Leaving Berlin

3

The man was standing next to the statue of Gretel, his back to Alex, collar pulled up against the cold. A worker’s cloth cap and peacoat, slightly bent over, no longer young. Earlier there had been a woman with a dog but no one since, so it must be him. But how to do this? No password or coded signal, just turn up in the park. The fountain basins, drained for the winter, were covered with snow, the Grimm figures and the Baroque colonnade beyond like pieces of confectionary, but he couldn’t look at them forever. It must be him. Or just an old man out for a walk.

“Herr Meier?” the man said, barely turning.

“Yes.”

“You got the message. Good. Dieter,” he said, introducing himself. “We can talk here, there’s no one. You have a cigarette maybe?” A Berlin accent, brisk.

“What’s up?” Alex said, offering it.

“You, Herr Meier, what else?” He leaned in to light the cigarette. “You haven’t tried to contact anyone, I hope?”

“No.”

“Good. And if anyone tries to contact you, don’t respond.”

“Just you.”

“That’s right. Campbell’s orders. At BOB they think Willy was running you himself. Whoever ‘you’ are.”

“And the Russians?”

“If they knew, you wouldn’t be here. The two who saw you in Lützowplatz? No longer with us, alas. A rare distinction, Herr Meier. Unknown to the Russians, unknown to the Americans. How many in Berlin can say that?”

“If I’m so unknown why did they try to kill me?”

He shook his head. “Not kill you. Kidnap you. Maybe turn you. Trade you. Any possibility. But the point was to find out who you were. So they follow Willy and what happens? They still don’t know.”

“You’re sure?”

Dieter nodded. “A source there.”

“What about them? Do they have a source with us?”

Dieter sighed. “Well, they must. How would they know to follow Willy exactly then? So there’s a leak. He was right, it turns out.”

“Who?”

“Campbell. He wanted someone outside BOB. An independent contractor.”

“That’s you?”

Another nod. “So you talk only to me. Until he comes. That’s his message to you.”

“And what if it’s you, the leak?”

“Well, it might be. You decide. Do you enjoy such puzzles? Maybe you like to think the worst. Me, I like to hope for the best.” He turned to the statue, looking at it. “The witch wanted to bake her in the oven. What kind of men do you think they were, the Grimms, to tell children such stories? How the world really is. So,” he said, shifting gears. “It’s clear? You don’t contact anyone. Just me-if you can trust me. Come here for a walk. I’ll find you. If there’s something wrong, Peter will-”

“Peter?”

“The boy at the hotel.”

“His name’s Peter?” Alex said, unexpectedly thrown by this. “How old is he anyway? I mean, a child, how did he get-”

“My nephew’s son. So it’s safe. He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m working in the black market. So he’s training for that. It’s exciting for him. It’s what he wants. That’s the choice now in Berlin. Be a criminal or a spy. So, a criminal. I don’t blame him. The money’s better.”

“They why don’t you do it?”

The man looked at him, then rubbed out the cigarette. “You want to know why I do this? If you can trust me? So. I work for the Americans because they’re not the Russians. That’s the politics of it, nothing else. I used to think things. A better world. Anyway, better than the Nazis. Then the Russians came. They raped my daughter. They made me watch. Then they beat her-she was fighting them. And she died. So that’s my politics now. Stop the Russians. You think it’s wrong to use Peter? He doesn’t do much-messages, little errands. Those last weeks of the war I saw boys younger than him hanging from trees-traitors because they ran away from the Volkssturm. And then the Russians came. There are no children in Berlin.” He motioned toward the statues. “So maybe they were right, the Grimms. Come, walk with me.”

They headed behind the colonnade into the park.

“Have they asked you to do things?”

“Like what?”

“The radio, for instance. A talk. Why you chose the East. How it’s the right path for Germany, a united Socialist Germany. Maybe a literary interview. Whatever they suggest, do it. The more valuable you are to them, the safer you are. Don’t worry,” he said, suddenly wry. “No one will hear. No one listens to their radio.” He paused. “You’re in the Party?”

“No.”

“Join. Make them feel sure about you.”

“Brecht didn’t.”

“Well, he’s Brecht.”

Alex looked at him, amused. “That’s what he thinks too.”

“He’s a friend? Do a radio with him. The Kulturbund party, it was a success? Comrade Markovsky was there, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“So you met? And how was that?”

“Pleasant. But short. He had to leave. Some crisis.”

“In Karlshorst?” Dieter said, interested. “Maybe something with our friends in Lützowplatz.”

“No, out of town. Someplace called Aue.”

Dieter turned. “Aue? Are you sure? He said Aue?”

“That’s what it sounded like. A long drive at night, apparently. There was talk about that.”

“What kind of crisis?” His voice more urgent. “Did he say? It’s important.”

“Some labor problem. Maybe some kind of strike, that’s what it sounded like anyway.”

“No, not a strike,” Dieter said, thinking. “That’s not possible there. Did he say anything else?”

“No. Oh, how they always leave it too late. They should have called him earlier. That was it. He didn’t seem particularly upset. More annoyed at having to leave the party.”

“But he drives to Aue. A labor problem. In Aue.”

“That’s important?”

“In Aue, yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s in the Forbidden Zone.”

Alex looked at him, the phrase out of a magazine story.

“Aue is where they send you first, the distribution point. They call it the Gate of Tears.”

“Forbidden Zone?” The sound of it still implausible.

“The Russians sealed off the whole area. It’s controlled by Moscow, all the operations there, so it’s difficult getting information out. For the Germans too. The SED has no say, they just take orders. So something like this-it’s a break. Anything you could hear-”

“What am I listening for?”

“Yes, of course,” Dieter said quickly, distracted. “You don’t know. The Erzgebirge, they patrol the whole range. Fences sometimes, three meters.”

“Why?”

Dieter looked at him, surprised, something he assumed Alex already knew. “The uranium mines. You remember Oberschlema, famous for radium baths? In the old days it was good for the health. Well, they thought. Over on the Czech side, more spas, it’s the same region. Now the mines. The whole operation is called Wismut. If you ever hear him talk about that-”

“And no one knows?”

“No, people know. And they don’t know. We’re good at that. Ask anyone now, did they know about the Jews and no, they didn’t know a thing. Except who’s living here then? Who else would know? And at first, of course, when the Russians are using criminals, Nazis, it’s easy not to know. But they start drafting ordinary Germans and then the rumors start.”

“Who’s using criminals?” Alex said, not following.

“The mines. At first people went for the wages. Jobs that pay, that wasn’t so easy last year. And the papers made it sound good. Neues Deutschland. So not a secret. But then word got out about the conditions and no one would go. So Ulbricht sends ex-Nazis, political prisoners. He empties the jails and still not enough, so they start drafting forced labor. Twenty-five, thirty thousand last year. And they ask for seventy-five thousand more. These are rough figures,” he said with a side look to Alex. “Myself, I think it’s even more. And Ulbricht will find them. His own people-well, if you still think someone like that is German. The Russian bear just gobbles them up-feed me more. And Ulbricht does. People who have never done work like that. For them like a death sentence. Unless they can get to the West-anything to avoid the mines. We’re losing many that way. Last night, did you meet your publisher from Aufbau?”

“Aaron Stein?” Alex said, remembering the watery eyes.

“Yes. A decent man. You know he resigned from the central committee last year, the secretariat, to protest this. He said the SED should say no. Of course, how could they do that? A great embarrassment to Ulbricht, a respected man like Stein. We thought maybe a chance for us, someone we might recruit, but no, still a believer. So what happens? He resigns and Ulbricht sends more workers anyway. Thousands. And they don’t come back now, they keep them working, so it’s hard to know how it is there. How much are they shipping out? Why do they keep asking for more people? So you see, when you tell us he’s going to Aue-this is better than we hoped, to know that.”

“It’s not a lot.”

“Yes, but why? What happened? So now we listen. Even rumors. We have ears outside the zone. In the processing plants. We go to Farben in Bitterfeld and ask, what do you hear? The TEWA plant at Neustadt.”

“Neustadt?” Alex said, raising his head. But how many Neustadts were there in Germany? A hundred?

“Yes, near Greiz, but outside the zone, so we can talk to people there.”

“Do they use POWs? The mines?”

“Yes, of course. They were among the first. They’re already prisoners, so they can’t pick up and leave if they don’t like the work. Why?”

Alex looked up. “No reason,” he said, wary. But Dieter was still looking at him. “I just thought, useful, if we could find some to talk to.”

“Well, yes, anyone, but here you are with such a source-”

“I met him for two minutes. Do you really think he’s going to talk to me about any of this?”

“But he already has. Every lead is useful. And of course there’s the woman. An old friend of yours, yes? Campbell said.”

“Did he? When?”

“She sleeps with him. A man will say anything in bed.”

“Mining conditions in Aue? Is that what you would talk about?”

Dieter smiled. “My friend, at my age you don’t talk. You have to save your breath.” They had been walking gradually uphill and he stopped for effect, catching his wind. “It’s not so difficult for a woman. All she has to do is listen.”

“What makes you think this one will?”

“Well, I leave that to you.” They were rounding a small hill. “It’s kind to walk with an old man, but you should go now. Or someone might wonder. But first, let me show you something interesting. This way.”

