Leaving Berlin

6

Rias already had ground rules in place for the interview.

“We’ve had trouble with the Russians-they just pick people up in the street after they’re on the air-so we record now. Half an hour to set it up, see what he’s comfortable with, what we’re going to say. Then maybe an hour for the interview. We can edit later. By the time we air it, he’s gone and the Russians don’t even know he was here. Sound right to you?”

Alex nodded. The cadence of newsroom American with a German accent. Where had Ferber learned his English?

“Come by U-Bahn. Innsbrucker Platz. That what you did today?”

Alex nodded again.

“And no trouble, right? So do that. Then after I’ll have a station car get you to Tempelhof. He’s flying out right afterward, yes? Good. The important thing is that they have no idea until it’s too late. I’ll set up a recording studio. Any night. I’m always here nights. Last-minute, no leaks in between. Sound good?”

“Perfect.”

“You tell him what we’re looking for?”

“Personal story-what the work is like. Treating POWs like slaves. Everyone getting sick. Not the politics of it, just the human side. Don’t worry, he wants to do this. He thinks it might help.”

“The Russians won’t like it.”

“That’s the idea.”

“I mean, they’ll have a marker out on him. As long as he’s here anyway. Any idea when?”

“I’ll call you. Need a code word? How about ‘canary’?”

Ferber looked puzzled.

“The bird. They used to send them down into the mines. To see if there was gas.”

Ferber smiled. “Erich will be fine.”

Dieter must have been watching at the window because he was in the park before Alex had finished the first cigarette.

“How is he?”

“He sleeps mostly. To stay warm. There’s no coal, so it’s easier in bed. No more fever, but the medicine is gone. You’ll need to move him soon.”

“He’s well enough for the interview?”

“Mm. He talks about it. He wants to do it. Give the finger to Ulbricht, he says.” Dieter smiled faintly. “He’s a young man.”

“We’re almost there. Are we squared away at the airport?”

“Howley’s been away. Back tomorrow. Just let me know when and Campbell will make the call. Don’t worry, you have some time. They have better things to do in Karlshorst than look for POWs. Since the news.”

“What news?”

“You haven’t heard? I thought your friend might- It’s Markovsky. We’ve got him. He’s defected.”

“What?”

“Your friend doesn’t know?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“See her, then. Interesting to hear what she knows.”

“Where is he?”

“Wiesbaden. Very comfortable from what I hear. It’s usually like that, isn’t it?”

“But why? What made him do it?”

“They sent him a ticket, for Moscow, and he started wondering whether he should make the trip. Not that I blame him. People go back and-” Campbell’s version, the one everybody must have now.

“Quite a catch.”

“We’ll see. But meanwhile Karlshorst-it’s a sight to warm the heart. So don’t worry about your young friend-he’s got a little time.” He looked over. “Except the medicine’s gone. So you don’t want to wait either.”

He walked along Greifswalder Strasse, past the cemetery, then turned up the hill toward the water tower. The planes were back, humming across the sky the minute the fog had cleared last night. Unload, three minutes, take off to the West. With Erich on board. Irene, if she’d go. He saw her eyes in the candlelight, the Russian coming toward them. I’d never betray you. After she had.

Roberta Kleinbard was waiting by the courtyard door in Rykestrasse, hands nervous, fidgeting.

“Thank God. I thought maybe you’d gone away. All night- anyway, thank God. Please. I need your help. I need somebody to talk for me.” Her voice quavering, matching the shaking hands.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“Herb. They’ve arrested him.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. They just came and-took him. What is it, I kept asking and of course they’d answer in German and-”

“Okay, okay,” he said, calming her.

“And they wouldn’t let Herb talk-just took him. No explanation. So I went to the Kulturbund and nobody wants to touch it. I got somebody to make a call, at least find out what happened and you’d think I had the plague or something. He wasn’t the only one, that’s the thing. They’re all scared there. The Party hasn’t said anything. How can they not say anything? People just-taken like that. You’ve got to help me. Please. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got a phone-”

“Come up,” he said, opening the door.

“Oh God, finally. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Regular policemen?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Uniforms?”

“No, clothes. Is that bad?”

“Let me try the police first.”

“I’ll never forget this. I swear. What do I say to Danny? Your father’s a criminal? It has to be a mistake. I mean, Herb, he’s been a Party member since-they can’t just do that. It has to be a mistake.”

It took a few minutes to be put through to the desk, a little longer to explain why he was calling, Roberta hovering, hands in her coat pockets, clenched.

“He’s in Oranienburg,” he said finally, hanging up.

“Oranienburg?” Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “That’s Sachsenhausen. A concentration camp. He’s in a concentration camp?”

“Not like that-for political prisoners. If you want to see him you have to apply to the commandant. In person. That’s all they’d say. Do you know someone in the Party you could-?”

“My God, a concentration camp. Come with me. Please. I have to see him. I’ll never ask another thing as long as I live. Oh my God,” she said, breaking down now. “How could he be a political prisoner? What does that mean? He came to be with them, the Party. It’s a mistake.” She put a hand on his arm. “I have to know if he’s all right. Please speak for me. You’re an American-I can trust you. The others, at the Kulturbund, it’s like I had the plague.”

They took the S-Bahn north to the edges of Berlin, Alex feeling his chest tighten as they approached the last stop. In the street he looked at a passing truck, the way he’d come here before, packed in the back, standing. Then hit with clubs, climbing out. People watching. An ordinary suburb. But his prison was gone. He stood on the curb, unable to move, disoriented.

“What’s wrong?”

“It was here. An old brewery. People could see in. They leased us out in work parties.”

He asked an old man waiting for a bus.

“They closed that one in ’34. Then they built the new camp. Over there.” He jerked his head east. “The bus, you have to wait forever. You’re young. It’s not far, fifteen-, twenty-minute walk. Down there and then left at the corner.”

On the walk they were quiet, Roberta finally silenced by fear. A place she’d never thought she’d see, something in a nightmare.

They turned down a street lined with trees, the walls of the camp on their left, barracks for the guards on the right. Where the SS used to devise new tortures, boot testing, the prisoners walking endlessly around a track until their feet were crippled. What did the guards say to each other at night, stories over schnapps?

“Oh God,” Roberta said, faltering, grasping Alex’s arm for support. “I can’t.”

Ahead of them, the camp gate with a wrought iron “Arbeit macht frei,” beyond it acres of barracks arranged in a semicircle, the open roll call field, electric wire fences and guards, men shuffling in the distance. For one surreal moment, Alex felt as if they had entered a newsreel. All of it still here. Russian now. They had changed nothing, except the guards’ uniforms. His throat closed. He’d never get out. Fritz was gone. His father’s money. Nobody would buy him out this time.

A guard pointed them toward a large building in the outer courtyard. “Administration Offices,” as if the camp beyond were a factory and the white-collar bosses had to be kept away from the soot.

The clerk, a thin stubble of hair over a broad Slavic face, had only rudimentary German.

“Kleinbard?” he said, a sneer in his voice that said “Jew,” a sound as familiar to Alex as breathing. Nothing had changed. New uniforms.

The guard consulted a log. “Counterrevolutionary activities. Do you want to apply to visit?” He held out a flimsy paper form. “You can fill it out over there.” He pointed to a table where a woman, white-faced, with the tight, forced calm before hysteria, was scribbling on a similar paper.

“Counterrevolutionary? What are you talking about?” Roberta said. “He’s a good Communist.”

The clerk handed her the form again, nodding to the writing table.

“I want to see the commandant. You can’t do this. I’m an American citizen.”

The clerk looked at her, his face a sullen blank. “It’s not you in prison.”

“Did Herb keep his passport?” Alex said.

Roberta shook her head. “He had to choose. He said, what difference did it make? The State Department was revoking it anyway. So he’s German.” She stopped midstream and turned to the clerk. “But where is he? My husband.”

The clerk cocked his head toward the camp, his only answer, then pushed the form toward her again. “If you want to apply-”

“How long does it take?” Alex asked. “Usually.”

The clerk shrugged.

“It’s in German,” Roberta said, looking at it. “German and Russian.”

“I’ll do it,” Alex said.

The woman at the table looked up. “They lose them. This is my fourth.” Her eyes cloudy, distant. “But they tell you if he’s dead.”

“Oh God,” Roberta said. “He’ll die here.”

“No he won’t,” said Alex calmly. “Here, help me with this.”

“What’s the use?”

“Then it’s on file. If you get somebody in the Party to intervene, he can say, we’re moving up your application. Like any office. Otherwise you’ll start over.”

“They lose them,” the woman at the table said.

On the way back they were quiet until they were out of the camp.

“Look at them all. Living right next door. All this time. Down the street. I said to Herb, how can you go to Germany? And he said, it’s Socialist now, it’s all different. But nothing’s different. My God, a concentration camp. But why?”

“Something going on in the Party.”

“But he’s in the party. It’s his whole life.” She kept walking, brooding. “My father warned me. How can you do such a crazy thing? But he’s not married to Herb, is he? So what do I do now? Take Danny and go home? And leave Herb? But what happens if I stay? What if they don’t let him out? What kind of job could I get, with a husband in jail. The Party would never-” She stopped, as if not saying it would make it go away. “I can’t go back and I can’t stay.”

“No,” Alex said, just a sound. He looked around. Modest suburban houses, just a short walk from the barbed wire, the sky a heavy gray again, the color of lead.

On the S-Bahn they stared out the window, not talking. Finally Alex turned to her. “But you kept your American passport? It might be a good time to leave. For a while anyway. Until we know what this is. In case-”

“What?”

“In case they make trouble for you too. His wife. If anything happened, the boy would be on his own.”

Her eyes grew moist. “But nobody’s done anything. What did we do? He just wanted to be-part of it.”

At Rykestrasse, she asked him in for tea.

“I can’t really.”

“Please. I’ll go out of my mind alone. I’ll be all right after Danny gets home. What do I say to him? My God, what do I say?”

She busied herself with the kettle and cups, the familiar ritual.

“They don’t even say what you’re charged with. Just ‘Come with us.’ I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Like Nazis. Well, in the movies anyway.”

“What are these?” Alex said, trying to distract her, leafing through some architectural drawings on the table behind the couch.

“Schematics for the project. In Friedrichshain. You know it, that part of town?”

Alex nodded, thinking of the narrow gauge rail cars bringing rubble up to the park. “Stalinallee,” he said idly.

“Well, he won the war.”

Alex glanced over. A believer still, with a husband in prison.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the tea. “Two buildings. They’re both his?”

The pure geometry of the Bauhaus, white with lines of sleek horizontal windows, the inside presumably a model of efficient design, the old dream, postponed by the war.

“If they build them. There’s a stretch across from Memeler Strasse, he fit them both on the plot, to make a continuous line on the street. Beautiful, don’t you think?”

“But-?” he said, hearing it in her voice.

“But they want these.” She reached under the plans and pulled out a new set of renderings. “Wedding cakes, Herb called them. Oh God,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth, “do you think it’s that? He called them Stalin wedding cakes. In public. A dinner at the Kulturbund. With Henselmann, the other architects. He wasn’t the only one. I mean, everybody thinks they’re-well, look. Gorky Street. But that’s what they like. You have to work with the client. In the end it’s-”

“These are his drawings too?”

“No. He’s supposed to study them. Learn from them. Herb. Who can design something like this. You don’t think it’s this, do you? Making fun of the plans? I mean, in the end he’ll do it. You have to. Everybody was laughing, not just Herb.” She looked down. “Maybe someone reported him. Out of spite.” She raised her hands to her arms, crossing her chest, huddling in. “Oh God, what a place. I don’t want to stay here. Not anymore. But we can’t go back.”

“He could go to the West. A German. They take in any German.”

“The West? And work for all the old Nazis? Another Speer? No, thank you. This is the Germany he wants. You’re here too. You understand how he feels. You don’t go.”

“I’m not in Sachsenhausen.”

The boy came in just as they were finishing the tea.

“Danny, this is Mr. Meier. Also from the States.”

Danny raised an eyebrow at this, intrigued. “From New York?” he said, politely shaking hands. About Peter’s age, the same unformed features, hair falling into his eyes.

“California.”

Danny said nothing to this, reluctant to offer anything further, looking for his cue to leave.

“Mr. Meier’s a writer.” No response to this either. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Homework,” he said, lifting his satchel and then, at Roberta’s nod, “Very nice to meet you.”

Alex watched him go, a shuffling walk, as if he were kicking fallen leaves.

“He’s like that with strangers,” Roberta said.

“Mine too,” Alex said, his eyes still on the boy, suddenly wanting him to be Peter, an almost physical hunger. Just have him in the room. Not saying anything, maybe reading the funnies in the other chair while Alex flipped through the paper. Just there, in his presence. He turned to Roberta. “You have to think about him. What it’s going to be like for him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Roberta sat up straight, about to chafe at this, then sank back. “I know. But I can’t, not now. We have to get through this first. What do I say to him?”

What had Marjorie said? At least at first.

Roberta looked at him. “Please, I know I shouldn’t ask, you’ve done so much already, but you’re somebody there, at the Kulturbund. I mean, they give parties for you. You could get to Dymshits. He won’t talk to me but he’d talk to you. He’s the one who invited Herb. You too, yes? He’d at least listen. You don’t have to vouch for Herb-politically, I mean, if there’s some kind of trouble. You’re just concerned. There must be some mistake. Even some information-” She stopped. “I know I shouldn’t ask. But it’s not sticking your neck out or anything, is it? I mean, he hasn’t done anything.”

“Who?” Danny said, at the doorway again.

Alex looked at his face, grave and apprehensive, an adult’s face, what Peter’s looked like now too.

“All right,” he said to Roberta. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The Kulturbund was quiet, no crowds hurrying past Goethe up the marble stairs, no one sitting in the old club lounge where Fritz had told his stories. Even Martin seemed to be alone in his small office.

“Where is everybody?” Alex said.

“The flu. You know, the winter,” he said, evasive. “I’m glad to see you. Look at this.” He pointed to a tape recorder on a small table, microphone next to it. “You can be on the radio here. For Dresden, anywhere. No need to go there. We just send the tape. We’ve been waiting so long for this. It’s an expense, the trains. And you know the writers prefer-”

“I need a favor,” Alex said, breaking in. “If you can.”

“Of course.”

“An appointment to see Dymshits.”

“Major Dymshits? There’s something wrong?”

“Not with me. Herb Kleinbard’s been arrested. His wife is frantic. She’s been trying to get through-”

“It’s a difficult time,” Martin said.

“What do you mean?”

“The major-so many requests. He can’t involve himself. In Party business. The Kulturbund must operate-”

“What Party business? What’s happening?”

“Periodically, you understand, the Party must examine itself. A matter of self-criticism, usually. It’s easy for people to have failings. But if they go unchecked-” He paused. “As I say, a matter of self-criticism. In most cases.”

Alex looked at him. “You mean they’re arresting people. Not just Herb.”

“We have heard of several, yes.”

“Here? At the Kulturbund?”

“Yes, unfortunately. A difficult time. I was afraid when you asked that maybe you-”

“Then I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“As you say.”

“But why would they arrest me? Why would you think that?”

“Forgive me, please. It’s not that I doubt your loyalty. Your commitment. No. You know how I admire your-”

“But you thought they might have.”

“The Party is examining comrades who have spent time in the West. Forgive me, I didn’t intend-”

Alex waved this away. “Who else? Besides Herb?”

“Older comrades. Sometimes, you know, they have the old ideas. A conflict, maybe. So a correction is needed.”

“Do you really believe this?”

Martin looked up at him, dismayed. “Herr Meier, please. How can you ask this? It’s important for the Party to remain strong.”

“By arresting Herb Kleinbard? What if it happened to you?”

He looked down. “I must perform a self-criticism, yes, but you must keep in mind-”

“You? You could write Lenin’s speeches.”

“Herr Meier, please.”

“God, it’s because of us, isn’t it? The time you’ve spent-”

“No, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said quietly. “If any of this had to do with me. I never meant-”

“No, please,” Martin said, upset now, façade beginning to crack. “It was an honor to be of assistance to you. Your name was never mentioned. We are so pleased to have you here.” Recovering his poise, back on the job.

“You were happy to have Herb too. It must be a mistake. You know Herb.”

“Herr Meier, I can’t question Party decisions. How would that be, if everyone did that?”

Alex looked at him, the silence an answer.

“Who else? You said my name didn’t come up. Whose did?”

Martin looked away, embarrassed, as if he’d already seen Alex’s reaction.

“Comrade Stein has been arrested. And one of his editors. Not yours,” he said quickly.

“Aaron? They arrested Aaron? What for?” Seeing the soft, watery eyes, the ones that had glimpsed the Socialist future.

“I don’t know. They did not say. I’m expected to attend the trial, so I’ll know then. Let’s hope, nothing too serious.”

“There’s a trial? When?”

“Any day. We’ll be told. Someone has come from Moscow. A new man in the state security division. Saratov.”

“Saratov? So Markovsky was right after all,” Alex said, unable to resist, keeping the story going. He looked up. “What do you mean, we’ll be told? Are you testifying? Against Aaron?”

Martin said nothing, his face crumpling a little, as if he were in actual pain. Then he lifted his head. “I may be asked for an opinion. Of course, if I am asked-”

“You wouldn’t.”

“And you? What will you do if they ask you?”

Alex looked at him, time slowing in the empty room. Just a piece of paper in a file, signed. They wouldn’t call him, risk exposing him as a GI. The anonymous report would be enough, a paper trigger.

“It must be a mistake about Aaron,” he said weakly.

Martin looked up, miserable. “The Party doesn’t make mistakes.”

It was a short walk to Markus’s office, in one of the buildings the SED had taken over near the palace. The new unit must have just moved in because there were no names listed yet in the lobby directory.

“The new K-5. It was K-5 before,” he said to the desk clerk.

“Ah,” the clerk said, suddenly conspiratorial, nodding to the elevator. “On three.”

The doors, improbably enough, said Main Directorate for the Defense of the Economy and the Democratic Order, in fresh paint, not quite dry. A reception area with chairs, a typing pool, and a long corridor of offices. Markus’s secretary, not expecting visitors, seemed flustered, and Markus himself was annoyed.

“You’re not supposed to come here like this,” he said, drawing him into his office.

“I thought that’s the way you wanted to work it. A visit from an old friend.”

“In a café. My flat. Not here. Who comes here? Unless they have to. Anyway, you’re here. It’s just as well. I was about to come see you. It’s happening quickly now. You need to be briefed.”

“About what?”

“Markovsky,” Markus said, a cat with cream. “He’s defected.”

“What?”

“You’re surprised?” He shook his head. “I’m not. A pleasure seeker. I always thought it was possible. So you can see, it moves quickly now. Such a lucky idea of mine. To have you in place.”

“But she’s here. He didn’t take her. So what does she-”

“Yes, for how long? He’ll send for her. And when she goes to him, we have him.”

“In the West.”

Markus brushed this off with his hand. “We have him.”

“So you’re having her watched?”

“Naturally. But you know she’ll be careful. She expects that.” He looked over. “The best watcher is the one you don’t suspect. You see now how important-this is your chance.”

“My chance.”

“To be of real value. But you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Not now. Coming here for a social visit. What did you want anyway? That you would come here?”

“They’ve arrested Aaron Stein.”

“Yes.”

“And others. Herb Kleinbard, for God’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that you knew him.”

“I met them at the Kulturbund. His wife’s upset-”

“Well, yes. That’s to be expected. I would be too, in her position. So you come to me? I have nothing to do with this.”

“State Security? Who else would it be?”

Markus looked at him. “Our Soviet comrades. We don’t interfere. It’s not our role.” He hesitated. “You don’t want to get involved in matters like these.”

“I’m not involved. That’s the point. I don’t want to be.”

Markus frowned, not following.

“My little chat with Aaron? I don’t want that used against him.”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Yes, it is. Just pull it out of the file and throw it away.”

“That’s against the law.”

“What law? Arresting innocent people? Aaron Stein, for chrissake.”

“Be careful what you say. Innocent? You know this? Better than the Party does? It’s trouble, thinking like this.”

“Get rid of it. I won’t be used against him.”

Markus looked, then shook his head, smiling a little. “Writers. All dramatists. Brecht says this too. Not Aaron. It’s impossible. Before anything is known of the circumstances.” He walked over behind the desk, then leaned forward. “Now listen to me. As your friend. You don’t want to compromise your position. There is nothing I can do about this, even as a favor to a valued collaborator. They already have Stein’s file. Not a small one, by the way. They may ignore your report, they may not. They may ask you to appear at his hearing.”

“I won’t-”

“And if they do, I suggest that you speak willingly. Your concern must be the safety of the German Socialist state. That’s why you came back. That’s why you cooperate. There is nothing you can do for Comrade Stein.”

Alex was quiet for a minute, letting this settle.

“He is charged with high treason and counterrevolutionary activities. These are very serious charges. You don’t want to get in the way of Party discipline in a case like this.”

“High treason? Aaron? And what’s Kleinbard charged with? Laughing at Stalin’s building plans?”

Markus stared, then came out from behind the chair. “Comrade Kleinbard is another matter.” He put a hand to his chin, thinking. “There may be something I can do.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Markus looked at him. “Why? Who are these people to you?”

“I just think it’s the right thing to do, that’s all. Germany needs people like him.”

