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.”
She leaned her face into his chest. “I’m sorry. I still-”
“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.
The woods were dreary and somber, and he cursed himself for taking the shortcut, no drier and filled with shadows, like the rest of the day. What had he expected, sunlit meadows and a picnic rug wet with sex? Too soon. But what if it was always going to be too soon? When she had stood by the tree, shuddering, he’d felt he was back in the collapsing house, its joints creaking, too wounded to be propped up again. A gasp, just at a touch. It won’t be like that. How did he know? Only one of them had gone through it. And he had pushed, maybe ruined things, like some kid eager to get laid. Except he hadn’t planned anything, it had just happened, trying to get it back, one of those afternoons when everything had been good, when they both wanted it. Too soon.
He stopped to take cover at the Avus underpass, army trucks roaring on the concrete trestle over their heads, but she was shivering, no warmer than out in the rain. Walls dripping, clammy. Better to make a run for it, change clothes, not huddle in the wet. But where? Wittenbergplatz was miles. At least get out of the woods. They passed Krumme Lanke, almost through now, and he saw the street leading to the Document Center. Maybe Bernie was there, snug in his cellar of index cards, but what good would he be? Jake looked over at her, alarmed. Still hunched and shivering, all the healing of the past week about to be undone. A hot bath. He remembered carrying pots to the tepid tub. Speeding now, past the press camp. Maybe Liz had something dry to wear. No civilians in the billets. But who would stop him, the old couple?
He was lucky. There was no one at Gelferstrasse, the house so empty you could hear the clock. She hesitated at the door.
“Is this where you live? It’s allowed?”
“Say you’re my niece,” he said, pulling her in.
Their wet shoes squeaked up the stairs, leaving prints.
“In there,” he said, pointing to his door. “I’ll start a bath for you.”
Water so hot it steamed. He opened the tap as far as it would go, then saw a jar of bath salts Liz had left on the shelf and poured some in. A little foam, the smell of lavender-maybe a present from tall Joe.
She was standing inside the door, looking around, her dress dripping.
“Your room, it’s so funny. Pink. Like a girl’s.”
“It was. Here.” He handed her a towel. “Better get those off. The bath’s all yours.”
He went over to his closet, stripping down and throwing the wet clothes in a pile. He pulled out a clean shirt and went over to the drawer for underwear. When he turned, he found her watching him and, suddenly shy, held up the shirt to cover himself.
“You’re still dressed,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave, modest again, afraid to reveal anything.
“Okay, okay,” he said, grabbing his pants. “I’ll be downstairs. Take as long as you want-the heat’ll do you good.”
“I’d forgotten,” she said, “what you looked like.”
He glanced up at her, disconcerted, then picked up dry shoes and headed for the door. “That’ll give you something to think about in the tub. Come on, off,” he said, pointing to her dress. “Don’t worry, I won’t look. There’s a woman lives next door. She won’t mind if you borrow something.”
“No, I have my new dress,” she said, unfolding it. “Only a little damp here.”
“See, a bargain,” he said, closing the door.
Downstairs, he put on his shoes, then sat staring out the window at the rain. A little bit at a time. And yet there they’d been, almost naked in a room, looking at each other. He could hear the water running, but more slowly now, keeping it hot while she soaked. Like strangers, as if they’d never been to bed. Lying there afterward, watching her at the mirror. But that had been before.
He got a drink from one of the labeled bottles in the dining room-Muller, who could certainly spare it-and brought it back to the window. The rain was falling straight, not even hitting the open sill, the kind of steady rain that could go on for hours, good for crops and staying indoors. There was a phonograph near the piano, and he went over and flipped through the stack of records. V Discs, the Nat Cole Trio, clearly somebody’s favorite. He took a record out of its sleeve and put it on. “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Light and silly, American. He sat down with a cigarette and put his feet on the win-dowsill, brooding despite the music. The last thing he’d anticipated. So sure how it would be.
When the song repeated itself, he frowned and got up to take it off. No water now, no sounds upstairs. She’d be drying herself, toweling her hair, pinning it back up. He heard a soft movement, like mice, and knew she must be crossing the hall. In his room. He took a handful of records and put them on in a stack so he wouldn’t hear anything else, no rustling, nothing to make his thoughts dart back and forth. Just a piano, bass, and guitar, and the steady rain. He put his feet back up on the sill. The old afternoons had never been long enough-a rush to get dressed, back into the city. Now the minutes stretched out with nowhere to go, as formless and lazy as the cigarette smoke curling up in the empty house.
