Leaving Berlin (17 page)

“What would that mean?”

“Lung cancer? There is no cure for lung cancer.”

“It’s the lungs?”

Gustav nodded. “That’s why I think tuberculosis. He hasn’t been coughing blood. Yet. Otherwise, the signs are there. But I need—”

“An X-ray, I know. So where can we get one?”

“A hospital. But without papers? An escaped prisoner? We are obliged to hand such a person over.”

Alex started to say something, then stopped, pressing the edge of the desk to stay calm. The only doctor they could see.

“And if it is TB? What do we do?”

“Do? Well, in the old days, a sanitarium. Lots of eggs and mountain air. Like Thomas Mann.” A nod to Alex, as if this were a writer’s joke. “Now streptomycin. If you could get it. It’s effective. They’ve only been making it since ’44 but the results with tuberculosis are good.”

“Can you get some? At the hospital?”

“In Berlin? My friend, even penicillin is difficult. We keep asking for more. Streptomycin?”

“So where—?”

“The Americans would have it. Their hospital, down in Dahlem.
But that’s only for the military. If you really want to do this, start this treatment, you have to get him to the West.”

“The West?”

“Herr Meier, the Russians think
aspirin
is a miracle drug. There is nothing over there. The American hospital won’t treat civilians. You have to take him west. The hospitals there—”

“Now? Through the blockade.”

“Yes, thanks to your new friends.” He raised his eyebrows. “Erich told me, you’re a guest of the Soviets. And what will they think, your hosts, of you helping a fugitive?”

Alex looked at him. “Who would tell them? And implicate himself?”

Mutter said nothing, turning this over.

“And meanwhile he’s sick. He’s family.”

“Not yours.”

“No, yours.”

“Let me say again. I can’t help him and neither will the Soviets. You need to get him west.” He looked over, almost pleased. “An interesting dilemma for you.”

“There must be something you could give him. He’s shivering. Even I can hear it when he talks, all the congestion, maybe it’s pleurisy, pneumonia, I don’t know. You’re the doctor.” He stopped. “He won’t have to wait for TB to get him if he doesn’t get through this.”

“You understand, it’s illegal, what you’re asking.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Now you sound like the Americans. A doctor should answer to a higher authority. What authority, an oath? The conscience? Then everything breaks down.”

“Everything has,” Alex said quietly.

Mutter looked up. “All great humanitarians, the Americans. When it’s someone else on trial. What would they have done, do you think?”

“I didn’t come here to put anyone on trial. I just want medicine for Erich. He’s sick. You’re a doctor.”

Mutter turned away, hesitating, then went over to the dispensary bureau. “Wait a minute,” he said, rummaging through the drawer. He came back with a tube and a handful of vials and small bottles. “For the legs,” he said, handing Alex the tube of salve. “Once a day only. These twice, once before food, yes? It’s not much, but it should help. Believe it or not, rest and liquids are even more important. The old remedies. Of course, this does nothing for whatever’s really wrong. Working in mines—the dust, think of the damage. The conditions were harsh?”

Alex nodded.

“Well, I don’t put anything past the Russians.”

“No.”

He glanced up, catching Alex’s expression. “Or the Germans? Is that what you were going to say? You don’t come to judge, but you do. Such terrible people. So now we’re all guilty. Do you include yourself?”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“No? Why, because you already know? Someone not even here? How can I tell you what it was like? What we had to do? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Start with my parents. They were—what? Racial impurities? Now they’re nothing. Smoke. Start with them.”

“And you blame me for that?”

“Who do you blame? I’d like to know. Or do you think it happened all by itself?”

For a minute neither said anything, then Alex held up one of the bottles.

“Thank you for this. I won’t say where we got it.”

Mutter half turned, waving his hand in dismissal, no longer meeting Alex’s eyes. “He needs antibiotics,” he said quietly. “Streptomycin. Get him to the West.”

Alex fed him soup and more tea and put him to bed, under the covers.

“But it’s your—”

“I’ll take the couch. We can switch when you’re better.” He held Erich’s head up, spooning him medicine. “Gustav said this would bring the fever down.”

