Leaving Berlin (25 page)

“You didn’t say anything about how he felt, about going back?”

“I didn’t have to. Ivan already had. To make himself important, I think. How he told Sasha it wasn’t a trick, but Sasha was worried. So they asked me did he seem all right to you, the same? And I said, well, there was something on his mind, yes, but I thought, he’s thinking about leaving me. What else would it be? And of course they don’t answer that. Anyway, now I’m very upset so they’re not asking questions, just telling me everything’s all right.”

“Good. So they don’t suspect?”

“Me? No. They suspect him. They’re not sure of what. But when Ivan says he’s probably sleeping it off somewhere they just look at him, like a fool. Oh, and they asked me, how did he say good-bye, what did he say? And I said he didn’t say anything, he just kissed me here.” She touched the back of her head. “He didn’t want to wake me. He was so quiet when he left. So we’re all right, do you think?”

“So far. But they’ll come again. You have to be ready for that.”

“Again?”

“You were the last person to see him. So where did he go? If he’s hiding somewhere, the most likely person to be helping him is you. Unless he’s afraid they’ll tail you, so he’s safer on his own. But they’ll watch you. You have to be careful.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“So I don’t see you?”

“Only like this.”

She looked over at him. “You think it’s so easy, once you start? That’s how it is with you? Like a switch. On. Off.”

He looked away, not answering.

They went in through a small stage door to a hangarlike space, busy with carpenters and gaffers shouting to each other as they positioned lights overhead. Against the wall were giant newspaper presses made of wood and painted plaster.

“So, the
Völkischer Beobachter
,” Irene said. “They worked from photographs. The dimensions are accurate.”

“You can see through the paint,” Alex said. A set patched together with rationed materials.

“But the camera can’t. Look over there. The way it’s painted, the lines. On film, the depth comes out—not canvas, loading docks. You can make the camera see what you want it to see.” She glanced around the soundstage. “You know, when it was bombed here it was the only time I thought, that’s it, that’s the end. The set was just a silly room, for one of the mountain pictures, antlers and copper pots, stupid. And then it was bombed and I wanted to cry. A set like that. Well, that’s all we were making then, Heidi pictures. And
Kolberg
. Months and months of
Kolberg
.

“Propaganda.”

“Oh, propaganda. By then who was listening? Zarah Leander and her pilot? What’s the harm? Think what was going on out there.” She nodded to the door, the real world, then looked up at him. “I don’t want to lose this. Now that Sasha’s gone. I don’t know if Matthias can protect—” She stopped, then put her hand on his arm. “They say Dymshits wanted you to come—a personal invitation. He’d do it for you, a favor, and I’d be safe.” She hesitated, toying with it. “You’ll be Sasha now.”

He said nothing, taking this in.

“Isn’t it funny. To be together again. After all these years. I never thought—”

“I’ve moved Erich, by the way. Somewhere safe.”

“Where?”

He shook his head. “You can’t see him. You’d lead them right to him.”

She looked down. “So. This is what it’s going to be like?”

“Not for long. Don’t lose your nerve. Not now.”

“My nerve,” she said. “I survived Goebbels. Everything. Don’t worry about me.” Bravado with a quaver behind it, nervous.

“They have to think he’s still alive. So we have to think it too. Act as if.”

“Why?”

“Right now they’ve got a missing officer. Maybe a deserter. An embarrassment. If they have a body, they’ve got a homicide. A police case. And—” He stopped.

“And I’m the last one to see him alive.”

Fritsch met them for coffee in the commissary, preoccupied, the meeting with Janka evidently not an easy one.

“You know, in the Ufa days there was a hierarchy here, a special table for the bosses, the directors, the technicians. Now it’s democratic—sit wherever you like. And where do they sit? The directors’ table. The technicians’ table.” He attempted a smile. “It’s not so easy to change a society. Whatever Lenin might say. So, what did you think? The rebuilding, it’s impressive, no?”

“Irene says you’re back at full production.”

“Almost. The Russians gave us a priority, for building materials. Otherwise—” He stopped, his mind drifting elsewhere.

“It’s okay? The Staudte budget?” Irene said, reading him.

“The Staudte—?” he said, confused for a second. “Oh, that’s fine.
Something else.” He hesitated, glancing quickly away from Alex. “You haven’t heard from Herschel, have you?”

