by Joseph Kanon
“Did he? When?”
“She sleeps with him. A man will say anything in bed.”
“Mining conditions in Aue? Is that what you would talk about?”
Dieter smiled. “My friend, at my age you don’t talk. You have to save your breath.” They had been walking gradually uphill and he stopped for effect, catching his wind. “It’s not so difficult for a woman. All she has to do is listen.”
“What makes you think this one will?”
“Well, I leave that to you.” They were rounding a small hill. “It’s kind to walk with an old man, but you should go now. Or someone might wonder. But first, let me show you something interesting. This way.”
“But don’t you want to know who else I met? I thought that’s what—”
“Another day. Nothing’s more important than this. Aue,” he said, repeating it to himself. “You understand, we’ve been trying to get good information for a long time. What grade ore are they shipping? How? In what form?” He stopped. “Excuse me, it’s a lot all at once maybe. I’ll make a list, what to listen for. Right now, anything. You know, the propaganda value alone—”
“What, that the Russians have labor camps? Everybody must know—”
“But who’s in them? Who’s supplying them? The Russians are capable of anything—yes, old news. But Ulbricht, the German Communists, feeding the beast? With Germans? Their own citizens. Who would trust a government like that? My friend, keep your ears open. Keep your ears open.”
“All right. When do I see you again?”
“Just come to the park. I’ll know. Otherwise, next week, same time, if you can. Look.” He pointed toward what appeared to be a construction site. Narrow-gauge rails had been laid across the park, sloping uphill, the open tram cars loaded with rubble sent up from Friedrichshain. “You see they’re making a mountain. On the flak tower. What’s left of it. They dynamited it, but you know they were built to—anyway, now it’s covered. So, higher and higher. And then some grass, trees, and in a few years it’s gone, buried. The war? No sign. All the sins covered up. That’s what we do. The Russians cover theirs with memorials. Have you been down to Treptow? The memorial they’re building there? Stalin’s words, now in granite. A statue higher than this hill. A Soviet soldier rescuing a child. From Fascism. A broken swastika. Maybe someday somebody believes it. You have one more cigarette?” He coughed as he lit it. “Peasants. They didn’t know how to flush a toilet. You know what happens when you give a peasant a gun? You make a monster. That’s what the statue should be.”
“But they did break the swastika,” Alex said.
“Yes,” Dieter said, glancing at him. “You’re a Jew, yes? Meier? So, all right. We had monsters too. Maybe worse. But they didn’t rape my Liesl.” He flicked away the end of the cigarette. “Barbarians. Now they want to do it to Germany. No. Not them. That’s my politics now.”
* * *
Martin was waiting for him at the hotel.
“We have your housing assignment,” he said, pleased with himself. “In Prenzlauer Berg. A very nice area. So. You can pack now?”
“Now?” Erich, still in Ruth’s room.
“Yes. I have a car for us. You will be anxious to see it.”
“What’s the address? I want to write it down.” He took out a notebook.
“But I will take you,” Martin said, puzzled.
“For the desk here,” Alex said, improvising. “To forward mail.”
“You are expecting mail here?”
“From America. It’s the only address they have. Until I send the new one.”
“Rykestrasse forty-eight. Near the Wasserturm. A very nice street.”
Alex jotted down the address, two copies. “For me,” he explained, “if I forget it. I won’t be long. A few minutes.”
And then, before Martin could say anything more, he was on the stairs. Three knocks. Erich opened the door, still looking sleepy, but not as drawn as last night. Alex slid in.
“They’re moving me. To a flat.” He handed him the address. “You know where it is?”
Erich looked at the paper and nodded. “Your flat? But it’s trouble for you.”
“It’s more trouble if Ruth gets back early. Put the duvet away. No one was here. And make sure there’s nobody around at my place when you come. Three knocks, just like here, okay? Better wait an hour. At least. I don’t know when I can shake Martin.”
