The Good German (57 page)

“I saw it, Emil,” Jake said. “That wasn’t war, not in Nordhausen. That was something else. You saw it.”

“They said it was the only way. There was a schedule. They needed the workers.”

“And killed them. To meet your schedule.”

“Ours, no. Their schedule. Impossible, crazy, like everything else. Was it crazy to mistreat the workers? Yes, everything was crazy. When I saw it, I couldn’t believe it, what they were doing. In Germany. But by then we were living in a madhouse. You become crazy yourself, living like that. How can it be, one sane person in the asylum? No, all crazy. All normal. They ask for estimates, crazy estimates, but you are crazy if you refuse. And they do terrible things to you, your family, so you become crazy too. We knew it was hopeless, all of us in the program. Even their numbers. Even
numbers
they made crazy. You don’t believe me? Listen to this. A little mathematical exercise,” he said, getting up to pace, the boy who could do numbers in his head.

“The original plan, you know, was for nine hundred rockets a month, thirty tons of explosives per day for England. This was 1943. Hitler wanted two thousand rockets per month, an impossible target, we could never come close. But that was the target, so we needed more workers, more workers for this crazy number. Never close. And if we had done it? That would mean sixty-six tons per day. Sixty-six. In 1944, the Allies were dropping
three thousand
tons a day on Germany. Sixty-six against three thousand, that is the mathematics they were working with. And to do this, forty thousand prisoners finally. More and more for this number. You want me to explain what happened? They were crazy. They made us crazy. I don’t know what else to tell you. How can I answer this?” He stopped pacing, turning his hands up in question.

“I wish somebody could. Everybody in Germany has an explanation. And no answer.”

“To what?”

“Eleven hundred calories a day. Another number.”

Emil looked away. “And you think I did that?”

“No, you just did the numbers.”

Emil was still for a moment, then came over to the bedside table and picked up the cup. “You’ve finished your coffee?” He stood near the bed, staring down at the cup. “So now I’m to blame. That makes it easy for you? To take my wife.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” Jake said, looking up into his glasses. “You do it.”

Emil nodded to himself. “Our new judges. You blame us, then you go home, so we can accuse each other. That’s what you want. So it s never over.”

“Except for you. You go to the States with the rest of your group and go on with your fine work. That’s the idea, isn’t it? You and von Braun and the rest of them. No questions there. All forgotten. No files.”

Emil peered over his glasses. “You’re so sure the Americans want these files?”

“Some of them do.”

“And the others at Kransberg? You would do this to them too? It’s not enough to accuse me?”

“This isn’t just about you.”

“No? I think so, yes. For Lena.”

“You’re wrong. About that, too.”

“You think it would make her happy? To send me to jail?”

Jake said nothing.

Emil raised his head, letting out a breath. “Then do it. I can’t stay here. They’re looking for me, she told me this. So send me. What difference where I’m a prisoner?”

“Don’t be too anxious to go. You’re a liability now, undelivered goods. He’ll have to do something.”

“Who?”

“Tully’s partner.”

“I told you, there was no one else.”

“Yes, there was.” Jake looked up, a new idea. “You talk to anyone else at Kransberg?”

“Americans? No. Just Tully,” Emil said absently, not interested.

“And Shaeffer. The debriefing,” Jake said, explaining. “Ever meet his friend Breimer? ”

“I don’t know the name. They were all the same to us.”

“Big man, government, not a soldier?”

“That one? Yes, he was there. To meet the group. He was interested in the program.”

“I’ll bet. He talk to you?”

“No, only von Braun. The Americans, they like a von,” he said, shrugging a little.

Jake sat back for a moment, thinking. But how could it be? Another column that wouldn’t add up.

Emil took his silence for an answer and moved toward the door, carrying the mug. “You’ll at least send word to Kransberg? My colleagues will worry—”

“They’ll keep. I want you missing a little while longer. A little bait.”

“Bait?”

“That’s right. Like Lena was for you. Now you can be the bait. We’ll see who bites.”

Emil turned at the door, blinking behind his glasses. “It’s no good, talking. The way you are now. What is it, some idea of justice? For whom, I wonder. Not for Lena. You think I ask for myself—for her too. Think what it means for her.”

