Jake carried her inside. There was a pillow on the couch where Hal used to flop-evidently her bed. Struggling under her weight, he moved past the bathroom to the bedroom door. No hands free to open it, so he kicked. The door was flung open by Steve, down to dog tags and boxer shorts, his socks still on. Behind him, Hannelore, in a slip, let out a squeak.
Steve started toward him. “Boy, you don’t quit, do you?”
“She passed out. Help me get her on the bed.”
Steve looked at him, dumbfounded.
“It’s all right. I’m an old friend. Ask her.” He cocked his head toward Hannelore. “Come on, give me a hand.”
Steve stepped aside. “Who is he?” he said to Hannelore.
“From before the war. No,” she said to Jake as he carried Lena in. “That’s my bed. She’s on the couch. A few days, she said, and now look.”
“Go fuck in the hall for all I care. She’s sick-she needs the bed.” He put her down gently, stepping on the blue dress lying on the floor. “Do you have any brandy?”
“Brandy. Where would I get brandy?”
Steve walked over to his dropped uniform, took out a pint bottle, and handed it to Jake. A few drops on her lips, then a faint choke, eyes half open. He wiped sweat from her forehead. Feverish.
“You going to tell me what’s going on here?” Steve said.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jake asked Hannelore.
“I don’t know. I took her in, she was all right. I thought, well, two rations. It’s a help, you know? Now this. She just lies there all day. It’s always the same when you’re kindhearted. People take advantage.” Her voice hard and aggrieved.
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“Who has money for doctors?”
“You look like you’re doing all right.”
“You can’t talk to me like that. What do you know about it? Coming here like this. It’s not your flat. It’s mine now.”
“This your place?” Steve asked.
“It was. She used to work for me,” Jake said, looking at Hannelore. “And Dr. Goebbels. She tell you that?”
“That’s not true. You can’t prove anything.” She looked at Steve, then walked over to the nightstand and lit a cigarette, defiant. “I knew it was trouble when I saw you. You never liked me. What did I do? I take in a friend. Kindhearted. Now you’re going to make trouble.”
“Jacob,” Lena said faintly, then clutched his hand, holding it with her eyes closed.
“Get her something to drink. She’s burning up. Some water. You can spare that, can’t you?”
Hannelore glared at him, then started for the kitchen. “Maybe it’s good you’re here. You can feed her now. I’m finished with this business.”
“Nice girl,” Jake said as she left. “Friend of yours?”
Steve shrugged. “A few times. She’s all right.”
Jake glanced over at him. “I’ll bet.”
“Here,” Hannelore said, returning with a glass of water.
Jake raised Lena’s head and made her drink, then dipped his handkerchief in the water and put it on her forehead. Her eyes were open now.
“You came back,” she said. “I never thought-”
“It’s all right now. We’ll get you a doctor.”
“No, don’t leave,” she said, still holding his hand.
He looked up at Steve. “Listen, I need your help. We have to get a doctor.”
“She’s German, isn’t she? Army docs don’t treat civilians.”
“There’s a man back at Ronny’s. He knows me. Ask for Alford.”
“Alford? I know Alford,” Hannelore said.
“Good. Then you go with him. Tell him it’s urgent-tonight. And have his doctor bring medicine. Penicillin, I guess, whatever he has. Say it’s a personal favor to me.” He stood up, pulling out his wallet. “Here. Tell him it’s a down payment. If it’s more, I’ll pay him tomorrow. Whatever he wants.”
Hannelore’s eyes widened at the sight of the money.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jake said. “Every mark. I’ll check.”
“Go to hell,” she said, offended. “Go get him yourself, then.”
“Listen, Hannelore, for two cents I’d turn you in. They’ll make you a rubble lady. It’s hell on the nails.” He looked at her red fingertips. “Now get dressed and do it.”
“Hey, you can’t talk to her-”
“And I’ll have you up for fraternizing with a Nazi. And assaulting an officer. I can do it, too.”
Steve stared at him. “Tough guy,” he said finally.
