Dan Fesperman: The Arms Maker of Berlin

Nat did virtually all of the writing. He was happy to share his advance, but he debated briefly with his own ego over whether to also share authorship. Berta then surprised him by flatly refusing the offer. The only credit she wanted was for research. The work, she said, was its own reward.

It was clear to him that she hadn’t yet come to terms with everything that had happened. Nor did she seem to have any idea of how she would proceed-either professionally or socially-once the project was done. The problem went beyond restlessness or lingering guilt. It was, Nat believed, something quite German-an unfulfilled need to put everything in its proper place and to talk it out within herself, a dialogue among all her weary demons.

So when she disappeared without warning just after the first galleys arrived from the publisher, he did not try to track her down or pry into her plans. When the check for the balance of their advance then arrived by mail, he forwarded her share in care of Liesl.

The course he was about to teach was a fortunate by-product of their work. Its outline was roughly the same as that of the book. He wrote Liesl to invite her and Berta to attend the opening lecture. Liesl sent her regrets, but also her blessing. Berta didn’t respond.

But Karen was here, and now so was Viv, taking a seat just behind his daughter. It was exactly eight o’clock.

Nat unfolded his notes at the lectern and uttered a few bland words of welcome. No more my-way-or-the-highway shock therapy. If anyone lagged, well, he would just have to try coaxing them along, the way any good teacher would.

Dispensing with the preliminaries, he asked the girl on the front row to please hand out the syllabus to everyone else. As she complied, he noticed movement from the doorway and glanced toward the back just long enough to see Berta taking a seat in a far corner, an island among empty seats.

He nodded. She seemed to offer a flicker of acknowledgment, or maybe he imagined it. There was no way to find out for sure, because now it was time to deliver the heart of his opening remarks, with what he hoped would be a stirring preview of what lay ahead. Students always grumbled if you used the full fifty minutes on the first day, so he wrapped things up at 8:35. He closed with these words:

“By presenting you the life of one rather venal and tormented man, I hope to show you the ways in which history is a living entity. Not just because of its survivors, and the stories they have to tell, but because of its enduring power to hurt and to heal, to create even as it destroys, to transform familiar old heroes and monuments into dust even as it raises fresh new icons from the ashes of the lost and the forgotten.”

Rather pleased with himself, Nat scanned the room as the students began packing to leave. Karen nodded approvingly. Viv wiped something from her eyes.

But Berta was gone.

She must have slipped out during his summation, another disappearance without warning. Still haunted, he supposed. And still very much a German, waltzing with her past even as it enticed her down a dark stairwell.

He wondered if she could use some company.