Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Each day was better, so that by the following weekend she was able to go out. Hannelore had found a friend “temporarily” and they’d been alone for days, a reclusive happiness that had finally become confining. Jake had done a second piece-“Adventures in the Black Market,” Russians and Mickey Mouse watches, the food situation, Danny and his girls discreetly left out-and Lena had slept and read, getting stronger. But the weather had grown sultry; the humid Berlin summer that used to drive everyone to the parks now just swirled the rubble dust, coating the windows with grit. Even Lena was restless.

Neither of them had seen the Russian sector, Lena because she refused to go there alone, so Jake drove east through the Mitte, past Gendarmenmarkt, then Opernplatz, where they’d made bonfires of books. Everything gone. When they saw the caved-in Berliner Dom in the distance, they were too dispirited to go on and decided to stroll up the Linden instead, the old Sunday outing. No one was out walking now. In the ruins, a makeshift cafe that had been set up just before Friedrichstrasse was crammed with Russians sweating in the heat.

“They’ll never leave,” Lena said. “It’s finished here now.”

“The trees will grow back,” Jake said, looking at the black stumps.

“My god, look at the Adlon.”

But Jake was looking at the figure coming through the door, the building evidently only partially ruined. Sikorsky noticed him at the same time and came over.

“Mr. Geismar, you decided to visit us after all,” he said, shaking hands. “For the afternoon tea, perhaps.”

“They still have it?”

“Oh yes, it’s a tradition, I’m told. Not so formal now, but more democratic, yes?”

In fact everyone Jake could see at the door brimmed with medals and decorations. A generals’ playground.

“In the back there are still some rooms. From mine you can see Goebbels’ garden. Or so they tell me it was. Excuse me,” he said, turning to Lena, “I am General Sikorsky.” A polite bow.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said. “Fraulein Brandt.” Why not frau?

“Brandt?” he said, looking at her carefully. “It’s a common name in Germany, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a Berliner? You have family here?”

“No. All killed. When the Russians came,” she said, an unexpected provocation.

But Sikorsky merely nodded. “Mine too. My wife, two children. In Kiev.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Lena said, embarrassed now.

He acknowledged this with another nod. “The fortunes of war. How is it a beautiful woman is still unmarried?”

“I was. He’s dead.”

“Then I am sorry for that,” Sikorsky said. “Well, enjoy your walk. A sad sight,” he said, looking at the street. “So much to do. Goodbye.”

“So much to do,” Lena said after he walked away. “And who made it like this? Russians. Did you see the way he looked at me?”

“I don’t blame him. He has an eye for a pretty girl.” Jake stopped and put his hand to the side of her head. “You are, you know. Look at you. You’ve got your color back. Like before.”

She looked up at him, then shook her head, embarrassed again. No, not that. Something else. Suspicious. The Russians are suspicious of everything.“

“I heard he was in intelligence. They look at everybody that way. Come on.”

They walked past the Brandenburg Gate, still plastered with giant posters of the Big Three.

“No trees,” she said. “Oh, Jake, let’s go back.”

“Tell you what, we’ll go out to the Grunewald, take a walk in the woods. You up for that?”

“It’s not like this?”

“No. Cooler too, I’ll bet,” he said, wiping sweat from his face.

“Something for the lady?” A German in an overcoat and fedora, detached from the group milling around the Reichstag.

“No,” Lena said, “go away.”

“Prewar material,” the man said, opening his coat and pulling out a folded garment. “Very nice. My wife’s. Scarcely worn. See?” He was unfolding the dress.

“No, please. I’m not interested.”

“Think how she’ll look,” he said to Jake. “For summer, light. Here, feel.”

“How much?”

“No, Jake, I don’t want it. Look how old, from before the war.”

But that’s what had caught his eye, the kind of dress she used to wear.

“You have cigarettes?” the man said eagerly.

Jake held it up against her. Cinched waist, blouse top; the way she had always looked.

“It’s nice,” he said. “You could use something.”

“No, really,” she said, flustered, as if she were being dressed in public, where everyone could see. She looked around, expecting MPs with whistles. “Put it away.”

“It’ll look pretty on you.”

He took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. What had Hannelore said was the going rate? But just then MPs did appear, British soldiers with white sticks, beginning to scatter the crowd like chickens. The German snatched the pack, flinging the dress at Jake. “A thousand thanks,” he said, hurrying. “A bargain-you won’t regret it.” He began to run toward the arch, his overcoat flapping.

“Oh, such foolishness. Anyway, it’s too much. A whole pack.”

“That’s all right. I feel rich.” He looked at her. “I haven’t bought you anything in a long time.”

She began folding the dress. “Look, it’s wrinkled.”

“It’ll steam out. You’ll look nice.” He put his hand up to her hair. “With your hair down.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t wear it that way anymore.”

“Maybe once. A few pins,” he said, taking one out.

She brushed his hand away. “Oh you, you’re impossible. Nobody wears it that way anymore.”

Back in the jeep, they drove through Charlottenburg, down more long avenues of ruins, dust hanging in the heavy air, until finally they could see trees at the edge of the Grunewald and beyond them the water, where the river widened to make the lakes. It was cooler, but not much, the sun blocked by clouds now, turning the water to slate, the air still thick with listless heat. At the old yacht club, Union Jacks hung from flagpoles, not even stirred by a breeze. They could see two boats on the water, becalmed, their sails as motionless as two white dabs in a painting. But at least the city was behind them, nothing now but the broad water and, across it, suburban houses in Gatow poking through the trees. They took the road rimming the water, ignoring the charred patches in the forest and smelling pines, the clean air of before.

“The boats should come in, it’s going to storm. My god, it’s hot.” She patted her face with a handkerchief.

“Let’s put our feet in.”

But the little stretch of beach, deserted, was littered with bottles and pieces of artillery shells that had washed up on shore, a bathtub ring of debris, so they crossed the road to the woods. The air was sticky but peaceful, no hikers shouting out to each other, no clomping horses on the riding trails. Alone in a way they’d never been before, hiding from the Sunday crowds. Once they’d made love here behind some bushes, the sound of trotting horses just a few yards away, the threat of being discovered as exciting as flesh. Getting away with something.

“Remember the time—” he started.

“Yes. I know what you’re thinking. I was so nervous.”

“You liked it.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, looking at her, surprised to find himself aroused. Just remembering it.

“I’m sure they saw.”

“There’s no one here now,” he said, moving her against a tree, on impulse, kissing her.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, a light scold, “not here,” but she let him kiss her again, opening her mouth, then suddenly felt him against her and gasped, breaking away. “No, I can’t.”