“I see. For her.”

“Yes, for her. You think she wants this trouble for me?” He opened his hand, taking in not just the room but the files, the whole clouded future.

“No, she thinks she owes you something.”

“Maybe it’s you who owes something.”

Jake looked up at him. “Maybe,” he said. “But she doesn’t.”

Emil shook his head. “How things turn out. To think I left Kransberg for her. And now this—all our work. So you can prove something to her. Wave these files in my face. ‘You see what kind of man he is. Leave him.’”

“She has left you,” Jake said.

“For you,” Emil said, shaking his head at the implausibility of it, drawing his round shoulders back, upright, the way they must have looked in uniform. “But how different you are. Not the same man. I thought you would understand how it was here—leave me my work, that much. No, you want that too. Your pound of flesh. Make all of us Nazis. She won’t thank you for this. Does she even know, how different you are?”

Jake stared at him for a minute, the same man on the station platform, no longer blurry, as if the train had slowed so he could really see.

“But you’re not,” he said, suddenly weary, the dull ache in his shoulder spreading to his voice. “I just didn’t know you. Your father did. Some missing piece, he called it.”

“My father—”

“You never had anything in your head but numbers. Not her. She was your excuse. Even Tully bought it. Maybe you believe it yourself. The way you think Nordhausen just happened. All by itself. But that doesn’t make it true. Owes you something? You didn’t come to Berlin for her—you came to get the files again.”

“No.”

“Just like the first time. She thinks you risked your life to get her. It wasn’t for her. Von Braun sent you. It was his car, his assignment. To keep the work going. No embarrassing pieces of paper. You never even tried to get her, just save your own sorry skin.”

“You weren’t there,” Emil said angrily. “Get through that hell? How could I do that? I had the other men to think of. There was only one bridge left—”

“And you drove right out with them. I don’t blame you. But you don’t blame yourself either. Why not? You were in
charge
. It was your party. How long did it take you to get the files? That was your priority. Passengers? Well, if there was time. And then there wasn’t.”

“She was at the hospital,” Emil said, raising his voice. “Safe.”

“She was raped. She almost died. She tell you that?”

“No,” he said, looking down.

“But you got what you really came for. You left her and saved the team. And now you want to do it again, even make her help this time, because she thinks she owes you something. She’s lucky she got the phone call.”

“It’s a lie,” Emil said.

“Is it? Then why didn’t you tell von Braun you were leaving Kransberg with Tully? You couldn’t, could you? Not the real reason. He thought you’d already taken care of the files. But you had to be sure. That’s why you came. It’s always been about the files. Not her.”

Emil kept staring at the floor. “You’d do anything to turn her against me,” he said, his tone aggrieved, closed off. He looked up. “You’ve told her this?”

“You tell her,” Jake said steadily. “I wasn’t there, remember? You were. Tell her how it was.” He watched Emil stand there, shaking his head numbly in the sudden stillness, and sank back against the pillow. “Then maybe she’ll figure it out for herself.”

Brian turned up after dinner, bringing a newspaper and a bottle of NAAFI scotch.

“Well, safe and sound. That looks nasty,” he said, pointing to the shoulder. “You ought to see to that.” He opened the bottle and poured two drinks. “Quite a hidey-hole, I must say. I saw a lovely

thing in the hall. Nothing under the wrapper, by the looks of it. I don’t suppose they give out samples. Cheers.“ He tossed back the shot. ”How’d you find it?“

“It’s British owned.”

“Really? That’s the stuff.”

“Anybody see you come here?”

“Well, what’s to that? At my age I’m expected to pay for it.” He glanced over. “No, no one. Jeep’s in the courtyard behind, by the way. I thought you might like it off the street. Tempting.”

“Thanks.”

“I take it that’s the husband,” he said, nodding toward the living room. “The one moping on the couch. What are the sleeping arrangements, or am I being prurient?”

“Thanks for that too. I owe you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll collect. Your stunt, my exclusive. Fair?”

Jake smiled.

“You made the papers,” Brian said, handing it to him. “At least, I assume it’s you. No names. Not much sense either.”