He didn’t hear her when she came in, just felt some change in the air behind the music, a smell of lavender. He turned his head and saw that she was standing still, waiting for him to see her. Making an entrance, tentative. He stood up, staring, his mind turning over. The bath had given her color, pink as his room, her old face. But there was more. The dress was a little big and she had belted it tightly, making it blouse over on top, a 1940 dress. She had combed out her hair to go with it, letting it fall down around her face in the old style. All arranged, like an invitation, everything he’d asked for. She smiled shyly, taking his silence for approval, and took a few steps toward him, then turned to the phonograph, a girl on a date looking for something to say.
“What does it mean, ‘you’re the cream in my coffee’?” she said, looking at the record.
“That they go together,” he said absently, still staring at her.
“It’s a joke?” she said, making small talk.
He nodded, hearing the lines now because she seemed to be listening. “Like that. ‘My Worcestershire, dear.’”
“Worcestershire?” Stumbling over it in English.
“A sauce.”
She glanced over at him. “Do I look all right?”
“Yes.”
“I borrowed the shoes.”
And then nothing, just looking at him while the record changed, waiting. A slower song now, “I’ll String Along with You,” the kind they dreamed to at Ronny’s. She came over to him, swaying a little in the unfamiliar shoes, and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Do you still know how? I think I forget.”
He smiled and put his hanc on her waist, beginning to move with her.
They danced in a small circle, not close, letting the song lead. Through the thin material he could feel that she had nothing on underneath and it startled him, as if she were naked, past the fumbling hooks and snaps of getting undressed, all ready. He moved away slightly, still unsure of her, but she held him, her eyes on his, keeping him with her. No sound but the rain.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, touching her hair.
“I wanted to. You like it this way.”
A smile, pleased with herself, still looking up at him, until finally he didn’t know what it meant, what had happened upstairs, except that questions would ruin it and they were moving together. Just dance, a little bit at a time. The record changed. She moved closer, warm against him, so that he could feel the swell of her down below, the faint scratch of her hair through the material, teasing him. He started to move back.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I want to feel you.”
But she had blinked, like the gasp at the tree, and when she put her head on his shoulder it was to close her eyes, willing herself against him.
“Lena, you don’t-”
“Just hold me.”
They danced through the song, not hearing it, their feet moving by themselves, an excuse for being close, and the music worked, he felt her let go, an easy leaning into him. A little bit more. But she surprised him again, pressing tighter to feel him there and putting her arms around his back, her mouth to his ear.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.
“You’re sure?”
She didn’t answer, just led him slowly across the room so that their going seemed another part of the dance, rhythmic and dreamy, one leg after another up the stairs. Now it was he who was tentative, not sure what to do, following her, watching her stop halfway up to take off the shoes, a slow, erotic gesture, undressing for him, bending gracefully to pick them up, then the bare feet, pale white, as if they were the most intimate thing about her. He followed the rest of the way, watching her skirt brush against her legs, and then they were in his room, the music went away, distant, and he could hear himself breathing. He stood waiting, still at a loss, while she let the shoes fall and turned to him and opened the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements as deliberate as steps. She opened the shirt, smoothing her hands across his chest, making his skin tense at the surprise of it, then went back to the buttons, down, almost to the last, when she stopped and leaned her head against his bare skin, resting there.
“Help me,” she said.
He put his hand to her neck, moving the hair aside and stroking it gently until she tipped her head back to look up at him again, nodding for him to go on. He undid her belt, hearing it drop to the floor, then slowly began pulling the dress up, gathering it until she raised her arms, trancelike, and it was over her head and off, then somewhere on the floor, and she was naked. Both hands now along her neck as he kissed the top of her head, rubbing his face in her hair. He moved his hands down her back, resting at the bottom, then walked her to the bed, sitting her down on the pink spread.
He started to undo his belt buckle, but she reached up and did it for him, the shirt falling away, then pulled the zipper and put her hands on his hips, pushing pants and underwear down at the same time until he sprang free and she was looking at him. She touched his penis, moving her hand over it slowly, making it familiar, and he stood rigidly, his eyes closed, trying not to feel her. Finally he took her hand away and dropped to the bed, moving next to her so that they were facing each other, his hand on her hip as they kissed.
