“Yes, Major. Exactly.”
Alex watched, fascinated, as Markus looked away, embarrassed, then back to Irene, who had seen this, then finally to Markovsky again, dismayed at his own impotence.
“But usually it’s not the British,” Markovsky said, making the conversation general. “In the end, realists. Not like our American friends. You were a long time there.”
“And an even longer time here. Before,” Alex said smoothly. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you,” Markovsky said, playing host.
Markus glanced at Alex, annoyed, as if Markovsky had slipped his arm through Alex’s, one more protected, off-limits.
“I must say good night,” Markus said, formal.
“I never see you,” Irene said, giving her hand, the only one who seemed to notice his leaving. “So busy you are always.”
“What did you think of America?” Markovsky said to Alex.
“They took me in. When the Nazis— You don’t forget that.”
“And then threw you out again,” Brecht said.
Alex smiled. “And then threw me out.”
“Well, so it’s good for us,” Markovsky said, making an effect. “And now back with old friends. You were sweethearts maybe?” Half teasing.
“No, never sweethearts,” Irene said, looking at Alex. “Something else.” Then, quickly, “Anyway Elsbeth was the pretty one. So there was no chance for me.” She looked again at Alex.
“Elsbeth,” Markovsky said.
“My sister.”
“Two of them,” Markovsky said, shaking his head, an affectionate joke.
“And Alex, you know, was so serious. A writer, even then. You had to watch what you said. You know we’re in a book? My father said it was another family, but it was us.”
“And what were you like? In the book,” Markovsky said, familiar.
“Like I am. Well, like I was. A long time ago now.”
“People don’t change.”
“No? Maybe. But the world does.” She looked at Alex. “You remember the old house.”
“I went to see it. This morning.”
She nodded. “It’s sad, to think of it like that. But you know he sold it to the Nazis, so—”
“To the Reichsbank. A man told me.”
“Yes, the bank. So at least no one else ever lived there. Just us.”
“Junkers,” Brecht said. “Are we supposed to be sentimental?”
“No, polite,” Markovsky said, turning to him.
“Oh, Bert, he’s never polite,” Irene said easily. “Are you, darling? It’s part of his art.”
Brecht took this and held on, a social lifesaver. “I still can’t get you a ticket,” he said, almost winking. “But what about a drink instead?”
“A drink also,” Irene volleyed back, putting her finger on his chest.
Brecht bowed, a waiter’s gesture, and left with Fritsch.
“It’s just the way he talks,” Irene said to Markovsky. “And you know, he’s right. There’s no reason to be sentimental. I never liked the house anyway.”
“But your family’s house—” Markovsky said, and Alex realized that it was part of her appeal for him, someone who’d known that life.
“Ouf. It was like here,” she said, waving her hand. “A museum. But the country house I always liked. And now that’s gone too.”
“Fritz sold it?” Alex said.
“No. All the big farms were broken up. After the war. They just took it.”
“Land reform,” Markovsky said, explaining, suddenly uncomfortable. “A more equitable distribution.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you. I’m sure it’s right—give the land to the people who farm it. My father would have sold it anyway, so what’s the difference? It would still be gone. Don’t worry, I forgive you,” she said, teasing.
“She forgives me. I’m the politburo,” Markovsky said, but smiling, charmed.
Alex looked at them, a life together he knew nothing about.
“Major Markovsky, the telephone.” The bellboy from the Adlon, his eyes fixed on Markovsky, not even a glance to Alex. “They said urgent.”
“Urgent. At this hour?” Markovsky said, checking his watch. “Excuse me a moment. There was some trouble this morning, so maybe it’s that.”
“The phone is here,” the boy said, leading him away, still ignoring Alex.
“So,” Irene said, her voice suddenly her own again, not at a party. “My God, what do I say to you? Why are you here? You leave America and everyone else wants to go there.”
“I had to leave.”
“And the whole world to choose, you come here? Who comes to Berlin?”
“People,” he said, indicating the room. “Brecht.”
“Oh, Bert. He thinks it’s like before. Well, maybe for him. When he was first here, we took a walk up Friedrichstrasse, where the theaters used to be. Gone. I thought, now you’ll see what it’s like. And you know what he says? You see those people looking at us? They know it’s me. So that’s how it is for him.” She paused. “Not for us.”
“Tell me how you are,” he said, looking at her.
“How I am,” she said, flustered. “I’m— I still have the flat. Marienstrasse, by the Charité. The upper floors were hit, but not mine. So. Sasha brings food.”
“And lipstick.”
She looked up at him. “He’s all right, you know. Don’t judge.”
“I wasn’t.”
“No? Well, so maybe it’s me, I judge myself. You think it was so easy to survive here? The bombs every night. The shelters. Nothing to eat. My God, to have a bath. People on the street in dark glasses, wrapped in blankets—for the smoke, you know—I thought it’s some Ufa film, people from space. Except, no, it’s everybody, we’re living like this. And then after, it’s worse—” She stopped. “After a while that’s all you think about. Getting through it. The reckoning? That comes later.” She looked up. “So I go with him. Markus didn’t tell you? He likes to do that, I think. He blames me for Kurt. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I took a gun and went to Spain and shot him and that’s how it happened. And you? Do you still blame me for Kurt?”
“It was a long time ago.”