“And an even longer time here. Before,” Alex said smoothly. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you,” Markovsky said, playing host.
Markus glanced at Alex, annoyed, as if Markovsky had slipped his arm through Alex’s, one more protected, off-limits.
“I must say good night,” Markus said, formal.
“I never see you,” Irene said, giving her hand, the only one who seemed to notice his leaving. “So busy you are always.”
“What did you think of America?” Markovsky said to Alex.
“They took me in. When the Nazis- You don’t forget that.”
“And then threw you out again,” Brecht said.
Alex smiled. “And then threw me out.”
“Well, so it’s good for us,” Markovsky said, making an effect. “And now back with old friends. You were sweethearts maybe?” Half teasing.
“No, never sweethearts,” Irene said, looking at Alex. “Something else.” Then, quickly, “Anyway Elsbeth was the pretty one. So there was no chance for me.” She looked again at Alex.
“Elsbeth,” Markovsky said.
“My sister.”
“Two of them,” Markovsky said, shaking his head, an affectionate joke.
“And Alex, you know, was so serious. A writer, even then. You had to watch what you said. You know we’re in a book? My father said it was another family, but it was us.”
“And what were you like? In the book,” Markovsky said, familiar.
“Like I am. Well, like I was. A long time ago now.”
“People don’t change.”
“No? Maybe. But the world does.” She looked at Alex. “You remember the old house.”
“I went to see it. This morning.”
She nodded. “It’s sad, to think of it like that. But you know he sold it to the Nazis, so-”
“To the Reichsbank. A man told me.”
“Yes, the bank. So at least no one else ever lived there. Just us.”
“Junkers,” Brecht said. “Are we supposed to be sentimental?”
“No, polite,” Markovsky said, turning to him.
“Oh, Bert, he’s never polite,” Irene said easily. “Are you, darling? It’s part of his art.”
Brecht took this and held on, a social lifesaver. “I still can’t get you a ticket,” he said, almost winking. “But what about a drink instead?”
“A drink also,” Irene volleyed back, putting her finger on his chest.
Brecht bowed, a waiter’s gesture, and left with Fritsch.
“It’s just the way he talks,” Irene said to Markovsky. “And you know, he’s right. There’s no reason to be sentimental. I never liked the house anyway.”
“But your family’s house-” Markovsky said, and Alex realized that it was part of her appeal for him, someone who’d known that life.
“Ouf. It was like here,” she said, waving her hand. “A museum. But the country house I always liked. And now that’s gone too.”
“Fritz sold it?” Alex said.
“No. All the big farms were broken up. After the war. They just took it.”
“Land reform,” Markovsky said, explaining, suddenly uncomfortable. “A more equitable distribution.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you. I’m sure it’s right-give the land to the people who farm it. My father would have sold it anyway, so what’s the difference? It would still be gone. Don’t worry, I forgive you,” she said, teasing.
“She forgives me. I’m the politburo,” Markovsky said, but smiling, charmed.
Alex looked at them, a life together he knew nothing about.
“Major Markovsky, the telephone.” The bellboy from the Adlon, his eyes fixed on Markovsky, not even a glance to Alex. “They said urgent.”
“Urgent. At this hour?” Markovsky said, checking his watch. “Excuse me a moment. There was some trouble this morning, so maybe it’s that.”
“The phone is here,” the boy said, leading him away, still ignoring Alex.
“So,” Irene said, her voice suddenly her own again, not at a party. “My God, what do I say to you? Why are you here? You leave America and everyone else wants to go there.”
“I had to leave.”
“And the whole world to choose, you come here? Who comes to Berlin?”
“People,” he said, indicating the room. “Brecht.”
“Oh, Bert. He thinks it’s like before. Well, maybe for him. When he was first here, we took a walk up Friedrichstrasse, where the theaters used to be. Gone. I thought, now you’ll see what it’s like. And you know what he says? You see those people looking at us? They know it’s me. So that’s how it is for him.” She paused. “Not for us.”
“Tell me how you are,” he said, looking at her.
“How I am,” she said, flustered. “I’m- I still have the flat. Marienstrasse, by the Charité. The upper floors were hit, but not mine. So. Sasha brings food.”
“And lipstick.”
She looked up at him. “He’s all right, you know. Don’t judge.”
“I wasn’t.”
“No? Well, so maybe it’s me, I judge myself. You think it was so easy to survive here? The bombs every night. The shelters. Nothing to eat. My God, to have a bath. People on the street in dark glasses, wrapped in blankets-for the smoke, you know-I thought it’s some Ufa film, people from space. Except, no, it’s everybody, we’re living like this. And then after, it’s worse-” She stopped. “After a while that’s all you think about. Getting through it. The reckoning? That comes later.” She looked up. “So I go with him. Markus didn’t tell you? He likes to do that, I think. He blames me for Kurt. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I took a gun and went to Spain and shot him and that’s how it happened. And you? Do you still blame me for Kurt?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” she said and then for a minute neither of them said anything.
“What about the others? Markus said Elsbeth was a Nazi. Elsbeth?”
“Well, but that husband of hers. A madman. I think he still believes, a little anyway. So of course she does what he says. And now, since the children were-”
“What?”
“He didn’t tell you this? Both killed. A direct hit. She was away from the house and when she came back-the nanny, both boys, in the cellar, where they were supposed to go, but a direct hit. I think she went a little crazy then. You know, ‘If I had been there, they wouldn’t,’ things like that. And now they only have each other, she and Gustav, so whatever he says-”
“Do you see her?”
“Sometimes. When he’s out. Then I don’t have to listen to him. You ought to go. She’d be pleased.”
“And Markus said Erich was-I’m sorry.”
“But at least not dead. I’d know if he were dead. I’d feel it.” Putting a hand to her chest. “He’ll come back.”
“Irene-”
“No, it’s true. You can feel these things. People you know. You don’t believe it? That you can sense-?”
“No.”
“I knew something would happen to Enka.”
“Your husband.”
“I suppose you know all about that too? From Markus? Another black mark against me.”
“He was killed?”
She nodded. “His own fault. But I could feel it, that something would happen. We were in a big shelter in Gesundbrunnen. Why there, I can’t remember. Probably on a tram. They were always diverting the trams, you never knew where you’d end up. And then of course in a raid they’d have to stop. So, there. An old U-Bahn station. Small rooms, where they used to store equipment. Just phosphorus paint for light, a real cave. I knew Enka would hate it. And they had a candle, you know, to tell you when the oxygen was running out. So many people. They’d paint the number on the wall-how many could fit-but it was a joke. Sardines. Hot. And what could you do? Stop breathing to save the air? They put the candle up high, so you’d know when the oxygen was almost gone-the carbon dioxide fills the room from below, that was the idea anyway, but Enka just watched it burning and I knew he would panic. He was a coward about such things. Not everything, but a thing like that-” She stopped, aware that she was becoming lost in the story. “So he did. Panic. Sweating, trying to breathe, you know what that’s like. No one could stop him. At the door, he just pushed them aside. And you know it was a danger to everybody if the door was left open-blast-so they let him go. Of course he was wrong about the candle, there was still air in the room. Another half hour, maybe more. And I just sat there and I knew. I could feel when it happened.”