It wasn’t hard to find Ronny’s. The British had drawn the flashy stretch of the Kurfiirstendamm in the partition, and the swarm of British army vehicles outside the club marked it like a neon sign. Drivers sat smoking on the fenders, keeping guard, catching snatches of music as officers pushed inside, holding girls by their waists, some of them already weaving from drink. In the street only a few cars passed the broken storefronts and gutted hotels. Bicycles had disappeared with the fading light. In an hour, the Ku’damm would be as dark as a country road, lit by a sliver of moon and the phosphorus strips left over from the blackout.
Jake parked behind a British jeep and walked along the cleared sidewalk to the entrance. The store next door was in ruins, the old plate glass replaced by plywood covered with pieces of paper and bits of cardboard with messages, set inside the window to shelter the ink from rain. It was just light enough to see. Some of them had been neatly written out in the formal Gothic script of the gymnasiums, but most were hastily scribbled, the scrawls carrying their own sad urgency. “Winter boots. Felt lined. Excellent condition. Will trade for children’s shoes.“ ”Any information Anna Millhaupt. Previously at 18 Marburgerstrasse.“ ”Your future revealed. Madame Renaldi. Personalized charts. 25 marks or coupons.“ ”War widow, two children. Attractive. Seeking German husband. Must have flat. Excellent cook.“ Jake turned away and opened the door to a blast of music.
He’d expected a basement cave, something out of the old Grosz drawings, but Ronny’s was bright and noisy, decked out with white tablecloths and pictures on the wall. Waiters in starched shirts wriggled past the cramped tables like eels, carrying plates, holding them away from the jostling on the small dance floor. A five-piece band was playing an up-tempo “Sweet Lorraine,” and a crowd of Allied uniforms and girls in summer dresses bumped around the packed floor in a quick foxtrot. The girls were dressed to go out-real dresses and bright lipstick and open-toed shoes, not the uniform trousers and kerchiefs of the rubble cleaners. But the familiar smell had penetrated even here, lying unmistakably under the smoke and perfume. It occurred to him, a detail for a piece, that on the raucous, crowded floor they were literally dancing on graves.
Gunther was sitting in a thick haze of smoke at the end of the raised bar that ran along the side wall. Jake walked past a burst of laughter and a rattle of glasses as a small group of Russians banged the table for service. The band, without a pause, switched to “This Year’s Kisses.”
Gunther was huddled with another civilian and barely acknowledged Jake when he reached the bar, giving a quick nod and then a jerk of his head toward a table in the corner.
“He’s over there.”
Jake followed his eyes to the table. A young soldier, thin hair slicked straight back like Noel Coward’s, sat between two bottle blondes eating dinner, heads bent over their plates.
“But I have some news,” Jake said.
“Let me finish my business,” Gunther said. “I’ll join you. A moment.”
“The gun,” Jake continued. “It was American.”
Gunther looked at him directly, his eyes alert behind their brandy film. “So,” he said, noncommittal.
“Who’s this?” the other German said.
Gunther shrugged. “A new man from the Alex,” he said, the old headquarters. “I’m breaking him in.”
The other man found this funny. “From the Alex.” He laughed. “That’s good.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Gunther said, nodding again at the table with the blondes.
Jake squeezed between tables until he reached the English soldier. A kid, skinny and bright-eyed, not the grizzled thug he’d imagined.
“Alford?”
“Danny. You Gunther’s friend? Have a drink,” he said, pouring one. “Gunther said to fix you up. Anything you like.”
“Is it okay to talk?” Jake said, looking at the girls as he sat down.
“Who, them? Right as rain. The only word they know is fuck. Isn’t that right, Use?”
“Hello,” one of the girls said, evidently her other word, and went back to her plate. A piece of gray meat and two potatoes the size of golf balls. Danny must have eaten elsewhere; there was nothing in front of him but a bottle of scotch.
“Don’t know where she gets the appetite,” Danny said. “Does the heart good, doesn’t it, to see her go at it? Now, was there something special you like? Something a bit out of the way, or just straight up? You’re an officer, right?” he said, glancing at Jake’s shoulder patch. “They won’t go unless it’s an officer. But they’re all clean. I insist on that. Checked once a week. We don’t want to take any surprises home, do we? Was there something special?”
“No,” Jake said, embarrassed, “it’s not that. Not girls.”
