Joseph Kanon - A Good German

“I believe it’s General Clay’s intention to combine the organizations,” Ron said.

“Good,” Breimer said, annoyed at being interrupted. “That’s a start. And here’s a whole other group just for Berlin.”

“Well, you know, the city’s jointly administered, so there’s no way around that,” Ron said, still on his chart. “The Coordinating Committee set up the Kommandatura to deal with Berlin. That’s Howley-we see him tomorrow after Clay.”

“Kommandatura,” Breimer said. “That the Russian name?”

“More international than Russian, I think,” Ron said, evading. “Everyone agreed to it.”

Breimer snorted. “The Russians. I’ll tell you one thing. We don’t get these people back on their feet, the Russians’ll come in, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that’s one way to stop the drain on the American taxpayer,” Tommy said. “Let Ivan pick up the tab.”

Breimer glowered at him. “That’s not all he’ll pick up. Well, have your fun, have your fun,” he said, sitting back. “I suppose I’m making speeches again and ruining the party. My wife’s always telling me I don’t know when to stop.” He gave a calculated smile, meant to disarm. “It’s just, you know, I hate to see waste. That’s one thing you learn in business.” He glanced again at Tommy. “To be a realist.” He shook his head. “Four Ds. We ought to be putting these people to work, not giving them handouts and breaking up their companies and wasting our time looking for Nazis under every bed.”

A plate crashed, like a punctuation mark, and everyone turned to the door. The old man, distraught, was looking at the floor, held at the elbow by the short, wiry American who had just bumped into him. For a second no one moved, suspended in a stopped piece of film, then the reel caught again and they tumbled forward into a kind of slapstick, the gray-haired woman rushing out, hands to her cheeks, the old man moaning, the American apologizing in German. When he bent down to help with the pieces, the files under his arm slid onto the floor in a heap of papers and broken crockery. More excited German, a fuss too elaborate, Jake thought, to be about a plate-the fear, perhaps, of losing a job with its one hot meal a day. Finally the woman shooed both men away from the china and, with a bow, pulled back a chair for the late arrival.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” he said to the quiet room, busy stacking files on the table. He had a terrier’s sharp nose and nervous energy, his face covered with a dark five-o’clock shadow he hadn’t had time to shave. Even the air around him seemed to be running late, his tie loosened from its open collar by the same hurried gust.

“Congressman, your three o’clock tomorrow,” Ron said wryly. Captain Teitel, Public Safety Division. Bernie, Congressman Breimer.“

“Pleased to meet you,” Teitel said quickly, extending his hand and almost colliding again with a plate of stew the serving man had brought. Jake watched, amused, as the old man hesitated behind him, waiting for a safe opening.

“Public Safety,” Breimer said. “That’s police?”

“Among other things. I’m de-Nazification-the guy wasting our time looking under the beds,” Teitel said.

“Ah,” Breimer said, unsure how to proceed. Then he stood.

“No, don’t get up.”

Breimer smiled, pointing to the tall soldier standing at the door. “My ride.”

But Bernie wasn’t ready to let go. “Frankfurt tells me you have a problem with the program,” he said, lowering his head as if preparing to ram.

Breimer looked down at him, ready for another heckler, but Tommy had wearied him. “No problem,” he said, mollifying. “Just a few questions. I’m sure you’re all doing a fine job.”

“We’d be doing a better one if we had more staff.”

Breimer smiled. “That seems to be the general complaint here. Everybody I meet wants another secretary.”

“I don’t mean secretaries. Trained investigators.”

The old man now slid the plate between them onto the table and backed away, as if sensing that they were squaring off.

“Well, we’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Breimer said, preparing to go. “I’m here to learn. Afraid I can’t do anything about personnel, though-that’s up to MG.”

“I thought you were writing some kind of report.”

Breimer held up a wait-a-second finger to his driver. “No. Just making sure we’re keeping our priorities straight.”

“This is apriority.”

Breimer smiled again, back on familiar ground. “Well, that’s what every department says. But you know, we can’t do everything.” He indicated the organization chart. “Sometimes I think we let our good intentions run away with us.” He put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder, an uncle giving advice. “We can’t put a whole country on trial.”

“No, just the guilty ones,” Bernie said, looking at him steadily.

Breimer dropped his hand, the easy get-away lost. “That’s right, just the guilty ones.” He looked back at Bernie. “We don’t want to start some kind of inquisition over here. The American people don’t want that.”

“Really? What do we want?” Bernie said, using the pronoun as a jab. ‹›Breimer stepped back. “I think we all want the same thing,” he said evenly “To get this country going again. That’s the important thing now. You can’t do that by locking everybody up. The worst cases, yes. Get the big boys and put them on trial-I’m all for it. But then we’ve got to move on, not chase all the small fry.” He paused, avuncular again. “We don’t want people to think a minority is using this program to get revenge.” He shook his head. “We don’t want that.” The voice of the Kiwanis Club lunch, bland and sure of itself. In the awkward silence, Jake could feel Tommy shift in his chair, leaning forward to see Bernie’s response.

“We’re an even smaller minority here,” Bernie said calmly. “Most of us are dead.”

“I didn’t mean you personally, of course.”

“Just all the other Jews in the program. But we speak the language, some of us-one of life’s little ironies-so you’re stuck with us. I was born here. If my parents hadn’t left in ‘thirty-three, I’d be dead too. Personally. So I think this is a priority.” He touched the pile of papers on the table. “I’m sorry if it interferes with economic recovery. As far as I’m concerned, you can file that under T for ’too bad.‘ I’m a DA back home, that’s why they tapped me for this. DAs don’t get revenge. Half the time, we’re lucky to get a little justice.”

Breimer, who had turned red during this, sputtered, “I didn’t mean—”

“Save it. I know what you mean. I don’t want to join your country club anyway. Just send me more staff and we’ll call it quits.” He pulled the chair beneath him and sat down, cocking his head toward the door. “I think your driver’s waiting.”

Breimer stood still for a moment, furious, then visibly collected himself and nodded to the quiet table. “Gentlemen.” He looked down at Bernie. “We’ll talk tomorrow, captain. I hope I’ll be better understood.”

The entire table watched him go. Jake looked around, waiting for someone to speak, feeling the room grow warmer, as if the quiet were letting in the sticky night air. Finally Muller, staring at his glass, said dryly, “He’s here to learn.”

Tommy smiled at him and lit a cigarette. “I wonder what he’s really doing here. Guy doesn’t take a leak unless American Dye tells him to go to the bathroom.”

“Hey, Tommy,” Ron said, “do me a favor. Lay off. I’m the one who gets the complaints.”

“What’ll you do for me?”

But the earlier mood was gone, replaced by something uncomfortable, and even Ron no longer wanted to play.