Slowly, a little bit at a time. He began stroking her softly, every piece of skin familiar, the curve of her back, the hollow just before her hip, the underside of her breast, brushing it with the back of his hand until it rose with her breathing, trying to imagine her feeling it, to do it for her. Everything familiar. Except the pleasure, the feeling itself, always new, different every time, like the sky, too immediate to hold in memory. You remembered skin, the shape of a curve, but the rest disappeared and you spent your whole life coming back to it, again and again, only to find it was never the same, each time a surprise. So private no one else could ever feel it. He tried to hold himself back, emptying his mind, but she pressed up against him and there it was again, insistent. But not now; a little at a time, the grateful luxury of simply touching her. All this time and he hadn’t remembered anything, just the outline, just enough to want it again.
“Lena,” he said, a whisper, “are you sure?” but she covered his mouth, an open kiss, willing them quiet, and he wondered where she was, not lost in the feeling with him but somewhere inside her head, maybe in the past, where they no longer needed to go.
He moved his hand down to her thigh, trying to reach her. The soft inside, the most vulnerable place in the world, gently, light enough to coax her back. When he ran his finger along her bush, trying to open the lips, he could feel she was still dry, still closed away, for all the kissing and rubbing against him. Not ready. A little more. He put his finger in his mouth, wetting it, then placed it over her clitoris, just resting it, until he heard her intake of breath, a connection, and began moving it lightly in a circle, the merest graze, moistening it, circling wider and moving smoothly now, getting slick with her own wet. Her pelvis moved against him, as if she were trying to close her legs, but instead they went slack, opening to his finger. “Oh,” she said, an involuntary sigh, as he slipped it farther down, still rubbing lightly back and forth until it was wet enough, then farther, parting the lips, slipping finally inside her, feeling the heat as she closed around him. He paused to let her catch her breath, but she put her hand over his, forcing him to keep moving it, and his finger continued in a steady back and forth, lingering near the top to circle the nub, then down, the lips spreading wider until she was open and wet everywhere, riding his finger. She turned to open her mouth to him again, as wet as below, reaching behind his head to lock him to her as her hips kept moving. When she broke away, gasping for air, shaking a little, it was to take hold of his penis. “With you,” she said, drawing it to her, the head jumping when it touched the slick open skin.
Slowly. He covered her, resting above her on his arms, and she guided him in. He could feel the walls give way and forced himself to stop, letting it slide in slowly, a little at a time, so that it felt she were doing it, pulling him in deeper. When their bodies met, all the way in, she put her arms around him, holding his head down next to hers, and they lay still for a moment, listening to each other breathe. Then a slight movement, so small it seemed impossible it could cause the feeling that went through him, and he was determined now to make it last, not give in to it, because he wanted her with him. Slowly, like a dancer practicing steps, not going faster even when he heard her in his ear, her breath almost a pant. A long stroke in and out, as slow as a tease, then the short, steady movements inside again, one after another, so far in they seemed joined and suddenly he felt her rippling around him, not waiting anymore, and there was a gasp in his ear so that he knew she was coming, grabbing his back. He held still for a moment to make sure, her head turned away as her insides clutched him, an unmistakable spasm.
She turned her head back to kiss him, her breathing still ragged, opening her eyes. I see you. And when they kissed he started moving again, still slowly, because now there was no urgency, they were there, and he felt they would never have to stop if he didn’t go faster and they’d never have to let the feeling go. More. His face was in her hands now as she kissed him, his body still suspended over her, and he realized that she was moving faster, hurrying him, even wetter. “It’s all right,” she said, “it’s all right,” almost a sob, but smiling, freeing him to pleasure himself. Except that it was already everything he wanted, the intimacy, both of them there, and he kept moving the same way, not even aware anymore that his prick was filled with blood to bursting. Just keep moving. No end. He felt her hands on his buttocks, clasping him, pushing him in deeper because she was still moving too, something he hadn’t expected, rocking, and now he had to hold out because he heard little cries, could feel her wrapped around him, the feeling no longer individual, spreading over them both, so that when she came again, a series of shudders, it spurted out of him too and he saw that what he thought he wanted before wasn’t everything after all, this was everything, even as it went away.
He wasn’t aware of falling down next to her, his arm still around her, not even of his penis slipping out, only of her shoulders shaking beside him.
“Don’t cry,” he said, touching her.
“I’m not crying. I don’t know what it is. Nerves.”
“Nerves.”
“It’s so long-”
He ran his hand over her shoulder, feeling the shaking begin to subside. “I love you. You know that?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know why. I do such terrible things. How can you love a person who does terrible things?”
Babbling. He continued stroking her shoulder.
“It must be your jokes,” he said softly.
“My jokes. You say I never make jokes.”