“Please,” Jake said. “She’s sick, for Christ’s sake, you can see that.”
Steve glanced over at the bed, then nodded and began to put on his pants.
“I’m not a Nazi,” Hannelore said. “I was never a Nazi. Never.”
“Shut up and get dressed,” Steve said, throwing her the dress.
“You were always trouble for me,” she said to Jake, still disgruntled, pulling the dress over her head. “Always. And what made you so perfect? Sneaking around with her. I knew all the time. Everybody knew.”
“Here,” Jake said, handing Steve the money, “you take it. He’s a young guy. Slick hair.” He took a key from his pocket. “My jeep’s there, if you want to drive back.”
Steve shook his head. “She can walk.”
“What do you mean, she can walk? Where are you going?” Hannelore said, still arguing with him as they went out the door.
“You mustn’t be angry with her,” Lena said in the sudden quiet. “She’s had a hard time.”
Jake sat on the bed, looking at her, still trying to take her in. “You’ve been here. All the time,” he said, as if that were the remarkable thing. “I passed the other day-”
“I knew she had the flat. There was nowhere else. The bombs-”
He nodded. “Pariserstrasse, I know. I looked for you everywhere. I saw Frau Dzuris. Remember?”
She smiled. “Poppyseed cakes.”
“She’s not fat anymore.” He wiped her brow, letting his hand rest on the side of her face. “Have you been eating?”
“Yes. She’s good to me. She shares her ration. And of course she gets a little extra from the soldiers.”
“How long has that been going on?”
She shrugged. “We eat.”
“How long have you been sick?”
“A little while. I don’t know. The fever this week.”
“Do you want to sleep?”
“I can’t sleep. Not now. I want to hear-” But in fact she closed her eyes. “How did you find me?”
“I knew the dress.”
She smiled, her eyes still closed. “My good blue.”
“Lena,” he said, smoothing her hair. “My god.”
“Oh, I must look terrible. Do you even recognize me?”
He kissed her forehead. “What do you think?”
“That’s a nice lie.”
“You’ll look even better after the doctor fixes you up. You’ll see. I’ll bring some food tomorrow.”
She held her hand to his head, looking at him. “I thought I’d never see you again. Never.” She noticed his uniform. “Are you a soldier? Were you in the war?”
He turned slightly and pointed to his shoulder patch. “Correspondent.”
“Tell me-” She paused, blinking, as if caught by a sudden pain. “Where to begin? Tell me everything that happened to you. Did you go back to America?”
“No. Once, a visit. Then London, all over.”
“And nowhere.”
“I told you I’d come back. Didn’t you believe me?” He took her by the shoulders. “Everything’s going to be the same.”
She turned her head. “It’s not so easy, to be the same.”
“Yes, it is. You’ll see. We’re the same.”
Her eyes, already shiny with fever, grew moister, but she smiled. “Yes, you’re the same.”
He brushed the bare hairline above his temple. “Almost, anyway.” He looked down at her. “You’ll see. Just like before.”
She closed her eyes, and he busied himself wetting the handkerchief, disconcerted by his own words. Not like before.
“So you found Hannelore,” he said, trying to be conversational, then, “Where’s Emil?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice curiously detached. “Dead, maybe. It was terrible here, at the end.”
“He was in Berlin?”
“No, up north. For the army.”
“Oh,” he said, not trusting himself to say more. He stood up. “I’ll get some more water. Try getting a little sleep before the doctor gets here.”
“Like a nurse,” she said, closing her eyes.
“That’s right. I’m going to take care of you. Go to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
“It seems impossible. I just opened the door.” Her voice drifting.
He turned to leave, then stopped. “Lena? What makes you think he’s dead?”
“I would have heard.” She moved her hand up, covering her eyes. “Everyone’s dead. Why not him?”
“You’re not.”
“No, not yet,” she said wearily.
He glanced at her. “That’s the fever talking. I’ll be right back.”
