Leaving Berlin (23 page)

“What are you doing?” Markovsky said. “Talking to me like this. Me.”

“Why? Are you going to send me to the mines too? More slaves for the masters? Erich’s not enough? Or maybe you want to rape me first.”

“I never had to rape you,” he said, his voice a kind of growl. “A few cigarettes, some ham—that’s all it took for you to open your legs. Not rape.”

“No? That’s what it felt like. Every time.”

The hand came up so quickly that Alex heard the slap before he saw it, a blurred movement, her cheek twisting away from it, a little cry.

He reached for Markovsky, all instinct. “Don’t—”

“Mind your own business.” He turned back to Irene. “That’s what it felt like? And what did it feel like with him?”

“Get out,” she said, touching her cheek, still red.

“Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then get dressed. You can tell someone else.”

“Who?”

“A man at Hohenschönhausen. Very persuasive. Another Russian peasant.”

“Sasha, I—”

“Get dressed,” he said, grabbing her upper arm.

“Leave her alone,” Alex said, pushing him away.

Markovsky looked down where Alex’s hands had been. “Well. The hero of the Kulturbund. You think it’s another story? The damsel in distress? So. Assault a Russian officer? Sleep with his—well, what do we call her? No need. Let me tell you now how it ends.”

“Leave her alone.”

“We take you into custody,” Markovsky continued as if he hadn’t heard, “while we search your place. No one there? Then maybe you’re released. No embarrassment for the Kulturbund. And then your whore tells us where he is. And she will. That’s the ending. Now get dressed,” he said again, turning back to her, taking her arm again to push her toward the bedroom.

Alex stepped forward, facing him. “Stop it. You can’t do this.”

A cold glance, running through Alex like a chill. “I can do anything I want. Anything.”

“What? Have some goon beat her up? What are you?”

“What? A peasant. Ask her.”

Alex looked at him, beginning to panic. The face set, determined. Just a matter of time before they searched Rykestrasse. The back stairs too, Erich cowering but trapped.

“This is all I am to you?” Irene said, angry, a different argument. “You’d do this? Send me to the Gestapo?”

“Gestapo,” Markovsky said, sneering at the word. “Tell me where he is.”

“Go to hell.”

Markovsky raised his hand again, Alex reaching up to block it.

“Get away from her.”

Markovsky grasped Alex’s arm. “The hero,” he said, then pushed him back, out of the way, and turned again to Irene.

Alex lunged at him, the force of it surprising Markovsky, who staggered back, bumping against the table. A baffled second, then a look of rage, leaping for Alex, knocking him back to the wall.

“Stop it!” Irene yelled, frightened, the room suddenly shaking with violence.

Markovsky pinned Alex against the wall, hand on his throat. “Idiot,” he said, an end to it, having won the point.

Alex gasped, choking, but then brought both hands up, a desperate strength, shoving him away. Markovsky stumbled, not expecting this, off balance, his thick body reeling back, smashing his head against a shelf, the sound of dishes falling.

“My God,” Irene said. “The china. Stop.” The absurdity of it unheard, everything happening too fast.

“Idiot!” Markovsky said again, a roar this time, touching the back of his head, looking at his fingers, a smear of blood, reaching for Alex.

But Alex, hands already on Markovsky’s chest, pushed again, the head snapping back, another crash.

“Stop!” Irene yelled, a quiver of hysteria now.

Not a fight anymore. No rules. The two bodies locked together, twisting, trying to throw each other over. One of the shelves, bumped again, collapsed. The clunk of something heavy hitting the floor. Markovsky pushed Alex’s face back, stronger, trying to flip his body, then suddenly aware of Irene screaming “Stop!” and pounding on his back, her fists like flies, something to brush aside. The two bodies moved away from her, still locked together, both staggering, refusing to fall, and then Markovsky roared, a grunt of extra effort, and finally managed it, throwing Alex to the floor, then following him down,
pinning him there, hand again on his throat to immobilize him, bring an end to it. Something else fell, the room noisy with thuds and the men panting, gulping air, Irene still yelling “Stop!” Markovsky grunted again, pressing his hand against Alex’s throat, waiting for some sign, a raised hand, surrender.

“You’ll kill him!” Irene screamed. “Stop! My God, you’re choking him.”

