Tommy Ottinger’s farewell party coincided with the end of the conference and so became, without his intending it, a Goodbye Potsdam bash. At least half the press corps were leaving Berlin too, as much in the dark about the actual negotiations as when they arrived, and after two weeks of bland releases and cramped billets, they were ready to celebrate. By the time Jake got to the press camp, it already had the deafening noise and littered bottles of a blowout. The typing tables had been pushed to one side for a jazz combo, and a sprinkling of WACs and Red Cross nurses took turns like prom queens on the makeshift dance floor. Everyone else just drank, sitting on desks or propped up against the wall, shouting over each other to be heard. In the far corner, the poker game that had begun weeks ago was still going on, oblivious to the rest of the room, cut off by its own curtain of stale smoke. Ron, looking pleased with himself, was circulating with a clipboard, signing up people for tours of the Cecilienhof and the Babelsberg compound, finally open to the press now that everyone was gone.
“See the conference site?” he said to Jake. “Of course, you’ve already been.”
“Not inside. What’s in Babelsberg?”
“See where Truman slept. Very nice.”
“I’ll pass. What are you so happy about?”
“We got through it, didn’t we? Harry’s gone back to Bess. Uncle Joe’s-well, who the fuck knows? And everybody behaved himself. Almost everybody, anyway,” he said, glancing at Jake, then grinning. “Seen the newsreel?”
“Yeah. I want to talk to you about that.”
“Just part of the service. I thought you looked pretty good.”
“Fuck.”
“The thanks you get. Anybody else’d be pleased. By the way, you ought to check your messages. I’ve been carrying this for days.” He pulled out a cable and handed it to Jake.
Jake unfolded it. “Newsreel everywhere. Where are you? Wire firsthand account rescue ASAP. Collier’s exclusive. Congrats. Some stunt.”
“Christ,” Jake said. “I ought to make you answer it.”
“Me? I’m just the errand boy.” He grinned again. “Use your imagination. Something will come to you.”
“I wonder what you’ll do after the war.”
“Hey, the movie star.” Tommy came over, putting his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Where’s your drink?” The top of his bald head was already glistening with sweat.
“Here,” Jake said, taking the glass out of Tommy’s hand. “You look like you’re drinking for two.”
“Why not? Auf wiedersehen to this hellhole. So who gets my room, Ron? Lou Aaronson’s been asking.”
“What am I, the desk clerk? We’ve got a list this long. Of course, some people don’t even use theirs.” Another glance at Jake.
“I hear Breimer’s still around,” Jake said.
“Take an act of Congress to get that asshole out,” Tommy said, slurring his words a little.
“Now, now,” Ron said. “A little respect.”
“What’s he up to?” Jake said.
“Nothing good,” Tommy said. “He hasn’t been up to anything good since fucking Harding was president.”
“Here we go again,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Bad old American Dye. Give it a rest, why don’t you?”
“Go shit in your hat. What do you know about it?”
Ron shrugged pleasantly. “Not much. Except they won the war for us.”
“Yeah? Well, so did I. But I’m not rich and they are. How do you figure that?”
Ron thumped him on the back. “Rich in spirit, Tommy, rich in spirit. Here,” he said, pouring a drink and handing it to him, “on the house. I’ll see you later. There’s a nurse over there wants to see where Truman slept.”
“Don’t forget about the room,” Tommy said to his back as he melted into the crowd. He took a drink. “To think he’s just a kid, with years to go.”
“So what do you know, Tommy? Brian said you might have a story for me.”
“He did, huh? You care?”
“I’m listening. What about Breimer?”
Tommy shook his head. “That’s a Washington story.” He looked up. “Mine, by the way. I’ll crack the sonofabitch if I have to go through every patent myself. It’s a beaut, too. How the rich get richer.”
“How do they?”
“You really want to hear this? Holding companies. Licenses. Fucking paper maze. Half the time their own lawyers can’t trace it. American Dye and Chemical. You know they were like that with Farben,” he said, holding up two fingers folded over each other. “Before the war. During the war. Share the patents and one hand washes the other. Except there’s a war on and you don’t trade with an enemy company. Looks bad. So the money gets paid somewhere else-Switzerland, a new company. Nothing to do with you, except, funny, there are the same guys on the board. You get paid no matter who wins.”
“Not very nice,” Jake said. “Can you prove it?”
“No, but I know it.”
“How?”
“Because I’m a great newspaperman,” Tommy said, touching his nose, then looking down into his drink. “If I can get through the paper. You’d think it would be simple to find out who actually owns something, wouldn’t you? Not this time. It’s all fuzzy, just the way they like it. But I know it. Remember Blaustein, the cartel guy? Farben was his baby. He said he’d give me a hand. It’s all there somewhere in
Washington. You just have to get your hands on the right piece of paper. Of course, you have to want to find it,“ he said, lifting his glass to his colleagues in the noisy room, dancing with WACs.
“So what’s Breimer doing in Berlin, then?”
“Plea bargaining. Help his old friends. Except he’s not getting very far.” He smiled. “You have to hand it to Blaustein. Make enough noise and somebody finally listens. Hell, even we listen once in a while. Result is that nobody wants to go near Farben-the stink’s too strong. MG’s got a special tribunal set up just for them. They’ll nail them, too-war crimes up the kazoo. Not even Breimer’s going to get the biggies off. He’s trying to kick the teeth out of the de-Nazification program with all those speeches he makes, but even that won’t do it this time. Everybody knows Farben. Christ, they built a plant at Auschwitz. Who’s going to stick out his neck for people like that?”