He walked through the main room to the kitchen. Everything the same. In the bedroom, littered with Hannelore’s clothes and bottles of lotion, he could imagine being somewhere else, but here it was his flat, the couch against the wall, the little table by the window, not even rearranged, as if he’d simply gone away for the weekend. The kitchen shelves were bare-three potatoes and a few cans of C rations, a jar of ersatz coffee. No bread. How did they live? At least Hannelore had her dinner at Ronny’s. Surprisingly, the gas ring worked. A kettle to make coffee. No tea. The room itself felt hungry.
“It’s cold,” she said when he put a new wet cloth on her forehead.
“It’s good for the fever. Just keep it there.”
He sat for a minute looking at her. An old cotton wrapper dotted with patches of sweat, wrists thin enough to snap. Like one of the grim DPs he’d seen plodding across the Tiergarten. Where had Emil been?
“I went to the Elisabeth,” he said. “Frau Dzuris said you worked there.“
“With the children. There was no one to help, so-” She winced. “So I went there.”
“Did they get out? Before the raid?”
“Not bombs. Shells. The Russians. Then the fire.” She turned her head, eyes filling. “No one got out.”
He turned the cloth over, feeling helpless.
“Don’t think about it now.”
“No one got out.”
But she had, somehow. Another Berlin story.
“Tell me later,” he said softly. “Get some sleep.”
He smoothed her hair again, as if it would empty her head, and in a few minutes it seemed to work. The little gasps evened out and became almost soundless, so that only the faint movement of her chest showed she was breathing at all. Where was Hannelore?
He watched her sleep for a while, then got up and looked around the jumbled room. Clothes had been flung over the chair, a pair of shoes resting on top. Without thinking, he began putting things away, filling time. A messy room is the sign of a messy mind-his mother’s old saying, ingrained after all. He realized, absurdly, that he was tidying up for the doctor. As if it mattered.
He opened the closet door. He had left a few things with Hal, but they were gone, traded perhaps on one of the message boards. In their place, a fur coat was hanging next to some dresses. A little ragged, but still fur, the kind of thing he’d heard they collected to send to the troops on the eastern front. But Hannelore had kept hers. A present, no doubt, from a friend in the ministry. Or maybe just salvaged after one of the bombing raids, when the owner hadn’t got out.
He went into the living room. There wasn’t much to straighten here-the lumpy couch, a suitcase neatly set underneath, some stray cups that hadn’t been washed. Near the window table, something new-an empty birdcage, Hannelore’s one addition to the room. Otherwise, just as before. He washed the cups in cold water, then wiped off the sink counter, settling in. When there was nothing left to do, he stood by the window smoking, thinking about the hospital. What else had she seen? All the time he’d imagined her in the old flat getting dressed to go out, frowning at herself in the mirror, safe under some bell jar of memory. The last four years were only supposed to have happened to him.
A few cigarettes later, he heard Hannelore on the stairs.
“Leave the door open,” she said, switching off her flashlight. “He’ll never find it otherwise.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“He’s coming. They had to get him. How is she?”
“Sleeping.”
She grunted and went into the kitchen, pulling down a bottle hidden over the top shelf.
“Where’s Steve?” Jake said.
“You ruined that for me,” she said, pouring a drink. “He’ll never come back now.”
“Don’t worry, there’re plenty more where he came from.”
“You think it’s so easy. What am I supposed to do now?”
“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll pay for the room, too. She can’t sleep out here.”
“No, only me, is that it? How can I bring people to a couch?”
“I said I’d pay. You can take a vacation, give yourself a rest. You could use it.”
“Go to hell,” she said, then noticed the washed cups on the counter. “Ha. Maid service too. My ship has come in.” But she sounded mollified now, already counting the money. “You have a cigarette?”
He gave her one and lit it.
“I’ll move her out as soon as she’s better. Here, take this.” He handed her some money. “I can’t move her now.”