“Right,” Danny said, picking up his glass but not missing a beat. “My mistake. Now, the boys are a bit more, you understand. They’re only out once a night. Get used up otherwise. You know.” He looked at Jake. “All Hitler Youth, every one of them. With uniforms, if you like.” Cheerful as a street vendor in Whitechapel.
Jake, flustered, shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for some information.”
“You a copper?” Danny said, wary.
“No.”
“Well, a friend of Gunther’s. You’d have to be all right, wouldn’t you?” He lit a cigarette, watching Jake while the end caught. “What sort of information?”
“A man made ten thousand dollars Monday. You hear about anything like that?”
“Ten thousand,” he said, impressed. “In one go? That’s very nice. Friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance.”
“Why not ask him, then?”
“He’s gone back to Frankfurt. I want to know where he made it.”
“Want to do a little business yourself, is that it? What are you selling?”
Jake shook his head again. “I want to know what he was selling.”
Behind them there was applause as the band stopped for a break the vacuum of the sudden quiet soon filling with louder talk.
“Why come to me? Ten thousand, that’s not girls, that isn’t.”
“Gunther said you’re a guy hears things.”
“Not this,” Danny said firmly, squashing his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Want to ask around? I could pay.”
Danny peered at him. “You could pick up a phone and get Frankfurt too.”
“No. He’s dead.”
Danny stared at him. “You might have said. Shows a want of trust. Maybe you’d better piss off. I don’t want any trouble.”
“No trouble. Look, let’s start over. Man I know came to Berlin Monday to do some business and got killed. I’m trying to find out who did it.”
“Gunther know him too?”
“No. He’s helping me. The man only spoke English. Gunther thought you might have heard something. A man gets killed, people talk.”
“Not to me they haven’t. Now piss off.”
“I just want to know if you’ve heard anything.”
“Now you know.” Danny took out another cigarette. “Look, I make a nice little living here. A bit of this, a bit of that. No trouble. I don’t have ten thousand dollars and I don’t shoot people. And I keep my nose to myself. You get all kinds here. Live and let live and you live longer. Isn’t that right, Use?”
The girl looked up and smiled blankly.
“If someone did have ten thousand dollars, what would he buy with it?” Jake said, switching tack.
“In one go? I don’t know, I never had that much.” But he was intrigued now. “The big stuff, that’s more of a swap, like. Friend of mine got hold of a factory shipment-lovely cloth, parachute qual-ity-and the next thing you know he’s got trucks coming in from Denmark. Tinned ham. Now he’s got something. You can sell that anywhere. But no money till it hits the street, if you see what I mean. Cash? Antiques, maybe. But, see, I wouldn’t know one from another, so I steer clear of that.“
“What else?”
“Medicine. They’d pay cash for that. But that’s a dirty business, medicine. I won’t touch that.”
Jake looked at him, fascinated. Ham but not penicillin, a new kind of hair-splitting.
“He was carrying it with him, whatever it was,” Jake said. “No truckloads, not even a box. Something small enough to carry.”
“Jewelry, then. Now that’s a specialty, of course,” Danny said, as if he were referring to one of his girls. “You have to know what you’re about.”
“Would you ask around?”
“I might. As a favor to Gunther, mind. Ah, here we go again,” he said, seeing the band come back on the stand. He poured Jake another drink, warming to the subject. “Small enough to carry? Not gold-too heavy. Paper maybe.”
“What kind of paper?”
The band had started in on “Elmer’s Tune,” causing a new rush to the dance floor. Jake felt his chair pushed from behind. A Russian maneuvered through with his hand stuck firmly on a girl’s behind. Another Russian now loomed over the table, smiling at Use and twirling his finger in the international sign language for dance.
“Piss off, mate. Can’t you see the lady’s eating?”
The Russian reared back, surprised.
“He didn’t realize she was with you,” a voice behind them said in accented English. “Apologies.” Jake turned. “Ah, Mr. Geismar.”
“General Sikorsky.”
“Yes, an excellent memory. Excuse my friend. He thought-”
“He’s a friend of yours?” Danny said to Jake. “Well, that’s all right, then. Use, give him a whirl, there’s a good girl.”
“You dance?” she said to the Russian, getting up and taking him by the arm.