“That’s it? Speeches?” Jake said, beginning to feel that Ron might after all be right, that Tommy was riding a hobbyhorse, barely touching the ground. What else would Breimer be doing?
“Well, he does what he can. The speeches are part of it. Nobody’s really sure what de-Nazification means-where do you draw the line? — so he keeps whittling away at that and pretty soon you’re a lot less sure than you were. People want to go home, not try Nazis. Which of course is what American Dye is hoping, so their friends can go back to work. But not everybody’s in jail. What I get is that he’s offering employment contracts.”
Jake raised his head. “Employment contracts?”
“They already have the patents. The idea is to get the personnel. Nobody wants to stay in Germany. The whole place’ll probably go Commie anyway, and then where are we? Problem now is getting them in. The State Department has this funny idea about not giving visas to Nazis, but since everybody was a Nazi and since the army wants them anyway, the only way in is to find a sponsor. Somebody who can say they’re crucial to their operations.”
“Like American Dye.”
Tommy nodded. “And they’ll have the War Department contracts to prove it. The army gets the eggheads and American Dye gets a nice fat contract to put them to work and everybody’s happy.”
“We’re talking about Farben people? Chemists?”
“Sure. They’d be a natural fit for American Dye. I talked to one. He wanted to know what Utica was like.”
“Anybody else? Not Farben?”
“Could be. Look, put it this way. American Dye will do anything the army wants-their business is the army. Army wants a wind tunnel expert, they’ll find a use for him, especially if the army gives them a wind tunnel contract. You know how it works. It’s the old story.”
“Yeah, with a new wrinkle. Jobs for Nazis.”
“Well, that depends what kind of stink comes off the record. Nobody’s finding work for Goering. But most of them, you know, just kept their heads down. Nominal Nazis. What the hell, it was a Nazi country. And the thing is, they’re good-that’s the kicker. Best in the world. You talk to the tech boys, their eyes get all dreamy just thinking about them. Like they’re talking about pussy. German science.” He shook his head, taking another drink. “It’s a helluva country when you think about it. No resources. They did it all in laboratories. Rubber. Fuel. The only thing they had was coal, and look what they did.”
“Almost,” Jake said. “Look at it now.”
Tommy grinned. “Well, I never said they weren’t crazy. W/hat kind of people would listen to Hitler? ”
“Frau Dzuris,” Jake said to himself.
“Who?”
“Nobody-just thinking. Hey, Tommy,” he said, brooding. “You ever hear of any money actually changing hands?”
“What, to Germans? Are you kidding? You don’t have to bribe them-they want to go. What’s here? Seen any chemical plants with Help Wanted signs out lately? ”
“And meanwhile Breimer’s recruiting.”
“Maybe a little on the side. He’s the type likes to stay busy.” He looked up from his drink. “What’s your interest?”
“He’d have a lot of money to throw around,” Jake said, not answering. “If he wanted something.”
“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, peering at Jake. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. Honestly. Just nosing around.”
“Now why is that? I know you. You don’t give a flying fuck about Farben, do you?”
“No. Don’t worry, the story’s all yours.”
“Then why are you pumping me?”
“I don’t know. Force of habit. My mother always said you learn something every time you listen.”
Tommy laughed. “You didn’t have a mother,” he said. “Not possible.”
“Sure. Even Breimer’s got one,” Jake said lightly. “I’ll bet she’s proud as anything.”
“Yeah, and he’d sell her too if you put the money in escrow.” He put the glass down on the table. “Probably runs the goddamn garden club while her boy’s collecting envelopes from American Dye. It’s a great country.”
“None better,” Jake said easily.
“And I can’t wait to get back to it. Figure that one out. Listen, do me a favor. If you come up with anything on Breimer, let me know, will you? Since you’re just nosing around.”
“You get the first call.”
“And don’t reverse the fucking charges. You owe me.”
Jake smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Tommy.”
“Me and your bad tooth. Now what the hell is he up to?” he said, cocking his head toward a drum roll coming from the band.
Ron was standing in front of the combo, holding a glass.
“Listen up. Can’t have a party without a toast.”
“Toast! Toast!” Shouts from around the room, followed by a chorus of keys tinkling against glasses.
“Come on up here, Tommy.”
Groans and whistles, the good-natured rumble of a frat party. Soon people would be balancing bottles on their heads. Ron started in on something about the finest group of reporters he’d ever worked with, then grinned as the crowd shouted him down, held up his hand, and finally gave in just by raising his glass with a “Good luck.” Some airplanes made of folded yellow typing paper floated in from the crowd, hitting Ron’s head, so that he had to duck, laughing.
“Speech! Speech!”
“Go fuck yourselves,” Tommy said, which hit the right note, making the crowd whistle again.
“Come on, Tommy, what do you say?” A voice next to Jake- Benson, from Stars and Stripes, slightly hoarse from shouting.
Tommy smiled and lifted his glass. “On this historic occasion-”
“Aw!” More hoots and another paper plane gliding by.
“Let’s drink to free and unrestricted navigation on all international inland waterways.”
To Jake’s surprise, this brought down the house, prompting a whoop of laughter followed by chants of “Inland waterways! Inland waterways!” Tommy drained his glass as the band started playing again.
“What’s the joke?” Jake said to Benson.
