The Good German (66 page)

“To put an end to it. If Shaeffer got him back, he’d stop. I wanted it to stop.

“And if he didn’t get him? It didn’t really matter who got him, did it? Maybe Kalach would after all and take Shaeffer out doing it, and it would stop that way. While you were watching.”

“No. I wanted Shaeffer to have him. I thought it would work. Sikorsky would have been suspicious if something went wrong, but the new man—”

“Would have taken the blame himself. And you’d be home free.”

Muller looked over. “I wanted out. Of all of it. I’m not a traitor. When this started, I didn’t know what Brandt meant to us.”

“You mean how much Shaeffer would want him back. Just another one of these,” Jake said, picking up the Bensheim file. “For ten thousand dollars.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Let’s do us both a favor and skip the explanations. Everybody in Berlin wants to give me an explanation, and it never changes anything.” He dropped the folder. “But just give me one. The one thing I still can’t figure. Why’d you do it? The money?”

Muller said nothing, then looked away, oddly embarrassed. “It was just sitting there. So easy.” He turned back to Jake. “Everybody else was getting theirs. I’ve been in the service twenty-three years, and what’s it going to get me? A lousy pension? And here’s a little snot like Tully with plenty of change in his pockets. Why not?” He pointed to the
persilscheins
. “The first few, at Bensheim, I didn’t even know what I was signing. Just more paper. There was always something—he knew how to slip them through. Then I finally realized what he was doing—”

“And could have court-martialed him. But you didn’t. He make you a deal? ”

Muller nodded. “I’d already signed. Why not a few more?” he said, his voice vague, talking to himself. “Nobody cared about the Germans, whether they got out or not. He said if it went wrong later, I could say he’d forged them. Meanwhile, the money was there—all you had to do was pick it up. Who would know? He could be persuasive when he wanted to be—you didn’t know that about him.”

“Maybe he had a willing audience,” Jake said. “Then things got tricky at Bensheim, so you got him out of there—another one of your quick transfers—and the next thing you know, he turns up with another idea. Still persuasive. Not just a little
persilschein
this time. Real money.”

“Real money,” Muller said quietly. “Not some lousy pension. You know what that’s like, waiting for a check every month? You spend your whole life just to get the rank and these new guys come in—”

“Spare me,” Jake said.

“That’s right,” Muller said, his mouth twisted. “You don’t need an explanation. You already know everything you want to know.”

Jake nodded. “That’s right. Everything.”

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Muller said. “Now what are you going to do? Call the MPs? You don’t really think I can let you do that, do you? Not now.”

“Ordinarily, no. But don’t get trigger-happy yet,” Jake said, glancing toward Muller’s hip again. “I’m a friend to the army, remember?”

Muller looked up. “Meaning?”

“Meaning nobody’s going to call anybody.”

“Then what? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to let you get away with murder.” Neither of them said anything for a moment, staring. Then Jake sat back. “That seems to be the general policy around here. If it’s useful to us. So now you’re going to be useful to me.”

“What do you want?” Muller said, still staring, not quite sure how to take this.

Jake tossed one of the forms over to him. “Your signature. First this one.”

Muller picked it up and looked it over, a bureaucrat’s reflex. Read before you sign, Tully’s inadvertent lesson. “Who’s Rosen?”

“A doctor. You’re giving him a visa for the States.”

“A German? I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can. In the national interest. Like the other scientists. This one’s even clean—no Nazi affiliations at all. He was in a camp. You fill in the classification code.” He handed over a pen. “Sign it.”

Muller took the pen. “I don’t understand,” he said, but when Jake didn’t answer, he leaned forward and scribbled in one of the boxes, then signed the bottom.

“Now this one.”

“Erich Geismar?” He s my son.

“Since when?”

“Since you signed this. U.S. citizen. Rosen’s taking him home.”

“A child? He’ll need proof of citizenship.”

“He has it,” Jake said, tossing him the last form. “Right here. Sign that too.”

“The law says—”

“You’re the law. You asked for proof and I gave it to you. It says so right here. Now sign off on it and it’s official. Sign it.”

Muller began writing. “What about the mother?” A clerk’s question in a consulate.

“She’s dead.”

“German?”

“But he’s American. MG just said so.”