“And not people like us?” Markus said, his eyes amused. “Alex,” he said, drawing the word out, an intimacy. “Everyone has his part to play. Now you.” He walked to the door, hand on the knob. “Next time a café, yes? Like old friends. To come here-” He let it drift, unfinished, then opened the door. “You understand about Irene? Stay close. The eyes she doesn’t suspect. He’ll send for her, you’ll see. A sensualist. And then we have him.”

The door opposite opened as they stepped into the corridor, a small confusion of people, two men leading out a short old woman. She looked up at Alex and stopped, her eyes puzzled, trying to place him. His heart stopped. The woman in Lützowplatz. But he’d had a hat then, half covering his face. No sign now that she’d actually recognized him, just some vague stirring. He turned his face away. Keep moving, don’t draw attention. He started toward the reception area, expecting to hear the voice any second, a hoarse screech, finger outstretched, pointing.

“English overcoat,” she said, low, half to herself.

Involuntarily he looked down. Why hadn’t he got rid of it, flung it in the rubble somewhere or let it pass from hand to hand in the black market? But who threw away a winter coat in Berlin? Last year’s, from Bullocks, now marking him like a fingerprint.

“English overcoat,” she said again, still working it out.

“Yes, Pani, you’ve told us,” one of the men said, a little weary. Pani. Polish. Two men, one to translate. Things got lost that way, language to language, a police form of the telephone game. A longer process, cumbersome. “A few more pictures to look at, yes? And then you can go.” Expecting nothing.

But Markus would know what she meant, ears up, alert. A woman he’d already interviewed, his only lead. He’d catch the smallest nuance. Alex felt Markus’s eyes boring into his back. He’d know. After everything, Markovsky in the river, to be tripped up by a coat. Alex turned. Markus had stopped, staring straight ahead over his shoulder, his face white. The others stopped now too, the whole room suddenly still. Alex followed his gaze. Not the old woman, someone else, haggard, prison thin, standing by the secretary’s desk, her head raised to meet Markus’s eyes. A blank expression, and then a gasp, her face crinkling.

“Markus,” she whispered, face moving now, some uncontrollable tic. “It’s you?”

“Mother,” he said, a whisper, still, not moving.

She nodded, eyes moist.

“Mutti,” he said, another whisper, his body still rigid, the shock of seeing someone dead.

She started toward him, tentative, the rest of the room watching.

“Markus. This place,” she said, a hand open to it. “What are you doing here?”

He said nothing, still stunned, afraid even, and when she reached him she held back too, extending her arms to him and then stopping short, as if he were some fragile object, easy to break.

“Markus.” She raised a hand to his cheek, barely touching it, a blind woman forming a picture. “My God. You were just a child.” Resting her hand against the side of his face. “A child.” Her eyes, already moist, began to overflow. “What did they tell you?” she said, her hand now at his hair, Markus not even blinking. “Never mind. Tell me later.”

“Mutti,” he said, trying to make the ghost real or go away.

There was some movement to his side, the two policemen leading away the Polish woman. Alex watched them, hardly breathing, but Markus didn’t notice, too dazed by the hand on his cheek.

“Markus. Am I so different? Let me hold you.” She leaned into his chest, her arms around him, then turned her head, so that her gaze fell on Alex. A moment of confusion. “Alex? Alex Meier?”

“Frau Engel,” Alex said, his head dipping.

“You went to America.”

“Yes.”

The sound of his voice, an outsider, seemed to snap some spell in Markus, and he began to move, disentangling himself, a kind of military correctness.

“It’s a surprise, seeing you here. Where are you staying?” he said, polite, to a stranger.

“Where am I staying?” Frau Engel said, vague, then distressed, something she saw she ought to know but didn’t. She turned, flailing, to a man standing near them.

“Comrade Engel will be at the guest house. Of the Central Secretariat,” the man said.

“Oh, not with Markus?” she said, wistful.

“Perhaps later. When you know each other better. When he has had time to prepare for you. If you both wish.”

“Know each other? Who could know him better?” Then she caught Markus’s expression, someone watching a specimen, wary. “But perhaps later would be better, yes.”

“Is she still-?” Markus started to ask the man, then caught himself. “I mean-”

“A prisoner? No. Released,” his mother said, opening her hand, an odd flourish. “I have the papers.”

“I am merely escorting her to you,” the man said. “To make sure she arrives safely. Comrade Engel’s sentence was commuted. In full.”

“They gave me papers. So it must be. I don’t know why. I was an enemy of the people. And then I wasn’t. Like that. All these years an enemy.” She reached up again to his cheek. “While you were growing up. Your whole life. They took away your whole life. And then one day I’m on a train. It’s over.”

“Comrade Engel-”

“Oh yes, excuse me. I didn’t mean-” She pulled away from Markus, almost cowering. “Such talk. Pay no attention. I can’t think-” Fluttering, wings broken.

“You were arrested for counterrevolutionary statements,” Markus said simply, a policeman’s voice. “This time away-to rehabilitate yourself-the Party must have felt-” He stopped, letting this trail off.

Frau Engel looked at him, her eyes getting wider, something she hadn’t expected.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said quietly. “To rehabilitate myself.”

Alex watched the elevator doors close on the Polish woman. She hadn’t recognized him. A tweed coat. How many must there be in Berlin? Now Markus’s secretary was coming over.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s Major Saratov. On the phone. I told him you were-” She blushed, a kind of apology.

Markus glanced around the room, suddenly aware that everyone was still watching. “Mutti, I must work,” he said, almost relieved. “I’ll come see you later. We’ll talk then.”