“Who?”
“Nobody. My keeper. Okay, let’s go. Neat as a pin, right?”
“What about the key?” He cocked his head toward the night table.
Ruth’s key. Impossible to explain at the desk. A fuss if it went missing.
“Give it to me. I’ll put it back.” How? Surprisingly heavy in his palm. Adlon luxury. At the door he turned. “Erich? The work camp. It was mines? Near Aue?”
“Yes. How did you—?”
“The people who got sick—what happened?”
“They got tired. Well, everybody was tired. But more tired. Sick in the lungs, from the dust. And no boots. You had to work in the slime up to here, no rubber boots, so it was easy to get sick.”
“Did they tell you what you were mining?”
“No, but we knew. Pitchblende. Uranium. Everybody knew. The doctors would check. If someone got sick from that. Radiation. But with them, everyone was healthy. Unless you couldn’t work at all.” He looked up. “Why do you ask this?”
“No reason,” Alex said, thinking of the lesions on Erich’s legs. “We’ll talk later. I want to hear—how it was.”
“They said it was our patriotic duty. As Socialists. The Americans didn’t want anyone else to have it, uranium. And we had so little. We needed more. So, that cough? It’s nothing important. Go back to work. It was like that.”
Alex put his hand on the doorknob. “How many of you escaped?”
“Five. We were afraid, if we told too many someone would betray us. You know, for special privileges.”
Alex stood there for a minute, at a loss. No end to it. “Give me an hour,” he said finally. “And keep this locked from inside.”
His packing, the shaving kit and the extra suit, only took a few minutes. Down the hall, Ruth’s key in one hand, his key in his pocket so they wouldn’t get mixed up. No bellhops in sight. Where was Peter? Who’d know what to do. And then, near the bottom of the stairs, he saw the long overcoat and stopped. Markus Engel, talking to the doorman. Martin leaped off the lobby couch, reaching for Alex’s suitcase.
“Let me help. You need only to sign the paper,” he said, pointing to the desk. “It’s all been arranged.” Anxious, clearly wanting to leave.
Alex took out his key and handed it to the desk clerk. Hurry, before he sees you. But Markus was already coming over to them. Alex clutched Ruth’s key in his palm. What if he wanted to shake hands?
“Ah, you’re leaving?”
“Markus.”
“And I was hoping we could have coffee. Continue our conversation. Well, another time.”
“Yes. But soon?” Alex said, friendly, keeping the fiction going. “I’d stay now except they’ve got a car waiting for me.”
“An honor for an honored guest,” Markus said, managing a smile. “So, a flat already. It’s very efficient, the Kulturbund.” This to Martin.
“No, it was the housing authority,” Martin said. “But lucky, certainly.”
“Yes, lucky. Perhaps a word from Major Dymshits.”
“I don’t know,” Martin said, uncomfortable.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Alex said, feeling the key in his hand, squeezing it.
“No, no, just to talk. Maybe a good thing, your having to go. I should be getting to work, not drinking coffee.” But not moving, a speech that seemed endless, each word like a rope tying them to the floor. And still the key. Alex turned to the desk.
“Is Peter here this morning? The boy?”
The desk clerk nodded and whispered something to another bellhop, presu
mably a go-find-him request.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Alex explained.
“We should hurry,” Martin said. “The car—”
“There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” Markus said. “I just remembered. You will find this odd, maybe.”
Alex waited.
“Do you carry a gun?”
“A gun?” Alex said, surprised. “No. Why? Do you think I need one?”
“Need? No. But many people keep a gun here. Berlin can be a dangerous city. I was curious if you had brought one from America. And someone took it maybe. We had an incident with American bullets. So to find the gun—”
“Markus, there must be thousands of American guns in Berlin. Thousands.”
“Army guns, yes. But not this one. A gun a civilian might have. Or so the bullets suggest. There are not so many of those in Berlin. So we have to check.”