“All right, all right, nobody’s throwing anybody out. I like Lena. She was always nice to me. Not like some,” she said, looking at him. “She used to come sometimes during the war, bring coffee, have a little visit. Not for me. I knew why she came. She wanted to be here, just sit in the flat. Make sure it was still here. It reminded her, I suppose. Such foolishness. Everything just so. ‘Hannelore, you moved the chair. Didn’t you like it over here?’ I knew what she was up to. And my god, what did it matter, with the bombs every night, where a chair was? ‘If it makes you so happy, move it back,’ I’d say, and you know, she would? Foolishness.“ She finished off the drink.
“Yes,” Jake said. Another bell jar. “Did Hal give you the apartment?”
“Of course. He was a friend of mine, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” he said, genuinely surprised.
“Oh you, you never noticed anything. Just her. That’s all you could see. Hal was very nice. I always liked the Americans. Even you, a little. You weren’t a bad sort. Sometimes,” she added, then paused. “Don’t make trouble for me. I was never a Nazi, I don’t care what you think. Never. The BDM only-all the girls in school had to join. But not a Nazi. Do you know what they’ll do? They’ll give me a Number V ration card-that’s a death card. You can’t live on that.”
“I don’t want to make trouble for you. I’m grateful to you.”
“Huh,” she said, putting out her cigarette. “But I’m still on the couch. Well, let me get my things.”
When she came back she was in a silk nightgown, her heavy breasts bulging. Hal’s friend.
“Does it embarrass you?” she said, almost coquettish. “Well, I can’t help that if I’m out here.” She spread a sheet on the couch.
“Is she still sleeping?”
Hannelore nodded. “She doesn’t look so good,” she said.
“How long has she been sick?”
“A week, maybe two. When she came, I thought she was just tired. You know, everyone looks tired now. I didn’t know. What could I do? There wasn’t much to eat.”
“I’ll bring some food tomorrow. For both of you.”
“And some cigarettes maybe?” She had begun wiping her face with a damp cloth, taking off years with the rouge. How old would she be now, twenty-five?
“Sure.”
“Herr Geismar,” she said to herself, shaking her head. “Back in Berlin. Who would have thought? Even the old room, eh?”
“I’ll wait up,” Jake said. “Sleep if you like.”
“Oh, with a man in the room. Not likely. Maybe just a little rest.”
But in a little while she was out, her mouth open, the sheet barely covering her breasts, the unconcerned sleep of a child. More waiting, staring out into the eerie darkness of Wittenbergplatz. He made mental lists-food, medicine if he could get it from the dispensary, faking an illness. If not, Gunther, who could get anything. But what medicine? He glanced at his watch. One-thirty. What kind of doctor came at two in the morning?
He came at three, a little tapping up the stairs, then a skeletal frame in the doorway, clearing his throat as if he were ringing a bell. He was almost grotesquely thin, with sunken concentration camp eyes. Where had Danny found him? A rucksack for a medicine bag.
“You’re the doctor?”
“Rosen.” He nodded formally. “Where is she?”
Jake pointed to the bedroom, watching Rosen take in the sleeping Hannelore on the couch.
“First, somewhere to wash my hands.”
Jake assumed it was a euphemism, but in the bathroom Rosen really did wash his hands, then dry them methodically, like a surgeon.
“Should I boil some water?” Jake said, at a loss.
“Why? Is she having a baby?”
In the bedroom, Jake woke her gently, then stepped aside as Rosen felt her throat with his clean hands, presumably testing for swelling. A palm on her forehead instead of a thermometer.
“How long?”
“I don’t know. She said a week or so.”
“Too long. Why didn’t you call before?”
But that was too complicated to explain, so Jake just stood there, hovering. “Can I do something?”
“You can make some coffee. I’m not often up at this hour.”
Jake went to the kitchen, sent off like an expectant father, superfluous. Filling the kettle, a small pop as the gas lit. In the living room, Hannelore moaned and turned over.
He went back to the bedroom and stopped at the door. Rosen had opened her robe so that she lay naked on the bed, his hands spreading her legs to examine her, an unexpected intimacy. The body Jake had seen so many times, stroking it to life, now being prodded like a slab.
She’s not one of Danny’s girls, he wanted to shout, but Rosen had already caught his look of dismay.