“Then I don’t know why.”
She smiled a little, then sniffed. “Is there a handkerchief?”
“In my pants.”
He watched her get up, languid, walk over to the pile of clothes, and take out his handkerchief and gently blow her nose, her body still flushed with patches of red, love marks. She stood for a minute, letting him look at her, then held up the pants.
“Do you want a cigarette? You always used to like a cigarette.”
“I left them downstairs. Never mind. Come here.”
She curled up next to him, her head on his chest.
“You didn’t notice the curtains were open.”
“No, I didn’t notice,” she said and even now made no move to cover up or try to draw the spread around her.
“Why did you-”
“When I saw you before,” she said easily. “So white. Like a boy.”
“A boy.”
“My lover,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. “I thought, I know him. I know him. He’s my lover.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I can feel that again.” She turned her head to look at him. “How I was with you.”
The words went through him, a flush of well-being so complete that all he ever wanted to do was lie there, holding her and listening to the rain.
“It used to frighten me,” she said. “How it made me feel. I thought it was wrong to feel that way. I wanted to have a normal life. Be a good woman. I was raised for that.”
“No,” he said, stroking her, “for this.”
“And now it’s all gone anyway, that life. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She put her head back, lying quietly, looking across his chest at the room. “What’s going to happen?” she said.
“We’ll go to America.”
“Germans are so popular there?” I he war s over.
“I don’t think for us. Even here, thec Americans look at you- What do they think we did?”
“Never mind them. Somewhere else, then, where nobody knows who we are. Africa,” he said, playing.
“Africa. What would you do there?”
“This. All day long. If it’s hot, we’ll close the shutters.”
“We can do this anywhere.”
“That’s the idea,” he said, pulling her up and kissing her.
She hung over him, her hair falling around his face. “Somewhere new,” she said.
“That’s right.” He ran his hand over her buttocks. “No more terrible things.”
Her face clouded and she turned away, facing the wall. “There’s no place like that.”
“Yes, there is.” He kissed her shoulder. “You’ll forget.”
“I can’t,” she said, then turned back to face him. “I killed him. Do you know what that means? I can’t forget the blood. It was everywhere, in my hair-”
“Ssh,” he said, then put his hand up to stroke her head. “It’s not there anymore. It’s gone.”
“But to kill somebody-”
“You had to.”
“No. It was finished. I couldn’t stop him from that. Then I killed him anyway. With his gun, while he was still on me. Killed him. And I didn’t have to. You think I’m the same person.” She lowered her head. “I wanted to be. Pretending to look like before. But it’s not before.”
“No, it’s now. Lena, listen to me. He raped you. He might have killed you. We all had to do terrible things in the war.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“What things?”
He took her face between his hands and looked straight at her. “I forget.”
“How can you forget?”
“Because I found you again. I forget the rest.”
She looked away. “You mean you want me to.”
“You will. We’re going to be happy. Isn’t that what you want?”
She smiled a little.
“We’ll start here.” He turned her face and began kissing it, the cheek, then the lips, drawing a map of their place. “We’ve already started. You forget everything when you make love. That’s why they invented it.”
Finally they drifted off, not quite asleep but hazy, like the vapor that hung outside after the rain. They were still lying there, holding each other, when he heard a door close, footsteps next door, the world coming back.
“We should get dressed,” she said.
“No, wait a little,” he said, his arm around her.
“I have to wash,” she said, but she didn’t move either, content to lie there, still drifting, until they heard the quick knock on the door. “Oh,” she said, flipping the end of the spread up to cover them, only halfway there when Liz opened the door and stopped in surprise, eyes wide with embarrassment.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, a gulp, ducking away and closing the door behind her.
“My god,” Lena said, swinging out of bed, grabbing clothes and holding them up in a bunch. “You don’t lock the door?”
He looked at her from the bed, grinning.
“How can you laugh?”
“Look at you, covering yourself. Come here.”
“Like a farce,” she said, ignoring him. “What will she think?”
“What do you care?”
“It’s not nice,” she said, then, hearing herself, began to smile too. “I’m a respectable woman.” You were.
She put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile, a girlish gesture, then tossed his pants over to the bed and started wriggling into her dress.
“What will you say to her?”
“Tell her to knock longer next time,” he said, up now and putting on his pants.
“It happens so often, is that it?”
“No,” he said, coming over and kissing her. “Just this once.”
“Get dressed,” she said, but smiling. She turned to the mirror. “Oh, look at me. My hair’s a mess. Is there a comb?”
