George was nonplussed. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. ‘So you became a preacher,’ he said.
‘At first I became a drinker. Because of whiskey, I lost my job and my home and my car. Then one Sunday the Lord led my footsteps to a little mission in a shack in a poor neighbourhood. The preacher, who happened to be black, took as his text the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew’s gospel, especially verse forty: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”’
George had heard more than one sermon on that verse. Its message was that a wrong done to anyone was a wrong done to Jesus. African Americans, who had more wrongs done to them than most citizens, gained strong consolation from that notion. The verse was even quoted on the Wales Window at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.
Bowyer said: ‘I went into that church to mock, and I came out saved.’
George said: ‘I’m glad to hear of your change of heart, Reverend.’
‘I do not deserve your forgiveness, Congressman, but I hope for God’s.’ Bowyer stood up. ‘I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you.’
George stood too. He felt that he had not responded adequately to a man in the grip of powerful emotion. ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘let us shake hands.’ He took Bowyer’s hand in both of his. ‘If God can forgive you, Clarence, I guess I should too.’
Bowyer choked up. Tears came to his eyes as he shook George’s hand.
On impulse, George embraced him. The man was shaking with sobs.
After a minute, George broke the hug and stepped back. Bowyer tried to speak but was unable to. Weeping, he turned and left the room.
His son shook George’s hand. ‘Thank you, Congressman,’ the boy said in a shaky voice. ‘I can’t express how much your forgiveness means to my father. You are a great man, sir.’ He followed Bowyer out of the room.
George sat back down, feeling dazed. Well, he thought, how about that?
* * *
He told Maria about it that evening.
Her reaction was unsympathetic. ‘I guess you’re entitled to forgive them, it was your arm that got broken,’ she said. ‘Me, I’m not big on mercy for segregationists. I’d like to see Reverend Bowyer serve a couple of years in jail, or maybe on a chain gang.
Then
perhaps I’d accept his apology. All those corrupt judges and brutal cops and bomb makers are still walking around free, you know. They’ve never been brought to justice for what they did. Some are probably drawing their damn pensions. And they want forgiveness, too? I’m not going to help them feel comfortable. If their guilt makes them miserable, I’m glad. It’s the least they deserve.’
George smiled. Maria was getting feistier in her fifties. She was one of the most senior people in the State Department, respected by Republicans and Democrats alike. She carried herself with confidence and authority.
They were in her apartment, and she was making dinner, sea bass stuffed with herbs, while George laid the table. A delicate aroma filled the room, making George’s mouth water. Maria topped up his glass of Lynmar Chardonnay then put broccoli into a steamer. She was a little heavier than she had used to be, and she was trying to adopt George’s lean cuisine tastes.
After dinner they took their coffee to the couch. Maria was in a mellow mood. ‘I want to be able to look back and say that the world was a safer place when I left the State Department than when I arrived,’ she said. ‘I want my nephews and nieces, and my godson, Jack, to raise their children without the threat of a superpower holocaust hanging over them. Then I’ll be able to say that my life was well spent.’
‘I understand how you feel,’ said George. ‘But it seems like a pipe dream. Is it possible?’
‘Maybe. The Soviet bloc is nearer to collapse than at any time since the Second World War. Our ambassador to Moscow believes that the Brezhnev Doctrine is dead.’
The Brezhnev Doctrine said that the Soviet Union controlled Eastern Europe, just as the Monroe Doctrine gave the same rights to the US in South America.
George nodded. ‘If Gorbachev no longer wants to boss the Communist empire, that’s a huge geopolitical gain for the US.’
‘And we should be doing everything we can to help Gorbachev stay in power. But we’re not, because President Bush believes the whole thing is a confidence trick by Gorbachev. So he’s actually planning to
increase
our nuclear weapons in Europe.’
‘Which is guaranteed to undermine Gorbachev and encourage the hawks in the Kremlin.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, I have a bunch of Germans coming tomorrow to try and set him straight.’
‘Good luck with that,’ George said sceptically.
‘Yeah.’
