Alex shook his head, playing with her. “No, the same.”
But she wasn’t the same. Up close he could see the years, the sparkling eyes duller now, worn. Her face was thinner and yet somehow fuller, the skin slack under her chin, a little puffy.
“You see, Sasha?” she said to the Russian next to her. “It must be true. He knows me longer than anybody.”
“I believe it,” he said genially, then offered his hand. “Alexander Markovsky. Welcome to Berlin.”
“Two Alexanders. All my men Alexanders. So confusing. So, Sasha, Alex,” she said, pointing in turn.
Markus shifted on his feet.
“Markus, you’re here too? How nice.” She held out her hand. “Alex, you remember Kurt’s brother?”
“We’ve just been talking.”
“Oh, about old times?” she said airily, but wanting to know.
“What happened to everyone,” Alex said. “It’s such a long time.”
“Not always a pleasant story,” Markus said.
“Who said history would be pleasant?” Brecht said, drawing on the cigar stub, still going.
“But a homecoming is pleasant,” Markovsky said, steering back to Alex.
“Yes, and now famous,” Irene said. “My old friend.” The voice husky again as she repeated the phrase.
“An honor for the Kulturbund,” Martin said.
“But if you’re an old friend,” Fritsch said to Irene, “get him to come work for us.”
“Ouf, use my influence. What influence?” Then, looking up at Alex, “He doesn’t listen to me now. It’s too long ago.” Two conversations, one for the room.
“He will. Everyone does what Irene says,” Fritsch said, party chat.
“It’s better. In the end,” Markovsky said, the same easy tone.
Alex looked at him. Fleshy, but not fat, blunt hands. A wife in Moscow. Trying to be pleasant, not an occupier, the horrors of ’45 someone else’s bad behavior. Holding Irene’s arm in his, her protector. What had it been like, at the mercy of the Russians? Frau, komme. Sometimes several in one night, gangs of them.
“It’s not true,” Irene said. “No one does what I say.”
“I will,” Brecht said, dipping his head.
“Good. Then get me a ticket for Courage, yes? Opening night. Already people say it’s impossible.”
“Ah, for that you have to ask Helene,” Brecht said.
“You see?” Irene said. “No one.”
“You work together?” Alex said to Fritsch.
“Yes. Well, not so much anymore. But during the war—”
“Kolberg. We worked together on Kolberg. My God.”
Alex waited.
“Goebbels’s last big production,” Markus said, intending a barb, but instead prompting a survivor’s nostalgia.
“How crazy was that time,” Fritsch said. “The Allies are advancing and we’re staging battles. Uniforms. Cannons. Heinrich George in the lead—his salary alone. And the bombing is going on round the clock then.”
“And no film stock,” Irene said.
“No. And what does she do? She tells the director to keep shooting anyway. So week after week we shot scenes but there’s nothing in the camera.”
“Why?” Markovsky said.
“The crew,” Irene said. “They would have been drafted. To defend Berlin. But as long as we’re shooting, they’re in an essential industry. Essential. Kolberg. Well, so at least it was good for that.”
“You saved their lives,” Fritsch said.
“Well, not me.”
“It was a propaganda film?” Markus said.
“They were all propaganda films,” Fritsch said. “It was wartime. Even Zarah Leander films—propaganda. The wife waiting at home? How many did? And Kolberg? A German victory. Just around the corner. Except when it opened—January, that last January of the war—there were no theaters left, almost none. All bombed. So all that expense—”
“You found the stock then to finish?” Markus said.
“It was already finished. We just kept filming to save the crew. She might have been shot,” Fritsch said. “So it was a great thing, what she did.”
“Oh—” Irene said, waving this off.
“Your husband was in the crew, yes?” Markus said. “Makeup, someone told me.”
“That’s right,” she said, looking at him.
“Maybe that explains the lipstick,” he said. “So difficult to get now. But maybe you had a good supply. From the old days. Your husband.”
“No,” she said, touching her lip. “This? A present.”
“Yes, a present,” Markovsky repeated, aware finally of Markus’s tone.
Markus took a step backward, as if someone were about to raise a hand to him, his body wound tight.
“Of course,” he said. “Lipstick wouldn’t last so long, would it?” Not sure how to walk away from it.
Brecht, who’d been quiet, said, “Thank God for the black market. Where would our women be without it?”
“Bert,” Irene said quickly, darting her eyes toward Markovsky, “don’t be silly. Sasha doesn’t go on the black market. It’s from Russia.”
But Markovsky missed most of this, focused now on Markus. “I’m sorry, you are—?”
“Markus Engel.” A military response, erect, without the salute.
“Ah, K-5. Under Mielke, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Markus said, both pleased and wary that Markovsky knew who he was.
“What happened this morning?” Meant to be an aside, but loud enough for Alex to hear.
“We’re investigating,” Markus said, voice low, reluctant, waiting to be dressed down.
“Such carelessness,” Markovsky said, in charge. “Whose idea was that? And now the British. Making protests. All day, on the phone. Directly to Maltsev. You can imagine how pleased he is. So who answers for that? Formal protests.”
“About what?” Alex said, unable to resist.
“Oh,” Markovsky said, turning, checking himself. “The usual foolishness. Our allies refuse to accept the reality of the situation here, so they like to make difficulties. Isn’t that right, Engel?” The tone dismissive, a question to a servant.