“I’ll call you,” he said curtly. “Go make the coffee.”
Jake backed out of the doorway. Why examine her there? The only thing Danny’s doctor would know. But who else could he have called? He saw the hands on her white thigh.
In the kitchen, he stirred the fake coffee in a cup. No sugar, nothing. He heard them talking down the hall, questions, Lena’s faint replies. He picked up the cup to take it in. But Rosen didn’t want him there. Instead he put it on the table and sat watching it grow cold. Hannelore’s hair had come undone, a messy girl even in her sleep.
When Rosen finally came out, he washed his hands again under the kitchen tap. Jake started for the bedroom.
“No. I’ve given her something to sleep.” He poured some of the kettle water into another cup and dropped in a syringe needle. “She should be in a hospital. Why did you wait? ”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“These girls,” Rosen said, shaking his head. “Who did the abortion?”
“What abortion?” Jake said, stunned.
“You didn’t know?” He went over to the table and sipped some coffee. “They shouldn’t wait so long.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes, it’s done. But there was an infection. Lack of hygiene, perhaps.”
Jake sat down, feeling sick. Another bed, hands probing, not washed.
“What kind of infection?”
“Don’t worry. Not venereal. She can work again.”
“You don’t understand. She’s not-”
Rosen held up his hand. “That’s your affair. I don’t ask. But she’ll need more penicillin. I only had the one dose. Can you make an injection? No, I thought not. I’ll come back. Meanwhile, use these.” He put some tablets on the table. “Not as strong, but you need to bring the fever down. Make her take them, never mind the taste.”
“Thank you,” Jake said, taking them.
“They are expensive.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“A valuable girl,” Rosen said wryly.
“She’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Just give her the tablets.” He glanced toward the couch. “You have two here?”
Jake turned away, feeling like Danny stung by Sikorsky’s money. But who cared what Rosen thought?
“Did she tell you she had an abortion?” Jake said.
“She didn’t have to. That’s what I do.”
“Are you a real doctor?”
“You’re a fine one to ask for credentials,” Rosen said, then sighed and took another gulp of coffee. “I was a medical student in Leipzig, but of course I was thrown out. I became a doctor in the camp. No one asked for a degree there. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
“And now you work for Danny.”
“You have to live somehow. You learn that in the camp too.” He put down the coffee cup, ready to go. “So, the tablets, don’t forget,” he said, getting up. “I’ll come tomorrow. You have something on account?”
Jake handed him some money. “Is this enough?”
He nodded. “The penicillin will be more.”
“Anything. Just get it. But she’ll be all right?”
“If you keep her off the streets. At least no Russians. They’re all diseased.”
“She’s not a whore.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor, either. Such niceties.” He turned to go.
“What time tomorrow?”
“After dark. But not so late as this, please. Not even for Danny.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to thank me at all. Just pay me.”
“You’re wrong about her,” Jake said, wondering why it mattered. “She’s a respectable woman. I love her.”
Rosen’s face softened, surprised at the words, something from a forgotten language. “Yes?” he said. He turned away again, his eyes weary. “Then don’t ask about the abortion. Just give her the tablets.”
Jake waited until the steps had died away in the stairwell before he closed the door. Don’t ask. But how could he not? Worth putting your life at risk. A matter of hygiene. He put the cup in the sink, then turned out the light and started down the hall, exhausted.
She was sleeping, her face smooth in the soft glow of the lamp. The way he had imagined it, the two of them in bed, his bed even, holding each other as if the war hadn’t happened. But not yet. He sank onto the chair and took off his shoes. He’d wait here until it was light, then wake Hannelore to keep watch. But the chair was springy, poking at him like thoughts. He went over and lay down on his side of the bed, still in uniform. On top of the sheet, so he wouldn’t disturb her. When he reached over to switch off the light, she stirred with a kind of dreamy restlessness. Then, as he lay staring up at the dark, she took his hand and held it.
“Jacob,” she whispered.
“Ssh. It’s all right, I’m here.”