George finished his coffee but he did not want to go. He felt comfortable, full of good food and wine, and he always enjoyed talking to Maria. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘Aside from my son and my mother, I like you better than anyone else in the world.’
‘How is Verena?’ Maria said sharply.
George smiled. ‘She’s seeing your old boyfriend Lee Montgomery. He’s a
Washington Post
editor now. I think it’s serious.’
‘Good.’
‘Do you remember . . .’ He probably should not say this, but he had drunk half a bottle of wine, and he thought
what the hell
. ‘Do you remember the time we had sex on this couch?’
‘George,’ she said, ‘I don’t do it often enough to forget.’
‘Unfortunately, neither do I.’
She laughed, but said: ‘I’m glad.’
He felt nostalgic. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘It was the night Nixon resigned, fifteen years ago. You were young and handsome.’
‘And you were almost as beautiful as you are today.’
‘Why, you smooth talker.’
‘It was nice, wasn’t it? The sex, I mean.’
‘Nice?’ She pretended to be offended. ‘Is that all?’
‘It was great.’
‘Yeah.’
He was possessed by a feeling of regret for missed opportunities. ‘What happened to us?’
‘We had separate paths to follow.’
‘I guess.’ There was a silence, then George said: ‘Do you want to do it again?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
They kissed, and immediately he remembered how it had been the first time: so relaxed, so natural, so right.
Her body had changed. It was softer, less taut, the skin dryer to his touch. He guessed the same was true of his own body: the wrestling muscles had gone long ago. But it made no difference. Her lips and tongue were fervently busy on his, and he felt the same eager pleasure at being drawn into the arms of a sensual and loving woman.
She unbuttoned his shirt. While he was taking it off, she stood up and quickly slipped out of her dress.
George said: ‘Before we go any further . . .’
‘What?’ She sat down again. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘On the contrary. That’s a pretty bra, by the way.’
‘Thank you. You can take it off me in a minute.’ She unbuckled his belt.
‘But there’s something I want to say. At the risk of spoiling everything . . .’
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Take a chance.’
‘I’m realizing something. I guess I should have figured it out before.’
She watched him, smiling a little, saying nothing, and he had the strangest feeling that she knew exactly what was coming.
‘I’m realizing that I love you,’ he said.
‘Do you, really?’
‘Yes. Do you mind? Is it okay? Have I ruined the atmosphere?’
‘You fool,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in love with you for years.’
* * *
Rebecca arrived at the State Department in Washington on a warm spring day. There were daffodils in the flower beds, and she was full of hope. The Soviet empire was weakening, perhaps fatally. Germany had the chance to become united and free. The Americans just needed a nudge in the right direction.
Rebecca reflected that it was because of Carla, her adoptive mother, that she was here in Washington, representing her country, negotiating with the most powerful men in the world. Carla had taken a terrified thirteen-year-old Jewish girl in wartime Berlin and had given her the confidence to become an international stateswoman. I must get a photograph to send her, Rebecca thought.
With her boss, Hans-Dietrich Genscher, and a handful of aides, she went into the art-moderne State Department building. The two-storey lobby featured a huge mural called
The Defense of Human Freedoms
, which showed the five freedoms being protected by the American military.
The Germans were greeted by a woman whom Rebecca had known, until now, only as a warm, intelligent voice on the phone: Maria Summers. Rebecca was surprised to see that Maria was African American. Then she felt guilty at being surprised: there was no reason why an African American should not hold a high post in the State Department. Finally, Rebecca realized there were very few other dark faces in the building. Maria was unusual and Rebecca’s surprise was, after all, justified.
Maria was friendly and welcoming, but it soon became clear that Secretary of State James Baker did not feel the same. The Germans waited outside his office for five minutes, then ten. Maria was clearly mortified. Rebecca began to worry. This could not be an accident. To keep the German Vice-Chancellor waiting was a calculated insult. Baker must be hostile.
Rebecca had heard before of the Americans doing this kind of thing. Afterwards they would tell the media that the visitors had been snubbed because of their views, and embarrassing stories would appear in the press back home. Ronald Reagan had done the same to the British opposition leader, Neil Kinnock, because he, too, was a disarmer.
