The Good German (54 page)

Lena moved back, his arm still around her, and reached up to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’re well?”

He nodded. “And now you’re here.”

She dropped her hand to his shoulder. “It’s just for a little while. I can’t stay.” She saw his confused face and took another step back, out of the embrace, then turned to Sikorsky. “Oh, I don’t know what to say. What have you told him?”

Emil finally looked at the others, stopping, dumbfounded, when he saw Jake, a different kind of ghost.

“Hello, Emil,” Jake said.

“Jacob?” he said, uncertain, almost sputtering.

Jake stepped closer so that they were literally head to head, the same height, and now he saw that Emil had changed after all, the eyes no longer just shortsighted and vague but hollow, the life behind them scraped away.

“I don’t understand,” Emil said.

“Mr. Geismar has brought Frau Brandt to visit,” Sikorsky said. “He was concerned that she be returned safely.”

“Returned?”

“She has decided to remain in Germany. A patriot,” he said dryly.

“Remain? But she’s my wife.” Emil turned back to Lena. “What does it mean?”

“You will have things to say to each other,” Sikorsky said, glancing at his watch. “So little time. Sit.” He indicated a frayed couch. “Mr. Geismar, come with me. These are private matters, you agree? It’s safe—the same room.” He nodded to an open connecting door.

“He’s staying with you?” Jake said.

“A suite. Convenient for guests.”

For the first time, Jake looked around the small sitting room, shabby from the war, a crack running up the wall, the couch covered with Emil’s rumpled sheet. Guards outside.

“I don’t understand,” Emil said again.

“They’re sending you east,” Lena said. “It was a chance to see you. Before it was too late. There—how else to say it?”

“East?”

She nodded. “And it’s because of me, I know it. You were safe there. And now—all this,” she said, her voice catching. “Oh, why did you leave? Why did you believe that man?”

Emil looked at her, shaken. “I wanted to believe him.”

“Yes, for me. Like before. That last week, to come to Berlin—I thought you were dead. My fault. All these things, for me.” She stopped, lowering her head. “Emil, I can’t.”

“You’re my wife,” he said numbly.

“No.” She put her hand gently on his arm. “No. We have to make an end.”

“An end?”

“Come,” Sikorsky said to Jake, suddenly embarrassed. “We have other matters.”

“Later.”

Sikorsky narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “As you wish. In fact, it’s better. You can stay until he’s away. No one to pull the alarm. You can have the couch. You don’t mind? He says it’s not bad. Then we can talk as long as you like.”

“You said he was leaving tomorrow.”

“I lied. Tonight.” One step ahead.

“Talk about what?” Emil said, distracted. “Why is he here?”

“Why are you here, Mr. Geismar?” Sikorsky said playfully. “Would you like to explain?”

“Yes, why do you come with her?” Emil said.

But Jake didn’t hear him, his mind fixed instead on the hard eyes above Sikorsky’s smile. As long as you like. All night, waiting to hear something Jake didn’t know. Locked up here until he did. Worse than cornered—caught.

“But she leaves,” Jake said, looking directly at Sikorsky.

“Of course. That was the agreement.”

But why believe this either? He saw Lena being bundled onto a train with Emil, while he sat, helpless, in his Adlon cell, making up stories. I lied. They’d never let her go now.

Sikorsky put his finger on Jake’s chest, almost poking it. “A little trust, Mr. Geismar. We’ll give her to your friend. Then we’ll have a brandy. It loosens the tongue. You can tell me all about Lieutenant Tully.”

“Tully? You know Tully?” Emil said.

Before he could answer, there was an abrupt knock on the door, so unexpected that he jumped. Two Russians, chests half covered with medals, started talking to Sikorsky even before they were in the room. For a second Jake thought they’d come for Emil, but their attention was elsewhere, some crisis that involved quick spurts of Russian back and forth, a blur of hands, until Sikorsky, annoyed, waved them to the bedroom door. He glanced at his watch again.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to miss your explanation,” he said to Jake. “An interesting moment. Frau Brandt, there isn’t much time. I suggest you save the details for later.” He looked at Jake. “Send your husband

a letter. Perhaps Mr. Geismar will help you with it.“ He raised his head and barked out something in Russian to the other room, evidently answering a question only he had understood. ”Of course, it’s better like this. The personal touch. But hurry, please. I’ll only be a moment—a small office matter, not so dramatic as yours.“ He turned to go.

