Leaving Berlin (8 page)

After that it was a succession of handshakes, a blur of introductions. Brecht had drifted away to provoke someone else, and Tulpanov held court by the drinks table, obviously just waiting to leave. Dymshits gave a formal toast, welcoming Alex home to build the new Germany. “As we know,” he said, “politics follows culture,” and people nodded as if it made sense to them. Alex looked at their bright, attentive faces, Brecht’s cynicism as out of place here as it had been in California, and for the first time felt the hope that warmed the room. Shabby suits and no stockings, but they had survived, waited in hiding or miraculously escaped, for this new chance, the idea the Nazis hadn’t managed to kill.

Nothing was being asked of him. He acknowledged the toast with a few words of appreciation, thanking everybody for the welcome, but no one expected a speech. It was enough that he was here. Dymshits
wanted lunch, some literary conversation. Aaron Stein hoped that he would help Aufbau by giving an opinion now and then on an English book. Martin wanted him to make the Kulturbund a kind of second home. But all he really had to do was collect his stipend and work as he pleased. In America there had never been enough. Without Marjorie’s paycheck, how would they have managed? And now here in the Soviet zone, of all places, he was comfortable, even prized. Everyone seemed oddly grateful that he had come. There were polite questions about America, whether he thought they would accept a neutral Germany or try to rearm their zone, asked hesitantly, fearing the answer, and it occurred to him, an unexpected irony, that despite the blockade it was they who felt besieged, that his welcome was that of a soldier who’d managed to get through the lines and rejoin his unit.

“I hope you won’t mind.” Someone speaking English. “I just wanted to tell you I think it was great what you did, standing up to them. It’s about
time
.” A woman holding a plate heaped with salami and potato salad, the voice New York quick. “I’m Roberta Kleinbard,” she said, motioning with the plate as a substitute for a handshake. “God, it’s such a relief to speak English. You don’t mind, do you? Herb says I’ll never learn German if I keep falling back on it. But it’s hard. You read the papers and that’s all right and then somebody wants to really talk and half of it just sails over your head.”

“You’re living here?”

She nodded. “We figured it was just a matter of time back home. You know, like you with the committee. Herb was in the Party. Nobody’s going to hire him once that comes out.”

“What does he do?”

“Architect. And what’s an architect supposed to do if he can’t do that? Work at Schrafft’s?” She waved her hand in dismissal. “They won’t be satisfied till they hunt us all down. It’s not illegal, but tell that to the boss. The
client
. Anyway, he was from here originally and God
knows they could use architects.” She cocked her head to the invisible ruins outside. “So I thought, it’s better than sitting around waiting for some sub
poena
. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.”

“And how has it been? For you, I mean.”

“Well, it’s not New York, let’s face it. Try and get a decent lipstick. They’re going through a rough time. You know, just keeping
warm
. But Herb’s working. He’s not sitting in some jail for taking the Fifth. He likes it. And the plans they’re working on—like starting over. But this time you build it the way you want it to look. You’re not going to do that in New York. So it’s good for him.” She looked around. “I know he’s dying to meet you. He wanted—did you know Neutra? Out in California? Neutra’s like a god to him.”

“No, never met him.”

“But you were in Los Angeles, right? I just thought, you know, Germans, they’d naturally know each other.”

“Neutra’s been there a long time. He probably thinks of himself as American. Anyway, he was Austrian. Vienna, I think.”

“And not German, there’s a difference, and everybody here would know that, right? And there’s me with my foot in my mouth again.” She rolled her eyes.

Alex smiled. “Only the Austrians care. So you’re mostly right. Anyway, never met him. What about you? What do you do while your husband’s building Berlin?”

“Well, they’re not building it yet, so I’m still helping him with the drawings. That’s how we met. I was a draftsman. And there’s Richie to look after.”

“Your son?” he said, a sudden drop in his stomach, unexpected.

“Mm. But he’s in school now, so he’s gone most of the day.” She looked away, following her thought. “You do get homesick sometimes. And some of the ideas they have. About the States. All we do is beat up people on picket lines and lynch Negroes. Not that things are so wonderful but—”

“They really say that?”

