Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Jake looked quickly behind. No Gunther, just an exposed swatch of park. Two to spring a trap. But why bother at all? All he’d wanted was to know. The point now was to get Emil away before Shaeffer could get to him. The jeep was farther down the chausee, close but too far to reach if someone chased them. Another look to the side, the only place Gunther could be. No civilians, only uniforms. I want you to betray me, he’d said, and maybe Gunther had, keeping his options open after all. Or had Shaeffer got to him already, keeping him somewhere, making sure? Jake took Emil’s arm and saw Shaeffer lift his head and step forward again, ready to spring.

“What is it?” Emil said, annoyed.

If they moved, he’d bolt across, right through the marchers. Jake scanned the crowd again, all oblivious except Shaeffer, no protection at all. Wait for the tanks. Even Shaeffer wouldn’t make a dash through rolling tanks. Hold his eye, make him think they’d wait, stuck.

“Listen to me,” Jake said in a monotone, barely moving his lips, not wanting Shaeffer to read any expression in his face. “We need to get over to the press stand. After the tanks. When I say go, just follow me. Fast.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Never mind. Just do it.”

“Another trick,” Emil said.

“Not mine. The Russians‘. They’ve sent someone for you.”

Emil looked at him, skittish. “For me?”

“Just do what I say. Get ready.”

A clanking of heavy metal as the tanks ground into place before the stand. Zhukov raised his arm, puffed up and solemn. Below him, Shaeffer stood rigid, eyes still looking across, as if he could see through the steel plates as well as the gaps in between. When half the unit had passed, the tanks slowed to a halt, motors still throbbing as they began revolving their gun turrets in a display salute. For an instant, as the row of guns turned in place, Shaeffer disappeared behind the long barrels. Now.

Jake started moving left, toward the front of the unit, but the guns kept swinging around and Shaeffer spotted them through the suddenly empty space. His head jerked up, alarmed, and he left the curb, darting across between two rows of tanks. How long would it take? Seconds. Jake glanced behind. Still no Gunther. No one, in fact. An exposed back. The gun turrets had almost finished circling, the tanks ready to start up again, an impenetrable moving wall soon, with Shaeffer on their side of the parade.

Jake grabbed Emil’s arm and dragged him in front of the nearest row of tanks, his protest drowned out by the deafening motors. Run. Could anyone in the high turrets see them, ignore the command to start moving? A crunch as the gears shifted. Jake yanked at Emil’s arm, sprinting as the creaking tread belts began to roll forward. Jog to the left, ahead of the row. One slip to fall underneath. They were almost at the last tank when he saw it was coming too fast to outrun. He stopped short, steadying himself as Emil bumped into his suddenly still body, and stood wedged sideways between two tanks, waiting for the column to pass. Just enough space after this one if he timed it right. He stared at the treads, almost counting them, then lurched forward the moment the tank passed. “Go!” he shouted, tugging at Emil’s sleeve and pulling him toward the amazed spectator line, barely missing the next set of treads, but there, finally across.

“Where’s the fire?” a soldier said to him, but he kept going, pushing through bodies until they were surrounded, just part of the crowd. They were behind the press stand before he stopped, taking in a gulp of air.

“Are you crazy?” Emil said, panting, his face white.

“Go up there and stay with Brian-the man from the Adlon. He knows you. Try to keep out of sight. And don’t go anywhere, with anyone. Got it?”

“Where are you going?”

“To make a diversion.”

“It’s still not safe?” Emil said, worried.

Wasn’t it? Who would snatch them in front of the press corps, safer in the end than the army itself? But who knew what Shaeffer would do? His last chance.

“He’s still out there. He may not be alone.” A man who could get Russian uniforms for a raiding party. Jake turned.

“You’re leaving me here?” Emil said, glancing around for an opening, ready to bolt.

“Don’t even think about it. Believe it or not, I’m the best chance you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. Now go on up. I’ll be back.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then all your problems will be over, won’t they?”

“Yes,” Emil said, looking at him. “They will.”

“But you’ll be on a train to Moscow. Plenty of time to think things over then. Right now, just do what I say if you want to get out of here. Come on. Now.”

Emil hesitated for an instant, then placed his hand on the wooden rail of the stairs and began to climb. Jake squeezed his way back to the front of the spectators. Get Shaeffer’s attention before he looked toward the stand. But the eyes were already there, frantically searching through the crowd on Jake’s side, then stopping, a surprised glowering, when they caught his face. Another Russian unit was passing in tight formation. Head away from the stand. Jake started to move left, just behind the front row, still visible but surrounding himself with other heads, so that Emil’s might be one of them. Across the street, Shaeffer followed, his tall frame stretching up over the crowd to keep Jake in sight. Jake pushed toward the thicker crowds at the gate, brushing past clumps of indifferent GIs. Away from the stand. He glanced over the columns of marchers. Still there, head turned toward Jake as he moved, the same determined eyes, exasperated, waiting for a break in the line. He must have seen by now that only Jake’s head was moving down the street, Emil left somewhere behind. Why keep coming? Not a diversion anymore, a running to ground. First Jake, then go back for Emil. Who would believe him, relieved to see the friendly debriefer, and close his own trap.

Up ahead, Jake could see the Big Three draped on the Brandenburg. After that the street widened out into Pariserplatz, a bulge of crowd where it would be easier to get lost. More Russian troops, rifles shouldered, the tall blond head keeping up with Jake across the rows of gray tunics. Beyond them, past the gate, a halt in the march, a gap big enough to use. Shaeffer would cross there. Jake went faster, trying to put more distance between them. He edged past the gate into the crowded square. A band was playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He glanced behind. Shaeffer, just as he’d thought, was running across the open space before the band could fill it. On his side now. Jake looked up the Linden, the sidewalks lined with Russians. He’d have to melt into the crowd, backtrack toward the Reichstag. But the crowd was denser here, a cover but also an obstacle, slowing him down. Behind, over the marching band, he heard Shaeffer shout his name. Lose him now. He pitched forward as if he were wading through mud, his body ahead of his feet.

The Russians were less good-natured than the GIs, grumbling as he passed through them, and he knew, stuck in a wall of bodies, that he wasn’t going to make it. Did it matter? Shaeffer wouldn’t shoot in this crowd. But he wouldn’t have to. The Russian zone, where people disappeared. A formal inquiry, a shrug of shoulders over toasts. Why had he left the stand? Shaeffer couldn’t risk exposure in the west. But here Jake could be swallowed up without anyone ever knowing. Even if he made a scene, he’d lose. Russian MPs, a quick call to Sikorsky’s successor, and only Shaeffer would go back. Nothing would have happened. Missing, like Tully.

“ Amerikanski” the Russian said as Jake bumped into him.

“Sorry. Excuse me.”