The Good German (20 page)

Steve stared at him. “Tough guy,” he said finally.

“Please,” Jake said. “She’s sick, for Christ’s sake, you can see that.”

Steve glanced over at the bed, then nodded and began to put on his pants.

“I’m not a Nazi,” Hannelore said. “I was never a Nazi. Never.”

“Shut up and get dressed,” Steve said, throwing her the dress.

“You were always trouble for me,” she said to Jake, still disgruntled, pulling the dress over her head. “Always. And what made you so perfect? Sneaking around with her. I knew all the time. Everybody knew.”

“Here,” Jake said, handing Steve the money, “you take it. He’s a young guy. Slick hair.” He took a key from his pocket. “My jeep’s there, if you want to drive back.”

Steve shook his head. “She can walk.”

“What do you mean, she can walk? Where are you going?” Hannelore said, still arguing with him as they went out the door.

“You mustn’t be angry with her,” Lena said in the sudden quiet. “She’s had a hard time.”

Jake sat on the bed, looking at her, still trying to take her in. “You’ve been here. All the time,” he said, as if that were the remarkable thing. “I passed the other day—”

“I knew she had the flat. There was nowhere else. The bombs—”

He nodded. “Pariserstrasse, I know. I looked for you everywhere. I saw Frau Dzuris. Remember?”

She smiled. “Poppyseed cakes.”

“She’s not fat anymore.” He wiped her brow, letting his hand rest on the side of her face. “Have you been eating?”

“Yes. She’s good to me. She shares her ration. And of course she gets a little extra from the soldiers.”

“How long has that been going on?”

She shrugged. “We eat.”

“How long have you been sick?”

“A little while. I don’t know. The fever this week.”

“Do you want to sleep?”

“I can’t sleep. Not now. I want to hear—” But in fact she closed her eyes. “How did you find me?”

“I knew the dress.”

She smiled, her eyes still closed. “My good blue.”

“Lena,” he said, smoothing her hair. “My god.”

“Oh, I must look terrible. Do you even recognize me?”

He kissed her forehead. “What do you think?”

“That’s a nice lie.”

“You’ll look even better after the doctor fixes you up. You’ll see. I’ll bring some food tomorrow.”

She held her hand to his head, looking at him. “I thought I’d never see you again. Never.” She noticed his uniform. “Are you a soldier? Were you in the war?”

He turned slightly and pointed to his shoulder patch. “Correspondent.”

“Tell me—” She paused, blinking, as if caught by a sudden pain. “Where to begin? Tell me everything that happened to you. Did you go back to America?”

“No. Once, a visit. Then London, all over.”

“And nowhere.”

“I told you I’d come back. Didn’t you believe me?” He took her by the shoulders. “Everything’s going to be the same.”

She turned her head. “It’s not so easy, to be the same.”

“Yes, it is. You’ll see. We’re the same.”

Her eyes, already shiny with fever, grew moister, but she smiled. “Yes, you’re the same.”

He brushed the bare hairline above his temple. “Almost, anyway.” He looked down at her. “You’ll see. Just like before.”

She closed her eyes, and he busied himself wetting the handkerchief, disconcerted by his own words. Not like before.

“So you found Hannelore,” he said, trying to be conversational, then, “Where’s Emil?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice curiously detached. “Dead, maybe. It was terrible here, at the end.”

“He was in Berlin?”

“No, up north. For the army.”

“Oh,” he said, not trusting himself to say more. He stood up. “I’ll get some more water. Try getting a little sleep before the doctor gets here.”

“Like a nurse,” she said, closing her eyes.

“That’s right. I’m going to take care of you. Go to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

“It seems impossible. I just opened the door.” Her voice drifting.

He turned to leave, then stopped. “Lena? What makes you think he’s dead?”

“I would have heard.” She moved her hand up, covering her eyes. “Everyone’s dead. Why not him?”

“You’re not.”

“No, not yet,” she said wearily.

He glanced at her. “That’s the fever talking. I’ll be right back.”

He walked through the main room to the kitchen. Everything the same. In the bedroom, littered with Hannelore’s clothes and bottles of lotion, he could imagine being somewhere else, but here it was his flat, the couch against the wall, the little table by the window, not even rearranged, as if he’d simply gone away for the weekend. The kitchen shelves were bare—three potatoes and a few cans of C rations, a jar of ersatz coffee. No bread. How did they live? At least Hannelore had her dinner at Ronny’s. Surprisingly, the gas ring worked. A kettle to make coffee. No tea. The room itself felt hungry.

