“Well, the Russians. But you see things in Richie’s books now, so you wonder what they’re getting in the schools. The evils of capitalism, all right, fine, plenty of those to go around, I agree, but lynching—are we talking about the same place?” She looked back. “But it’s better than having his father in jail. And things’ll improve.”
“They might even have lipstick soon,” he said lightly.
She flushed, as if she’d been caught at something. “I can’t believe I said that. Lipstick when—”
“No, it’s nice to see a woman looking her best. Even Socialist ones,” he said, harmless party talk, then saw that she had taken it as a pass, her eyes moving to the room.
“Is your wife here?”
“No, she’s—in the States. We’re separated.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Because of this—you coming here?”
“Because of a lot of things.”
“They never talk about that, the strain it puts on people. Do you testify? Do you cooperate? What it does to the families. Always wondering. Are they watching? Friends of ours, they’d see a car parked outside—so, FBI? How do you know? It’s the strain.”
He looked at her, at a loss, not what he had meant, but now Martin joined them, slightly shiny from the wine.
“There you are. I have to steal him for a few minutes. You don’t mind? Anna’s here,” he said, lowering his voice.
He led Alex across the room, his bad leg skipping over the floor, to a woman talking to a small circle of men. Anna Seghers was shorter than Alex had expected but otherwise the same woman he’d seen in jacket photos for years. Her hair was white now, pulled back around her head, a halo effect that made her seem radiant. Martin, clearly dazzled, presented Alex as if she were granting him an audience, a gn?dige Frau. Alex dipped his head as he took her hand.
“Oh, I’m not as grand as that,” she said easily. “Or as old. How nice to meet you finally. Not just in your books. Welcome home.”
“And you not just in yours.”
“Tell me, did you have anything to do with the film they made of The Seventh Cross? They said every German in Hollywood had a hand in the script.”
“Not this one,” Alex said, holding his hands up. “All clean.”
Seghers laughed. “Good. Now we can be friends. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It was very nice to have the money. Even in Mexico money doesn’t go very far. So, a godsend. And how are you getting on here?”
“I’ve just arrived. Literally. Last night.”
“The first few days, it’s difficult,” she said, her voice warm, confiding. “When you see Berlin now. The trick is to see what it’s going to be. Germany without Fascism. Sometimes I thought I would never see that. I hoped, but— And now it’s here. So never mind the mess, you can always clear bricks away. Fascists were a little harder, no?”
“You sure they’re all gone?”
“Well, it’s like weeds, always there. So you get new soil, not so good for them. Change the economic system and they don’t grow so well.”
“Maybe they become something else.”
She looked at him, interested. “Maybe. Let’s talk about this. Not here. You have to meet a hundred people. Say nice things. The same nice things. I know how it is. But maybe you’ll come see me? Come for tea and we can talk all afternoon. About what the Fascists become. Martin, you’ll tell him where?” Meeting everyone, just as Willy said. A true believer, used for ribbon cutting.
Martin nodded, impressed, the invitation clearly an honor.
“Ach, there’s Brecht,” she said, noticing him across the room. “Poking, poking with the finger. More mischief. He thinks he’s eighteen years old still. Well, maybe that’s the answer, he is. You knew him in America?”
“Yes.”
“Not a happy time for him. He says. Imagine what it was for Helene. But of course he doesn’t. Imagine it. And now making everyone dance. First this, then that. Now he wants a car and a driver. When everything is so difficult for people, scarcely enough to go around, he wants a car and a driver. Like a—” She searched for the word.
“Great dramatist.”
Now it was Seghers who smiled. “I look forward to our tea. Come this week. You’re free?”
Alex opened his hands.
“We have a few things scheduled,” Martin said, playing secretary.
“The Kulturbund,” Seghers said, an indulgent glance to Martin. “They hate to see us actually write. Fill the days, fill the days.”
“It’s lunch with Dymshits.”
“Well, then you must go. Our masters.” She put a hand on Alex’s arm. “It won’t always be like this. An occupied country. Now they can do what they like—take away factories, anything. Well, so it’s the spoils. It’s difficult for the German Party, people think we’re lackeys, but what else can we do? Wait. And one day, it’s a German government. And at least when they leave, they leave a workers’ state. A German idea. Marx always had Germany in mind. I often wonder, how would it have been if it had happened here, not Russia. Well, we’ll see.” She stopped, cutting herself off. Did Campbell, anyone, really want to hear all this? Just static in the air. “Go have your lunch with Dymshits. He’s a cultivated man. Brecht says he reminds him of Irving Thalberg.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Brecht never knew Thalberg. He was dead before Brecht got there. Years before.”
Seghers snorted. “Typical Bert. So your wife is here? I’d like to meet—”
Alex shook his head. “In America. She’s American.”
“Ah,” Seghers said, looking at him, shuffling through stories, reluctant to ask. “Maybe later. When things are easier here.”
“Yes, maybe later.” A harmless lie, closing things off.
He felt someone hovering at his side and turned. A young man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, neatly combed hair.
“So you don’t recognize me.”
Alex stared, trying to imagine the face fifteen years ago. Serious, sharp-edged now, not a hint of the youthful fuzziness he must have had in old school pictures. “I’m sorry.”
“No? Well, who remembers the younger brother? There’s a clue.”
Another look.
“Never mind. I don’t blame you. I was ten years old. So things have changed.” He held out his hand. “Markus Engel.”