Leaving Berlin (12 page)

“Yes.”

“And how does it end? Well, how? All those people back there,” she said, tossing her head toward the Kulturbund. “What do they think it’s going to be like? A paradise.” She snorted. “They’re worse than the Russians. They believe in the Party. The Russians know better.” She turned to him suddenly. “You don’t believe in it either. Not like that. I know you. Why are you here?”

“I had nowhere else to go,” he said.

“So we’re a fine pair. They make parties for you and give you
payoks
and I’m—both of us kept by the Russians. How things turn out.”

Up ahead he saw the lights of the elevated station, soldiers guarding the stairs. Still an occupied city.

“Why are you?” he said. “With a Russian. After what happened.”

“Sleeping with him, you mean. You can say it, we don’t have secrets from each other.”

“No,” he said, looking away.

“Well, why not? He didn’t rape me. And the Russians—they’re here. I live in the Russian sector. How can I move? Even to get a room in Berlin, it’s impossible now.” A sly look toward him. “Unless
of course you’re a guest of the Party. But then you’re still in the East. So, a Russian.”

“Do you care for him?”

“Oh, care for him. What does it mean? He helps me. It’s useful to have a Russian friend. You saw how even Markus doesn’t make trouble for me.”

“And when they leave?”

“When is that? Maybe never. I used to think the Nazis would be forever too. It felt like it. You never see the end of things when you’re in them.”

“No.”

They were on the bridge now, collars up against the wind off the water.

“How pretty it is, in the snow,” she said, stopping at the rail, looking down at the narrow Spree.

In fact it was the same raw landscape they’d just walked through, piles of bricks and scaffolding and empty lots, but the few lights were flashing now on the water, a lantern effect, soft through the scrim of snow, and you could see the city you wanted to see.

“Remember all the cafés?” She pointed to the terrace along Schiffbauerdamm. “At night. And the boats.” Seeing it through her own lens, sun umbrellas and waiters with trays, not the cold black water and rusting girders. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she said, reaching up to brush some snow off his coat, her hand on his chest. “I never thought— And now you’re here. Just the same.”

“No, not the—” The rest swallowed by an S-Bahn train squealing into the overhead station.

“Well, the same to me. I know, everything’s different. But it feels the same. Nobody knew me like you did. The way it was with us. Just a look.”

“What about Kurt?”

“Well, Kurt. Now you’re going to be angry again. So that’s the
same anyway. Jealous,” she said, turning, putting her arm in his again to walk. “It’s getting cold here. You want to talk about Kurt? After all this time? It was something different, that’s all.”

“Different how?”

“It was like being in love with a pilot. Or a—I don’t know, skier, something like that. The way a little girl is in love. With her own idea, not the person.”

“And what was your idea?”

“Oh, the revolutionary, the fighter. Someone to save the world, while everyone else sits around and watches it go to hell. Maybe someone I wanted to be myself. When all I could do was argue with my father, stupid things like that. But he was really going to fight. So, very romantic. And then a week later, he’s dead, so what was the point? We were—how old? Now you can see what foolishness it was, but then—”

“Then you were in love with him.”

“Shall I tell you something? I never knew what he was thinking.”

Alex stopped, looking at her.

“Never. So it was different. You know, it’s different with different people. Enka—we never made love but I loved him. So what was that? Kurt. Well, Kurt. I’m not sorry—except that it made you so angry. Why did it? All right, I know. You thought I loved him
instead
. It was never instead. But it ruined everything between us. I used to think about that sometimes. What if it had never happened? But you would have gone anyway. The way things were after Oranienburg. I kept wanting to tell you, it wasn’t instead. It was—just something else.”

Alex said nothing. They had turned off Friedrichstrasse.

“You don’t believe me?”

“It doesn’t work that way for me, that’s all.”

“And do you know what? If it were Kurt here, not you, I could never say these things. He never knew me. Not like you did.”

Alex looked away. “Well, he was busy saving the world.”

“Don’t.” She stopped, looking around at the street. “Anyway, nobody saved it.” She turned to him. “He thought he was, though. So you should leave him that.”

“Why does Markus blame you?” he said, starting to walk again, away from Kurt.

“He blames everybody. So angry and he used to be so nice, remember? Well, you can imagine what it was like there for him. People being taken away. No mother—”

“He said his mother is still there.”

“Well, buried. She must be by now. They sent her to one of the camps. Siberia, wherever they send them. And they don’t come back.”

“Sent her why?”

“Why. A spy, probably. Isn’t that what they used to say about all of them? She was German, that was really the reason. They purged the Germans.”

“Not all of them.”

“No, so imagine what the survivors are like. Well, we know. Lapdogs. Please don’t arrest me. A wonderful incentive for loyalty. You ask them now, they say it was right that people were taken away. Their colleagues. Anyway, poor Markus. A child. They tell him his mother is an enemy of the people. And after a while you believe them. What choice? Everyone else does. And you want to be like everyone else. It must be true. So that’s how they make a Markus. Show us you’re not her. A model Communist. Sasha says that first group who came back, the German Communists—” She tapped the side of her head. “Nothing here but the Party. You had to watch yourself. Maybe they’d report
you
.”

“Then Moscow will have nothing to worry about. When they pull out.”

“No, just us. They protect themselves—the rest of us don’t matter.
Even Sasha is surprised sometimes, how they go along with everything. As long as it doesn’t touch them.”

“Like what?” Alex said, trying to sound indifferent.

“I don’t know. Labor quotas, things like that. People don’t like to work in the mines. Sasha says it’s difficult, there are never enough.”

“So they force them? Work gangs?”

“No, they pay them. It’s not Siberia. The labor exchanges assign all the workers anyway. That’s how it works—go where you’re needed. But no one likes the mines. So the SED has a hard time filling the quotas.”

“But they do?”

“Not always, so it’s a headache for Sasha.”

“He’s in charge?”

“You’re so interested in this?”

“No, I’m interested in him. He’s—somebody you’re with.”

“You don’t have to worry about him. It’s not Kurt. Or you. Something useful, that’s all.”

“Useful.”

“Well, to have a friend at Karlshorst. He works with Maltsev.”

“Who’s Maltsev? What does he do?” Any information, Willy had said.

“What they all do. Give orders. Anyway, important. You know how I know? Markus. I could see it in his face, the first time he saw me with Sasha. This way,” she said, leading him, “it’s a shortcut.” The street branched off to a wide connecting footpath. “It’s better at the Luisenstrasse end. They cleared all the streets near the hospital first.” There were lights finally, people at home. “You see how lucky we were here. Not too bad, only some top floors. Fires. It was like that. Not too bad in one place and then one street away, everything gone. I’m just down there, near the end.”

They passed under the sound of a radio, loud enough to be heard through the closed window. Waltz music, which Alex heard somewhere in the back of his mind, the rest preoccupied with SED quotas.
Sasha says it’s difficult. Would any of this be useful? What else? And then suddenly the music stopped and the lights blinked out, the street pitched into darkness.

“A power cut,” Irene said, a weary resignation. “Careful where you walk. It’s all the time now. But they say it’s worse in the West.”

“How long have you been with—” Alex started, not wanting to let Markovsky go, then stopped, blinded, as a bright light swung into the street behind them. Two lights. Headlights, the same shape as the car in Lützowplatz. He swung his head away and grabbed Irene’s elbow. But where was there to go? A long street, straight, impossible to outrun a car, no heaps of rubble to duck behind, the footpath back at the corner. No Willy to help this time. In the Russian sector, no questions asked. Run. Where?

Without thinking he pushed Irene into the building entrance, pressing her into the doorway corner. Get out of the light. A couple huddled in a doorway. The car began to race toward them, close to the curb, headlamps blazing, tracking. Alex pressed more tightly, away from the street. Make them come for you, get out of the car, not just run you down. He raised one arm, a shield, ready to swing it around in defense, waiting for the crunch of tires stopping in the snow. The car swept past. He took a breath, then realized he’d been panting, running over the rubble again. He looked over his shoulder. Almost at Luisenstrasse now, not even aware of him.

“Alex—”

He dropped his arm. “Sorry.” Still catching his breath.

She put her hand up to his face. “What is it? You’re shaking.”

“I thought I knew the car. Saw it before.”

“Saw it before?” Hand still on his cheek. “When?”

Well, when?