“So you ask me?”
“To eliminate you,” Markus said calmly. “Someone just arrived from America. Someone who was in Lützowplatz—”
“What does Lützowplatz have to do with it?”
“That’s where the incident took place.”
“The traffic accident you mentioned.”
“Well, perhaps it was more than that.”
“With bullets? Yes. Well, I didn’t see anybody shoot anybody either. Just my house—or what’s left of it.”
“It was a simple query.”
Alex looked at him, saying nothing, then spied Peter across the room. “There he is. Excuse me a moment.” He went over quickly, before Peter could reach them and took his hand, a tip movement, a bill slipped into a maître d’s palm. Peter’s eyes widened at the feel of the key, then looked up, a kind of approving glance for the smooth handover. He put his hand in his pocket, then saw Markus.
“You know he’s K-5?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. He’s just poking around. If he asks you—”
“I know what to say. He talks to Oskar.” Indicating the doorman.
“Thanks for this. I’ll tell Dieter.”
Peter bowed, backing way, Adlon training.
“You know it’s not necessary to tip here,” Markus said when he came back.
“I know, I keep forgetting. Old habits.”
“Bourgeois habits.”
“Well, he’s just a kid.”
“He did a special service for you maybe?”
“No. It’s just, a kid—”
“Not the best lesson, perhaps. I know, you mean to be generous, but what does such an exchange do? Reinforce an artificial distance between the classes.”
“It was only a mark,” Alex said easily. “An East mark.” Something Peter was likely to have.
“Well, I am perhaps too didactic. I’ve been told this. But you know, it’s true all the same.”
“We should go,” Martin said. “The car—”
Markus glanced at Alex’s suitcase. “A light traveler.”
“Just until the rest of my things arrive. Well, until our coffee then.”
“You can leave messages at the Kulturbund,” Martin said to Markus. “In fact, there is good coffee there. You would be most welcome.”
This seemed to amuse Markus, who smiled. “I will find you, don’t worry,” he said to Alex. “You don’t mind my saying? A very nice coat.” He ran his eyes over it, appraising. “It’s English?”
“No, just Bullocks Wilshire.” And then, at Markus’s blank expression, “A store. In California.”
“When people say ‘English coat’ what do they usually mean? I’m so ignorant of such things.”
“Tweed, I guess,” Alex said, wondering what he was asking. “Anyway, not Bullocks.”
“Of course, if it’s not German, they might say any foreign coat was English. American. English. How many would know the difference? It’s a difficulty with witnesses. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re seeing.” His eyes cool again, steady, not letting it go at all. The old woman? One of the English soldiers? Or nobody? Just his way of pulling a string to see if anything twitched.
* * *
The flat was in a nineteenth-century block of pale stucco and ornamental balconies, facing the street, not one of the gloomy back courtyards. Rykestrasse seemed to have escaped any serious bombing, the buildings shabby but intact. A few doors down there was a synagogue that had been converted to stables and at the end a small park with the red brick water tower that Alex could see from his window if he leaned out and craned his head.
“The SA took it over,” Martin said, pointing out the tower to him. “They tortured people in the basement.” He pulled his head back inside. “So, it seems comfortable to you? I realize, not so big, but the light is good. And even—” He paused for effect. “A telephone.”
“It’s wonderful,” Alex said, looking at the phone, clearly a great rarity. “I’m very grateful. You’ve gone to so much trouble.”
“No, no, we are so pleased you’re here.” Meaning it.
A separate bedroom, a worn sofa in the living room for Erich, small galley kitchen and a table by the window facing the street where he could write. A pressed glass pitcher with flowers. Lace curtains, recently ironed. Home.
“I have brought food packages but there are also shops in Schönhauser Allee.” As if everything were there for the asking, shelves filled.
Alex glanced at his watch. Erich would have left by now. “Thank you for everything. I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, no, it’s my job.” He took out a notebook, a secretary. “Perhaps now is a good time to look at your schedule?”