“But don’t you want to know who else I met? I thought that’s what-”

“Another day. Nothing’s more important than this. Aue,” he said, repeating it to himself. “You understand, we’ve been trying to get good information for a long time. What grade ore are they shipping? How? In what form?” He stopped. “Excuse me, it’s a lot all at once maybe. I’ll make a list, what to listen for. Right now, anything. You know, the propaganda value alone-”

“What, that the Russians have labor camps? Everybody must know-”

“But who’s in them? Who’s supplying them? The Russians are capable of anything-yes, old news. But Ulbricht, the German Communists, feeding the beast? With Germans? Their own citizens. Who would trust a government like that? My friend, keep your ears open. Keep your ears open.”

“All right. When do I see you again?”

“Just come to the park. I’ll know. Otherwise, next week, same time, if you can. Look.” He pointed toward what appeared to be a construction site. Narrow-gauge rails had been laid across the park, sloping uphill, the open tram cars loaded with rubble sent up from Friedrichshain. “You see they’re making a mountain. On the flak tower. What’s left of it. They dynamited it, but you know they were built to-anyway, now it’s covered. So, higher and higher. And then some grass, trees, and in a few years it’s gone, buried. The war? No sign. All the sins covered up. That’s what we do. The Russians cover theirs with memorials. Have you been down to Treptow? The memorial they’re building there? Stalin’s words, now in granite. A statue higher than this hill. A Soviet soldier rescuing a child. From Fascism. A broken swastika. Maybe someday somebody believes it. You have one more cigarette?” He coughed as he lit it. “Peasants. They didn’t know how to flush a toilet. You know what happens when you give a peasant a gun? You make a monster. That’s what the statue should be.”

“But they did break the swastika,” Alex said.

“Yes,” Dieter said, glancing at him. “You’re a Jew, yes? Meier? So, all right. We had monsters too. Maybe worse. But they didn’t rape my Liesl.” He flicked away the end of the cigarette. “Barbarians. Now they want to do it to Germany. No. Not them. That’s my politics now.”

Martin was waiting for him at the hotel.

“We have your housing assignment,” he said, pleased with himself. “In Prenzlauer Berg. A very nice area. So. You can pack now?”

“Now?” Erich, still in Ruth’s room.

“Yes. I have a car for us. You will be anxious to see it.”

“What’s the address? I want to write it down.” He took out a notebook.

“But I will take you,” Martin said, puzzled.

“For the desk here,” Alex said, improvising. “To forward mail.”

“You are expecting mail here?”

“From America. It’s the only address they have. Until I send the new one.”

“Rykestrasse forty-eight. Near the Wasserturm. A very nice street.”

Alex jotted down the address, two copies. “For me,” he explained, “if I forget it. I won’t be long. A few minutes.”

And then, before Martin could say anything more, he was on the stairs. Three knocks. Erich opened the door, still looking sleepy, but not as drawn as last night. Alex slid in.

“They’re moving me. To a flat.” He handed him the address. “You know where it is?”

Erich looked at the paper and nodded. “Your flat? But it’s trouble for you.”

“It’s more trouble if Ruth gets back early. Put the duvet away. No one was here. And make sure there’s nobody around at my place when you come. Three knocks, just like here, okay? Better wait an hour. At least. I don’t know when I can shake Martin.”

“Who?”

“Nobody. My keeper. Okay, let’s go. Neat as a pin, right?”

“What about the key?” He cocked his head toward the night table.

Ruth’s key. Impossible to explain at the desk. A fuss if it went missing.

“Give it to me. I’ll put it back.” How? Surprisingly heavy in his palm. Adlon luxury. At the door he turned. “Erich? The work camp. It was mines? Near Aue?”

“Yes. How did you-?”

“The people who got sick-what happened?”

“They got tired. Well, everybody was tired. But more tired. Sick in the lungs, from the dust. And no boots. You had to work in the slime up to here, no rubber boots, so it was easy to get sick.”

“Did they tell you what you were mining?”

“No, but we knew. Pitchblende. Uranium. Everybody knew. The doctors would check. If someone got sick from that. Radiation. But with them, everyone was healthy. Unless you couldn’t work at all.” He looked up. “Why do you ask this?”

“No reason,” Alex said, thinking of the lesions on Erich’s legs. “We’ll talk later. I want to hear-how it was.”

“They said it was our patriotic duty. As Socialists. The Americans didn’t want anyone else to have it, uranium. And we had so little. We needed more. So, that cough? It’s nothing important. Go back to work. It was like that.”

Alex put his hand on the doorknob. “How many of you escaped?”

“Five. We were afraid, if we told too many someone would betray us. You know, for special privileges.”

Alex stood there for a minute, at a loss. No end to it. “Give me an hour,” he said finally. “And keep this locked from inside.”

His packing, the shaving kit and the extra suit, only took a few minutes. Down the hall, Ruth’s key in one hand, his key in his pocket so they wouldn’t get mixed up. No bellhops in sight. Where was Peter? Who’d know what to do. And then, near the bottom of the stairs, he saw the long overcoat and stopped. Markus Engel, talking to the doorman. Martin leaped off the lobby couch, reaching for Alex’s suitcase.

“Let me help. You need only to sign the paper,” he said, pointing to the desk. “It’s all been arranged.” Anxious, clearly wanting to leave.

Alex took out his key and handed it to the desk clerk. Hurry, before he sees you. But Markus was already coming over to them. Alex clutched Ruth’s key in his palm. What if he wanted to shake hands?

“Ah, you’re leaving?”

“Markus.”

“And I was hoping we could have coffee. Continue our conversation. Well, another time.”

“Yes. But soon?” Alex said, friendly, keeping the fiction going. “I’d stay now except they’ve got a car waiting for me.”

“An honor for an honored guest,” Markus said, managing a smile. “So, a flat already. It’s very efficient, the Kulturbund.” This to Martin.

“No, it was the housing authority,” Martin said. “But lucky, certainly.”

“Yes, lucky. Perhaps a word from Major Dymshits.”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, uncomfortable.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Alex said, feeling the key in his hand, squeezing it.

“No, no, just to talk. Maybe a good thing, your having to go. I should be getting to work, not drinking coffee.” But not moving, a speech that seemed endless, each word like a rope tying them to the floor. And still the key. Alex turned to the desk.

“Is Peter here this morning? The boy?”

The desk clerk nodded and whispered something to another bellhop, presumably a go-find-him request.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” Alex explained.

“We should hurry,” Martin said. “The car-”

“There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” Markus said. “I just remembered. You will find this odd, maybe.”

Alex waited.

“Do you carry a gun?”

“A gun?” Alex said, surprised. “No. Why? Do you think I need one?”

“Need? No. But many people keep a gun here. Berlin can be a dangerous city. I was curious if you had brought one from America. And someone took it maybe. We had an incident with American bullets. So to find the gun-”

“Markus, there must be thousands of American guns in Berlin. Thousands.”

“Army guns, yes. But not this one. A gun a civilian might have. Or so the bullets suggest. There are not so many of those in Berlin. So we have to check.”

“So you ask me?”

“To eliminate you,” Markus said calmly. “Someone just arrived from America. Someone who was in Lützowplatz-”

“What does Lützowplatz have to do with it?”

“That’s where the incident took place.”

“The traffic accident you mentioned.”

“Well, perhaps it was more than that.”

“With bullets? Yes. Well, I didn’t see anybody shoot anybody either. Just my house-or what’s left of it.”

“It was a simple query.”

Alex looked at him, saying nothing, then spied Peter across the room. “There he is. Excuse me a moment.” He went over quickly, before Peter could reach them and took his hand, a tip movement, a bill slipped into a maître d’s palm. Peter’s eyes widened at the feel of the key, then looked up, a kind of approving glance for the smooth handover. He put his hand in his pocket, then saw Markus.

“You know he’s K-5?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. He’s just poking around. If he asks you-”

“I know what to say. He talks to Oskar.” Indicating the doorman.

“Thanks for this. I’ll tell Dieter.”

Peter bowed, backing way, Adlon training.

“You know it’s not necessary to tip here,” Markus said when he came back.

“I know, I keep forgetting. Old habits.”

“Bourgeois habits.”

“Well, he’s just a kid.”

“He did a special service for you maybe?”

“No. It’s just, a kid-”

“Not the best lesson, perhaps. I know, you mean to be generous, but what does such an exchange do? Reinforce an artificial distance between the classes.”

“It was only a mark,” Alex said easily. “An East mark.” Something Peter was likely to have.

“Well, I am perhaps too didactic. I’ve been told this. But you know, it’s true all the same.”

“We should go,” Martin said. “The car-”

Markus glanced at Alex’s suitcase. “A light traveler.”

“Just until the rest of my things arrive. Well, until our coffee then.”

“You can leave messages at the Kulturbund,” Martin said to Markus. “In fact, there is good coffee there. You would be most welcome.”

This seemed to amuse Markus, who smiled. “I will find you, don’t worry,” he said to Alex. “You don’t mind my saying? A very nice coat.” He ran his eyes over it, appraising. “It’s English?”

“No, just Bullocks Wilshire.” And then, at Markus’s blank expression, “A store. In California.”

“When people say ‘English coat’ what do they usually mean? I’m so ignorant of such things.”

“Tweed, I guess,” Alex said, wondering what he was asking. “Anyway, not Bullocks.”

“Of course, if it’s not German, they might say any foreign coat was English. American. English. How many would know the difference? It’s a difficulty with witnesses. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re seeing.” His eyes cool again, steady, not letting it go at all. The old woman? One of the English soldiers? Or nobody? Just his way of pulling a string to see if anything twitched.

