Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“Continue, Frau Gersh. You were taken where?”

“The Jewish Old Age Home. Grosse Hamburger Strasse.” A precise detail, coached.

“And what happened there?”

“We were held until they had enough to fill a truck. Then to the train. Then east,” she said, her voice dropping.

“To the camp,” the prosecutor finished.

“Yes, to the camp. To the gas. I was healthy, so I worked. The others—” She broke off, then looked again at Renate. “The others you sent were killed.”

“I didn’t send them. I didn’t know,” Renate said.

This time the judge held up his hand to silence her.

“You saw. You saw,” the woman shouted.

“Frau Gersh,” the prosecutor said, his calm voice a substitute for a gavel, “can you positively identify the prisoner as the woman who came to your house to arrest you?”

“Yes, positive.”

Bernie leaned over in another huddle.

“And did you see her again?”

Jake glanced at the prosecutor, wondering where he was heading.

“Yes, from the truck. She was watching us from her window. When they took us away. Watching.”

An echo of the story from Bernie. A shoe shop in Schoneberg, the American sector. So Bernie had found her, another gift to the Russians.

“The same woman. You’re positive.”

Now the woman was shaking, slipping out of control. “The same. The same.” She started to rise from the chair, staring at Renate. “A Jew. Killing your own. You watched them take us away.” The beginning of a sob, no longer in court. “Your own people. Animal! Eating your own, like an animal.”

“No!” Renate shouted back.

The judge slapped the desk with his palm and said something in Russian, presumably calling a recess, but the prosecutor hurried up to the bench and began whispering. The judge nodded, slightly taken aback, then said formally to the room, “We will stop for fifteen minutes, but first the photographers will be allowed in. The prisoner will remain standing.”

Jake followed the prosecutor’s signal to the back of the room, where Ron appeared from the press section, opening the door to let the photographers in. A small group filed down the center of the room. Flashing lights went off in Renate’s face, causing her to blink and turn, shaking her head as if they were flies. The judges sat erect, posing. A soldier helped Frau Gersh onto her crutches. For a second

Jake expected to see Liz, snapping history. Then the flashbulbs died out and the judge stood.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, already lighting a cigarette.

In the corridor outside, the crowd of reporters had to press against the wall to let Frau Gersh pass on her crutches. Evidently there would be no cross-examination. Brian Stanley was standing off to one side, drinking from a pocket flask.

“Not up to Moscow standards, is it?” He offered Jake a drink. “Not the same without the confessions. That’s what they like-all that bloody hand-wringing. Of course, they’ve got a lot to confess, the Russians have.”

“It’s a farce,” Jake said, watching Frau Gersh leave.

“ ‘Course it is. Can’t expect the Old Bailey here.” He looked down at his bottle. “Still, not the nicest girl in Berlin, is she?”

“She used to be. Nice.”

Brian looked at him, confused, unaware of the connection.

“Yes, well,” he said, at a loss, then slowly shook his head. “Never mistaken. Brought out the best in everybody, didn’t it? By the way, I found you a boat.”

“A boat?”

“You asked about a boat, didn’t you? Anyway, they’ve got a few still. Over at the yacht club. Just mention my name.” He looked up. “You did ask.”

The afternoon he’d promised Lena, sailing on the lake, away from everything.

“Yes, sorry, I forgot. Thanks.”

“Mind you don’t sink it. They’ll make me pay.”

“Is that a drink?” Benson said, appearing with Ron.

“It was,” Brian said, handing him the flask.

“What are you doing here?” Benson said to Jake, then turned to Ron. “And you promised. Stars and Stripes exclusive.”

“Don’t look at me. How did you get in?” he said to Jake. “They said no more passes.”

“I’m helping the prosecution. She used to be a friend of mine.”

An embarrassed silence.

“Christ,” Ron said finally. “You always turn up one way or the other, don’t you?”

“Can you get me an interview?”

“I can request one. So far, nothing. She hasn’t been in a talking mood. I mean, what do you say after that? What can you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’ll say it to me.”

“You’d have to share,” Ron said, working. “Everybody wants this story.”

“Fine. Just get me in.” He looked at Benson. “That was a good piece on Liz. She would have liked it.”

“Thanks,” Benson said, a little uncomfortable with the compliment. “Hell of a thing. I hear the boyfriend’s all right, though. He got out this morning.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “What? Yesterday he couldn’t have visitors and today’s he out of there? How did that happen?”

“What I hear is he’s got friends in Congress,” Benson said, trying to make a joke. “Who the hell wants to stay in the infirmary? They kill more than they cure. Anyway, he’s sitting pretty. Got a nurse in his billet and everything. What’s it to you?”

Jake turned to Ron, still agitated. “Did you know about this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you,” he said, grabbing Ron’s arm. “She took a bullet for him-somebody wants him dead. Are there guards? Who’s with him in the billet?”

“What do you mean, took a bullet?” Benson said, but Ron was moving Jake’s hand away, staring.

“The U.S. Army,” Ron said to Jake, “that’s who. Pull fucking guard duty yourself, if it makes you so nervous.”

“What’s wrong?” Benson said.

“Nothing,” Ron said. “Geismar’s been seeing things, that’s all. Maybe you ought to check into the infirmary yourself, have them give you a once-over. You’re not making a lot of sense these days.”

“There’s someone there all the time?”

“Uh-huh,” Ron said, still looking at him. “No Russians allowed. Ever.”

“So I can see him?”

“That’s up to you. He isn’t going anyplace. Why don’t you take him some flowers and see what it does for you? Christ, Geismar.” He glanced toward the crowd shuffling back into the courtroom. “There’s the bell. You coming, or do you want to run right over and play nurse?” he said, then looked at Jake seriously. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you don’t have to worry about him. He’s as safe as you are.“ He nodded at the Russians by the door. ”Maybe safer.“

“I didn’t know you and Shaeffer were friends,” Benson said, still curious.

“Geismar’s got friends stashed all over Berlin, haven’t you?” Ron said, beginning to move. “How do you know this one, by the way?” he said, jerking his thumb toward the court.

“She was a reporter,” Jake said. “Just like the rest of us. I trained her.”

Ron stopped and turned. “That must give you something to think about,” he said, then followed Benson through the door.

Bernie was standing at the end of the table with Gunther but came over as Jake took his seat. The judges were just returning, walking in single file.

“So,” he said to Jake. “How do you think it’s going so far?”

“Jesus, Bernie. Crutches.”

Bernie’s face grew tight. “The crutches are real. So was the gas.”

“Why not just take her out and shoot her?”

“Because we want it on the record-how they did it. People should know.”

Jake nodded. “So she’s what? A stand-in?”