Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“And that’s embarrassing?”

“It might be,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette. “Potsdam’s the biggest black market center in Berlin.”

“I thought the Reichstag.”

“The Reichstag, Zoo Station. But Potsdam’s the biggest.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in the Russian zone,” Tommy said simply, surprised at the question. “No MPs. The Russians don’t care. They are the black market. They’ll buy anything. The others-the MPs’ll make a sweep every once in a while, arrest a few Germans just to keep up appearances. Not that it matters. The Russians don’t even bother. Every day’s Saturday on Main Street in Potsdam.”

Jake smiled. “So he wasn’t attending the conference.”

“Not a chance.”

“And Ron doesn’t want his mother to read about her boy in the papers.”

“Not that way.” Tommy looked behind Jake. “Do you, Ron?”

“I want to talk to you,” Ron said to Jake, visibly annoyed. “Where’d you get the pass?”

“I didn’t. Nobody asked,” Jake said.

“You know, we’ve got a waiting list for press credentials here. I could free up a slot any time I want.”

“Relax. I didn’t see a thing. See?” He waved at the paper in the typewriter. “Geranium star. Lots of chimneys. Local color, that’s all. Unless you’ve got an ID for me?”

Ron sighed. “Don’t push me on this, okay? The Russians find out there was press there, they’ll make a formal protest and I’ll have your ass out of here on the first truck.”

Jake spread his hands. “I’ll never go to Potsdam again. Okay? Now have a beer and tell us where the body is.”

“The Russians have it. We’re trying to get it released.”

“Why the delay?”

“There’s no delay. They’re fucking Russians.‘” He paused. “It’s probably the money. They’re trying to figure out how much they can keep.” He glanced at Jake. “How much did he have?”

“No idea. A lot. Thousands. Double whatever they give you.”

“I’m on tonight,” Tommy said. “You going to have an official statement?”

“I don’t have an official anything,” Ron said. “As far as I know, somebody got drunk and fell in the lake. If you think that’s a story, be my guest.” Jake looked at him. No tags. No bullet. But Ron was rushing on. “We will have a release on the first session, though, in a couple of hours. If anybody cares.”

“Warm greetings were exchanged by the Allies,” Tommy said. “Generalissimo Stalin made a statement expressing a wish for a lasting peace. An agenda for the conference was approved.”

Ron grinned. “And to think you weren’t even there. No wonder you’re the best.”

“And a soldier happened to fall in the lake.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He turned to Jake. “Stay in town. I mean it.”

Jake watched him walk off. “When did the Russians close off Potsdam?” he said to Tommy.

“Over the weekend. Before the conference.” He looked at Jake. “What?”

“He’d only been in the water a day.”

“How do you know?” Tommy said, alert.

Jake waved his hand. “I don’t, for sure. But he wasn’t that bloated.”

“So?”

“So how did he get into Potsdam? If it was closed off?” “What the hell. You did,” Tommy said, watching him. “Of course, you have an honest face.”

The piano music was coming through the open windows, not Mendelssohn this time but Broadway, party songs. Inside, the house was filled with uniforms and smoke and the clink of glasses. Gelferstrasse was entertaining. Jake stood for a minute in the hall, watching. There was the usual hum of conversation, laced with Russian from a group standing near the spread of cold cuts, and the usual music, but it was a cocktail party without women, oddly dispirited, looking for someone to flirt with. Men stood in groups talking shop or sometimes not saying anything at all, lifting glasses from the trays passed by the old couple and tossing them back quickly, as if they knew already that nothing better was going to come along. The host seemed to be Colonel Muller, whose silver hair moved through the crowd as he introduced people, occasionally getting clamped on the shoulder by a friendly Russian, as awkward and unlikely in the role as Judge Hardy himself would have been. Jake headed for the stairs.

“Geismar, come in,” Muller said, handing him a glass. “Sorry we had to requisition the dining room, but there’s plenty of grub. You’re welcome to whatever’s left.” In fact, the dining table, pushed against the wall, was still heaped with ham and salami and smoked fish, a banquet.

“What’s the occasion?”

“We’re having the Russians over,” Muller said, making them sound like a couple. “They like parties. They invite us to Karlshorst, then we invite them here. Back and forth. It greases the wheels.”

“With vodka.”

Muller smiled. “They don’t mind bourbon either.”

“Let me take a rain check. I can’t speak a word of Russian.”

“A few of them speak German. Anyway, in a while it won’t matter. It’s always a little awkward at first,” he said, looking toward the party, “but after they’ve had a few, they just say things in Russian and you nod and they laugh and we’re all good fellows.”

“Allies and brothers.”

“Actually, yes. It’s important to them, this stuff. They don’t like being left out. So we don’t.“ He took a drink. ”This isn’t what it looks like. It’s work.“

Jake held up his glass. “And somebody’s got to do it.” ‹›Muller nodded. “That’s right, somebody does. Nobody told me I’d end up feeding drinks to Russians, but that’s what we do now, so I do it and I could use a new face to liven things up." He smiled. ‹›“Besides, you owe me a favor. Lieutenant Erlich says I’m supposed to chew you out, but I’m going to let it pass.“

“You’re supposed to?”

“You mean, who am I? I guess we didn’t meet. With the congressman giving speeches. I’m Colonel Muller. Fred,” he said, extending his hand. “I work for General Clay.”

“Doing what?”

“I look after some of the functional departments. Keep them in line when I have to. Lieutenant Erlich’s one of them.”

Jake smiled. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

Muller nodded again. “I’d take the Russians any day. They’re touchy, but they don’t write home. Your bunch is more trouble.”

“So why are you going to let it pass?”

“You getting out to Potsdam? Ordinarily I wouldn’t. But I don’t see that it’s done anybody any harm.” He paused. “I served with General Patton. He said to look out for you, you were a friend to the army.”

“Everybody’s a friend to the army.”

“You wouldn’t know it from the papers back home. They come over here, don’t know the first thing, just point fingers to get themselves noticed.”

“Maybe I’m no different.”

“Maybe not. But a man puts in time with the army, he’s more likely to see the whole thing, not try to make a mountain out of a molehill.”

Jake looked over the rim of his glass. “I found a man’s body, and so far nobody’s even asked me about it. Is that the molehill you had in mind?”

Muller stared back. “All right, I’m asking you. Is there anything we should know?”

“I know he was shot. I know he was carrying a lot of cash. I may be a friend to the army, but you try to keep what I do know quiet and it’s like waving red meat at a dog. I get curious.”

Muller sighed. “Nobody’s trying to hide anything.” He looked away at the party, then back at Jake. “Nobody’s going to start anything either. There are almost two hundred reporters assigned to Berlin. They’re all looking for something to write about. So they go see the bunker, cash in some cigarettes over at Zoo Station. Next thing you know, everybody’s in the black market. Well, maybe everybody is, a little. What’s ordinary here isn’t ordinary at home.”