by Joseph Kanon
Alex nodded, thinking of the narrow gauge rail cars bringing rubble up to the park. “Stalinallee,” he said idly.
“Well, he won the war.”
Alex glanced over. A believer still, with a husband in prison.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the tea. “Two buildings. They’re both his?”
The pure geometry of the Bauhaus, white with lines of sleek horizontal windows, the inside presumably a model of efficient design, the old dream, postponed by the war.
“If they build them. There’s a stretch across from Memeler Strasse, he fit them both on the plot, to make a continuous line on the street. Beautiful, don’t you think?”
“But—?” he said, hearing it in her voice.
“But they want these.” She reached under the plans and pulled out a new set of renderings. “Wedding cakes, Herb called them. Oh God,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth, “do you think it’s that? He called them Stalin wedding cakes. In public. A dinner at the Kulturbund. With Henselmann, the other architects. He wasn’t the only one. I mean, everybody thinks they’re—well, look. Gorky Street. But that’s what they like. You have to work with the client. In the end it’s—”
“These are his drawings too?”
“No. He’s supposed to study them. Learn from them. Herb. Who can design something like this. You don’t think it’s this, do you? Making fun of the plans? I mean, in the end he’ll do it. You have to. Everybody was laughing, not just Herb.” She looked down. “Maybe someone reported him. Out of spite.” She raised her hands to her arms, crossing her chest, huddling in. “Oh God, what a place. I don’t want to stay here. Not anymore. But we can’t go back.”
“He could go to the West. A German. They take in any German.”
“The West? And work for all the old Nazis? Another Speer? No, thank you. This is the Germany he wants. You’re here too. You understand how he feels. You don’t go.”
“I’m not in Sachsenhausen.”
The boy came in just as they were finishing the tea.
“Danny, this is Mr. Meier. Also from the States.”
Danny raised an eyebrow at this, intrigued. “From New York?” he said, politely shaking hands. About Peter’s age, the same unformed features, hair falling into his eyes.
“California.”
Danny said nothing to this, reluctant to offer anything further, looking for his cue to leave.
“Mr. Meier’s a writer.” No response to this either. “Do you want something to eat?”
“Homework,” he said, lifting his satchel and then, at Roberta’s nod, “Very nice to meet you.”
Alex watched him go, a shuffling walk, as if he were kicking fallen leaves.
“He’s like that with strangers,” Roberta said.
“Mine too,” Alex said, his eyes still on the boy, suddenly wanting him to be Peter, an almost physical hunger. Just have him in the room. Not saying anything, maybe reading the funnies in the other chair while Alex flipped through the paper. Just there, in his presence. He turned to Roberta. “You have to think about him. What it’s going to be like for him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Roberta sat up straight, about to chafe at this, then sank back. “I know. But I can’t, not now. We have to get through this first. What do I say to him?”
What had Marjorie said? At least at first.
Roberta looked at him. “Please, I know I shouldn’t ask, you’ve done so much already, but you’re somebody there, at the Kulturbund. I mean, they give parties for you. You could get to Dymshits. He won’t talk to me but he’d talk to you. He’s the one who invited Herb. You too, yes? He’d at least listen. You don’t have to vouch for Herb—politically, I mean, if there’s some kind of trouble. You’re just concerned. There must be some mistake. Even some information—” She stopped. “I know I shouldn’t ask. But it’s not sticking your neck out or anything, is it? I mean, he hasn’t done anything.”
“Who?” Danny said, at the doorway again.
Alex looked at his face, grave and apprehensive, an adult’s face, what Peter’s looked like now too.
“All right,” he said to Roberta. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The Kulturbund was quiet, no crowds hurrying past Goethe up the marble stairs, no one sitting in the old club lounge where Fritz had told his stories. Even Martin seemed to be alone in his small office.
“Where is everybody?” Alex said.
“The flu. You know, the winter,” he said, evasive. “I’m glad to see you. Look at this.” He pointed to a tape recorder on a small table, microphone next to it. “You can be on the radio here. For Dresden, anywhere. No need to go there. We just send the tape. We’ve been waiting so long for this. It’s an expense, the trains. And you know the writers prefer—”
“I need a favor,” Alex said, breaking in. “If you can.”
“Of course.”
“An appointment to see Dymshits.”
“Major Dymshits? There’s something wrong?”
“Not with me. Herb Kleinbard’s been arrested. His wife is frantic. She’s been trying to get through—”
“It’s a difficult time,” Martin said.
“What do you mean?”
“The major—so many requests. He can’t involve himself. In Party business. The Kulturbund must operate—”
“What Party business? What’s happening?”
“Periodically, you understand, the Party must examine itself. A matter of self-criticism, usually. It’s easy for people to have failings. But if they go unchecked—” He paused. “As I say, a matter of self-criticism. In most cases.”
Alex looked at him. “You mean they’re arresting people. Not just Herb.”
“We have heard of several, yes.”
“Here? At the Kulturbund?”
“Yes, unfortunately. A difficult time. I was afraid when you asked that maybe you—”
“Then I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“As you say.”
“But why would they arrest me? Why would you think that?”