“Why should he help you with a letter?” Emil said. “Lena?”

Sikorsky smiled at Jake. “A good starting point,” he said, then crossed over to the bedroom with another burst of Russian, leaving the door open so that the sound of him was still in the room.

Jake looked away from the door, his eyes stopping at the crack in the wall, another collapsing house, suddenly back there again, the creak of joists whistling inside his head. No newsreel cameras waiting outside this time, machine guns, but the same calm panic. Get her out before it comes down. Don’t think, do it.

“Why do you bring her?” Emil said. “What do you have to do with all this?”

“Stop it,” Lena said. “He came to help you. Oh god, and now look. Jake, what are we going to do? They’re going to take him. There isn’t time—”

He could hear the sound of Russian through the open door, low, like the rumbling of the settling wall in Gelferstrasse. He’d just walked out the door. A hero. People saw what they wanted to see. I’ll only be a moment.

“Time for what?” Emil said. “You come here together and—”

“Stop it, stop it,” Lena said, tugging at his sleeve. “You don’t understand. It was for
you
.”

He did stop, surprised by the force of her hand, so that in the sudden quiet the sound of Russian in the next room seemed louder. Jake glanced again at the crack. One more move. The element of surprise.

“No, keep talking,” Jake said quickly. “Just say anything. It doesn’t matter what, as long as they think we’re talking.” He took off his hat and put it on Emil’s head, lowering the brim, testing it.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. Keep
talking
. Lena, say something. They need to know you’re here.” He started tearing off his tie. “Come on,” he said to Emil, “strip. Hurry.”

“Oh, Jake—”

“He’s crazy,” Emil said.

“Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Get out? It’s not possible.”

“Take off the goddamn shirt. What have you got to lose? They’re giving you a one-way ticket to Nordhausen, except this time you’re one of the guys in the tunnel.”

Emil looked at him, amazed. “No. They promised—”

“The Soviets? Don’t be an ass. Lena, help. And say something.”

She looked at him for an instant, too frightened to move, then Jake nudged her toward Emil and she started unbuttoning his shirt. Pale white skin. “Do what he says. Please,” she said. Then, raising her public voice, “You know, Emil, it’s so difficult, all this.” The words dribbled out, a kind of nervous gibberish.

Jake dropped the holster belt on the couch and unzipped his pants. “We’re the same size. Just keep the brim down on the hat. They don’t know me. All they’ll see is the uniform.”

Lena was keeping up a patter, but flagging. Jake stepped out of the trousers. This would be the moment. Caught literally with his pants down.

“Quick, for Christ’s sake.”

“You know about Nordhausen?” Emil said.

“I was there.” He flung the pants at him. “I saw your work.”

Emil said nothing, staring.

“Jake, I can’t do it,” Lena said, struggling with the buckle.

Wordlessly, almost in a trance, Emil unhitched it and dropped his pants.

“Right. Now it’s your turn,” Jake said to Emil. “Put these on and say something. Loud, but not too loud. Just a little spat. Lena, come here.” He nodded at Emil to start talking and took her by the shoulders. “Now listen to me.”

“Jake—”

“Ssh. You walk out of here with the uniform.” He jerked his head toward Emil, putting on Jake’s pants. “Like nothing happened. The guards don’t care about us, just him. We’re the visitors. Don’t say anything, just go. Casual, see. Then you go downstairs to Brian and get out fast. Tell him it’s an emergency,
now
, understand? But keep him with you. If Brian doesn’t have a car, take the jeep. It’s on the Linden, keys in the pants there, got that? Then go like hell. They’ll follow.

Don’t go through the Brandenburg, they’ve got a checkpoint. Okay? But fast. Pull Brian away if you have to. Go to the flat and stay there and keep him out of sight.“ He pointed his thumb to Emil, dressed now. ”Ready?“ he said to him, straightening the army tie. ”See, a real American.“

“What about you?” Lena said.

“Let’s get him out first. I told you I would, didn’t I? Now get going.”

“Jake,” she said, reaching for him.

“Later. Come on, say something,” he said to Emil. “And keep the hat down.”

“And if they stop us?” Emil said.

“They stop you.”

“You’ll get us all killed.”

“No, I’m saving your life.” Jake looked up at him. “Now we’re quits.”

“Quits,” Emil said.

