others, and the soldiers began to climb on, shoving good-naturedly and joking.

  “What about the women?” Jake said to the MP. “You can’t just leave them.”

  “What are you, the Salvation Army?”

  “Come on, Jake,” Tommy said. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  And in fact, what could he do? Take them home and ask them to tell him their troubles for Collier’s? The old couple from the billet had begun to lead them away. A night or two in the cramped basement, perhaps, living off the B rations from upstairs. Then a travel pass to Hannover and another basement. Or maybe not. Maybe just a tramp through the Tiergarten with the others, DPs because of a minute of falling plaster.

  “You know, we didn’t start the fucking war,” the MP said, evidently reading his face.

  “No. They did,” Jake said, confusing him, and followed Tommy into the truck.

  They drove up into the British sector, past the radio tower where Jake had made the Columbia broadcasts, and out to the Olympic Stadium. The area around it was the usual mess, trees blasted into stumps, but the stadium, even scarred by shelling, looked just the way Jake remembered it. It had probably been the best of the Nazis’ monumental buildings, deceptively horizontal until you went through the gate and saw the long steps dropping down into the sunken amphitheater. He recognized the spot where he’d sat with the Dodds watching the games, his first job in Berlin. Miles of loudspeakers had been strung from the stadium out across the city to flash the news of each event to the center. Goebbels’ idea, a modern marvel to impress the visitors. It was the first time he’d seen Hitler, taking the salute in his emperor’s box. Fresh out of Chicago, years before Lena.

  Today groups of soldiers were lying shirtless on the patchy grass, drinking beer and getting some sun before the game. The rows and rows of seats that had held thousands now had only a few hundred, but still a larger crowd than he’d expected, about the same as at a high school game back home. They were clustered at one end of the vast oval, where a football field had been chalked out in lime, British and Americans side by side, with a few French near the end, wearing hats with red pompoms. No Russians. On the sidelines a few soldiers sat in a circle playing cards, grumbling when they had to move for the newsreel camera crew. In the middle of the field, the players, in jerseys and shorts, were jumping up and down in warmup exercises. An occupying army with nothing to do but occupy.

  “So the Russians didn’t show,” Jake said to Ron. “Who’s playing the French?”

  “They’re here for the track events. That’s all the Russians are scheduled for too, so they’ll probably turn up. Want to interview some of the players?”

  “I’ll just watch. Where’d the Brits learn to play?”

  Ron shrugged. “They say rugby’s close. We’re mixing the teams, just in case. Keeps things fair.”

  “You’re a born diplomat.”

  “No. We’ve got the British reels to consider,” he said, pointing to another crew with tripods. “They don’t want to show their guys getting trounced, do they? Who’d watch that? Allied games, remember?”

  But in fact after the kickoff it was an American show, GI quarterbacks calling the plays, the British blocking, and everyone getting scraped by the rough field in pile-up tackles. The crowd cheered every play, even the referees throwing red foul flags, and swapped money in side bets and whooped until finally the high spirits were infectious, like a Saturday somewhere in the Big Ten. A piece of home. Even the players, healthy and pink in the sun, seemed to be in another country, miles from the pasty, grim bodies in the streets outside.

  Jake hadn’t seen football in years, and now, unexpectedly, the sounds on the field took him back to sunny afternoons when nothing mattered exc
ept the next ten yards and who you might be seeing after the game. America, where all the houses were intact. But it was the homesickness of an exile—what you missed was your own youth, not a place. He’d been back only once since he’d first sat in this stadium, a week between assignments, and after that all he’d known was the overseas America of the war, the field mess parties and USO shows that weren’t really home but a movie of home. He’d be a stranger there now.

  But wouldn’t everybody? They’d all been gone too long, were all different, even the MP at the house, maybe a football player, who now thought a dead woman was one less German to worry about. He shifted in his seat, embarrassed by his own nostalgia. Leave the amber waves to Quent Reynolds, making his mother queen for a day at Toots Shor’s. He knew better. The America he’d left, the late editions and cops on the take, was the same unholy mix as anywhere else. And yet there it was, the unexpected longing, triggered by a football game. Who he was, as inescapable and permanent as a birthmark.

  A touchdown. The crowd jumped up around him, yelling and slapping backs. Someone passed him a beer. From the corner of his eye he saw Ron leave the cameras to greet Congressman Breimer. He introduced him to a small group of soldiers, presumably Utica boys, who shook hands and posed for army photographers. Souvenirs for the folks. Then he led Breimer over to the newsreel crew, positioning him in front of the play and testing a microphone. Jake left his seat and walked down to the sidelines. Breimer had already begun speaking.

  “In this stadium, where that great American Jesse Owens exposed the Nazi lie of racial superiority, we’re seeing today proof of another victory. This great Allied coalition that won the war is now winning the peace, still side by side, still determined to show the world we can work together. And play some pretty good football.” A pause here as the soldiers around him laughed. “Our task here is not easy. But can anyone doubt, looking at these fine boys, that we’re going to succeed? We’re going to help this country up out of the ashes, extend our hands to the good Germans who’ve prayed for democracy during all these dark years, and make a world where war will never happen again. That’s what they’re fighting for now. Today these men are playing, but tomorrow they’ll be back at work. Hard work. Building our future. If you could see them here in Berlin, as I can, you’d know they’re going to win that one too.”

  Impromptu, without notes, the sort of thing he could rattle off without even thinking. Huffing and puffing. Another piece of home. Jake looked at him, wondering what he’d been like before—probably the kid waving his hand in class, volunteering to clap erasers and deliver the milk bottles, destined even then for better things.

  “And now, I’m told, the Eighty-second Airborne has a little halftime entertainment for us.”

  Ron gave a stage manager’s signal, and the cameras swerved to an opening beneath the tiers of seats. A row of white helmets came trooping out, playing a Sousa march. The soldiers cheered. The cameras tracked the band onto the scrubby playing field, brass horns shining as they lined up in formation. The noise was deafening.

  “Where are the pompom girls?” Jake said to Ron.

  “Very funny,” Ron said. He pointed to the seats. “They love it.”

  And they did. Jake looked up at the crowd, stamping and whistling, winning the peace for Movietone News. Then he saw Brian Stanley a few tiers farther up, leaning back on his elbows in a patch of sun, eyes closed, the only still thing in the stands. The band started in on another march. Jake climbed back up the stairs.

  “Enjoying the game?”

  Brian opened his eyes for a second, then closed them again. “I was. Until The Honorable started in.”

  Jake sat down next to him, watching the band below. The music boomed through the stadium.

  “My god,” Brian said, “do you think they could turn it down a little?”

  “Late night?”

  Brian managed a small grunt, then slowly pulled himself up, wiping his forehead. “You know, I’m worried about Winston. He’s been blathering on about the Polish borders. Why?”

  “Why not?” Jake said, looking back from the field. The conference, almost forgotten, while he’d been taking coffee with Gunther.

  “Because they were decided the minute Uncle Joe crossed them. All this carrying on. It’s not like him.”

  “Maybe he’s playing for time.”

  “No, he’s distracted. The election, I expect. Pity, coming right during the conference. I think it’s put him off his game. Not like your Honorable.” He nodded toward Breimer, who was applauding the band coming off the field, still blaring. “Lovely piece of work, isn’t he? Extending his hand,” he said, doing a passable imitation.

  “That’s what he’s usually doing. As long as you’ve got something to put in it.”

  Brian smiled. “That leaves the Germans out, then. ‘Extend our hands.’ On the plane I seem to remember they were getting what they deserve. Ah, peace at last.” This to the field, where the band had finally been replaced by a referee’s whistle beginning the third-quarter play, a background noise by comparison. Brian leaned on his elbows again. “And where’ve you been, by the by? I looked for you at the briefing. Chasing the furlines?”

  “No, a story on the black market.”

  “You’re not serious,” Brian said, closing his eyes. “That’s an old, old story.”

  “Well, so are the Polish borders.”

  Brian sighed and went back to the sun. Down on the field, Breimer was detaching himself from the press corps and walking over to a waiting soldier—Liz’s date, alone now, his manner brisk and serious. Breimer put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away from the crowd in a backroom huddle. Jake watched them for a few minutes, their heads nodding in conversation. More than just a driver.

  “Thick as thieves, aren’t they?” Brian said, following Jake’s stare.

  “Hmm.”

  “Why the interest?”

  “He’s seeing Liz.”

  “You can’t blame him for that. I wouldn’t mind a look-in myself.”

  The crowd suddenly started shouting—another touchdown—but the two heads didn’t turn.

  “So what’s he doing with Breimer?”

  Brian yawned, indifferent. “Building our future. Been at it for days, they have. He met him at the airport.”

  “He did?” Jake looked over at Brian, still as a lizard. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “Well, it’s my job, isn’t it? All you have to do is keep your eyes open,” he said, closing his again.

  Now the two men were moving apart, their business finished, Breimer signaling to a GI that he was ready to leave. Shaeffer hurried out of the stadium without even glancing at the game.

  “Hey, Brian,” Jake said, thinking. “You were on the plane. Remember the guy who was afraid of flying?”

  “The boots?”

  “Who met him? Did you notice?”

  “No,” Brian said. “Why?”

  “Did you talk to him on the plane? Notice anything about him?”

  Brian opened his eyes. “I take it there’s a reason you’re asking?”

  “He turned up dead. At Potsdam.”

  “What, the one they fished out?”

  Jake nodded.

  “And?”

  “And I’d like to know why. I think there’s a story in it.”

  “Dear Jake. Back on the old beat. And here’s poor Poland hanging in the balance—”

  “So did you? Talk to him?”

  “Not a word. I don’t think anyone did. As I recall, The Hon did most of the talking. This your black market story?”

  “He made a deal here. Picked up quite a bundle.”

  “That nice young man?” Brian said.

  “Maybe not so nice. Five, ten thousand dollars.”

  “Really?” Brian said, interested now. “With what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he didn’t have any luggage. What was he trading?”

  “He didn’t have any luggage?” J
ake said, trying to picture the scene at Tempelhof.

  “No. I did notice that. I thought, that’s odd. Then I thought, well, he’s from Berlin.”

  “No. He wasn’t. Notice anything else?”

  “My boy, I didn’t even notice that until you brought it up. A chap without luggage—what’s there to that?”

  Jake didn’t answer. What would Gunther see, the obvious point overlooked? A deal with nothing to trade. But you didn’t get ten thousand for nothing. Small enough, then, to carry in a pocket.

  “Damn,” Brian said to another roar from the field. “One of ours, too. Now I have to write it up.” In the British stands, some soldiers held up a Union Jack.

  “Suppose a Russian shot him?”

  “Ah,” Brian said slowly. “A little awkward just now, wouldn’t it be?” He waved toward the game. “And just when we were all getting along so nicely. Is that where you’re going with this? A little stink bomb for the conference?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They wouldn’t like that.”

  “Who?”

  “Any of them.”

  Jake looked around the stadium. Any of them. The story nobody wanted him to do. Which meant it was the only one worth doing. He glanced toward the newsreel crew, half expecting to see Breimer winning the peace again. Instead he saw Bernie coming toward them, head down, in his usual terrier hurry. He searched the crowd, then smiled at Jake and waved him down. Jake took a breath. He’d tracked him here—news that couldn’t wait. Elated, he left Brian and ran down the stairs.

  “You found her?”

  “What? Oh, the woman,” Bernie said, looking flustered. “No. I’m sorry. She’s not there.” But he’d been smiling.

  “You looked?”

  “There’s no record. I put in a query for the husband. He might be easier, if he’s POW.” He paused, letting the thought drift and watching Jake’s face. “You might try the message boards. Sometimes it works.”

  Jake nodded, not really listening. Everyone filed a fragebogen if they wanted a ration card. Unless they were buried somewhere under a collapsed wall. No record.