“In the drawer.” He nodded at the frilly vanity. He buttoned his shirt and started tying his shoes, watching her at the mirror, the same absorbed concentration. She opened a drawer, searching. “On the right,” he said.
“You shouldn’t leave your money around,” she said. “It’s not safe.”
“What money?”
She held up Tully’s hundred-mark note. “And no lock either. Anyone could-”
He went over to the dressing table. “Oh, that. It’s not money. It’s evidence,” he said easily, the word as far from his thoughts as Tully or anything else.
“What do you mean, evidence?”
But he wasn’t listening now, looking at the bill. What had Danny said? A dash before the number. He turned the bill over. A dash, Russian money. He stood for a second, trying to think what it could mean, then gave it up, indifferent, his mind still hazy, not wanting anything to interrupt the day. He put the note back in the drawer and leaned down to kiss her head. The lavender was still there, mixed now with the smell of them.
“I’ll be down in two minutes,” she said, eager to leave, as if the billet were a hotel room they’d rented for the afternoon.
“All right. We’ll go home,” he said, pleased at the sound of it. He picked up Liz’s shoes on the way out.
In the hall he waited until she answered his knock.
“Hey, Jackson,” she said, still looking embarrassed. “Sorry about that. Next time put a tie on the door.”
“Your shoes,” he said, handing them to her. “I borrowed them.”
“I’ll bet you looked swell.”
“Hers were wet.”
She looked up at him. “It’s against the house rules, you know.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“No? You could have fooled me.”
“What did you want, anyway?” he said, feeling too good to want to explain.
“Mostly to see if you were alive. You still live here, don’t you?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Uh-huh. And here I was, worried. Men. People have been asking for you, by the way.”
“Later,” he said, unconcerned. “Thanks again for the shoes.”
She tipped one to her head in a salute. “Anytime. Hey, Jackson,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “Don’t let it throw you. It s only-”
“It’s not what you think,” he said again.
She smiled. “Then stop grinning.”
“Ami?”
“Ear to ear.”
Was he? He went down the stairs, wondering if his face were really a flushed sign, giving them away. Slap-happy. All the intimacy reduced to a popular song lyric. But who cared?
He turned off the phonograph and finally had a cigarette, pacing now instead of lying in bed, the usual ritual turned around like everything else. How long since she’d come down the stairs dressed like that, wanting to? Outside, the wet leaves were gleaming in the new light, shiny as coins. Russian money. Tully’d had Russian money. His mind, still vague, was toying with it when he heard stamping at the door. Bernie, wiping his feet on the mat and shaking out an umbrella, a careful boy who practiced piano.
“Where the hell have you been?” he said, hurrying in. “I’ve been looking for you. For days.” A faint accusation.
“Working,” Jake said, the only legitimate excuse. Was he grinning?
“I’ve got other things to do, you know. Playing errand boy. And you take a powder,” Bernie said, his voice as raspy as an alarm clock.
“You heard from Frankfurt?” Jake said, waking to it.
“Plenty. We need to talk. You didn’t tell me there was a connection.” He put the files he’d been carrying on the piano, as if he were about to roll up his sleeves and start to work.
“Can it wait?” Jake said, still elsewhere.
Bernie stared at him, surprised.
“Okay,” Jake said, giving in, “what did they say?”
But Bernie was still staring, this time beyond him, to Lena coming down the stairs, her hair pinned back up, proper again, but the dress swaying with her, another entrance. She stopped at the door.
“Lena,” Jake said. “I want you to meet someone.” He turned to Bernie. “I found her. Bernie, this is Lena Brandt.”
Bernie kept staring, then nodded awkwardly, as embarrassed as Liz.
“We got caught in the rain,” Jake said, smiling.
Lena mumbled a polite hello. “We should go,” she said to Jake.
“In a minute. Bernie’s been helping me with a story.” He turned. “So what did they say?”
“It can wait,” Bernie said, still looking at Lena, flustered, as if he hadn’t seen a woman in weeks.
“No, it’s all right. What connection?” Curious now.
“We’ll talk later,” Bernie said, looking away.
“I won’t be here later.” Then, taking in his embarrassment, “It’s all right. Lena’s-with me. Come on, give. Any luck?”
Bernie nodded reluctantly. “Some,” he said, but he was looking at Lena. “We’ve located your husband.”
For a minute she stood still, then slumped to the piano bench, holding on to the edge.
“He’s not dead?” she said finally.
“No.”