“Thank you,” Sikorsky said. “Very kind.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” Danny said, all geniality. “What about yourself? ”
“Another time,” he said, looking at the other blonde. “Good to see you again, Mr. Geismar. A different sort of party.” He glanced toward the dance floor, where Use and the Russian were already locked together. “I enjoyed our conversation.”
“Aladdin’s cave,” Jake said, trying to remember.
“Yes. Perhaps we can discuss it again one day, if you’d like to visit our sector. It is not so lively as this, though. Good night.” He turned to Danny and made a little bow, preparing to move off. “My comrade thanks you for your help.”
“Mind you bring her back,” Danny said, teasing.
Sikorsky looked at him, then took out a wad of bills, peeled a few off, and dropped them next to Danny’s glass. “That should cover it,” he said, and walked away.
Danny stared at the bills, stung, as if someone had slapped his face. Jake looked away, his eyes following Sikorsky across the room to the bar, where he was saying hello to Gunther’s friend.
“It bleeding well doesn’t cover it,” Danny was saying. “Red bastards.”
“What kind of paper?” Jake said, turning back.
“What? Oh, all kinds. You ask me, what would you buy with ten thousand dollars, and it comes to me, I have. I buy paper. You know, deeds.”
“You own property here?”
“A cinema. That was the first. Now it’s flats. Of course, you want the right areas. But now a cinema, that’s always worth something, isn’t it?”
“What happens when you go home?” Jake said, curious.
“Home? No. I like it here. Lots of girls-they can’t do enough for you. And I’ve got my property. What have I got in London? Five quid a week and thank you very much? There’s nothing in London. You’ve got all the opportunity in the world right here.”
Jake sat quietly for a minute, at a loss. Another Collier’s piece they’d never want, the cheeky private with a corner table at Ronny’s.
“I doubt he was selling deeds,” he said finally.
“Well, that’s just an example, isn’t it? Here, have one more,” he said, pouring, enjoying himself. “It’s single malt, not your blended.”
He sipped some. “Lots of valuable things on paper. IDs. Discharge papers. Get you an honorable, if you like. Fudged, but who’s to know? Of course, the Germans are the ones for paper.”
“ Persilscheins,” Jake said. “To wash away your sins.”
“That’s right. You might get two thousand for one of those, if it’s good. Sell a few more and-” He stopped, putting down the glass. “Hang on a minute. I’ll tell you what has been going around. Haven’t seen one myself, of course, but I did hear-very good prices, too.”
“What?”
“Camp letters. Character witnesses. Some Jewish bloke writes that so-and-so was in the camp with him, or so-and-so tried to keep him out of the camp. Best sort of persilschein — cleans the record up right away.”
“If it’s authentic.”
“Well, the writer is. Of course, most won’t do it, you can understand that. But if you really need the money-to get out of the country, say, something like that-well, what’s one letter?”
Jake stared at his glass, appalled. Exonerate your own murderer. Always something worse. “Christ,” he said, a sigh of disgust, almost inaudible under the noise of the band.
Danny shifted in his seat, uncomfortable again, as if Jake had thrown more money on the table.
“I don’t see it that way. You can’t hold a grudge in this life. I mean, look at me. Three years in that POW camp and it was hell, I can tell you. This’ll never be the same.” He touched his ear. “Deaf as a post. I picked that up there. But I picked up some German too, that’s the bright side, I didn’t know it would come in handy, and now that’s all over and done with and what’s the use of going on about it? You have to get on, that’s what I think.” For a wild moment, Jake heard Breimer’s voice, an unlikely echo.
“It was a different kind of camp,” Jake said.
“Let me tell you something, mate. When you spend three years POW, you tell me how different it was.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“That’s all right,” Danny said expansively. “No offense taken. Tell you the truth, I’m not much for camp letters myself. Stinks, really, after what they’ve been through. I mean, it’s not like they’re volunteering, you know what I mean? Need the money is what it is. Poor bleedersyou can see them here, they’ve still got those pj’s on, it tears you right up. So the letters-I won’t touch stuff like that. It’s taking advantage.“
Jake looked at him, the man with boys in Hitler Youth uniforms. “Can you find out who’s peddling them?”
“Why?”
An appointment with a Public Safety lawyer. Maybe a connection after all. He thought of Bernie’s office, stacked high with paper.
