The Good German (35 page)

The judge looked at him, amazed. “We are not interested in German law,” he said finally. “Are you suggesting that Fräulein Naumann acted correctly? ”

“I’m suggesting that she acted legally.” He looked down. “At the time.”

“Go on,” the judge said to the prosecutor. “Finish it.”

“You were taken away then. On what charge?”

“Charge? I was a Jew.”

“How did Fräulein Naumann know this? You hadn’t told her?”

Frau Gersh shrugged. “She said she could always tell. I have papers, I said. No, she told them, she’s a Jew. And of course they listened to her. She worked for them.”

The prosecutor turned to Renate. “Did you say this?”

“She was a Jew.”

“You could tell. How?”

“The look she had.”

“What kind of look was that?”

Renate lowered her eyes. “A Jewish look.”

“May I ask the prisoner—such a skill—were you ever mistaken?”

Renate looked at him directly. “No, never. I always knew.”

Jake sat back, feeling sick. Proud of it. His old friend.

“Continue, Frau Gersh. You were taken where?”

“The Jewish Old Age Home. Grosse Hamburger Strasse.” A precise detail, coached.

“And what happened there?”

“We were held until they had enough to fill a truck. Then to the train. Then east,” she said, her voice dropping.

“To the camp,” the prosecutor finished.

“Yes, to the camp. To the gas. I was healthy, so I worked. The others—” She broke off, then looked again at Renate. “The others you sent were killed.”

“I didn’t send them. I didn’t know,” Renate said.

This time the judge held up his hand to silence her.

“You
saw
. You saw,” the woman shouted.

“Frau Gersh,” the prosecutor said, his calm voice a substitute for a gavel, “can you positively identify the prisoner as the woman who came to your house to arrest you?”

“Yes, positive.”

Bernie leaned over in another huddle.

“And did you see her again?”

Jake glanced at the prosecutor, wondering where he was heading.

“Yes, from the truck. She was watching us from her window. When they took us away. Watching.”

An echo of the story from Bernie. A shoe shop in Schöneberg, the American sector. So Bernie had found her, another gift to the Russians.

“The same woman. You’re positive.”

Now the woman was shaking, slipping out of control. “The same. The same.” She started to rise from the chair, staring at Renate. “A Jew. Killing your own. You watched them take us away.” The beginning of a sob, no longer in court. “Your own people. Animal! Eating your own, like an animal.”

“No!” Renate shouted back.

The judge slapped the desk with his palm and said something in Russian, presumably calling a recess, but the prosecutor hurried up to the bench and began whispering. The judge nodded, slightly taken aback, then said formally to the room, “We will stop for fifteen minutes, but first the photographers will be allowed in. The prisoner will remain standing.”

Jake followed the prosecutor’s signal to the back of the room, where Ron appeared from the press section, opening the door to let the photographers in. A small group filed down the center of the room. Flashing lights went off in Renate’s face, causing her to blink and turn, shaking her head as if they were flies. The judges sat erect, posing. A soldier helped Frau Gersh onto her crutches. For a second Jake expected to see Liz, snapping history. Then the flashbulbs died out and the judge stood.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, already lighting a cigarette.

In the corridor outside, the crowd of reporters had to press against the wall to let Frau Gersh pass on her crutches. Evidently there would be no cross-examination. Brian Stanley was standing off to one side, drinking from a pocket flask.

“Not up to Moscow standards, is it?” He offered Jake a drink. “Not the same without the confessions. That’s what they like—all that bloody hand-wringing. Of course, they’ve got a lot to confess, the Russians have.”

“It’s a farce,” Jake said, watching Frau Gersh leave.

“ ‘Course it is. Can’t expect the Old Bailey here.” He looked down at his bottle. “Still, not the nicest girl in Berlin, is she?”

“She used to be. Nice.”

Brian looked at him, confused, unaware of the connection.

“Yes, well,” he said, at a loss, then slowly shook his head. “Never mistaken. Brought out the best in everybody, didn’t it? By the way, I found you a boat.”

“A boat?”

“You asked about a boat, didn’t you? Anyway, they’ve got a few still. Over at the yacht club. Just mention my name.” He looked up. “You did ask.”

The afternoon he’d promised Lena, sailing on the lake, away from everything.