“I thought he was dead.” Her voice a monotone. “Where is he?”
“Kransberg. At least he was.”
“It’s a prison?” she said, her voice still flat.
“A castle. Near Frankfurt. Not a prison, exactly. More like a guesthouse. For people we want to talk to. Dustbin.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, confused.
“That’s what they call it. There’s another near Paris-Ashcan. Dustbin’s where they’ve stashed the scientists. You know he was part of the rocket team?”
She shook her head. “He never talked to me about his work.”
“Really.”
She looked at him. “Never. I don’t know anything.”
“Then you’ll be interested,” Bernie said, his voice hard. “I was. He did the numbers. Trajectories. Fuel capacity. Everything but the casualties in London.”
“You blame him for that? There were casualties in Berlin too.”
Jake had stood following them as if he were at a tennis match and now looked at her, surprised at the strength of her return. A kindergarten covered with concrete slabs.
“Not from flying bombs,” Bernie said. “We didn’t have the benefit of his expertise.”
“And now you will,” she said, unexpectedly bitter. “In prison.” She got up and went over to the window. “Can I see him?”
Bernie nodded. “If we find him.”
The phrase shook Jake awake. “What do you mean?”
Bernie turned to him. “He’s missing. About two weeks now. Just up and left. It’s got them all foaming. Apparently he’s a particular favorite of von Braun’s,” he said, glancing toward Lena. “Can’t do without him. I made a routine query, and half of Frankfurt jumped down my throat. They seem to think he was coming to see you,” he said to Lena. “Von Braun, anyway. Says he tried it before. There they were, safe and sound down in Garmisch, waiting for the end, and he makes a beeline for Berlin to get his wife out before the Russians got here. Is that right?”
“He didn’t get me out,” Lena said quietly.
“But he was here?”
“Yes. He came for me-and his father. But it was too late. The Russians-” She glanced over to Jake. “He didn’t get through. I thought they killed him. Those last days-it was crazy, to take that risk.”
“Maybe it was worth it to him,” Bernie said. “Anyway, that’s what they think now. In fact, they’re looking for you.”
“Forme?”
“In case they’re right. They want him back.”
“Do they want to arrest me too?”
“No, I think the idea is that you’re the bait. He’ll come looking for you. Why else would he want out? Everyone else is trying to get in. Kransberg’s for special guests. We like to keep the big Nazis comfortable.”
“He’s not a Nazi,” Lena said dully.
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Don’t worry, I can’t touch him. The technical boys put Kransberg off-limits. Scientists are too valuable to be Nazis. Whatever they did. He should have stayed where he was, nice and cozy. A little Ping-Pong in the evenings, I hear. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Bernie-” Jake began.
“Yeah, I know, leave it alone. You can’t fight city hall. Every time we start getting somewhere on one of them, the tech units yank the file. Special case. Now I hear they want to take them to the States, the whole fucking team. They’re arguing over salaries. Salaries. No wonder they wanted to surrender to us.” He nodded to Lena. “Let’s hope he finds you soon-you don’t want to miss the boat.” He paused. “Or maybe you do,” he said, glancing at Jake.
“You’re out of line,” Jake said.
“Sorry. Don’t mind me,” Bernie said to Lena. “It comes with the job. We’re a little shorthanded.” He looked at Jake again. “Now the tech units, that’s something else. Nothing but manpower there.” He turned back to Lena. “If he turns up, give one of them a call. They’ll be glad to hear from you.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Jake said. “You said two weeks.”
“Then start looking. I think you’ll want to find him.”
Jake looked at him, puzzled. “What exactly is he accused of?”
“Strictly speaking, nothing. Just leaving Kransberg. A little rude, for an honored guest. But it makes the rest of them jumpy. They like to stick together-improves their bargaining position, I guess. And of course the tech boys have had to beef up security, which takes away from the country club feel of the thing. So they’d like him back.”
“He just walked out?”
“No. That’s the part that will interest you. He had a pass, all official.”
“Why would that interest me?”
Bernie walked over to the piano and flipped open a file folder. “Take a look at the signature,” he said, handing Jake a carbon sheet.
“Lieutenant Patrick Tully,” Jake said, reading aloud, his voice falling. He raised his eyes to find Bernie watching him.
“I was wondering if you knew,” Bernie said. “I guess not. Not with that face. Interested now?”
“What is it?” Lena said.
“A soldier who was killed last week,” Jake said, still looking at the paper.
“And you blame Emil for that?” she said to Bernie, anxious.
He shrugged. “All I know is, two men went missing from Kransberg and one of them’s dead.”
Jake shook his head. “You’re off-base. I know him.”
“That must keep things friendly,” Bernie said.
Jake looked up at him, then passed over it. “Why would Tully sign him out?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? What occurred to me was, it’s a valuable piece of paper. The only problem with that is the guests don’t have any money-at least, they’re not supposed to. Who needs cash when you’ve got room service courtesy of the U.S. government?”
Jake shook his head again. “It wasn’t Emil’s money,” he said, thinking of the dash before the serial number, but Bernie had leaped elsewhere.
“Then somebody else’s. But there must have been some deal. Tully wasn’t the humanitarian type.” He picked up another folder. “Here, bedtime reading. He’s been in one racket or another since he hit the beach. Of course, you wouldn’t know it from this-just a series of transfers. The usual MG solution-make him somebody else’s problem.”
“Then why send him to a place like Kransberg?”
Bernie nodded. “I asked. The idea was to get him away from civilians. He was MG in a town in Hesse, and things got so bad even the Germans complained. Hauptmann Toll, they called him-crazy. He’d prance around in those boots carrying a whip. They thought the SS was back. So MG had to get him out of there. Next, a detention camp in Bensheim. No market there, maybe a few cigarettes, but what the hell? What I hear, though, is that he was selling discharge papers. Don’t bother to look-record just says ‘relieved.’ That was sweet. The way they nailed him is he ran out of customers, so he started having them arrested once they were out-figured they’d pay again. One of them screams bloody murder and the next thing you know he’s off to Kransberg. They probably thought, what harm could he do there? No one wants to check out.”
“Except Emil,” Jake said.
“Evidently.”
“But what did they say? When Emil didn’t come back. People just come and go?”
“The guards figured it must be okay if he had papers. And Tully drove him. See, the idea is, it’s not a prison-once in a while the scientists go into town with an escort. So nobody thought anything of it. Then, when he didn’t come back, Tully says he’s as surprised as anybody.”
“Wasn’t he supposed to stay with him?”
“What can you do? Tully had a weekend pass-he didn’t want to play nursemaid. He says he trusted him. It was personal-a family matter. He didn’t want to be in the way,” Bernie said, glancing again at Lena.
“And nobody says anything?”
“Oh, plenty. But you can’t court-martial a man for being stupid. Not when he thinks he’s doing one of the guests a favor. Best you can do is transfer him out. I’d lay you even money it was just a matter of time before those papers were in the works again. But then he went to Potsdam. Which is where you came in.”
Jake had flipped open the folder and was staring at the photograph stapled to the top sheet. Young, not bloated from a night of drifting in the Jungfernsee. He tried to picture Tully striding through a Hessian village with a riding crop, but the face was bland and open, the kind of kid you found on a soda fountain stool in Natick, Mass. But the war had changed everybody.
“I still don’t get it,” he said finally. “If it was that loose, why pay to get out? From the sound of it, he could have jumped out a window and run. Couldn’t he?”
“Theoretically. Look, nobody’s trying to escape from Kransberg- it doesn’t occur to them. They’re scientists, not POWs. They’re trying to get a ticket to the promised land, not run away. Maybe he wanted the pass-you know what they’re like about documents. So officially he wouldn’t be AWOL.”
“It’s a hell of a lot to pay for a pass. Anyway, where did the money come from?”
“I don’t know. Ask him. Isn’t that what you wanted to know in the first place?”
Jake looked up from the picture. “No, I wanted to know why Tully was killed. From the sound of it, there could have been a hundred reasons.”
“Maybe,” Bernie said slowly. “And maybe just one.”
“Just because a man signed a piece of paper?”
Bernie spread his hands again. “Maybe a coincidence. Maybe a connection. A man gets out of Kransberg and heads for Berlin. A week later the man who gets him out comes to Berlin and ends up killed. I don’t believe in coincidence. It has to connect somewhere. You add two and two-”
“I know this man. He didn’t kill anybody.”
“No? Well, I’d sure like to hear it from him. Ask him about the SS medal while you’re at it, since you know him so well.” He went over to the piano. “Anyway, he’s your lead. You won’t even have to go looking. He’s coming to you.”
“He hasn’t turned up yet.”
“Does he know where you are?” Bernie said to Lena.
She had slumped onto the bench again, staring at the floor. “His father, maybe. His father knows.”
“Then sit tight. He’ll show up. Or maybe you’d rather he didn’t,” he said to Jake. “A little inconvenient, all things considered.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Jake said, surprised at his tone.