She tossed a little, her head moving in a slow rhythm, so that he realized she was still asleep, that he’d become part of the dream.
“Don’t tell Emil,” she said, her voice not quite in the room. “About the child. Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said, and then her body relaxed, her hand still locked in his, peacefully, while he lay staring at the ceiling, wide awake.
Lena slept through most of the next day, as if his being there had finally allowed her to be really sick, not to have to make the effort to get up. He took the time out to get things: the jeep, miraculously still there; money from his army account; supplies at the PX, goods bulging on the shelves and piled high on the floor; a change of clothes at Gelferstrasse. Life errands. He threw his battered portable into the bag with his clothes, then told the old couple he’d be away for a day or two and was there any food he could take? More cans. The old man handed him something wrapped in paper, about the size of a bar of soap.
“Nobody in Germany has had butter for a long time,” he said, and Jake nodded, a conspirator.
At the press camp, where he went to collect messages, there were sandwiches and doughnuts. He filled another bag.
‘Well, somebody got lucky, I see,“ Ron said, handing him a press release. ”Today’s schedule, if you care. And details on the U.S. dinner a good time was had by all. It was, too. I hear Churchill got pissed. Take the ham sandwiches, it’s what they like. Can’t get enough ham, the frauleins. Need any rubbers?“
“Somebody ought to spank you.”
Ron grinned. “You’ll thank me later, believe me. You don’t want to go home with pus between your legs. By the way, they loved you in the newsreel. Maybe they’ll use it.”
Jake looked at him, puzzled, then shrugged it off, not wanting to talk.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Ron said as he hurried out.
But he already was. Potsdam, even tiddly Churchill, felt a million miles away. When he passed the flags in front of the headquarters building, he felt he was leaving a foreign country, saluting itself, a provider of tins. He glanced at the full sacks on the seat beside him. They’d eat out of cans, but they’d eat. In the bright sunshine, the villas and trees in Grunewald were as lovely as ever. Why hadn’t he noticed before? He didn’t see the rubble as he sped up the Kurfurstendamm, just the happy morning light. For a moment it seemed still lined with shops. The important thing was to get fluids into her to prevent dehydration. Soup, every mother’s remedy.
As Ron had predicted, Hannelore fell on the sandwiches.
“Ham, my god. And white bread. No wonder you won the war, to eat like this. We were starving.”
“Save one, okay?” he said, watching her gobble it down. “How’s Lena?”
“Sleeping. How she can sleep, that one. What’s that?”
“Soup,” he said, putting the pot on the ring.
“Soup,” she said, a child at Christmas. “Is there another tin, maybe? My friend Annemarie, she would be so grateful.”
The thought of getting her out of the house made him generous. He handed her two cans, then a pack of cigarettes.
“These are for you.”
“Luckies,” she said in English. “You’re not a bad sort.”
When he took the soup in, Lena was awake, looking out the window. Still pale. He felt her forehead. Not as bad as before, but still feverish. He began to spoon soup for her, but she took it from him, sitting up.
“No, I can feed myself.”
“Hike doing it.”
“You’ll make me an invalid. I feel so lazy.”
“Never mind. I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“You should work,” she said, and he laughed-a sign of life, the way she used to scold him back to the typewriter.
“Would you like anything?”
“A bath, but there’s no hot water. It’s terrible, how we all smell.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Let me see what I can do.”
It took forever. The boiling water seemed to turn cold the minute it touched the porcelain, so he had to carry more pots from the gas ring like a slow conveyor belt, until finally he had a shallow bath, not really hot but a little better than tepid. He thought of Gelferstrasse and its steaming tub.
“Soap,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
“U.S. Army. Come on, hop in.”
But she hesitated, the old self-consciousness. “You don’t mind?” she said, indicating the door.
“You didn’t use to be so shy.”
In the same tub, bubbles covering her breasts, laughing at him when he patted her dry, getting himself wet.
“Please. I’m so thin.”
