Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“Him? Maybe he just got in the way,” Shaeffer said irritably, adjusting his bandage.

“Maybe,” Jake said. Like a girl taking pictures. “Be useful to know.”

“Not anymore,” Shaeffer said, wincing now, distracted by the bandage. “All I know is, he was going to lead me to Brandt and he didn’t.” He looked up. “Glad to hear about the wife, though. That’s something. At least the bastard didn’t get paid.”

“No, he got paid.” Jake looked again out the window, another jolt. With Russian money.

“Yeah, I guess,” Shaeffer said, meaning the bullet. “What is it?” he said, following Jake’s stare.

“Nothing. Just thinking.” Move her. He picked up his cap. “I’d better go. You want the nurse for that?” He nodded at the bandage.

“Just thinking, huh?” Shaeffer said, studying him. Then his face hardened, back in the poster. “Don’t think too much. I want him back. I don’t care what he did.”

“If he did.”

“You just find him,” he said evenly, then smiled. “Christ, the wife. We could make a good team, the two of us.”

Jake shook his head. “People get shot around you.” He looked out the window again. “What if the Russians already have him?”

“Then I’d want to know that too. Where.”

“So you can organize another raiding party? The Russians wouldn’t like that.”

“So what?”

“You might not be so lucky next time. Liz won’t be there to take one for you.”

Shaeffer glared at him. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“All right, skip it.”

He looked down. “I liked Liz. She was a good egg.” A kid in a soda fountain booth.

“All right,” Jake said again, an apology.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was me? You can’t tell anything with the Russians. How did they even know I’d be there? Tell me that.”

“Why were you? Shopping in the Russian zone-not the smartest idea in your line of work.”

“That was Liz. She wanted a camera. I figured, why not? How would they know? How did they know? ”

“Maybe a greifer spotted you.”

“What’s that? A kraut word?”

“Sort of a lookout scout.” Jake started for the door, then turned. A greifer. “The name Sikorsky mean anything to you?”

“Vassily?”

“That’s right. He was in the market that day. Would he know you by sight?”

Shaeffer looked away, silent.

Jake nodded. “Make sure Breimer gets the guard.”

“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” He pulled a gun out from under the sheet and patted it.

Jake stood still for a second. Just a casual extension of his hand, like a fielder’s mitt. “You always keep one in bed? Or just lately?” He reached for the doorknob. “Better stay away from the window.”

Shaeffer aimed the gun there, target practice. “A Colt 1911 will stop anything at this range.”

Jake looked over at him. “A Colt 1911 stopped Tully too.”

Shaeffer turned, frowning, still holding the gun. “Says who?”

“The ballistics report.”

“So? It’s a standard-issue piece of equipment. There are only about a million of them around.”

“Not in German hands. Or do you think Tully gave him one with the pass?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That Emil didn’t do it. Not with one of those.”

Shaeffer glanced up, then smirked. “That’s right, I remember. You think I did. ‘Where were you and Breimer on the night of-’ whatever the fuck it was.”

“July sixteenth,” Jake said. “And where were you?”

Shaeffer lowered the gun. “Go fuck yourself.” He put it back under the covers. “You don’t listen. I’m the only one who wanted him alive. He was going to lead me to Brandt, remember?“ He stared at Jake for another second, then let it pass, shaking his head. ”You’ve got a funny way of making friends.“

“Are we? I’m still trying to figure that one.”

Another sharp look. “Just find him.” Shaeffer sank back against the pillows with a grunt, forcing a smile. “You’re all alike, you guys. Smart talk. Always something smart.” He looked up, his eyes steel again, Aryan gray. “Just don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. We’re on the same team over here. The same team.”

“Is that the same one Liz was on?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, looking down. “Things happen, don’t they? Wartime.”

“We’re not at war with the Russians.”

Shaeffer looked over at the newspaper with its black headline, then raised his head. “Says who?”

Afternoon light was streaming into the flat, but Hannelore was already putting on lipstick to go out.

“A little early, isn’t it?” Jake said, watching her lean into the mirror.

“It’s a tea party. It’s supposed to be early, A jause, no?”

“A Russian tea party?” he said, amused. A table of stolid commissars, with the Mad Hatter pouring out.

“No. My new friend, a Tommy. A real tea party, he said. You know, like before, with cups and everything.”

Spiked, followed by another party on the couch.

She blotted her lips. “You just missed Lena. She’s at Frau Hinkel’s. You should go too. You can’t imagine what she knows.”

“She went to a fortune-teller?”

“It’s not like that. Not a gypsy. She knows things, she really does.”

Jake looked out the window toward Wittenbergplatz, searching the street. Windows fronting the square, exposed, the wonderful light suddenly a liability. “Hannelore? Have you noticed anyone hanging around outside? A Russian?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, gathering her purse. “He went back. He’s not looking for me.”

“No, I meant—” he said, then stopped. Why would Hannelore notice anything?

“Come on, I’ll show you,” she said. “It’s behind KaDeWe.”

He locked the door behind them and followed her down the stairs. “Your friends,” he said. “Anyone know about another flat?”

She turned, stung. “You want me to leave? This is my flat, you know. Mine. Just because I’m kindhearted—”

“No, not for you. For Lena. Her own place. It’s an inconvenience for you like this.”

“Oh, I don’t mind really. I’m used to it. It’s cozy, you know? And you’re so good about the food. How would we eat? And where would she go? Nobody has a flat unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless she has a friend. You know, important.”

“Not like me,” he said, smiling.

“No. A general, maybe. Someone big. That’s who has flats. And the whores.” A world of difference in her mind.

A work party was clearing one edge of Wittenbergplatz, women in army trousers loading carts. In the hot sun, everything smelled of smoke.

“He’s from London,” Hannelore said as they crossed the street, her high heels wobbling on the torn pavement. “Would I like it there, do you think?”

“I did.”

“Well, but it’s all the same now.” She spread her hand to take in the ruined square. “All like this.”

“Not like this.”

“Yes, they said so on the radio. During the war. Everything was bombed.”

“No. Just a few parts.”

“Why would they lie about that?” she said, sure of herself, Goebbels’ audience. “There,” she said when they reached KaDeWe. “In the next street. There’s a sign with a hand. How do I look?”

“Like an English lady.”

“Yes?” She fluffed her hair, looking in the shard of plate glass, still there, then waved him off. “Oh you,” she said, laughing, and teetered away toward the west.

The sign was a crudely drawn palm with three lines sketched in-Past running along the top, Present through the middle, and a spur with Future snaking across the heel. How many wanted the upper part read now? Frau Hinkel was on the second floor, marked with a zodiac, and he opened the door to a crowd of women sitting quietly in chairs like patients in a doctor’s waiting room. Berlin had become a medieval city again, black markets to transmute watches into gold, witches to glimpse the future in a pack of cards. A few years ago they had measured the curve of light.