Four men in sharp Western suits and topcoats strolled up Stalin Allee, chattering in what had to be English. They stood out like peacocks in a flock of crows. One of them pulled out a notebook and wrote something in it.
Who does he think he is? the scandalized Bokov wondered. Can he spy so openly? But the American or Englishman or whatever he was certainly could. Russians could go freely into the U.S., British, and French zones in Berlin, and it worked the other way, too. That was just wrong. One of these days, somebody would have to do something about it.
Catching Bokov’s eye, one of the foreigners tipped his snap-brim fedora. The NKVD man wouldn’t have minded wearing a hat like that. It had style. He touched the brim of his own officer’s cap and walked on.
Idly, he wondered how well the Americans and British were dealing with bandit troubles in western Germany. He knew they had some; their papers, and those they permitted their Germans, gabbled about them in ways no Soviet censor would have tolerated for an instant. It surprised him. At the end of the war, the Nazis seemed eager to give up to the Western allies but went on fighting like maniacs against the USSR. Heydrich and his followers took on everyone. They really were fanatics, then. Bokov hoped they’d pay for it.
Finding the building he wanted wasn’t easy. Half the houses and shops and offices along Stalin Allee had been flattened or burned. A lot of the others had taken damage of one kind or another. Street numbers were few and far between.
He could have asked a Berliner. He snorted, fog bursting from his nose and mouth. He was damned if he would. Then he snorted again, on a higher note. A Berliner wasn’t just somebody from Berlin. It was also the local word for a jelly doughnut. He could have done with one of those right now.
He finally found what had to be the place. By the way people went in and out, it looked to be a cheap eatery, or maybe a tavern. That made some sense. The fanatics could use the flow of customers to hide whatever they were up to.
Bokov went in. It was a tavern, one of the shoddiest excuses for one he’d ever seen. Three men scurried out a hole in the side wall as soon as they glimpsed his uniform. The bruiser behind the bar kept his hands out of sight. What did he have under there? A Schmeisser? Bokov wouldn’t have been surprised.
In his best German, he said, “There’s a cordon around this place. They’ve already nabbed the rats who ran. If I don’t come out in ten minutes, nobody here will like what happens next.” He was bluffing, but the Germans didn’t know that. He hoped.
“So what’ll it be, then?” the barman asked.
“Beer,” Bokov answered. If they had anything, they had that.
He laid a ten-mark occupation note on the bar. The man took it and started to make change. Bokov waved for him not to bother. With a grunt, the fellow gave him a seidel. “Drink fast,” he suggested.
“Don’t worry-I will.” Bokov did. The beer was surprisingly good. He set the duffel down beside him and turned a little to one side to keep an eye on the men sitting at the battered table. They watched him, too.
“You got your nerve, Ivan, poking your nose in here,” the barman said.
With a shrug, Bokov set down the mug. “All part of a day’s work.” He started out.
“You forgot something,” a man called after him.
“Keep it. You’ll know who needs to hear about it, anyhow.” Bokov didn’t sigh with relief till he’d got a hundred meters away.
IX
Diana McGraw was packed. She was ready. Tomorrow morning, Ed would put her on the train for Washington. Tonight, they were going to see The Bells of St. Mary’s along with Betsy and Buster. Diana knew Ed would stare at Ingrid Bergman every instant she was on the screen, and never mind that she was playing a nun. Diana didn’t mind…much. If you were male and didn’t stare at Ingrid Bergman, you were probably dead. And…something interesting might happen after her daughter and son-in-law went home to their baby. Inspiration-or something-was where you found it.
“Shall we go, babe?” Ed said.
“Sure.” Diana put on her coat. It was down in the twenties: nothing out of the ordinary, not in Anderson in December. The weatherman said it wouldn’t snow for another couple of days, but what did the weatherman know?
They went out. Ed started up the Pontiac. When you worked for Delco, they looked at you funny if you drove anything but a General Motors car. They didn’t usually say anything, but they remembered.
“Glad I’ve got a heater,” Ed remarked, pulling the lever that got it going.
“It’ll start putting out hot air right about when we get there,” Diana said. Ed grunted, but didn’t try to tell her she was wrong. The Bijou was only a few blocks away. In summer, they would have walked over. They still could have, but the car was nicer, especially with gas rationing gone at last.
Downtown Anderson was bright lights and tinsel and stores open late to snag more Christmas shoppers. With the war over, with money in their pockets and purses, most people were in a festive mood. Diana would have been, but…. “I wish Pat were here, too,” she saidas Ed slid into a parking space.
“Oh, boy, me, too.” He shook his head and stuck the key in his pocket. He didn’t bother locking the car-nobody was likely to steal it. He didn’t put a nickel in the parking meter, either. It was after six o’clock.
He paid for their tickets at the box office. Then he and Diana walked into the lobby. Betsy and Buster were already there, buying Cokes and popcorn. Ed got some, too. “We’re free!” Betsy exclaimed, adding, “For a few hours, anyway.”
“Free, nothing,” Buster said. “I’m gonna have to pay Karen Galpin a buck and a half when we get home.”
“Worth it,” Betsy declared. Diana remembered how glad she’d been to get out of the house once in a while when Betsy and Pat were little. Babysitters were worth the money, and then some.
The Bijou had seen better days. Too many feet had trodden the carpet. Too many bottoms had worn through the velvet on the seats. Even the curtain looked shabby and faded. During the war, people’d had more important things to worry about. Now, most of them didn’t.
But the war’s not over, not for everybody, Diana thought. It should be, but it’s not.
She sat down. The seat creaked under her-yes, the Bijou needed work. Well, the management would likely be able to afford it. The place was filling up fast. Everybody wanted either to stare at Ingrid Bergman or to listen to Bing Crosby.
People sighed with anticipation when the house lights went down. Then they laughed or whistled or let out catcalls, because the curtain got stuck while it was still half closed. A guy in overalls lugged out a tall ladder as the lights came up again. A teenage kid scaled the ladder, nimble as a squirrel. He fiddled with something out of sight, then flashed a thumbs-up. The curtain moved freely. The audience gave him a hand as he descended. He waved, his face red. The lights dimmed once more.
Naturally, the newsreel came first. There were scenes of tiny, exquisite Japanese women in kimonos bowing to GI’s who seemed half again as tall. They know they’re licked. Why don’t the Germans? Diana thought resentfully. But, beside her, Buster muttered, “Miserable little monkeys.” Japanese fire had made sure he wouldn’t play football again.
By what the smooth-voiced announcer said, everything was peachy in Japan, at least if you were an American-and who cared what happened to the Japs? Then, echoing what had just been in Diana’s mind, the man went on, “But on the other side of the world, things are harder. One of our correspondents in the American zone in Germany obtained this disturbing footage for us. Anonymous U.S. Army sources assure us it’s genuine.”