Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” Berta said. “Him and his waitress. You’re very spiritual in that way. In fact, I’ve never met such a spiritual historian. It’s almost like you believe these places are haunted.”

“Not haunted. But there’s something of him here. I do believe that. Nothing I could ever pin down, but it’s in the air.”

“And what’s your reading on this ‘presence’ of his, for lack of a better word?”

“Optimism. Deliverance. I’d wager those were his strongest emotions.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever seen the ball turret of a B-17? The gunner is practically in a fetal position, hanging out the belly of the plane for eight hours a pop. Air temperature at twenty below for most of the way. Flak and fighter planes coming at you from everywhere. Then, poof, his plane ducks out of the battle, lands in a Swiss meadow, and a few days later Allen Dulles offers him a job, asking if he’d like to play at being a spy, all expenses paid. Then on his first night in Bern he walks into a room just like this-hell, for all we know, this was the room-and instead of being crammed into a ball turret while being strafed by Messerschmitts he’s lying down on a big feather bed.”

“With a nice local whore.”

“Possibly. Either way, he must have been thinking he was the luckiest man in the world.”

“And what about you? Are you feeling lucky?”

She brushed a stray hair from his forehead. It was all the prompting he needed. He touched her face and drew her close, an effortless movement that brought her lips to his, open and willing. Subsequent events took care of themselves, or as much as they needed to once a man and a woman are in the proper state of mind and have consumed nearly two bottles of Neuchatel Blanc before retiring to a swank room where “Do Not Disturb” is printed in three different languages.

Afterward, Nat poured himself another glass, even though the wine had lost its chill on the bedside table. He felt more attuned than ever to Gordon’s mood upon arrival in Bern-the sudden sense of new possibilities, the hint of exotic risk. All of it familiar, if for different reasons. He also thought he had a clearer read now on Berta, and he turned to her with a question.

“What, or who, were you thinking of when you made that comment to Molden about the powerful force of love? And don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to say me.”

“My Oma,” she said, using the German word.

“Your grandmother?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” She seemed a little offended. “It’s still love, any way you look at it.”

“How disappointing. You sure it wasn’t some ex-boyfriend?”

“Oh, I’ve always had men in my life. But I’ve only known one grandmother, and she was with me every day for fifteen years. Living in the same small apartment, worrying about the same nosy neighbors. She was there when my mom and dad couldn’t be.”

“A nice old Hausfrau?”

“Only because the government wouldn’t let her work. She was quite the agitator in her day, a formidable woman. Of course, I thought it was my role to keep her out of trouble so the authorities wouldn’t take her away. Or maybe it was just because I was such a good little Communist and wanted her to be one, too.”

“You, a good little Communist?”

“Oh, goodness, yes.” She laughed. “Chapter leader of the Young Pioneers. Marched in every May Day parade. Read everything I could find about Rosa Luxemburg. When I think back, I don’t know how she put up with me.”

Berta seemed to get a little dreamy, then a little nostalgic. Enough to make Nat believe she really had been talking about her grandmother.

“She taught me so much, really. How to spot informants, or other people you couldn’t rely on. How to look for the truth when everyone else wanted to surround you with lies.”

“Your guardian against the Stasi?”

Nat said it whimsically, but Berta turned somber.

“Something like that,” she said, lowering her head.

He felt awkward, figuring he had killed the mood.

“And she, uh, got you hooked on this White Rose business?”

“Yes. She was sure that her friends from the war-the ones who didn’t make it-had been betrayed. And Bauer was one of only three or four people who could have betrayed them.”

“So he’s your prime suspect?”

“Oh, no. There are several. He just happens to be the one I’ve focused on lately.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Only by mail. I’ve asked nicely several times, but he has always said no.”

Keep going, he thought. Tell me more. As helpful as it was to finally hear more about her motives, he wanted substance, too. Names. Details. But she must have noticed he was hanging on every word, because she quickly changed course.

“I should have known you’d think I was talking about a man when I mentioned love.”

“Well, it’s not like that would have been unusual. Love does tend to work that way.”

She shrugged. Her neck and shoulders were beautiful, perfectly smooth.

“This idea of finding a mate for life has never been so vital to me. Nothing personal, but when men are so readily available, after a while all you worry about is when to choose and when to reject.”

“You make it all so romantic.”

She smiled, and slid closer on the bed.

“You asked, so I told you. It is the way I choose to live my life. I research what I want, fuck who I want, stay where I please, when I please, and I set my own hours each and every day. And if sometimes I choose to mix business with pleasure”-she stroked a fingertip down the inside of his thigh-“well, that is what works best anyway when things are going well. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Is there another woman in your life?” she asked. “A woman you’re serious about?”

“Not at the moment.”

“It would be quite all right with me if there was. I’m never exclusive in these matters. It’s part of what makes me attractive. Men sense my availability, but also that I will only be temporary. Safe, but a little dangerous, too. A very enticing combination, don’t you think?” Her fingertips again skimmed his thigh, a tickle of nails. She began just above the knee and ended just below the spot where he hoped she would keep going, now that it was standing at attention. Instead, she doubled back and continued to slide her fingers back and forth, silk on leather, while speaking in a warm, low monotone, her Prussian vowels suggesting the darker possibilities of a dominatrix. She could have commanded, “Show me your papers,” and it would have thrilled him to the marrow.

“I like that word, ‘enticing,’ ” she said. “It sounds exactly like what it means. The little hiss in the middle, like a whispered invitation. There is no German word quite that good for seduction. ‘Seduce.’ That is also a fine word. Although maybe with a dart of poison, too. Don’t you think?”

“Poison doesn’t sound very safe. And ‘safe’ definitely isn’t a word I associate with you.”

“Good. Because love is never safe. Lust, even less so. As for how well either of them mixes with this business we are pursuing, I suppose we will find out.”

But he was no longer interested in talking about their goals, or her linguistic preferences. Nor was she, apparently, because those were the last words they spoke for the next fifteen minutes.

Peace and darkness then descended upon the room. She spoiled the mood a bit by pulling a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table, but, this being Europe, Nat decided he could endure the smoke. At least the window was still open, and the clouds of her exhaust lent a period feel to the scene. They might have been hiding in a seedy room above a rail station at some wartime crossroads, traveling under false names with forged papers, on the run from the secret police. It was a nice fantasy to languish in, and he carried it into his dreams.