“Truman’s big idea at the conference. They say the look on Uncle Joe’s face was worth a million bucks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Who could? He actually insisted they put it on the agenda.”
“I thought the sessions were secret.”
“That one was too good to keep quiet. They had five leaks in about five minutes. Where’ve you been?”
“Busy.”
“Couldn’t get him off it. The way to lasting peace.” He laughed. “Open up the Danube.”
“I take it this didn’t make the final agreement?”
“You nuts? They just pretended it wasn’t there. Like a fart in church.” He looked over at Jake. “Busy with what?”
After that, the party grew louder, a steady din of music and voices that kept rising until it finally became one piercing sound, like steam whistling out of a valve. Nobody seemed to mind. The nurses were getting the rush on the dance floor, but the noise had the male boom of all the occupation parties, nearly stag, civilian girls confined by the nonfraternization rules to the shadow world of Ku’damm clubs and groping in the ruins. Liz waved from the dance floor, signaling for Jake to cut in, but he gave a mock salute and went to the bar instead. Fifteen more minutes, to be polite, and he’d go home to Lena.
The whole room was jumping now, as if everyone were dancing in place, except for the poker game in the corner, whose only movement was the methodical slapping of cards on the table. Jake looked down at the end of the bar and smiled. Another pocket of quiet. Muller was putting in a reluctant appearance, more than ever Judge Hardy, silver-haired and sober, like a chaperone at a high school dance.
Jake felt an elbow, then a slosh of beer on his sleeve, and moved away from the bar to make a last circuit around the room. A burst of laughter from a huddle nearby-Tommy at it again. Near the door, a corkboard hung on the wall, cluttered with pinned-up sheets of copy and headlines clipped out of context. His Potsdam piece was there, the margins, like all the others, filled with scribbled comments in code. NOOYB, not one of your best. A story on Churchill leaving the conference. WGWTE, when giants walked the earth. The back-slapping acronyms of the press camp, as secret and joky as the passwords in a schoolboys’ club. How he’d spent the war.
“Admiring your handiwork?”
He turned to find Muller standing behind him, his uniform army crisp in the sweaty room.
“What’s it mean, anyway?” Muller said, pointing to the scribbles.
“Reviews. In shorthand. OOTAG,” Jake said, pronouncing it as a word. “One of the all-time greats. NOOYB-not one of your best. Like that.”
“You men have more initials than the army.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“The only one I hear these days is FYIGMO-fuck you, I got my orders. Home, that is,” he said, as if Jake had missed it. “I suppose you’ll be heading home too, now that Potsdam’s over.”
“No, not yet. I’m still working on something.”
Muller looked at him. “That’s right. The black market. I saw Collier’s. There’s more?”
Jake shrugged.
“You know, every time there’s a story like that, it’s an extra day’s work for somebody, explaining it.”
“Maybe somebody should clean it up instead.”
“We’re trying, believe it or not.”
“How?”
Muller smiled. “How do we do anything? New regulations. But even regulations take time.”
“Especially if some of the people making them are sending money home too.”
Muller threw him a sharp look, then backed off. “Come for a smoke,” he said, a gentle order.
Jake followed him out. A line of jeeps stretched along the dusty broad sweep of Argentinischeallee, but otherwise the street was deserted.
“You’ve been busy,” Muller said, handing him a cigarette. “I saw you in the movies.”
“Yeah, how about that?”
“I also hear somebody’s been making inquiries in Frankfurt about our friend Tully. I assume that’s you?”
“You forgot to mention what a colorful character he was. Hauptmann Toll.”
“Meister Toll, since you like to be accurate. Not that it matters. Comes to the same thing.” Another weak smile. “Not one of our best.”
“The whip’s a nice touch. He ever use it?”
“Let’s hope not.” He drew on his cigarette. “Find what you were looking for?”
“I’m getting there. No thanks to MG. Want to tell me why you’re holding out on me? For the sake of accuracy.”
“Nobody’s holding out on you.”
“How about a ballistics report? On a second sheet that wasn’t there. I suppose that got mislaid.”
Muller said nothing.
“So let me ask you again. Why were you holding out?”
Muller sighed and flicked his cigarette toward the street. “That’s easy. I don’t want you to do this story. Clear enough? Some low-life gets in trouble in the black market and the papers start yelling corruption in the MG. We don’t need that.” He glanced at Jake. “We like to clean up our own mess.”
“Including murder? With an American bullet.”
“Including that,” Muller said evenly. “We’ve got a criminal investigation department, you know. They know what they’re doing.”
“Keeping it quiet, you mean.”
“No. Getting to the bottom of it-without a scandal. Go home, Geismar,” he said wearily.
“No.”
Muller looked up, surprised at the abrupt answer.
“I could make you go home. You’re on a pass here, just like everyone else.”
“You don’t want to do that. I’m a hero-it’s in the movies. You don’t want to run me out of town now. How would that look?”
Muller stared for a minute, then smiled reluctantly. “I admit there are better options. At the moment.”
“Then why not stop being army brass for five seconds and give me a little cooperation? You’ve got an American dead. The CID isn’t going to do a damn thing and you know it. You could use the help.”
“From you? You’re not a policeman. You’re just a pain in the ass.” He grimaced. “Now, how about letting me serve out my time in peace? Go make trouble somewhere else.”
“While you’re waiting, would it interest you to know the money on him was Russian?”
