Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“Well, it*s not so important, is it, to talk?” she said to the boy. “Sometimes I’m quiet too, when things are new. We’ll have something to eat, then maybe a little rest. You must be tired. All the way from Prenzlauer.”

The boy was nodding at her, reassured, Jake saw, by her German, familiar, without Jake’s accent.

“We should get him to Fleischman,” Jake said. “It’s getting late.”

“There’s plenty of time,” she said easily, then turned. “But if she’s alive- You’re taking him from his mother? To Fleischman?”

“I promised her I’d find a place. I’ll explain later,” he said, feeling the boy’s eyes on him.

Lena offered him another piece of cheese. “It’s good, yes? There’s more-take as much as you like. Then we’ll sleep, what do you say?” Her voice soft, lulling.

“Lena,” Jake said, “he can’t stay here. We can’t—”

“Yes, I know,” she said, not really hearing it. “But for one night. That basement. You can see how tired he is. It’s all strange for him. You know my name?” she said to the boy. “It’s Lena.” She yawned, an exaggerated gesture, raising her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so tired too.”

“Lena,” Jake said. “You know what I mean.”

She looked at him. “Yes, I know. It’s just for tonight. What’s the matter with you? You can’t send him away like this. Look at his eyes. Men.”

But the eyes were still wide, not drooping, moving from one to the other as if he were making a decision. Finally he fixed them on Jake, got up, and came over to him, lifting his hand again. For a second, confused, Jake thought he was asking to leave, but then he spoke, surprisingly clear after the long silence.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said, holding out his hand.

Lena smiled, laughing softly to herself. “Well, you’re good for that,” she said as Jake led him, two men, to the toilet.

After that there was nothing to do but let her take charge, whatever he’d planned slipping away like a card move turned by an unexpected joker in the deck. From the table, he could see her settle the boy on the bed, running her hand over his forehead and talking softly, a low, steady stream of words. He lit a cigarette, restless, then glanced at his notebook. Renate being picked up in the cafe, an idle flirtation, the greifers greifer. The story Ron wanted him to share. He looked again into the bedroom, where Lena was still talking the boy to sleep, and, not knowing what else to do, started putting the notes in order to block out the story, wondering how to tell it without the one thing that had really mattered. But when he took a sheet of paper, it seemed to frame itself, opening with Marthe Behn, then dissolving to the first cafe and working its way back, one sinking twist after another, to the moment of the nod. Not an apologia; something more complicated, a crime story where everyone was guilty. He wrote in a rush, wanting to get it done, as if it would all go away once it was on paper, just words. The shoes, the mother, Hans Becker, trading favors. Still beyond belief. What had happened to everybody? A city where he used to drink beer under trees. How many had even looked up in the cafe when the men arrived? Not accomplices, people looking the other way. Except Renate, who still saw the faces.

He’d been writing for a while, lost in it, before he realized that the murmuring in the bedroom had stopped, the only sound in the flat the faint scratch of his pen. Lena was standing in the doorway watching him, a tired smile on her face.

“He’s asleep,” she said. “You’re working?”

“I wanted to get it done while it’s fresh.”

“Sewing with a hot needle,” she said, a German expression. She sat down across from him, taking one of the cigarettes. “I don’t think he’s well. I want Rosen to look at him, just in case. I saw him again today- he’s always here, it seems.”

“He takes care of the girls.”

“Oh,” she said, a little flustered. “I didn’t realize. Still, a doctor—”

“Lena, we can’t keep him. You don’t want to get attached.”

“Yes, I know. But for one night—” She stopped, looking at him. “That’s the terrible part, isn’t it? Nobody’s attached to him. Nobody. I thought, standing over there, it’s a little like a family. You working like this, him sleeping.”

“We’re not his family,” he said, but gently.

“No,” she said, letting it go. “So tell me about Renate. What happened? He won’t hear now.”

“Here,” he said, moving the papers across the table. “It’s all there.”

He got up and went over to the brandy bottle and poured two glasses. He set hers down, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the page.

“She told you this?” she said, reading.

“Yes.”

“My god.” A slow turn of the page.

When she finished, she pushed the papers back, then took a sip from the glass.

“You don’t mention the child.”

“She doesn’t want anybody to know. Especially the child.”

“But nobody will know why she did it.”

“Does it matter, what people think? The fact is, she did it.”

“For the child. You do anything for your child.”

“That’s what she said,” he said, slightly jarred. “Lena, this is what she wanted. She doesn’t want him to know.”

“Who he is.”

“That would be a hell of a thing to carry around with you, wouldn’t it? All this,” he said, touching the paper. “He’s better off this way. He’ll never have to know any of it.”

“Not to know your parents—” she said, brooding.

“Sometimes it can’t be helped.”

She looked up at him, then put her hands on the table to get up. “Yes, sometimes,” she said, turning away. “Do you want something to eat? I can fix—”

“No. Sit. I have some news.” He paused. “Renate saw Emil. She told me where he is.”

She stopped, halfway out of her chair. “You waited to tell me this?”

“There wasn’t time, with the boy.”

She sat down. “So it’s come. Where?”

“The Russians are holding him in a building in Burgstrasse.”

“Burgstrasse,” she said, trying to place it.

“In the east. It’s guarded. I went to see it.”

“And?”

“And it’s guarded. You don’t just walk in.”

“So what do we do?”

“We don’t do anything. We let Shaeffer’s team handle it-they’re experts at this.”

“Experts at what?”

“Kidnapping. That’s what it will mean. The Russians aren’t going to hand him over-they probably won’t even admit they have him. So Shaeffer needs to figure out a way. He wanted to use you. Kind of a decoy.”

She looked down at the table, taking this in, then picked up the glass and finished her brandy.

“Yes, all right,” she said.

“All right what?”

“I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t. People go to the Russians, they don’t always come back. I’m not taking that risk. This is a military operation, Lena.”

“We can’t leave him there. He came for me-he risked his life. I owe him this much.”

“You don’t owe him this.”

“But Russians—”

“I told you, I’ll talk to Shaeffer. If anybody can get him, he can. He wants him. He’s been waiting for this.”

“And you don’t, is that it? You don’t want him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

She reached over. “You can’t leave him there. Not with the Russians. I won’t.”

“A few weeks ago you thought he was dead.”

“But he’s not. So now it’s this. You were the detective, looking everywhere. So you found him. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It was.”

“But not now?”

“Not if it’s dangerous for you.”