“A hunch. It’s not jewels-that doesn’t feel right. Let’s follow the paper trail.” He glanced at Danny’s dubious face. “I’d pay you, of course.”
“Tell you what. Friend of Gunther’s. I’d like to oblige, as far as it goes. Let me poke around a bit. No promises, mind. Anything turns up, I’ll set you a price. You can’t ask fairer than that, can you?”
“No.”
“Hello, Rog,” Danny said, looking up at a British private. “All set?”
“I’ve got the major outside.”
“Right. That’s you, darling,” he said to the blonde, who put down her napkin and took out a lipstick. “Just as you are, love. No sense doing your mouth, given where it’s going. Off you go.”
“ Wiedersehen,” she said politely to Jake, getting up and following the private.
“Safe home,” Danny called after her. “Choice goods, that one. Enjoys it. Sure you don’t want a go?”
“Can I ask you something? Why-” Jake said, then stopped, not sure how to ask it. “I mean, I thought all it took was a couple of cigarettes. So why-”
“Well, some gents are shy, like. That’s how it started. See, I’m not shy, so I was in a way to make a few introductions. Some appreciate that. The convenience. Officers, they don’t want to pick something up off the street. You don’t know what you’re getting, do you? A little surprise for the wife. Hello, what’s this? Nasty. It’s the hygiene, really. I’ve got a doctor checks them. Decent chap. Takes care of any accidents too, if you know what I mean. Of course, the girls prefer it- saves wear and tear, all that walking about.”
“Why only officers?”
Danny smiled. “Got the money, for a start. But, you know, it’s really the girls. All the same, aren’t they? Looking for love. And a ticket out. London, why not? Anywhere but here. Now, an enlisted man isn’t going to do that, is he? You need an officer.”
“And do they?”
“What? Take them home? Naw. Quick suck and a poke is what they like. Still, you never know. I always tell the girls, look on the bright side. There’s always a chance. Just put your heart and soul into it and maybe something will come of it.”
“And they believe you.”
Danny shrugged. “They’re not whores, see. Nice girls, some of them, temporaries. They’re just trying to get by. You have to give them something to hope for.”
“What do you tell the boys?”
“That’s just a side,” Danny said. He ran his hand over his slick hair, embarrassed again. “It takes all kinds.”
“Are they really Hitler Youth?”
“ ‘Course. Viktor, anyway. He’s Use’s brother.”
“Quite a family.”
“Well, you know, I think he was that way. The others, I don’t know. Bit reluctant at first. But they’re glad of the money, and who’s to know, really? Viktor finds them-friends of his. As I say, it’s just a side. Here, watch this one. He’s good, he is. Regular Benny Goodman.”
He pointed to the bandstand, where a clarinet player had stood up, licking his reed as he waited for the lead-in. When he started, he did play Goodman, “Memories of You,” the sad opening notes mellow as liquid. Another sound of home, the music so unexpectedly beautiful that it seemed a kind of reproach in the smoky room. On the dance floor couples drew closer, swaying instead of bouncing, as if the clarinet were charming them. The player swayed too, eyes closed, blotting out the bright, ugly room to let the music take him somewhere else.
“Everything seems to bring…” The music of romance, not good times and quick gropes, a song for girls looking for love. Jake watched them move dreamily on the floor, heads leaning on uniformed shoulders, giving themselves something to hope for. At the tables people had grown quieter, pretending to watch the solo but really drawn by something else, the world they’d known before Ronny’s, brought back, close enough to touch, by the sentimental notes. “… memories of you.” Even here. There was Lena’s dress, across the floor, the same deep blue, her going-out dress. He remembered the way she’d brush the back as she got up, a quick touch to smooth out the wrinkles, so that it clung to her afterward, moving with her. On the front there’d been a patch of glitter going up to the shoulder, little fingers of bright sequins, like a sprinkling of stars. But wool, too warm for a summer’s night in a crowded room, and this one had a wet patch showing between the shoulder blades, stretched over a girl too big for it, with blond hair piled on top of her head like Betty Grable. Still, the same deep blue.
When the band came in behind the clarinet, ending the solo, there was a restless stirring at the tables, a kind of relief to be out of the spell, back to just music.
“What did I tell you?” Danny said, his eyes shiny, but Jake continued to watch the dress, the damp spot now covered by an American soldier’s hand. Fragebogen. Message boards. Why not here, dancing at Ronny’s? But the waist was too thick, bulging over the belt.