“My schedule?”
“A radio interview. We were hoping—”
“Can’t it wait?”
“But everyone is so anxious to hear what you have to say. A talk at the Kulturbund naturally would be later. So you have time to prepare. But the radio—”
“What kind of interview?”
“A conversation. Like talking over coffee. How it feels to be back. Conditions in America—why you left. Your hopes for the Socialist future. And your work, of course.” His voice implacable, something Alex would have to do sooner or later.
“All right. Let me know when. Anything else?”
Martin looked up, hesitant. “We’re preparing a Festschrift. A special book for Comrade Stalin’s birthday. It was hoped that you might contribute.”
“Contribute?”
“A short piece, whatever length you like. Some members are writing poems, but you—”
“Write a piece,” Alex said. “Praising Stalin.”
Martin turned his head, embarrassed. “His leadership during the war perhaps. A heroic period.” He waited for a moment, as if he were testing his words first. “Shall I say that you are thinking what to say?”
“Who else are you asking to do this?”
“Our prominent members. You of course—”
“Brecht? Brecht is writing something?” An impossible idea.
“A request has been made.”
Alex raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.
Martin licked his lips, nervous. “It’s an awkward situation. We want to show a certain solidarity. You understand.”
The more valuable you are, the safer you are. Alex nodded. “When do you need it?”
“The end of March. So the printer will have time. Sometimes, you know, there are delays, with the shortages.”
“Not for this, surely.”
“No, not for this.” Embarrassed again. “The Kulturbund appreciates—”
“Anything else?” Alex said, cutting him off.
“For now, no. May we expect you for lunch today? I can keep a place at the members’ table.”
“No, not today.”
“But Comrade Stein will be disappointed. He wanted to take you afterward to Aufbau. To meet the staff. I think they are expecting you.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. It’s just—I’d like to get some work done. It’s been awhile since I had a place to work.” He waved his hand towa
rd the table.
“Then coffee perhaps. I know they have prepared something. Say four o’clock? I can have a car—”
“That’s all right. I can get there.” Imagining a car idling, Martin on the stairs, Erich hiding.
“Of course,” Martin said, smiling. “An old Berliner. So. Four o’clock then. I’ll let Comrade Stein know.” He looked over at the table. “What are you working on, may I ask?” Eyes eager, interested.
“A story about a marriage. How we deceive ourselves. When we want to believe in something.”
“A political metaphor?”
Alex smiled. “I hadn’t thought—”
“As in The Last Fence,” Martin said, earnest.
“If you like. But really it’s about the marriage. A bourgeois subject, our friend Markus would say.”
“Well, Markus,” Martin said, putting his notebook away. “I think it’s because he knew you before that he’s so curious. Everything. Even your coat.”
Alex shrugged this off. “Cops are like that.”
“It was the same in America?”
“Well, they never asked about my coat. Just my politics.”
Martin looked at him, not quite sure how to take this. “I’ll tell Comrade Stein to expect you at four.”
And then, another embarrassed nod and he was finally gone, the room suddenly quiet, not even a clock ticking. Alex looked around. How long would he be here? Long enough to tell the world Stalin was a hero? Even longer? He went over to the window, watching Martin go down the street. No parked cars, nobody lurking in doorways, flowers on the table.
Erich got there an hour later, worn out from the walk. He was shivering, even in the heavy coat, so Alex made tea, spiking it with some schnapps he’d found in Martin’s food package.
“You need to see a doctor.”
Erich shook his head. “No papers and then they report you and you’re finished.”
“Does Irene have a phone?”
“Now? I don’t know. Before, yes.”
“Do you remember the number?” Had they kept the same numbers? But she answered.
“Irene? Alex,” he said, holding the receiver close, aware of his own voice. A phone was a privilege. Why had they given him one? To listen? “I have a flat. I thought I’d give you the address.”