He nodded and closed the door behind him, then went into the bedroom. Musty, despite the open window; rumpled sheets Hannelore probably hadn’t changed in weeks. But how could she have washed them? The smallest household task had become an ordeal. He found another set in the closet and changed the bed while he listened to the splashing next door. Hospital corners, everything stretched tightly.
He was in the kitchen, washing up, when she came out, toweling her hair. She looked brighter, as if the dark circles under her eyes had been merely dirt.
“I’ll do that,” she said.
No, you get into bed. I’m going to spoil you for a few days.“
Your typewriter,“ she said, moving to the table and touching the keys.
“Not the same one, though. That’s still in Africa somewhere. I had a hell of a time getting this one.”
She touched the keys again. He saw that her shoulders were shaking, and he went over to her, turning her around.
“So silly,” she said, crying, “a typewriter.” Then she fell against his shoulder, holding him, so that his face was in her hair, a fresh smell now, and he burrowed into it.
“Lena,” he said, feeling her shudder, still crying, the way it should have been at the train station, some involuntary release.
Her head nodded against him and they stood that way for a minute, just holding each other, until he felt the heat through her hair and pulled away, brushing tears from the corners of her eyes with his fingers.
“Maybe some rest, huh?”
She nodded again. “It’s the fever, this,” she said, wiping her eyes, collecting herself. “So silly.”
“That’s what it is,” he said.
“Just hold me,” she said, “like you used to.”
And for a moment he didn’t want to do anything else, so happy the room around him seemed to melt away. But her hair was damp with sweat again and he could feel her sag against him.
“Come on, we’ll put you to bed,” he said, his arm around her as he walked her down the hall. “Clean sheets,” he said, pleased with himself, but she didn’t seem to notice. She slipped into bed and closed her eyes.
“I’ll let you sleep.”
“No, talk to me. It’s like medicine. Tell me about Africa. Not the war. What it was like.”
“Egypt?”
“Yes, Egypt.”
He sat on the bed, brushing back her hair. “On the river it’s beautiful. You know, sailboats.”
She frowned, as if trying to see it. “Boats? In the desert?”
“And temples. Huge. I’ll take you someday,” he said, and when she didn’t respond, he went on, describing Cairo and the old souk, the pyramids of spices, until he saw that she had finally drifted on, another sailboat.
He finished washing up, then out of habit sat down at the typewriter. Lena was right; he should work, they’d expect something in a day or two, and here was the old table, where he used to type out the broadcasts, looking into the busy square. The street was almost deserted now, just the usual thin stream of army trucks and refugees, but the spell had caught him, all the familiar props. When he started typing the clicking sound filled the room like an old phonograph record, found at the bottom of the pile.
“Potsdam Up Close,” something he could make up from hearsay and pictures, but with a chance to put himself on the spot, face-to-face with the Big Three, almost as if he’d been at the baize table too, talking to them, the only journalist there, something Collier’s would like. Maybe even a cover line. Dressed up with eyewitness details-the red star of geraniums, the chimneys, the patrolling Russians. Then the contrast to central Berlin, his trip that first day, Churchill at the Chancellery, putting himself in Brian Stanley’s place, who wouldn’t mind and who probably wouldn’t see it anyway. Our man in Berlin. Not what had really happened-a squalid murder, getting his life back-but what mattered to Collier’s, enough to keep the contract going. The football game as a finish, building the peace even while the Big Three negotiated. When he finished, it was a thousand words too long, but Collier’s could worry about that. He was back in business. Let them cut Quent Reynolds.
Rosen came before dinner, not furtive this time, even apologetic.
“Mr. Alford explained the situation. Forgive me if I-”
“Never mind. You’re here, that’s what matters. She’s been sleeping.”
“Yes, good. You didn’t say anything-what I told you? Sometimes its a little sensitive, even after everything. Their sweethearts come back, they think everyone waits. It’s difficult.”
“I don’t care.”
“No? It’s not always the case.”
Another Berlin story that didn’t make the piece, arguments and tears. He thought of the soldiers crossing the Landwehrkanal that day, almost home.
This time Rosen had brought a thermometer.