Jake opened it up. PEACE headlined in bold across the top, with the picture of Marines raising the flag on I wo Jima. At the bottom right, in smaller type, wwm begins? who fired first?, an account of the Chancellery shoot-out as confusing as the crossfire, with the implication that everyone had been drunk.

“You can’t imagine the hullabaloo. Well, maybe you can. Russians have been stamping their feet, cross as anything. Formal notes, want a special Council session, the lot. Say they won’t march in the victory parade—there’s a loss. Want to tell me what really happened?”

“Believe it or not, this is what happened. Except the Russians weren’t drunk.”

“That would be a first.”

“And I’m not in it,” Jake said, finishing the piece.

“Strictly speaking, boyo, you weren’t. You were with me.”

“Is that what you told them?”

“Had to. No end of questions otherwise. You’re the most popular man in Berlin these days. Absolutely belle of the ball—everybody wants to dance with you. If they knew where you were. Damned if I do. Came down to the dining room with a lady, offered me a lift—-I might have been a little the worse for wear—dropped me on the Ku’damm for a nightcap, and that’s the last I saw you. As for this,“ he said, pointing to the paper, ”what I
hear
is there was a civilian in the middle of it. Nobody knows who. German, would be my guess. Of course, the Russians aren’t saying, but they’re not supposed to be missing anybody in the first place.“

“But I spoke English.”

“Americans think everyone does. You tell them who you were?”

“No. And I spoke German to the Russians. Sikorsky wouldn’t have had time to—”

“You see? Believe me, nobody’s thinking about anything except covering their behinds. Damned silly, when you think of it, going to the bunker for a drink. Wanted to dance on Hitler’s grave, I suppose.
Very
unwise, all things considered. The point is, you were seen leaving the Adlon with me. Witnesses. And if I don’t know you, who would? That
is
the way you wanted it, isn’t it?”

Jake smiled at him. “You don’t miss a trick.”

“Not when the story’s mine. Exclusive, remember? It doesn’t do to share with your gang. So fair’s fair? What’s it all about?”

“It’s yours, I promise. Just wait a little.”

“Not even a taste? What in god’s name were you and the general wagging about? The late general, I should say. There’s a service tomorrow, by the way—all the Allies. That awful band of theirs, no doubt. I suppose you won’t be sending a wreath.”

“That’s right,” Jake said, not really listening. “You don’t know.”

“No, I don’t know,” he said, imitating Jake’s voice. “Until you tell me.”

“No, I mean nobody knows. What he said to me. Nobody knows. It could have been anything.”

“But what did he say?”

“Let me think for a minute. It’s important. I need to work this out.”

“You don’t mind, then?” Brian said, pouring another drink. “Always so gripping to watch someone think.”

“Anything. I mean, suppose he had told me?”

“Told you what?”

Jake was quiet for a minute, sipping his scotch.

“Hey, Brian,” he said finally, still brooding. “I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Have a drink at the press camp. My treat.”

“And?”

“Talk loose. Have a few. You saw me and I’ve got hold of a story and wouldn’t cut you in on it so you’re annoyed.”

“So I would be. And the point is?”

“I want everybody to know that I’ve got something. It’s like the village post office there—it won’t take long to get around. Wait, even better. Got some paper?”

Brian took out a notebook and handed it to him, then watched as he wrote.

“Send this to
Collier’s
for me—here’s the cable address.”

Brian took it and read aloud. “‘Save space next issue big story scandal.’ And when you don’t send one? They won’t like that.”

“Well, I might. So will you. But chances are this won’t go out anyway. They censor the cables. Young Ron’ll take one look and start playing Chicken Little. He’ll be all over the place with it.”

“All over me, you mean.”

“Ask him what the fuss is all about—he’ll go shy on you. Then ask him who Tully was.”

“Someone you mentioned in passing when I saw you.”

“That’s right. I called it my Tully story.”

“And this is going to get you what, exactly?”

“The man who killed him. The other American.”

“The bird in the bush. You’re sure there is one.”

“Somebody tried to have me killed in Potsdam. It wasn’t Tully—he was already dead. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Steady. You don’t want any more excitement, not like this,” Brian said, indicating Jake’s shoulder. “Twice lucky. Third time—”