When Erich lay back his face became Fritz’s, the same tall forehead and high cheeks, so that for a second Alex felt he was nursing the old man, some odd transference. Not blustering for once, eyes half closed, a child’s trust. Alex lifted the edge of the sheet and started spreading the salve on Erich’s leg. “Gustav said these were rat bites. Yes?”

“In the barracks. At night. They waited for you to go to sleep.” He reached over to Alex’s arm. “I won’t go back there.”

“No.”

“But if they come?”

“They won’t. Go to sleep. I’m just outside.”

But what if they did? Alex walked through the apartment. A good view of the street from the windows. An armoire, big enough to hide in, if this were a French farce. The back door out the kitchen led to service stairs, a utility closet on the next landing, not locked, something Erich could reach in seconds. Alex looked up—presumably the stairs went all the way to the roof. But why would anyone come, unless they’d been told, in which case they’d search everywhere and there’d be no real escape. The only way to be safe was to be nonexistent, unseen, unheard. Alex scoured the apartment for listening bugs—lightbulb sockets, behind the watercolor of a Wilhelmine street scene, the telephone mouthpiece. Nothing. A trusted guest of the Soviet Military Administration.

Erich was asleep when Alex left for the reception at Aufbau Verlag. A table with coffee and cakes had been set out in the boardroom, the staff crowded around it, curious and deferential. The art director showed him mock-ups of the jackets for his books. There was a polite joke about the author’s photo, now a good ten years old. Aaron Stein, after a public toast, introduced him to smaller groups, department by department, then led him into his office.

“I know, I should give them up,” he said, offering Alex a cigarette. “Helga says they’ll kill me. Well, something will.” A cultured, almost elegant voice that reminded Alex of his mother. Someone who’d been to school, who could play the piano.

“The new editions look wonderful. Thank you.”

“It’s we who should thank you. Our writers are so important to us now. To know there is another Germany, of culture, not just Nazis. If that’s our only history, we’ll die of shame. We are more than that.”

Alex nodded another thank-you, waiting, watching Aaron fidget with his cigarette, working up to something.

“Alex—you don’t mind I call you Alex? I wanted to have a word. Something—delicate.”

Alex raised his eyebrows.

“Martin tells me—you know he’s a great admirer of your work? He tells me you had—a reservation, perhaps. About the
Festschrift
. For Stalin.”

“No, I said I’d do it.”

“Yes,” Aaron said, uncomfortable. “We appreciate that.” He paused. “I don’t want you to feel that you are being asked to do something against your will.”

“No, I said I would. A Kulturbund project.”

“Well, that’s just it. I wanted you to know, so there’s no misunderstanding, the project did not originate with us. The SED asked. Of course, it was an appropriate idea, we were only too glad to help.” He looked up. “You know, it needn’t be long. The fact that
so many contribute is really the point. For him to know he has our support.”

“I understand.”

“The Kulturbund—sometimes we find ourselves in an awkward position. To make German culture live again. And also to please the occupation authorities. A question of balance. Anyway, we are so pleased to have you with us.”

Alex nodded again.

“So,” Aaron said, evidently finished, then looked down at his cigarette, rolling it against the rim of the ashtray. “You know, there are fashions even in politics. Today, something is popular, tomorrow not. Things change. Sometimes even the logic of things. But the logic of the Socialist system, that doesn’t change. Nobody ever said it would be easy to make a new society. Think who must be against it. So, sometimes a disappointment, sometimes a compromise. But how else to get there? And think what’s at the end. A just society must be worth a few sacrifices, no?”

Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck. A phrase he’d used himself.

“And you cannot have a just society without a just economic system. That’s the logic that never changes for me. The rest—” He waved his hand.

“Can I ask you something then? I heard that you resigned from the secretariat last year.”

“And you want to know why, if I’m such a good Communist?” Aaron said, a wry smile forming around the cigarette. “Well, it’s a question. Should I say I’m too busy here with my work? That I wanted more time with my family? No, you ask, I’ll tell you. A change of fashion maybe, like I said before. I come from the Comintern days when there was an international ideal. All Communists, the same belief. But now the SED answers only to the Russians, to their issues. I understand. Germany lost the war. You have to expect a certain amount
of—what?—hardship. Looting, all the terrible things of war. But three, four years later, they’re still dismantling factories. Our soldiers are still prisoners. Four years later. This isn’t good for Communism, only for Russia. If it really is good for them, who knows? But it’s not good for Germany. Why did I resign? I want the SED to be Socialist
and
German.” He stopped. “Well, I’m giving you a speech. You didn’t ask for that. Anyway, you think they were sorry to see me go? An old Cominterno who went to the West? Another fashion. If you went to the West you’re suspect. Cosmopolitan. Although that’s only another word for Jew. Whenever you hear that, you know what’s coming—” He stopped again. “A good time, maybe, to mind your own business. Until the fashion changes.”

