Leaving Berlin (13 page)

“Can I borrow the candle?” Irene said, breezy. “For the stairs? So kind. I’ll replace it tomorrow. Thank you.” She took the candle before Frau Schmidt could object.

“It’s late,” Frau Schmidt said. “For parties.”

“It’s not a party,” Irene said. “It’s my—” Then stopped, catching herself. “Well, it’s to make sure I got home safely.”

“And now you are home.”

“Yes,” Irene said, not biting. “Thank you again.” Moving up the stairs, the others shuffling behind.

At the door, she asked Alex to hold the candle while she fumbled for the key, Erich leaning against the wall, holding himself, drained. “In the old days, she’d make a report,” Irene said. “The old witch. Quick, inside. Erich, can you walk? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just tired.” He sank onto the couch, looking dazed. “Alex,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Never mind,” Irene said, fussing with his jacket. “We’ll explain later. You’re freezing. You don’t have a coat?”

“A coat,” Erich said with a laugh, some joke only he knew.

“Here, put this around you.” Irene draped an afghan around his shoulders, then began stroking his face. “What’s happened to you? Are you hungry?”

“Something to drink maybe.”

“Alex, it’s over there,” she said, nodding to a side table. “My God, so cold.” Rubbing Erich’s hands.

“Well, the truck. No heat.”

“What truck?”

“Rudi had a cousin with a truck. That’s how we got away. But no heat in the back. Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from Alex, then looking up. “I don’t understand. You’re in Berlin? I thought you were—”

“I came back. Drink. It’ll warm you up.”

Erich tossed it back, then shuddered.

“Are you hurt?” Irene said. “Escaped from where?”

“The camp. Where they shipped us, the POWs. Back to Germany, but not home. Slave labor.” He looked over. “People die in
the camp. They get sick. I can’t go back there.” His voice wavering, involuntary tears.

“
Shh.
You’re here.”

He looked again at Alex. “You’re with Irene?” The confusion nagging at him.

“I just brought her home. From a party.”

“A party.” Something unimaginable.

“Did they feed you? You look—”

Erich shook his head. “They don’t die of that.”

Alex and Irene looked at each other. The illogic of hunger.

“There’s plenty here,” Irene said. “Sasha sent—” She stopped and went over to the kitchen counter. “Some cheese maybe?”

“Do they know?” Alex said. “About the break?”

Erich nodded. “It’s only because of the truck we got away. Rudi’s cousin. Usually they catch you. In one of the villages. The police track you down. German police. Our own people. Sometimes you can get to a bigger town, it’s easier to blend in, but you still have to get through the roadblocks. That’s the Russians. The whole area, all the towns, are blocked off. So they always get you.” Talking partly to himself.

“Well, not here. You’re safe now,” Irene said. She cocked her head to the door. “Except for Frau Schmidt.” Trying to make a joke, but Erich looked up, alert again.

“They’ll come here. I can’t stay here.”

“Don’t be silly. Where would you go? I’ll get Sasha to help—”

“Who’s Sasha?”

“A friend.”

“A Russian friend?”

“Yes,” she said, turning her head, embarrassed.

“He’d turn me in. They have to. It’s a rule with them.”

“They know you’re in Berlin?” Alex said.

“I don’t know. Rudi’s cousin left us in Lichtenberg. If they trace the truck, they’ll know we got that far. So maybe yes. Then it’s the first place they’ll look. Here.”

“I’m Frau Gerhardt, not von Bernuth, so how would they know?”

“They’ll know,” Erich said, irrational now. “They know these things. And then they’ll take you for helping me. Make you work. In the slime. No boots. That’s how they get sick.”

“What slime? Erich—”

But he was standing up. “No. They’ll come. Both of us. I have to hide.”

“All right,” Irene said, humoring him. “But first something to eat. There’s some soup. Let me warm it up for you. If they come, Frau Schmidt will sound the alarm. She’s good for that at least. What’s that on your legs?”

“Sores,” he said, looking down at two lesions. “From the slime.”

“What slime? You keep saying—”

“I can’t go back there. I’ll die.”

Irene took his hand. “You’re safe. Do you understand? Now let me get the soup.”

“They have to get us, you know, so the others won’t find out. Then everyone would—”

“It’s a POW camp?” Alex said.

“POWs, criminals, anyone they can find. They don’t care what happens to us. If we die. People think we’re dead already.”