“It’s cold,” she said when he put a new wet cloth on her forehead.

“It’s good for the fever. Just keep it there.”

He sat for a minute looking at her. An old cotton wrapper dotted with patches of sweat, wrists thin enough to snap. Like one of the grim DPs he’d seen plodding across the Tiergarten. Where had Emil been?

“I went to the Elisabeth,” he said. “Frau Dzuris said you worked

there.“

“With the children. There was no one to help, so—” She winced. “So I went there.”

“Did they get out? Before the raid?”

“Not bombs. Shells. The Russians. Then the fire.” She turned her head, eyes filling. “No one got out.”

He turned the cloth over, feeling helpless.

“Don’t think about it now.”

“No one got out.”

But she had, somehow. Another Berlin story.

“Tell me later,” he said softly. “Get some sleep.”

He smoothed her hair again, as if it would empty her head, and in a few minutes it seemed to work. The little gasps evened out and became almost soundless, so that only the faint movement of her chest showed she was breathing at all. Where was Hannelore?

He watched her sleep for a while, then got up and looked around the jumbled room. Clothes had been flung over the chair, a pair of shoes resting on top. Without thinking, he began putting things away, filling time. A messy room is the sign of a messy mind—his mother’s old saying, ingrained after all. He realized, absurdly, that he was tidying up for the doctor. As if it mattered.

He opened the closet door. He had left a few things with Hal, but they were gone, traded perhaps on one of the message boards. In their place, a fur coat was hanging next to some dresses. A little ragged, but still fur, the kind of thing he’d heard they collected to send to the troops on the eastern front. But Hannelore had kept hers. A present, no doubt, from a friend in the ministry. Or maybe just salvaged after one of the bombing raids, when the owner hadn’t got out.

He went into the living room. There wasn’t much to straighten here—the lumpy couch, a suitcase neatly set underneath, some stray cups that hadn’t been washed. Near the window table, something

new—an empty birdcage, Hannelore’s one addition to the room. Otherwise, just as before. He washed the cups in cold water, then wiped off the sink counter, settling in. When there was nothing left to do, he stood by the window smoking, thinking about the hospital. What else had she seen? All the time he’d imagined her in the old flat getting dressed to go out, frowning at herself in the mirror, safe under some bell jar of memory. The last four years were only supposed to have happened to him.

A few cigarettes later, he heard Hannelore on the stairs.

“Leave the door open,” she said, switching off her flashlight. “He’ll never find it otherwise.”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“He’s coming. They had to get him. How is she?”

“Sleeping.”

She grunted and went into the kitchen, pulling down a bottle hidden over the top shelf.

“Where’s Steve?” Jake said.

“You ruined that for me,” she said, pouring a drink. “He’ll never come back now.”

“Don’t worry, there’re plenty more where he came from.”

“You think it’s so easy. What am I supposed to do now?”

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll pay for the room, too. She can’t sleep out here.”

“No, only me, is that it? How can I bring people to a couch?”

“I said I’d pay. You can take a vacation, give yourself a rest. You could use it.”

“Go to hell,” she said, then noticed the washed cups on the counter. “Ha. Maid service too. My ship has come in.” But she sounded mollified now, already counting the money. “You have a cigarette?”

He gave her one and lit it.

“I’ll move her out as soon as she’s better. Here, take this.” He handed her some money. “I can’t move her now.”

“All right, all right, nobody’s throwing anybody out. I like Lena. She was always nice to me. Not like some,” she said, looking at him. “She used to come sometimes during the war, bring coffee, have a little

visit. Not for me. I knew why she came. She wanted to be here, just sit in the flat. Make sure it was still here. It reminded her, I suppose. Such foolishness. Everything just so. ‘Hannelore, you moved the chair. Didn’t you like it over here?’ I knew what she was up to. And my god, what did it matter, with the bombs every night, where a chair was? ‘If it makes you so happy, move it back,’ I’d say, and you know, she would? Foolishness.“ She finished off the drink.

“Yes,” Jake said. Another bell jar. “Did Hal give you the apartment?”

“Of course. He was a friend of mine, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” he said, genuinely surprised.

“Oh you, you never noticed anything. Just her. That’s all you could see. Hal was very nice. I always liked the Americans. Even you, a little. You weren’t a bad sort. Sometimes,” she added, then paused. “Don’t make trouble for me. I was never a Nazi, I don’t care what you think. Never. The BDM only—all the girls in school had to join. But not a Nazi. Do you know what they’ll do? They’ll give me a Number V ration card—that’s a death card. You can’t live on that.”

“I don’t want to make trouble for you. I’m grateful to you.”

“Huh,” she said, putting out her cigarette. “But I’m still on the couch. Well, let me get my things.”

When she came back she was in a silk nightgown, her heavy breasts bulging. Hal’s friend.

“Does it embarrass you?” she said, almost coquettish. “Well, I can’t help that if I’m out here.” She spread a sheet on the couch.

“Is she still sleeping?”

Hannelore nodded. “She doesn’t look so good,” she said.

“How long has she been sick?”

“A week, maybe two. When she came, I thought she was just tired. You know, everyone looks tired now. I didn’t know. What could I do? There wasn’t much to eat.”

“I’ll bring some food tomorrow. For both of you.”

“And some cigarettes maybe?” She had begun wiping her face with a damp cloth, taking off years with the rouge. How old would she be now, twenty-five?

“Sure.”

“Herr Geismar,” she said to herself, shaking her head. “Back in Berlin. Who would have thought? Even the old room, eh?”

“I’ll wait up,” Jake said. “Sleep if you like.”

“Oh, with a man in the room. Not likely. Maybe just a little rest.”

But in a little while she was out, her mouth open, the sheet barely covering her breasts, the unconcerned sleep of a child. More waiting, staring out into the eerie darkness of Wittenbergplatz. He made mental lists—food, medicine if he could get it from the dispensary, faking an illness. If not, Gunther, who could get anything. But what medicine? He glanced at his watch. One-thirty. What kind of doctor came at two in the morning?

He came at three, a little tapping up the stairs, then a skeletal frame in the doorway, clearing his throat as if he were ringing a bell. He was almost grotesquely thin, with sunken concentration camp eyes. Where had Danny found him? A rucksack for a medicine bag.

“You’re the doctor?”

“Rosen.” He nodded formally. “Where is she?”

Jake pointed to the bedroom, watching Rosen take in the sleeping Hannelore on the couch.

“First, somewhere to wash my hands.”

Jake assumed it was a euphemism, but in the bathroom Rosen really did wash his hands, then dry them methodically, like a surgeon.

“Should I boil some water?” Jake said, at a loss.

“Why? Is she having a baby?”

In the bedroom, Jake woke her gently, then stepped aside as Rosen felt her throat with his clean hands, presumably testing for swelling. A palm on her forehead instead of a thermometer.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. She said a week or so.”

“Too long. Why didn’t you call before?”

But that was too complicated to explain, so Jake just stood there, hovering. “Can I do something?”

“You can make some coffee. I’m not often up at this hour.”

Jake went to the kitchen, sent off like an expectant father, superfluous. Filling the kettle, a small pop as the gas lit. In the living room, Hannelore moaned and turned over.

He went back to the bedroom and stopped at the door. Rosen had opened her robe so that she lay naked on the bed, his hands spreading her legs to examine her, an unexpected intimacy. The body Jake had seen so many times, stroking it to life, now being prodded like a slab.

She’s not one of Danny’s girls, he wanted to shout, but Rosen had already caught his look of dismay.

“I’ll call you,” he said curtly. “Go make the coffee.”

Jake backed out of the doorway. Why examine her there? The only thing Danny’s doctor would know. But who else could he have called? He saw the hands on her white thigh.

In the kitchen, he stirred the fake coffee in a cup. No sugar, nothing. He heard them talking down the hall, questions, Lena’s faint replies. He picked up the cup to take it in. But Rosen didn’t want him there. Instead he put it on the table and sat watching it grow cold. Hannelore’s hair had come undone, a messy girl even in her sleep.

When Rosen finally came out, he washed his hands again under the kitchen tap. Jake started for the bedroom.

“No. I’ve given her something to sleep.” He poured some of the kettle water into another cup and dropped in a syringe needle. “She should be in a hospital. Why did you wait? ”