Perhaps he should ask directions, he thought, debating whether to strike out for some low buildings to the east on which the autumn sun shone mildly. In the end he turned to an elderly woman, showing her the writing on the map. “Taxi?” he asked. She stopped to think. “No taxi,” she replied, pointing toward an entrance to the underground. “Metro?” inquired Molkho. “Metro,” she agreed, happy to find a word in common. He looked at her closely. She had a trustworthy, proletarian face with gray hair pulled straight back and glasses that she removed to study the map. “Magdalenastrasse,” she said, pointing to the underground again and ticking off seven stations on her fingers. He nodded gratefully, trying to memorize the name, but seeing it was hard for him, she took a pen and wrote it on the map. Then, as if assisting a foreigner were a privilege that she was determined to make the most of, she turned and climbed down the stairs to the underground, motioning to him to follow.
He did. After all, he smiled to himself, even if she was once a secret agent, she’s past retirement age. They came to a gate with a machine that sold tickets and a smaller one that stamped them, though in the absence of guards or ticket takers anyone could have walked right in. Fancy an underground honor system! thought Molkho, who nevertheless feared losing his way in the subterranean labyrinth. But it was too late to change his mind, for his elderly guide had already bought him a ticket and was leading him onto the platform.
Once aboard, he sat beside her and counted the stations, feeling one with the motion of the train, which was quite modern and not at all noisy, though the tunnel it sped through seemed rather crudely hacked out. Bad finish, that’s the trouble with Communism, he thought, postponing further consideration of the subject until his return to Israel, because meanwhile here he was in East Berlin, traveling the underground with ordinary people like himself. At the fifth stop his guide got off, holding up two fingers to indicate the stations that were left as if unsure whether foreigners could count. The other passengers now watched him for her. He wondered what they would think if they knew he was looking for his dead wife’s first home.
He got off at Magdalenastrasse, the whole car making sure that he didn’t miss his stop. Climbing some stairs to ground level, he saw that he was in an old residential area, far from the tourist sites and shops. He had barely taken a few steps when he noticed a sign with the name of his wife’s street, which a quick glance revealed to be only a few shabby blocks long. He smiled wryly, thinking of his mother-in-law. So you were right after all. There was nothing here to come back to. Nothing that has to do with you or her.
AND YET, suppose, Molkho thought, that his wife had wanted to come back—suppose she had—would she have recognized anything in this dreary street or only imagined that she had? That playground, for instance, with its little green gate made for children that led to a battered seesaw and some old trees with metal guards that stood sullenly stripped of their leaves. And yet it was here that her mother must have wheeled her in her carriage and here that she first began to crawl, memories that should have moved her as the thought of them moved him. Or that grocery over there—was it as drab before the War too, the few unappetizing tins of crackers, bottles of bilious oil, and bars of soap in its window suggestive of a trading post in some provincial backwater? Slowly he walked down the street, fingering his passport with its East German visa in his pocket. I’ve seen so many spy movies that I can’t help thinking I’m being followed, he thought, though turning around to look will just make me seem more suspicious. I’d better walk slowly enough for any tail to have to pass me, though not so slowly as to be conspicuous. Not as though I were looking for something, but more like someone out for a stroll, someone who isn’t quite well. Yes, that’s it, he thought eagerly—like someone who hasn’t been well and is just getting over it!
His mother-in-law hadn’t told him the house number, nor had he thought of asking her, never imagining he would return to Berlin so soon, a notion that would have seemed preposterous; yet now, trying to guess which house had been hers, he felt sure his wife would have approved of him despite all her principles. Yes, sometimes she had wanted him to resist her, not to be so afraid. Because I was afraid of you, he murmured.
A fine, lacy rain had begun to fall and Molkho quickened his steps until he came to a fish store that seemed in such an unlikely location that the only explanation for its being there was that it always had been. Somber gray swordfish lay on beds of crushed ice, and a woman sitting by a large tiled tub stared out the window at him, perhaps hoping he might buy a fish. Did she share in the store’s profits or was she simply a state employee who didn’t care if there were any? Once more regretting his mother-in-law’s vagueness, he walked as far as a large apartment building at the street’s end, crossed to its other side, and headed back at a convalescent pace, passing the fish store again and noticing old bullet holes in the walls of some of the houses. Enough! he scolded himself, worried that his leisurely promenade would be noticed from a window. Be glad you found the street. What does the house matter? Don’t be a worse perfectionist than she was! And yet the desire to know where she had lived persisted. For a whole year she’s run my life by remote control, he thought bitterly. It’s as though I’ve gone right on looking after her. How can I stop now?
He started back toward the underground, yet something in him would not admit defeat, and turning into another gray side street that was full of children on their way home from school, he stepped into a small stationery store with an old-fashioned bell that tinkled each time someone entered. Here, he felt sure, his wife had once bought her school supplies. There was no display window, all the merchandise being ranged behind the counter, and Molkho took out a ten-mark note, mentally chose a pencil and a notebook as mementos, and awaited his turn in the line of quiet children. Behind him the bell tinkled again and a new band of youngsters entered the store, among them a tall blond girl with large glasses and a wistful stare.
Molkho pointed in silence to the items on a shelf, smiling sagely to confirm the storeowner’s selection. He received a handful of change, stepped back out into the street, waited for the girl to emerge, and set out after her at a safe distance with a quicker though still ruminative gait. The girl, who had on an old gray raincoat, walked as far as the corner and turned familiarly into his wife’s deserted street. This is as far as I go, he told himself, a shiver running down his spine. I’ve done all I could, I cared for her to the end, and even if she still expects me to follow her, it’s time I thought of myself. I have children who need me, an old mother in Jerusalem, and a mother-in-law with a broken arm. Even in a free country a middle-aged man trailing a strange girl down an empty, rainy street would seem suspicious. And, indeed, the girl now turned around to look, her glasses glinting in the gray light. With a show of unconcern, he watched her disappear through a doorway. Suppose I say that’s the house, then, he told himself. Suppose I do. Isn’t that enough?
AFTER ALL, he thought, it’s not me who lived there or lay there having dead babies. It’s no concern of mine—why stand here with my heart in my throat? And yet he kept on toward it down the unpronounceable street, which swerved oddly at that point, as if badly rebuilt from a wartime bombing. Barely half an hour had passed since his descent into the underground, yet he was so wet to the bones from the driving rain that he felt he had to get out of it and so took shelter in the entrance to the house, a prewar apartment building that appeared to have seen better days. Several mailboxes lined a small vestibule that was too dark for him to read the names on them, and he opened a door that led to a dimly lit staircase, beside which stood the small red cage of an elevator. Then this really is it! he exulted, staring at the ancient box, which suddenly rose with an animal wheeze in response to a call from above, malignantly dragging its dark tail of cables behind it.