When Muller was finished, Jake took the forms back and tore off the bottom carbons. “Thank you. You just did something decent for a change. Your copies where?”

Muller nodded to a box on Jeanie’s desk.

“Careful you don’t lose them. You’ll need the particulars, in case anybody wants to verify them with you. And you will verify them. Personally. If there’s any problem at all. Understood?”

Muller nodded. Jake stood up, folding the papers into his breast pocket. “Fine. Then that does it. Always useful to have a friend in the MG.”

“That’s all?”

“You mean am I going to put the bite on you for something else? No. I’m not Tully.” He patted his pocket. “You’re giving them a life. That seems a fair trade to me. I don’t particularly care what you do with yours.”

“But you know—”

“Well, that’s just it. You were right about one thing, you see. I can’t prove it.”

“Can’t prove it,” Muller said faintly.

“Oh, don’t get excited,” Jake said, catching Muller’s expression. “Don’t get any ideas either. I can’t prove it, but I can come close. CID must still have the bullet they took out of Tully. They could make a match. But maybe not. Guns have a way of disappearing. And I suppose I could track down the dispatcher you sent home. But you know something? I don’t care anymore. I have all the reparations I want. And you—well, I guess you’ll have some worried nights, and that’s fine with me too. So let’s just leave it there. But if anything goes wrong with these,” he said, touching his pocket again, “your luck runs out, understand? I can’t prove it in court, but I can come close enough for the army. I’d do it, too. Lots of mud, the kind of thing they don’t like at all. Maybe a dishonorable. The pension for sure. So just play ball and everybody walks away.”

“And that’s all?”

“Well, one more thing, now that you mention it. You can’t transfer yourself home, but make the request to Clay. Health reasons. You can’t stay here. The Russians don’t know you tipped Shaeffer. They think you’re still in business. And they can be persuasive too. That’s the last thing the MG needs—a worm in the barrel. They’ve got their hands full just trying to figure out what they’re doing here. Maybe they’ll even bring in somebody who can do the place some good. I doubt it, but maybe.” He stopped, looking down at the silver hair. “I thought that was you. But I guess something got in your way.”

“How do I know you’ll—”

“Well, strictly speaking, you don’t. Like I said, some worried nights. But don’t have them here. Not in Berlin. Then I might just change my mind.” Jake picked up the Bensheim folders and stacked them. “I’ll keep these.” He went around the desk, starting for the door. “Go home. You need a job, go see American Dye. I hear they’re hiring. I’ll bet they’d go for somebody just like you, with your experience. Just stay out of Berlin. Anyway, you don’t want to run into me again—that’d just make you nervous. And you know what? I don’t want to run into you either.”

“You’re staying here?”

“Why not? Lots of stories in Berlin.”

Muller shook his head. “Your press pass expires,” he said dully, an official.

Jake smiled, surprised. “I’ll bet you know the exact hour too. All right, one more thing then. Have Jeanie do up a residence permit tomorrow. Indefinite stay. Special from the MG. Sign that and we’re done.”

“Are we?” Muller said, looking up.

“I am. You have some nights to get through, but you will. People do. It’s something you learn here—after a while nobody remembers anything.” He walked to the door.

“Geismar?” Muller said, stopping him. He rose from the chair, his face even older, slack. “It was just the money. I’m a soldier. I’m not a— Honest to god, I never meant this to happen. Any of it.”

Jake turned. “That should make them easier, then. The nights.” He looked over at him. “It’s not much, though, is it?”

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AT THIS HOUR, Tempelhof was almost deserted. Later, when the afternoon flights came in, the high marble hall would fill up with uniforms, just as it had that first day, but now there were only a few GIs sitting on duffel bags, waiting. The doors were still closed to the stairs that led down to the runways.

“Now remember what I told you,” Lena was saying, crouched down in front of Erich, fussing, brushing his hair back. “Stay close to Dr. Rosen when you change for Bremen. So many people. Hold his hand, yes? You remember?”

Erich nodded. “Can I sit by the window?” he said, already on his

way.

“Yes, the window. You can wave. I’ll be right there.” She pointed to the observation deck. “But I’ll see you. You won’t be afraid, will you?”

“He’s excited,” Rosen said to Jake, smiling. “A first airplane. And a ship. Well, mine too. This kindness—I can never repay you.”

“Just be a good father to him. He’s never had one. His mother—I don’t know what he remembers. A few visits.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. In the camps.”

“You knew her?”

“A long time ago.” He touched Rosen’s arm. “Raise him as a Jew.”

“Well, how else?” Rosen said mildly. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes. She died for that. Tell him, if he asks, that he should be proud of her.” He paused, for a moment at the Alex again, watching the shuffling walk back to the cell. “Now, you’ve got Frank’s number at
Collier’s
?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I told him to meet the boat. But just in case, that’s where to reach him. He’ll have money for you. He’ll fix you up with anything you need. Till you get on your feet.”

“In New York. It’s like a dream.”

“It won’t seem like a dream after you’ve been there a while.”

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” Lena said to Erich. “On the plane, I don’t know. There’s still time. Come.”

“To the women’s?” Erich said.

“Oh, so big all of a sudden. Come.” She led him away.

“I wonder, does he know what you do for him? ” Rosen said. “How lucky he is.”

Jake glanced at him. What passed for luck in Berlin. But Rosen was looking over his shoulder.

“Who is the old man? He knows you.”

Professor Brandt was coming toward them in his old dark suit, the high Weimar collar as stiff as his walk.

“Good morning,” he said. “So you’ve come to see Emil off too?”

“Someone else,” Jake said. “I didn’t know he was on the plane.”

“I thought, perhaps it’s the last time,” Professor Brandt said hesitantly, explaining himself. He looked at Jake. “So you were a friend to him after all.”

“No. He didn’t need me. He arranged things himself.”

“Ah,” Professor Brandt said, mystified but reluctant to pursue it. He checked his pocket watch. “They’ll be late.”

“No, there they are.”

Coming through the waiting hall like the front wedge of a military unit, heels loud against the floor, Emil and Shaeffer, Breimer with them, trailed by GIs carrying bags. An airport GI, as if alerted by the heels, appeared from the side and opened the door, standing at the head of the stairs with a clipboard. When they reached the gate, they stopped short, surprised to find visitors.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Shaeffer said to Jake.

Jake said nothing, watching Emil walk up to his father.

“Well, Papa,” Emil said, disconcerted, a young voice.

“Come to see the boys off, huh?” Breimer said. “Nice of you, Geismar.”

Professor Brandt stood still for a moment, looking at Emil, then extended his hand. “So it’s goodbye,” he said, his voice shaky behind the formal gesture.

“Well, not for good,” Emil said pleasantly, caught by the hand but trying to sidestep any sentiment. “I’ll come back sometime. You know, it’s my home, after all.”

“No,” Professor Brandt said faintly, touching his arm. “You have done enough for Germany. Go.” He dropped the hand, looking at him. “Maybe things will be different for you now, in America.”

“Different?” Emil said, flushing, aware that the others were looking.

But their eyes were on Professor Brandt, whose shoulders had started to shake, a raw, uncontrolled blubbering, catching everyone off-guard, an emotion no one expected. Before Emil could react, the old man reached out and clutched him, wrapping his arms around him, holding on, a death grip. Jake wanted to look away but instead kept staring at them, dismayed. Maybe the only story that really mattered, the endless ties of life’s cat’s cradle, tangled like yarn.

“Well, Papa,” Emil said, leaning back.

“You made me so happy,” Professor Brandt said. “When you were a boy. So happy.” Still shaking, his face wet, so that now the others did turn away, awkward, as if he had somehow become incontinent.

“Papa,” Emil said, still helpless in the grasp.

Then Professor Brandt pulled away, collecting himself, patting Emil’s upper arm. “Well, but here are your friends too.” He turned to Jake. “Forgive me. An old man’s foolishness.” He stepped aside, ceding place, not bothering to wipe his face.

Emil looked at Jake, oddly relieved, grateful for any interruption but now uncertain what to do. He started to offer his hand.

“So,” he said, “all ends for the best.”

“Does it?” Jake said, ignoring the hand.

He nodded at Jake’s sling. “The shoulder. It’s all right?”

Jake said nothing.

“It’s a misunderstanding about that. Shaeffer told me.”