“Yes. Later.”

“Alex will go with you,” he said, eyes brighter, pleased with himself, a way to ease Alex out too. “Get you settled. Isn’t it nice, his being here again? Like old times.”

Frau Engel stared at him, not responding, as if he were speaking another language.

“Alex, you’ll make sure everything’s all right?” Busy again, official.

“I have a car downstairs,” the escort said.

“Good,” Markus said, about to head to the waiting phone, then hesitated. A scene still public, not yet played out, people waiting for an embrace. He turned to his mother, at a loss, then put his hands on her arms. “Mutti,” he said. “You must be tired.”

“Tired?”

“Get some rest. I’ll come later.” And then his voice softened, private, someone else talking. “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

Another second, the crack in the ice growing wider, then he dropped his hands and started for the phone.

Frau Engel insisted on taking the stairs.

“It’s foolish, I know. But it reminds me, the lift. Closed up like that. You had to stand.”

“In prison?”

She nodded. “The isolation box. It was a punishment.”

“For what?”

She looked at him, surprised. “Nothing.”

Two men in uniform overtook them on the landing, Frau Engel making herself flat against the wall to let them pass.

“What is this place? They’re police?”

“State Security. German.”

“He works here? He’s one of them?” Her eyes large, apprehensive.

Alex said nothing.

“Markus,” she said to herself.

On the street, she drew in some air, then shivered.

“I’m always cold now.” In the winter light her face was ash gray, what Berlin had looked like that first morning, lifeless.

“Where did they send you? Can I ask?”

She shrugged. “A work camp. Near the nickel mines. Norilsk. Always cold. Well, so now that’s over.” She put her hand on his wrist. “What does he do for them? He’s one of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“He doesn’t say. But he just got a promotion. He told me that,” he said. “So he can help you.”

“Help me?”

“Someone with influence. It’s useful.”

“I was afraid. When I saw him, his uniform,” she said simply. “How is that? To be afraid of your own child? And did you see? He’s afraid of me. Some disease you can catch.” She touched her hand. “Contaminated.”

“He was just surprised. In front of all the people. It’s a-shock. So many years. It’ll get better.”

“But he’s one of them. Not just a guard. One of them,” she said, not looking at Alex, talking to herself. “How often I thought about this, what it would be like. Was he alive? What had they done with him? But I never thought this. That they would make him one of them.” She stared at the ground for a minute, then looked over to the car, the escort holding the door. “Well, my carriage. Cinderella, that’s what it felt like. I should have known. Are you all right, he asks. Can’t he see?” She touched her skin. “Why do you think they released me? He doesn’t see that. Only the old crime. What crime?” She looked up. “I forgot to ask you-your parents?”

He shook his head.

“No, of course not. Jews. And you came back.” Not a question, brooding. She looked around “And so did I. And now what? He’s one of them. And everybody else is dead. Kurt, my friend Irina, everybody. And what was it all for? You know, it was me. I wanted to go there, after Kurt was killed. Away from the Nazis, what was going to happen here. I was right about that. So I took him, Markus, I was the one. On the train. I told him how wonderful it was going to be.”

Martin had arranged a lecture for Alex at the university and a radio talk later in the month, but now needed him as a last-minute replacement for a broadcast with Brecht. Anna Seghers was in bed with flu. “You know how difficult it is to schedule Brecht. A casual conversation only. Your life in exile. Maybe even better this way. Comrade Seghers was never in America, only Mexico, and everyone wants to know what it’s like in America.”

“And Bert is going to tell them.”

Martin looked at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean? Oh, it’s a joke? Please. You know on the radio it’s important to be serious.”

Brecht was serious enough for both of them: capitalism reduced everything, everybody, to the level of the marketplace, commodities for sale to the highest bidder, a system of inevitable debasement. “Life is not a transaction,” he said, and Alex smiled to himself. One of those Brechtian lines it paid not to look behind. He imagined listeners nodding, like the congressmen, pretending to follow Brecht’s testimony, befuddled but too cowed to try to pin him down. California, he said, had been the perfect example of this-hollow, a marketplace trading in souls. Didn’t Alex agree?

Afterward they had a brandy at a local near the station, grimy, thick with smoke, Brecht’s element. Away from the microphone he became the private Bert again, familiar.

“So now we’re part of the cultural offensive,” he said, underlining the words. “They always bring out the artists when they’re up to something. Look, German culture, back again. Still, it’s good for Courage. They want a cultural moment, and we open tomorrow. So the timing is there for us. Wait till you see Helene. We gave a closed performance last night for the workers from the Hennigsdorf steelworks. Not even the sound of a pin. Completely engaged. Steelworkers.”

“What do you think they’re up to?” Alex said.

Brecht drew on his stubby cigar. “You heard about Aaron?”

Alex nodded.

“It’s a good time to be quiet. Write a book. The country, maybe. Then, when it’s over, at least you have something.”

“Unless you have a play to open.”

“Well, me. I’m harmless.”

“And Aaron?”

Brecht looked away. “The Russians. This mania they have for housecleaning. Where does it come from? And the acolytes are even worse. Ulbricht. One word and he’s on his knees scrubbing.”

“That’s what they’re doing, cleaning house?”

“Think how useful. A good broom can sweep so much away. Old nuisances. People in the way. Someone maybe too ambitious. Pouf. Gone. And the Party is pure again. So now it’s the SED’s turn. Maybe a test of loyalty for them, see how high they can jump when Stalin claps. And they will. Our new German masters. I knew them in the old days, when they were altar boys. Grotewohl, Pieck, Honecker, well he really was a boy then. Now look.”