“Yes, sorry, I forgot. Thanks.”

“Mind you don’t sink it. They’ll make me pay.”

“Is that a drink?” Benson said, appearing with Ron.

“It was,” Brian said, handing him the flask.

“What are you doing here?” Benson said to Jake, then turned to Ron. “And you promised.
Stars and Stripes
exclusive.”

“Don’t look at me. How did you get in?” he said to Jake. “They said no more passes.”

“I’m helping the prosecution. She used to be a friend of mine.”

An embarrassed silence.

“Christ,” Ron said finally. “You always turn up one way or the other, don’t you?”

“Can you get me an interview?”

“I can request one. So far, nothing. She hasn’t been in a talking mood. I mean, what do you say after that? What can you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’ll say it to me.”

“You’d have to share,” Ron said, working. “Everybody wants this story.”

“Fine. Just get me in.” He looked at Benson. “That was a good piece on Liz. She would have liked it.”

“Thanks,” Benson said, a little uncomfortable with the compliment. “Hell of a thing. I hear the boyfriend’s all right, though. He got out this morning.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “What? Yesterday he couldn’t have visitors and today’s he out of there? How did that happen?”

“What I hear is he’s got friends in Congress,” Benson said, trying to make a joke. “Who the hell wants to stay in the infirmary? They kill more than they cure. Anyway, he’s sitting pretty. Got a nurse in his billet and everything. What’s it to you?”

Jake turned to Ron, still agitated. “Did you know about this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you,” he said, grabbing Ron’s arm. “She took a bullet for him—somebody wants him dead. Are there guards? Who’s with him in the billet?”

“What do you mean, took a bullet?” Benson said, but Ron was moving Jake’s hand away, staring.

“The U.S. Army,” Ron said to Jake, “that’s who. Pull fucking guard duty yourself, if it makes you so nervous.”

“What’s wrong?” Benson said.

“Nothing,” Ron said. “Geismar’s been seeing things, that’s all. Maybe you ought to check into the infirmary yourself, have them give you a once-over. You’re not making a lot of sense these days.”

“There’s someone there all the time?”

“Uh-huh,” Ron said, still looking at him. “No Russians allowed. Ever.”

“So I can see him?”

“That’s up to you. He isn’t going anyplace. Why don’t you take him some flowers and see what it does for you? Christ, Geismar.” He glanced toward the crowd shuffling back into the courtroom. “There’s the bell. You coming, or do you want to run right over and play nurse?” he said, then looked at Jake seriously. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you don’t have to worry about him. He’s as safe as you are.“ He nodded at the Russians by the door. ”Maybe safer.“

“I didn’t know you and Shaeffer were friends,” Benson said, still curious.

“Geismar’s got friends stashed all over Berlin, haven’t you?” Ron said, beginning to move. “How do you know this one, by the way?” he said, jerking his thumb toward the court.

“She was a reporter,” Jake said. “Just like the rest of us. I trained her.”

Ron stopped and turned. “That must give you something to think about,” he said, then followed Benson through the door.

Bernie was standing at the end of the table with Gunther but came over as Jake took his seat. The judges were just returning, walking in single file.

“So,” he said to Jake. “How do you think it’s going so far?”

“Jesus, Bernie. Crutches.”

Bernie’s face grew tight. “The crutches are real. So was the gas.”

“Why not just take her out and shoot her?”

“Because we want it on the record—how they did it. People should know.”

Jake nodded. “So she’s what? A standin?”

“No, she’s the real thing. No different from Otto Klopfer. No different.” He took in Jake’s blank expression. “The guy who wanted the exhaust pipe fixed. Or maybe you forgot already. People do.” He looked back to the press section, a restless scraping of chairs. “Maybe they’ll listen this time.”

“They made her do it. You know that.”

“That’s what Otto says too. All of them. You believe it?”

Jake looked up. “Sometimes.”

“Which gets you where? Everybody’s got a sad story, and the end’s always the same. One thing I learned as a DA—you start feeling sorry for people, you never get a conviction. Don’t waste your sympathy. She’s guilty as hell.”

The prosecutor began by calling Gunther to the stand, but before he could take the chair the defense attorney jumped up, stirred finally to some activity.