Gunther was making his way steadily across the room, skirting the dancers. There was a sudden roar at the door as a large party swept in, looking for tables. “Memories of You” floated away.
“Gunther, you old sod,” Danny said, standing up, a show of respect. “Take a pew.” He pulled out a chair. Gunther sat down and poured a drink.
“Meet the general?” Jake said, nodding in Sikorsky’s direction.
“I know the general. Sometimes a useful source.”
“But not this time,” Jake said, reading his face.
“Not yet.” He downed the glass and sat back. “So. You’ve had a good talk?”
“Danny’s been telling me about his real estate. He’s a landlord.”
“Yes. A kino for parachute silk,” Gunther said, shaking his head, amused.
“Steady,” Danny said. “No tales out of school now.”
Gunther, ignoring him, raised his glass. “You will dress half the women in Berlin. I salute you. Parachutes.”
“You can’t beat it for quality,” Danny said.
But silk hadn’t reached the dance floor yet, just the cheap cotton prints from the last wartime ration. Lena’s dress was gone from the floor, hidden somewhere among the crowded tables. The band had started a jazzy version of “Chicago.”
“You have the actual report?” Gunther said.
Jake pulled the flimsy from his breast pocket and watched Gunther look it over, sipping as he read.
“A Colt pistol,” he said, nodding, a western fan. “M-1911.”
“Is that special?”
“No, very common. Forty-five-caliber. Very common.” He handed the paper back.
“So now what?” Jake said.
“Now we look for an American bullet. That changes everything.”
“Why?”
“Not why, Herr Geismar. Where. Potsdam. All along, it’s a problem. The Russians closed down the market. But there are two things in Potsdam. The market, but also the conference. With many Americans.”
“He wasn’t at the conference.”
“But perhaps at the compound in Babelsberg. Invited there. What could be more likely? All the Americans are there, even Truman. Just down the road from the conference site. On the same lake, in fact.” He looked pointedly at Jake. “He was found at the Cecilienhof, but was he shot there? The night before the conference? No one there, guards only?” He shook his head. “Bodies drift. An obvious point.”
“Frigging Scotland Yard, isn’t it?” Danny said, frankly admiring. “You’re a caution, Gunther. No mistake.”
“But what isn’t obvious is the money,” Jake said.
“Always with you the money,” Gunther said.
“Because it was there. Let’s say he did have a pass to the compound, that he saw an American. He still picked up ten thousand dollars. You only make that kind of money in the market. So, all right, an American in the market. Who’s also at the conference? Most of those guys were just flown in. They’re not allowed out. You don’t see any of them here.” He waved his hand toward the noisy room.
“That is to their credit,” Gunther said dryly. “Nevertheless, he was in Potsdam. And so was an American bullet.”
“Yes,” Jake said.
“And who is at the conference? We can except Herr Truman.”
“Washington people. State Department. Aides,” Jake said, ticking them off.
“Not at the meeting. In Babelsberg.”
“Everybody,” Jake said, thinking of Brian’s requisition list. The last blowout of the war. “Cooks. Bartenders. Guards. They’ve even got somebody to mow the lawn. Everybody except press.”
“A wide net,” Gunther said glumly. “So we eliminate. Not everybody can authorize. First you will find out who issued his papers. Then after-” He drifted off, back to his own list.
“That still doesn’t tell me what he was selling.”
“Or buying,” Danny said casually.
“What did you say?” Gunther said, wide awake, putting his hand on Danny’s arm.
“Well, any transaction, there’s two sides, isn’t there?”
Gunther said nothing for a second, then patted his arm. “Thank you, my friend. A simple point. Yes, two sides.”
“I mean,” Danny said, encouraged, “he’d have dollars, wouldn’t he? An American. What-”
“It wasn’t dollars,” Jake said. “Marks. Occupation marks.”
“Oh. You might have said. Russian or American?”
“I thought they were the same.” Engraving plates, handed over.
“They’re worth the same, of course, but now the look- Here.” Danny picked up one of Sikorsky’s dropped notes. “Now, this is Russian. See the little dash before the serial number? You won’t see that on the American ones.” Somebody in the Treasury Department, careful after all. Jake wondered if Muller knew.
“You sure?”
