Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Gunther refused the job, agreeing, ironically, with Shaeffer.

“It would never work. He’s careful. And you know, this is not police work. This is—”

“I know what it is. I didn’t realize you were so choosy.”

“A question more of resources,” Gunther said blandly.

“We know he met Tally,” Jake said.

“So Vassily’s the paymaster, but who else did Tully meet? Not Herr Brandt, I think. With an American bullet.”

“The one leads to the other. And Sikorsky knows where Emil is.”

“Evidently. But you keep confusing the cases. Who is it exactly you wish to find, Herr Brandt or the man who killed Tully?”

“Both.”

Gunther looked at him. “Sikorsky won’t lead us to Herr Brandt, but he may lead us to the other. If he doesn’t suspect we know. You see, it’s a question of resources.”

“So what do you intend to do, just leave Emil with the Russians?”

Gunther shrugged. “My friend, I don’t care who makes the rockets. We already made ours. You can see with what results.” He got up from his chair to pour more coffee. “For now, let’s just solve our case. Herr Brandt, I’m afraid, will have to wait.”

“He can’t wait,” Jake said, frustrated.

Gunther looked over the edge of his cup. “Then read the files.”

“I read the files.”

“Read again. They’re complete?”

“Everything he handed over.”

“Then it must be there-what Vassily wants. You see, it’s the interesting point. Why did Tully have to die at all? The deal was a success. Vassily got what he wanted, Tully got paid. A success. So why? Unless it wasn’t finished. There must be something else Vassily wants.”

“Besides Lena.”

Gunther shook his head, dismissing this. “Herr Brandt wants her. Vassily is just the good host. No, something else. In the files. Why else would Tully read them? So go read.” He wriggled his fingers, a schoolmaster shooing Jake away.

Jake checked his watch. “All right. Later. First I have to do some work.”

“The journalist. More black market?”

Jake glanced up, sorry now that he had mentioned it. “No. Actually, Renate. An interview.”

“Ah,” Gunther said, walking back to the chair with his cup, avoiding it. “By the way,” he said, sitting down, “did you check the motor pool?”

“No, I assumed Sikorsky drove—”

“All the way to Zehlendorf? Well, maybe so. But I like to be neat. Cross the t’s.”

“Okay. Later.”

Gunther picked up the cup, half hiding his face. “Herr Geismar? Ask her something for me.” Jake waited. “Ask her how it felt.”

At the detention center near the Alex he was shown into a small room as plain as the makeshift court-a single table, two chairs, a picture of Stalin. The escort, with elaborate courtesy, offered coffee and then left him alone to wait. Nothing to look at but the ceiling fixture, a frosted glass bowl that might once have been lighted with gas, a Wilhelmine leftover. Renate was led in through the opposite door by two guards, who left her at the table and positioned themselves against the wall, still as sconces.

“Hello, Jake,” she said, her smile so tentative that her face seemed not to move at all. The same pale gray smock and roughly cut hair.

“Renate.”

“Give me a cigarette-they’ll think you have permission,” she said in English, sitting down.

“You want to do this in English?”

“Some, so they won’t suspect anything. One of them speaks German. Thank you,” she said, switching now to German as she took the light and inhaled. “My god, it’s better than food. You never lose your taste for it. I’m not allowed to smoke, back there. Where is your notebook?”

“I don’t need one,” Jake said, confused. Suspect what?

“No, please, I want you to write things down. You have it?”

He pulled the pad out of his pocket, noticing for the first time that her hand was trembling, nervous under the sure voice. The cigarette shook a little as she lowered it to the ashtray.

He busied himself with his pen, at a loss. Ask her how it felt, Gunther said, but what could she possibly say? A hundred nods, watching people being bundled into cars.

“It’s so difficult to look at me?”

Reluctantly he raised his head and met her eyes, still familiar under the jagged hair.

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he said simply.

She nodded. “The worst person in the world. I know-that’s what you see. Worse than anybody.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t look, either. Worse than anybody. How could she do those things? That’s the first question?”

“If you like.”

“Do you know the answer? She didn’t-somebody else did. In here.” She tapped her chest. “Two people. One is the monster. The other is the same person you used to know. The same. Look at that one. Can you do that? Just for now. They don’t even know she exists,” she said, tilting her head slightly toward the guards. “But you do.”

Jake said nothing, waiting.

“Write something, please. We don’t have much time.” Another jerky pull on the cigarette, anxious.

“Why did you ask to see me?”

“Because you know me. Not this other person. You remember those days?” She looked up from the ashtray. “You wanted to sleep with me once. Yes, don’t deny it. And you know, I would have said yes. In those days, the Americans, they were all glamorous to us. Like people in the films. Everyone wanted to go there. I would have said yes. Isn’t it funny, how things turn out.”

Jake looked at her, appalled; her voice was wavering like her hand, edgy and intimate at the same time, the desperate energy of a crazy person.

He glanced down at the notebook, anchoring himself. “Is that what you want? To talk about old times?”

“Yes, a little,” she said in English. “Please. It’s important for them.” Her eyes moved to the guards again, then fixed back on him, steady, not crazy. A girl getting away with something. “So,” she said in her German voice, “what happened to everybody? Do you know?”

When he didn’t answer, still disconcerted, she reached over to touch his hand. “Tell me.”

“Hal went back to the States,” he began, confused, watching her. “At least, he was on his way the last time I saw him.” She nodded, encouraging him to go on. “Remember Hannelore? She’s here, in Berlin. I saw her. Thinner. She kept his flat.” The small talk of catching up. What did the guards make of it, standing under Stalin?

Renate nodded, taking another cigarette. “They were lovers.”

“So she said. I never knew.”

“Well, I was a better reporter.”

“The best,” he said, smiling a little, involuntarily drawn back with her. “Nothing escaped you.” He stopped, embarrassed, in the room again.

“No. It’s a talent,” she said, looking away. “And you? What happened to you?”

“I write for magazines.”

“No more radio. And your voice was so good.”

“Renate, we need to—”

“And Lena?” she said, ignoring him. “She’s alive?”

Jake nodded. “She’s here. With me.”

Her face softened. “I’m happy for you. So many years. She left the husband?”

“She will, when they find him. He’s missing.”

“When who finds him?”

“The Americans want him to work for them-a scientist. He’s a valuable piece of property.”

“Is he?” she said to herself, intrigued by this. “And always so quiet. How things turn out.” She looked back at him. “So they’re all still alive.”

“Well, I haven’t heard from Nanny Wendt.”

“Nanny Wendt,” she said, her voice distant, in a kind of reverie. “I used to think about all of you. From that time. You know, I was happy. I loved the work. You did that for me. No German would do that, not then. Even off the books. I wondered, sometimes, why you did. Not even Jewish. You could have been arrested.”