Joseph Kanon - A Good German

He looked at her from the bed, grinning.

“How can you laugh?”

“Look at you, covering yourself. Come here.”

“Like a farce,” she said, ignoring him. “What will she think?”

“What do you care?”

“It’s not nice,” she said, then, hearing herself, began to smile too. “I’m a respectable woman.” You were.

She put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile, a girlish gesture, then tossed his pants over to the bed and started wriggling into her dress.

“What will you say to her?”

“Tell her to knock longer next time,” he said, up now and putting on his pants.

“It happens so often, is that it?”

“No,” he said, coming over and kissing her. “Just this once.”

“Get dressed,” she said, but smiling. She turned to the mirror. “Oh, look at me. My hair’s a mess. Is there a comb?”

“In the drawer.” He nodded at the frilly vanity. He buttoned his shirt and started tying his shoes, watching her at the mirror, the same absorbed concentration. She opened a drawer, searching. “On the right,” he said.

“You shouldn’t leave your money around,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“What money?”

She held up Tully’s hundred-mark note. “And no lock either. Anyone could—”

He went over to the dressing table. “Oh, that. It’s not money. It’s evidence,” he said easily, the word as far from his thoughts as Tully or anything else.

“What do you mean, evidence?”

But he wasn’t listening now, looking at the bill. What had Danny said? A dash before the number. He turned the bill over. A dash, Russian money. He stood for a second, trying to think what it could mean, then gave it up, indifferent, his mind still hazy, not wanting anything to interrupt the day. He put the note back in the drawer and leaned down to kiss her head. The lavender was still there, mixed now with the smell of them.

“I’ll be down in two minutes,” she said, eager to leave, as if the billet were a hotel room they’d rented for the afternoon.

“All right. We’ll go home,” he said, pleased at the sound of it. He picked up Liz’s shoes on the way out.

In the hall he waited until she answered his knock.

“Hey, Jackson,” she said, still looking embarrassed. “Sorry about that. Next time put a tie on the door.”

“Your shoes,” he said, handing them to her. “I borrowed them.”

“I’ll bet you looked swell.”

“Hers were wet.”

She looked up at him. “It’s against the house rules, you know.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No? You could have fooled me.”

“What did you want, anyway?” he said, feeling too good to want to explain.

“Mostly to see if you were alive. You still live here, don’t you?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Uh-huh. And here I was, worried. Men. People have been asking for you, by the way.”

“Later,” he said, unconcerned. “Thanks again for the shoes.”

She tipped one to her head in a salute. “Anytime. Hey, Jackson,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “Don’t let it throw you. It s only—”

“It’s not what you think,” he said again.

She smiled. “Then stop grinning.”

“Ami?”

“Ear to ear.”

Was he? He went down the stairs, wondering if his face were really a flushed sign, giving them away. Slap-happy. All the intimacy reduced to a popular song lyric. But who cared?

He turned off the phonograph and finally had a cigarette, pacing now instead of lying in bed, the usual ritual turned around like everything else. How long since she’d come down the stairs dressed like that, wanting to? Outside, the wet leaves were gleaming in the new light, shiny as coins. Russian money. Tully’d had Russian money. His mind, still vague, was toying with it when he heard stamping at the door. Bernie, wiping his feet on the mat and shaking out an umbrella, a careful boy who practiced piano.

“Where the hell have you been?” he said, hurrying in. “I’ve been looking for you. For days.” A faint accusation.

“Working,” Jake said, the only legitimate excuse. Was he grinning?

“I’ve got other things to do, you know. Playing errand boy. And you take a powder,” Bernie said, his voice as raspy as an alarm clock.

“You heard from Frankfurt?” Jake said, waking to it.

“Plenty. We need to talk. You didn’t tell me there was a connection.” He put the files he’d been carrying on the piano, as if he were about to roll up his sleeves and start to work.

“Can it wait?” Jake said, still elsewhere.

Bernie stared at him, surprised.

“Okay,” Jake said, giving in, “what did they say?”

But Bernie was still staring, this time beyond him, to Lena coming down the stairs, her hair pinned back up, proper again, but the dress swaying with her, another entrance. She stopped at the door.

“Lena,” Jake said. “I want you to meet someone.” He turned to Bernie. “I found her. Bernie, this is Lena Brandt.”

Bernie kept staring, then nodded awkwardly, as embarrassed as Liz.

“We got caught in the rain,” Jake said, smiling.

Lena mumbled a polite hello. “We should go,” she said to Jake.

“In a minute. Bernie’s been helping me with a story.” He turned. “So what did they say?”

“It can wait,” Bernie said, still looking at Lena, flustered, as if he hadn’t seen a woman in weeks.

“No, it’s all right. What connection?” Curious now.

“We’ll talk later,” Bernie said, looking away.

“I won’t be here later.” Then, taking in his embarrassment, “It’s all right. Lena’s-with me. Come on, give. Any luck?”

Bernie nodded reluctantly. “Some,” he said, but he was looking at Lena. “We’ve located your husband.”

For a minute she stood still, then slumped to the piano bench, holding on to the edge.

“He’s not dead?” she said finally.

“No.”

“I thought he was dead.” Her voice a monotone. “Where is he?”

“Kransberg. At least he was.”

“It’s a prison?” she said, her voice still flat.

“A castle. Near Frankfurt. Not a prison, exactly. More like a guesthouse. For people we want to talk to. Dustbin.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, confused.

“That’s what they call it. There’s another near Paris-Ashcan. Dustbin’s where they’ve stashed the scientists. You know he was part of the rocket team?”

She shook her head. “He never talked to me about his work.”

“Really.”

She looked at him. “Never. I don’t know anything.”

“Then you’ll be interested,” Bernie said, his voice hard. “I was. He did the numbers. Trajectories. Fuel capacity. Everything but the casualties in London.”

“You blame him for that? There were casualties in Berlin too.”

Jake had stood following them as if he were at a tennis match and now looked at her, surprised at the strength of her return. A kindergarten covered with concrete slabs.

“Not from flying bombs,” Bernie said. “We didn’t have the benefit of his expertise.”

“And now you will,” she said, unexpectedly bitter. “In prison.” She got up and went over to the window. “Can I see him?”

Bernie nodded. “If we find him.”

The phrase shook Jake awake. “What do you mean?”

Bernie turned to him. “He’s missing. About two weeks now. Just up and left. It’s got them all foaming. Apparently he’s a particular favorite of von Braun’s,” he said, glancing toward Lena. “Can’t do without him. I made a routine query, and half of Frankfurt jumped down my throat. They seem to think he was coming to see you,” he said to Lena. “Von Braun, anyway. Says he tried it before. There they were, safe and sound down in Garmisch, waiting for the end, and he makes a beeline for Berlin to get his wife out before the Russians got here. Is that right?”