“You want to interview him? RIAS? A man who left America?”
“No, I wanted to be sure he’s really here. The news can be so unreliable these days. And of course to pay my respects.” This to Alex, with another dip of his head. “The Last Fence. An important book for us. You must know that.”
“Thank you.”
“He is not giving interviews to RIAS,” Markus said.
“Not now, no. I don’t expect that. Perhaps later. Meanwhile, you can listen to the music. Everybody does. Even in Karlshorst, I hear. The Russians listen to us.”
“Nonsense. What do you mean, perhaps later?”
“Well, he’s here now. Under your protection,” he said to Markus. “Let’s see for how long. A man who writes The Last Fence.”
“I’ve come to stay,” Alex said quickly, before Markus could answer for him.
“I know why you’re here,” Ferber said, looking at him, and for a second Alex stopped breathing, not sure if something else was being said. RIAS a natural cover. “A strange time in America. Some excesses, maybe.” He turned to Markus. “You know how that can be.” Then, back to Alex, “But as I say, you may change your mind, and that would be an interesting story for us. Meanwhile you are welcome to visit anytime.” He nodded to the card. “Come have coffee, see the station. If you can travel. He’s allowed?”
“Everyone’s allowed to travel in Berlin,” Markus said, annoyed. “Look at you. In the Russian sector. Who stops you?”
“Good,” Ferber said to Alex, aware he was needling Markus by ignoring him. “Then I hope you will come. I knew your father a little. At the university. It would be a pleasure to talk. Maybe you could explain it, why you— Well, we’ll save it for the coffee.” He shook hands, a good-bye. “Markus, I’ll do a favor for you. No need to turn the Kulturbund upside down. No one brought me. I just came. Not very gracious, I know, an uninvited guest, but I drank very little, so it’s not too bad. So now maybe you’ll tell me something. The men in Lützowplatz this morning. You’ve made an identification yet? Not the American, the Germans. All Karlshorst will say is ‘Not yet identified.’ Of course, records are not so complete since—”
“The accident, you mean?” Alex said, assuming a puzzled expression, waiting for Markus’s response.
“An accident with guns?” Ferber said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, a Berlin accident. So, ‘Not yet’?”
“Not yet.” Markus paused. “Lützowplatz. The British sector. Why ask Karlshorst? What makes you think they’re from the East?”
Ferber looked at him. “Just a guess. Well, thank you for your hospitality.”
“What did he mean, with guns?” Alex said when he left.
“I don’t know,” Markus said, shrugging this off. “Some joke of his. He’s a great one for making jokes. Coming here like that. Be careful of him.”
“Him too?”
“I say these things only to help you. You’re new to Berlin—not the old one, this one. If you broadcast for him, it would be a provocation.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going on the radio. Anywhere. Just the men’s room. Would you excuse me for a moment?” Anxious to be out of it. How much longer? He looked around.
“Let me show you,” Martin said, suddenly there, or perhaps there all along.
“I can find—”
“Please,” Martin said, beginning to escort him, a bobbing motion, dragging his bad foot.
“You really don’t have to—”
They were already out of the room, just under the portrait of Goethe.
“Herr Meier, a word?” Martin said, his voice lower, almost conspiratorial. “Herr Engel, he’s an old friend?”
“Not really. I knew his brother. He was a child—”
“You know he’s state security?”
“Markus?” Alex said, pretending to be surprised. And then, curious, “A German?”
“They have a special department for Germans. Now under the police. But when the Russians leave—”
“Thanks for letting me know. I don’t think I said anything—”
“It’s not a question of that. You’re free to say what you like,” he said simply. “It’s not Gestapo here anymore.”
“Then why the red flag?”
Martin licked his lips, hesitating. “The Kulturbund. It’s a very free atmosphere, as you see. Sometimes the police misinterpret.” He looked up. “You don’t want to say anything that might—”
“No, I don’t want to do that.” He looked around the old club. “Do the walls have ears too?”
“What?” Martin said, confused by the idiom.
“Nothing. Has there been some trouble with Markus?”
“No, no,” Martin said quickly. “It’s just something—to know.”
Alex looked at him. Part of the air he breathed.