“I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”
“No, just go. If they know, it’s no time for heroics. I heard the broadcast.”
“They want me to condemn somebody first, so that buys us a little time. A little. I have to do this right.”
“Do what?”
“What I came to do.”
Dieter looked at him, puzzled.
“I’ll explain later. First I need you to do something for me. You in?”
“It’s your life you’re playing with. You know that.”
Alex nodded. “Go to the Charité. Irene’s there. Under the name Elsbeth Mutter.”
“Who?”
“Just a name. The point is, nobody knows it’s her. Which means she’s safe. Tell her to stay there.”
“Another Wiesbaden? Or is she really sick?”
“She hit her head last night.”
“On the bridge?” Dieter said, looking at him.
“Somewhere.”
“And I’m the one you trust.”
“Maybe she’s better now. I don’t know. But she has to stay there. Okay? Then call Campbell and tell him to meet me at BOB.” He glanced at his watch. “Noon, a little later.”
“You can’t-”
“What’s the difference. I’m no longer a protected source. Tell him to wait if I’m late.”
“It’s against all the rules. What’s so important that-?”
“I’m going to tell him where Markovsky is. In my own way. So don’t ruin the surprise.”
Dieter stared at him. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Now you trust me. It works both ways. Just be ready when I call. One more thing. Do you have a gun I could borrow? Just in case.”
“Just in case.”
“You must keep one in the flat.”
“No, I keep it here,” Dieter said, patting his coat pocket. “Just in case.”
“Can it be traced?”
“I was in the police. I know how to do things.” He took the gun out and handed it to Alex, one hand covering it, as if they were being photographed. “The safety’s here. When you shoot, point outwards, not at yourself.”
“I’m not expecting to shoot it.”
“And that’s why you asked for it.”
Alex turned to go, then stopped, taking Dieter’s hand. “Thank you. You’ll see Irene? Now. So you’ll be back when I call.”
“I can follow orders. Frau Mutter.” Dieter looked across the fountain. “Remember the first day? In the snow? You were offended, I think. I called you an amateur. And now look. Be careful,” he said, touching Alex’s arm. “Better an amateur than dead.”
He caught the tram down to Alexanderplatz and walked past the palace. Scaffolding and scorched walls, what he’d seen that first night with Martin, everything circling back today, a completed loop. He stopped for a second on the bridge, turning around, wanting to remember it, the way Berlin looked now.
Around the corner from Markus’s office a makeshift café had been set up in a bomb site, a few tables outside with people wrapped in coats, their faces turned up to the weak sun. Inside, under a sloped temporary ceiling, a coffeemaker was steaming, people holding cups and leaning across tables to talk, couples and- He froze, just for a second, then caught himself and kept going. A second, but long enough, Roberta looking out, meeting his glance, her eyes suddenly wide. She looked back to the table before Markus could notice. Coffee with Markus. How she’d paid for Herb. A small price, except you kept paying. Coffee every week, powdered milk and little betrayals, the neighbors, the Kulturbund, Herb’s architect friends, all overheard now. Alex stumbled across the street. Markus’s new GI. And another tomorrow and another, Markus and his coffee cups multiplying because there would never be enough. And after a while Roberta would forgive herself. They all would. It was just the way things were. Remember this, not Alexanderplatz. This was the future.
He’d been heading for Markus’s office but Markus wouldn’t be there, not until he’d heard Roberta out, so he kept going the few blocks to the Kulturbund. Martin was surprised to see him.
“I thought the trial was today,” he said tentatively.
“Not until four. The Soviets never start anything early. Hungover, probably.”
“Herr Meier,” Martin said, but smiled a little.
“Are you going to testify?”
“No, no one from the Kulturbund,” he said, clearly relieved. “Only people from Aufbau. The editor, his assistant.”
Alex imagined them on the stand, facing the judges, not looking at Aaron.
“Good. For you, I mean. Not to have to do that.”
“Of course, if asked, I would do my duty,” Martin said, correct, a public answer.
Alex looked at him. His duty. Aaron in prison.
“Was there something you wanted?” Martin said, eager to move off it.
“I wondered if you’d do me a favor.”
“Herr Meier, of course.”
“I hope you won’t think it’s asking too much. I’d pay- I mean, I’d reimburse the Kulturbund for the tape. I know supplies are-”
“The tape?”
“Yes. You know I have a son in America. He has a birthday coming up, and it would be wonderful if I could record something to send him,” he said, nodding to the machine. “So he could hear me wish him happy birthday. Hear my voice. Like a telephone call. I’d pay you-”
Martin held up his hand. “Herr Meier, please. I’d be so happy. A lovely gesture.” He stopped, a sudden thought. “You know, of course, that a censor would have to play it. Any tape in the post.”
Alex smiled. “I’m not going to say anything that a ten-year-old shouldn’t hear. I think we’ll be all right. It’s fine, then? Would you show me how to use it?”
Martin busied himself threading the reels and setting the microphone levels, showing off a little, a teacher.
“When you’re finished, just switch it off here. Well, I’ll leave you. I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, moving to the door, his bad leg making a shuffling sound.
Alex took one of the typed papers out of the big envelope and faced the microphone. The testimony Aaron would never hear, another gift to Ferber. His own airfare. He told the story everyone already knew: the exile returning to Berlin, the excitement of homecoming, the Socialist hopes. Then the disillusionment, the growing alarm at the Party’s abuse of its own people, finally his refusal to condemn an innocent man. His decision to leave the East, burning every bridge now, every smiling Neues Deutschland picture turned upside down. Voting once more with his feet. He imagined Brecht hearing the broadcast, dismissing it, a foolish self-immolation, maybe framing some sardonic twist to excuse the rest of them. But no turning back now.
He finished and put the tape in his pocket, feeling his heart racing, some clock ticking in his head. Almost there. When he left the office, waving thanks to Martin, he wondered if anything showed on his face. How did a man look with a gun in one pocket and a grenade in the other?
Markus was still out but his mother was at the office, perched on the edge of a chair in the waiting area, her eyes darting around the room, on guard.
“Alex,” she said, her shoulders relaxing. “How nice.”
“You’re waiting for Markus?” he said, just to say something. Her face, if anything, looked thinner, skin stretched tight over the bones.
“He wanted to see me. The Commissar,” she said, a wry edge to her voice. Alex looked up. A Berliner still.
“Won’t they let you wait in his office?”
“I like it here. Where I can see. And you, you’re well?”
“Yes, fine,” he said, sitting down next to her. “How is it going with you?” He touched her hand.
“Well, how would it go with me? The coughing keeps me up at night.”
“But you’re comfortable? Your room-?”
“They watch, I think.” She looked down. “Well, maybe they don’t, I don’t know. But then it’s the same, isn’t it, if you think it?”
He said nothing, remembering Oranienburg, the months after, an eye at every window.
“Maybe Markus will find a bigger flat, so you can be together.”
“Then he watches.”
“Well, but to be together,” Alex said, not sure how to respond to this. “It’s a big adjustment. So many years.”