The Second Son: A Novel (44 page)

Hoffner opened his hand and let the earth fall away. He then stood and followed behind her.

*   *   *

Vollman had waited. The aeroplane was fitted with enough gasoline to get them to Barcelona. He would refuel, then go on to Berlin.

They slept for the three hours of the flight, and when Vollman brought the plane low they both woke and looked out to see Barcelona as they had left it. The stories of Badajoz had yet to reach this far east; news that the armies of the north and the south had joined hands would wait another few hours. For now, the city stretched out contentedly under the sun.

Mila and Hoffner stood in the short grass of the runway and watched from a distance as Vollman tipped canister after canister of gasoline into the fuel tank. A car would come for her. They had telephoned her father.

“The wife and the little boy,” she said. Her arms were across her chest as she stared out at the plane. “You have to go. To Berlin. You have to tell them, make arrangements. I understand.”

Hoffner nodded. He hadn’t asked her to come. He knew she wouldn’t. Anywhere else, he would have given himself over to this kind of will. He would have acquiesced or backed away or fallen silent in her presence. But that’s not what this was.

“And what is it you understand?” he said, as he turned to her. He forced her to look at him. “You think there’s something for me to find in Berlin? What Berlin? There
is
no Berlin, at least nothing in it I know. So I go for the wife and the boy. I go to destroy what life they have left. What is there to understand in that?”

“You go because you love them,” she said. “You go because nothing else matters. Why is it so hard for you to see that?”

Hoffner tried to answer, and she said, “You go for the same reason you’ll come back to Spain.”

Hoffner saw his own need in her eyes. He saw a way beyond a life lived in the shadow of those two graves, beyond the dampness of the earth still on his hands and in his nails.

She said quietly, “I’m not asking you to stay.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. I’m telling you what’s here. What more is there?”

The buzz from the propeller cut through, and they both turned to see Vollman walking to the ladder. She waited for Hoffner to speak. Finally she said, “You have to go.”

Hoffner stared across at the plane. He watched as Vollman slipped on his goggles.

Hoffner turned to her. He took her in his arms and he kissed her, her body pressed against him. She pulled back and brought her lips to his ear. She whispered, “Then love them, Nikolai. Love them and know it’s enough.”

He held her. Her body shook, and he knew it would never be enough.

Hoffner let go and started toward the plane. He let the sound of the propeller draw him. He reached the ladder, climbed up, and stepped into the seat. The plane began to move, and he felt the air against his face. He waited for the speed, and the plane lifted.

Somewhere below, the sea crashed against the rocks and the sun played havoc on the surf, but Hoffner kept his eyes on the blue of the sky. To look back, even for a moment, would have made living beyond this an impossibility.

7

FOREVER FROM HIS GRASP

The city lay beneath clouds, and Vollman banked the plane low to cut his way through. The rain was colder here and fell across Hoffner’s face with the sour taste of wild turnips. It was familiar enough, and he breathed in and tried to remember Berlin in August.

The plane touched down easily. A gray dusk covered the fields and runways. Vollman cut the engine, and the two got out and walked toward the hangar.

“I have a car,” Vollman said. “I can take you into town.”

The drive passed in silence. Dusk slipped into evening, and the oncoming headlights flashed across the windscreen like the sudden flares of a match. Hoffner kept his window down and let the rain slap at his face. The chill and the quiet seemed foreign. Cars raced by, the streets grew brighter with lights and people, and Hoffner wondered if there was anything to recognize in these lives lived so carelessly.

Vollman pulled up in front of an old repair garage. There were two large rooms above, furniture, a telephone. The lights were on.

Vollman said, “This is it?”

Hoffner continued to stare up at the rooms. He nodded.

“You’ll be all right?”

It was a pointless question. Hoffner turned to Vollman. There was nothing more to this; still, he asked, “You’ll fly back to Spain now? Or Moscow?” Vollman said nothing. “We won’t be seeing each other again, I imagine.”