Muller’s head snapped up, then held still. The one thing that always got the MG’s attention. “Yes, it would,” he said finally, looking steadily at Jake. “How do you know?”
“The serial numbers. Ask the boys in the CID, since they’re so professional. Still want me off the case?”
Muller looked down at the ground, moving his foot in a small circle, as if he were making a decision.
“Look, nobody’s trying to hold out on you. I’ll get you the ballistics report.”
“That’s all right. I’ve seen it.”
Muller raised his head. “I won’t ask how.”
“But while you’re being so friendly, you could do me another favor. Kind of make it up to me. You didn’t find any travel orders on him.”
“That’s right.”
“What about an airport okay? Who got him on the plane? I need somebody to check the dispatchers. July sixteenth.”
“But that could take-”
“I figure your secretary might have some time on her hands. If she could call around for me, I’d appreciate it. They’d listen to you. Me, it might take weeks.”
“You haven’t had any problem so far,” Muller said, looking at him carefully.
“But this time I’d have some help from the top. For a change. You know how it is. And while she’s at it, one more thing? Check a flight listing for an Emil Brandt. Previous week and since.” He took in
Muller’s blank expression. “He’s a scientist Tully sprang from Kransberg. Dustbin. Heard of it?”
“Where are you going with this?” Muller said quietly.
“Just have her do it.”
“Dustbin’s a secret facility.”
Jake shrugged. “People talk. Hang around the press camp more. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”
“You can’t write about it. It’s classified.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in Dustbin. Just Meister Toll.”
“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”
“If I’m right, just wait a little and you can read all about it in the papers.”
“That’s one thing I have no intention of doing.”
Jake smiled. “Why don’t you wait and see how it comes out? You might change your mind.” He glanced up at him, serious now. “No black eyes.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“Would you take it? Why not just say you have my best intentions and leave it at that? But I’d appreciate the calls.”
Muller nodded slowly. “All right. But I want you to do something for me-work with the CID on this.”
“Carbons in triplicate? No thanks.”
“I won’t have you running around like a loose cannon. You work with them, understand?”
“Now I’m on the team? A minute ago you were sending me home.”
Muller’s shoulders sagged. “That’s before the Russians were involved,” he said glumly. “Now we need to know. Even if that means using you.” He paused, thinking. “You’re sure about the money? The serial numbers? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was all the same.”
“There’s a little dash. A friend in the black market tipped me off. It’s the sort of thing they notice. Turns out the Treasury Department isn’t as dumb as you thought.”
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.” Muller straightened up. “I wish you did. All right, let’s go back in before I change my mind,” he said, leading Jake to the door. They stopped on the threshold, hit by the blast of noise. A conga line was snaking through the room, legs flying out on the one-two-three-kick, nobody quite on the same beat. “The ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Muller said, shaking his head. “My god, I wish I was back in the army. Drink?”
“You have mine. I’m on my way home.”
“Where is that these days? I haven’t seen you at dinner lately. Keeping company somewhere?”
“Colonel. There are rules about that.”
“Mm. Strictly enforced,” he said wryly. “Like everything else.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Geismar? Don’t make me regret this. I can still kick your ass home.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jake said. “Just make the calls, please.”
He said goodbye to Tommy, now in a sloppy, bear-hugging mood. The conga line had broken up and with it the rest of the dancing, but the party showed no signs of slowing down. The drinking had reached the stage when jokes could turn into arguments without anyone noticing. Liz was taking some group shots, a line of reporters with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and their faces fixed in bleary grins. A cheer went up when someone arrived with more ice. It was time to go. He was almost at the door when Liz caught up with him.
“Hey, Jackson. How’s your love life?” She was carrying her shoes in one hand and a camera case in the other, her eyes shiny with drink.
“Okay. How’s yours?”
“Away, since you ask.”
“No more tall Joe?”
“Keep your shirt on. He’s back tomorrow.” She made a face. “They always come back. How about a lift? I don’t think I can make it in these,” she said, holding up the shoes.
“Little unsteady on your feet?” Jake said, smiling.
“These? They gave out about an hour ago.”
“Come on.”
“Here,” she said, handing him the shoes. “Let me get my bag.”
He stood there, shoes dangling from his fingers, and watched her weave over to the table and struggle with a strap that kept missing her shoulder as she tried to fling it in place. Finally he went over and took the bag from her, sliding it onto his own shoulder.
“Well, aren’t vou nice? Stupid thing.”
“Come on, you could use some air. What have you got in here?”
She giggled. “Oh, I forgot. You. I’ve got you in there. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping him and fumbling with the zipper. “Fresh out of the darkroom. Well, fresh. I’ve been carrying these around for days.” She pulled out some glossies and shuffled to find the right one. “Here we are. Our man in Berlin. Not bad, considering.”
He looked at himself stepping into the right half of the picture, leaving the Document Center behind. Thinning over the temples, a surprised expression. “I’ve looked better,” he said. The same feeling he’d had seeing his reflection in KaDeWe’s window-someone else, no longer the young man in his passport photo.
“That’s what you think.”
Off to the left Joe stood posing, as tall and blond as a poster Aryan. One of the tech boys, according to Brian. Breimer’s friend. Jake dropped the picture on the pile, then stopped and pulled it back, looking again.
“Hey, Liz,” he said, staring at it, “what’s Joe’s last name again?”
“Shaeffer. Why?”
A German name.
He shook his head. “Nothing, maybe. Can I keep this?”
