Leaving Berlin (32 page)

Alex nodded. “How about a few hundred?”

Dieter looked up.

“At the theater.”

T
HE PLAY HAD AN
early curtain so cars started pulling up to the doors even before dusk. The Deutsches Theater was set back from the street, fronted by a small park and a semicircular driveway, designed for carriages, a more graceful time. Now the trees were stumps, burned black, and the coaches were jeeps and official cars with tiny flags on their radio antennas, but the building was lighted, almost blazing in the gathering dark, and there was the unmistakable hum of an event, voices rising, calling out to each other, car doors slamming, then sweeping back out to the street. Opening night, the ruins just background shadows, the neoclassical façade still intact, lit up by the bright lobby chandeliers.

“I didn’t know there were so many cars in Berlin,” Irene said. “My God.”

They had walked from Marienstrasse, two streets away, and now had to weave through the line of waiting cars in the driveway.

All the Allies were here, many in uniform, so that the evening seemed a kind of international conference, the meetings they no longer had. Airplanes were still droning overhead, delivering coal, but they receded into the background too, like the ruins, while everyone
faced the light. Alex thought of the photographs of the famous Weimar openings, white tie at the Zoo Palast, now bulky wool coats in the unheated salon, but the same eager sense of occasion, Berlin having its moment.

There were drinks for sale in the lobby, a crowded milling, no one prepared yet to go inside, the drama still here, heads turning to the doors as they opened, craning. The Kulturbund was out in force, wartime jersey dressed up with flashes of costume jewelry, sneaking glances at the Allied wives in better coats and permanent waves, everyone clinking glasses of
Sekt
as if the blockade were over, some bad memory.

“Remember, you’re not going to be feeling well later,” Alex said, handing Irene a glass.

“In our play,” she said. “Look, is that General Clay?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

“I think so. Or maybe they all look that way.”

“Alex.” Ruth Berlau, behind them. “You got the tickets? Well, of course you did, you’re here. I’m so glad. You don’t mind they’re upstairs? The Americans all wanted the orchestra. So then the French had to— But of course you can see everything up there, the full stage.” Fluttering now. “You can feel it, yes? Everyone so excited. All these years, and now—a million things to do. Everyone thinks it just happens by itself.”

“How’s Bert? Nervous?”

“Oh, you know him. Like a slug. He pretends—but he must feel it too. It’s the homecoming. I said to him, you arrived in October but it’s tonight that you come home. Be sure you make an entry in your journal. January 11, 1949. Years from now, people will look for that. How you felt when
Mother Courage
opened. I’m sorry,” she said, finally turning to Irene.

“Irene Gerhardt,” Alex said, introducing her. “An old Berlin friend. From before the war.”

“The war,” Ruth said vaguely, distracted. “Do you know what is
so interesting? We were here at rehearsal. So in the Thirty Years’ War. And I went for a walk in the Tiergarten, and it was the same. The same landscape.” She held out her hands, a scale weighing. “Outside, inside—the same. What a vision he had. And now everyone will feel the play is about them. A play about war. In Berlin. Who knows better about that?”

“Irene, how wonderful. You’re here. I was hoping—” Elsbeth leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Still pale, the Dresden doll skin pasty, eyes retreating. “And Alex. You’re here too. How is Er—?” Stopping in time, a quick, awkward glance to see who might have heard, but Ruth had already drifted away.

“Better. He’s better.”

“Well, yes, Gustav helped him with the medicine. He’s so generous, you know, and for family—”

“He’s here?” Irene said.

“Getting drinks. But, my God, look at all these lights. We’re down to two hours a day now. Electricity. It comes and you rush to do everything at once. The ironing. The sewing machine. Everything all at once, before it goes off again. And of course the refrigerator, it’s hopeless. I said we would be better off if we had an icebox, like in the old hinterhofs. But then where do you get the ice? The worst part is you never know
when
the two hours come. Once it was one in the morning. So you iron when you want to be sleeping.”

Alex glanced toward the bar, spotting Gustav’s tall head, Elsbeth’s litany of complaint indistinct, background noise. Maybe the way people talked during the Thirty Years’ War too, consumed by domestic grievances. But someone who would try to keep Irene in sight, a possible monkey wrench in the plan.

“Where are you sitting?” he said suddenly, trying not to sound anxious.

