Joseph Kanon: Leaving Berlin

He walked up to Nordbahnhof, then caught the late tram that ran along Danziger Strasse. You have to trust somebody, Dieter had said. He sat looking through the tram window at the dark city, juggling memories, what people had said. One more story. But even if his instinct was right, two now one, what he didn’t know was who else knew.

He got off just before Prenzlauer Allee and walked down Rykestrasse. No waiting car parked in front, still in the cat’s paw. On his door an envelope had been pinned with a tack. Inside he turned on the overhead light. An official envelope, in Russian and German. A summons to appear at the trial of Aaron Stein, a perverse gift of time. Maybe enough to work something out. They wouldn’t come to get him until he’d helped them destroy someone else.

Erich was on the radio in the morning, crisp and clear, as if he were actually in the studio. Just as Ferber had promised. Alex imagined the interview playing at breakfast tables all over the East, the Erzgebirge slave camps no longer just rumors, Erich’s fare paid.

He’d been up early, at the typewriter, drafting the letters he’d need later, ready to be retyped on official paper. Then his speech, weighing the words, getting the language right. The only writing he’d done since he’d come to Berlin. He looked at the small pile of manuscript on the desk, untouched, something from his former life. Leave the flat as if you’d just gone for a walk. But what writer would leave an unfinished book behind? He took out a large envelope and sealed the manuscript inside. A look around the room. Neat, but not abandoned, the bed still unmade. If anyone checked.

He walked past the water tower, its red bricks like embers in the pale winter sunshine, then down the hill to the park. Gretel, a sentimental pick, where he’d waited the first time. Wondering if he could do it, be two people.

“They get off?” Dieter said, joining him. “No trouble?”

“One of them did. She’s still here.”

Dieter waited.

“Answer me something.”

Dieter opened his hand. Go ahead.

“What Gunther found. Did you tell anyone else?”

“No.”

“I mean anyone.”

Dieter shook his head. “Why?”

“You once told me I had to trust somebody. So now I am,” he said, nodding at him.

“When did you decide, before the question or after?”

“Before. But you like to be right.”

“And to what do I owe this honor?”

“Instinct. And a few other things.”

Dieter grunted. “So?”

“I need your help. Someone tried to kill us last night. Down at RIAS. Hear anything yet on your grapevine? A car going over a bridge?”

“No. So they must be calling it an accident. But they know you’re involved, with the broadcast?”

“Not the people in the car. Not now.”

“But somebody.” He thought for a second. “And me? Do they know about me?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”

“No, just go. If they know, it’s no time for heroics. I heard the broadcast.”

“They want me to condemn somebody first, so that buys us a little time. A little. I have to do this right.”

“Do what?”

“What I came to do.”

Dieter looked at him, puzzled.

“I’ll explain later. First I need you to do something for me. You in?”

“It’s your life you’re playing with. You know that.”

Alex nodded. “Go to the Charité. Irene’s there. Under the name Elsbeth Mutter.”

“Who?”

“Just a name. The point is, nobody knows it’s her. Which means she’s safe. Tell her to stay there.”

“Another Wiesbaden? Or is she really sick?”

“She hit her head last night.”

“On the bridge?” Dieter said, looking at him.

“Somewhere.”

“And I’m the one you trust.”

“Maybe she’s better now. I don’t know. But she has to stay there. Okay? Then call Campbell and tell him to meet me at BOB.” He glanced at his watch. “Noon, a little later.”

“You can’t-”

“What’s the difference. I’m no longer a protected source. Tell him to wait if I’m late.”

“It’s against all the rules. What’s so important that-?”

“I’m going to tell him where Markovsky is. In my own way. So don’t ruin the surprise.”

Dieter stared at him. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Now you trust me. It works both ways. Just be ready when I call. One more thing. Do you have a gun I could borrow? Just in case.”

“Just in case.”

“You must keep one in the flat.”

“No, I keep it here,” Dieter said, patting his coat pocket. “Just in case.”

“Can it be traced?”

“I was in the police. I know how to do things.” He took the gun out and handed it to Alex, one hand covering it, as if they were being photographed. “The safety’s here. When you shoot, point outwards, not at yourself.”

“I’m not expecting to shoot it.”

“And that’s why you asked for it.”

Alex turned to go, then stopped, taking Dieter’s hand. “Thank you. You’ll see Irene? Now. So you’ll be back when I call.”

“I can follow orders. Frau Mutter.” Dieter looked across the fountain. “Remember the first day? In the snow? You were offended, I think. I called you an amateur. And now look. Be careful,” he said, touching Alex’s arm. “Better an amateur than dead.”

He caught the tram down to Alexanderplatz and walked past the palace. Scaffolding and scorched walls, what he’d seen that first night with Martin, everything circling back today, a completed loop. He stopped for a second on the bridge, turning around, wanting to remember it, the way Berlin looked now.

Around the corner from Markus’s office a makeshift café had been set up in a bomb site, a few tables outside with people wrapped in coats, their faces turned up to the weak sun. Inside, under a sloped temporary ceiling, a coffeemaker was steaming, people holding cups and leaning across tables to talk, couples and- He froze, just for a second, then caught himself and kept going. A second, but long enough, Roberta looking out, meeting his glance, her eyes suddenly wide. She looked back to the table before Markus could notice. Coffee with Markus. How she’d paid for Herb. A small price, except you kept paying. Coffee every week, powdered milk and little betrayals, the neighbors, the Kulturbund, Herb’s architect friends, all overheard now. Alex stumbled across the street. Markus’s new GI. And another tomorrow and another, Markus and his coffee cups multiplying because there would never be enough. And after a while Roberta would forgive herself. They all would. It was just the way things were. Remember this, not Alexanderplatz. This was the future.

He’d been heading for Markus’s office but Markus wouldn’t be there, not until he’d heard Roberta out, so he kept going the few blocks to the Kulturbund. Martin was surprised to see him.

“I thought the trial was today,” he said tentatively.

“Not until four. The Soviets never start anything early. Hungover, probably.”

“Herr Meier,” Martin said, but smiled a little.

“Are you going to testify?”

“No, no one from the Kulturbund,” he said, clearly relieved. “Only people from Aufbau. The editor, his assistant.”

Alex imagined them on the stand, facing the judges, not looking at Aaron.

“Good. For you, I mean. Not to have to do that.”

“Of course, if asked, I would do my duty,” Martin said, correct, a public answer.

Alex looked at him. His duty. Aaron in prison.

“Was there something you wanted?” Martin said, eager to move off it.

“I wondered if you’d do me a favor.”