“Forgive me, please. It’s not that I doubt your loyalty. Your commitment. No. You know how I admire your—”
“But you thought they might have.”
“The Party is examining comrades who have spent time in the West. Forgive me, I didn’t intend—”
Alex waved this away. “Who else? Besides Herb?”
“Older comrades. Sometimes, you know, they have the old ideas. A conflict, maybe. So a correction is needed.”
“Do you really believe this?”
Martin looked up at him, dismayed. “Herr Meier, please. How can you ask this? It’s important for the Party to remain strong.”
“By arresting Herb Kleinbard? What if it happened to you?”
He looked down. “I must perform a self-criticism, yes, but you must keep in mind—”
“You? You could write Lenin’s speeches.”
“Herr Meier, please.”
“God, it’s because of us, isn’t it? The time you’ve spent—”
“No, no.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex said quietly. “If any of this had to do with me. I never meant—”
“No, please,” Martin said, upset now, façade beginning to crack. “It was an honor to be of assistance to you. Your name was never mentioned. We are so pleased to have you here.” Recovering his poise, back on the job.
“You were happy to have Herb too. It must be a mistake. You know Herb.”
“Herr Meier, I can’t question Party decisions. How would that be, if everyone did that?”
Alex looked at him, the silence an answer.
“Who else? You said my name didn’t come up. Whose did?”
Martin looked away, embarrassed, as if he’d already seen Alex’s reaction.
“Comrade Stein has been arrested. And one of his editors. Not yours,” he said quickly.
“Aaron? They arrested Aaron? What for?” Seeing the soft, watery eyes, the ones that had glimpsed the Socialist
future.
“I don’t know. They did not say. I’m expected to attend the trial, so I’ll know then. Let’s hope, nothing too serious.”
“There’s a trial? When?”
“Any day. We’ll be told. Someone has come from Moscow. A new man in the state security division. Saratov.”
“Saratov? So Markovsky was right after all,” Alex said, unable to resist, keeping the story going. He looked up. “What do you mean, we’ll be told? Are you testifying? Against Aaron?”
Martin said nothing, his face crumpling a little, as if he were in actual pain. Then he lifted his head. “I may be asked for an opinion. Of course, if I am asked—”
“You wouldn’t.”
“And you? What will you do if they ask you?”
Alex looked at him, time slowing in the empty room. Just a piece of paper in a file, signed. They wouldn’t call him, risk exposing him as a GI. The anonymous report would be enough, a paper trigger.
“It must be a mistake about Aaron,” he said weakly.
Martin looked up, miserable. “The Party doesn’t make mistakes.”
* * *
It was a short walk to Markus’s office, in one of the buildings the SED had taken over near the palace. The new unit must have just moved in because there were no names listed yet in the lobby directory.
“The new K-5. It was K-5 before,” he said to the desk clerk.
“Ah,” the clerk said, suddenly conspiratorial, nodding to the elevator. “On three.”
The doors, improbably enough, said Main Directorate for the Defense of the Economy and the Democratic Order, in fresh paint, not quite dry. A reception area with chairs, a typing pool, and a long corridor of offices. Markus’s secretary, not expecting visitors, seemed flustered, and Markus himself was annoyed.
“You’re not supposed to come here like this,” he said, drawing him into his office.
“I thought that’s the way you wanted to work it. A visit from an old friend.”
“In a café. My flat. Not here. Who comes here? Unless they have to. Anyway, you’re here. It’s just as well. I was about to come see you. It’s happening quickly now. You need to be briefed.”
“About what?”
“Markovsky,” Markus said, a cat with cream. “He’s defected.”
“What?”
“You’re surprised?” He shook his head. “I’m not. A pleasure seeker. I always thought it was possible. So you can see, it moves quickly now. Such a lucky idea of mine. To have you in place.”
“But she’s here. He didn’t take her. So what does she—”
“Yes, for how long? He’ll send for her. And when she goes to him, we have him.”
“In the West.”
Markus brushed this off with his hand. “We have him.”
“So you’re having her watched?”
“Naturally. But you know she’ll be careful. She expects that.” He looked over. “The best watcher is the one you don’t suspect. You see now how important—this is your chance.”
“My chance.”
“To be of real value. But you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Not now. Coming here for a social visit. What did you want anyway? That you would come here?”
“They’ve arrested Aaron Stein.”
“Yes.”
“And others. Herb Kleinbard, for God’s sake.”
“I didn’t know that you knew him.”
“I met them at the Kulturbund. His wife’s upset—”
“Well, yes. That’s to be expected. I would be too, in her position. So you come to me? I have nothing to do with this.”
“State Security? Who else would it be?”
Markus looked at him. “Our Soviet comrades. We don’t interfere. It’s not our role.” He hesitated. “You don’t want to get involved in matters like these.”
“I’m not involved. That’s the point. I don’t want to be.”
Markus frowned, not following.
“My little chat with Aaron? I don’t want that used against him.”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Yes, it is. Just pull it out of the file and throw it away.”
“That’s against the law.”
“What law? Arresting innocent people? Aaron Stein, for chrissake.”
“Be careful what you say. Innocent? You know this? Better than the Party does? It’s trouble, thinking like this.”
