Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Brian opened his eyes. “I take it there’s a reason you’re asking?”

“He turned up dead. At Potsdam.”

“What, the one they fished out?”

Jake nodded.

“And?”

“And I’d like to know why. I think there’s a story in it.”

“Dear Jake. Back on the old beat. And here’s poor Poland hanging in the balance—”

“So did you? Talk to him?”

“Not a word. I don’t think anyone did. As I recall, The Hon did most of the talking. This your black market story?”

“He made a deal here. Picked up quite a bundle.”

“That nice young man?” Brian said.

“Maybe not so nice. Five, ten thousand dollars.”

“Really?” Brian said, interested now. “With what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he didn’t have any luggage. What was he trading?”

“He didn’t have any luggage?” Jake said, trying to picture the scene at Tempelhof.

“No. I did notice that. I thought, that’s odd. Then I thought, well, he’s from Berlin.”

“No. He wasn’t. Notice anything else?”

“My boy, I didn’t even notice that until you brought it up. A chap without luggage-what’s there to that?”

Jake didn’t answer. What would Gunther see, the obvious point overlooked? A deal with nothing to trade. But you didn’t get ten thousand for nothing. Small enough, then, to carry in a pocket.

“Damn,” Brian said to another roar from the field. “One of ours, too. Now I have to write it up.” In the British stands, some soldiers held up a Union Jack.

“Suppose a Russian shot him?”

“Ah,” Brian said slowly. “A little awkward just now, wouldn’t it be?” He waved toward the game. “And just when we were all getting along so nicely. Is that where you’re going with this? A little stink bomb for the conference?”

“I don’t know.”

“They wouldn’t like that.”

“Who?”

“Any of them.”

Jake looked around the stadium. Any of them. The story nobody wanted him to do. Which meant it was the only one worth doing. He glanced toward the newsreel crew, half expecting to see Breimer winning the peace again. Instead he saw Bernie coming toward them, head down, in his usual terrier hurry. He searched the crowd, then smiled at Jake and waved him down. Jake took a breath. He’d tracked him here-news that couldn’t wait. Elated, he left Brian and ran down the stairs.

“You found her?”

“What? Oh, the woman,” Bernie said, looking flustered. “No. I’m sorry. She’s not there.” But he’d been smiling.

“You looked?”

“There’s no record. I put in a query for the husband. He might be easier, if he’s POW.” He paused, letting the thought drift and watching Jake’s face. “You might try the message boards. Sometimes it works.”

Jake nodded, not really listening. Everyone filed a fragebogen if they wanted a ration card. Unless they were buried somewhere under a collapsed wall. No record.

“Well, thanks anyway,” he said, his voice dropping. “I guess that’s that.” But what had he expected?

“People do turn up. I said it was—”

“I know. Anyway, nice of you to come.”

“No,” Bernie said, embarrassed again. “It wasn’t that. I mean, there’s something else.”

Jake looked up.

“Something interesting,” Bernie said, his five o’clock shadow creasing in another smile. “I found out why Muller didn’t want you to see the other sheet. You were right. There was a ballistics report.” He pulled a carbon from his pocket and paused, making Jake wait. “It was an American bullet.” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It wasn’t hard to find Ronny’s. The British had drawn the flashy stretch of the Kurfiirstendamm in the partition, and the swarm of British army vehicles outside the club marked it like a neon sign. Drivers sat smoking on the fenders, keeping guard, catching snatches of music as officers pushed inside, holding girls by their waists, some of them already weaving from drink. In the street only a few cars passed the broken storefronts and gutted hotels. Bicycles had disappeared with the fading light. In an hour, the Ku’damm would be as dark as a country road, lit by a sliver of moon and the phosphorus strips left over from the blackout.

Jake parked behind a British jeep and walked along the cleared sidewalk to the entrance. The store next door was in ruins, the old plate glass replaced by plywood covered with pieces of paper and bits of cardboard with messages, set inside the window to shelter the ink from rain. It was just light enough to see. Some of them had been neatly written out in the formal Gothic script of the gymnasiums, but most were hastily scribbled, the scrawls carrying their own sad urgency. “Winter boots. Felt lined. Excellent condition. Will trade for children’s shoes.“ ”Any information Anna Millhaupt. Previously at 18 Marburgerstrasse.“ ”Your future revealed. Madame Renaldi. Personalized charts. 25 marks or coupons.“ ”War widow, two children. Attractive. Seeking German husband. Must have flat. Excellent cook.“ Jake turned away and opened the door to a blast of music.

He’d expected a basement cave, something out of the old Grosz drawings, but Ronny’s was bright and noisy, decked out with white tablecloths and pictures on the wall. Waiters in starched shirts wriggled past the cramped tables like eels, carrying plates, holding them away from the jostling on the small dance floor. A five-piece band was playing an up-tempo “Sweet Lorraine,” and a crowd of Allied uniforms and girls in summer dresses bumped around the packed floor in a quick foxtrot. The girls were dressed to go out-real dresses and bright lipstick and open-toed shoes, not the uniform trousers and kerchiefs of the rubble cleaners. But the familiar smell had penetrated even here, lying unmistakably under the smoke and perfume. It occurred to him, a detail for a piece, that on the raucous, crowded floor they were literally dancing on graves.

Gunther was sitting in a thick haze of smoke at the end of the raised bar that ran along the side wall. Jake walked past a burst of laughter and a rattle of glasses as a small group of Russians banged the table for service. The band, without a pause, switched to “This Year’s Kisses.”

Gunther was huddled with another civilian and barely acknowledged Jake when he reached the bar, giving a quick nod and then a jerk of his head toward a table in the corner.

“He’s over there.”

Jake followed his eyes to the table. A young soldier, thin hair slicked straight back like Noel Coward’s, sat between two bottle blondes eating dinner, heads bent over their plates.

“But I have some news,” Jake said.

“Let me finish my business,” Gunther said. “I’ll join you. A moment.”

“The gun,” Jake continued. “It was American.”

Gunther looked at him directly, his eyes alert behind their brandy film. “So,” he said, noncommittal.

“Who’s this?” the other German said.

Gunther shrugged. “A new man from the Alex,” he said, the old headquarters. “I’m breaking him in.”

The other man found this funny. “From the Alex.” He laughed. “That’s good.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Gunther said, nodding again at the table with the blondes.

Jake squeezed between tables until he reached the English soldier. A kid, skinny and bright-eyed, not the grizzled thug he’d imagined.

“Alford?”

“Danny. You Gunther’s friend? Have a drink,” he said, pouring one. “Gunther said to fix you up. Anything you like.”

“Is it okay to talk?” Jake said, looking at the girls as he sat down.

“Who, them? Right as rain. The only word they know is fuck. Isn’t that right, Use?”