Leaving Berlin (21 page)

“Ah, it’s you,” Brecht said, coming in. “What are you doing, going over your lines?”

“Taking a break.”

“From the Russians?” Brecht said, smiling, then turned to the urinal to pee, a wisp of cigar smoke circling his head. “I saw you. A lively party. Good jokes?”

Alex didn’t answer. Brecht finished, flushing the urinal, but not bothering to wash his hands.

“So, my friend, I hear you’re going to write something for Comrade Stalin.”

“Good news travels fast.”

Brecht looked up. “As you say. They thought it would encourage me. To follow your good example. A poem, just a poem. They think that’s easier, only a few lines, not so many words.”

“Will you do it?”

Brecht sighed and leaned against the wall. “It’s my last country here. Denmark, Finland, Russia, those idiots in Hollywood—I look at my passport and I feel tired just looking. We can work here. And Berlin—” He broke off, drawing on the cigar.

“So you will.”

“I don’t know. I’m not such a model citizen.” He nodded toward Alex. “Anyway, it’s interesting, to make them wait. Some old theater advice.” He held up a finger. “Leave something for the second act.” He started for the door. “So Irene is still with him? When you think how that family— Well,” he said, a twisted smile. “She makes a contribution her way, eh? To the
Festschrift
.”

The room seemed even noisier now, several more drinks in.

“There he is,” Ivan said. “So now you can decide for us. All those years in America. I said, he’ll know.”

“Maybe,” Sasha said, speaking into his chest, stifling a burp.

“Know what?” Alex said, looking at Irene, sitting awkwardly, one of Sasha’s arms around her.

“ ‘GI,’ what does it mean?”

“A soldier.”

“Yes, but what does it mean? The initials?”

“Government Issue,” Alex said. “They used to stamp it on army equipment. Then it started to mean anything in the army. The men.”

“Ha! You see, he knew.”

“So what?” said Sasha, moody.

“So it’s a good joke. In English, a soldier. And in German?
Geheimer Informator
, a secret informer. So that’s the difference.”

“What’s the difference?” Sasha said.

Ivan jerked his head back, not sure how to answer, his eyes unfocused.

“GIs. Both sides. But ours—” He stopped, losing the thread.

“Do excellent work,” Sasha said. “Without them—” He picked up the glass. “When you have so many enemies, you need—” He tossed back the drink. “How else to keep the Party safe? You know that,” he said to Alex.

“Can I ask you something now?” Alex said, directing this to Ivan but wanting Sasha to hear. “You’re at the Ministry with Sasha? What does it mean when the Party calls in membership books? For review. I hadn’t heard of this before.”

Sasha raised his head, suddenly alert. “This has happened to you?”

“No, no. Someone I met. I didn’t understand why. It’s a security measure?”

Sasha shrugged. “A routine check, are your papers in order, dues, maybe it’s that. And maybe more serious. Without documents you can’t travel. It gives the Party time to investigate, decide what to do.” He looked down at his glass. “I have seen this before. It starts this way. And then—”

Alex looked at him, expectant.

“And then the Party cleanses itself,” Sasha said, answering his look. “And always after, it’s stronger. No weak elements. You say they’ve started asking for this?”

“I don’t know. Just the one. But wouldn’t this come from your—?”

“No. The Party itself. We’re instruments only. It’s always like this in the beginning—the element of surprise. An innocent review. But maybe not so innocent, not what it seems.”

Ivan nodded, familiar with this. “Sometimes the reward that isn’t a reward. They used to do that in the Comintern days. Call you back to Moscow for a medal, and then—”

“Don’t be an ass,” Sasha said, angry.

“Oh, not you, Sasha. An example only. How the mechanism works.”

“Mechanism,” Sasha said, sarcastic. “You’re drunk.”

“Well, all right,” Ivan said, backing off, making a zipper motion across his mouth.

“Ass,” Sasha said again, then looked over at Alex. “So maybe it’s nothing. But stay away from your friend. Until you know.” His eyes moved down to his glass again, an unguarded moment, suddenly anxious, then shot another angry glance at Ivan. “They don’t have to promote you to call you back.”

“No, of course not, I didn’t—” Stopping before he stumbled.

“I picked Saratov myself.”

“Who?” Alex said.

“My replacement here. A colleague.” Then, to Ivan, “My choice. Do you think they ask you to choose if they—?”

