Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“All right.”

She smiled, then her face twitched, the skin falling slack, as if she were about to weep again, finally drained of all composure. “Then it’s over.”

Before he could react, she moved around the table to Jake and, while the guard stuffed cigarettes into his pocket, put her arms around him, almost falling into him. He stood awkwardly, catching her, not really embracing her, feeling her bones sticking through the smock, brittle enough to snap. She hugged him once, then turned her mouth up to his ear, hidden from the guard. “Thank you. He’s my life.”

She stepped back and let the guard take her arm, but put her other hand on Jake’s chest, pulling at the cloth. “But never tell him. Please.”

When the guard tugged her arm, she went with him, looking over her shoulder at Jake, trying to smile, but the walk was clumsy, a halfhearted, forced shuffle, not even a trace of the lively steps he remembered on the platform.

Burgstrasse was only a few blocks west of the Alex, but he drove, feeling safer in the jeep. There’d be no point in stopping, but he had to see if it was there at all, not some lie, a last attempt to keep playing the angles. The street was across the open sewer of the Spree from the smashed-in cathedral, but part of Number 26 was still standing, just as she’d said, flying a red flag. He passed it slowly, pretending to be lost. Thick walls, stripped now of plaster, a heavy entrance door blocked by guards with Asiatic faces-the familiar Russian hierarchy, Mongols at the bottom. Behind it all, somewhere, Emil looking out a window. But how could Shaeffer get in? A raid in the middle of Berlin, bullets zinging over Lena’s head? Impossible without some trick. But that was his specialty; let him plan it. At least now they knew. Renate’s last catch, her part of the bargain. He stopped near the end of the street to check his wallet-enough money for Frau Metzger until he could get Fleischman to come. One final payment, off the books.

The Prenzlauer building was an old tenement block, three courtyards deep. He followed Renate’s instructions to the second, strung with laundry, then up two flights of murky stairs lighted by a hole some shell had punched through the ceiling. He had to knock a few times before the door finally opened a suspicious crack.

“Frau Metzger? I’ve come about Erich.”

“ You’ve come? And what’s the matter with her, too busy?” She opened the door. “It’s about time. Does she think I’m made of money? Nothing since June, nothing on account. How am I supposed to feed anyone? A boy needs to eat.”

“I’ll pay for what she owes,” Jake said, taking out his wallet.

“So now she’s found an American. Well, it’s not my affair. Better than a Russian, at least. Lots of chocolate for you now,” she said, turning to a child standing near the table. About four, Jake guessed, skinny legs in short pants, with Renate’s dark eyes, but larger, almost too large for the face, wide now in alarm. “Come on, let’s get your things. Don’t be afraid, he’s your mother’s friend,” she said, not unkind but brusque, then turned back to Jake. “Her friend. She’s a fine one. While the rest of us- No, it’s too much,” she said, looking at the money. “She only owes for two months. I’m not a thief. Only what’s owed. I’ll get his things.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll send somebody for him. I can’t take him today.”

“What do you mean? She’s not dead, is she?”

“No.”

“Then he goes now. I’m going to my sister. You think I’m staying here, with the Russians? I’ll give her one more week, I said, and then- But anyway, here you are, so it’s all right. Come. I won’t be a minute. There’s not much. Get me clothing coupons, I told her, but did she? No, not her. She couldn’t come herself? She has to send an Ami? You can see how he’s frightened. Well, he never says much. Say hello, Erich. Ouf.” She waved her hand. “Well, he’s like that.”

The boy stared at him silently. Not fear, a numb curiosity, an animal waiting to see what would happen to him.

“But I can’t take him today.”

“Yes, today. I waited and waited. You can’t expect—” She began emptying a drawer, putting things in a string bag. “The war’s over, you know. What does she expect? Here. I told you, there’s not much.”

She handed him the bag, past arguing.

Jake pulled out his wallet again. “But I can’t-let me pay you something extra.”

“A gift? Well, that’s very nice,” she said, taking it. “So maybe she’s lucky now. You see, Erich, he’s all right. You’ll be fine. Come, give auntie a hug.”

She bent down, barely clasping him, an indifferent sendoff. How long had they been together? The boy stood, not moving. “Go on,” she said, giving him a little push. “Go to your mother.”

The boy jerked forward. Jake looked at her hand on the boy’s shoulder, stung, his heart dulled by every terrible thing he’d heard in Berlin and now moved finally by this, a single moment of casual cruelty. What had happened to everybody?

The boy took a step, looking down. Frau Metzger flicked through Jake’s bills, then shoved them in her apron pocket.

“That’s all you can say to him?” Jake said. “Just like that? He’s a child.”

“What do you know about it?” she said, eyes flashing. “I took care of him, didn’t I? While she had her good times. I earned every mark. And how long will you last, I wonder. Well, tell her not to come back when it’s over-the hotel is closed.” She had reached the door and held it open, then looked down at Erich with a twinge of embarrassment. “I did the best I could. You, you be a good boy, don’t forget. Don’t forget your auntie.”

And then they were in the hall, the door closing behind them, a soft click, maybe the only thing the boy wouldn’t forget, a click of the door. They stood motionless for a second, and then the boy lifted his hand, still not speaking, just waiting to be led away.

It was no better in the jeep. He sat quietly, passive, watching the streets go by, like the children from Silesia. Down the gentle slope of Schonhauserallee, then out past the pockmarked walls of the schloss to the Linden. Bicycles and soldiers. The plane wreckage in the Tiergarten. Registering everything without a word. He took Jake’s hand again on the walk from Savignyplatz.

“My god, who’s this?” Lena said.

“Another one for Fleischman. Erich.”

“But where did you—”

“He’s Renate’s child. You remember, from the office?”

“Renate? But I thought all the Jews—”

He stopped her. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. First let’s get him to the church.”

“First some food, I think,” she said, kneeling down. “Look how thin. You’re hungry? Don’t be afraid, it’s safe here. Do you like cheese?”

She led him over to the table and brought out a small block of rubbery PX cheese. The boy looked at it warily.

“It’s real,” Lena said. “That’s the color it is in America. Here, there’s still some bread. It’s all right-eat.”

He picked up the bread dutifully and took a nibble.

“So Erich, it’s a good name. I knew an Erich once. Dark hair, like yours.” She reached over and touched it. “It’s good, the bread? Here, try some more.” She broke off a piece and offered it to him by hand, gently, the way you would feed a stray. “See, I told you. Now some cheese.”

She fed him for a few minutes, until he began to eat on his own, taking in the food as quietly as the sights on the drive. She looked up at Jake. “Where is she?”

Jake shook his head, a not-in-front-of-the-child gesture. “He’s been living with a woman in Prenzlauer. I think he’s had a rough time. He doesn’t say much.”