Hoffner waited. Vollman stared through the windscreen and Hoffner opened the door. He stepped out.

Upstairs, the last of the Berlin he knew trundled along as it always had. A table stood at the far end of the room, large Rolf behind it, with a line of men winding its way back to the door. Rolf was writing out slips of paper and handing them to Franz, who entered them in a ledger. The men were a ragtag bunch—pickpockets, swindlers, thieves—each with a little something to show for a day’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the tools of the trade smelling of old Dutch tobacco. Hoffner recognized the son of a man he had sent to the gallows fifteen years earlier. There had never been any hard feelings. The father had beaten the boy’s mother to death. The boy had been happy to see him hang.

Radek was in the second room, lounging on a long sofa and reading through one of his papers, when Hoffner stepped through the line.

“Pimm always did this at daybreak,” Hoffner said. “Kept them on their toes.”

Radek looked up. He tossed the paper to the side and nearly sprang up. He did nothing to hide his delight. “About time.” He pulled Hoffner in for a hug. Hoffner tried to return it. A few men looked over. The rest knew not to take notice.

Radek pulled back and smiled. “You found a plane.” He was already moving to a small cabinet where glasses and bottles stood in disarray. He uncorked one. “I had to bring Mueller back,” he said as he poured. “Couldn’t be helped, but I gather it all worked out.”

“Yes.”

“He said you met Gardenyes. Lunatic, even by my standards. You weren’t around when he got shot, were you?” He handed Hoffner a glass.

“No,” Hoffner said.

“Good.” He raised his glass. “
Salud
.”

Hoffner watched as Radek drank. He watched as the eyes peered across at him. And he watched as the glass slowly came down.

Radek stared for several moments. Finally he said, “Georg didn’t make it, did he?”

“No.”

“Christ. I’m sorry. How?”

Hoffner waited, shook his head. “The usual way. What you’d imagine.” He handed back the glass. It was untouched. He glanced into the other room. “Business seems good.”

Radek set the glasses down. “Have you told the wife?”

Hoffner watched the men. He followed the slow movement of the line, the great care Rolf was taking with his penmanship. Hoffner shook his head.

Radek said, “She has the mother and the father in Berlin. And the boy. That should make it easier.”

A man was sitting at the far end in a chair by himself. He had bruising around his eye and cheek. He had been crying. Hoffner had no idea why. He turned to Radek. “It’s all gone, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“This. The city.”

Radek knew to tread carefully. “You should have that drink.”

“She won’t be finding her way back, will she?”

Radek recorked the bottle. There was no point in fighting it. “And what would you have her go back to, Nikolai? Berlin wouldn’t know herself, even if she went looking.” Radek stared down at Hoffner’s glass of whiskey. He picked it up and tossed it back.

There was nothing real to this, thought Hoffner, nothing he could touch. “Sascha’s dead,” he said.

Radek brought the glass down. He waited before saying, “Is he?” He lapped at what was left and set the glass on the cabinet. “I’m sorry for that.” He refused to look at Hoffner. “We’ll go out. Rücker’s, the White Mouse. Last night of the games. Everyone wants to have a drink the last night of the games.”

Hoffner saw Radek’s face grow tighter, and Hoffner said, “You enjoy the drinks, Zenlo.” He turned toward the door.

Radek said, “They weren’t yours to save, Nikolai.”

Hoffner might have heard him say something else, but he chose to ignore it.

*   *   *

The house was dark, all but Lotte’s bedroom window. Hoffner stared up at it. He had been standing like this for the better part of an hour. The street was quiet. A car drove by, and Hoffner saw a figure peer through the curtains. He stepped out under the streetlamp, and the curtains fell back. Hoffner walked to the front steps.

The door opened before he could knock, and Lotte stood in the vestibule, her face pale, her hair fighting against the pins. Hoffner saw her father and mother—Edelbaum and his wife—standing by the stairs. There was nothing to hide the age and the fear in their faces.