“Sasha—”

“Ach,”
Sasha said, waving him quiet.

“Let’s have another drink,” Ivan said, making peace.

But Sasha had turned to Irene.

“It’s true, I will miss you,” he said, his voice maudlin now. “At first you think, ah, Moscow, you don’t think— We had some good times, yes?” He leaned forward to her neck again.

“Sasha. Not here.”

“Why not here?” he said, looking around the room. “You think anybody will mind? In a place like this? With a Russian? Those days are over.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No? What then?”

“We’re not alone here.” Opening her hand to take in the table.

“Ivan? You think he can see anything? After the vodka? Ivan, can you see?”

Ivan wiped the air in front of his eyes, a blind gesture.

“Alex? You think he minds? You think he’s jealous? You were children, you said.”

“Yes, and now you’re the child. It’s getting late. We should go,” she said, then turned her head, a commotion at the door.

Helene Weigel, making her entrance, hair covered in a kerchief tied in the back, her face gaunt, tired from rehearsal, but pleased at the attention, actually touching people as she passed, regal.

“Alex, how nice. Bert told me you were here,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed.

Introductions were made, but neither Sasha nor Ivan seemed to know who she was, so the conversation became intimate again, Weigel and Alex standing, Irene trying to placate Sasha at the table.

“How is it going?”

“Exhausting. I get
up
tired. But it’s going to be good, I think. Well, you know the play.”

“Bert says you’re wonderful.”

She waved her hand. “He doesn’t say it to me. Well, Bert. You know what’s interesting? Everyone’s coming. Today, the French cultural officer—can he have four tickets? And where do I get them? The Americans, the British, they’re all coming. Even with this.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “The planes, all this trouble, and everyone still comes to see Brecht. So Marjorie,” she said, shifting gears. “You’ve heard from her? The divorce, it’s official?”

“I haven’t had the final papers yet. Any day, I guess.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But maybe you’re not? And sometimes it’s for the best. You’ll see. Peter will come visit, and I’ll make my chocolate cake.”

“He’d like that.”

Helene nodded. “It’s better than Salka’s. But don’t say that to her.” As if they had just come for the weekend and were expected back to Sunday dinner on Mabery Road. “Anyway,” she said, glancing around, “the life here. I don’t think it’s for her.”

“No.”

“Well, for anybody right now. But soon. And they’re all coming for Brecht. They won’t sit with each other in the Kommandatura, but they come to the Deutsches Theater. So maybe they should meet then, eh? They’re all there anyway, just bring the agenda.”

“After the curtain calls.”

Weigel smiled. “Of course after. Look, there’s Bert. Now he’s going to give me his
notes
—everything I did wrong.”

“Do you listen?”

“Well, you know, he’s a genius. So I listen.” She looked up. “Sometimes.”

“Everybody knows you,” Sasha said when Alex sat down again. He raised his glass. “Our famous author.”

“Well, at the Möwe,” Alex said, the mood pleasant again.

“We should go,” Irene said.

But Sasha was sitting back, comfortable, at peace. Ivan, half stupefied, was quiet.

“The new man—he’s a protégé of yours?” Something more for Campbell.

“No, no. Older. We met only at the Ministry.”

“But you recommended him?”

“I agreed he was the best,” Sasha said smoothly. When? “A good head on his shoulders. You need that here.”

“Like you,” Ivan said.

“You know, everyone lies. Were you a Nazi? Oh, no. And then you read the file.” He paused. “Denazification. How is such a thing possible anyway? Who else was here?”

“Not everybody was like that,” Irene said.

“Not you,” he said, touching her hair, “I know. But the rest—So you need something here.” He tapped the side of his head. “To pick out the lies.”

“A lie detector,” Alex said. “But no wires.”

“That’s right,” Sasha said, amused. “A lie detector. Up here.” He tapped his head again. “And then something here.” He held out a clenched fist. “A little steel.”

“And he has that?” Alex said.

“Stalingrad,” Ivan said. “Political officer. They were all bastards. Tough. No trouble in the mines with him.”

“There is no trouble in the mines,” Sasha said.

“No, of course not. I just meant—”

“You think that’s all it takes? Tough? Anyone can be tough. You have to know how to run things. Eighty, ninety villages in the district. Workers? Thousands. You think it’s easy, to keep all that going? Make the quotas? Things happen. You can’t always predict— It’s not just a question of being tough. Let’s see how he does, Saratov. I want to see that.”