“No,” Irene said from the stove. “I never thought that.”

“It’s worse than in Russia. They don’t want anyone to think he can get past the patrols.”

“How did you?”

“Rudi’s cousin drives the truck for the TEWA plant. In Neustadt. The same run, every week. So the Russians know him. They don’t look in the back.”

“So they don’t actually know how you got out.”

“They will. Someone always talks. Then they have to track you down.”

“Look,” Irene said. “Across the street. Lights. The power must be back.”

She turned the switch, then stared, appalled at Erich in the light.

“What about upstairs?” Erich said. “Is there an attic?”

“It’s open from the bombs. You’d freeze.”

“Then I’ll find something.”

“
Ouf,
be sensible. It’s safe here. Where would you go?”

“They’ll come,” he said stubbornly. “They’ll find me here.” Pacing now, determined.

“Come with me then,” Alex said. “They’ll never look for you at the Adlon.”

“The Adlon?” Erich said, another confusion.

“You can’t get a room without papers,” Irene said. “If he stays with you they’ll report—”

“Not with me. There’s a room he can use. Someone who’s out of town,” he said vaguely. “They’ll never look there. He’ll be safe, at least for a day or two. Until we figure out what to do.”

She lowered her head, thinking, then looked up at him. “You’d do this? It’s a risk to you.”

“So was the SA. Remember, under the stairs?”

“Yes,” she said, still looking at him. “How could I forget that night?”

“This’ll be easier. I just have to talk him in. You can’t go like that, though. Let’s get you cleaned up. Look like you’re actually staying there.”

“At the Adlon?” Erich said, slightly dazed.

“I’ll light the geyser,” Irene said, busy. “It never gets really hot, the water, but it’s a bath. Just don’t run it too fast. A trickle, then it’s warm. I still have some clothes from Enka.” She went over and
opened a closet door, assessing. “The coat will be big but you have to have a coat. Who walks into the Adlon without a coat? Shall I come with you? We’ll have a drink, everything normal, then you say good-bye—”

“No. We don’t want to draw attention. You kept his clothes?”

“Most I sold. On the black market. That first year, how else could you live? But I never sold the coat. It’s a Schulte, hand tailored. Enka liked things like that.” She watched Erich go into the bathroom, then turned back to Alex. “So much for old times,” she said softly, a faint shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, it was nice, that you wanted to.” She put her hand on his arm. “How things turn out,” she said, then folded her arms across her chest, holding herself, as if she were going to spill out. “What are we going to do? Look at him.”

“We’ll hide him until he’s better.”

“And then what?”

“Then we’ll do something else. First, let’s get some food in him. Did you keep any shirts? He can’t wear this.”

She kept holding herself, swaying a little. “If they find him, they’ll—shoot him. That’s what they do.”

“What’s the difference, he’s dying where he is.” Then, hearing his tone, “They won’t find him. We’ll think of something.”

“You will, you mean. The Adlon. Imagine. Why do you do this? It’s trouble for you.”

“You think I’d walk away from Erich? Any of you?”

She stared at him, not saying anything.

“Maybe it’s for Fritz,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

She smiled to herself. “How sentimental you are. He did it for the money. Your father paid him.”

“But he did it.”

“And now you. But nobody pays you.” She glanced toward the bathroom, fidgeting, suddenly nervous. “He shouldn’t use so much. Frau Schmidt will be up. She thinks she owns the water too. The
Gauleiter.
”
She turned back to him. “So it’s for Fritz. Not me. But maybe for me a little.”

Waiting for him to agree, something from the lost part of the evening. He looked at her for a minute, listening to the water running. A trickle to get the most out of the geyser.

“I’m not the same person,” he said quietly.

She tipped her head back, not expecting this.

“I have a family.”

She nodded, still surprised. “The wife who wasn’t me.”

“A son.”

“Yes?”

“Everything is for him now. What I do. Sometimes things I don’t want to do. It’s not about me anymore. I can’t explain—” He paused. “It’s not the same.”

“Just now. In the street. It wasn’t the same?” She looked away. “Why are you telling me this? You want to be faithful to a woman you divorced?”

For a second he almost smiled. An Irene response, tart, fast.

“You know before, it was the same for me. So let me think that. Not that everything’s different.” She rapped on the bathroom door. “It’s enough water, Erich. There’s soup ready.” She started setting out a bowl, willed activity, still fidgeting. “So this son. What is he like? A wunderkind?”