Lotte looked at Hoffner. She saw the swelling around his eye, the gauze on his hands. Her breath grew short and she stepped back. Hoffner reached for her, but she was already sliding to the floor, her back against the wall, her legs tangling in her apron and skirt. She sat there and began to weep, and Hoffner crouched down. He heard her mother crying.

Arms limp at her sides, Lotte began to slap the back of her hands onto the tile, one after the other. Her weeping became moans, and Hoffner took hold of her and brought her close into him. He lifted her and carried her inside. He set her on the couch, and her mother quickly moved to her. Hoffner stepped back. He stood by the father.

“How?” said Edelbaum.

They both stared across at Lotte. She had nothing but memory now, stripped of hope and more desperate by the minute. How easy to shatter a life, thought Hoffner, drain the strength from it, and make courage something only vaguely remembered.

“Wilson never came?” he said.

It took Edelbaum a moment to answer. He watched his daughter and said absently, “Who?”

“The man from Pathé Gazette. He never came by?”

Edelbaum tried to think. It was too much. He shook his head, and Hoffner wondered if this had been kindness or cowardice on Wilson’s part.

Edelbaum said, “Two SS came, or Sipo, I don’t know which. I had to sedate my wife after.”

Hoffner heard the fear, and Lotte became quieter. Her head was in her mother’s lap, and she stared out across the carpet. Hoffner said, “How soon could you go?”

Edelbaum turned to him. There was genuine hurt in his eyes. “Go? This is my daughter.”

“Out of Germany,” Hoffner explained. “All of you. How soon?”

Edelbaum struggled to understand.

Hoffner said, “You need to get out. You know it. You need to take Lotte and the boy and get out.”

Edelbaum began to shake his head, and Hoffner said, “This is what it will be every day from now on. This fear. And it will get worse. I have friends. They can do this for you. You get your affairs in order, and you go. You understand what I’m saying?”

Edelbaum stared at Hoffner. He waited before saying, “Leave Berlin?”

Hoffner realized it was a broken man who now gazed up at him.

“I’m giving you my grandson,” Hoffner said. “I need to know you understand that.”

Hoffner saw Lotte raise her head from her mother’s lap. She was staring across at him, her eyes no longer lost. She began to push herself up.

Hoffner said, “She needs to sleep.”

Edelbaum turned and saw Lotte. He began to nod. “Yes, of course.” He spoke to his wife, “Keep her still. I’ll get my bag.”

Edelbaum moved toward the hall, and Hoffner followed. He then walked to the stairs and headed up. The boy was known to sleep through anything. Hoffner pushed open the door and saw the small lamp at the edge of the room, its glow making it just to the skirt of the bed.

Mendy was on his back, one arm tossed above his head and resting on the pillow. His knees were splayed and high, and his body lay absolutely still. He never moved in sleep. Hoffner had spent hours watching him, staring at the little shape in all its contortions. He leaned over and picked up the books that were strewn across the sheets. He stacked them and laid them against the wall. Mendy was known to sense when a book had gone missing from his bed, an eye quickly opening, then closing. Hoffner set them within arm’s reach and pulled the blanket up over the waist.

This was a perfect boy, he thought, quiet and still, and untouched by anything beyond that doorway. Hoffner wondered how such things were possible. He imagined they had always been possible—even with his own—but why try to understand that now? It was never enough to want to protect, or to recognize the frailty. It was only in the doing, and that had always been just out of reach. He stared down at this living boy and knew there was no way to remedy that. Hoffner placed a hand on the boy’s cheek. He felt the warmth and the smoothness of it, and he let himself believe he could hear the tiny voice. Here, he had no need for anything else.

He pulled his hand back and saw paper and pen on the small table. He sat on Mendy’s stool, took a sheet, and wrote in the dim light.