“Sure,” she said, pleased. “I’ve got a million more where that came from.”
Blond, like a German, Frau Dzuris had said. The right fit. But was it? In the picture, another camera trick, he and Jake were standing on the steps as if they’d been together all along. Nothing was what it seemed.
He glanced at his watch. Frau Dzuris would be getting ready for bed, disturbed by a knock on the door. But not asleep yet. He grabbed Liz’s arm and began tugging her across the floor.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Let’s go. I have to see somebody.”
“Oh,” she said, an exaggerated drawl. She reached over and took her shoes. “Not this time. Let her wear her own.”
Jake ignored her, hurrying them to the jeep.
“You know, it’s none of my business-” she began as she got in.
“Then don’t say it.”
“Touchy,” she said, but let it go, leaning back in her seat as they started down the road. “You know what you are? You’re a romantic.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“You are, though,” she said, nodding her head, having a conversation with herself.
“What’s Joe doing in Berlin?” Jake said.
But the drink had taken her elsewhere. She laughed. “You’re right. He’s not. Anyway, what do you care?” She turned to him. “It’s not serious, you know. With him. He’s just-around.”
“Doing what?”
She waved her hand. “He’s just around.”
She put her head back against the seat, cushioning it, as if it were too much trouble to hold it upright on the bumpy road. For a second Jake wondered if she was going to pass out, but she said idly, “I’m glad you like the picture. It’s a fast shutter. Zeiss. No blurs.”
The blur instead seemed to be in her speech. They had circled the old Luftwaffe building and were heading into Gelferstrasse, almost there. In front of the billet, he idled the motor and reached for the shoulder bag.
“Can you manage?” he said, fitting the strap in place.
“Still in a hurry, huh? I thought you lived here.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay, Jackson,” she said softly. “I’ll take a hike.” And then, surprising him, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, a full kiss.
“What was that for?” Jake said when she broke away.
“I wanted to see what it was like.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, embarrassed, gathering her bag and getting out. “My timing isn’t the best, either.” She turned to the jeep. “Funny how that works. It might have been nice, though, don’t you think?”
“It might have been.”
“A gentleman,” she said, hitching up the bag. “I’ll bet you’re the type who’ll pretend to forget about it in the morning, too.”
But in fact it stayed with him all the way to Wilmersdorf, the unexpected mystery of people, who they really were. He’d been right about Frau Dzuris, ready for bed and clutching her wrapper, frightened by the knock. And he’d been right about the picture. “Yes, you see, like a German,” Frau Dzuris said. “That’s the one. You know him? He’s a friend?” But in the dim light of the doorway, his eyes never went to the photo, caught instead by the empty space on the cloth over her left breast, where a pin once would have been.
The next day it was Liz who didn’t remember. She was on her way to Potsdam with one of Ron’s tour groups, thinned out by hangovers, and seemed surprised that he mentioned Joe at all.
“What do you want to see him for?”
“He has some information for me.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of information?”
“Missing persons.”
“You going to tell me what you’re talking about?”
“You going to tell me where he is?”
She shrugged, giving up. “He’s meeting me, as a matter of fact. In Potsdam.”
“Why Potsdam?”
“He’s getting me a camera.”
Jake pointed to the one she was carrying, with the prized fast shutter. “He get you that too?”
“What’s it to you?” She smiled, palms up. “He’s a generous guy.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah, with requisitioned cameras. He say where he got it?”
“Ask him yourself. You coming or not?” She pointed to Ron’s car, an old Mercedes. Two reporters were dozing in the back, legs spread out, waiting for the trip to start.
“Too crowded. I’ll follow.”
“Better stick with me. Look what happened the last time we went.”
So in the end she rode with him. They followed Ron’s car until they reached the Avus, then lost it when it jerked into autobahn speed, weaving in and out of the stream of cars heading out of Berlin. The traffic surprised him. In the bright sunshine it seemed everyone was going to Potsdam-trucks and jeeps and cars like Ron’s, snatched from garages for new owners. Behind them an old black Horch filled with Russians barely kept up, but the others were racing on the open highway, prewar driving, with the trees of the Grunewald rushing past.
When they got into town, the bomb damage he’d missed before leaped to the eye. The Stadtschloss, a roofless ruin, had taken the worst of it, and only sections of the long colonnade were left facing the market square. The Nikolaikirche opposite had lost its dome, the four corner towers looking more than ever like odd minarets. Only the
Palladian Rathaus seemed likely to survive, with Atlas still perched on top of its round tower, holding up a gilded ball of the world, a kind of bad joke-the British bombers had spared the kitsch.
The Alten Markt, however, was lively. A rickety tram was running in front of the obelisk, and the huge open square was crammedhundreds, perhaps a thousand people milling between stacks of goods, bargaining openly, as noisy as the medieval market that had given the space its name. It reminded him, improbably, of the souk in Cairo, a dense theater of exchange, hawkers grabbing buyers by the sleeve, the air full of languages, but drained of color, no open melons and pyramids of spices, just scuffed pairs of shoes and chipped Hummel knickknacks and secondhand clothes, closets stripped for sale. But at least there was none of the furtiveness of the Tiergarten market, one eye keeping watch for raiding MPs. The Russians were buying, not guarding, eager to be back in business after the hiatus of the conference. No one whispered. Two soldiers walked by with wall clocks balanced on their heads. None of this would have been here when Tully came. Jake imagined instead a meeting in some quiet corner. Maybe even in the Neuer Garten, just steps from the water. Selling what?