“Where? With the Bowens,” she said. She fished a ticket out of her purse. “Good seats, I think. You know, he’s the British—Row D.
So close. They said we should come. I don’t like to, you know. I’m afraid to go to the East. But Gustav said, what could be safer? Travel with the British command. Who would dare to bother you? And I thought, well, that’s right, isn’t it? And it’s Brecht.” She looked at Irene. “Like the old days. How long has it been? You remember Papa?” Smiling now, dropping her voice. “ ‘
Quatsch
. Plays about whores.’ ”

“No, he preferred the real thing.”

Elsbeth giggled, suddenly a girl, then looked around. “Why don’t you come see me?” she said, keeping her voice low, intimate. “You never come anymore.”

“I will. I promise.”

“And Erich?” Almost a whisper. “He’s with you?”

“No. He went to the West,” she said, looking at Alex.

“The West? How?”

“I don’t know. Someone helped him, I guess. He sent a message. He’s safe. Don’t worry.” Saying it to herself.

“Where?” Elsbeth said, pressing.

“I don’t know. He said he would write. I’ll let you know.”

“We’ll never see him again,” Elsbeth said, looking down. “The Russians will squeeze and squeeze and then they’ll come in and that will be that. That’s how it’s going to end. How else? They’ll round us up. I’m sure Gustav is on a list.”

“What list?” Gustav said, joining them. “Irene.” Nodding to her, then to Alex. “How is your patient? It was TB?”

Elsbeth put a hand on his arm. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Ah, family secrets.”

“He’s fine,” Irene said.

“And you? No Russian friend tonight?” he said, a suppressed sneer.

“He was called back to Moscow,” Irene said evenly.

“For good?”

Irene shrugged.

“So you’re alone now. No protector? I said this would happen, no? It’s always the same.”

“Alex protects me. So you don’t have to worry.”

Gustav hesitated, not sure how to take this.

“Oh, it’s so nice to see you,” Elsbeth said again, taking Irene’s hand. “What are you doing after? Maybe we can—” Not noticing Irene’s hand grow rigid, alarmed.

“What are you thinking?” Gustav said. “We told the Bowens—” He broke off and turned to Irene. “Our hosts. But another time.”

“Yes, it’s better really. I’m not feeling well tonight.” In the play again.

“Yes, what’s wrong?” Gustav said, a doctor’s question.

“I don’t know. My stomach. It’s nothing, maybe something I ate. And the next day you’re fine.”

“Too many rations perhaps,” Gustav said, the edge back in his voice. “You should come to our sector. Seventeen hundred calories a day. A stomach problem? No, hunger. Thanks to the Russians. Of course it’s different for you. He probably gave you extra rations.
Payoks
.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Irene said, looking at him. “As much as I wanted. I never went hungry.”

Gustav, held by her gaze, took a step back, a physical retreat. “Well, we should find the Bowens.”

“They helped Gustav with the license,” Elsbeth said, explaining them. “So he could practice again. They think the Americans are mad. To make it so hard, if you were a Party member. Everyone was, all the doctors.”

“Some even believed in it,” Irene said smoothly, avoiding Gustav’s eye.

“Well, everything seemed different in those days,” Elsbeth said. “It’s funny, though, you know, to ride in a car with a British flag. Like the ones on the planes. That bombed us. Maybe even the ones that killed—”

“The British bombed at night,” Gustav said, annoyed. “In the daytime it was the Americans.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Elsbeth said. “It was the Americans. So at least we don’t ride with them.”

Gustav straightened himself to go, a heel-clicking motion. “I hope you feel better.”

“Do you know the play?” Elsbeth said suddenly. “I read it. She loses everything in the war. Her children. But she goes back to it. To make her living. So maybe she’s part of it too. Do you think that’s what he meant?”

Irene, not answering, leaned over and kissed her cheek. “With Brecht it’s always more than one thing. I’ll come see you soon.”

Elsbeth nodded, letting Gustav pull her away into the crowd.

“Why did you tell her Erich was in the West?”

“Well, he will be, won’t he? At least now Gustav won’t be tempted to turn him in. If he’s already gone.”

“He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t want to go near the police. Any police. You do that and before you know it, they start looking at you.”

Irene lowered her head. “What if I never see her again?”

Alex said nothing.

“You know what it feels like with her?” Irene said quietly. “She’s just waiting now. On a platform, maybe. Bags packed. Waiting.”