“Well, the Russians. But you see things in Richie’s books now, so you wonder what they’re getting in the schools. The evils of capitalism, all right, fine, plenty of those to go around, I agree, but lynching—are we talking about the same place?” She looked back. “But it’s better than having his father in jail. And things’ll improve.”

“They might even have lipstick soon,” he said lightly.

She flushed, as if she’d been caught at something. “I can’t believe I said that. Lipstick when—”

“No, it’s nice to see a woman looking her best. Even Socialist ones,” he said, harmless party talk, then saw that she had taken it as a pass, her eyes moving to the room.

“Is your wife here?”

“No, she’s—in the States. We’re separated.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Because of this—you coming here?”

“Because of a lot of things.”

“They never talk about that, the strain it puts on people. Do you testify? Do you cooperate? What it does to the families. Always wondering. Are they watching? Friends of ours, they’d see a car parked outside—so, FBI? How do you know? It’s the strain.”

He looked at her, at a loss, not what he had meant, but now Martin joined them, slightly shiny from the wine.

“There you are. I have to steal him for a few minutes. You don’t mind? Anna’s here,” he said, lowering his voice.

He led Alex across the room, his bad leg skipping over the floor, to a woman talking to a small circle of men. Anna Seghers was shorter than Alex had expected but otherwise the same woman he’d seen in jacket photos for years. Her hair was white now, pulled back around her head, a halo effect that made her seem radiant. Martin, clearly dazzled, presented Alex as if she were granting him an audience, a
gnädige Frau
. Alex dipped his head as he took her hand.

“Oh, I’m not as grand as that,” she said easily. “Or as old. How nice to meet you finally. Not just in your books. Welcome home.”

“And you not just in yours.”

“Tell me, did you have anything to do with the film they made of
The Seventh Cross
? They said every German in Hollywood had a hand in the script.”

“Not this one,” Alex said, holding his hands up. “All clean.”

Seghers laughed. “Good. Now we can be friends. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It was very nice to have the money. Even in Mexico money doesn’t go very far. So, a godsend. And how are you getting on here?”

“I’ve just arrived. Literally. Last night.”

“The first few days, it’s difficult,” she said, her voice warm, confiding. “When you see Berlin now. The trick is to see what it’s going to be. Germany without Fascism. Sometimes I thought I would never see that. I hoped, but— And now it’s here. So never mind the mess, you can always clear bricks away. Fascists were a little harder, no?”

“You sure they’re all gone?”

“Well, it’s like weeds, always there. So you get new soil, not so good for them. Change the economic system and they don’t grow so well.”

“Maybe they become something else.”

She looked at him, interested. “Maybe. Let’s talk about this. Not here. You have to meet a hundred people. Say nice things. The
same
nice things. I know how it is. But maybe you’ll come see me? Come for tea and we can talk all afternoon. About what the Fascists become. Martin, you’ll tell him where?” Meeting everyone, just as Willy said. A true believer, used for ribbon cutting.

Martin nodded, impressed, the invitation clearly an honor.

“Ach,
there’s Brecht,” she said, noticing him across the room. “Poking, poking with the finger. More mischief. He thinks he’s eighteen years old still. Well, maybe that’s the answer, he is. You knew him in America?”

“Yes.”

“Not a happy time for him. He says. Imagine what it was for Helene. But of course he doesn’t. Imagine it. And now making everyone dance. First this, then that. Now he wants a car and a driver. When everything is so difficult for people, scarcely enough to go around, he wants a car and a driver. Like a—” She searched for the word.

“Great dramatist.”

Now it was Seghers who smiled. “I look forward to our tea. Come this week. You’re free?”

Alex opened his hands.

“We have a few things scheduled,” Martin said, playing secretary.

“The Kulturbund,” Seghers said, an indulgent glance to Martin. “They hate to see us actually
write
. Fill the days, fill the days.”

“It’s lunch with Dymshits.”