Irene shook her head. “Why?”

“He didn’t turn up. A shooting day, the set’s already lit and no Herschel.”

“He’s sick, maybe.”

“Walter sent someone to his flat. You know he’s here, in Babelsberg, so it was easy to check. No one. And the landlady says she heard people in the night.”

Irene looked up at him.

“At his door. She’s one of those types, if you ask, I don’t know anything, but she listens.”

“Maybe some whore from the bars. He’s done that before.”

Fritsch ignored this. “You remember when they were looking for Nazis? Right after the war? Always at night.”

“Nazis?”

Fritsch shrugged. “Whatever it is this time. A message maybe to DEFA. Walter’s worried. Once it starts—”

“And maybe he’s drunk somewhere,” Irene said, her voice not believing it.

Fritsch looked at her. “A shooting day.”

Alex watched them, back and forth, a tennis volley of unfinished sentences and code words, the way people talked now. He had forgotten where he was, a city where people could be snatched in Lützowplatz and disappear. He looked over at Irene. Face drawn, talking in glances to Fritsch. Don’t worry about me. Now the inevitable suspect. How much time had her story really bought them? A man like Sasha couldn’t just disappear. They’d never allow that. They’d have to hunt him down. Question the last person to see him. Over and over until she broke. The way they did things. Unless they could be convinced Sasha wasn’t with her. He peeked at his watch. Was Campbell already
here? When he looked up he felt Irene’s eyes, trying to read his thoughts. Keep Sasha alive. Somewhere else.

“Maybe he left. For the West,” Alex said, almost blurting it.

Fritsch sat back, a slight wince, as if the words themselves had made him uncomfortable.

“Herschel?” Irene said, dismissing this. “You remember how Tulpanov liked his work? He was a favorite of Tulpanov’s.”

“Yes,” Fritsch said, still uneasy, “a favorite. Well, maybe some misunderstanding. The landlady.” Eager now to move away from it. “So. What are you going to do for us? I know, I know, a book to write. But a film, it’s time for you. I was thinking—you don’t mind?—maybe something personal, from your own life? Would that interest you? Not the exile,” he said quickly. “That’s very difficult for film. But your parents, for instance. Your mother stayed with your father. Even to the camps.”

“She had no choice.”

“By then, no. But earlier. She wasn’t Jewish and yet she stays to the end.”

“She loved him,” Alex said simply, glancing over at Irene. What did it mean to love someone that much? Something from another time.

“Yes, of course, a love story, but also a heroic one. He was a Socialist, yes? So imagine—take one step—a young Communist couple, who have to go underground when the Nazis—”

He began using his hand for emphasis and suddenly Alex was back in California, a producer pointing at him with a cigar, rewriting the world.

Irene, watching his reaction, interrupted. “Or maybe an adaptation. We have a list of possibilities. We could meet to go over that. Discuss things,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Good, good,” Fritsch said before Alex could answer. “A meeting.
You know the food here is off ration. So that’s another thing. And now, you’ll excuse me again?” He stood up, shaking hands, then stopped, remembering something. “Irene,” he said, tentative, thinking out loud, “would you check with the gate? See if there’s anyone else who didn’t report today?”

Markus was waiting when he got back to Rykestrasse.

“You don’t mind I let myself in? It’s suspicious, waiting outside. People wonder.”

“Yes,” Alex said, thrown, not knowing what else to say. Had he already searched the flat? Poked through drawers?

“You’ve been ill?” Markus said, indicating the bedroom, a medicine vial left on the nightstand.

“I just felt a cold coming on. Better to catch things before they catch you. Would you like something to drink?” A quick scan of the room, the other medicines gone, no clothes left behind, just a rumpled bed.

“Where did you get it, may I ask? The medicine? Such a shortage just now.”

Alex looked at him. Thrust, parry. “Where does anyone get it?”

Markus took his time with this, then sighed. “Yes. But could I suggest, given our association, that in the future the black market—we must respect the law in these matters. Otherwise—”

“What association?”

“Well, our cooperation, let’s say. Our informal arrangement.”

“Markus—”

Markus held up his hand. “Yes, I know. You prefer to leave the work to others. Protecting Socialism. But now such a unique opportunity to help. Think how grateful—”

“What opportunity?”

