Leaving Berlin (18 page)

“Maybe they don’t care.”

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alex.”

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

“Come, I’ll give you a lift.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cigarettes, perhaps. A great smoker.”

“Yes.” Not saying anything more, waiting.

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

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

“You found them attractive?”

“Yes, very.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

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

“Really. And what’s in mine?”

“Good things. Don’t worry.”

“Just curious. Why would anybody be interested?”

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

“Well, then I must have passed.”

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

“Oh,” Alex said, not expecting this.

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

“Makes what easier?”

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

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

“Which people?” he said finally.

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

“For his file?”

Markus shrugged, something irrelevant.

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

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

“Germany.”

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

“By snitching on Aaron Stein?”

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

“And if he’s not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not—”

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

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

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

Alex felt his stomach clench, some rush of acid.

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

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

“You’re so sure I’d be good at this?”

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

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

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

But not who’s living there with me.

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

“Alex, so suspicious,” Markus said.

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

“I wanted to be sure of you.”

“And now you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alex nodded.

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

A trap if Markus already knew, listening through walls.

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

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

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

“Yes, I have heard this.”

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

“That is your assessment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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