“Get rid of it. I won’t be used against him.”
Markus looked, then shook his head, smiling a little. “Writers. All dramatists. Brecht says this too. Not Aaron. It’s impossible. Before anything is known of the circumstances.” He walked over behind the desk, then leaned forward. “Now listen to me. As your friend. You don’t want to compromise your position. There is nothing I can do about this, even as a favor to a valued collaborator. They already have Stein’s file. Not a small one, by the way. They may ignore your report, they may not. They may ask you to appear at his hearing.”
“I won’t—”
“And if they do, I suggest that you speak willingly. Your concern must be the safety of the German Socialist state. That’s why you came back. That’s why you cooperate. There is nothing you can do for Comrade Stein.”
Alex was quiet for a minute, letting this settle.
“He is charged with high treason and counterrevolutionary activities. These are very serious charges. You don’t want to get in the way of Party discipline in a case like this.”
“High treason? Aaron? And what’s Kleinbard charged with? Laughing at Stalin’s building plans?”
Markus stared, then came out from behind the chair. “Comrade Kleinbard is another matter.” He put a hand to his chin, thinking. “There may be something I can do.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Markus looked at him. “Why? Who are these people to you?”
“I just think it’s the right thing to do, that’s all. Germany needs people like him.”
“And not people like us?” Markus said, his eyes amused. “Alex,” he said, drawing the word out, an intimacy. “Everyone has his part to play. Now you.” He walked to the door, hand on the knob. “Next time a café, yes? Like old friends. To come here—” He let it drift, unfinished, then opened the door. “You understand about Irene? Stay close. The eyes she doesn’t suspect. He’ll send for her, you’ll see. A sensualist. And then we have him.”
The door opposite opened as they stepped into the corridor, a small confusion of people, two men leading out a short old woman. She looked up at Alex and stopped, her eyes puzzled, trying to place him. His heart stopped. The woman in Lützowplatz. But he’d had a hat then, half covering his face. No sign now that she’d actually recognized him, just some vague stirring. He turned his face away. Keep moving, don’t draw attention. He started toward the reception area, expecting to hear the voice any second, a hoarse screech, finger outstretched, pointing.
“English overcoat,” she said, low, half to herself.
Involuntarily he looked down. Why hadn’t he got rid of it, flung it in the rubble somewhere or let it pass from hand to hand in the black market? But who threw away a winter coat in Berlin? Last year’s, from Bullocks, now marking him like a fingerprint.
“English overcoat,” she said again, still working it out.
“Yes, Pani, you’ve told us,” one of the men said, a little weary. Pani. Polish. Two men, one to translate. Things got lost that way, language to language, a police form of the telephone game. A longer process, cumbersome. “A few more pictures to look at, yes? And then you can go.” Expecting nothing.
But Markus would know what she meant, ears up, alert. A woman he’d already interviewed, his only lead. He’d catch the smallest nuance. Alex felt Markus’s eyes boring into his back. He’d know. After everything, Markovsky in the river, to be tripped up by a coat. Alex turned. Markus had stopped, staring straight ahead over his shoulder, his face white. The others stopped now too, the whole room suddenly still. Alex followed his gaze. Not the
old woman, someone else, haggard, prison thin, standing by the secretary’s desk, her head raised to meet Markus’s eyes. A blank expression, and then a gasp, her face crinkling.
“Markus,” she whispered, face moving now, some uncontrollable tic. “It’s you?”
“Mother,” he said, a whisper, still, not moving.
She nodded, eyes moist.
“Mutti,” he said, another whisper, his body still rigid, the shock of seeing someone dead.
She started toward him, tentative, the rest of the room watching.
“Markus. This place,” she said, a hand open to it. “What are you doing here?”
He said nothing, still stunned, afraid even, and when she reached him she held back too, extending her arms to him and then stopping short, as if he were some fragile object, easy to break.
“Markus.” She raised a hand to his cheek, barely touching it, a blind woman forming a picture. “My God. You were just a child.” Resting her hand against the side of his face. “A child.” Her eyes, already moist, began to overflow. “What did they tell you?” she said, her hand now at his hair, Markus not even blinking. “Never mind. Tell me later.”
“Mutti,” he said, trying to make the ghost real or go away.
There was some movement to his side, the two policemen leading away the Polish woman. Alex watched them, hardly breathing, but Markus didn’t notice, too dazed by the hand on his cheek.
“Markus. Am I so different? Let me hold you.” She leaned into his chest, her arms around him, then turned her head, so that her gaze fell on Alex. A moment of confusion. “Alex? Alex Meier?”
“Frau Engel,” Alex said, his head dipping.
“You went to America.”
“Yes.”
The sound of his voice, an outsider, seemed to snap some spell in Markus, and he began to move, disentangling himself, a kind of military correctness.
“It’s a surprise, seeing you here. Where are you staying?” he said, polite, to a stranger.
“Where am I staying?” Frau Engel said, vague, then distressed, something she saw she ought to know but didn’t. She turned, flailing, to a man standing near them.
“Comrade Engel will be at the guest house. Of the Central Secretariat,” the man said.