They left the jeep near the empty space in the colonnade where the Fortuna Portal had been and wandered into the crowd, Liz snapping pictures. Ron’s car was nowhere in sight, probably still headed for Truman’s villa, but Jake noticed, amused, that the Horch had had to squeeze in behind the jeep, the only place in Berlin with a parking problem.
“Where are you meeting him?” Jake said.
“He said by the colonnade. We’re early. Look at this-do you think it’s real Meissen?”
She picked up the soup tureen, gilt-edged handles and pink apple blossoms, the kind of thing you could have found by the dozen in Karstadt’s before the war. But the German woman selling it, gaunt and sagging, had come to life.
“Meissen, ja. Naturlich.”
“What are you going to do with that?” Jake said. “Make soup?”
“It’s pretty.”
“Lucky Strike,” the woman said in accented English. “Camel.”
Liz handed it back and motioned to the woman to pose. As the camera clicked, the woman smiled nervously, holding out her dish, still hoping for a sale, and Jake turned uneasily, feeling ashamed, as if they were stealing something, the way primitive people feared a camera took souls.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said as they moved off, the woman shouting after them in disappointment.
“Local color,” Liz said, unconcerned. “Why do they all wear pants?”
“They’re old uniforms. The men aren’t allowed, so the women wear them.”
“They aren’t,” she said, pointing to two girls in summer dresses talking to French soldiers, whose red berets flashed like bird feathers in all the khaki and gray.
“They’re selling something else.”
“Really?” Liz said, curious. “Right out in the open?”
But they posed too, arms around the soldiers’ waists, less self-conscious than the woman with porcelain.
They had made a half-circle to the obelisk, past the cigarette dealers and watch salesmen and piles of PX cans. On the steps of the Nikolai a man had spread out carpets, a surreal touch of Samarkand. Nearby a one-armed veteran was offering a box of now useless hand tools. A woman with two children at her side held out a pair of baby shoes.
They found Shaeffer near the north end of the colonnade, looking at cameras.
“You remember Jake,” Liz said breezily. “He’s been looking for you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Find anything?” she said, taking the camera from him and putting it to her eye.
“Just an old Leica. Not worth it.” He turned to Jake. “You looking for a camera?”
“Not unless it’s got a Zeiss lens,” Jake said, nodding at Liz’s case. “You pick that one up at the plant?”
“The plant’s in the Soviet zone, last I heard,” Shaeffer said, looking at him carefully.
“I heard one of our tech units paid it a visit.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I thought they might have picked up some souvenirs.”
“Now why would they do that? You can get anything you want right here.” Shaeffer spread his hand toward the square.
“So you haven’t been there?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“Don’t race your motor,” Liz said to him, handing back the Leica. “Jake’s always asking questions. It’s what he does.”
“Yeah? Well, go ask them somewhere else. You ready?” he said to Liz.
“Hey, the babe with the camera.” Two American soldiers, running over to them. “Remember us? Hitler’s office?”
“Like it was yesterday,” Liz said. “How you boys doing?”
“We got our orders,” one of the soldiers said. “End of the week.”
“Just my luck,” Liz said, grinning. “Want a shot for the road?” She held up the camera.
“Hey, great. Get the obelisk in, can you?”
Jake followed the camera’s eye to the GIs, the market swirling behind them. He wondered for a second how they’d explain it at home, Russians holding wristwatches to their ears to check the ticking, tired German ladies with tureens. At the church, two Russians were holding up a carpet, a general with medals hovering off to one side. As a tram pulled in, dividing the crowd, the Russian turned his face toward the colonnade. Sikorsky, holding a carton of cigarettes. Jake smiled to himself. Even the brass came to market day for a little something on the side. Or was it payday for informants?
The GI was scribbling on a piece of paper. “You can send it there.”
“Hey, St. Louis,” Liz said.
“You too?”
“Webster Groves.”
“No shit. Long way from home, huh?” he said, looking toward the bombed-out schloss.
“Say hi to the folks,” Liz said as they moved off, then turned to Shaeffer. “How do you like that?”
“Let’s go,” he said, bored.
“One more question?” Jake said.
But Shaeffer had begun to walk away.
“Why are you looking for Emil Brandt?”
Shaeffer stopped and turned. For a second he stood still, staring, his face a question.
“What makes you think I’m looking for anybody?”
“Because I saw Frau Dzuris too.”
“Who?”
“The neighbor. From Pariserstrasse.”
Another hard stare. “What do you want?”
“I’m an old friend of the family. When I tried to look him up, I found your foot sticking in the door. Now why is that?”
“An old friend of the family,” Shaeffer said.
“Before the war. I worked with his wife. So let me ask you againwhy are you looking for him? ”
Shaeffer kept his eyes on Jake, trying to read his face. “Because he’s missing,” he said finally.
“From Kransberg, I know.”
Shaeffer blinked, surprised. “Then what’s your question?”
“My question is, so what? Who is he to you?”
“If you know Kransberg, you know that too. He’s a guest of the U.S. government.”
“On an extended stay.”
“That’s right. We’re not finished talking to him.”
“And when you do, he’s free to go?”
“I don’t know about that. That’s not my department.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“None of your fucking business. What do you want, anyway?”
“I want to find him, too. Just like you.” He glanced up. “Any luck? ”
Shaeffer looked sharply at him again, then eased off, taking a breath. “No. And it’s been a while. We could use a break. Maybe you’re the break. A friend of the family. We don’t know anything personal about him, just what’s in his head.”