The flat was in a nineteenth-century block of pale stucco and ornamental balconies, facing the street, not one of the gloomy back courtyards. Rykestrasse seemed to have escaped any serious bombing, the buildings shabby but intact. A few doors down there was a synagogue that had been converted to stables and at the end a small park with the red brick water tower that Alex could see from his window if he leaned out and craned his head.

“The SA took it over,” Martin said, pointing out the tower to him. “They tortured people in the basement.” He pulled his head back inside. “So, it seems comfortable to you? I realize, not so big, but the light is good. And even-” He paused for effect. “A telephone.”

“It’s wonderful,” Alex said, looking at the phone, clearly a great rarity. “I’m very grateful. You’ve gone to so much trouble.”

“No, no, we are so pleased you’re here.” Meaning it.

A separate bedroom, a worn sofa in the living room for Erich, small galley kitchen and a table by the window facing the street where he could write. A pressed glass pitcher with flowers. Lace curtains, recently ironed. Home.

“I have brought food packages but there are also shops in Schönhauser Allee.” As if everything were there for the asking, shelves filled.

Alex glanced at his watch. Erich would have left by now. “Thank you for everything. I don’t want to keep you.”

“No, no, it’s my job.” He took out a notebook, a secretary. “Perhaps now is a good time to look at your schedule?”

“My schedule?”

“A radio interview. We were hoping-”

“Can’t it wait?”

“But everyone is so anxious to hear what you have to say. A talk at the Kulturbund naturally would be later. So you have time to prepare. But the radio-”

“What kind of interview?”

“A conversation. Like talking over coffee. How it feels to be back. Conditions in America-why you left. Your hopes for the Socialist future. And your work, of course.” His voice implacable, something Alex would have to do sooner or later.

“All right. Let me know when. Anything else?”

Martin looked up, hesitant. “We’re preparing a Festschrift. A special book for Comrade Stalin’s birthday. It was hoped that you might contribute.”

“Contribute?”

“A short piece, whatever length you like. Some members are writing poems, but you-”

“Write a piece,” Alex said. “Praising Stalin.”

Martin turned his head, embarrassed. “His leadership during the war perhaps. A heroic period.” He waited for a moment, as if he were testing his words first. “Shall I say that you are thinking what to say?”

“Who else are you asking to do this?”

“Our prominent members. You of course-”

“Brecht? Brecht is writing something?” An impossible idea.

“A request has been made.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

Martin licked his lips, nervous. “It’s an awkward situation. We want to show a certain solidarity. You understand.”

The more valuable you are, the safer you are. Alex nodded. “When do you need it?”

“The end of March. So the printer will have time. Sometimes, you know, there are delays, with the shortages.”

“Not for this, surely.”

“No, not for this.” Embarrassed again. “The Kulturbund appreciates-”

“Anything else?” Alex said, cutting him off.

“For now, no. May we expect you for lunch today? I can keep a place at the members’ table.”

“No, not today.”

“But Comrade Stein will be disappointed. He wanted to take you afterward to Aufbau. To meet the staff. I think they are expecting you.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize. It’s just-I’d like to get some work done. It’s been awhile since I had a place to work.” He waved his hand toward the table.

“Then coffee perhaps. I know they have prepared something. Say four o’clock? I can have a car-”

“That’s all right. I can get there.” Imagining a car idling, Martin on the stairs, Erich hiding.

“Of course,” Martin said, smiling. “An old Berliner. So. Four o’clock then. I’ll let Comrade Stein know.” He looked over at the table. “What are you working on, may I ask?” Eyes eager, interested.

“A story about a marriage. How we deceive ourselves. When we want to believe in something.”

“A political metaphor?”

Alex smiled. “I hadn’t thought-”

“As in The Last Fence,” Martin said, earnest.

“If you like. But really it’s about the marriage. A bourgeois subject, our friend Markus would say.”

“Well, Markus,” Martin said, putting his notebook away. “I think it’s because he knew you before that he’s so curious. Everything. Even your coat.”

Alex shrugged this off. “Cops are like that.”

“It was the same in America?”

“Well, they never asked about my coat. Just my politics.”

Martin looked at him, not quite sure how to take this. “I’ll tell Comrade Stein to expect you at four.”

And then, another embarrassed nod and he was finally gone, the room suddenly quiet, not even a clock ticking. Alex looked around. How long would he be here? Long enough to tell the world Stalin was a hero? Even longer? He went over to the window, watching Martin go down the street. No parked cars, nobody lurking in doorways, flowers on the table.

Erich got there an hour later, worn out from the walk. He was shivering, even in the heavy coat, so Alex made tea, spiking it with some schnapps he’d found in Martin’s food package.

“You need to see a doctor.”

Erich shook his head. “No papers and then they report you and you’re finished.”

“Does Irene have a phone?”

“Now? I don’t know. Before, yes.”

“Do you remember the number?” Had they kept the same numbers? But she answered.

“Irene? Alex,” he said, holding the receiver close, aware of his own voice. A phone was a privilege. Why had they given him one? To listen? “I have a flat. I thought I’d give you the address.”

“You’re not at the Adlon?” she said quickly, worried.

“No, they found me a flat. Very nice. Big enough for two.”

“For two?” she said, trying to read his tone.

“If I had a guest. Some day. Bigger than the Adlon. Even a phone. Do you have a pencil? I’ll give you the number.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything. Very lucky to find a flat so soon, don’t you think? To have my own place. Do you have an address for Elsbeth?”

“Elsbeth?”

“Yes, I want to visit her. Say hello. She’s married to a doctor, you said, yes? So useful, having one in the family.”

“Yes, useful,” she said slowly, putting this together.

“She’d be so angry if she knew I was here and didn’t come to see her.”

“Shall I come too?” she said, playing along now.

“No, no. You’re busy. Why don’t you come this evening? See the flat and then we’ll get something to eat.”

“I don’t know when Sasha-”

“Well, just call if you can’t. Nice having a phone, isn’t it? Here’s the number.”

They left separately and sat apart on the tram down to Alexanderplatz and then on the S-Bahn to Savignyplatz. Dr. Mutter was only a few blocks down on Schlüterstrasse, but Erich seemed winded by the walk.

The door was opened by a nurse who seemed to be doing double-duty as a maid.

“You have an appointment?”

“We’re here to see Frau Mutter. Tell her Alex Meier.”

“Meier?” she said, a slight twitch, perhaps reacting to the name. Only Aryan patients still. “Wait here.”

A vestibule with a coatrack, drafty, separated from the hall by another door. Elsbeth came almost at once.

“Alex? It’s you?” she said, forehead wrinkled in disbelief, her hand to her throat, a film gesture. She had become her mother, hair wrapped around her head in a braided crown, her face an old woman’s, pinched. Then she noticed Erich, a sharp intake of breath, now clutching her throat, and her face seemed to dissolve. “Erich?” she said, a whisper. “Erich-?”

He reached over to her, hugging her, both now crying.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, touching him, making sure he was real. “Dead. Back from the dead. Unless maybe it’s me who’s dead. They say that’s when you see them, when you’re dead yourself.”

“Elsbeth,” Erich said, disconcerted by this, something she was saying to herself.

“And you,” she said to Alex. “Back too. I thought I would never see you again. But how is it possible?” she said, turning to Erich. “The POWs don’t come back. They keep them there.”

“They’ve started to release them,” Alex said. “Three weeks ago. It’s taken him that long to get to Berlin. He needs to see a doctor. Is your husband here?”

“Gustav? Seeing patients.” She motioned her head inside the house. “It’s his day at home. From the hospital. Are you ill?” she said to Erich. “What?”

“He’s been in a prison camp,” Alex said. “Somebody needs to look at him.”

“So you brought him to Gustav? I don’t understand,” she said to Alex. “Why are you with him? How did you know where-?”

“He went to see Irene.”

“Oh, Irene,” she said, a slight stiffening. “And she sends him here? She won’t even talk to Gustav.”

“Elsbeth,” Alex said, a willed patience. “Can we come in? He’s very weak. You can see for yourself.”

“Weak. Yes, yes, come in. I’m sorry.” She took Erich’s arm. “You’re all right? Did they make you walk? Is it possible, all the way from Russia?”

Erich touched her hair, a faint smile, familiar. “A truck.”

“And you go to Irene?”

“I didn’t know where you were living. She told me.”

She stared at him again. “Back from the dead. Maybe everyone comes back. Wouldn’t that be-?” She turned, leading them in.

The flat was filled with furniture, almost a prewar feel after the austere rooms he’d seen in the East, some leftover Christmas greens still on the mantel. But there were none of the porcelain knickknacks that must have been here before, the clutter of silver frames on the piano, all sold, he assumed, to the men in long coats in the Tiergarten for PX food tins during the first hard winters. Elsbeth, thinner than before, was buttoned up in a nondescript sweater, her old creamy complexion drained away.

“Would you like some tea?” she said, an almost surreal politeness.

“Elsbeth, is your husband-?” Leading her back.

“Yes, I’ll tell him. I hate to interrupt when he has patients. Oh, but what am I saying? It’s you, isn’t it? Come back. But Erich,” she said, a new thought, “did you want to live here? It’s only a flat, as you see, and Gustav-”

“He’s staying with friends of Irene’s,” Alex interrupted. “He doesn’t need a bed. Just a doctor.”

“Yes. Let me get Gustav. Oh, look at you, so thin. You came back. You know father’s dead?”

Erich nodded. Something that had happened years ago.

“And the boys. Both. I was doing volunteer work at the hospital. So many people-the raids. So I wasn’t here. I saw them later, when they dug them out. Both. You can’t imagine how they looked. At first I didn’t recognize them, just the size, so small, so it had to be them. If I had been here-well, Gustav says, don’t think that, but he didn’t see them. All smashed. Like dolls.” She stopped, catching herself. “I’ll get him.”

Erich looked at Alex, not saying anything. Back from the dead.

“Well, Erich,” Dr. Mutter said, coming in and clapping him on the shoulder, a public family welcome. “Thank God. We thought-you know, so many stories.” Tall, with thinning blond hair, a long Nordic face. He turned to Alex, waiting.

“This is Alex Meier,” Elsbeth said. “A friend of the family. A long time ago. Before you knew me.”

“And now here again,” Mutter said, nodding, pointedly not offering his hand. “With Erich.”

“He’s sick,” Alex said plainly. “He needs you to examine him. See what’s wrong.”

“Why didn’t he go to the hospital? We’re not supposed to-”

“He lost his papers,” Alex said, looking at him.

“Lost or never had? Elsbeth said he was released but I haven’t heard they’re doing that. If he’s here illegally, you know it’s against the law to-”

Alex stared at him, his head swimming. The kind of unforgiving precise face that might have been at his parents’ selection. Able to work, over here. The others, there.

“Really, Gustav-” Elsbeth began.

“And if I lose my license?” he said to her. “What happens to us then? I don’t understand why you come here. Or you,” he said to Alex. “Meier, it’s Jewish, yes? Many Jews have tried to make trouble for me. Maybe you want to report me.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Alex said smoothly. “I’ve never been here. Neither has Erich. And you never treated him or gave him medicine. None of that happened, all right?”

Mutter said nothing.

“He’s sick. I want to know with what. What to do.”

“You want to know.”

“Alex was close to us,” Elsbeth said, explaining. “Like cousins.”

“A Jewish cousin. And you come back to Germany? Why? To gloat over us?”

“Just tell me what’s wrong with him. It shouldn’t take long.”

“For God’s sake, Gustav, he’s my brother,” Elsbeth said.

“And what does he say if they catch him? He implicates us.”

“They’re not going to catch him,” Alex said.

“I have never broken the law.”

“That must be a comfort.”

“Alex,” Elsbeth said, alert to his tone. “You don’t know how difficult it’s been for Gustav. Such accusations. Lies.”

“All of them?” Alex said, looking at Mutter.

Mutter said nothing, then turned to Erich. “Come.”

Alex started to follow.

“No. You stay here.”

“Do you mind if I sit on your furniture?”

“Alex,” Elsbeth said, disapproving. “You mustn’t talk that way.”

Mutter left, taking Erich to a back room.

“Sit. I’ll have Greta bring some tea,” Elsbeth said.

“No, don’t bother.”

“It’s been a difficult time for Gustav,” she said, her voice apologetic. “You know, these things he did, all legal-he was asked to do them-and then after they try to make him a criminal. Gustav a criminal, imagine. Of course he was exonerated, but the experience, so unpleasant.”

“What things did he do?”

“Medical things. All legal,” she said again, clinging to it. “But of course difficult to explain after.”

“Yes.”

“We were in the American sector then. For the denazification hearing. And you know the lawyers, the translators were all Jews. Who else knows German there? People from here. Jews who left. That’s why he said that to you. He thinks they came back for revenge. To make trouble for him. So when you come here-”

“With your brother.”

“Yes, well, he sees only the other thing. He’s suspicious. After all that happened.” She paused. “He’s a good man. A wonderful father. You should know that. And you know, some of them did make trouble. Jews are like that.” She caught herself. “Not you-”

“Just all the others.”

“I didn’t say all. Excuse me, but you don’t know what it’s been like here. Oh, let’s not talk about these things. I’m so surprised to see you. And Erich. From the dead. I never thought- Where are you living? Are your parents-?”

He shook his head. “Dead. Both.”

She sighed. “That whole generation. Gone now. I think of my father all the time.”

Alex stared at her, at a loss. As if the deaths were remotely comparable, a quiet passing, not murder.

“You know he’s in the Französischer Friedhof now? At first he was buried on the farm, of course, as he wanted, but when the Communists gave it away in the land reform, well, they call it reform, not theft, which is what it was. Anyway, Irene had him moved. She knew someone who could arrange that. So now he’s in Berlin. But I don’t like to go to the Russian sector, so I don’t visit the grave the way I should. Funny, isn’t it, his ending up in Berlin. He never really liked it here.”

“But don’t you go to the Russian sector to see Irene?”

“I don’t like to,” she said, suddenly prim. “Russians. Those first few weeks, after the war. You’ve heard the stories? I’m afraid, even now. Just to see them. So she comes here. Ah, Greta, thank you.” A tray with teapot and cups was put before them. “And honey cake, yes?” She put a slice on a plate and handed it to him. “Such a treat, since the blockade, even a little sugar. POM they send, dried potatoes, not even like real food. Of course, Irene, it’s different for her,” she said, switching back, confiding. “You know she goes with them, the Russians. At first I thought for her work-they own the studios now. But Gustav says no, someone high up. A protector. What kind of protection? People who steal your land. Of course, Kurt Engel was a Communist too, but that’s different.”

“How?”

“He was German.” She stopped for a minute, some vague, disturbing thought, then looked at him. “It’s like a miracle to see you again. But to come back-after everything. How was it in America? You didn’t like it? Everyone dreams of going there now.”

“They offered me a position here.”

“A position?”

“A publisher. A stipend. And-Berlin.”

“Oh, father always said there was never a Berliner like you. How you liked it.” She looked up. “But you know that’s all gone. How do you bring that back? Bring the people back? So many in the raids. Night after night-” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry about the boys.”

“Rolf would have been twelve now. Tall, I think, like Gustav. The same stubbornness too.” She smiled to herself, then looked up. “He says I shouldn’t think about them. That it will make me sick, living in the past. Where else can I live? That’s where they are. Not here. How can I leave them?” Her eyes had begun to shine, moist and pleading. “I don’t care if it makes me sick.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t care if I die. Maybe I’ll see them again then. It’s possible, no? We don’t know-”

“What’s possible?” Gustav said, coming in.

Elsbeth looked up, startled, somehow caught out. A scene they’d had before.

“To visit her father’s grave,” Alex said. “Now that he’s in Berlin. The Französischer Friedhof, yes?” he said to Elsbeth, who nodded quickly, grateful.

“Such morbid thoughts,” Gustav said, looking at her, really asking something else.

“No, I was fond of Fritz. I’d like to pay my respects.”

Gustav had nothing to say to this, just another stern look at Elsbeth, and Alex saw, in one awful second, that all the bullying, the righteous will that used to exorcise itself in rallies now had nowhere to go and had become domestic, Elsbeth’s grief a sign of weakness, something to be overcome.

Erich sat down next to Elsbeth. “Cake. My God, I haven’t seen cake-”

“So?” Elsbeth said, fussing over Erich, touching him. “And what does Gustav say? You’re all right?”

“I’m not dying yet,” Erich said, a forced casualness. “So it’s better than I expected. Can I have some-”

“Come with me,” Gustav said to Alex.

They went into Gustav’s consulting office, a desk and a console dispensary, health posters on the walls, food groups and the circulatory system.

“He’s not dying yet. But he will be. Unless he can get treatment.”

“For what?”

“A guess only? I need to see X-rays to be sure. We don’t have such equipment here.” He looked around the spare office. “I can listen with this,” he said, touching a stethoscope, “but I can’t take X-rays, so I can’t say for sure. Maybe simple pneumonia-which is never simple, of course. Or cancer. It’s possible. But more likely, tuberculosis. A feeling only, but tuberculosis takes its time, and he hasn’t been well for months.” He paused, hesitant. “He is also maybe a little erratic in his mind, I think. Maybe just the fever, maybe- It was common with soldiers. Especially on the eastern front. But that-that’s something you heal yourself. A question of time. The lungs are the problem now. So.”

“But it’s not radiation poisoning.”

“Radiation poisoning?” Gustav said, surprised. “Why would you think such a thing? Where would he be exposed to radiation? Do you think the Soviets are exploding bombs? That would be news.”

“What about the lesions on his legs?”

“Rat bites,” he said, matter of fact. “He said they were forced to work in wet conditions. It’s easy to infect a puncture in the skin.”

“The wet conditions were pitchblende waste. Uranium. They’d be radioactive.”

Gustav looked up. “You’re sure about this? Where? You should go to the authorities with such information.”

“Yes, but first let’s get him well. If it is radiation-”

Gustav shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. Everything depends on the exposure-how much, how far away you are. A bomb, of course, death. But other exposures, a matter of weeks, no more. A big exposure, you vomit the first week, less than that the second week, and so on, but almost never more than four. He’s been sick longer than that. So poisoning, no.” He stopped. “Of course, a continued exposure, even a low dose, can lead to cancer. Maybe the case here, I can’t say.”

“What would that mean?”

“Lung cancer? There is no cure for lung cancer.”

“It’s the lungs?”

Gustav nodded. “That’s why I think tuberculosis. He hasn’t been coughing blood. Yet. Otherwise, the signs are there. But I need-”

“An X-ray, I know. So where can we get one?”

“A hospital. But without papers? An escaped prisoner? We are obliged to hand such a person over.”

Alex started to say something, then stopped, pressing the edge of the desk to stay calm. The only doctor they could see.

“And if it is TB? What do we do?”

“Do? Well, in the old days, a sanitarium. Lots of eggs and mountain air. Like Thomas Mann.” A nod to Alex, as if this were a writer’s joke. “Now streptomycin. If you could get it. It’s effective. They’ve only been making it since ’44 but the results with tuberculosis are good.”

“Can you get some? At the hospital?”

“In Berlin? My friend, even penicillin is difficult. We keep asking for more. Streptomycin?”

“So where-?”

“The Americans would have it. Their hospital, down in Dahlem. But that’s only for the military. If you really want to do this, start this treatment, you have to get him to the West.”

“The West?”

“Herr Meier, the Russians think aspirin is a miracle drug. There is nothing over there. The American hospital won’t treat civilians. You have to take him west. The hospitals there-”

“Now? Through the blockade.”

“Yes, thanks to your new friends.” He raised his eyebrows. “Erich told me, you’re a guest of the Soviets. And what will they think, your hosts, of you helping a fugitive?”

Alex looked at him. “Who would tell them? And implicate himself?”

Mutter said nothing, turning this over.

“And meanwhile he’s sick. He’s family.”

“Not yours.”

“No, yours.”

“Let me say again. I can’t help him and neither will the Soviets. You need to get him west.” He looked over, almost pleased. “An interesting dilemma for you.”

“There must be something you could give him. He’s shivering. Even I can hear it when he talks, all the congestion, maybe it’s pleurisy, pneumonia, I don’t know. You’re the doctor.” He stopped. “He won’t have to wait for TB to get him if he doesn’t get through this.”

“You understand, it’s illegal, what you’re asking.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Now you sound like the Americans. A doctor should answer to a higher authority. What authority, an oath? The conscience? Then everything breaks down.”

“Everything has,” Alex said quietly.

Mutter looked up. “All great humanitarians, the Americans. When it’s someone else on trial. What would they have done, do you think?”

“I didn’t come here to put anyone on trial. I just want medicine for Erich. He’s sick. You’re a doctor.”

Mutter turned away, hesitating, then went over to the dispensary bureau. “Wait a minute,” he said, rummaging through the drawer. He came back with a tube and a handful of vials and small bottles. “For the legs,” he said, handing Alex the tube of salve. “Once a day only. These twice, once before food, yes? It’s not much, but it should help. Believe it or not, rest and liquids are even more important. The old remedies. Of course, this does nothing for whatever’s really wrong. Working in mines-the dust, think of the damage. The conditions were harsh?”

Alex nodded.

“Well, I don’t put anything past the Russians.”

“No.”

He glanced up, catching Alex’s expression. “Or the Germans? Is that what you were going to say? You don’t come to judge, but you do. Such terrible people. So now we’re all guilty. Do you include yourself?”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“No? Why, because you already know? Someone not even here? How can I tell you what it was like? What we had to do? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Start with my parents. They were-what? Racial impurities? Now they’re nothing. Smoke. Start with them.”

“And you blame me for that?”

“Who do you blame? I’d like to know. Or do you think it happened all by itself?”

For a minute neither said anything, then Alex held up one of the bottles.

“Thank you for this. I won’t say where we got it.”

Mutter half turned, waving his hand in dismissal, no longer meeting Alex’s eyes. “He needs antibiotics,” he said quietly. “Streptomycin. Get him to the West.”

Alex fed him soup and more tea and put him to bed, under the covers.

“But it’s your-”

“I’ll take the couch. We can switch when you’re better.” He held Erich’s head up, spooning him medicine. “Gustav said this would bring the fever down.”

When Erich lay back his face became Fritz’s, the same tall forehead and high cheeks, so that for a second Alex felt he was nursing the old man, some odd transference. Not blustering for once, eyes half closed, a child’s trust. Alex lifted the edge of the sheet and started spreading the salve on Erich’s leg. “Gustav said these were rat bites. Yes?”

“In the barracks. At night. They waited for you to go to sleep.” He reached over to Alex’s arm. “I won’t go back there.”

“No.”

“But if they come?”

“They won’t. Go to sleep. I’m just outside.”

But what if they did? Alex walked through the apartment. A good view of the street from the windows. An armoire, big enough to hide in, if this were a French farce. The back door out the kitchen led to service stairs, a utility closet on the next landing, not locked, something Erich could reach in seconds. Alex looked up-presumably the stairs went all the way to the roof. But why would anyone come, unless they’d been told, in which case they’d search everywhere and there’d be no real escape. The only way to be safe was to be nonexistent, unseen, unheard. Alex scoured the apartment for listening bugs-lightbulb sockets, behind the watercolor of a Wilhelmine street scene, the telephone mouthpiece. Nothing. A trusted guest of the Soviet Military Administration.

Erich was asleep when Alex left for the reception at Aufbau Verlag. A table with coffee and cakes had been set out in the boardroom, the staff crowded around it, curious and deferential. The art director showed him mock-ups of the jackets for his books. There was a polite joke about the author’s photo, now a good ten years old. Aaron Stein, after a public toast, introduced him to smaller groups, department by department, then led him into his office.

“I know, I should give them up,” he said, offering Alex a cigarette. “Helga says they’ll kill me. Well, something will.” A cultured, almost elegant voice that reminded Alex of his mother. Someone who’d been to school, who could play the piano.

“The new editions look wonderful. Thank you.”

“It’s we who should thank you. Our writers are so important to us now. To know there is another Germany, of culture, not just Nazis. If that’s our only history, we’ll die of shame. We are more than that.”

Alex nodded another thank-you, waiting, watching Aaron fidget with his cigarette, working up to something.

“Alex-you don’t mind I call you Alex? I wanted to have a word. Something-delicate.”

Alex raised his eyebrows.

“Martin tells me-you know he’s a great admirer of your work? He tells me you had-a reservation, perhaps. About the Festschrift. For Stalin.”

“No, I said I’d do it.”

“Yes,” Aaron said, uncomfortable. “We appreciate that.” He paused. “I don’t want you to feel that you are being asked to do something against your will.”

“No, I said I would. A Kulturbund project.”

“Well, that’s just it. I wanted you to know, so there’s no misunderstanding, the project did not originate with us. The SED asked. Of course, it was an appropriate idea, we were only too glad to help.” He looked up. “You know, it needn’t be long. The fact that so many contribute is really the point. For him to know he has our support.”

“I understand.”

“The Kulturbund-sometimes we find ourselves in an awkward position. To make German culture live again. And also to please the occupation authorities. A question of balance. Anyway, we are so pleased to have you with us.”

Alex nodded again.

“So,” Aaron said, evidently finished, then looked down at his cigarette, rolling it against the rim of the ashtray. “You know, there are fashions even in politics. Today, something is popular, tomorrow not. Things change. Sometimes even the logic of things. But the logic of the Socialist system, that doesn’t change. Nobody ever said it would be easy to make a new society. Think who must be against it. So, sometimes a disappointment, sometimes a compromise. But how else to get there? And think what’s at the end. A just society must be worth a few sacrifices, no?”

Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck. A phrase he’d used himself.

“And you cannot have a just society without a just economic system. That’s the logic that never changes for me. The rest-” He waved his hand.

“Can I ask you something then? I heard that you resigned from the secretariat last year.”

“And you want to know why, if I’m such a good Communist?” Aaron said, a wry smile forming around the cigarette. “Well, it’s a question. Should I say I’m too busy here with my work? That I wanted more time with my family? No, you ask, I’ll tell you. A change of fashion maybe, like I said before. I come from the Comintern days when there was an international ideal. All Communists, the same belief. But now the SED answers only to the Russians, to their issues. I understand. Germany lost the war. You have to expect a certain amount of-what? — hardship. Looting, all the terrible things of war. But three, four years later, they’re still dismantling factories. Our soldiers are still prisoners. Four years later. This isn’t good for Communism, only for Russia. If it really is good for them, who knows? But it’s not good for Germany. Why did I resign? I want the SED to be Socialist and German.” He stopped. “Well, I’m giving you a speech. You didn’t ask for that. Anyway, you think they were sorry to see me go? An old Cominterno who went to the West? Another fashion. If you went to the West you’re suspect. Cosmopolitan. Although that’s only another word for Jew. Whenever you hear that, you know what’s coming-” He stopped again. “A good time, maybe, to mind your own business. Until the fashion changes.”

“That’s what people thought before.”

Aaron looked away. “Yes, I know. The head in the sand.” He shifted in his chair. “But this will pass. It’s not possible, you know, anti-Semitism in a Socialist state. A contradiction. It’s against the logic.” He took off his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief, his face suddenly boyish, pale. “So there’s an answer. About the secretariat. Maybe I wasn’t practical enough for political work. My wife thinks that.” He smiled. “It’s true. But it’s just as well. There is so much to do here. Can I stop them taking a factory? No. And in the end, what’s more important? Today’s problem, which goes away, or to bring German literature back to Germany?”

“But what about the forced labor? I heard that’s why you-”

“No, no, no,” Aaron said, cutting him off, head up now, glasses back on, alarmed. “Nothing like that. Such nonsense. Berlin, you know, is a great place for rumors. People will say anything. But come,” he said, standing up. “I’ll walk with you. You’re taking a tram? From Hackescher Markt?”

Alex looked up, surprised. Everything abrupt now, rushed. Coats, a word with his secretary, and then they were on the street, walking up to Unter den Linden.

“What is it?” Alex said, stopping.

“Nothing. I-” He stifled a cough. “Please, walk. It’s better. Forgive me. You learn to be careful.”

“About what?”

“Forgive me,” he said again. “You know, you’re with us now and I’m so pleased. But not everything is perfect. This matter of the forced labor-it’s a great sensitivity.”

“So we have to go out here to talk?”

“Yes, maybe a foolishness. But people listen. Herschel-a journalist, a friend-wrote about this and he was arrested. A Kulturbund member. A book coming from us. We can’t have that kind of trouble. What I said to you before-it’s old news. What Comrade Stein is always saying. But this-they don’t like talk about this. I’ve been warned.”

“But it’s not a secret.”

Aaron shook his head. “No, that’s the hypocrisy. I said not everything is perfect. People know about this. Thousands sent to the mines. How can you keep that a secret? But the Russians pretend it is. They don’t want to talk about it. Well, of course, it makes them unpopular. But it also makes the SED unpopular. To go along with this policy, forcing their own people-” He shook his head. “So shortsighted. So I resigned. You ask the reason, that was it. I think the SED should protect Germans from this. I won’t lie to you. But I can’t talk about it there,” he said, cocking his head back toward the office. “I don’t want to make trouble. You’re disturbed-I can see in your face-but the final logic is still correct. You were right to come. Don’t ever doubt that.” His voice earnest, a hand on Alex’s arm. “You know, with everything else, the Russians try to work with us. Look at the subsidies to Aufbau. A priority for paper. The schools. The theaters. But this-on this one thing, an iron fist. So all the rest of it, all the good efforts-who gives them credit for that when people are being worked like this? Like slaves. So they don’t want them to know. The Siberia mentality-people disappear. No one knows where. No one talks. So here too. They don’t want any talk. Then it doesn’t exist. Just the good news in Neues Deutschland. Forgive me,” he said, slowing, his voice calmer. “There is good news, you know. Real progress. We mustn’t forget that. This is-a problem. And you know, problems can be solved. The underlying logic is still right.”

“But the West-you’d think they’d have a field day with this. The propaganda. If they really want to hit the Soviets.”

“It’s hard to get information. Not so many leave now. And of course the ones who do speak are discredited. So it’s rumors.” He looked up. “Conversations like this.”

“Which we’re not having.”

“No,” Aaron said, a faint smile. “Literary conversation only.”

“I didn’t mean to pry-about the committee. Thank you for being so frank.”

“Frank. Indiscreet, Helga would say.” He looked up at the sky. “You know, it’s not always like this here. It’s just a sensitivity, the mines. When you think-how desperate they must be to risk all this good will, for pitchblende.”

“Maybe they don’t care.”

“No, I don’t think it’s that,” Aaron said, thoughtful. “I hope not. How can we do this without them?”

“Do what?”

“Make a new life for Germany. The Russians are here. What other choice is there? When I was in Mexico I used to think how it would be, when the Nazis were finally gone. When it was our chance. And now it is.” He looked over at Alex. “So you work with what you have. Well, I’m talking too much. I should get back to the office. You can find your way?”

“Were you ever tempted to stay? In Mexico?”

“In Mexico? My God, no. I couldn’t wait to get back to-” He stopped, laughing at himself. “Civilization.” He looked around at the ruins. “Well, it doesn’t seem so now, does it? But you know, we are a civilized people.” He paused. “Don’t worry, you’ve done the right thing. We’ll clean all this up. You’ll help. And then we’ll see what we can be.”

It was already dark, Unter den Linden like a long open field swept every once in a while by the headlights of military transports, high off the ground, and the fainter beams of a few cars. In the quiet he could hear the airlift planes overhead. How to get Erich out? Train, car-the usual exits were closed. Getting to the frontier now would mean traveling across the Soviet zone, a desperate risk for a POW on the run. He could walk to a Western sector in Berlin, but that was no guarantee-the Soviets picked up people wherever they felt like it, snatched them right off the streets. He thought of Lützowplatz, the squeal of tires. And who would hide him? Gustav, with one hand already on the phone, doing the right thing? Willy might have done Alex the favor of getting him into the American hospital, but Willy was dead. Any approach now to BOB would put both of them at risk. And Erich would still be in Berlin. He looked up. The only way out was by plane, and for that he’d need more than a favor.

It took him a few seconds to realize the sidewalk was being lit up by a car behind him. Not speeding, not passing, trailing at his pace. Instinctively he glanced away from the road. The buildings were set back from the sidewalk here, not flush as they’d been at Lützowplatz. Any grab would involve leaping the curb, pinning him in with the car. A showy maneuver, drawing attention. If that mattered. The bridge soon, the blackened city palace beyond, the light still steady behind him. His throat felt dry, the saliva drained away. Then the light moved up, alongside.

“Alex.”

Impossible to pretend he hadn’t heard, impossible to run. He turned to the car, the rolled-down window. Markus.

“Come, I’ll give you a lift.”

“I don’t want to take you out of your way,” Alex said, leaning toward the window.

“Not at all. A pleasure. Get in.” Not quite an order, the voice genial.

The car was warm, a heater blasting from under the dashboard.

“A cold night for a walk,” Markus said. “I thought it was you. The other man, that was Stein?”

“Yes, there was a reception at Aufbau. To meet the staff. A nice occasion.”

“And then he came out to walk with you.”

“Just for some air. He had to get something, I think. I don’t know what.”

“Cigarettes, perhaps. A great smoker.”

“Yes.” Not saying anything more, waiting.

“A serious conversation. What were you talking about? Do you mind if I ask?”

“My books. They’re bringing out new editions. They showed me the jackets earlier.”

“You found them attractive?”

“Yes, very.”

“So you’re pleased with Aufbau? Good. He’s very respected, I think, Stein. For his literary opinions. What else did you talk about?”

Pressing. Or testing? What if the walls did have ears?

“Books, mostly. A Festschrift they’re putting together. For Stalin’s birthday.”

“Ah yes? That will please him, I think. A loyal gesture. You’re contributing?”

“Yes, I was pleased to be asked. Being new here.”

“So, a change of heart since ’39? No more objections to the nonaggression pact? All is forgiven?”

“Anyone can make a mistake. He made it right in the end. That’s all that matters now.”

“This is not-do you mind my saying? — the version of history you should offer in the Festschrift.”

Alex looked over. As close as Markus could come to making a joke. He was smiling, pleased with himself.

“No. Anyway, it’s a long time ago now.” A new thought. “How do you know I objected to the pact? You were, what, fourteen, fifteen?”

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

“Everybody has a file. Some, more than one.”

“Really. And what’s in mine?”

“Good things. Don’t worry.”

“Just curious. Why would anybody be interested?”

“You were invited to be a guest of the SMA. Naturally such invitations are only extended to persons who are-reliable.”

“Well, then I must have passed.”

“Oh yes. Your statement to the Fascist committee was really admirable.” Said warmly, without his usual innuendo. “And you have made a good impression here.”

“Oh,” Alex said, not expecting this.

“Yes, it’s very pleasing. Not just to me personally-you know, to see an old friend so well received. But it makes it easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

“People are comfortable with you. They’ll talk to you.”

For a minute, Alex said nothing, letting this sink in.

“Which people?” he said finally.

“For instance, Comrade Stein. He is sometimes outspoken, sometimes not. What does he say to you? It would be interesting to me. To know that.”

“For his file?”

Markus shrugged, something irrelevant.

Alex sat looking out, then turned in his seat. “Are you asking me to be an informer?” Hearing himself, struck finally by the sheer implausibility of the moment, a laugh somewhere in the pit of his stomach, trying to rise then curling in on itself, one knot tightening into another.

“Informer,” Markus said, dismissing the word. “I am asking you to help me in my work. To keep Germany safe.”

“Germany.”

“Yes, I know, we are not yet a state. But we will be. The West is already making theirs. A new currency. Soon, a country. Armed. Against us. So how do we defend ourselves? How do we protect the revolution?”

“By snitching on Aaron Stein?”

Markus looked over. “More jokes. It was a worry to me at first, all this joking. Then I saw that it was useful. It puts people at ease with you. No, not ‘snitching.’ If Comrade Stein is working for the Party what does he have to fear if we know what he says?”

“And if he’s not?”

“Then it’s important for us to know. To help him correct his mistakes. As you say, we all make mistakes. He will be grateful for this, I think.”

“Markus, I’m not-” The words sticking somewhere in the back of his mouth. “No one asked me to do anything like this. When they invited me.”

“No, I’m asking you. When I saw you, at the Kulturbund, I thought, yes, someone in an excellent position to hear. And with a debt. A state that took you in, that treats you as-”

“Are you saying I have to do this if I want to stay here?”

“It’s not a question of bookkeeping, this for that. But think how pleased the Party will be, knowing how you help them.” He paused. “And, you know, very useful for me. To use this old association, the trust we have for each other. It’s just a matter of time before someone else suggests this. I’m not the only one to see your position, how convenient it can be. And eventually the Party agrees and you will do it anyway and then someone else gets the credit. But to do this work now, at my suggestion, it would be a great personal favor to me. I know, it’s only the younger brother, but we have a history. A friendship.”

“I’m not-”

“Think about this. Think of all the advantages. Before you decide. There are many who do this.”

“Who tell you what Aaron Stein says to them?”

“Stein, others. An informal arrangement. No desk at K-5,” he said lightly, another joke. “A talk, from time to time. Of course, confidential. Comrade Stein will never know. No one will.” He looked over again. “It will be our secret.”

Alex felt his stomach clench, some rush of acid.

“This is what I ran away from. The FBI watching-”

“Is it? I don’t think so. I think you were running away from prison. For your admirable Socialist principles. Now you have-the opposite. A good life. It’s a small price, to help those who helped you. Especially when they need this help. To protect themselves.” He took out a business card. “Think a little. How easy this will be. And how useful. Call here. We’ll meet for coffee. Another advantage. A friend from the old days, what could be more natural? A friendly visit, coffee. What could be more natural?”

“You’re so sure I’d be good at this?”

“You don’t have to be good. Just tell me what you hear. I’ll do the rest.”

They had left Alexanderplatz and were heading up Greifswalder Strasse. “Turn up here,” Alex said.

“I know where you live,” Markus said, smug.

But not who’s living there with me.

“Do you have someone telling you what I say?”

“Alex, so suspicious,” Markus said.

“You know, something I don’t understand. You ask me to do this and all the time I’ve been feeling-all the questions-”

“I wanted to be sure of you.”

“And now you are.”

“They say in the service you should never be sure of anybody.” He turned, a small smile. “Yes, I’m sure. At first, just a worry only. Another service rule-there are no coincidences. So you go to Lützowplatz. A coincidence? The service rule says no. But life-it’s a different thing. We have someone now for questioning.”

“You found him?” Alex said, his stomach tightening again.

“I think so. Someone in the service, so maybe the first rule is right. I’ve been suspicious of him for some time. So now we’ll see.”

Answering questions. Or just screaming in pain. Claiming to be innocent. Feeding on each other.

“I can get out at the corner here,” Alex said, suddenly aware of the street. What if Erich was up, a light on? One small detail, a light, and everything would unravel.

“It’s no trouble,” Markus said, turning into Rykestrasse.

Had he told Erich to keep the light off? He couldn’t remember. The utility closet on the stairs, the escape route, the knock signals, but maybe not the light. One slip. The world he lived in now.

The car stopped in front of the building. Alex looked up, counting floors. No light. He breathed out, then realized Markus was talking.

“How things turn out,” he was saying, the end of a thought. “When I was young, you were-all of you, all of Kurt’s friends-like gods to me. I wanted to be with you, do what you were doing. And now look. Here we are, working together. It’s such a pleasure for me. Well, so think.” A farewell touch of his fingers to his temple. “You can call me. You have a telephone, I think?”

Alex nodded.

“You see, only the best for you. One more thing? When you were talking to Comrade Stein, it was about books only? Nothing else?”

A trap if Markus already knew, listening through walls.

“No, I asked him why he had resigned from the secretariat last year.”

“Ah,” Markus said, pleased, another test passed. “And what did he say?”

“Nationalist feelings. He thinks the SED should be more protective-of German interests.”

“Yes, I have heard this.”

“But that’s all,” Alex said, looking at him. “He’s a loyal Communist.”

“That is your assessment?”

“Yes. Completely loyal. I’m sure of it.”

“The first rule of the service?” Markus said. “Don’t be sure of anybody.” Teasing, almost waggish. “Well, perhaps you’re right. We’ll see. Good night. It’s such a pleasure for me, all this. Who could have predicted it?”

Alex watched the car pull away. We’ll see. Inside he stopped at the foot of the stairs, suddenly unable to move, as if his knees had given out, and leaned against the wall. Now what? Maybe he could get out before he had to do anything. But what if he never got out? Writing odes to Stalin and looking and listening, betraying everybody. What both sides wanted. Because of course in the end he’d have to do it. Think about it, Markus had said. But who said no to such a request? From a grateful Party. A refusal would make him suspect, someone to watch, the last thing he could afford. Make yourself valuable to them.

His breath was coming faster, running in place. What if Campbell never got him back, kept him dangling here, waiting to drop into Markus’s net? One slip. Who got out of Berlin now anyway, all blockaded up, his Dutch passport something the Soviets could flick aside, like a gnat. Their property now, with his privileged telephone. Making reports for Markus’s files. Another line crossed, maybe all of them just lines after that first one, a raised gun in his hand. No witnesses. Except there had been. Had Markus dug the old lady up? Someone to tighten the noose around his hapless colleague’s neck. Markus, who now believed in coincidences. And being sure of someone.

He turned his head toward the stairs. Voices. Only one flight up, his flat, unless they were loud enough to carry down another floor. He started up, instinctively on tiptoe. Had Erich let someone in? But there was no light under the door. Voices again, rising, then falling. No, not voices, one voice, talking into a void. At the door, he listened. Nothing, then the voice again. Erich’s. A few words, a falling off, then a sound of distress, almost a whimper, no words, as if someone had twisted his arm, caused some sudden pain. Alex put his hand on the doorknob, beginning to turn it quietly, surprise whoever it was, but it stuck, still locked. No one then, just Erich, but loud enough to be heard by some curious neighbor, loud enough to give himself away.

Alex unlocked the door and switched on the light. Another sound, muffled, talking to himself in the dark. Alex went into the bedroom and sat, trying to wake him gently. A startled cry, eyes still closed, afraid, wherever he was.

“Shh. Erich. It’s all right.” Hand clammy, some night sweat on his forehead. “It’s a dream.”

Eyes open now, staring at Alex but not seeing him, then filling with tears.

“I didn’t know. What they would do to me.”

“Shh. It’s all right.” Quietly, almost a whisper.

“But I couldn’t. At first I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Shoot. Not after the women. Nobody ran. Why didn’t they run? That would have been-like a hunt. Not like this. Lined up, then in the pit. Then another group. And no one runs.”

“In the pit? In the mines?” Alex said, trying to make sense of it.

“No,” Erich said, his eyes focusing now, grabbing Alex’s sleeve. “Not in the mines. Before. We made them dig the pit and then we shot them. It’s a dirty business, Schultz said. But we had to do it. They gave us vodka before, for our nerves. You know, when you see them fall in like that, over and over, it does things to you. So we tried to help each other-”

“Who did?” Alex said, sitting up, motionless.

“Us. The soldiers. They said somebody had to do it, so we did it. And then I didn’t have the stomach for it, but I thought what will they do to me? Some punishment. So I had to keep going.”

“Shooting,” Alex said.

Erich nodded. “Until it’s done. The whole village.”

“And then what?”

“Then we covered the pit. Not us, other soldiers. The shooters were excused from that. And you know what Schultz said? A good day’s work. They don’t give medals for this, but-” He looked up at Alex. “He said we should be proud.”

Alex froze, hearing the thuds of the bodies falling in. He moved his hand away. What had happened to everybody?

“Now I dream about it sometimes,” Erich said. “The way they looked at us. Before we shot them.”

Alex looked over, dismayed. The man he was risking everything to help. Fritz’s son.

Erich turned his head on the pillow, somewhere else again, back in his waking dream.

“The children stayed with the mothers. It was easier. Sometimes hiding the face in the skirt, so those we didn’t have to see. And once, after they fell in, we saw one of them crawling-we had missed him somehow-so Schultz went over to the edge and did it himself. Two shots, to make sure.” His voice had begun to drift. “And you know that night we had more vodka and what do you think comes? A letter. From Elsbeth. How she knew I must be suffering in the cold, it was always cold in Russia, but everyone in Germany was so grateful, how brave we were. And I thought, how can I tell her? What we were doing. Dirty business, he said. But it was worse than that, wasn’t it? I couldn’t tell her. Anybody. Schultz said we couldn’t tell.” He turned back, facing Alex. “Anybody. You won’t report it? That I told you this?”

“No.”

“We couldn’t tell the Russians. In the camp. They would have killed us. Revenge. It was bad enough, just being there. So we didn’t tell. But you, it’s different. An American.” He stopped, his face wrinkling in confusion. “I thought you were there.”

“I was.”

“They don’t know about such things there. You think you can’t do it. Then someone tells you to do it and you do it.”

Alex looked away, hearing Willy’s voice, his own panicked breathing.

“To help each other. If one stops, what does that say to the others? So you do it. And then it’s everybody shooting, not just you, you know?”

Alex looked at him, saying nothing. How old was he now? Twentysomething. Line after line, everybody shooting so nobody was shooting. He turned away.

“Try to get some sleep.”

“A few minutes. Sometimes when I sleep-” He clutched Alex’s sleeve more tightly. “So what should I have done? Somebody had to do it. They said so.”

Alex stood up. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Yes, from America,” Erich said, still a puzzle piece to him, but he did finally close his eyes, his shallow breathing slowing, getting easier. Alex stood for a few minutes, watching him drift off, Fritz again, a boy’s smoothness spreading over his features.

He was still asleep when Irene got there.

“What did Gustav say?” she said, wiping his brow, barely touching it, not wanting to wake him.

“He needs medicine he can’t get here. He needs to get to the West.”

“The West? How? The border’s-”

“I know.”

“Maybe Sasha will help.”

“He can’t. You know that.”

“But it’s only one man. A boy. And you know Sasha’s-” She stopped, an awkward pause. “He’s very fond of me.”

“He’s not going to help you.”

“But if he dies here- It’s that serious? He might die?”

Alex nodded.

“Then what choice? He stays here, he dies. He goes back to Russia, another death sentence. What choice?”

“None. We have to get him out. You realize, he can’t come back. It’s a one-way trip.”

She put her hand back on Erich’s forehead, her face soft, then looked at Alex. “People come back.”

“Not always. Not this time.”

“What do you mean? Tell me.”

He started back to the other room, waiting for her to follow, then closed the door quietly.

“The only way out is by plane. That would mean military authorization. American. And somebody to take care of him on the other end. So they’d have to want to do this for him. Even break a few rules.”

“And why would they do that? For a German.” She looked up. “You mean they’d do it for you. Some favor. You know someone like that? Who would do this for you?”

“For me?” He shook his head. “I’m practically a fugitive. In contempt of Congress.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nobody in the American zone is going to do anything for me.” Hearing himself, the smoothness of it, not even a hesitation. “Unless I have something to trade, enough to pay Erich’s fare.”

“What are you thinking?” she said, looking at him closely. “You have some idea?”

“I met a man at the party from the radio. Their radio-RIAS. If Erich did an interview with them, I think Ferber would have enough clout to get him out.”

“An interview about what?”

“He hasn’t been in a POW camp. A slave labor detachment. Down in the Erzgebirge.”

“Where Sasha goes,” she said quietly. “Do you think he knew? That Erich was there?”

Alex shook his head. “Erich was just a number. Not even a name. How would he have known? He wasn’t supervising work parties. Not Maltsev’s assistant. They’re not names to him.” He paused. “Just slaves.”

“If I thought that,” Irene said, not picking up on this. “That he knew all along- And now? Does he know now? The men who escaped-”

“They’re probably just numbers too.” He looked over. “It would be something to find out.”

“When I spy on him,” she said, a wry shrug, then looked up. “And Erich would talk about that on the radio? The mines? That’s the idea?”

“A firsthand report about what it’s really like there. From a former war hero.”

“War hero.”

“If he’s alive, he’s a hero.”

She looked at him. “It’s propaganda.”

He nodded. “But in this case, also the truth. He almost died there. He might die here, if we don’t get him out. I think they’d want the interview-eyewitness, not rumors.”

“And get Erich on a plane?”

“That would be the deal. But you understand what it would mean. Right now, he’s a POW on the run. If he does this, he becomes an enemy of the state.”

For a minute she said nothing, then breathed out, a kind of sigh.

“An enemy of the state. What state?”

“Sasha’s state,” Alex said.

She raised her eyes, holding his for a second. “But he would have his life.”

“Yes.”

“The Americans want to put you in prison, but you arrange propaganda for them,” she said, a question.

“They’re Germans in the mines.”

“And if they find out here you arranged this? You’d be an enemy of the state too.”

“Probably.”

“Then you’d go to prison here.”

“Do you have another idea? We can’t just walk away from this.”

“From Erich? No. He’s all that’s left now, from that life.” She lifted her head. “And you’d do this? Hiding him, it’s one thing, but-”

“It’s a lot easier to do it if you don’t think about it. What it could mean.”

She was quiet for a second, then looked away. “Yes. That’s often how it is, isn’t it?” She moved toward the bedroom. “Is it good to sleep so long, do you think?”

They woke him to give him the scheduled medicine, but even after more tea all he wanted to do was sleep.

“Alex has an idea. To get you to the West. Would you like that?” Irene said.

“You’ll come too.”

“Ouf, how could I do that? DEFA doesn’t move for me. But I’ll come visit. They have medicine there. Things you need.”

“I can’t stay here,” Erich said, not really a reply, some conversation he was having in his head. “The ones they catch, they put them in the worst mines. That’s what happens. They put you back, but worse.”

“Nobody’s going to catch you,” Alex said. “You warm enough?” He closed the bedroom curtains. “If you need light, stay in here. They took the blackout curtains down in the other room, so any light shows. Remember what I said about the stairs if there’s any trouble?”

Erich nodded. “Where are you going?”

Alex turned to Irene. “Where are we going?”

“The Möwe. Sasha said he’d meet me there. You don’t know it,” she said to Erich. “It’s just a place people go to. Sleep now and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “You know what Elsbeth said? Her flat is too small.”

“It’s not her. It’s him.”

“My own sister. Blood.”

“Never mind, it’s better here. Alex is like family.”

Erich smiled, eyes still closed. “Ha! What would papa say? An American in the family. A spy.”

The hairs on Alex’s arms moved suddenly, as if some electric pulse were running along his skin. “Yes? Why a spy?”

“All Americans are spies. That’s what they told us. Don’t talk to them. If you see one in the village, report it. They’re all spies. Imagine how stupid-to think we could recognize them. How? Wearing uniforms? In Aue?” His voice drifted off.

“Yes, stupid,” Alex said, turning off the bedside lamp. “I’ll be back. Remember, no lights in the other room.”

“So careful. So maybe Erich’s right,” Irene said, teasing, then looked at her watch. “Anyway, there should be a power cut soon. They like to turn it off during dinner, so you can’t see how bad the food is.” A Berlin joke, tart, a shrug of the shoulders.

On the stairs the lights did go out, a quick flicker, then darkness, so that after they felt their way to the courtyard entrance they almost collided with a woman trying to get a flashlight to work.

“Oh, Mister Meier,” she said. “You’re in the building too? I didn’t realize.” Then, backing up, “Roberta Kleinbard. We met at the Kulturbund.”

“Yes, I remember. From New York. The architect.”

“Well, Herb’s the architect. But I help with the drawings.”

“You remember Frau Gerhardt?” Alex said, not sure if they had met. Both nodded.

“We’re across the courtyard,” Roberta said. “Did you just move in?”

“Yes, just.”

“So they’re putting all the Americans in one place, I guess. Tom Lawson’s in the back courtyard. He was the first. Here we go,” she said as the flashlight finally went on. “Follow me.”

They trailed the light, single file, out the entrance to the street.

“Thank God I bought extra batteries. Hard to get now,” Roberta was saying, but Alex barely heard her, his mind still back in the courtyard. All the Americans. Is that how Roberta saw him? What Erich thought too. He felt he had just seen himself in a mirror, rubbing bathroom steam away, seen finally what all the others saw, Markus and Martin and Erich making spy jokes. Not a German anymore, someone who hadn’t been here, couldn’t know what it was now to be German. Exile was irreversible, where he lived.

“You can still buy them in the British sector,” Roberta said. “But who knows for how long? They’re going to end the dual currency any day now, that’s what people say, and then what? Who has West marks unless you work over there?”

“Can we drop you somewhere?” Irene said, pointing to the waiting car, sent by Sasha from Karlshorst.

“Oh,” Roberta said, taking it in, impressed, then glancing at Alex. “If you’re going by the Kulturbund. But I can-”

“No, no, it’s on the way. Please.”

They got in, Irene giving the driver instructions. Roberta, who had assumed the car was Alex’s, now looked puzzled, a little wary.

“Another party?” Alex said.

“No, just dinner. With Henselmann. You know he’s in charge of the Friedrichshain project. New buildings all the way to Frankfurter Tor. Herb’s designing two.”

“Frankfurter Tor,” Irene said. “That’s miles.”

“A showcase street,” Roberta said, nodding. “Herb said they’re going to call it Stalinallee.”

“What, Grosse Frankfurter Strasse?” Alex said, remembering his drive into the city, the endless blocks of piled rubble. “But it’s always been-”

“Well, I know. But really, what difference does it make? And it’s the kind of gesture that might get the funding started. You know, once you start a construction project, it’s hard to stop it. But getting started- And Herb’s designs are ready to go. He was at the Bauhaus, you know. Years ago. So this is like a dream for him. Come for a drink sometime and see. So convenient, being just across the courtyard. Do you face the street?”

“Yes.”

“They must think a lot of you,” Roberta said.

“No, it’s probably what was available, that’s all.”

Roberta looked at him, about to correct this, then decided to say nothing. Instead she turned to Irene.

“Can I ask what you do?”

“I’m at DEFA.”

“Oh, an actress,” Roberta said, excited, looking around, as if the answer explained the car.

“No, I work on the production staff.”

“Still. Just to be there. I was always crazy about movies, from a kid on. Of course, here it’s harder. But my German’s getting better. My son laughs at me now. It’s so easy for them at that age.”

“You’ve been here a long time?”

“No, just long enough to get homesick once in a while. For friends, you know. My sister was coming to visit, but with this going on,” she said, jerking her head up to the airlift, “it’s impossible. But soon. I mean how long can they keep it up? Their coal allowance is lower than ours now, and that won’t get anyone through a really cold one.” She had been looking toward the front seat, still trying to work out the car. “Your driver. He’s a soldier? It’s an official car?”

“A friend lends it to me. It’s so hard to get around at night. Almost as bad as during the blackout.” Which still didn’t explain why he lent it.

“Yes, thank you for the lift,” Roberta said, looking at her, but reluctant to push it further. “The lap of luxury. Herb’ll be jealous. Here we are. Just at the corner. I must say, I don’t know what we’d do without the Kulturbund. Meals off ration.” She caught herself. “And of course the people-everyone is so interesting. There’s a real seriousness about the arts here. Not like-”

Alex, on the street now, offered his hand to help her out.

“Thank you again,” she said to Irene. “And your friend.” She got out, her hand still on Alex’s. “Thanks. Alex-can I call you Alex? — I wanted to ask you-” She lowered her head, her voice almost conspiratorial. “I mean we don’t know each other really, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know who else to ask.”

Alex looked at her, waiting.

“I just wondered if it was us, people who’d come from the States. For some reason.”

“What?”

“Have they asked you for your Party documents? They said they were calling them in for review and I was just wondering why. You know, whether it was everybody or just Herb-”

“Party documents?”

“Membership books, you know.”

“But I’m not a member. Not yet.”

“Really? I thought-well, never mind. It’s probably just some office thing. They love all that official paper, all the stamps. I just wondered is all.” Her voice trying to be light, but anxious, her eyes troubled. She raised her head. “You’re going to join, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, remembering Dieter.

“I mean, it makes everything so much easier here. And of course it’s-the Party. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Anyway, come for a drink and see Herb’s drawings. It’s really wonderful, what Berlin is going to look like.”