“Yes,” she said and then for a minute neither of them said anything.
“What about the others? Markus said Elsbeth was a Nazi. Elsbeth?”
“Well, but that husband of hers. A madman. I think he still believes, a little anyway. So of course she does what he says. And now, since the children were—”
“What?”
“He didn’t tell you this? Both killed. A direct hit. She was away from the house and when she came back—the nanny, both boys, in the cellar, where they were supposed to go, but a direct hit. I think she went a little crazy then. You know, ‘If I had been there, they wouldn’t,’ things like that. And now they only have each other, she and Gustav, so whatever he says—”
“Do you see her?”
“Sometimes. When he’s out. Then I don’t have to listen to him. You ought to go. She’d be pleased.”
“And Markus said Erich was—I’m sorry.”
“But at least not dead. I’d know if he were dead. I’d feel it.” Putting a hand to her chest. “He’ll come back.”
“Irene—”
“No, it’s true. You can feel these things. People you know. You don’t believe it? That you can sense—?”
“No.”
“I knew something would happen to Enka.”
“Your husband.”
“I suppose you know all about that too? From Markus? Another black mark against me.”
“He was killed?”
She nodded. “His own fault. But I could feel it, that something would happen. We were in a big shelter in Gesundbrunnen. Why there, I can’t remember. Probably on a tram. They were always diverting the trams, you never knew where you’d end up. And then of course in a raid they’d have to stop. So, there. An old U-Bahn station. Small rooms, where they used to store equipment. Just phosphorus paint for light, a real cave. I knew Enka would hate it. And they had a candle, you know, to tell you when the oxygen was running out. So many people. They’d paint the number on the wall—how many could fit—but it was a joke. Sardines. Hot. And what could you do? Stop breathing to save the air? They put the candle up high, so you’d know when the oxygen was almost gone—the carbon dioxide fills the room from below, that was the idea anyway, but Enka just watched it burning and I knew he would panic. He was a coward about such things. Not everything, but a thing like that—” She stopped, aware that she was becoming lost in the story. “So he did. Panic. Sweating, trying to breathe, you know what that’s like. No one could stop him. At the door, he just pushed them aside. And you know it was a danger to everybody if the door was left open—blast—so they let him go. Of course he was wrong about the candle, there was still air in the room. Another half hour, maybe more. And I just sat there and I knew. I could feel when it happened.”
“A bomb?”
“Shrapnel. Like a knife in the air.” She made a cutting motion with her hand. “So he bled out. Before the all clear. You don’t think you can feel these things? I do.” She paused. “Anyway, and if it’s not true? Then Erich’s dead? Is that better?”
“No.”
“Oh, let’s not talk about these things,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve. “Tell me something from before. A story. You were always good at that. Let’s talk about those times. The way things were before.”
And for a second he saw her then, eyes shining and eager, joking about Fritz, certain that life was on her side. Maybe the way he would always see her, having missed everything else.
“Irene,” he said, at a loss.
“I’m sorry, I have to leave.” Markovsky, suddenly there. What had he overheard? But what was there to overhear? “An emergency.”
“What’s wrong?” Irene said.
“Some trouble. A labor action. Down in Aue,” he said, in a hurry, distracted. “They should have called me earlier. They always leave things too late, and then it’s a mess. I have to go now. My apologies,” he said to Alex.
“Tonight? In the dark? It can’t wait?”
“No. I’ll send a car to take you home.”
“No, no, don’t. It’s not far. Alex can take me home. He’s an old Berliner, he knows the way.”
“A labor action?” Alex said. In a workers’ state, the contradiction its own bad joke.
“Well, it’s always something, you know,” Markovsky said, brushing it off, no details. “One trouble or another. Maybe not so serious in the end. We’ll see.”
“But it’s so far,” Irene said. “At night. Can’t you go in the—”
“No,” Markovsky said, cutting her off. “I’m sorry. Oh, there’s Franz. My apologies again. Anyway, now you can talk about old times, eh?”
“That’s just what we were doing,” Alex said.
“Good, good,” Markovsky said, preoccupied. “The car is ready?” Then a quick kiss to Irene’s hand, public behavior. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And then he was gone, rushing to put out a fire.
“Where’s Aue?”
“Near the Czech border. He goes there sometimes. I don’t know why. He doesn’t tell me things. Work things. Well, maybe I don’t ask either.”
But you have to, Alex thought. How else can I do this? He looked away.
“So shall we do that? Go somewhere and talk about old times?”
“I can’t leave. I’m the guest of honor,” he said, palms out.
“My famous friend,” she said softly, raising her hand to the side of his head, then brushing her fingers over his hair. “Gray. So soon.”
“Just a little.” Feeling her fingers.
“Like your father. Very distinguished. So what has your life been? Safe in America. You have a wife?”
“I did. We’re separated.”
“So. What was she like?”
“She was like you.”
Irene let her hand fall.
“The same hair. She looked like you. A little. But she wasn’t.”
“Don’t.”
“What difference does it make now? It was probably true. My fault, not hers.”
“And what do I say? To something like that.” She looked at him for a moment, unsettled. “Anyway, you don’t mean it.”