“May I address the court? What is the purpose of these witnesses? This emotionalism. The nature of the prisoner’s work is not in question here. She herself has described it for the court.“ He held up a transcript. ”Work, I would add, that she performed under the threat of her own death. She has also, let us remember, helped us identify her employers, given her full cooperation so that the Soviet people can bring the real fascists to justice. And what is her reward? This? We have here a matter for the Soviet people to decide, not the western press. I ask that we dispense with these theatrics and proceed with the serious business of this court.“

This was so clearly unexpected that for an instant the judges just sat expressionless. Then they turned to each other. What they asked, however, was that he repeat his statement in Russian, and Jake wondered again how much of the trial they really understood. Renate stood impassively as the pleas rolled out again in Russian. Her full cooperation. Beaten out of her? Or had she sat down willingly and filled sheets with names? A new assignment, catching the catchers. When the lawyer finished, the judge dismissed him with a scowl. “Sit down,” he said, then looked at Gunther. “Proceed.”

The lawyer lowered his head, a schoolboy reprimanded for speaking out of turn, and Jake saw that he had missed the point. The business of the court was the theater. What happens when it’s over, the summer after the war. Not clearing the rubble, not the shuffling DPs—peripheral stories. What happened was this season of denunciations, personal reprisals, all the impossible moral reparations. Tribunals, shaved heads, pointed fingers—auto da fés to purge the soul. Everyone, like Gunther, would have his reckoning.

They started his testimony carefully, a slow recitation of the years of police service, his voice a calm monotone, a return to order after Frau Gersh’s crying. Bernie knew his audience. You could soften them with crutches, but in the end they would respond to this, the sober reassurance of authority. The judges were listening politely, as if, ironically, they had finally recognized one of their own.

“And would it be fair to say that these years of training had made you a good observer?”

“I have a policeman’s eye, yes.”

“Describe for us, then, what you saw that day at the—” He broke off to check his notes. “Café Heil, Olivaerplatz.” Down the street from Lena’s flat, where the world had gone on around them. “The café was familiar to you?”

“No. That’s why I paid particular attention. To see if it was safe.”

“For your wife, you mean.”

“Yes, forMarthe.”

“She was in hiding.”

“At that time she had to walk during the day, so the landlady would think she was at work. Public places, where people wouldn’t take notice. Zoo Station, for instance. Tiergarten.”

“And you met her during these walks?”

“Twice a week. Tuesdays and Fridays,” Gunther said, precise. “To make sure she was all right, give her a meal. I had coupons.” Every week, for years, waiting for a tap on the shoulder.

“And this was where?”

“Usually Aschinger’s. By Friedrichstrasse Station. It was always crowded there.” The big cafeteria where Jake had often gone himself, grabbing a bite on his way to the broadcast. Jake saw them pretending to meet, jostled by the lunch crowd at the stand-up tables, eating blue-plate specials. “But it was important to change places. Her face would become familiar. So, that day, Olivaerplatz.”

“This was in 1944?”

“March seventh, 1944. One-thirty.”

“What is the importance of this?” the defense attorney said, standing.

“Sit down,” the judge said, waving his hand.

The big roundups had started in ‘42. Two years of fading into crowds.

“Your memory is excellent, Herr Behn,” the prosecutor said. “Please tell us the rest.”

Gunther glanced toward Bernie, who nodded.

“I arrived first, as always, to make sure.”

“The prisoner was there?”

“In the back. With coffee, a newspaper—ordinary. Then Marthe came. She asked me if the chair was free. A pretense, you see, so we would not seem to be together. I noticed the prisoner looking at us, and I thought perhaps we should go, but she went back to her paper, nothing wrong, so we ordered the coffee. Another look. I thought, you know, she was looking at
me
, perhaps she was someone I had arrested—this happened sometimes—but no, just a busybody. Then she went to the toilet. There is a phone there—I checked later—so that was when she called her friends.“

“And did she come back?”

“Yes, she finished her coffee. Then she paid the bill and walked right past us to the door. That’s when they came for Marthe. Two of them, in those leather coats. Who else had leather coats in ‘forty-four? So I knew.”

“Excuse me, Herr Behn. You know for a fact the prisoner called them? How is that?”