Rebecca hardly cared about the insult as such. Male politicians postured a lot. It was just boys waving their dicks around. But it meant the meeting was likely to be unproductive, and that was bad news for detente.
After fifteen minutes they were shown in. Baker was a lanky, athletic man with a Texas accent, but there was nothing of the country bumpkin about him: he was immaculately barbered and tailored. He gave Hans-Dietrich Genscher a notably brief handshake and said: ‘We are deeply disappointed in your attitude.’
Fortunately, Genscher was no pussycat. He had been Vice-Chancellor of Germany and Foreign Minister for fifteen years, and he knew how to ignore bad manners. A balding man in glasses, he had a fleshy, pugnacious face. ‘We feel that your policy is out of date,’ he said calmly. ‘The situation in Europe has changed, and you need to take that into account.’
‘We have to maintain the strength of the NATO nuclear deterrent,’ Baker said as if repeating a mantra.
Genscher controlled his impatience with a visible effort. ‘We disagree – and so do our people. Four out of five Germans want all nuclear weapons withdrawn from Europe.’
‘They are being duped by Kremlin propaganda!’
‘We live in a democracy. In the end, the people decide.’
Dick Cheney, the American Secretary of Defense, was also in the room. ‘One of the Kremlin’s primary goals is to denuclearize Europe,’ he said. ‘We must not fall into their trap!’
Genscher was clearly irritated to be lectured on European politics by men who knew a good deal less about the subject than he did. He looked like a schoolteacher trying in vain to explain something to pupils who were deliberately being obtuse. ‘The Cold War is over,’ he said.
Rebecca was aghast to see that the discussion was going to be completely profitless. No one was listening: they had all made up their minds beforehand.
She was right. The two sides traded irritable remarks for a few more minutes, then the meeting broke up.
There was no photo opportunity.
As the Germans were leaving, Rebecca racked her brains for some way to rescue this, but came up with nothing.
In the lobby, Maria Summers said to Rebecca: ‘That didn’t go the way I expected.’
It was not an apology, but it was as near to one as Maria was permitted, by her position, to offer. ‘That’s okay,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t more dialogue and less point-scoring.’
‘Is there anything we can do to move the senior people closer together on this issue?’
Rebecca was about to say that she did not know, then she was struck by a thought. ‘Maybe there is,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you bring President Bush to Europe? Let him see for himself. Have him talk to the Poles and the Hungarians. I believe he might change his mind.’
‘You’re right,’ said Maria. ‘I’m going to suggest it. Thank you.’
‘Good luck,’ said Rebecca.
60
Lili Franck and her family were astonished.
They were watching the news on West German television. Everyone in East Germany watched West German television, even the Communist Party apparatchiks: you could tell by the angle of the aerials on their roofs.
Carla and Werner were there, plus Karolin and Alice, and Alice’s fiancé, Helmut.
Today, 2 May, the Hungarians had opened their border with Austria.
They did not do it discreetly. The government held a press conference at Hegyeshalom, the place where the road from Budapest to Vienna crossed the border. They might almost have been
trying
to provoke the Soviets into a reaction. With great ceremony, in front of hundreds of foreign cameras, the electronic alarm and surveillance system was switched off along the entire frontier.
The Franck family stared in incredulity.
Border guards with giant wire cutters began to slice up the fence, pick up great rectangles of barbed wire, carry them away and throw them carelessly into a pile.
Lili said: ‘My God, that’s the Iron Curtain coming down.’
Werner said: ‘The Soviets won’t stand for this.’
Lili was not so sure. She was not certain of anything these days. ‘Surely the Hungarians wouldn’t have done this unless they expected the Soviets to accept it, would they?’
Her father shook his head. ‘They may
think
they can get away with it . . .’
Alice was bright-eyed with hope. ‘But this means Helmut and I can leave!’ she said. She and her fiancé were desperate to get out of East Germany. ‘We can just drive to Hungary, as if we’re going on holiday, then walk across the border!’