HAD HE REALIZED those were to be their last moments together, he might not have acted so furtively but rather said a fond good-bye, perhaps even kissing her on both cheeks like a Frenchman. As it was, though, fearful of being incriminated in something he couldn’t explain, he waited half in hiding for the tourists to disperse and clear a space around her.
But the crowd simply grew thicker until nothing remained of her but a few flashes of red fabric. Of course, they’re curious, he thought. Everyone else wants out of here and she wants in—why, she’s making history! Although several men in uniform were approaching and he knew that now was the time to slip out to the boulevard and back to the West, her shrill voice made him cling to his corner. After all, he reasoned, I can always say I’m a decadent tourist who’s afraid of the rain.
Suddenly he heard her sob. At last, he thought with relief, listening in the ensuing hush to the traffic in the boulevard. It’s about time she let it all out. She sobbed again and then broke once more into speech, her melodic voice rising and falling as though a tightly wound spring were slowly unwinding inside her. Good for her, he thought, noticing an inscription on the stone walclass="underline" “Karl Friedrich Schinkel, 1816–1818.” Was she crying, too, for her humiliating night with him? But it was all for the best.
And indeed, the crowd around her now asked a pale little officer with a broad-brimmed cap and red lapels, who made Molkho think of a Turkish railroad conductor, to see what he could do. Accompanied by a policeman, he cleared a path to the little Russian and brought her to a sentry booth, in front of which two fresh soldiers with rifles stood ready for the changing of the guard. Assured she was in good hands, Molkho darted from his dark corner, opened his umbrella, and stepped back into the street. The gloomy edifice covered in plastic—which, his map told him, was the old Berlin Opera House—seemed a good vantage point from which to watch for her.
TRUE, THAT MORNING he had larded her handbag and coat pockets with a few more of the hotel’s visiting cards to ensure her safe return, but his responsibilities, he believed, included keeping up morale in case of failure, and so he remained loyally by the opera house, trying not to lose sight of the memorial, which was continually being blocked by more tourist buses. When after a while she failed to appear, he recrossed the boulevard and joined a group of noisy Spaniards who swept him back past the honor guard, which was beginning, so he thought, to be a bit unsteady on its feet. Though the sentry booth was open, neither his Russian nor the pale officer were in it. Had she gone looking for him? Surely she must have realized that she should wait for him where they had parted. Circling the building, he joined some more tourists of unknown nationality and filed past the blue flame again. “When does the guard change?” he asked a policeman in English, and was answered with a tap of the East German’s watch that seemed to mean a quarter of an hour. He went back out to the boulevard, bought a bun to appease his hunger, and returned for the changing of the guard, which took place quite simply, the two replacements stepping smartly up, barking a command in unison, and receiving custody of the flame. Just then the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and despite the light drizzle, he resolved to go for a walk on the boulevard, which struck him as being more authentically Berlinish than the fashionable streets of the Western zone.
Stopping to ask directions, he was told that the boulevard led to the Brandenburg Gate. Soon he was there, gazing up at the Berlin Wall and its watchtowers from the East. Now, too, an ugly scar reminding the forgetful of the retribution visited upon the Nazi horror, he found it a welcome sight. Walking back up the boulevard, which was called Unter den Linden, he innocently followed a group of Dutch tourists into the memorial, the flame, perhaps because of the sunshine, now looking rather faded. He stood through a lecture in Dutch, passed the sentry booth, where two guards were having lunch, and set out to look for the little Russian in the tourist shops of the Alexanderplatz. But she was not there either, and lured back by the magical flame, he returned to the memorial. Finding it empty, he entered and strolled past the honor guard, head down to avoid recognition, since by now he had been there a suspicious number of times.
It’s time to start back, he told himself, noticing the darkening sky. Indeed, the little Russian was most probably waiting in the hotel. He returned to the checkpoint, first stopping by a candy and souvenir stand that was meant to help relieve the visitor of his remaining East German marks, where, under the stern eyes of the kiosk operator, he did some complicated sums to decide how best to spend the money. It was something he was good at. More than once, while waiting for a flight back to Israel, he had exasperated his wife by running back and forth in the airport to buy souvenirs and chocolates, emptying his pockets of every last coin as if he meant never to travel again.
THE TRENCH HAD RETREATED up the busy street, which was bathed in the first rays of twilight when Molkho returned to the hotel. At the desk the schoolgirl was doing her homework, and everything seemed so familiar that he almost expected to see the legal adviser too. Disappointingly, though, his and the little Russian’s key was still in its cubbyhole. Loath to admit by asking about her that he couldn’t keep track of his women, he took the key with a smile, said a few words in German, and went up to the room, in which no one had been but the chambermaid. He considered a nap but chose to shower instead, thus easing pressure on the bathroom later on when they might want to go to the opera. While he was under the water, the telephone rang. Dripping wet, he ran to get it, but it was only the proprietor, happily informing him that there had been a cancellation and that another room was available. “On which floor?” asked Molkho doubtfully. “On the first,” said the German. “On the first? Don’t you have anything on the second?” No, replied the German slyly, he did not, though who knew better than his guest how few stairs there were between them. “All right,” mumbled Molkho into the phone, “I’ll let you know soon.”
He went to dry himself, wondering why he felt so put out. Was it simply his hating to waste the money? After all, the two of them had reached an understanding that was certainly good for one more night. Nevertheless, he went downstairs to see the room, which turned out to be tiny, almost prisonlike in its dimensions, as though it were the original cell from which the rest of the hotel had grown. Molkho hesitated. “There’s no air here,” he complained to the schoolgirl, who, meaning well, opened a small window. Unappeased, he went off to see the proprietor. Yet, though aware of the room’s deficiencies, the German urged Molkho to take it, since his present room was only good for one more night and he didn’t want to be left out in the cold.
Molkho agreed and was given a new registration form.
HAD HE NOT FELT SO SURE she would be back by midnight, he would never have rented the second room, but despite her talent for disappearing, he was certain that sooner or later she would have to return. He scribbled a note that said, “I’m here”; tore it up because she would be unable to read it; printed another note, which said “I’ve gone for a walk”; tore that up because she would be unable to understand it; and finally settled on a third note, which said, “I will be back.” Then he went out to have a look around and to shop for more presents.