“No. Just a boy. A beautiful smile, when he smiles. Serious. He thinks about things.”

She held the soup spoon in midair. “Like his father. And have you thought about this?” She nodded toward the bathroom. “What it means? It’s prison, helping a POW escape. I’ll keep him here. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Because of some old debt? It’s foolishness. Paying back Fritz?”

“I don’t know why. Does it matter? He needs help.”

“Is that what happened in America? Why you left. Something you had to do. Why? Because you had to. And now look.”

“That’s right. I had to.” Ending it. “Where are the clothes? I’ll pick some out.”

“Who is the friend at the Adlon, the one who’s away?”

“A friend.”

“Oh, without a name.”

“She doesn’t know she’s helping. Neither do you.”

“But how can I go then? See him?”

“You don’t. Not yet. He’s not really there. There’s nobody in the room.”

“Then what do I do?”

“For one thing, don’t tell Sasha.”

“But he could help.”

“You mean that much to him? That he’d do this for you? Maybe you believe it.”

“You don’t know him.”

“He couldn’t. He’s not just some Ivan—five wristwatches and a German girlfriend. He’s a big shot at Karlshorst. Who do you think is after Erich?”

“Oh, Sasha. Chasing soldiers,” she said, dismissive.

“He works for Maltsev,” Alex said, thinking out loud. “Security. So he might hear. Any escapes, there’d be reports. You could keep an ear open—you could do that.”

“How do you mean?”

“If he says anything. What they’re thinking. Do they know he’s in Berlin? They might still think they’re hiding in the woods by the camp. Do they know about the truck? He’d hear things.”

“And if he never says?”

“Ask him how his day was. Talk to him.”

Irene looked at him. “Spy on him, you mean.”

Alex took a breath. “Yes, spy on him.” That easy, the line not even visible.

They left by the Luisenstrasse end of the street, under the elevated tracks, with the charred wreck of the Reichstag looming up on the right. No cars, nobody following. The snow had stopped, patches already disappearing in the streets, leaving a wet sheen. Erich was dressed for the cold, his lower face wrapped in a scarf, a hat covering the rest, safely indistinguishable. But eventually they’d be in the lobby. Work out the logistics. Not the bar, where Brecht might be holding court, with some spillover group from the Kulturbund.

They were lucky. The bellhop was there, immediately at his side, eyes wide, scenting trouble.

“Frau Berlau’s room,” Alex said, a low voice, almost a mumble. “What number?”

“One forty-three.” No hesitation, already part of it.

“Get the key. Meet us there.”

The boy slid away. Not much older than Peter.

On the first floor, no one in the hall, they only had to wait a minute before he reappeared and opened the door.

“The maid won’t come in,” he said. “But she’s back Friday. Frau Berlau.”

Alex nodded, leading Erich inside. “Let me give you something.” He reached into his pocket, but the boy waved it aside.

“Don’t forget the park tomorrow. The Fairy Tale Fountain,” he said, pulling the door closed, this just part of the same drama, in on it.

It was the room of a nun, tidy and austere, a single bed and neatly stacked piles of books, Brecht’s plays, copybooks with production notes and reminders.

Erich began taking off his coat. “Someone’s already in the room?”

“Ruth Berlau. Can you remember that? A friend of yours. She said you could use it. If anyone asks. Don’t go out. No noise. No one’s here, understand? It won’t be for long.”

“And then what. What’s going to happen?” He started shaking, a nervous tremor, crying without tears.

Alex took him by the shoulders. “We’ll get you out. But right now, you need some rest.” He glanced at the bed. “Better sleep on top. Then nobody’ll know. They usually keep a duvet in here,” he said, opening the armoire.

“Out,” Erich said, brooding. “The house in Pomerania maybe. The Poles would hide me.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s gone. Here, this should be warm enough. Off with the shoes.”

“So where? They have to send you back if they find you. It’s an agreement. If I go there,” he said, cocking his head to the West. “They have to send me back. So where do I go?”

“We’ll get you out, don’t worry. But first sleep, okay? In you go.” Talking to a child.

“I can’t stay in Berlin.”

“No. We’ll get you to the West.” Suddenly sure, now that he’d said it. “I have friends there. We’ll fix it, all right? Do you need anything else? Don’t open the door to anybody. Just me. Three knocks like that, okay?” He knocked lightly on the night table. “Three.”