“Altar boys.”

Brecht nodded. “Now priests. You don’t see it? It’s not like before here-no more marketplace.”

“Try in front of the Reichstag. Every morning.”

Brecht dismissed this, waving his cigar. “It’s a church now. And what do priests do? Defend the faith. Root out sin. Never allow doubt. Once that begins, everything crumbles. You know, really it’s the same. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe there’s a play. I knew these men. All early converts, young. Some go to the seminary. In Moscow. Now they never doubt. If they did, what would happen to them? How would they keep their power? Then the religion itself falls. Someone raises a hand, asks a question. Aaron, maybe,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “He resigns. In protest. Protesting what? The religion? Maybe just the priests. But the questioning starts, who knows where it spreads? No religion can survive doubt. And, you know, they don’t doubt. Not the Ulbrichts. What else do they have now? They live for the church. Who can be as pure as they are? Who can ever be so guiltless?” He smiled, then pointed a finger up. “Except the infallible one. It’s all the same, isn’t it? Rome, Moscow. So, now a little Inquisition. And then it’s back to normal.”

“But Aaron burns.”

“Well, a metaphor-”

“Not for him.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Help him.”

Brecht looked at him through the smoke. “You know, it’s very difficult to do that. Sometimes you have to work with things as they are. Look at the church, the real one. All those crimes, so many years, and yet there’s the music. The art. We’re not priests, we’re artists. We accommodate, we survive.”

“Ask the guy at the stake if the music was worth it.”

Brecht shot him a glance. “It’s better than before. Don’t forget that. The Nazis were priests and capitalists. The worst of both. Gangsters. So it’s better.” He smiled. “Now just priests.”

Alex sat back. “Accommodate. What happened to epic theater?”

Brecht turned his palms up. “I said sometimes. Never here,” he said, tapping his temple. “You don’t accommodate there.” He looked at Alex. “And you? You’re here too. So a radio talk. A small price, no?” He finished the brandy.

“You know he’s being charged with treason. He won’t just lose his Party card. It’ll mean prison.”

Brecht said nothing, staring at the empty glass.

“What if they ask you to testify against him?”

“They won’t.” He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. “Ulbricht wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m making jokes half the time. As if he would recognize a joke. So I’m a risk. Better to keep me as I am, a feather in his cap.”

“Whose opinion would matter. In public.”

“What are you suggesting? A letter to the editor? In Neues Deutschland? It’s begun. You remember the committee? In America? Once it started? There was nothing to do but get out of the way. Sidestep it, any way you could find. Then it goes on without you.” He poured out another glass. “And there’s the play to consider.”

He caught the Prenzlauer Allee tram, hoping to work on the lecture, but had only been home for a few minutes when the phone rang.

“Alex? You’d still like a walk? What time is good for you?”

Dieter’s voice, but gruff, pitched to anyone listening in, barely recognizable.

“Anytime,” Alex said quickly. “I could leave now if you like.”

“Excellent. Till I see you then.”

He turned left at the water tower, then down the hill past the cemetery to Greifswalder Strasse. Dieter never called. Something wrong with Erich maybe, his fever back. He waited by Snow White, expecting to have his usual cigarette, but Dieter was there almost at once.

“Erich’s all right?”

“Fine. Something else came up.”

“What?”

“A body. In the Spree. Near Bellevue.”

“The British sector,” Alex said automatically.

“Yes. In a Russian uniform. My old friend Gunther wasn’t sure what to do. So he asked for advice. For once, some luck for us. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“They ID him?”

Dieter shook his head. “No. But I did. He’d been in the water, but even so. Except it couldn’t be Markovsky, of course, because he’s in Wiesbaden. So I didn’t recognize him either.”

“They call the Soviets?”

“No. I told Gunther to put him in a drawer under a Max Mustermann until I could look into it. He doesn’t want to start trouble with the police here. Tell them you have a body, they start fighting over jurisdiction. Gunther thinks it’s his murder case. Coming up near Bellevue. I told him I’d help. We’re old colleagues.”

“Murder case?”

“His head’s bashed in. He didn’t slip on a rock. Now do you want to tell me what’s going on? He’s in two places how?”

“He was never in Wiesbaden.”

“Obviously. Not waterlogged like that. That was your idea?”

“Who’s Max Mustermann?” Alex said, off the point, thinking.

“What? What you call John Doe. No one. This was you, the defection?” he said again.

Alex nodded.

“So?”

“When Markovsky went missing, they were all over Irene. Naturally. I thought this would give her a little space. Be the mistress he left behind. Not somebody hiding him.”

“Was she hiding him?”

“No. No idea what happened to him.” He looked at Dieter. “I believed her. But would the Russians?”

“And now they do?”

Alex shrugged. “They’re not grilling her. They’re too busy worrying about what he’s telling us. Our defector. Anybody disappears, it’s the first thing they suspect anyway. Another one to the West. So let them assume the worst-he knows their men in the field, all of it.”

Dieter peered at him. “And when he did show up?”

“He’d have to defect. Once he already had. Not exactly a forgiving group. Would they believe him? Would you take the chance? Then we’d have him for real.”

Dieter said nothing, still staring. “And this was you?” He looked away. “Campbell knew?”

“He had to. To set up the leak.”

“But not me.”

“It was safer.”

“Mm. Except now he comes back as a corpse.”