“What is?”
Shaeffer looked down. “A lot. He’s a fucking walking bomb, if he talks to the wrong people.”
“Meaning Russians.”
Shaeffer nodded. “You say you knew his wife? Know where she is now? ”
“No,” Jake said, avoiding Liz’s eye. “Why?”
“We figure he’s with her. He kept talking about her. Lena.”
“Lena?” Liz said.
“It’s a common name,” Jake said to her, a signal that worked, because she looked away, quiet. He turned again to Shaeffer. “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”
“That’s not an option,” Shaeffer said stiffly. He looked down at his watch. “We can’t talk here. Come to headquarters at two.”
“Is that an order?”
“It will be if you don’t show up. You going to help or not?”
“If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t have asked you.”
“His background-you can brief us on that. There must be someone he’d see. Maybe you’re the break,” he repeated, then shook his head. “Christ, you never know, do you?”
“It’s been a long time. I don’t know who his friends are-I can tell you that now. I didn’t even know he’d been a Nazi.”
“So? Everyone was a Nazi.” Shaeffer looked over at Jake, suspicious again. “You one of those?”
“Those what?”
“Guys still fighting the war, looking for Nazis. Don’t waste my time with that. I don’t care if he was Hitler’s best friend. We just want to know what’s up here,” he said, putting a finger to his temple.
An echo from another conversation, at a dinner table.
“One more question,” Jake said. “First time I saw you, you were picking Breimer up. Gelferstrasse, July sixteenth. Ring a bell? Where’d you go?”
Shaeffer stared again, his mouth drawn thin. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s the night Tully was killed. I see you know the name.”
“I know the name,” Shaeffer said slowly. “PSD at Kransberg. So what?”
“So he’s dead.”
“I heard. Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“And you don’t want to know who did it?”
“Why? To give him a medal? He just saved somebody else from having to do it. The guy was no good.”
“And he drove Emil Brandt out of Kransberg. And that doesn’t interest you.”
“Tully?” Liz said. “The man we found?”
Jake glanced at her, surprised at the interruption, then at Shaeffer, a jarring moment, because it occurred to him for the first time that it might have been Shaeffer’s interest all along, a flirtation to see what she knew. Who was anybody?
“That’s right,” he said, then turned to Shaeffer. “But that doesn’t interest you. And you don’t remember where you took Breimer.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re getting at, but go get it somewhere else. Before I paste you one.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Liz said. “Save it for the ring. I came here to get a camera, not to watch you two square off. Kids.” She glared at Jake. “You take some chances. Now how about giving me a nice smile-I want to finish off this roll-and then you run along like a good boy. That means you too,” she said to Shaeffer.
Surprisingly, he obeyed, turning to face the camera with Jake. “Two o’clock. Don’t forget,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“Quiet,” Liz said, crouching a little to frame the picture. “Come on, smile.”
As she bent, the sound of a shot cracked through the square, followed by a scream. Jake looked over her shoulder. A Russian soldier was running past the obelisk, dodging people who flew out of his way like startled geese. Another shot, off to the right, from a handful of Russians near the parked Horch, guns out. But in the split second of his glance, Jake saw that the guns weren’t pointing at the obelisk but had tracked farther along, aiming now at Liz’s back.
“Down!” he yelled, but instead she jerked up, surprised, so that when the bullet came it thudded into her neck. A frozen second, then another crack, a sharp whistle. Shaeffer staggered backward, hit, and crumpled to the ground. Before Jake could move, he felt Liz’s body falling forward, toppling him against the colonnade, its weight forcing him back until he was falling too, his head hitting the column as he went down. Screams everywhere now in the square, the sound of feet running on stone, another shot glancing off the colonnade. He tried to breathe under the weight, then realized that what stopped his mouth was blood pumping out of her throat, coating him. More shots, the market erupting with guns, so many guns that they seemed fired at random, not aimed, people hugging the paving stones to get out of the crossfire.
In a panic Jake tried to roll Liz away, pushing her hips as another rush of blood spurted into his face. He wriggled out from under and reached over to grab Shaeffer’s pistol from its holster, then snaked behind the column, breathing in gulps. The Russians by the Horch were still firing, shooting in all directions now as soldiers around the square crouched and fired back. Jake aimed the gun, trying to steady his weaving hand, but when he fired the shot missed, smashing the headlight of the car. A bullet from somewhere else caught one of the Russians instead, flinging his body back against the car.
And then, before Jake could fire again, it was suddenly over, the other Russians scurrying away behind the Horch, quick as rats, and gone, the square empty except for a body lying near the obelisk, everything still. He heard a gurgle next to him, then a shout in German near the Nikolai. He crawled over to Liz, feeling his shirt sticky with blood. Her eyes were open, still wide with terror but moving, and the blood had stopped gushing, just a steady flow into the pool next to her head. He pressed his hand on her neck to stop it, but a trickle oozed through his fingers, wetting them.
“Don’t die,” he said. “We’ll get help.”
But who? Shaeffer rolled slightly and groaned. No one moved in the square.
“Don’t die,” he said again, his voice catching. Her eyes were looking straight at him, and he wondered for a second if she could see, if he could will her to hold on simply by looking back at her. A girl from Webster Groves.
He turned his head to the square. “Somebody help!” he shouted, but who knew English? “ Hilfe!” As if an ambulance might come screeching down the street, where there were no ambulances.
