“Not all of them.”
“No, so imagine what the survivors are like. Well, we know. Lapdogs. Please don’t arrest me. A wonderful incentive for loyalty. You ask them now, they say it was right that people were taken away. Their colleagues. Anyway, poor Markus. A child. They tell him his mother is an enemy of the people. And after a while you believe them. What choice? Everyone else does. And you want to be like everyone else. It must be true. So that’s how they make a Markus. Show us you’re not her. A model Communist. Sasha says that first group who came back, the German Communists—” She tapped the side of her head. “Nothing here but the Party. You had to watch yourself. Maybe they’d report you.”
“Then Moscow will have nothing to worry about. When they pull out.”
“No, just us. They protect themselves—the rest of us don’t matter. Even Sasha is surprised sometimes, how they go along with everything. As long as it doesn’t touch them.”
“Like what?” Alex said, trying to sound indifferent.
“I don’t know. Labor quotas, things like that. People don’t like to work in the mines. Sasha says it’s difficult, there are never enough.”
“So they force them? Work gangs?”
“No, they pay them. It’s not Siberia. The labor exchanges assign all the workers anyway. That’s how it works—go where you’re needed. But no one likes the mines. So the SED has a hard time filling the quotas.”
“But they do?”
“Not always, so it’s a headache for Sasha.”
“He’s in charge?”
“You’re so interested in this?”
“No, I’m interested in him. He’s—somebody you’re with.”
“You don’t have to worry about him. It’s not Kurt. Or you. Something useful, that’s all.”
“Useful.”
“Well, to have a friend at Karlshorst. He works with Maltsev.”
“Who’s Maltsev? What does he do?” Any information, Willy had said.
“What they all do. Give orders. Anyway, important. You know how I know? Markus. I could see it in his face, the first time he saw me with Sasha. This way,” she said, leading him, “it’s a shortcut.” The street branched off to a wide connecting footpath. “It’s better at the Luisenstrasse end. They cleared all the streets near the hospital first.” There were lights finally, people at home. “You see how lucky we were here. Not too bad, only some top floors. Fires. It was like that. Not too bad in one place and then one street away, everything gone. I’m just down there, near the end.”
They passed under the sound of a radio, loud enough to be heard through the closed window. Waltz music, which Alex heard somewhere in the back of his mind, the rest preoccupied with SED quotas. Sasha says it’s difficult. Would any of this be useful? What else? And then suddenly the music stopped and the lights blinked out, the street pitched into darkness.
“A power cut,” Irene said, a weary resignation. “Careful where you walk. It’s all the time now. But they say it’s worse in the West.”
“How long have you been with—” Alex started, not wanting to let Markovsky go, then stopped, blinded, as a bright light swung into the street behind them. Two lights. Headlights, the same shape as the car in Lützowplatz. He swung his head away and grabbed Irene’s elbow. But where was there to go? A long street, straight, impossible to outrun a car, no heaps of rubble to duck behind, the footpath back at the corner. No Willy to help this time. In the Russian sector, no questions asked. Run. Where?
Without thinking he pushed Irene into the building entrance, pressing her into the doorway corner. Get out of the light. A couple huddled in a doorway. The car began to race toward them, close to the curb, headlamps blazing, tracking. Alex pressed more tightly, away from the street. Make them come for you, get out of the car, not just run you down. He raised one arm, a shield, ready to swing it around in defense, waiting for the crunch of tires stopping in the snow. The car swept past. He took a breath, then realized he’d been panting, running over the rubble again. He looked over his shoulder. Almost at Luisenstrasse now, not even aware of him.
“Alex—”
He dropped his arm. “Sorry.” Still catching his breath.
She put her hand up to his face. “What is it? You’re shaking.”
“I thought I knew the car. Saw it before.”
“Saw it before?” Hand still on his cheek. “When?”
Well, when?
“Before. Following us.”
“Following us? Why? You think Sasha—? No. He doesn’t—” She stopped, looking up at him. “My God, how this feels.” The hand now behind his neck, drawing him down, kissing him, kissing each other, tasting her, his breathing still ragged from fear, now something else, blood rushing to his face, pushing up against her in the corner. “Alex,” she said, kissing him again.
He pulled away.
“Come upstairs,” she said, a whisper, her breath warm on his cheek.
“No.”
“It’s dark. No one will see.” A small giggle. “Really no one. If we can find the stairs.”
“Irene—”
“I knew it would feel the same. When I saw you.” She touched his temple. “All gray. But I knew it would be the same.”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t care.” She put her head next to his. “I just want to feel like before.” The words warm in his ear. “It’s not so much. When we were nicer. Just that.”
“Irene—”
“Why? You don’t want to? What a liar you are,” she said, reaching down, feeling him. “Cars following us. So maybe that was an excuse too.” Playing, oblivious to the look on his face. Another kiss, his mouth opening willingly. “Nobody ever wanted me like you. Nobody. Remember on the beach? My God. And now you don’t want to anymore?” She shook her head, still close to his, her hand gripping him below. “What a liar.”