“Irene—”

“There you are,” Martin said. “Can I borrow him for a few pictures?
Neues Deutschland
. Quite an evening, yes?”

“You’ll be all right?” Alex said to Irene, waiting for her to nod. “She hasn’t been feeling well,” he said to Martin.

“I thought maybe you and Comrade Seghers,” Martin said, not listening. “She’s over here.” Nodding toward the familiar white hair, pulled back in a bun. “Both friends of Brecht. And of course in your own right—”

“What news of Aaron? Any?”

Martin stopped, as if someone had clutched his shoulder. “No.” His eyes darted anxiously, not here, not now.

“Does anyone know where he is? His wife?”

“I don’t know. Herr Meier—Alex—please. Tonight—”

Alex looked around the room. Did anyone else feel it, the undertow? People slipping away under the bright lights. Not just late to work at DEFA. People everyone here knew. Now no longer talked about, like nervous tics kept under control, willed away.

“You say you’ll come to see me, but you never do,” Anna Seghers said, taking his hand.

“But I will. It’s been a busy time.”

“Oh, with this one?” she said, nodding to Martin. “Always arranging things.”

“Stand together. Just there. That’s right.”

Flashbulbs.

“I wanted to ask you,” Alex said, turning to her, another picture, casually chatting. “Have you heard anything about Aaron? Where he is? I’m worried—”

“No, nothing,” she said, looking at him. “Someone said they’re keeping him in Potsdam, but I think it’s a rumor only.”

“But why?”

“Alex,” she said, touching his arm, a quieting, like a finger to the lips.

“Can’t anyone do something?”

“But we don’t know yet what is happening. Perhaps questions only. Maybe an indiscretion.” Her voice low, one more smile for the camera. “We don’t know the reasoning. The Party doesn’t always explain. That doesn’t mean they have no reason.”

Alex looked at her, wondering if she could possibly believe this. The Party innocent until proven guilty, not Aaron. But her eyes gave away nothing, her voice even, not shaded with irony.

“It’s not the Fascists,” she said, then looked away, flustered.

“No,” Alex said. “It’s us.”

Seghers looked up at this, about to respond, then caught herself, seeing Dymshits coming to join them. “Major,” she said, her voice louder, a signal to Alex.

“My favorite writers. What a good picture, seeing you together like this.” His glasses were shining in the lobby light, the slicked-back Thalberg hair gleaming. His body seemed to bounce, as if he were clapping his hands in delight. “Everyone is here. They say Emil Jannings might come. He hasn’t been well, but for such an occasion—”

“A man who makes films for the Nazis?” Anna said, surprised. “He’s invited?”

“Not invited. It’s a question of getting tickets. Look around. They come from all over Berlin. So why not Jannings. It’s not the old Germany anymore,” he said to Anna, a gentle reproach. “Tonight it’s the new Germany. And where is it? Here. In the East. They all come to us.”

“It’s a great credit to the Office of Cultural Affairs,” Martin said, hovering.

“Well, that,” Dymshits said, taking the compliment seriously. “No. Ask these two. It’s about the artists, always the artists. Who else makes the culture? But we provide maybe the good climate, so it can flourish. That’s our legacy, I hope. That we understood the importance of culture, that we made it grow here.” A speech he must have made before, but the voice genuine, believing. “So we ask the artists to come home, and here you are. At such an evening.” He looked around again, ready to be dazzled. “You know the play? To read, yes, but to actually see it? And now with Dessau doing the music—you’ve never heard the songs like this. I saw them rehearse—don’t tell Brecht, he doesn’t like it, people coming in.”

“You’re not people,” Martin said politely.

Dymshits bowed. “Tonight, yes. Part of the audience only. So nice to see you all here. Zweig too, I think, somewhere.” Vaguely looking
around, everyone easy to lose in a crowd. “Ah, look who couldn’t resist,” Dymshits said, nodding to the door. “Even RIAS tonight.”

“What?” Alex said, not expecting this.

“So, Ferber, no American jazz tonight? What will your audience think?”

“You can ask them yourself. They’re all over here.”

Dymshits lowered his head in a touché gesture. “As are you, I see. An evening of real culture for a change? You know these people?” he said, introducing them.

“We have met at the Kulturbund,” Ferber said to Alex.