A growl from Markovsky, beyond speech now, tightening his hand to end it, all of his strength pressing into Alex, his eyes fixed on him, waiting for the sign, so that he didn’t see Irene grabbing the candlestick off the floor, out of the jumble from the fallen shelf, see her raise it over him like a club.

“Stop! You’ll kill him!” she said, bringing it down, not planning it, just some way to get his attention, surprised when she heard the crack, the bone splitting.

Markovsky reared back, stunned, blood welling out of the wound.

“Stop it!” she shouted, bringing the brass base down again, a splatting sound this time.

For a second Markovsky went rigid, his legs straddling Alex, his hand still on his throat, then he slumped, the hand loosening, and Alex pushed up, the body falling on its side.

“My God,” Irene said, a whisper now. “My God.” She looked at the candlestick, the first time she’d seen it.

Alex now changed positions, leaning over Markovsky, putting fingers at the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.

“My God. Is he—?”

“No. He’s alive.”

“What do we do? What do we do?” Talking to the air.

Markovsky’s face moved, a twitch, then an eye opening, a grunt. Alex looked down. Blood on his head, the eyes open now, but stunned, the same look as Lützowplatz. If he lived, they would die.
The simple mathematics of it. No witnesses. Another gasping sound, coming back. Alex put his hands on Markovsky’s throat and pushed. The eyes opened wider, a choking gurgle, his body moving, trying to gather strength. Alex pushed harder, feeling the body writhe beneath him, trying to move him away. A soldier, trained, would know what to do, how to smash into the windpipe, end it. Alex just held tight. A rasping sound now, struggling for breath.

“Alex,” Irene said. “My God.”

Don’t think. Do it. If he lives, we die. Harder. The last line. An extra push, crossing it. And then a spasm, Markovsky twitching, a protest, the last effort. Hands tight, no air at all, keep pushing. Almost. And then he was there, the body suddenly slack, no sound at all. You could feel it, a split second, the rasp then the sudden quiet. He looked at his hands on the throat, no longer needed, and slowly moved them away, staring at Markovsky’s face, blank, still. His own breath coming in shallow gulps, hands trembling. What it felt like. Murder.

He looked over at Irene, on her knees now near the china, the candlestick still in her hand. Blood on the base.

“It was my mother’s,” she said, in a daze. “Schaller. From her side.” Something important to establish. She picked up one of the smashed plates. “It’s the last of the china.”

“Get dressed,” Alex said. “Do you have an old towel?” And then, at her look, “For the blood.”

“The blood,” she said, an echo. She put her hand over her mouth, stifling a yelp, bewildered, like a wounded animal. “My God. My God. What do we do now?”

“I know,” Alex said. “But we can’t—think about it. Not now. We have to get rid of him. Clean up.” Lists, tasks, the reassurance of the ordinary. “Frau Schmidt’s away. So that’s one thing.”

“Alex,” she said, shaking, still on her knees. “I can’t. My God, look. What do we do?”

“Help me,”
he said steadily, offering his hand up. “We have to get him out of here. Find someplace for Erich. You’ll need a story—” More lists.

“It was this,” she said, holding the candlestick. “Imagine. My mother’s. Brass. To kill somebody with this.”

“I killed him,” he said, taking her by the shoulders.

“Both,” she said. “Both of us. That’s what they’ll say anyway. Maybe he would have died just from the head.”

“But he didn’t.” He waited a second. “Get dressed. I’ll start here.”

The cleanup didn’t take long. Broken china in the dustbin, the shelf put back, candlestick washed, blood wiped.

“There’s not so much,” Irene said. “I thought there would be more.”

“Not after his heart stopped,” Alex said, matter of fact.

“Oh. No, not after that,” Irene said, staring at Markovsky. “Well, now I’ve done this too.” Her voice soft, distant.

“He’s heavy. I’m going to need you to help. You all right?”

She nodded. “Where do we take him?”

“The river. It’s not far. We just have to get him there.”

“He’ll float. You saw bodies floating there. For weeks.”

“We’ll weight him down. He has to disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“To give us time.”

Irene looked at him, not understanding, but nodded anyway.

“Okay, get his other side. We can use the banister, slide him down, but in the street we’ll have to prop him up.”

“Carry him? Sasha?”

“Like this. We’re getting a drunk home.”