“You saw Irene at DEFA today?”

“Fritsch asked her to give me a tour.”

“And did she tell you that her—what? friend? is missing.”

“She said Ivan came looking for him this morning. And then some other people. Your people?”

“No. The Russians don’t always share such information. Not at such an early stage. So think how valuable, if we could help them in this matter. Our new German organization. Not K-5 anymore. A certain level of respect—”

“Are you asking me if I know where he is? We had a drink at the Möwe. That’s the last I saw of him. What makes anybody think he’s missing?”

“He didn’t sleep at Karlshorst.”

“Is that unusual?” Alex said, looking away, pretending to be embarrassed.

“No. But he didn’t return either.”

“And?”

“And so he is missing. A man in his position, you see, it’s a serious matter.”

“He said he was going back to Moscow. Maybe he already—”

“No,” Markus said, almost smiling. “That would be known. Your evening, it was pleasant?”

“I suppose. There was a lot to drink. He seemed—”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Worried about something. Ivan got on his nerves, I think. But maybe that’s the way he always is. I don’t know him.”

“He talked about returning to Moscow?”

“That’s why the drink. To celebrate.”

“So he was pleased?”

“Yes and no. Pleased about going home—” He hesitated, as if trying to get the description right. “But, well, antsy too. Ivan said something about the old Comintern days, how they tricked people home, and that set him off. Is any of this really useful? It was just the drink.”

“Oh yes, very. It’s as I thought. And all this time Irene—what did she say?”

“Not much. How she’ll miss him. The usual. What you say when somebody’s leaving.”

“If he’s leaving,” Markus said.

“What do you mean?”

“Comintern days,” he said, his mouth twitching. “Who talks about such things anymore? Ivan. Maybe a loyal Russian, but also a fool. You think Markovsky is afraid to go to Moscow? Everyone wants to go there. Afraid of his wife maybe, yes. Afraid to lose the easy life here. His—what does he call her? When they’re together.” Markus looked over at him. “She knows. A woman like that—you think she’s so eager to see her man go? Stay with me. Don’t go. I’ll help you. Karlshorst, they don’t understand this. They don’t know her. So it’s an advantage we have. An opportunity.”

“An opportunity,” Alex said dully.

“Stay close to her. Wait for her to give herself away. And when she does, you’ll be there. Someone working with us. Let the Russians look wherever they want. We’re the ones who find him. Right where she leads us.”

“Us,” Alex repeated. “You’re asking me to—report on her?” he said, almost dizzy. “No.”

“You’re so fond of that family?”

“Her father saved my life. I’m not going to—what would I do? Follow her around? Like a detective?”

“You’re an old friend. It’s perfectly natural to see her. Talk to her. The more she talks, the sooner she slips. That’s all. Something easy
for you to do. Not so easy for the Russians. Or me. So, an opportunity.” He paused. “And a great service. The kind of thing that would be noticed.”

“Maybe even a promotion for you.”

“I was thinking about you, your position here. A grateful Party—it’s a very useful thing.”

“But why would she do it? What good is he to her if he’s hiding? What kind of meal ticket is that? If that’s what you think he is.”

“Who knows with her? Look at Kurt. So hysterical when he’s killed. The love of her life. Until the next one.”

“Was she? Hysterical?” Caught suddenly, trying to imagine it.

“Dramatics. Who knows what she’s thinking? She has a sister in the West. Maybe—”

“He’d never do that. Go to the West. Would he?”

“Who knows what he does for that woman? All we know now is that he’s gone. The Russians think, a political act, but they always think that. They don’t know her, what she can do to a man.”

“Markovsky? He can look out for himself.”

“You think so? All right. Prove me wrong. Let me know what she says. If there’s nothing, my apologies. But if she’s helping him, we have something for the Russians. Both of us. You can’t refuse this. To have this opportunity and not—” He stopped, letting the words hang in the air.

“Why would she tell me anything?” Alex said, running out of cards.

“She trusts you,” Markus said. “You know, sometimes you work months, years for that and here it is, right in your lap. Well, I should go. Someone sees the car there so long—a visit between friends, that’s one thing, but then why so long? Oh, and this, I brought this for you to sign.” He put a folder on the table.