“But you’ll be gone,” Irene said.

“Yes,” Sasha said, his face clouding, as if that hadn’t occurred to him.

“In Moscow!” Ivan said. “Think how wonderful. Maybe two secretaries—why not? One for the typing and one for—”

“Don’t talk foolishness,” Sasha said, cutting him off, then turned to Alex. “Who is the friend? The one under review?”

“Not a friend,” Alex said, wary. “Just someone I met. I don’t even know his name. He wanted to know if they had called in my membership book. I think because he had been in America, so maybe—”

“Yes, they’re suspicious of that. Maybe it’s that.” His expression still thoughtful. “But it’s often the way. A few, a handful, then so many all at once.”

“So many what?”

But Sasha was distracted by another commotion at the door. Not Weigel’s entrance this time, two Russian soldiers scanning the room, people turning their heads, avoiding eye contact.

“Rostov. Now what?”

Sasha got up and went over to the door, a hasty conference, then made his way back to the table.

“Excuse me. I must go,” he said curtly, his voice completely sober.

“Again?” Irene said. “Another drive?”

“No.” Not saying anything more, on duty.

“Shall I wait for you?”

He looked at her, thinking. “No, don’t wait. It’s an interrogation. Sometimes it goes fast, sometimes not, so I don’t know. Anyway, it’s enough tonight. Look at Ivan. Put him in the car, yes? I’ll go with Rostov. Don’t let him sleep on the table.”

“Who’s asleep?”

Markovsky bent over, a public kiss, but Irene moved her head, an involuntary shying away.

“So, I’m already gone?” Markovsky said.

“People are—” she said vaguely, taking in the room.

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, kissing her.

“I paid for that much, no?” he said.

“That much, yes,” she said, turning away.

He took her face in his hand again, turning it back. “The rest tomorrow.”

Her eyes flashed, looking for a comeback, but he had already begun to move away, and she took a drink instead, looking down at the table.

“I’m sure it’s a promotion,” Ivan said, half to himself. “I didn’t mean—”

“Come, let’s get you home,” Irene said. “Can you stand?”

“Can I stand? Of course I can stand.” He pushed himself up, holding the table, weaving a little. “I’ll take you home.”

“I’m around the corner. You take the car. Come on. Alex, help him.”

“You don’t want me to take you home?” he said, leering. “No, not some Ivan.” He turned to Alex. “She wants to wait for Saratov, the next one. Only the boss, not—”

“Go to hell,” Irene said, dropping his arm and turning.

“Come on,” Alex said, holding him up. “The car’s outside.”

“German cunt,” Ivan said after her, loud enough for the next table to hear.

She turned, staring at him, a silence.

Ivan shook himself free of Alex’s hand. “I don’t need any help,” he said, taking a step, then rocking a little, finally sitting down again.

Irene looked down at him. “And what will you do when he’s gone?” she said. “You think Saratov wants you?”

“Cunt.”

“Have another drink,” she said, leaving.

Outside she told the Karlshorst driver to take care of Ivan and started down Luisenstrasse alone, heels clicking on the pavement, then stopped at the corner, head bent. Alex, following behind, put his hands on her shoulders.

“He’s drunk,” he said to her back.

Irene nodded. “But he can say it. If Sasha were— But now he can say it. So he’s right. I should see what Saratov is like. Maybe a new possibility for me, eh? Another wife in Moscow.”

He turned her around. “Don’t.”

“What do you think of your old friend now? A man talks to her like that. And what can she say?” She grimaced. “Look how we all turned out. Elsbeth with that crazy. He still thinks they were right. Me. Well, so there’s Erich—he’s the same. One von Bernuth left. One.”

Alex looked at her, unable to speak. A pit with a crawling child, vodka to steady the nerves.

“Don’t talk like that,” he said finally.

“No? How? It’s what I am. Someone he puts his hands on. In front of everybody. His property.”

“He had too much to drink, that’s all,” he said, reaching up to her hair, smoothing it back.

“I’m used to it. But tonight—” She broke off, turning her head. “In front of everybody. In front of you.”

His hand stopped, as if he’d heard a sound, unexpected.

“Looking at me. Seeing that. I felt—ashamed. Imagine feeling that now, after everything. To still feel that. Even a—what Ivan said.”