Leaving Berlin (24 page)

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.

H
E WAITED FOR A
few minutes by Little Red Riding Hood, then moved on to Snow White, making a circle around the fountain basin. Just walk in the park, Dieter had said, and I’ll come. But how would he know? There was morning traffic on Greifswalder Strasse, a roar of trucks loud enough to cover the sound of the airlift until they stopped for a red light and the droning came back, there even when you weren’t aware of it, like a nervous tremor. He couldn’t stay here forever looking at fairy tale figures. Maybe Dieter had meant him to walk through the park, toward the rubble mountain.

“Good morning,” Dieter said, coming from behind.

Alex turned, almost jumping. “How did you know I was here?”

“I live across the street,” he said, motioning with his head. “I keep a lookout. My cinema. You have a cigarette?”

He bent forward while Alex lit it for him.

“Something’s wrong?”

“I need to hide someone. A safe place. For a while.”

“One of us?”

“A German. POW. He escaped.”

“And you want to help him? Take a risk like that? In your position? Didn’t they teach you anything? Your training?”

Alex shook his head. “They just threw me off the dock and told me to swim. Can you help?”

“Who is he?”

“Somebody from the old days. He’s sick. He needs to get to the West.”

“Not an easy trip to make these days.”

“He has something to offer. They had him working in the mines. In the Erzgebirge.”

Dieter raised his eyebrows.

“So he has information. I’m sure we’d be interested. But first I have to hide him somewhere. He can’t stay with me.”

“With you? Are you crazy? You have an escaped prisoner in your flat? After we went through all this trouble—?”

“If they catch him, they send him back. Worse. Can you help?”

“When?”

“Now,” Alex said. “They know who he is. His family. There’s a link to me, so they’ll ask.”

“Wonderful,” Dieter said, drawing on the cigarette. “All right, bring him to me.”

“You? I didn’t—”

“See the building across? With the missing plaster? Flat five. I’ll be there waiting. What else? You seem—”

“When does Campbell get here? I need to see him.”

“Why?”

“Something’s come up.”

“That you can’t tell me.”

Alex said nothing.

“So, now we’re careful. Before, let’s hide a fugitive under the bed, no problem at all, but now we’re careful.”

“It’s important. I need to talk to him. Is he here?”

Dieter thought for a minute. “Go to the Adlon. Later. Four, five, maybe. See if any mail came for you.”

“Then he is—”

“I don’t know yet. Just ask. By then, maybe I’ll have news. There’s some hurry?”

Alex looked at him.

“All right,” Dieter said, not pushing it. “What else? Have you seen Markovsky?”

“Last night. He was celebrating. They’re sending him back to Moscow.” Keep him alive, even to Dieter.

“What?” Dieter said, genuinely alarmed.

“I know. So much for our source.”

“He’s being recalled?”

“Promoted. Although there’s some question about that. He seemed worried about it.”

“Well, Moscow,” Dieter said vaguely.

“The new guy’s Saratov. Ever hear of him?”

Dieter nodded. “An old Stalinist. Close to Beria. And they’re sending him here?” He tossed the cigarette, brooding. “Why, I wonder. The mines, there’s some trouble there? Did Markovsky say?”

“No. He thinks he’s doing a great job. They’re making their quotas anyway. You think it means something, bringing Saratov in?”

“My friend, everything means something with them. It’s a chess game, Moscow, one move here, another there. Except in this game the king is never put in check. Never.” He looked up. “This is valuable, Herr Meier. A pity Willy isn’t here—a feather in his cap. To know this before it happens.”

“So should Markovsky be worried? He had a lot to drink.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean much with them. But it’s interesting, yes. Worried about a promotion. We’ll look some more at the tea leaves, see what they say. Your friend, she was with you?”

“That’s why I was there. A drink at the Möwe. Well, drinks. He had a pal with him. Ivan.”

“His flunky, yes. So what else did they talk about?”

“There was a story about Leuna. The heavy water plant there.”

“Leuna?” Dieter said. “Just like that they mention Leuna? You must have a gift for this,” he said, then grinned, an unexpected gesture, his whole face different. “We’ve been trying to find the exact location for months, and now—just like that.”

“They had a lot to drink.”

“Among friends,” he said, nodding to Alex. “It’s working. He trusts you.”

“Not for much longer. He’s leaving whenever Saratov gets here.”

Dieter frowned, then looked up. “The evening went well? You might see him again? A dinner before he leaves?”

“I could ask Irene.”

“A sad occasion for her,” Dieter said, thinking. “She might prefer a dinner alone.”

Alex shrugged. “She might be relieved. The POW’s her brother.”

Dieter stared at him. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Amateur. Such foolishness. You’ll get us all—” He looked up. “Markovsky knows this?”

“No. At least, he didn’t say and presumably he would have.”

“Presumably,” Dieter said, sarcastic.

“And he’ll be gone. Not his problem.”

“No. Ours.”

“Look, Erich might have gone to her. Or me. So they’ll check. But he doesn’t know you.”

“And that makes it safe,” Dieter said, dismissive. “When did he escape?”

