Joseph Kanon - A Good German

But the Russian was looking ahead, not at him, where some American troops were following the band. He stepped back to let Jake pass, apparently thinking he was trying to join his unit. Don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. He looked at the parade. Not the showy 82nd; ordinary uniforms like his own, Gunther’s protection. He ducked his head, crouching down out of Shaeffer’s line of sight, and wormed his way through to the curb, keeping low as he darted into the march. A few Russians on the edge laughed-hungover, a familiar scrambling, sure to catch hell later. He sidestepped ahead of the moving ranks and near the middle of the row nudged a soldier aside to make a place, joining the line.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’ve got an MP after me.”

The soldier grinned. “Get in step then.”

Jake skipped, a fumbling dance move, until his left foot matched the others, then straightened his shoulders and began swinging his arms in time, invisible now just by being the same. Don’t look back. They were passing the point where Shaeffer would be, head swiveling, furious, plowing through the Russians, looking everywhere but at the parade itself.

“What did you do?” the soldier mumbled.

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah.”

He waited to hear his name shouted again, but there was only Sousa, tinkling bells and drums. As they tramped through the gate into the west, he smiled to himself, marching in his own victory parade. Not the Japanese, a private war, left behind now in the east. They were approaching the stand, moving faster than anyone could through the crowd. Even if Shaeffer had given up and started heading back, it would be minutes before he’d reach the press stand, long enough to hustle Emil into the jeep and get away. He looked to the side, a quick check. Patton saluting. Enough time, but still only minutes. At least now he knew. Except what had happened to Gunther.

It was easier getting out of the parade than getting in. After the reviewing stand there was a brief halt, and while they marched in place Jake skipped over to the side and back through the curbside crowd to the press stand. Only minutes. What if Emil had bolted after all? But there they were, not even up in the stand, huddled by the stairs having a smoke.

“There, what did I tell you? He always does come back,” Brian said. “Catch your breath.”

“You’re down here? Did he try to run?”

“Naw, good as gold. But you know Ron. Curiosity killed the cat. So I thought—”

“Thanks, Brian,” Jake said in a rush. “I owe you another one.” He looked back over his shoulder. No one yet. Brian, watching him, motioned his head away from the stand.

“Better go if you’re going. Safe home.”

Jake nodded. “If I’m not-just in case-go see Bernie Teitel. Tell him who you’ve been babysitting and he’ll send up a flare.” He took Emil’s arm and began to lead him away.

“Try newspaper work next time,” Brian said. “Easier all around.”

“Only the way you do it,” Jake said, touching his shoulder, then moving off.

They crossed with a few GIs who’d had enough and were taking advantage of another break in the line to drift away through the park.

“Who’s Teitel?” Emil said. “An American?”

“One of your new friends,” Jake said, still slightly out of breath. Just a little farther to the jeep.

“A friend like you? A jailer? My god, all this for Lena? She’s free to do as she likes.”

“So were you. Keep walking.”

“No, not free.” He stopped, making Jake turn. “To survive. You go along to survive. You think it’s different for you? What would you do to survive?”

“Right now, I’m getting us out of here. Come on, you can make your excuses in the jeep.”

“The war’s over,” Emil said, almost shrill, a pleading.

Jake looked at him. “Not all of it.”

Behind Emil, something moved on the landscape, a blur faster than the marchers and the idling crowd, coming closer through the park. Not on a road, where it should be, out of place, bumping over the torn-up ground.

“Christ,” Jake said. Coming toward them.

“What is it?”

A black Horch, the car at Potsdam. No, two, the second obscured in the dust churned up by the first.

“Get to the jeep. Now. Run.”

He pushed Emil, who staggered, then caught his arm, both of them dashing for the jeep. Of course he wouldn’t have come alone. The jeep wasn’t far, parked behind the crowd with a few others, but the Horch was close enough to hear now, the noise of the motor like a hand on his back. He pulled out his gun as he ran. To do what? But if it came to it, a shot in the air would draw attention, give them at least the protection of the crowd.

They were almost at the jeep when the Horch pulled ahead, blocking them with a squeal of brakes. A Russian in uniform jumped out and stood by the door with the motor still running.

“Herr Brandt,” he said to Emil.

“Get out of the way or I’ll shoot,” Jake said, pointing the gun upward.

The Russian glanced at him, almost a smirk, then nodded at the other car pulling up behind. Two men, civilian clothes. “By that time you will be dead. Put the gun down.” Sure of himself, not even waiting for Jake to lower his hand. “Herr Brandt, come with us, please.” He opened the back door.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“Not with travel permits, no,” the Russian said blandly. “No need, you see. A different arrangement. Please.” He nodded to Emil.

“You’re in the British zone now,” Jake said.

“Make a protest,” the Russian said. He looked at the other car. “Shall I ask my men to assist?”

Emil turned to Jake. “Now see what you’ve made for us.”

The Russian blinked, confused by this dissension in the ranks, then opened his hand toward the back seat. “Please.”

“I said I’d shoot and I will,” Jake said.

The Russian waited, but the only movement was the opening of the passenger door. Gunther got out and walked toward them, gun drawn.

“Get in the car, Herr Brandt.”

For a moment, as Jake stared at the man with the pointed gun, his lungs seemed to deflate, his whole body going limp with disappointment. I want you to betray me. Emil shuffled reluctantly to the car. The Russian closed the rear door. Snap.

“A good German cop,” Jake said quietly, looking at Gunther.

“Now you,” Gunther said to Jake, waving his gun toward the car. “In the front.”

The Russian looked up, surprised. “No. Brandt only. Leave him.”

“Get in,” Gunther said.

Jake crossed over to the passenger side and stood by the open door. There was a high-pitched whistle. He looked over the roof of the car. Down the road, Shaeffer had stopped running, two fingers in his mouth, then lunged forward again. A soldier detached himself from the crowd, running behind him. The rest of the trap, closing up the rear.

“What are you doing?” the Russian said to Gunther.

“I will drive.”

“What do you mean?” he said, alarmed now.

Gunther swung his gun toward the Russian. “Over with the others.”

“Fascist swine,” the Russian shouted. He jerked his gun out, his hand stopping midway as Gunther’s bullet hit him, an explosion so sudden it seemed for a second he hadn’t fired at all. There was a rush of movement around them, like the startled flight of birds in a field. Spectators nearby ducked without looking, a reflex. On the reviewing stand a delayed reaction, aides shoving the generals down. Yells. The men in the other car jumped out and raced over to the fallen Russian, dazed. Jake saw Shaeffer stop, just a beat, then start running in a crouch. Everything at once, so that Gunther was already in the car before Jake realized it had started moving. He leaped in, holding on to the open door as he pulled his other leg inside. They spun left, back onto the broken ground of the park, bouncing violently, heading west toward the Victory Column, racing ahead of the parade at their side. Gunther swerved away from a shallow bomb crater and hit a deep rut instead, jolting the car, smashing Jake’s sore shoulder against the door.