Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Jake turned when he heard the shout. Sharp, in Russian. Now what? A soldier at the lake’s edge was calling out, pointing at something in the water. Surprisingly, he waded in, wetting his boots, shouting again for help. On the terrace, some of the aides glanced toward the water, then turned back to the photographers, frowning at the interruption. Jake watched, fascinated, as the Russian soldiers began pulling a body to the shore. Another floater, like one of the bodies in the Landwehrkanal. But this one in uniform, indefinable at this distance. Still, more interesting than chimneys. He started down the lawn.

No one stopped him. The other guards had left their posts and were running toward the body, confused, looking toward the palace for instructions. The first soldier, wet now to the knees, was pulling the body up on the mud. He dropped the lifeless arm, then grabbed the belt for better leverage and yanked, a final heave to the grass. Suddenly the belt gave way, and Jake saw that it was a kind of pouch, ripped now and spilling open, the wind from the lake catching bits of paper and blowing them over the grass. Jake stopped. Not paper, money, bills whirling up then floating in the air like hundreds of little kites. The sky, a surreal moment, filled with money.

The Russians stood still for a second, amazed, then lunged for the bills, grabbing them out of the air. Another gust sent them higher so the guards now had to leap up, no longer soldiers but astonished children snatching candy. Everyone on the terrace stood to watch. A few of the Russian officers ran down to restore order, brushing past bills scattering across the lawn. They shouted to the guards, but no one listened, yelling instead to each other as they chased the flying paper, stamping the ground to hold down the bills, and stuffing them into their pockets. So much money, blowing like confetti. Jake picked one up. Occupation marks. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. So much money.

Now the photographers began to break ranks and head for the lake too, until the Russian officers turned on them, holding them back with pointed guns. But Jake was already there. He went over to the body. An American uniform, the torn money belt lying in the mud, some of the notes drifting back into the water. But what was he doing here? Floating in the Russian zone to the most heavily guarded lawn in Berlin. Jake knelt down to the body. A face sickly white and puffy from the water, the tag chain at his neck hanging to the side. He reached for the tags, then stopped, thrown. No need. Not just any soldier. The shock of a corpse you knew. The boy on the flight from Frankfurt, white-knuckled, clasping the bench in fear, his fingers outstretched now, shriveled.

It was then, stupefied, that Jake noticed the bullet hole, the dark matted fabric where the blood had been. Behind him men were still shouting in Russian, but suddenly he was back in one of those Chicago rooms, everything disrupted. The eyes were open. Only one riding boot, the other pulled away by the water. How long had he been dead? He felt the jaw, clenched tight. But there was no coroner to turn to, nobody dusting for prints. He felt the blunt tip of a gun in his back.

“ Snell,” the Russian commanded, evidently his one word of German.

Jake looked up. Another soldier, pointing a gun, was waving him away. As he stood, the other grabbed the camera, saying something in Russian. The first soldier poked the gun again until Jake raised his hands and turned around. On the terrace the Big Three were being hustled into the house, only Stalin still rooted to the spot, assessing, an anxious look like the one from the Chancellery steps. A sharp crack of rifle fire startled the air. A few birds bolted up out of the reeds. The men on the terrace froze, then hurried quickly into the building.

Jake looked toward the sound of the shot. A Russian officer, firing into the air to stop the riot. In the silence that followed, the guards stood still, watching the rest of the money blow toward the Neuer Garten, sheepish now, afraid of what would follow, their perfectly arranged afternoon turned squalid, an embarrassment. The officers ordered them into line and took back the notes. Jake’s Russian pointed again to the house. Lieutenant Tully, who was afraid of flying. Four Russians were picking him up, flinging the money belt onto his chest as if it were evidence. But of what? So much money.

“Can I have my camera back?” Jake said, but the Russian yelled at him and pushed him forward with the gun, back to the photographers. The lawn was swarming with aides now, directing everyone back to the cars like tour leaders. Apologies for the disruption, as if Tully were a drunk who’d spoiled the party. The Russian guards watched, sullen, their one piece of luck blown away.

“Sorry,” Jake said to Liz. “They took the camera.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot. What were you doing down there?”

“It was the guy from the plane.”

“What guy?”

“Tully. The kid with the boots.”

“But how-?”

“Let’s go, let’s go.” A brusque MR “Fun’s over.”

They were herded behind the others to the car park. Before they reached the gravel, Jake turned, looking back toward the lake.

“What the hell was he doing in Potsdam?” he said to himself.

“Maybe he’s with the delegation.”

Jake shook his head.

“Does it matter? Maybe he fell in the lake.”

He turned to her. “He was shot.”

Liz looked at him, then nervously back to the cars. “Come on, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”

“But why Potsdam?” In the park, a few of the bills still bounced along the grass, like leaves waiting to be raked. “With all that money.”

“Did you get any?”

He uncrumpled the salvaged note in his hand.

“A hundred marks,” Liz said. “Lucky you. Ten whole dollars.”

But there’d been more. Thousands more. And a man with a bullet in his chest.

“Come on, the others have gone,” Liz said.

Back to the press camp to drink beer. Jake smiled to himself, his mind racing, no longer walking dazed through ruins. A crime. The way in. His Berlin story.

Word had already gotten around the press camp by the time Jake got back.

“Just the man I’m looking for,” Tommy Ottinger said, looming over the typewriter Jake was using to peck out some notes. “First thing that’s happened all week and there you are, right on the spot. How, by the way? ”

Jake smiled. “Just taking some pictures.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Dead soldier washed up in the lake.”

“Come on, I’ve got to go on tonight. You can take your own sweet time with Collier’s. Who was he?”

“How would I know?”

“Well, you might have checked his tags,” Tommy said, waiting.

“I wish I’d thought of that.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Really,” Jake said.

“Some reporter.”

“What does Ron say?”

“A John Doe. No tags.”

Jake looked at him for a second, thinking. “So why did you ask me?”

“ ‘Cause I don’t trust Ron. I trust you.”

“Look, Tommy, here’s what I know. A stiff washes up. Dead about a day, I’d say. He had some money on him, which got the Russians all excited. The Big Three left in a hurry. I’ll give you my notes. Use whatever you want. Stalin’s face-it’s a nice touch.” He stopped, meeting Tommy’s stare. “He had tags. I just didn’t look. So why would Ron-?”

Tommy smiled and took a chair. “Because that’s what Ron does. Covers ass. His own. The army’s. We don’t want to embarrass the army. Especially in front of the Russians.”

“Why would they be embarrassed?”

“They don’t know what they have yet. Except a soldier in Potsdam.”