“Before. Following us.”

“Following us? Why? You think Sasha—? No. He doesn’t—” She stopped, looking up at him. “My God, how this feels.” The hand
now behind his neck, drawing him down, kissing him, kissing each other, tasting her, his breathing still ragged from fear, now something else, blood rushing to his face, pushing up against her in the corner. “Alex,” she said, kissing him again.

He pulled away.

“Come upstairs,” she said, a whisper, her breath warm on his cheek.

“No.”

“It’s dark. No one will see.” A small giggle. “Really no one. If we can find the stairs.”

“Irene—”

“I knew it would feel the same. When I saw you.” She touched his temple. “All gray. But I knew it would be the same.”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t care.” She put her head next to his. “I just want to feel like before.” The words warm in his ear. “It’s not so much. When we were nicer. Just that.”

“Irene—”

“Why? You don’t want to? What a liar you are,” she said, reaching down, feeling him. “Cars following us. So maybe that was an excuse too.” Playing, oblivious to the look on his face. Another kiss, his mouth opening willingly. “Nobody ever wanted me like you. Nobody. Remember on the beach? My God. And now you don’t want to anymore?” She shook her head, still close to his, her hand gripping him below. “What a liar.”

He looked over her shoulder at the threshold, another line to cross. Don’t. This betrayal worse than the other, or maybe just part of the same one now. What they wanted. More.

“I know you,” she said. “Don’t I?”

Already betrayed, so that when he nodded, his head filled with her, nobody ever wanted me like you, the nod seemed like a small lie.

“Be careful in the hall. Don’t make too much noise.” She was whispering, her breath faster, the same reckless eagerness as before, the way he remembered. “Frau Schmidt. I think she listens at the door. She used to be the block warden. Now she can’t stop.” She put her fingers to her lips, turning to the door, opening it slowly. A small foyer, the stairs opposite. “Can you see? Should I light a match?” Still whispering, conspiratorial. She turned, holding him again. “Maybe it’s better. You can’t see me. How I look. We’ll be the same,” she said, kissing him again. “This way. It’s better by the stairs.” The one visible part of the room, under a skylight.

Her foot bumped into something—a pail, a child’s toy, something that clattered.

“Ouf.”
She giggled again. “Now she’s setting traps. Wait.” She reached into her purse and took out a match, lighting it, and waving it over the floor. “Okay.” She took his hand, leading him to the stairs. “Just hold the rail. Here. It’s the first step.”

A faint noise, furtive, from out of the dark, beside the stairs. “Irene.”

She froze.

“Over here.”

Someone moved away from the wall, approaching them. “Thank God. I’ve been waiting.”

Almost there, the thin pale face ghostlike in the dim light.

“Erich,” she said. “Erich?”

“I didn’t know if you were still living here.” Both whispering.

“Erich.” Almost a sob now, falling on him. “My God. How you look. So skinny. My God.”

They held each other for a minute, Erich shaking, a nervous relief, exhausted.

“
Shh.
It’s okay,” Irene was saying, patting him. “Everything’s okay. Erich.”

“I have to hide. Can you hide me?”

“Hide?”

“We escaped—” He raised his head, noticing Alex for the first time. An odd, startled look, seeing the dead. “Alex?” His eyes darting, confused. What had he heard, waiting by the stairs? Irene giggling, intimate.

“Yes.”

“It’s you?” An inexplicable presence.

“What do you mean, escaped?” Irene said, now studying his face. “You’re all right?” She looked down. “Like a skeleton.” Her voice broke, a whimper at the back of it. “My God, what have they done to you?”

Alex looked at him, the boy they’d hidden under the stairs. His hair, once the color of Irene’s, was now indeterminate, cropped short, prison style, easy for delousing. Dirty, streaked with grime, his skin drawn tight over the bones, so that his eyes seemed to bulge out, too big for his face. Holding onto the newel, some support.

“Come,” Irene said. “Alex, help me with him. Just hold onto the rail.”

A flickering light appeared, a candle coming out of a door.

“Who is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s only me, Frau Schmidt. Another power cut—it’s hard to see.”

Erich swerved away, his back to the candle.

“Frau Gerhardt,” Frau Schmidt said, holding the candle higher. “Two visitors?”