He looked at her eyes again. “It’s going to be all right. Just hold on.” He pressed harder on her neck, his hand now completely red. How much blood had she lost? Footsteps behind him. He looked up. One of the tourist GIs, stunned by the blood.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“Help me,” Jake said.
“They got Fred,” he said, groggy, as if it were an answer.
“Ask one of the Germans. We have to get her to a hospital. Krankenhaus.”
The GI looked at him, bewildered.
“Krankenhaus,” Jake said again. “Just ask.”
The boy moved away unsteadily, a sleepwalker, and sank to his knees by the obelisk where the other GI lay. A few people had crept back into the square, looking left and right, wary of more fire.
“Don’t worry,” he said to Liz. “Just hold on. We’ll make it.”
But at that moment he knew, a shudder through his body, that they wouldn’t, that she was going to die. No ambulance was going to come, no doctor in a white coat to make everything better. There was only this. And he saw that she knew, wondered how you filled those last minutes-a roar in the head or was it utterly still, taking in the sky? In the time it took to snap a picture. Her eyes moved, frightened, and his moved with them, keeping her here, and then she opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, and he heard the gasp, not dramatic, quiet, a little intake of ragged air that stopped and didn’t come back, trapped somewhere. None of the noisy theater of birth, just an interrupted breath of air and you left your life.
Her eyes had stopped moving, the pupils fixed. He took his hand away from her neck and wiped it on his pants, smearing blood. The thick smell of it. He picked up the camera lying next to her, still dazed, every movement an effort. Everything gone in a second, one flash at a time, too fast even for a Zeiss lens.
Shaeffer groaned again and Jake wobbled over, still on his knees. More blood, a patch spreading across the left shoulder.
“Take it easy,” Jake said. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”
Shaeffer reached up with his good arm to grab Jake’s and squeeze it. “Not Russian,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Get me out of here.”
“It’s too far.”
But Shaeffer clenched his arm again. “Not Russian,” he said, almost violent. “I can’t.”
Jake looked toward the square, filling up now, people shuffling aimlessly, the moment after an accident. Russians everywhere; a Russian town.
“Can you move?” Jake said, reaching behind Shaeffer’s head. Shaeffer winced but lifted himself slowly, stopping halfway, like someone sitting up in bed. He was blinking, dizzy with shock. Jake reached under his shoulder and began pulling him up, straining under the weight. “The jeep’s over there. Can you stand?”
Shaeffer nodded, then fell forward, stalled. Jake glanced again toward the square. Anybody.
“Hey, St. Louis!” he shouted, waving the GI over, keeping Shaeffer propped up as he waited. “Here, give me a hand. Get him in the jeep.”
Together they managed to drag Shaeffer to his feet and lugged him forward, each step a mile, panting. Fresh blood seeped out of the wound. “Not Russian,” Shaeffer mumbled again, sounding delirious, then yelled in pain when his body hit the passenger seat, a final heave, and passed out, head drooping down on his chest.
“Is he going to make it?” the GI said.
“Yes. Help me with the girl.”
But when they got there and saw Liz lying in her pool of blood, the GI balked, staring at her. Impatient, Jake reached under and lifted her by himself, his knees shaking, and staggered back to the jeep, as if he were carrying somebody over the threshold, with her head dangling down. He laid the body in gently and went back for the gun. The GI was still standing there, pale, holding Liz’s camera in his hand.
“You got blood on you,” he said stupidly.
“Stay with your buddy. I’ll send somebody,” Jake said, taking the camera.
The GI looked at the soldier lying on the ground. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t even know what happened.”
A new group of Russians had arrived, surrounding the Horch like MPs, examining the dead Russian. The running soldier who had started it all was gone, swallowed up in Potsdam. No other bodies, just Liz and the boy going home at the end of the week. When Jake got to the jeep, anxious now to leave, one of the Russians started toward him, gesturing at Shaeffer slumped in the front seat. There would be questions, a Soviet doctor-what he’d wanted to avoid. Jake got in and started the jeep. The soldier called out to him, presumably telling him to stop. No time now. The closest army hospital would be HQ in Lichterfelde, miles away.
The Russian stood in front of the jeep, holding up his hand. Jake raised the gun, aiming it. The Russian cowered and stepped aside. A kid no older than the GI, scared, who saw a madman covered in blood with a gun in his hand. The others looked up, then ducked away too.
The power of a gun, as heady as adrenaline. Nobody stopped you when you held a gun. They were still backing away toward the Horch as the jeep spun out of the square and headed toward the bridge.
Shaeffer’s body swayed with the initial jolt, then fell limply against Jake’s side, leaning on him as they drove out of Potsdam. When they sped past the sector crossing, Jake could see the guards’ alarmed expressions and realized his face was still bloody. He wiped it with his sleeve, sweat streaked with dark red. Now that they were on the road, racing, he found himself gulping in air, his chest heaving, as if he’d been holding his breath underwater. A dream, except for the body in the back and the heavy soldier lying against him, head bobbing. I don’t even know what happened. But he did. When he played the dream again in his mind, it stopped after the soldier ran to the obelisk, when he saw the guns pointing beyond the soldier, at Liz. A diversionary run, the guns always intended for someone else. But who would want to kill Liz? A mistake. He looked over to Shaeffer. Someone else. A man who’d rather risk his life than be taken away by Russians. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter