Leaving Berlin

4

“Don’t worry, I’m worth the wait,” Irene said, offering her cheek to be kissed. “I brought Alex. You don’t mind. He wanted to see the Möwe. Look, there’s Brecht.”

Across the room, Brecht took out his cigar stub and half waved it.

“The more the merrier,” Sasha said. “You remember Ivan?” The other Russian stood and bowed his head, military polite. “A real Ivan,” Sasha said to Alex. “Not an Ivan. His name. Sit, sit. He came with me to celebrate.”

“Oh yes?” Irene said, sitting down. “What are you celebrating?” She glanced at the vodka bottle, half gone.

“Tell her,” Ivan said. “He’s so modest. She’ll be proud of you.”

“I’m already proud,” Irene said. “So now?”

“A big promotion,” Ivan said. “Moscow!” He raised his glass, a toast they’d made before.

“Moscow?” Irene said, paling a little.

“In the director’s office.” Ivan slapped Sasha on the back. “Now what do you think of him?”

“When?” Irene said to Sasha. “You never said.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s all the good work,” Ivan said, clinking glasses with him. “Come, have a drink,” he said to Alex. He raised his hand to get the waiter. “You need a glass.”

“Just beer for me,” Alex said to the waiter. “Irene?”

She shook her head. “When?” she asked again.

“I don’t know. Soon. Any day. Whenever the new man arrives. It’s a question of arranging transport.”

“You’ll be sorry to go,” she said, looking at him.

“Sorry? To go to Moscow?” he said, answering something else, as if he’d already left her. “After Berlin?” He laughed, then stopped, finally aware of her look. “Of course I will miss you.”

“Maybe not so much.”

“Every day,” he said grandly, raising a glass to her.

“You won’t be lonely,” Ivan said to Irene. “I can see to that.”

“No, I won’t be lonely,” Irene said to Sasha. “It’s a surprise, that’s all. Moscow. It’s a big job?” Her voice tight, eyes troubled, sorting through all the implications.

Sasha nodded.

“So. Your wife will be pleased.”

Sasha poured another glass for Ivan, avoiding this.

“And here I thought you and Alex would get to know each other,” she said. “Become friends.”

“We are friends,” Sasha said, smiling. “One night. It’s like that in wartime.”

“To Moscow,” Alex said, raising his beer glass to Sasha.

He drank, feeling the beer work its way down to his stomach, clenching again, his one chance of buying his way home about to disappear. They wouldn’t care anymore what people said at the Kulturbund, now that they’d almost had Markovsky, the promise of indiscretions on Irene’s pillow. Maltsev’s assistant, the best keyhole at Karlshorst, leaving town.

“Don’t worry,” Sasha said, leaning toward Irene. “You’ll be all right at DEFA. The payoks, I can arrange to keep you on that list. Is there anything you need?” When she shook her head, “We always knew this would happen, no? Someday.”

“But maybe not so soon.”

“You’re sorry to see me go?” he said, a little surprised, teasing.

“Of course.”

“Well, a woman like you. You’ll have no trouble finding someone else.” Said lightly, intended to flatter, but Irene turned red, as if she’d been slapped, a public embarrassment.

“At your service,” Ivan said, moving his arm to his chest in a bow.

“Anyway, I’m not going tonight,” Sasha said, a wink in his voice, touching Irene’s hand.

“No,” she said, looking down, away from Alex.

“That’s right,” Ivan said, louder. “Tonight we celebrate.”

“Yes,” Irene said. “I’ll have a drink now.” She picked up a glass. “To Moscow.”

“Moscow,” Ivan echoed.

“You see?” Sasha said. “Not so sorry after all. How long before you forget me? A week?”

“No. I have a good memory,” she said, then smiled, a party mood. “Maybe a month.”

“Me, never,” Sasha said, suddenly sentimental, drunk now. “I’ll never forget Berlin. It was a good time here.”

“For you maybe,” Irene said. “Not so much for us.”

“You think it was bad here?” Ivan said. “You should see what the Fascists did in Russia.”

“Well, that’s in the past now,” Irene said easily.

Alex glanced at her, thinking of Erich. Things she would never know.

She raised her glass again. “To Moscow.”

“To Berlin,” Sasha said, clinking his glass to hers. “Someday I’d like to come back, see what it’s like then.”

“Like Moscow,” Irene said, fingering her glass.

“No. Something new. I don’t know what, but new. All of this gone.” He waved his arm, as if clearing the rubble outside. “You know what I saw today? They leveled the Chancellery. The whole building. And I asked one of the men, what happens to the stone? Marble some of it, nice. And he said the best goes to the Soviet memorial in Treptow and the rest to a U-Bahn station. Like what happened in Rome-you take the good stone and build something else, a new city right on top of the old one. It’s interesting to think about Berlin that way, no? One city on top of the other.”

“And what happens to the people in the old one?” Irene said.

“I thought you were in Aue,” Alex said, breaking in. “There was some trouble, you said.”

“Trouble, no. An overreaction. Some workers left the job. This happens all the time. And you know they are always found. No need to sound the alarms. Bah. And there I am, on those roads at night because some fool panicked.”

“They just walked away?”

“A truck, apparently.”

“And they can’t do that?”

“At the end of their contract, yes,” Sasha said, slurring a little. “A man has to live up to his contract. Anyway, these were POWs. For them it’s not a question of choice.”

For a moment no one said anything, as if Sasha had committed some impropriety, broken a delicate vase.

“POWs,” Irene said finally. “Germans, you mean. Do you know who they are? The runaways.” The word somehow making it a lesser violation.

Sasha shrugged. “Somebody must. They have lists. So they find them. But meanwhile it makes trouble for everybody-the morale, you know? And what can one do? The work has to be done. For the uranium.”

“Sasha,” Ivan said, putting his finger to his lips.

“I read about that,” Alex said quickly. “The mines in the Erzgebirge.”

“Yes, that’s right. The Erzgebirge. It’s not a secret,” Sasha said, looking at Ivan.

“Well, half a secret,” Alex said. “The area’s cordoned off. That’s what they say anyway.”

Sasha nodded, a little bleary. “We had to do it. The Americans were offering people jobs, more money. They send agents to the villages, to recruit the best workers. It’s a distraction, something like this. When there are quotas to fill.”

“And who fills them?” Ivan said. “Every time? Who gets Moscow?”

“It’s high grade?” Alex said as they drank again. “Good enough to make a bomb?” Trying it.

“Of course we’ll make a bomb,” Sasha said, answering a different question. “They think we won’t catch up, but we will. What should we do? Let them destroy us? No. There’s nothing more important than this,” he said, leaning forward, confiding. “That’s why I was promoted. I gave them what they wanted. Every quota. High grade? So we have to make it higher. But we’ll do it. Some worker doesn’t like it-what, the work is too hard? Some Fascist who tried to destroy us? We should be soft with him?”

Irene looked up, watching him.

“People complain? So complain. Nothing is more important than this. Our future. Our safety-” He stopped, aware that his voice was getting louder. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “What’s a few workers when this is at stake?”

“But we’re a society of workers,” Alex said, just to see how he would respond.

For a second, a delayed reaction, Sasha just blinked, then slammed his hand on the table. “Fine. Then let them work. Not shirk. For that, no excuse.”

“You have to admit,” Ivan said drunkenly, “a worker should work.”

Sasha started to laugh. “But they don’t. You have to make them. Sometimes a carrot, sometimes a stick.”

“A stick,” Ivan said, nodding.

“I’ll be right back,” Irene said, standing up abruptly. “The ladies’.”

“She’s upset,” Ivan said, watching her make her way through the crowded tables. “She’s upset you’re leaving.” A playful punch to Sasha’s arm. “Don’t you see that? Such an oaf not to see that. Talking about workers. Talk about her. That’s what they like.”

“I know what they like,” Sasha said.

“To women,” Ivan said, clinking his glass against Alex’s. “You’re married?”

“Divorced.”

“Yes? You were seeing other women?” The only logical explanation.

“I came home-here. She stayed in America.”

“That’s right, Irene said you went over there. And now back. Maybe you want to offer my workers jobs too? Did they send you here to do that?”

Ivan thought this was funny. “That’s it, take Sasha’s workers. Now that he’s going to Moscow.”

“Don’t worry, they’re safe. I wouldn’t know who to ask. I’ve never been in a mine.”

“They don’t want the miners,” Ivan said. “They’re nothing. Muzhiks. They want the scientists.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that either.” He turned his hands up, empty.

“You think Sasha knows? Numbers for the quotas, that’s all. What more do you have to know? Remember at Leuna?” he said to Sasha. “The heavy water? Sasha doesn’t know, he thinks it means it’s heavier to carry. You should have seen the look on their faces. The big boss, and he doesn’t know what it means. So they try to explain and who knows what they’re talking about? Remember? Protons, neutrons-Greek.”

“Oh, and you knew. A scientific expert. You understand everything.”

“No, it was Greek to me too,” Ivan said good-naturedly. “Deuterium,” he said slowly, a careful pronunciation. “So what does it mean? Who knows? It goes right over your head.”

“Make sure it stays there,” Sasha said, a stern look. “Then it doesn’t go to the tongue.”

Ivan gave him a look, surprised at the reprimand, then backed away, raising a finger to his forehead in a mock salute. “Well. So you don’t need to know anything,” he said to Alex. “Be a dummkopf like me.”

“I was in Leuna once,” Alex said to Sasha. Keep it going. “Long time ago. But that’s not in the Erzgebirge, is it?”

“No, outside the area. A plant there.”

“Heavy water,” Ivan said. “And he thinks it’s heavy to carry.” Still a joke to him.

“What’s so funny?” Irene said, back at the table.

“Too much vodka, that’s what,” Sasha said, then leaned his head into her neck, nuzzling her.

“That’s more like it,” Ivan said.

“What were you talking about?” Irene said, trying to move away without being obvious, a pained expression, embarrassed.

“Nothing,” Sasha said, his face now at the back of her neck. “Workers. Nothing important.”

“What happens if you catch them?”

“We put them back to work. Never mind. What happens if I catch you?”

“Sasha.”

“So you’ll miss me? You don’t show it.”

“You’re not gone yet.”

He pulled away, smiling. “You see, that’s what I like,” he said to Ivan. “That spirit. An answer for everything.”

“Everybody has an answer for that,” Irene said.

“So you were her first sweetheart?” Sasha said to Alex, a question out of nowhere.

“We were children,” Irene said. “Don’t be-”

“It was the same then? An answer for everything?”

“Yes,” Alex said, trying a smile, keeping it friendly. “Everything.”

“You know she’s from a very good family,” Sasha said to Ivan, then looked at her. “So what were you like then? I wish I knew that.”

“Oh, now that you’re leaving.”

“Maybe I’ll come back.”

“Yes? Should I wait? How long?”

“You don’t have to wait now,” he said, leaning forward again. “I’m still here.” His face near hers.

Alex stood up. “The beer goes right through you, doesn’t it? Excuse me.”

Not able to look anymore, suddenly claustrophobic, the air heavy with smoke. He squeezed through the narrow spaces between the tables. Try to remember. Leuna. A grade that needed to be enriched. But didn’t they all? Was that relevant? Don’t write anything down, just remember it. Say a word three times and it’s yours for life. He pushed through the men’s room door. No one. He peed, then leaned back against the washbasin, going through it all again. Someone arriving from Moscow, not a promotion up the ranks. Nuzzling Irene. I know what they like.

“Ah, it’s you,” Brecht said, coming in. “What are you doing, going over your lines?”

“Taking a break.”

“From the Russians?” Brecht said, smiling, then turned to the urinal to pee, a wisp of cigar smoke circling his head. “I saw you. A lively party. Good jokes?”

Alex didn’t answer. Brecht finished, flushing the urinal, but not bothering to wash his hands.

“So, my friend, I hear you’re going to write something for Comrade Stalin.”

“Good news travels fast.”

Brecht looked up. “As you say. They thought it would encourage me. To follow your good example. A poem, just a poem. They think that’s easier, only a few lines, not so many words.”

“Will you do it?”

Brecht sighed and leaned against the wall. “It’s my last country here. Denmark, Finland, Russia, those idiots in Hollywood-I look at my passport and I feel tired just looking. We can work here. And Berlin-” He broke off, drawing on the cigar.

“So you will.”

“I don’t know. I’m not such a model citizen.” He nodded toward Alex. “Anyway, it’s interesting, to make them wait. Some old theater advice.” He held up a finger. “Leave something for the second act.” He started for the door. “So Irene is still with him? When you think how that family- Well,” he said, a twisted smile. “She makes a contribution her way, eh? To the Festschrift.”

The room seemed even noisier now, several more drinks in.

“There he is,” Ivan said. “So now you can decide for us. All those years in America. I said, he’ll know.”

“Maybe,” Sasha said, speaking into his chest, stifling a burp.

“Know what?” Alex said, looking at Irene, sitting awkwardly, one of Sasha’s arms around her.

“ ‘GI,’ what does it mean?”

“A soldier.”

“Yes, but what does it mean? The initials?”

“Government Issue,” Alex said. “They used to stamp it on army equipment. Then it started to mean anything in the army. The men.”

“Ha! You see, he knew.”

“So what?” said Sasha, moody.

“So it’s a good joke. In English, a soldier. And in German? Geheimer Informator, a secret informer. So that’s the difference.”

“What’s the difference?” Sasha said.

Ivan jerked his head back, not sure how to answer, his eyes unfocused.

“GIs. Both sides. But ours-” He stopped, losing the thread.

“Do excellent work,” Sasha said. “Without them-” He picked up the glass. “When you have so many enemies, you need-” He tossed back the drink. “How else to keep the Party safe? You know that,” he said to Alex.

“Can I ask you something now?” Alex said, directing this to Ivan but wanting Sasha to hear. “You’re at the Ministry with Sasha? What does it mean when the Party calls in membership books? For review. I hadn’t heard of this before.”

Sasha raised his head, suddenly alert. “This has happened to you?”

“No, no. Someone I met. I didn’t understand why. It’s a security measure?”

Sasha shrugged. “A routine check, are your papers in order, dues, maybe it’s that. And maybe more serious. Without documents you can’t travel. It gives the Party time to investigate, decide what to do.” He looked down at his glass. “I have seen this before. It starts this way. And then-”

Alex looked at him, expectant.

“And then the Party cleanses itself,” Sasha said, answering his look. “And always after, it’s stronger. No weak elements. You say they’ve started asking for this?”

“I don’t know. Just the one. But wouldn’t this come from your-?”

“No. The Party itself. We’re instruments only. It’s always like this in the beginning-the element of surprise. An innocent review. But maybe not so innocent, not what it seems.”

Ivan nodded, familiar with this. “Sometimes the reward that isn’t a reward. They used to do that in the Comintern days. Call you back to Moscow for a medal, and then-”

“Don’t be an ass,” Sasha said, angry.

“Oh, not you, Sasha. An example only. How the mechanism works.”

“Mechanism,” Sasha said, sarcastic. “You’re drunk.”

“Well, all right,” Ivan said, backing off, making a zipper motion across his mouth.

“Ass,” Sasha said again, then looked over at Alex. “So maybe it’s nothing. But stay away from your friend. Until you know.” His eyes moved down to his glass again, an unguarded moment, suddenly anxious, then shot another angry glance at Ivan. “They don’t have to promote you to call you back.”

“No, of course not, I didn’t-” Stopping before he stumbled.

“I picked Saratov myself.”

“Who?” Alex said.

“My replacement here. A colleague.” Then, to Ivan, “My choice. Do you think they ask you to choose if they-?”

“Sasha-”

“Ach,” Sasha said, waving him quiet.

“Let’s have another drink,” Ivan said, making peace.

But Sasha had turned to Irene.

“It’s true, I will miss you,” he said, his voice maudlin now. “At first you think, ah, Moscow, you don’t think- We had some good times, yes?” He leaned forward to her neck again.

“Sasha. Not here.”

“Why not here?” he said, looking around the room. “You think anybody will mind? In a place like this? With a Russian? Those days are over.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No? What then?”

“We’re not alone here.” Opening her hand to take in the table.

“Ivan? You think he can see anything? After the vodka? Ivan, can you see?”

Ivan wiped the air in front of his eyes, a blind gesture.

“Alex? You think he minds? You think he’s jealous? You were children, you said.”

“Yes, and now you’re the child. It’s getting late. We should go,” she said, then turned her head, a commotion at the door.

Helene Weigel, making her entrance, hair covered in a kerchief tied in the back, her face gaunt, tired from rehearsal, but pleased at the attention, actually touching people as she passed, regal.

“Alex, how nice. Bert told me you were here,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed.

Introductions were made, but neither Sasha nor Ivan seemed to know who she was, so the conversation became intimate again, Weigel and Alex standing, Irene trying to placate Sasha at the table.

“How is it going?”

“Exhausting. I get up tired. But it’s going to be good, I think. Well, you know the play.”

“Bert says you’re wonderful.”

She waved her hand. “He doesn’t say it to me. Well, Bert. You know what’s interesting? Everyone’s coming. Today, the French cultural officer-can he have four tickets? And where do I get them? The Americans, the British, they’re all coming. Even with this.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “The planes, all this trouble, and everyone still comes to see Brecht. So Marjorie,” she said, shifting gears. “You’ve heard from her? The divorce, it’s official?”

“I haven’t had the final papers yet. Any day, I guess.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But maybe you’re not? And sometimes it’s for the best. You’ll see. Peter will come visit, and I’ll make my chocolate cake.”

“He’d like that.”

Helene nodded. “It’s better than Salka’s. But don’t say that to her.” As if they had just come for the weekend and were expected back to Sunday dinner on Mabery Road. “Anyway,” she said, glancing around, “the life here. I don’t think it’s for her.”

“No.”

“Well, for anybody right now. But soon. And they’re all coming for Brecht. They won’t sit with each other in the Kommandatura, but they come to the Deutsches Theater. So maybe they should meet then, eh? They’re all there anyway, just bring the agenda.”

“After the curtain calls.”

Weigel smiled. “Of course after. Look, there’s Bert. Now he’s going to give me his notes-everything I did wrong.”

“Do you listen?”

“Well, you know, he’s a genius. So I listen.” She looked up. “Sometimes.”

“Everybody knows you,” Sasha said when Alex sat down again. He raised his glass. “Our famous author.”

“Well, at the Möwe,” Alex said, the mood pleasant again.

“We should go,” Irene said.

But Sasha was sitting back, comfortable, at peace. Ivan, half stupefied, was quiet.

“The new man-he’s a protégé of yours?” Something more for Campbell.

“No, no. Older. We met only at the Ministry.”

“But you recommended him?”

“I agreed he was the best,” Sasha said smoothly. When? “A good head on his shoulders. You need that here.”

“Like you,” Ivan said.

“You know, everyone lies. Were you a Nazi? Oh, no. And then you read the file.” He paused. “Denazification. How is such a thing possible anyway? Who else was here?”

“Not everybody was like that,” Irene said.

“Not you,” he said, touching her hair, “I know. But the rest-So you need something here.” He tapped the side of his head. “To pick out the lies.”

“A lie detector,” Alex said. “But no wires.”

“That’s right,” Sasha said, amused. “A lie detector. Up here.” He tapped his head again. “And then something here.” He held out a clenched fist. “A little steel.”

“And he has that?” Alex said.

“Stalingrad,” Ivan said. “Political officer. They were all bastards. Tough. No trouble in the mines with him.”

“There is no trouble in the mines,” Sasha said.

“No, of course not. I just meant-”

“You think that’s all it takes? Tough? Anyone can be tough. You have to know how to run things. Eighty, ninety villages in the district. Workers? Thousands. You think it’s easy, to keep all that going? Make the quotas? Things happen. You can’t always predict- It’s not just a question of being tough. Let’s see how he does, Saratov. I want to see that.”

“But you’ll be gone,” Irene said.

“Yes,” Sasha said, his face clouding, as if that hadn’t occurred to him.

“In Moscow!” Ivan said. “Think how wonderful. Maybe two secretaries-why not? One for the typing and one for-”

“Don’t talk foolishness,” Sasha said, cutting him off, then turned to Alex. “Who is the friend? The one under review?”

“Not a friend,” Alex said, wary. “Just someone I met. I don’t even know his name. He wanted to know if they had called in my membership book. I think because he had been in America, so maybe-”

“Yes, they’re suspicious of that. Maybe it’s that.” His expression still thoughtful. “But it’s often the way. A few, a handful, then so many all at once.”

“So many what?”

But Sasha was distracted by another commotion at the door. Not Weigel’s entrance this time, two Russian soldiers scanning the room, people turning their heads, avoiding eye contact.

“Rostov. Now what?”

Sasha got up and went over to the door, a hasty conference, then made his way back to the table.

“Excuse me. I must go,” he said curtly, his voice completely sober.

“Again?” Irene said. “Another drive?”

“No.” Not saying anything more, on duty.

“Shall I wait for you?”

He looked at her, thinking. “No, don’t wait. It’s an interrogation. Sometimes it goes fast, sometimes not, so I don’t know. Anyway, it’s enough tonight. Look at Ivan. Put him in the car, yes? I’ll go with Rostov. Don’t let him sleep on the table.”

“Who’s asleep?”

Markovsky bent over, a public kiss, but Irene moved her head, an involuntary shying away.

“So, I’m already gone?” Markovsky said.

“People are-” she said vaguely, taking in the room.

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, kissing her.

“I paid for that much, no?” he said.

“That much, yes,” she said, turning away.

He took her face in his hand again, turning it back. “The rest tomorrow.”

Her eyes flashed, looking for a comeback, but he had already begun to move away, and she took a drink instead, looking down at the table.

“I’m sure it’s a promotion,” Ivan said, half to himself. “I didn’t mean-”

“Come, let’s get you home,” Irene said. “Can you stand?”

“Can I stand? Of course I can stand.” He pushed himself up, holding the table, weaving a little. “I’ll take you home.”

“I’m around the corner. You take the car. Come on. Alex, help him.”

“You don’t want me to take you home?” he said, leering. “No, not some Ivan.” He turned to Alex. “She wants to wait for Saratov, the next one. Only the boss, not-”

“Go to hell,” Irene said, dropping his arm and turning.

“Come on,” Alex said, holding him up. “The car’s outside.”

“German cunt,” Ivan said after her, loud enough for the next table to hear.

She turned, staring at him, a silence.

Ivan shook himself free of Alex’s hand. “I don’t need any help,” he said, taking a step, then rocking a little, finally sitting down again.

Irene looked down at him. “And what will you do when he’s gone?” she said. “You think Saratov wants you?”

“Cunt.”

“Have another drink,” she said, leaving.

Outside she told the Karlshorst driver to take care of Ivan and started down Luisenstrasse alone, heels clicking on the pavement, then stopped at the corner, head bent. Alex, following behind, put his hands on her shoulders.

“He’s drunk,” he said to her back.

Irene nodded. “But he can say it. If Sasha were- But now he can say it. So he’s right. I should see what Saratov is like. Maybe a new possibility for me, eh? Another wife in Moscow.”

He turned her around. “Don’t.”

“What do you think of your old friend now? A man talks to her like that. And what can she say?” She grimaced. “Look how we all turned out. Elsbeth with that crazy. He still thinks they were right. Me. Well, so there’s Erich-he’s the same. One von Bernuth left. One.”

Alex looked at her, unable to speak. A pit with a crawling child, vodka to steady the nerves.

“Don’t talk like that,” he said finally.

“No? How? It’s what I am. Someone he puts his hands on. In front of everybody. His property.”

“He had too much to drink, that’s all,” he said, reaching up to her hair, smoothing it back.

“I’m used to it. But tonight-” She broke off, turning her head. “In front of everybody. In front of you.”

His hand stopped, as if he’d heard a sound, unexpected.

“Looking at me. Seeing that. I felt-ashamed. Imagine feeling that now, after everything. To still feel that. Even a-what Ivan said.”

“Who cares what he says?” His hand on the back of her neck now.

“Maybe Sasha’s worse. I’ll miss you-so one last time before I go. As if it’s a love affair he has with me. Ha. Maybe I’ll say no. Just to see his face.” She lowered her head. “But then it’s trouble, so-”

“He’s leaving. All that’s over.”

She looked up. “Yes. Then all my troubles will be over. Until the next one. So there’s an opportunity for you. You can catch me between,” she said, trying to smile, then dropping her head forward, almost to his chest. “Alex,” she said, just his name. “You don’t think I’m like that?”

“Shh. How could I think that?” he said, kissing her, not thinking, falling into it. “I know you.”

“You used to say that,” she said, her breath on his neck. “Just like that. The same way.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing her.

“Tell me something more. Even if you don’t mean it.” Both of them kissing now, his head beginning to sway, like Ivan at the table, drunk with her. “I don’t care if you lie to me. I just want to hear you. Like before.”

“Irene,” he said into her ear.

“Look at us,” she said. “In the street.” She leaned up, kissing him. “It’s like before.”

“No,” he said, still in the kiss.

“Then let it be something different. I don’t care. I just want to feel-like myself. Be Irene again. The one you used to like. Come,” she said, taking his hand. “Now. We’re so close. Around the corner. But no noise,” she said, almost giggling, finger to her lips. “Frau Schmidt. Oh, but she’s gone. I forgot. Her sister in Halle. There’s no one to hear.” She stopped. “Alex. Say something. Say you love me. You used to say that. Even if you don’t-”

His head still swimming, the taste of her now in his mouth, their faces wet. “I’ve never loved anyone else.” The words making him feel bare, as if he had just taken off his clothes.

She looked at him, suddenly still. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s still true.” She reached up, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “We’ll be the same. I’ll be nice again.”

“Don’t be nice,” he said, kissing her neck, wanting her. “Be the way we used to be.”

They went up the stairs in the dark, afraid the timer switch would wake someone, feeling their way up the railing, then huddling at the door while she found the key, short of breath from the stairs, everything now just smell and touch, invisible. Inside she locked the door, then fell back on it as he kissed her, urgent, that familiar moment when he knew there was no stopping, turning back. She reached for the light switch, but he blocked her hand.

“Someone might see,” he whispered, his hands on her behind now, holding her, excited, the way he remembered, furtive, something stolen in the dark, muffled gasps people couldn’t hear below.

“I don’t care,” she said, more breath in his ear, helping him with her clothes, both in a rush now, hurrying. She moved him toward the bed, clothes dropping, then sat, unbuckling his belt, tugging at his pants, his rigid prick springing out. Kissing it, a lick, a courtesan giving pleasure, too quick almost, unbearable, so that he backed away, then fell on her, pushing her down on the bed, his mouth on hers, opening it, tasting the inside of her.

“Don’t wait. Don’t wait.” Grasping him below and guiding him until he felt her, already slick, ready, and, excited by the wet, he pushed in and stopped, just feeling the warmth around him. She moved against him until all of him was in, as far as he could go, and he thought he would come then, before they’d even started, and pulled back, but then couldn’t stay, pushing forward again, giving in to it, faster, a rhythm that seemed beyond their control, his ears filled with the sound of creaking springs and his own blood. There had been times when they’d lingered, working up and down each other’s bodies, stretching out the afternoon, but now they were back in the dunes, tearing at each other while Erich walked down on the beach. Deep inside, what seemed like the end of her, then out, a mindless thrusting, hearing her panting, the sound like some hand pushing him, an almost violent rocking, feeling the pleasure beginning to work its way up through his body, racing through him, about to spill over. Too soon. But she was there before him, the panting now coming in gulps, little cries, and then an actual cry, loud in his head, squeezing him below in spasms, as if she were literally pulling the sperm out of him, the moist walls clutching him until it was finally there, splashing out, draining him, so that when he finally stopped, resting on her, he felt empty and full at the same time.

She reached up, cradling his face.

“I’m sorry. I was too-”

But she was shaking her head, still stroking him. “Alex,” she said.

He rolled off, lying next to her, and she turned, facing him, her hand on the side of his head. “Nobody ever wanted me the way you did.”

He said nothing, just breathing, slower now.

“You don’t know that until you’re with someone else.” She paused. “But then it’s too late.”

He lay still, wanting a cigarette but too lazy to get it. Another minute, quiet.

“What are you thinking?”

He smiled to himself. What women asked when you weren’t thinking about anything.

“I wish it were that summer,” he said, talking to the ceiling. “And I could put you in my pocket and take you away. Before anything happened. To any of us.”

“In your pocket,” she said. She looked down, tugging the skin on her hip. “If I could fit now. Not like then.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, turning.

“Liar.”

“You told me to lie,” he said, a smile.

“Well, for a joke. I knew you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Not to me. I’d know.”

“Would you?” he said, no longer drowsy, suddenly uncomfortable. He got up and found his jacket, taking out the cigarettes.

“Of course. We know each other.”

She took the cigarette he offered.

“We used to,” he said, all the flushed well-being draining away. Her face soft, unaware. What he told himself he wasn’t going to do. Not this line.

“No, we do,” she said, sure. “Oh, white lies maybe. Things you don’t like to tell me.”

“Like what?”

“The wife who looks like me. She doesn’t really, does she?”

“No,” Alex said, the easier answer.

“No. I thought so. You see, I’d always know.”

He looked away, no longer able to play, then put out his cigarette and sat on the bed.

“Irene, listen to me. There’s something-”

“No, don’t tell me anything. Let’s not tell each other anything. Do you think I want to know?” She stopped. “Do you think I want to tell you about me?”

“You don’t know-”

She put her finger to his lips.

“You don’t have to explain anything. Your wife, any of it. Everything that happened to us-it happened somewhere else. Not here,” she said, touching the bed. She looked over at him. “Nobody ever wanted me so much.”

He looked back, the same falling sensation.

“It’s not about that.”

“What, then?”

Everything he couldn’t say.

“We can’t, that’s all. I’m sorry, I should have-”

“No, it was me,” she said. “I wanted it.” She raised her eyes. “We both did, didn’t we?”

He said nothing, at a loss.

“You remember that summer. We thought we had-all the time we wanted. And we didn’t. Only a little.” She moved toward him on the bed. “And then in the war, you know what I learned? I could die any day.” She opened her fingers, something invisible flying out of them. “Any day. So that’s the time we have. One day.” She sat up, her face close. “One day,” she said, kissing him.

Feeling her next to him, his skin alive again, warm.

“So tell me everything later.” The words curling up like ropes, wrapping around him, then folding over each other in knots.

This time it was slower, almost gentle, hands all over, touching what they hadn’t before, so that every part of them felt aroused, blood rushing to the skin, and then a release that went on and on, their bodies pulsing with it, lingering even after they fell back, away from each other, and began to drift.

After a few minutes her breathing changed, the slow, even sound of sleep, her hand still resting on his chest, and he covered her shoulder with the duvet, suddenly aware of the cold seeping through the cracks around the window. No one burned coal at night, burrowing instead under blankets in cold rooms. He lay there without moving, wide awake, watching the faint light from outside on the ceiling, dread moving over him like a cold draft. Everything Campbell had hoped, in her bed, listening. But for how much longer, the golden source back in Moscow, Irene no longer useful. Tell me everything later. But he couldn’t tell her anything, not even that he would leave too. One day. Unless he never got out. And then what? Afternoons in her bed, still lying. Coffee with Markus. His real life bleeding out, Peter a memory, no longer in his life, the best part of him. Irene moved onto her side, her back warm against him. No one ever wanted me the way you did. He couldn’t do this. Give Campbell something else.

He heard the footsteps one flight down, clumping, not worried about being heard. The click of the timer switch, a slit of hallway light under the door. Now on the landing, just outside. He waited for the knock, suddenly apprehensive, then heard the scratch of a key in the lock. Someone with a key. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his pants off the floor, just zipping up when the door swung open. Markovsky, outlined by the hall light behind him. Alex picked up a shirt. Now what? A series of Feydeau doors slamming? People darting in and out? But there was nowhere to go, the bedroom straight off the living room, the old hinterhof style, and now the overhead light was on, catching them like a flashbulb. Irene sat up, holding the duvet to cover herself.

“Sasha,” she said faintly.

Markovsky looked from one to the other. “It didn’t take you long, I see. Get up.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said, but he waved this away, not even interested.

“Get up.”

“What’s wrong?” she said, reaching for her robe.

He watched while she put it on and belted it. “What’s wrong. I knew what you were. But not a liar. Where is he?”

“What are you talking about? Coming here like this-” Trying to go on the offensive, parrying.

“Do you think I’m such a fool? Asking questions and all the time-” He turned to Alex. “And you? Did you know too?”

“What?”

“We captured one. With this type it usually takes a few hours. The interrogation. But no, this one right away. The truck. Lichtenberg. Names. Who else? Ah, von Bernuth? And they just take everything down and I’m standing there and what do I think? How you lied to me. To my face.”

“What are you talking about?” Irene said. “What von Bernuth?”

“Erich. Your brother, no? One of the little birds that flew out of the cage. But now we put him back. Where is he?”

“Erich? Erich’s in Russia. Dead, maybe, I don’t know. What birds? What are you talking about?” she said again, avoiding Alex’s eye, playing it out.

“No, not in Russia. In the Erzgebirge. But now not there either. So where? Here? Where I pay the rent?”

“The Erzgebirge,” Irene said, a gasp. “The mines?” She looked up. “You knew he was there? In that terrible place?”

“You think I know the people there? To me they’re mules, that’s all. Something to haul the stuff out.” Almost spitting it out.

“So you come to me?”

“He got to Berlin, we know that. Where else would he go? The big sister, ready to hide-”

“Sasha, I swear-”

“Where else?” he said, louder.

“Look for yourself,” she said, spreading her hand to take in the flat.

His gaze followed it, landing for a second on Alex, now buttoning his shirt. “And what do I find? Already at it. Old friends. What a slut. And to think I came here to protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“They hear von Bernuth, they don’t know it’s Gerhardt now. Not yet, anyway. But I know. So I think, get him out of there before they see she’s involved. No one has to know. Do you know what it means, helping such a person?”

“But he’s not here. I never saw him. I didn’t even know he was- I thought he was in Russia.”

She turned and picked up a cigarette, a pause between rounds. “Protect me,” she said, lighting it, her hand shaking a little. “Protect yourself, you mean. Your girlfriend, right under your nose. It doesn’t look so good for you, does it? Protect me.”

“Where is he?” He looked at Alex. “With you maybe? This is how she pays?” He nodded toward the bed. “To have you hide him? Once a day? How many times?”

“Bastard,” Irene said. “And what does that make you?”

He crossed over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where is he?”

“Take your hands off me. I don’t know. Anyway, how do you know it’s Erich? Because somebody says so? Maybe he’s lying.”

“He was in no condition to lie,” Markovsky said flatly.

For a minute, no one said anything.

“So it’s true? He’s in Berlin?” Irene said.

“You know he is.”

“And if I did know, I would tell you? Sasha, he’s my brother,” she said, her voice softer, tacking. “How can you send him to such a place? My brother.”

“I didn’t send him there.”

“But you’d send him back.”

“No one leaves. Until we say.”

“Oh, we. Who? You and God? It’s one man, that’s all.”

“If he can do it, so can others. It’s not possible, to allow it.”

“So he’s a slave?”

“He was a German soldier. And he pays for that.”

“For how long? The war’s over and we’re still paying. The new lords and masters,” she said, cocking her head toward him. “First the rapes. Animals. And now what? Drunks like Ivan. Pawing me at the table. Like peasants.”

Markovsky colored, then looked down, not rising to this. “That’s what they think, you know,” he said to Alex. “They lose the war. Everything. And they still know best. The great German Volk. All gentlemen. Not like us.”

“At least they could flush a toilet,” Irene said, her voice suddenly haughty, von Bernuth. “The Russians-a mystery to them. Where were they from? I don’t know. The back of beyond somewhere. You never got the chance to ask. Before they raped you. That they knew. Experts.”

“What are you doing?” Markovsky said. “Talking to me like this. Me.”

“Why? Are you going to send me to the mines too? More slaves for the masters? Erich’s not enough? Or maybe you want to rape me first.”

“I never had to rape you,” he said, his voice a kind of growl. “A few cigarettes, some ham-that’s all it took for you to open your legs. Not rape.”

“No? That’s what it felt like. Every time.”

The hand came up so quickly that Alex heard the slap before he saw it, a blurred movement, her cheek twisting away from it, a little cry.

He reached for Markovsky, all instinct. “Don’t-”

“Mind your own business.” He turned back to Irene. “That’s what it felt like? And what did it feel like with him?”

“Get out,” she said, touching her cheek, still red.

“Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then get dressed. You can tell someone else.”

“Who?”

“A man at Hohenschönhausen. Very persuasive. Another Russian peasant.”

“Sasha, I-”

“Get dressed,” he said, grabbing her upper arm.

“Leave her alone,” Alex said, pushing him away.

Markovsky looked down where Alex’s hands had been. “Well. The hero of the Kulturbund. You think it’s another story? The damsel in distress? So. Assault a Russian officer? Sleep with his-well, what do we call her? No need. Let me tell you now how it ends.”

“Leave her alone.”

“We take you into custody,” Markovsky continued as if he hadn’t heard, “while we search your place. No one there? Then maybe you’re released. No embarrassment for the Kulturbund. And then your whore tells us where he is. And she will. That’s the ending. Now get dressed,” he said again, turning back to her, taking her arm again to push her toward the bedroom.

Alex stepped forward, facing him. “Stop it. You can’t do this.”

A cold glance, running through Alex like a chill. “I can do anything I want. Anything.”

“What? Have some goon beat her up? What are you?”

“What? A peasant. Ask her.”

Alex looked at him, beginning to panic. The face set, determined. Just a matter of time before they searched Rykestrasse. The back stairs too, Erich cowering but trapped.

“This is all I am to you?” Irene said, angry, a different argument. “You’d do this? Send me to the Gestapo?”

“Gestapo,” Markovsky said, sneering at the word. “Tell me where he is.”

“Go to hell.”

Markovsky raised his hand again, Alex reaching up to block it.

“Get away from her.”

Markovsky grasped Alex’s arm. “The hero,” he said, then pushed him back, out of the way, and turned again to Irene.

Alex lunged at him, the force of it surprising Markovsky, who staggered back, bumping against the table. A baffled second, then a look of rage, leaping for Alex, knocking him back to the wall.

“Stop it!” Irene yelled, frightened, the room suddenly shaking with violence.

Markovsky pinned Alex against the wall, hand on his throat. “Idiot,” he said, an end to it, having won the point.

Alex gasped, choking, but then brought both hands up, a desperate strength, shoving him away. Markovsky stumbled, not expecting this, off balance, his thick body reeling back, smashing his head against a shelf, the sound of dishes falling.

“My God,” Irene said. “The china. Stop.” The absurdity of it unheard, everything happening too fast.

“Idiot!” Markovsky said again, a roar this time, touching the back of his head, looking at his fingers, a smear of blood, reaching for Alex.

But Alex, hands already on Markovsky’s chest, pushed again, the head snapping back, another crash.

“Stop!” Irene yelled, a quiver of hysteria now.

Not a fight anymore. No rules. The two bodies locked together, twisting, trying to throw each other over. One of the shelves, bumped again, collapsed. The clunk of something heavy hitting the floor. Markovsky pushed Alex’s face back, stronger, trying to flip his body, then suddenly aware of Irene screaming “Stop!” and pounding on his back, her fists like flies, something to brush aside. The two bodies moved away from her, still locked together, both staggering, refusing to fall, and then Markovsky roared, a grunt of extra effort, and finally managed it, throwing Alex to the floor, then following him down, pinning him there, hand again on his throat to immobilize him, bring an end to it. Something else fell, the room noisy with thuds and the men panting, gulping air, Irene still yelling “Stop!” Markovsky grunted again, pressing his hand against Alex’s throat, waiting for some sign, a raised hand, surrender.

“You’ll kill him!” Irene screamed. “Stop! My God, you’re choking him.”

A growl from Markovsky, beyond speech now, tightening his hand to end it, all of his strength pressing into Alex, his eyes fixed on him, waiting for the sign, so that he didn’t see Irene grabbing the candlestick off the floor, out of the jumble from the fallen shelf, see her raise it over him like a club.

“Stop! You’ll kill him!” she said, bringing it down, not planning it, just some way to get his attention, surprised when she heard the crack, the bone splitting.

Markovsky reared back, stunned, blood welling out of the wound.

“Stop it!” she shouted, bringing the brass base down again, a splatting sound this time.

For a second Markovsky went rigid, his legs straddling Alex, his hand still on his throat, then he slumped, the hand loosening, and Alex pushed up, the body falling on its side.

“My God,” Irene said, a whisper now. “My God.” She looked at the candlestick, the first time she’d seen it.

Alex now changed positions, leaning over Markovsky, putting fingers at the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.

“My God. Is he-?”

“No. He’s alive.”

“What do we do? What do we do?” Talking to the air.

Markovsky’s face moved, a twitch, then an eye opening, a grunt. Alex looked down. Blood on his head, the eyes open now, but stunned, the same look as Lützowplatz. If he lived, they would die. The simple mathematics of it. No witnesses. Another gasping sound, coming back. Alex put his hands on Markovsky’s throat and pushed. The eyes opened wider, a choking gurgle, his body moving, trying to gather strength. Alex pushed harder, feeling the body writhe beneath him, trying to move him away. A soldier, trained, would know what to do, how to smash into the windpipe, end it. Alex just held tight. A rasping sound now, struggling for breath.

“Alex,” Irene said. “My God.”

Don’t think. Do it. If he lives, we die. Harder. The last line. An extra push, crossing it. And then a spasm, Markovsky twitching, a protest, the last effort. Hands tight, no air at all, keep pushing. Almost. And then he was there, the body suddenly slack, no sound at all. You could feel it, a split second, the rasp then the sudden quiet. He looked at his hands on the throat, no longer needed, and slowly moved them away, staring at Markovsky’s face, blank, still. His own breath coming in shallow gulps, hands trembling. What it felt like. Murder.

He looked over at Irene, on her knees now near the china, the candlestick still in her hand. Blood on the base.

“It was my mother’s,” she said, in a daze. “Schaller. From her side.” Something important to establish. She picked up one of the smashed plates. “It’s the last of the china.”

“Get dressed,” Alex said. “Do you have an old towel?” And then, at her look, “For the blood.”

“The blood,” she said, an echo. She put her hand over her mouth, stifling a yelp, bewildered, like a wounded animal. “My God. My God. What do we do now?”

“I know,” Alex said. “But we can’t-think about it. Not now. We have to get rid of him. Clean up.” Lists, tasks, the reassurance of the ordinary. “Frau Schmidt’s away. So that’s one thing.”

“Alex,” she said, shaking, still on her knees. “I can’t. My God, look. What do we do?”

“Help me,” he said steadily, offering his hand up. “We have to get him out of here. Find someplace for Erich. You’ll need a story-” More lists.

“It was this,” she said, holding the candlestick. “Imagine. My mother’s. Brass. To kill somebody with this.”

“I killed him,” he said, taking her by the shoulders.

“Both,” she said. “Both of us. That’s what they’ll say anyway. Maybe he would have died just from the head.”

“But he didn’t.” He waited a second. “Get dressed. I’ll start here.”

The cleanup didn’t take long. Broken china in the dustbin, the shelf put back, candlestick washed, blood wiped.

“There’s not so much,” Irene said. “I thought there would be more.”

“Not after his heart stopped,” Alex said, matter of fact.

“Oh. No, not after that,” Irene said, staring at Markovsky. “Well, now I’ve done this too.” Her voice soft, distant.

“He’s heavy. I’m going to need you to help. You all right?”

She nodded. “Where do we take him?”

“The river. It’s not far. We just have to get him there.”

“He’ll float. You saw bodies floating there. For weeks.”

“We’ll weight him down. He has to disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“To give us time.”

Irene looked at him, not understanding, but nodded anyway.

“Okay, get his other side. We can use the banister, slide him down, but in the street we’ll have to prop him up.”

“Carry him? Sasha?”

“Like this. We’re getting a drunk home.”

The stairs were more difficult than he anticipated, Markovsky’s feet dragging and getting stuck, so they finally had to carry him, Alex under his shoulders, the rescue position, Irene his legs. They were sweating when they reached the building door.

“All right, ready? Put his arm around your neck. We’re carrying a drunk.”

He opened the door.

“Oh God,” she said, closing it quickly. “His car. It’s a Karlshorst car. There’ll be a driver. Someone waiting.”

“All night? He does that?”

“Well, not when-” She thought for a second. “Can you manage? A few minutes.”

“Here. Against the wall.”

She fluffed her hair, then clutched the top of her coat. “Does it look as if I have clothes on under this? Can you tell?” He shook his head. “Good. I’m just out of bed.”

He watched out of the crack of the open door as she went over to the car, leaning in to speak to the driver, pretending to feel the cold with only a nightgown on, then hurrying back.

“What did you say?”

“He’s staying the night. He’ll call for another car in the morning. Go get some sleep.”

“Why didn’t he come down himself?”

“Too much to drink. He passed out.”

“Good. That’ll work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a witness. That he was here, alive.”

“And when he doesn’t call?”

“Didn’t he? He left before you were up.”

“And they’ll believe that?” she said, nervous.

“Let’s hope so. Why would you lie? What motive would you have? He’s no good to you dead. Anyway, he’s not dead. Not until they find him. He’s just-gone.”

“Where would he go?”

“Anywhere but Moscow. He was worried about that all evening. Ivan will back you up. Ivan suggested it. He was afraid of going back. He was afraid it was a trap. For all we know, he was right.”

She looked at him. “When did you learn to think like this?”

“Ready?” he said, not answering. “Shift most of the weight on me.”

They started down Marienstrasse, dark without streetlights. At the corner, an S-Bahn train clattered overhead, on its way to Friedrichstrasse. Alex pointed north.

“Not the bridge?” Irene said.

“Too busy. Just this short block, then over.”

But suddenly there were car lights heading down Luisenstrasse. They huddled in a doorway, Alex’s back to the street. A couple taking advantage of the dark. If anyone noticed.

“Oh God, I don’t think I can do this,” Irene said.

“Yes, you can.”

“But if we don’t report it-”

“Then they don’t have a body.” He shifted his weight, pushing Markovsky farther in, as the lights passed. “And we have a little time.”

They moved back into the street. Up ahead, the lights of the Charité, but everything around them dark, rubble and deserted building sites. When they reached the riverbank, the bomb-damaged Friedrich-Karl-Ufer, he sat Markovsky down on a pile of bricks covered with a tarp.

“Fill his pockets. So he’ll sink.”

Across the water, he could see the hulk of the Reichstag, like a jagged shadow in a nightmare. The Spree bent here, then again farther up, the arc of the Spreebogen, sluggishly winding its way toward Lehrter Station. An industrial stretch, bombed out, the empty Tiergarten on the other side, not likely to draw many visitors. As safe as anywhere, if they could get him to the bottom.

He handed her the bloody towel. “Tie this around some bricks,” he said, loading Markovsky’s pockets.

“And what if he comes up? What if they find him?”

“He should have been more careful at night. Big shot in the SMA? There must be a line a mile long waiting to knock his head in. Take the money out of his wallet, just in case. Maybe a robbery. Anyway, if he does float, let’s hope the current takes him. You don’t want him found here, so close. Moabit, anywhere downstream. Not here.”

“But they’ll know he was with me. The driver-”

“And it was still dark when he left-you were half asleep-and that’s the last thing you know. Berlin’s a dangerous place to walk around at night. Look what happened to him.”

Involuntarily, she glanced down. “He wasn’t so bad, you know.”

“No, he just wanted to lock you up with an interrogator doing God knows what. Not so bad.”

“He wasn’t always like that.”

Alex looked up, surprised, then nodded. “All right, fine, remember the good times. It works better that way. You’re upset he’s missing. He tiptoed out of the flat because he didn’t want to wake you. He was thoughtful that way.”

“Don’t.”

“No, I mean it. You’re upset about him. They need to think that.”

“Shh. There’s someone.”

They both stopped, listening for footsteps. A smoker’s cough, then the sound of spitting.

“Quick,” Alex said, moving Markovsky off the pile of bricks. “Cover him. Lie on him,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’ll lie on you. He’ll just see a couple, not what’s underneath. Quick.”

She dropped to the ground, lying faceup on Markovsky’s body. Alex covered her, his open coat draped over them. They listened for a second, trying not to breathe. Irregular steps, unsteady, probably a drunk trying to find his way home, not a watchman or a guard. Closer, near the river, as if he were just out for a stroll. Irene’s breath in his ear now, warm. The steps stopped.

“Move,” Alex whispered. “Make him think-” Feeling her beneath him, the idea of it, public and reckless, beginning to excite him, the way they used to do it, the risk itself part of it.

Another cough, spitting again, then a noise of surprise, startled not to be alone. Alex imagined him looking at the moving coat, figuring it out.

“Hure,” the man mumbled. “Quatsch.” Disgusted, something offended in his voice, but moving on, not stopping to watch. In another minute, it was quiet again.

“In the street,” Irene said.

“But he didn’t see a body,” Alex said, lifting himself off.

“And if he had come over? Then what?”

Alex looked at her, not answering. No witnesses.

“Get his feet,” he said finally, lifting Markovsky from behind.

They half dragged him to the embankment edge. A drop, not high, just a small splash, all the drunk would hear. Feet over, positioning him so gravity could help slide the rest of him in. The body moved and then stopped, sleeve caught, the coat beginning to come off. Alex leaned over, frantic, pulling on it, away from the snag, some rusty rod sticking out of the blasted concrete. And then it was loose, the body falling away in a rush, hitting the water and sinking, the heavy coat stuffed with bricks dragging him under until there was just water, the wet shine of the surface. Gone.

“Come on,” Alex said, holding her. “Before anyone else comes.”

But there was no one out now, even Luisenstrasse deserted, not a single car heading for the bridge. Everyone asleep-where they were too, in their stories.

“Stay with me,” she said at her door.

“I can’t. I can’t come here now. Not until it’s safe again.”

“I’m afraid.”

He put his hand up to her hair. “Not you.”

“But how will I see you?”

“I’ll come to DEFA tomorrow. Fritsch offered me a tour, remember?” He smoothed her hair back. “That’s all we can do now. Meet in public. You never could have done this alone. Get him to the river. So they won’t suspect you unless they think-” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “It’s just for now.”

“They’ll find out,” she said, shivering.

“Not if we’re careful. There are no witnesses.”

But on the walk back, the city looming up around him, threatening, it occurred to him, a new wrinkle, that there had been a witness after all. Two people in the room. He imagined the small cell in Hohenschönhausen, one bright light. And she will tell us. That’s the ending. If they suspected her. In her hands now.

In Rykestrasse there were no cars watching the street, no one in a doorway. He tapped gently three times before he used the key, but Erich hadn’t heard, sound asleep. In the bedroom, the smell of medicine and night sweat, Erich’s face had changed again, not Fritz anymore, but Erich as he had been, a boy, at peace. The living room was quiet too, the sleeping city outside. Only his heart seemed to be awake, beating fast, knowing he was running out of time.