“Well, then you must go. Our masters.” She put a hand on Alex’s arm. “It won’t always be like this. An occupied country. Now they can do what they like—take away factories, anything. Well, so it’s the spoils. It’s difficult for the German Party, people think we’re lackeys, but what else can we do? Wait. And one day, it’s a German government. And at least when they leave, they leave a workers’ state. A German idea. Marx always had Germany in mind. I often wonder, how would it have been if it had happened here, not Russia. Well, we’ll see.” She stopped, cutting herself off. Did Campbell, anyone, really want to hear all this? Just static in the air. “Go have your lunch with Dymshits. He’s a cultivated man. Brecht says he reminds him of Irving Thalberg.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Brecht never knew Thalberg. He was dead before Brecht got there. Years before.”

Seghers snorted. “Typical Bert. So your wife is here? I’d like to meet—”

Alex shook his head. “In America. She’s American.”

“Ah,” Seghers said, looking at him, shuffling through stories, reluctant to ask. “Maybe later. When things are easier here.”

“Yes, maybe later.” A harmless lie, closing things off.

He felt someone hovering at his side and turned. A young man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, neatly combed hair.

“So you don’t recognize me.”

Alex stared, trying to imagine the face fifteen years ago. Serious, sharp-edged now, not a hint of the youthful fuzziness he must have had in old school pictures. “I’m sorry.”

“No? Well, who remembers the younger brother? There’s a clue.”

Another look.

“Never mind. I don’t blame you. I was ten years old. So things have changed.” He held out his hand. “Markus Engel.”

“Kurt’s brother?” His head in her lap.

“Ah, now the bell goes off. The little brother. Maybe you didn’t even notice back then. But of course I knew you. All of Kurt’s friends.” He turned his head. “Comrade Seghers. We haven’t met but I recognized you from your photographs.”

“If only I still looked like that,” she said pleasantly. “Well, I’ll leave you to talk old times.” She took Alex’s hand. “So glad you’re with us. I’ll have Martin arrange the tea.”

Markus watched her go. “A good Communist. There should be more like her.”

Alex looked at him, surprised. “Aren’t there?”

“I mean the exiles. So many years in the West, it changes people sometimes. But not her.” He half smiled at Alex. “Or you it seems. You came back.” He paused. “You didn’t bring your wife, I think? She’s staying in America?”

The third person to ask, but this time a hint of interrogation, something for the file. Alex looked up, alert. Not unkempt and eager like Kurt, controlled, a policeman’s calm eyes, watching.

“Yes,” Alex said.

“Let’s hope, not too long. It’s not good for families to be apart.” Innocuous but somehow pointed, fishing for a reaction. The leverage of family left behind, what Campbell had wanted to know too.

“I’m afraid for good. We’re separated.”

“Oh,” Markus said, not sure where to take this. “And still you come. So a matter of conviction. Admirable. But you know it’s a serious issue, this exposure to the West. Not for you,” he said hastily. “Not the writers. But the Russian soldiers, POWs—it confuses them. Comrade Stalin immediately saw the problem. How it’s necessary to re-educate them if they’ve been in the West.”

Alex looked at him, disconcerted. Re-educate. Kurt’s little brother.

“It’s a long time you’re away,” Markus said.

“So I’m hopelessly tainted.”

A delayed reaction, taking this in. “I see, a joke. I’m saying only that you weren’t here. You’re meeting lots of old friends tonight? Ones you can recognize?” he said, smiling.

“You’re the first.”

“And your old house? Lützowplatz, I remember, yes? It’s still standing?”

Alex looked at him, unable to speak. What did he know?

“Often people do that,” Markus said. “Go to see if it’s still there. An understandable curiosity.”

“Yes, you wonder. So I went this morning.” Something easily checked. Play it out.

“An early riser.”

“Not too early,” Alex said vaguely. “I slept in a little. A long drive yesterday. But what a memory you have. Lützowplatz.”

“Well, I was reminded of it. There was an incident there this morning.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t see anything yourself?”

“No. What kind of incident?” Keeping his voice steady.

Markus stared at him, then waved his hand. “Traffic accident. Carelessness.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“I think so, yes. Imagine surviving the war and then a stupid accident. A man was seen running away. Maybe the cause, it’s hard to say.” Then, at Alex’s expression, “I thought you might have seen—”

“No. Nothing. Not the house either. It was gone. The whole thing.”

Markus held his eyes for a moment, then decided to move on. “It’s difficult, coming back. I was with the first group in ’45. The streets—I didn’t know where I was. I thought, what city is this? But then, little by little—”