He waited in vain for it to return, its caller having apparently vanished. At last, he pressed the button himself. With a jerk and a wheeze the gray tail slid past, followed by the red cage. Molkho opened the two doors of ancient grillwork, entered the malignant cell, and pressed a button, watching the apartment slip by. Once, long ago, her faith in life already shattered, a young girl had stepped forth from one of those doors on her way to Jerusalem. But did I really kill her? he wondered. The elevator stopped, letting him out in a hallway, where he first looked for a door without a name and then knocked on one that had several. There was silence, followed by the scrape of a chair across a floor. A child clambered up to reach the high lock and opened the door a crack, peering earnestly out at the stranger. “Doctor Starkmann?” Molkho asked the wide-eyed little boy, who was apparently all alone. “Doctor Starkmann?” The boy frowned adorably, as if trying to recall the man who had killed himself here fifty years ago, and made a move to shut the door. For a second Molkho tried stopping him, flattening himself sideways as if to slip through the crack; then, with a quick backward step, he turned and dashed down the stairs and into the rainy street to the underground, by which he returned to the Alexanderplatz, which now seemed safely familiar, despite the falling night.
IF YOU’RE NOT OUT TO CHANGE THE WORLD, even East Berlin can be home, Molkho thought, passing the War Memorial again, where the tongues of flame flared up in the darkness with a stark beauty. Maybe I should take one last look inside so that I can say I tried everything. Attaching himself to some tourists, he was delighted to discover that they were French and that he finally could understand what the guide was saying. Karl Friedrich Schinkel, it appeared, was the name of the architect of the building, a neoclassical structure with Doric steps and columns that was built in 1816–1818. A guardhouse during the nineteenth century, it was converted into a war memorial after World War I and rededicated to the victims of militarism and fascism after World War II. Molkho listened with interest to the lively questions of the French tourists and then followed them across the boulevard to the old Berlin Opera House, which they were allowed to enter, despite the renovation underway.
He climbed the steps, which were even steeper than those of the West Berlin opera house. If the legal adviser had fallen here, he thought, she would have broken her neck. Beneath a high portico with grimy ecclesiastical walls, their guide lectured them about the building’s architecture. What a pity there’s no performance tonight, thought Molkho, whose musical reputation in Haifa would soar if he could see an opera in East Berlin. Meanwhile, impressed by the Frenchmen’s curiosity, their guide found a way to usher them into the plastic-wrapped auditorium, where some old paintings on the ceiling were being restored. From a side door came the sound of music and singing. “What’s that?” asked the Frenchmen. Unable to answer, their guide opened the door to reveal a small recital hall, where onstage several singers were rehearsing around a table. Could they watch for a while? he asked in German. “But of course!” said the opera singers. It would give them great pleasure for the visitors from France to see them work.
The stage was bare except for a piano and the singers kept repeating a single ensemble, which the short, dark conductor frequently interrupted to comment on. And yet though after a while the French tourists began to fidget, Molkho remained attentive. Even when they left, he stayed behind in his dark corner, particularly enthralled by one of the sopranos, whom he couldn’t take his eyes off. He had never been to a rehearsal before, and while he knew he never would see the finished product, watching an opera come into being seemed to him a rare experience.
The music was unfamiliar, and he hadn’t the vaguest idea if it was modern, romantic, or even classical. Indeed, sometimes it sounded so primitive that it could have been medieval, though he seemed to remember that opera did not exist then. Gradually his interest centered on the conductor, a furiously energetic little man who hopped about the stage waving his hands, breaking into snatches of song, rushing over to correct the pianist, even snatching the score from the hands of the performers and penciling in new notations, as if he were not only conducting the opera but composing it. The more exhausted the singers grew from his efforts, the more possessed he seemed to become.
Suddenly, noticing a sphinxlike figure in a corner of the stage, Molkho was gripped by the fear that the man was a musical commissar who might give an order to detain him and prevent his return to the West. Rising stealthily, he began to grope his way out. The music stopped. A hush descended on the stage. The little conductor called out to him in German. Stumbling down the aisles, Molkho ignored him. They’ll accuse me of musical espionage yet, he thought, making quickly for the door. The commissar rose from his seat. Someone called out again, and this time Molkho turned to look.
Though the singers could not see him clearly, the stage being lit and the hall in darkness, they seemed to think they knew him. “Siegfried?” called one of them in a friendly voice. “Siegfried?” Molkho spun around, but there was no one behind him, and he remained standing with his shoulders hunched forward, one hand over his eyes as if staring off into space. “Pardon?” he answered hoarsely, convinced the French word, half a question and half an apology, would be understood. “Pardon?” Stumbling on to the door, which to his relief was unlocked, he passed down a hallway full of more scaffolds and tools, exited into the broad boulevard, and hurried back to the checkpoint. Without bothering to rid himself of his East German marks, he stood in line with his passport, handed a policeman his visa, and returned to the West in the very best of moods.
THE TRENCH NEAR THE HOTEL had been filled in during the day, making the going in the street much easier. The lobby itself, however, was in an uproar: a noisy new group of Italians had arrived and all hands were busy with their reception. A merry fire crackled in the corner, and in cubbyhole number 1 were three messages in German that were immediately translated into English. The first message was from Fraulein Zand, who had telephoned that afternoon from East Berlin to tell Molkho not to worry because they had taken her, although who had taken her where was far from clear. The second message was from his daughter, Enat, who wished him to know that she would pick him up at the airport tomorrow night. As for the third message, it was from the hotel itself, informing him that Room 9 was now occupied as per prior warning, all its contents having been moved to Room 1.
He ascended to the first-floor room. Though great pains had been taken to find space for the little Russian’s belongings, the trunk, having proved an insurmountable challenge, had simply been laid on the bed as if Molkho were expected to sleep on it. At once he returned to the lobby to discuss the matter with the proprietress, who smiled at him charmingly from her post behind the bar, which had already opened for the evening. He himself, Molkho explained, was checking out in the morning, but the trunk belonged to Fraulein Zand, who had moved to East Berlin, though she might yet come back for it. The owner’s wife was sorry to hear about the Fraulein, but regarding the trunk, there was no problem: it was not the first piece of luggage to be left behind, and there was a special storage space for such items in the basement. She summoned the grandfather, who took the wooden trunk down with Molkho in the elevator, from which they dragged it across the lobby past a tumult of Italians, into the kitchen, through a small trapdoor, and down the basement stairs. Indeed, the old man was so gymnastic that it seemed to move by itself, bumping and bouncing along while Molkho apologized in English for the trouble and was answered with a friendly but uncomprehending nod.