“That’s what people thought before.”

Aaron looked away. “Yes, I know. The head in the sand.” He shifted in his chair. “But this will pass. It’s not possible, you know, anti-Semitism in a Socialist state. A contradiction. It’s against the logic.” He took off his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief, his face suddenly boyish, pale. “So there’s an answer. About the secretariat. Maybe I wasn’t practical enough for political work. My wife thinks that.” He smiled. “It’s true. But it’s just as well. There is so much to do here. Can I stop them taking a factory? No. And in the end, what’s more important? Today’s problem, which goes away, or to bring German literature back to Germany?”

“But what about the forced labor? I heard that’s why you—”

“No, no, no,” Aaron said, cutting him off, head up now, glasses back on, alarmed. “Nothing like that. Such nonsense. Berlin, you know, is a great place for rumors. People will say anything. But come,” he said, standing up. “I’ll walk with you. You’re taking a tram? From Hackescher Markt?”

Alex looked up, surprised. Everything abrupt now, rushed. Coats, a word with his secretary, and then they were on the street, walking up to Unter den Linden.

“What is it?” Alex said, stopping.

“Nothing. I—” He stifled a cough. “Please, walk. It’s better. Forgive me. You learn to be careful.”

“About what?”

“Forgive me,” he said again. “You know, you’re with us now and I’m so pleased. But not everything is perfect. This matter of the forced labor—it’s a great sensitivity.”

“So we have to go out here to talk?”

“Yes, maybe a foolishness. But people listen. Herschel—a journalist, a friend—wrote about this and he was arrested. A Kulturbund member. A book coming from us. We can’t have that kind of trouble. What I said to you before—it’s old news. What Comrade Stein is always saying. But this—they don’t like talk about this. I’ve been warned.”

“But it’s not a secret.”

Aaron shook his head. “No, that’s the hypocrisy. I said not everything is perfect. People know about this. Thousands sent to the mines. How can you keep that a secret? But the Russians pretend it is. They don’t want to talk about it. Well, of course, it makes them unpopular. But it also makes the SED unpopular. To go along with this policy, forcing their own people—” He shook his head. “So shortsighted. So I resigned. You ask the reason, that was it. I think the SED should protect Germans from this. I won’t lie to you. But I can’t talk about it there,” he said, cocking his head back toward the office. “I don’t want to make trouble. You’re disturbed—I can see in your face—but the final logic is still correct. You were right to come. Don’t ever doubt that.” His voice earnest, a hand on Alex’s arm. “You know, with everything else, the Russians try to work with us. Look at the subsidies to Aufbau. A priority for paper. The schools. The theaters. But this—on this one thing, an iron fist. So all the rest of it, all the good efforts—who gives them credit for that when people are being worked like this? Like slaves. So they don’t want them to know. The
Siberia mentality—people disappear. No one knows where. No one talks. So here too. They don’t want any talk. Then it doesn’t exist. Just the good news in
Neues Deutschland
. Forgive me,” he said, slowing, his voice calmer. “There is good news, you know. Real progress. We mustn’t forget that. This is—a problem. And you know, problems can be solved. The underlying logic is still right.”

“But the West—you’d think they’d have a field day with this. The propaganda. If they really want to hit the Soviets.”

“It’s hard to get information. Not so many leave now. And of course the ones who do speak are discredited. So it’s rumors.” He looked up. “Conversations like this.”

“Which we’re not having.”

“No,” Aaron said, a faint smile. “Literary conversation only.”

“I didn’t mean to pry—about the committee. Thank you for being so frank.”

“Frank. Indiscreet, Helga would say.” He looked up at the sky. “You know, it’s not always like this here. It’s just a sensitivity, the mines. When you think—how desperate they must be to risk all this good will, for pitchblende.”