“Two, three days ago.”

“Then you’re already on borrowed time. You should have your head examined.” He looked back at the statues, scanning the empty fountain. “All right, get him. I’ll find a place.”

Alex looked at him, a question.

“Somewhere safe, but not with me. No connection.”

“Where?”

Dieter shook his head. “The fewer people know, the safer he’ll be. No links to break. No chain.”

“Part of the training?”

“No, I know how these things work. I was for many years with the police.”

“The Berlin police? During—?”

“Yes, during the Third Reich.” The hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “A conversation for another day. Better have him come alone.”

“But—”

“A little trust, Herr Meier. Even in this business.” He glanced down at his watch. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

“No,” Alex said, his face suddenly warm. “Isn’t that enough?”

“For one day, yes,” Dieter said, another smile. “So. I’ll expect your friend. Alone. And you? What’s on the agenda today?”

“A meeting at DEFA.”

“Such a life. Film stars. Say hello to Fräulein Knef for me,” he said, turning to go.

“One last thing. Quick question. What does it mean if the Party calls your membership book in for review?”

“This has happened?”

“To an émigré. From America. I just wondered—”

“If it’s only one, it could be anything. A travel request. Some personal problem. If it’s several, many, then maybe a sign.”

“Of what?”

“One of the great Russian spectacles. A purge. A great sport for Stalin, before the war. And now for us. We sit back and watch them
pick each other off. They haven’t tried it here yet, too busy stripping the factories. But an opportunity for us if they do. You’ve heard of only the one?”

“An opportunity how?”

“To recruit. A test of faith, even for the strongest believers. No sense to it. Why him? Why me? Think of the exiles, dreaming of their Socialist Germany. Here? No, in Mexico.” He looked over at Alex. “America. So they come, still in their dream. And then they see what it’s really like. A bloodletting. To cleanse the Party? Yes, to cleanse it of them, terrify them. And now where is your faith? An opportunity.” He nodded. “Interesting times. Keep your ears open.”

Fritsch offered to send a car, but Alex took the S-Bahn instead, a little time to think on the ride out. Charlottenburg, streets of charred, hollow buildings, as bad as anything in the East. Westkreuz. The big railway yards at Grunewald, a maze of switches and platforms, where the Jews had been collected to be shipped east, rounded up in trucks or simply told to report to the station. Had his parents brought suitcases? All of it open, in broad daylight. Everybody saw. Everybody knew. Then the trees of the Grunewald itself, the lakes. Somewhere after that, no sign, they crossed back into the Soviet zone, the western sectors an island again.

He got off at Babelsberg, crossed over the tracks, and started the long walk to the studio. In Hollywood the soundstages were giant rounded adobes, baking in the desert sun. Here they were brick,
tucked into the suburban woods, even the gates shaded by giant overhanging trees.

Fritsch was in a rush, darting around his office in a kind of blur, then stopping short and looking down, as if he were trying to remember something.

“I’m sorry, so rude, but I didn’t know. I have to meet with Walter. Yesterday everything’s wonderful and now suddenly a meeting. So. Irene can show you around, yes?” He looked over to her. “And we can meet for coffee later. You’ll forgive me? Irene, why don’t you start with Staudte’s set. You want to see where the money goes? And he used to shoot in the rubble. Now—” He stopped, searching for something in his head, then looked at Alex. “He wants to call it
Rotation
. What do you think? You like the title?”

“Rotation. As in the planets?”

“What planets? No, like a printing press.” He made a cranking motion with his hand. “For the
Völkischer Beobachter
. You see?” he said to Irene. “I told you it was confusing. What’s the first thing you think of. He says planets. A film about a Nazi newspaper. So what good is that? Talk to Staudte, will you? He doesn’t want to sabotage his own film with a title nobody—” He looked over his desk and picked up a piece of paper. “So let me get him some money. Then maybe he changes it. Herr Meier, you’ll forgive me? I shouldn’t be long. It’s always quick with Walter. Yes. No. Never maybe.”

“Who’s Walter?” Alex said when he’d gone.

“Janka. The head. Matthias ignores the budget and then he’s always surprised when— Come.”

She led him out of the admin building, across the grounds to one of the soundstages.

“Did they come this morning?”

“Twice,” she said, glancing around. “First Ivan and some driver from the pool. Where is he? Isn’t he with you? I said. No. Ivan’s still confused, of course, from all the drink. He left here hours ago, I said.
I thought he was with you. Now more confused. Then, a few hours later, another two. From Karlshorst. One I recognized—he worked with Sasha—so he knew me too. What time did he leave? Early. I was still half asleep. Not yet light. Well, maybe just getting light. Vague, the way we agreed. He didn’t call for a car? I don’t know, didn’t he? Is something wrong? He’s all right? Now concerned. And the friend tries to calm me down. It’s probably nothing. And I say, but where is he? And they want to know, what did he say? When he was with me. Well, sad, of course, we were both sad. He’s leaving. But we always knew this would happen one day. And then they want to know the time again—when did he get there, when did he leave.”