“No,” Alex said, looking steadily at him. “He’s still in Wiesbaden. Singing. As long as we want him to, as long as the Russians think we have him.”

“And the body in the morgue?”

“Another Max-what? Mustermann. How many are there in Berlin now? Bury him and who’s to know?”

Dieter shook his head. “It’s murder. Gunther’s a little lazy, maybe, but he’s still a policeman.”

“The Soviets aren’t going to come looking. They don’t even admit he went missing in the first place.”

“He’s a policeman. He has to report it. A floater in a Russian uniform?”

“Did you take it off?” Alex said suddenly. “I mean someone might recognize-”

Dieter smiled a little. “The major’s stripes? We removed it, yes. It’s in an evidence bag. Gunther doesn’t know what he has yet. But eventually-”

“Eventually you’ll tell him about the soldier the Soviets are looking for. Nobody special, just an Ivan who probably got rough with a whore, so her pimp- And he floats down to Gunther’s sector. But if he sends the body back, he’ll have the Russians on him. Another excuse to make trouble. They’re not going to miss him. Nobody’s going to miss him. Bury him. And we keep Wiesbaden going.”

Dieter held his glance for a moment, then looked away. “You know, I’m a policeman too. A man’s killed, you want to know why. Who.”

“Markovsky? Half of Berlin would have loved to take a crack at him.”

“But only one did. You’re not interested to know?” He paused. “Or maybe you do.”

“I don’t care,” Alex said easily. “They find a wallet on him?”

“No.”

“And he’s alone at night? Anybody. Does it matter?”

“Gunther may not see it that way.”

“Just for a while.”

Dieter looked up.

“Let Wiesbaden play itself out.”

“You won’t be able to keep that up for long. The defector who isn’t there? It’s not a game, Herr Meier. Not that kind anyway.”

Alex nodded. “Do what you can. We need to buy some time. If the Russians get Markovsky back now, they’ll haul Irene in for more questioning. Let me get her out first. With Erich.”

“She’s going too?”

“I think she should.”

Dieter raised his eyebrows. “That puts you in a delicate situation. You’ll be losing your best source.”

“She was finished anyway, the minute Markovsky got his marching orders. Saratov doesn’t sound like her type. Unless they pass their women on.”

“No,” Dieter said, taking the cigarette Alex offered. “A pity.”

“What? Saratov?”

“No, Markovsky getting called home. And then this. Not a very noble end. Fished out of the Spree.”

“What’s the saying? You get the death you deserve.”

“Let’s hope not,” Dieter said, then looked back toward the street. “All right. I’ll talk to Gunther. When are you moving Erich? He’s a nice boy, by the way. We talked a little.”

“Tomorrow night. Tell Campbell to make sure Howley calls with the clearance.” He looked toward the sky. “And let’s hope the weather holds.”

“You have a car?”

“All arranged. From DEFA. Nobody’ll miss it.”

“You have to be careful. Especially now, with her. Why not do the boy first?”

“And wait for them to pick her up?”

“No, they don’t want her in Hohenschönhausen, they want her walking around. But on a leash. Where they can see her. Which means they’ll see you too. It’s a risk, with her.”

“Why do they-?”

“Herr Meier. A man of action. Maybe you don’t always think things through. Markovsky defects. So who joins him? The wife in Moscow or the girlfriend who can just walk across the street?”

“They why didn’t she go with him in the first place?”

“Maybe he’s testing the waters. Maybe she’s not part of the bargain so he has to offer something. It’s not easy to get out of Berlin. Or maybe-” He stopped, eyes on Alex. “Maybe he didn’t defect at all. Maybe he was-picked up. You say it’s the first thing they think? No, this. Kidnapped. A dangerous move in this game, by the way. They like to retaliate. Either way, what can they do? Watch and wait. She’s the only lead they have. You don’t think like a policeman. So it’s risky with her.”

“Maybe he never wanted her.”

“Maybe. But who would you follow? She’s a liability.”

“Not if he’s dead,” Alex said, brooding.

“And how will you arrange that? Another leak?”

“I don’t know. Something happens in Wiesbaden.”

“Shot trying to escape?” Dieter said, his voice unexpectedly sarcastic.

“Maybe he can’t stand the guilt. He commits suicide.”

Dieter made a thin smile. “Not very encouraging to anyone who really might be considering such a move, no? Bad advertising.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked it into a patch of snow. “An interesting dilemma. How do you kill someone who’s already dead?”

“Right now, we just have to make sure they don’t know he’s dead. That’s you.”

Dieter nodded. “And then you’ll think of something. A little more carefully this time. If the Russians believe we killed him, it’s a provocation. What they like-an excuse to be themselves.”

“What about the truth? A street crime. He was careless and got-”

“Well, the truth, yes. But who believes that? Who knows what that is? You? Not me. May I offer you a piece of advice? You like to keep things to yourself. You think it’s safer. Yes, maybe. But in this business at some point you have to trust somebody. You can’t do it alone. Not everybody, just one.”

“You?”

Dieter shrugged. “That’s for you to decide.”

“And how do you do that? Decide who to trust?”

“How? I don’t know. You develop an instinct. You’re still new to this.” He sighed. “And I’m not so new. So why listen to me? You’re still going to take the woman, aren’t you?” Dieter looked at him for a minute. “So. Remember, they’ll be watching her. And they’re hard to lose. In a crowd maybe-”

Alex nodded. “How about a few hundred?”

Dieter looked up.

“At the theater.”