“That’s right. For everything.” He reached up and took off Emil’s glasses.

“I can’t see,” Emil said feebly.

“Then take her arm. Move.” He reached for the door handle.

“If you do this, they’ll kill you,” Lena said quietly, a pleading.

“No, they won’t. I’m famous,” he said, trying for a smile but meeting her eyes instead. “Now, quick.” He turned the handle, careful not to make noise. “Don’t say goodbye. Just go.”

He stood behind the door, opening it for them, waving them out with a frantic shooing motion. A second of hesitation, more dangerous even than going; then she looked at him once more, biting her lip, and slipped her arm under Emil’s and led him out. Jake closed the door and started talking, so that his voice would reach the other room, reassuring everyone, even the guards, with the sound of conversation. Use your smart mouth. But how long would the Russians keep talking? In the hall by now, approaching the stairs. Just a few minutes, a little luck. Until Sikorsky came out and reached for his gun. Because of course Lena was right—they’d kill him. No more moves left.

He started buttoning Emil’s shirt, trying to think and talk at the same time. A holster belt on the couch. Why hadn’t he told them to pick up the gun downstairs, or would Brian be sober enough to grab it

on his way out? Making his excuses at the table, following them across the field of rubble to the street, not running, stumbling in the dark. They’d need time. He looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a closet, a Wilhelmine armoire. The bathroom was next door, off the bedroom. Nothing but a door to the machine guns and a window to Goebbels’ garden. A soft landing, but not from two stories up. No, three, a hopeless drop. In prison movies they tied sheets together, a white braid, like Rapunzel’s hair. Fairy tales. He glanced again at the couch—one sheet, nothing to anchor it but the radiator under the windowsill, visible to the Russians through the open door. Even the simplest knot would take too long. They’d shoot before he made the first hitch.

He reached for the belt to Emil’s pants, wondering why he was bothering to dress at all. There had to be something, some way to talk himself past the guards. They all wanted watches, like the Russian behind the Alex. But he was Emil now, not a GI with something to trade. He looked toward the window again. An old radiator that probably hadn’t felt heat in a year, even with the control handle all the way open. Old-fashioned, shaped to match the door handle. From the next room there was a sudden burst of laughter. They’d be breaking up soon. How long had it been? Enough time for Brian to get them to the Linden? He talked again to the empty room, the scene Sikorsky had been sorry to miss.

He started threading the belt through the pants loops then stopped, looking up again at the window. Why not? At least it was something to minimize the drop. He picked up the holster belt. Thicker, not the same size. Still. He pushed the end into Emil’s buckle, squeezing it to fit, forcing the metal prong through the thick leather, then pulling it tight. If it held, the double length would give him—what? six feet? “Do you have any better ideas?” he said aloud, as if Emil were still there arguing with him. And the holster buckle was an open square, big enough to slip over the radiator handle, if he was lucky. I’m saving your life.

More laughter. He moved silently toward the doorway, sweating. He wiped his palm dry, wrapped the end of the belt around it, gripping it, and held out the buckle, fixing his eye on the radiator. If it took more than a second, he’d be dead. A short intake of breath for good luck, then he darted forward, slipped the buckle on the handle, and scrambled over the sill. A small clink of metal as it hooked on, evidently unheard over the Russian talk, then a strained grunt as he dropped, catching the belt with his other hand, holding on, trying not to fall, his feet dangling in open air. He held tight for an instant, not trusting the belt yet, then felt himself slipping, a raw burning as the leather slid through his hand until it reached the other buckle, something to grip. Both hands now, his entire weight hanging by a single brass prong, his arms beginning to cramp.

He looked below. Rubble, not a flower bed. He’d need all of the belt, every foot a hedge against a broken ankle. The windows in the back were holes in a smooth façade, no lintels, nothing to break his fall but a pipe that branched off from the corner and snaked across the wall. Europe, where they put the pipes outside. He tried to guess the distance. Maybe just close enough if he let the belt out, something to hold his feet until his arms came back. Then a close slide down, grabbing the pipe in time, a drop in stages. A cat burglar could do it.

He moved his hands carefully off the buckle, just an inch, to the thinner leather of Emil’s belt. One over the other, his hands stinging from the leather burn, as if he were gripping nettles. Still no sound from above, just his own ragged panting and the scrape of his shoes against the plaster. Almost at the pipe.