The stairs were more difficult than he anticipated, Markovsky’s feet dragging and getting stuck, so they finally had to carry him, Alex under his shoulders, the rescue position, Irene his legs. They were sweating when they reached the building door.

“All right, ready? Put his arm around your neck. We’re carrying a drunk.”

He opened the door.

“Oh God,” she said, closing it quickly. “His car. It’s a Karlshorst car. There’ll be a driver. Someone waiting.”

“All night? He does that?”

“Well, not when—” She thought for a second. “Can you manage? A few minutes.”

“Here. Against the wall.”

She fluffed her hair, then clutched the top of her coat. “Does it look as if I have clothes on under this? Can you tell?” He shook his head. “Good. I’m just out of bed.”

He watched out of the crack of the open door as she went over to the car, leaning in to speak to the driver, pretending to feel the cold with only a nightgown on, then hurrying back.

“What did you say?”

“He’s staying the night. He’ll call for another car in the morning. Go get some sleep.”

“Why didn’t he come down himself?”

“Too much to drink. He passed out.”

“Good. That’ll work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a witness. That he was here, alive.”

“And when he doesn’t call?”

“Didn’t he? He left before you were up.”

“And they’ll believe that?” she said, nervous.

“Let’s hope so. Why would you lie? What motive would you have? He’s no good to you dead. Anyway, he’s not dead. Not until they find him. He’s just—gone.”

“Where would he go?”

“Anywhere but Moscow. He was worried about that all evening.
Ivan will back you up. Ivan suggested it. He was afraid of going back. He was afraid it was a trap. For all we know, he was right.”

She looked at him. “When did you learn to think like this?”

“Ready?” he said, not answering. “Shift most of the weight on me.”

They started down Marienstrasse, dark without streetlights. At the corner, an S-Bahn train clattered overhead, on its way to Friedrichstrasse. Alex pointed north.

“Not the bridge?” Irene said.

“Too busy. Just this short block, then over.”

But suddenly there were car lights heading down Luisenstrasse. They huddled in a doorway, Alex’s back to the street. A couple taking advantage of the dark. If anyone noticed.

“Oh God, I don’t think I can do this,” Irene said.

“Yes, you can.”

“But if we don’t report it—”

“Then they don’t have a body.” He shifted his weight, pushing Markovsky farther in, as the lights passed. “And we have a little time.”

They moved back into the street. Up ahead, the lights of the Charité, but everything around them dark, rubble and deserted building sites. When they reached the riverbank, the bomb-damaged Friedrich-Karl-Ufer, he sat Markovsky down on a pile of bricks covered with a tarp.

“Fill his pockets. So he’ll sink.”

Across the water, he could see the hulk of the Reichstag, like a jagged shadow in a nightmare. The Spree bent here, then again farther up, the arc of the Spreebogen, sluggishly winding its way toward Lehrter Station. An industrial stretch, bombed out, the empty Tiergarten on the other side, not likely to draw many visitors. As safe as anywhere, if they could get him to the bottom.

He handed her the bloody towel. “Tie this around some bricks,” he said, loading Markovsky’s pockets.

“And what if he comes up? What if they find him?”

“He should have been more careful at night. Big shot in the SMA? There must be a line a mile long waiting to knock his head in. Take the money out of his wallet, just in case. Maybe a robbery. Anyway, if he does float, let’s hope the current takes him. You don’t want him found here, so close. Moabit, anywhere downstream. Not here.”

“But they’ll know he was with me. The driver—”

“And it was still dark when he left—you were half asleep—and that’s the last thing you know. Berlin’s a dangerous place to walk around at night. Look what happened to him.”

Involuntarily, she glanced down. “He wasn’t so bad, you know.”

“No, he just wanted to lock you up with an interrogator doing God knows what. Not so bad.”

“He wasn’t always like that.”

Alex looked up, surprised, then nodded. “All right, fine, remember the good times. It works better that way. You’re upset he’s missing. He tiptoed out of the flat because he didn’t want to wake you. He was thoughtful that way.”

“Don’t.”

“No, I mean it. You’re upset about him. They need to think that.”

“
Shh.
There’s someone.”

They both stopped, listening for footsteps. A smoker’s cough, then the sound of spitting.

“Quick,” Alex said, moving Markovsky off the pile of bricks. “Cover him. Lie on him,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’ll lie on you. He’ll just see a couple, not what’s underneath. Quick.”