“Things like that, you notice,” Danny said. “I thought it was fake, see, so I asked. Doesn’t make any difference, really, just something to keep track, I reckon.”
“Who has the money?” Gunther asked Jake.
“I’ve got one of the bills. Not on me.” Back in the drawer of the frilly pink vanity, next to the still of Viktor Staal.
“Then look,” Gunther said.
“But they circulate back and forth, don’t they?”
Gunther nodded. “It might be suggestive, however.” He turned to Danny, raising his glass. “Well, my friend. To your good eye. Most helpful.”
“On the house, Gunther, on the house,” Danny said, clinking glasses, pleased with himself.
“But if he was buying, what was he buying?” Jake said insistently.
“That’s an interesting question,” Gunther said as Danny poured another drink. “More difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever it was, he never got it. He still had the money,” Gunther said, repeating an earlier point to a slow pupil.
Jake felt a door close. How could you trace what was never exchanged? “Now what?”
“Now we find out who he was. What would he buy? Has Teitel spoken to Frankfurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we wait,” Gunther said, sitting back, his eyes drooping. “A little patience.”
“So we do nothing.”
Gunther opened one eye. “No. You will play the policeman. Find out who authorized his pass. I’m retired. I’m going to have a brandy.”
Jake put his drink down, ready to leave. The room was even more crowded, the bar almost invisible behind a wall of people, and the noise was rising now with the smoke, covering the band. “Sleepy Time Down South,” the clarinet again, peppier, straining to be heard. A girl squealed somewhere, then laughed. He took a breath, claustrophobic. But no one else seemed to mind. They were all young, some as young as Danny, who was tapping the table in time to the music. He’d never taken Lena dancing in her blue dress. The clubs by then had become shadowy, dimmed by the Nazis, taking notes in the audience during the comedy sketches. No longer fun, just something to show the tourists, who wanted to see the Femina with the telephones on the tables. Nobody had been young then, not like this, and it only came once.
“Back in a sec,” Danny said, standing up. “Goes through you, don’t it? Keep an eye on Gunther-he goes right out when he naps.”
Jake watched the slick head move through the crowd. How many nights did Gunther sit here, finally oblivious even to the smell? The couples on the floor had taken on a kind of blur. This is probably what he saw, people bouncing through a haze, the music almost an echo. It occurred to Jake that he was probably a little drunk himself. Another dream song, “I’ll Get By.” There was the dress again, leaning against the soldier. The overweight blonde.
He narrowed his eyes. If you blocked out the rest, the dress would come into focus as it had been, without the bulges and damp spots, moving with her. He remembered the Press Club party when he’d sat watching across a different room, the dress finally turning, her eyes laughing at him in secret, a quick flash like the sequins.
The blonde turned, the dress hidden now by the uniform, only the shoulder visible, shimmering with sequins. Jake blinked. Not drunk, not a trick of the eye. The same dress.
He stood up and began to cross the room, a swimmer, people sweeping past him like water. When the blonde looked up, her face alarmed, he saw what he must look like, a drunk plowing through the crowd with the crazed, determined steps of a sleepwalker. Her eyes darted away, anxious with fear. No, not fear, recognition. Not as plump as she’d been in the office, but still a big girl. Fraulein Schmidt. A poor typist, Goebbels’ spy.
“Hannelore,” he said, going up to them.
“Go away.” A rasp, nervous.
“Where did you get the dress?” he said in German.
The soldier had stopped dancing, annoyed. “Hey, buddy, get lost.”
Jake grabbed her upper arm. “The dress. Where did you get it? Where is she?”
She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “What dress? Go away.”
“It’s hers. Where is she?”
The soldier placed himself between them, holding Jake’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you, you deaf or something? Blow.”
“I know her,” Jake said, trying to get past him.
“Yeah? Well, she doesn’t want to know you. Beat it,” the soldier said, shoving him.
“Fuck off.” Jake pushed him aside, and the soldier staggered a little. Jake took her arm again. “Where?”
“Leave me alone.” A wail loud enough to draw attention, people around them stopping in midstep. She reached for her soldier. “Steve!”
The soldier grabbed Jake’s shoulder, spinning him around. “Blow or I’ll deck you, you fuck.”
Jake swatted his hand away and moved toward her again. “I know it’s hers.”
“Mine!” she screamed, moving away.
His eyes were still on her so that he missed the punch, a hard jab to the stomach, making him double over, winded.
“Now beat it.”
Chairs scraped behind them. Jake’s mouth filled with the taste of sour whiskey. Without thinking, he lunged for the soldier, trying to push him away, but the soldier was waiting. He stepped aside, then smashed his fist into Jake’s face, sending him backward. Jake heard the shouts around him as he reached out to grab the air, a stunned weightlessness, going down, until he felt his head crack against the floor. Another crash as the crowd moved back against a table, then everyone leaning over him, pushing away the soldier with his fist still raised. When Jake tried to lift his head, blood filling his mouth, he felt a surge of nausea and closed his eyes to hold it down. Don’t black out. The band stopped. More yelling. Some men were dragging the soldier away. Another soldier bent down.
“You okay?” Then, to the crowd, “Give us some air, for Christ’s sake.” Jake tried to get up again, clenching his mouth against another taste of bile, dizzy. “Take it easy.”
Faces bent over him. A girl with bright red lipstick. But not Hannelore.
“Wait. Don’t let them go,” Jake said, trying to rise. “I have to-”
The soldier held him down. “What are you, crazy?”
“He started it,” someone said. “I saw it.”
Then Gunther was there, alert, dabbing the corner of Jake’s mouth with a handkerchief. He reached up, pulling a bottle from the next table and pouring whiskey over the cloth.
“Hey. Use your own fucking booze.”
A sharp, cauterizing sting, as surprising as the first punch. Jake winced.
“Heroics,” Gunther said, wiping Jake’s mouth. “Can you move your head?”
Jake nodded, another sharp pain, then seized Gunther’s arm and pulled himself up. “Don’t let them get away,” he said, looking around wildly and starting for the door.
A dozen hands grabbed him, pinning his arms. “Sit the fuck down. You want the MPs in here?” He was pushed into a chair. Someone Motioned to the band to start playing.
“It was her dress,” Jake said to Gunther, who looked at him dumbly.
“He with you?” the soldier said to Gunther. “We don’t want any trouble here.”
“You don’t understand,” Jake said, standing.
The soldier grabbed him again. “No, you don’t. It’s over, verstehe? You make one move and I’ll fucking deck you too.”
“I’ll take him home,” Gunther said calmly, moving the soldier’s hand away. “No more trouble.”
He clutched Jake’s arm and forced him to walk slowly toward the door. People stared as they squeezed past the tables.
“I have to find her,” Jake said.
Outside, the same parked cars and drivers, the street black. Jake looked in both directions, everything swallowed up in the dark.
“Now, my friend, what happened?”
Jake felt the back of his head, a trickle of blood. “There isn’t time. Go back. I’ll be all right.” He went over to one of the drivers. “You see a blonde in a blue dress?”
The driver looked at him suspiciously.
“Come on, it’s important. Big girl with a soldier.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Tell him,” Gunther barked, suddenly a cop.
The driver jerked his thumb east, toward the Memorial Church.
Gunther held him. “They’re gone,” he said simply. “It’s not safe.”
But Jake had already thrown off his hand and started to run. He could hear Gunther call out behind him, then even that died away, covered by the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Clouds had covered what little moon there was, so that the dark seemed tangible, like a fog you could brush away. They’d been gone only a few minutes, not long enough to vanish, but there was no one in the street. What if the driver was lying? He ran faster, then rammed his foot into a stray brick lying on the pavement. The pain shot up through him, joining the dull ache in his head, and he stopped, holding his stomach to catch his breath. They couldn’t be far. They’d stick to the Ku’damm, hoping for the lights of a cellar bar. The side streets would be impossible, clogged with unseen rubble. Assuming they went this way at all.
Up ahead, a tiny light flickered in a doorway. Jake started again, limping slightly, his sore foot slowing him like a brake.
“Hello, Tommy.” A soft voice called out where the light had been, then another flicker, a flashlight shining up under the whore’s chin, bathing her tired face in a ghost’s light.
“Did you see a couple go by?” he said in German. “A blond girl.”
“Come with me. Why not? Fifty marks.”
“Did you?” he said, insistent.
“Go to hell.” She snapped off the flashlight, saving batteries, and disappeared in the dark.
He could make out the jagged edges of the bombed church against the sky as a truck swept around the intersection. The old heart of the west end, flashing with theater lights, now just dark shadows. He remembered London in the blackout, buses appearing out of nowhere, headlights dimmed to slits like crocodile eyes. He had always hated it, the blindness, stumbling over curbs, but the ruins here made it worse, disturbing, twisted shapes in a nightmare. A jeep swung out of the broad Tauentzienstrasse, lighting up the sidewalk for a second. A pack of soldiers coming out of a bar, and there, beyond them, holding a flashlight, a tall soldier with a fleshy blonde.
Jake picked up his pace, ignoring the pain in his foot. They were heading toward Wittenbergplatz, the way he used to go home, down past the KaDeWe windows. Don’t lose her now. They had walked, so it couldn’t be far. Maybe another club. Hannelore Schmidt, Goebbels’ spy, who didn’t want to be recognized, arm in arm with the new order. He wondered what she’d put on her fragebogen. Not the calls to Nanny Wendt. Where had she got the dress? Ransacking the old flat in Pariserstrasse. Maybe a trade for food coupons. She’d know something. Not a pointless search through Bernie’s files, a real connection.
Jake saw them crossing the street now, guided by the weaving flashlight, which picked up a group of DPs huddled in the square. She’d be safe with Steve, a handy man to have around in a fight. Jake touched the corner of his mouth, tender, still streaked with blood. They were across Wittenbergplatz.
It was then he stopped, in front of the broken plate glass window, watching the tiny beam of light move toward the familiar heavy door. Almost a joke, there all along. His old flat, passed around the
Columbia staff until finally Hal Reidy had left too. Had Hal given it to her, a farewell bonus? Or had she simply moved in, another spoil to pick up, like the French cognacs and Danish hams that flooded into the city that last year. The meek inherited after all, even Hannelore Schmidt. Now what? Race up the stairs for another punching session with Steve? Now he knew where she was. He could come back tomorrow, bring some coffee, a peace offering, and talk to her calmly. A light went on in his window. His window. He imagined Hannelore draped over his couch with her GI, Lena’s dress flung aside, sequins crumpled on the floor. Where did she get it?
He crossed the square, warily circling the DPs, and went into his street. A walk he’d taken a million times. He pushed open the tall wooden door. Pitch dark, the hall light either gone out or stolen. In one corner he could hear the dripping of water in a bucket. But this was home, stairs he could climb with his eyes closed. He felt his way up the banister. A turn at the landing, then up to his floor, along the railing to the door. He knocked, not loud, a force of habit. The most terrifying sound in Germany, a knock on the door. Harder now. “Hannelore.” What if she refused to open? He tried the doorknob. Locked. His flat. He knocked again, then banged his open palm against the door, a steady pounding. “Hannelore!” Finally the sound of the lock clicking, the door opening a crack, then wider. A woman with frightened eyes standing with the light behind her. Not Hannelore, a gaunt woman with stringy hair, sickbed pale, another ruin. But over the dark circles her eyes widened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed, turning away.
“Jacob,” she whispered.
He glanced back, startled. Her voice. And now the face, familiar, was taking shape too, behind the pale skin. Not the way he’d imagined it. The same weightless feeling, falling into Ronny’s tables.
“Lena. My god.” His voice also a whisper, as if sound would chase her away, a ghost not yet real.
“Jacob.” She reached up her hand, touching the blood at the corner of his mouth, and he realized that he was the ghost, wild-eyed and bloody, someone from another world. “You came back.”
He took her hand from the streak of blood and moved it to his mouth, kissing it, grazing the fingers, not yet able to take in any more. Just the fingers, real. Alive.
She moved them along his lips, a Braille touch, trying to make sense of the ridges.
“You came back.”
He nodded, too happy to say anything, weightless but not falling, rising now, a balloon, watching her eyes fill, still too startled to smile.
“You’re hurt,” she said, touching him, but he took her fingers away, holding them as he shook his head.
“No, no. It doesn’t matter. Lena, my god.” And then he reached out for her, drawing her to his chest, arms around her. He kissed the side of her face, moving his head with hers, kissing her everywhere, as if he were still afraid she’d evaporate unless he touched her. “Lena.” Just saying it. Holding her tightly, his face in her hair, feeling her against him, until suddenly she let go, slumping, a dead weight, and he realized she’d fainted. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter