by Joseph Kanon
“You’re not ready for a cane yet,” Jake said, and when she managed a smile he took her hand across the table. “We’ll start over.”
She nodded. “It’s not so easy sometimes. Things happen.”
He looked away. Why bring it up at all? But it seemed an opening.
“Lena,” he said, still not looking at her, “Rosen said you had an abortion. Was it Emil’s?”
“Emil?” Almost a laugh. “No. I was raped,” she said simply.
“Oh,” he said, just a sound.
“Does that bother you?”
“No.” A quick lie, without missing a beat. “How—”
“How? The usual way. A Russian. When they attacked the hospital, they raped everybody. Even the pregnant mothers.”
“Christ.”
“Not so unusual. It was ordinary then, at the end. Look how squeamish you are. Men do the raping, but they never want to talk about it. Only the women. That’s all we talked about then-how many times? Are you diseased? I was afraid for weeks that I had been infected. But no, instead a little Russian. Then, when I got rid of it, a different infection.”
“Rosen says it isn’t venereal.”
“No, but no more children either, I think.”
“Where did you get it done?” he asked, picturing a dark alley, the cliche warning of his youth.
“A clinic. There were so many, the Russians set up a clinic. ‘Troop excesses.’ First they rape you, then they—”
“Wasn’t there a doctor?”
“In Berlin? There was nothing. My parents were in Hamburg- god knows if they’re alive. There was nowhere else to go. A friend told me about it. Free, she said. So, another gift from the Russians.”
“Where was Emil?”
“I don’t know. Dead. Anyway, not here. His father’s still alive, but they don’t speak. I couldn’t go to him. He blames Emil for all this, if you can imagine.”
“Because he joined the party?”
She nodded. “For his work. That’s all it was. But his father—” She looked up. “You knew?”
“You never told me.”
“No. What would you have said?”
“Do you think it would have made a difference to me?”
“Maybe to me, I don’t know. And this room, when we came here, it was away from all that. Emil, everything. Somewhere away. Do you know what I mean? ”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, he wasn’t one of them. Not political. The institute, that’s all he cared about. His numbers.”
“What did he do during the war?”
“He never said. It wasn’t allowed, to talk about such things. But of course it was weapons. That’s what they all did, the scientists-make weapons. Even Emil, his head always in a book. What else could they do?” She looked up. “I don’t apologize for him. It was the war.”
“I know.”
“He said, stay in Berlin, it’s better. He didn’t want me to be part of all that. But then the bombing got so bad, they allowed the wives to go there with them. So the men wouldn’t worry. But how could I leave then?” she said, staring into the cup, her eyes beginning to fill. “What did it matter? I couldn’t leave Berlin. Not after Peter—” Her voice caught, drifting into some private thought.
“Who’s Peter?”
She looked up. “I forgot. You don’t know. Peter was our son.”
“Your son?” he said, stung in spite of himself. A family, with someone else. “Where is he?”
She stared back at the cup. “He was killed,” she said, her voice flat. “In a raid. Almost three.” Her eyes filled again.
He put his hand on hers. “You don’t have to tell me.”
But she hadn’t heard him, the words spilling out now, a purge.
“I left him in the kindergarten. Why did I do that? In the shelter all night I had him with me. He would sleep in my lap, not cry like the others. And I thought, well, that’s over, another night. But then the Americans came. That’s when they started like that-the British at night, the Americans in the day. No let-up. Eleven o’clock, I remember. I was shopping when the warning came, and of course I ran back, but the wardens caught me-everyone into the shelter. And I thought, the nursery’s safe, they had a deep cellar.” She stopped for a moment, looking away to the window. “Then after the raid, I went there and it was gone. Gone. All buried. We had to dig them out. All day digging, but maybe there was a chance. Then the screaming when they brought them out, one after another. We had to identify them, you see. Screaming. I went a little crazy. ‘Be quiet, be quiet, you’ll frighten them.’ Imagine saying such a thing. And the crazy thing was-Peter not a scratch, no blood, how could he be dead? But of course he was. Blue. Later they told me it was asphyxiation, you just stop breathing, no pain. But how do they know? I just sat there in the street with him all day. I wouldn’t move, not even for the wardens. Why? Do you know what it’s like, to lose a child? Both of you die. Nothing’s the same after that.“
“Lena,” he said, stopping her.
“All you can think is, why did I leave him there? Why did I do that?”
He got up and stood behind her, smoothing his hands on her shoulders, calming her.
“It’ll pass,” he said quietly.
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“Yes, I know. At first I didn’t believe it. But he’s dead, I know, that’s all there is to it. Sometimes I don’t even think about it anymore. Isn’t that terrible?”
“No.”
“I don’t think about anything. That’s what it’s like now. You know what I used to think, during the war? That you would come and rescue me-from the bombs, everything here. How? I don’t know. Out of the sky, maybe, something crazy. You’d just appear at the door, like yesterday, and take me away. A fairy tale. Like the girl in the castle. Now you’re here and it’s too late.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he said, turning her chair and bending down, looking up at her. “It’s not too late.”
“No? You still want to rescue me?” She ran her fingers across his hair.
“I love you.”
She stopped. “To hear that again. After all these terrible things.”
“That’s over. I’m here.”
“Yes, you’re here,” she said, her hands at the sides of his face. “I thought nothing good would ever happen to me again. How can I believe it? You still love me?”
“I never stopped. You don’t stop.” “But such terrible things. And now I’m an old woman.” He reached out and touched her hair. “We’re an old couple.” That night they slept close together, his arm around her, like a shield even bad dreams couldn’t get through. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
CHAPTER EIGHT
Each day was better, so that by the following weekend she was able to go out. Hannelore had found a friend “temporarily” and they’d been alone for days, a reclusive happiness that had finally become confining. Jake had done a second piece-“Adventures in the Black Market,” Russians and Mickey Mouse watches, the food situation, Danny and his girls discreetly left out-and Lena had slept and read, getting stronger. But the weather had grown sultry; the humid Berlin summer that used to drive everyone to the parks now just swirled the rubble dust, coating the windows with grit. Even Lena was restless.
Neither of them had seen the Russian sector, Lena because she refused to go there alone, so Jake drove east through the Mitte, past Gendarmenmarkt, then Opernplatz, where they’d made bonfires of books. Everything gone. When they saw the caved-in Berliner Dom in the distance, they were too dispirited to go on and decided to stroll up the Linden instead, the old Sunday outing. No one was out walking now. In the ruins, a makeshift cafe that had been set up just before Friedrichstrasse was crammed with Russians sweating in the heat.
“They’ll never leave,” Lena said. “It’s finished here now.”
“The trees will grow back,” Jake said, looking at the black stumps.
“My god, look at the Adlon.”
>
But Jake was looking at the figure coming through the door, the building evidently only partially ruined. Sikorsky noticed him at the same time and came over.
“Mr. Geismar, you decided to visit us after all,” he said, shaking hands. “For the afternoon tea, perhaps.”
“They still have it?”
“Oh yes, it’s a tradition, I’m told. Not so formal now, but more democratic, yes?”
In fact everyone Jake could see at the door brimmed with medals and decorations. A generals’ playground.
“In the back there are still some rooms. From mine you can see Goebbels’ garden. Or so they tell me it was. Excuse me,” he said, turning to Lena, “I am General Sikorsky.” A polite bow.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said. “Fraulein Brandt.” Why not frau?
“Brandt?” he said, looking at her carefully. “It’s a common name in Germany, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a Berliner? You have family here?”
“No. All killed. When the Russians came,” she said, an unexpected provocation.
But Sikorsky merely nodded. “Mine too. My wife, two children. In Kiev.”
“I’m sorry for that,” Lena said, embarrassed now.
He acknowledged this with another nod. “The fortunes of war. How is it a beautiful woman is still unmarried?”
“I was. He’s dead.”
“Then I am sorry for that,” Sikorsky said. “Well, enjoy your walk. A sad sight,” he said, looking at the street. “So much to do. Goodbye.”
“So much to do,” Lena said after he walked away. “And who made it like this? Russians. Did you see the way he looked at me?”
“I don’t blame him. He has an eye for a pretty girl.” Jake stopped and put his hand to the side of her head. “You are, you know. Look at you. You’ve got your color back. Like before.”
She looked up at him, then shook her head, embarrassed again. No, not that. Something else. Suspicious. The Russians are suspicious of everything.“
“I heard he was in intelligence. They look at everybody that way. Come on.”
They walked past the Brandenburg Gate, still plastered with giant posters of the Big Three.
“No trees,” she said. “Oh, Jake, let’s go back.”
“Tell you what, we’ll go out to the Grunewald, take a walk in the woods. You up for that?”
“It’s not like this?”
“No. Cooler too, I’ll bet,” he said, wiping sweat from his face.
“Something for the lady?” A German in an overcoat and fedora, detached from the group milling around the Reichstag.
“No,” Lena said, “go away.”
“Prewar material,” the man said, opening his coat and pulling out a folded garment. “Very nice. My wife’s. Scarcely worn. See?” He was unfolding the dress.
“No, please. I’m not interested.”
“Think how she’ll look,” he said to Jake. “For summer, light. Here, feel.”
“How much?”
“No, Jake, I don’t want it. Look how old, from before the war.”
But that’s what had caught his eye, the kind of dress she used to wear.
“You have cigarettes?” the man said eagerly.
Jake held it up against her. Cinched waist, blouse top; the way she had always looked.
“It’s nice,” he said. “You could use something.”
“No, really,” she said, flustered, as if she were being dressed in public, where everyone could see. She looked around, expecting MPs with whistles. “Put it away.”
“It’ll look pretty on you.”
He took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. What had Hannelore said was the going rate? But just then MPs did appear, British soldiers with white sticks, beginning to scatter the crowd like chickens. The German snatched the pack, flinging the dress at Jake. “A thousand thanks,” he said, hurrying. “A bargain-you won’t regret it.” He began to run toward the arch, his overcoat flapping.
“Oh, such foolishness. Anyway, it’s too much. A whole pack.”
“That’s all right. I feel rich.” He looked at her. “I haven’t bought you anything in a long time.”
She began folding the dress. “Look, it’s wrinkled.”
“It’ll steam out. You’ll look nice.” He put his hand up to her hair. “With your hair down.”
She looked up at him. “I don’t wear it that way anymore.”
“Maybe once. A few pins,” he said, taking one out.
She brushed his hand away. “Oh you, you’re impossible. Nobody wears it that way anymore.”
Back in the jeep, they drove through Charlottenburg, down more long avenues of ruins, dust hanging in the heavy air, until finally they could see trees at the edge of the Grunewald and beyond them the water, where the river widened to make the lakes. It was cooler, but not much, the sun blocked by clouds now, turning the water to slate, the air still thick with listless heat. At the old yacht club, Union Jacks hung from flagpoles, not even stirred by a breeze. They could see two boats on the water, becalmed, their sails as motionless as two white dabs in a painting. But at least the city was behind them, nothing now but the broad water and, across it, suburban houses in Gatow poking through the trees. They took the road rimming the water, ignoring the charred patches in the forest and smelling pines, the clean air of before.
“The boats should come in, it’s going to storm. My god, it’s hot.” She patted her face with a handkerchief.
“Let’s put our feet in.”
But the little stretch of beach, deserted, was littered with bottles and pieces of artillery shells that had washed up on shore, a bathtub ring of debris, so they crossed the road to the woods. The air was sticky but peaceful, no hikers shouting out to each other, no clomping horses on the riding trails. Alone in a way they’d never been before, hiding from the Sunday crowds. Once they’d made love here behind some bushes, the sound of trotting horses just a few yards away, the threat of being discovered as exciting as flesh. Getting away with something.
“Remember the time—” he started.
“Yes. I know what you’re thinking. I was so nervous.”
“You liked it.”
“Yes, I did,” he said, looking at her, surprised to find himself aroused. Just remembering it.
“I’m sure they saw.”
“There’s no one here now,” he said, moving her against a tree, on impulse, kissing her.
“Oh, Jake,” she said, a light scold, “not here,” but she let him kiss her again, opening her mouth, then suddenly felt him against her and gasped, breaking away. “No, I can’t.”
“It’s all right. There’s no one—”
“Not that,” she said, shaking her head, distressed. “Anybody touching there—”
“I’m not anybody.”
“I can’t help it.” She lowered her head. “It’s the same. Please.”
He touched her face. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know what it was like,” she said, still looking down.
“It won’t be like that,” he said softly, but she broke away, leaving the tree.
“Like a knife,” she said, choking a little. “Tearing—”
“Stop.”
“How can I stop? You don’t know. You think everything goes away. It doesn’t go away. I can still see his face. One touch there and I see his face. Is that what you want?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I want you to see me.”
Now she did stop, and she rushed over to him, putting her hand on his chest. “I do. It’s just- I can’t.”
He nodded.
“Oh, don’t look like that.”
How did he look? A flush of shame and disappointment? The first bright day out of the sickroom, as murky now as the overcast sky.
“It’s not important,” he said.
“You don’t mean that.”
He put his finger under her chin, lifting it. “I want to make love to you-there’s a difference. I’ll wait.”
“We’ll take it a little bit at a time.” A light kiss. “See?” He stopped and held her by the shoulders. “It won’t be like that.”
“For you,” she said, stinging him, so that he drew away a little. Something new, a voice he hadn’t heard before. But who knew her better, every part of her?
“A little bit at a time,” he said, kissing her again, easing her out of it.
“And then what?” she said moodily.
“A little more,” he said, but before he could kiss her the sky finally broke, a loud crackle and streak of light, and he smiled, laughing at the cue. “Then that. That’s what happens. See?”
She looked at him. “How can you joke?”
He stroked her face. “It’s supposed to be fun.” The first drops fell. “Come on, we don’t want you to get wet.”
She looked down again, biting her lower lip. “What if it never happens.” She stopped and clutched at his shirt, ignoring the rain. “I’ll do it if you want to,” she said flatly. “Right here, like the other time. If you want.”
“With your eyes closed.”
“I’ll do it.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to be somebody else’s face.”
She looked away. “Now you’re angry. I thought you wanted—”
“The way it used to be. Not like this.” He put his finger to her hair. “Anyway, I’m getting wet. There’s nothing like a cold shower to take your mind off things,” he said, trying to be light but watching her, still uneasy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, head down.
“No, don’t,” he said, wiping the rain off her cheek. “We have lots of time. All the time we want. Come on, you’re soaked.”
She kept her head down, preoccupied, as he led her back to the road. The rain had picked up, drenching the jeep, and it cut into them when they started to drive. He left the open road for the woods, as if, crazily, the trees would shelter them, forgetting that the trails were dirt at this end of the park, full of ruts and puddles. He went faster when they hit the straight road heading east, worried now that the wet would chill her, make her sick again. She had crouched down behind the windshield, curled up against the rain, an excuse to withdraw into herself.