“A little better,” he said at the bed, reading it. “The penicillin must be working. A miracle drug. From mold. Imagine.”
“How much longer?”
“Until she’s better,” he said vaguely. “You can’t kill the infection with one shot. Not even a miracle drug. Now you, gnadige frau, drink sleep, that’s all-no shopping.” A friendly bedside phrase, as if there were shops. “Think good thoughts. Sometimes that’s the best.”
“He’s taking care of me,” Lena said. “He changed the sheets.” Noticing after all.
“So,” Rosen said, amazed, still a German man.
Outside, Jake gave him money. “Do you need any food?” he said pointing to the cans on the counter. “PX.”
“Perhaps some tinned meat, if you can spare.”
Jake handed him a can.
“I remember,” Rosen said, looking down at it. “When we got out, the Americans gave us these. We couldn’t eat-too rich. It wouldn’t stay down. We threw up everything, right in front of them. They were offended, I think. Well, how could they know? Excuse me for last night. Sometimes it’s not only the body that vomits. The spirit goes too.”
“You don’t have to explain. I saw Buchenwald.”
Rosen nodded and turned to the door. “Keep up with the tablets, don’t forget.”
Lena insisted on getting up for dinner, so the three of them sat around the table, Hannelore bubbling over with high spirits, as if the ham sandwich had been another kind of injection.
“Wait till you see what I got at Zoo Station, Lena. For ten cigarettes. She wanted the pack, and I said, who gets a pack for a dress? Even ten was too many, you know, but I couldn’t resist. In good condition, too. I’ll show you.”
She got up and held the dress to her body.
“See how well cut? She must have known somebody, I think. You know. And see how it fits. Not too small here.”
She took off her dress without a hint of embarrassment, and slid the new one over her slip.
“See? Maybe a tuck here, but otherwise perfect, don’t you think?
“Perfect,” Lena said, eating soup. A little more color than before.
“I couldn’t believe the luck. I can wear it tonight.”
“You’re going out?” Jake said. An unexpected bonus to the shopping trip, the flat to themselves.
“Of course I’m going out. Why not? You know, they opened a new cinema in Alexanderplatz.”
“The Russians,” Lena said grimly.
“Well, but some are nice. They have money, too. Who else is there?”
“No one, I guess,” Lena said indifferently.
“That’s right. Of course the Americans are nicer, but none of them speak German, except for the Jews. Are you not going to finish that?”
Jake handed her his piece of bread.
“White bread,” she said, a child with a sweet. “Well, I’d better get ready. You know, they’re on Moscow time, everything so early. Isn’t that crazy, when they have all those watches? Leave the dishes, I’ll do them later.”
“That’s all right,” Jake said, knowing she wouldn’t.
In a minute he heard a trickle of water in the bathroom, then a spray of perfume. Lena sat back, finished, looking out the window.
“I’ll get coffee,” Jake said. “I have a treat for you.”
She smiled at him, then looked again out the window. “There’s no one in Wittenbergplatz. It used to be so busy.”
“Here, try this,” he said, bringing her the coffee and giving her a doughnut. “It’s better if you dunk.”
“It’s not polite,” she said, laughing, but dipped it daintily and took a bite.
“See? You’d never know they were stale.”
“How do I look?” Hannelore said, coming in, hair pinned again like Betty Grable’s. “Doesn’t it fit well? A tuck here.” She pinched the side, then gathered up her purse. “Feel better, Lena,” she said, unconcerned.
“Don’t bring anyone back,” Jake said. “I mean it.”
Hannelore made a face at him, oddly like a rebellious teenager, and said, “Ha!” too full of herself to be annoyed. “Look at you, an old couple. Don’t wait up,” she said, pulling the door behind her.
“An old couple,” Lena said, stirring her coffee. “I’m not yet thirty.”
“There’s nothing to thirty. I’m thirty-three.” I was sixteen when Hitler came. Think of it, my whole life, Nazis, nothing else.“ She looked out again at the ruins. ”They took everything, didn’t they?“ she said moodily. ”All those years.“
“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