“I don’t like putting Nazis in hotels, that’s all.”
“He didn’t do it,” Jake said.
“Maybe. Maybe you don’t want to do the math anymore. Add it up. Two and two.” He gathered the other folders off the piano. “I’m late. Frau Brandt,” he said, a courtesy nod that became a parting shot. He turned to Jake. “It connects.”
He was halfway across the room before Jake stopped him.
“Bernie? Try this one. Two and two. Tully comes to Berlin. But the only one we know he was coming to see was you.”
Bernie stood quietly for a moment. “Meaning?”
“Numbers lie.”
When Bernie left, the room seemed as still and airless as a vacuum tube, the only movement the ticking of the hall clock.
“Don’t mind him,” Jake said finally. “He just talks tough. He likes to be mad.”
Lena said nothing, then got up and went over to the window, folding her arms over her chest and staring out. “So now we’re all Nazis.”
“That’s just Bernie. Everybody’s a Nazi to him.”
“And it’s better in America? Your German girlfriend. Was she a Nazi too? That’s how he looks at me. And he’s your friend. Frau Brandt,” she said, imitating Bernie.
“That’s just him.”
“No, I am Frau Brandt. I forgot, for a little while.” She turned to him. “Now it’s really like before. There are three of us.”
“No. Two.”
She smiled weakly. “Yes, it was nice. We should go now. The rain’s finished.”
“You don’t love him,” he said, a question.
“Love,” she said, dismissing it. She turned to the piano. “I’ve scarcely seen him. He was away. And after Peter, everything changed It was easier not to see each other.” She looked back. “But I won’t send him to prison either. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes. I’m the bait-isn’t that what he said? I saw your face-like a policeman. All those questions.”
“He’s not going to prison. He didn’t kill anybody.”
“How do you know? I did.”
“That was different.”
“Maybe it was different for him too.”
He looked at her. “Lena, what is it? You know he didn’t.”
“And you think that matters to them? A German? They blame us for everything.” She stopped and looked away. “I won’t send him to prison.”
He went over to her, turning her face with his finger. “Do you really think I’d ask you to do that?”
She looked at him, then moved away. “Oh, I don’t know anything anymore. Why can’t we leave things as they are?”
“This is the way they are,” he said quietly. “Now stop worrying. Everything’s going to be all right. But we have to find him. Before the others do. You see that.”
She nodded.
“Would he really go to his father? You said they didn’t speak.”
“But there’s no one else. He came for him, you know, even after everything. So.”
“Where were you? Pariserstrasse?”
She shook her head. “It was bombed already. The hospital. He said to wait for him there, but then he didn’t get through.”
“So he wouldn’t know where else to look. He’d try his father.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Anyone else? Frau Dzuris hadn’t seen him.”
“FrauDzuris?”
“I tried her first, remember? You’re not so easy to find.” He paused. “Wait a minute. She said there’d been a soldier. Maybe that’s why Tully came-to find you.”
“Me?”
“Well, Emil. To get him back. That would explain why he wanted to see Bernie, too-to check the fragebogens. That’s Bernie’s department. Maybe he thought he’d find yours there. Except you didn’t fill one out. Why didn’t you, by the way?”
She shrugged. “A party member’s wife? They would have made me work on the rubble. I couldn’t, I was too weak. And for what, a class V card? I had that much from Hannelore.”
“But Tully wouldn’t have known. I didn’t. So he’d want to check.”
“If he was looking for me.”
“It makes sense. Finding Emil would get him out of a lot of hot water.“
“But if he’d already paid?”
Jake shook his head. “Bernie’s wrong. He didn’t get money from Emil. Russian marks aren’t floating around Frankfurt. He got it in
Berlin.“
“Then why did he let him out?”
“That’s what I want to ask Emil.”
“Now you’re a policeman again.”
“A reporter. Bernie’s right about one thing. Emil’s the only lead I’ve got. There must be a connection-just not the one he thinks.”
“He wants to make trouble for Emil. You can see that. It’s so important, this soldier? Who was he?”
“Nobody. Just a story. At least he was. Now he’s something else. If you really want to keep Emil out of trouble, we’d better find out who did kill him.”
Lena took this in, brooding, then went over to the phonograph and fingered one of the records as if she were waiting for the music to start again.
“A little while ago, we were going to Africa.”
He came up behind her, touching her shoulder. “Nothing’s changed.”
‘No. Except now you’re a policeman. And I’m bait.“ Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter