“But he did it.”
“And now you. But nobody pays you.” She glanced toward the bathroom, fidgeting, suddenly nervous. “He shouldn’t use so much. Frau Schmidt will be up. She thinks she owns the water too. The Gauleiter.” She turned back to him. “So it’s for Fritz. Not me. But maybe for me a little.”
Waiting for him to agree, something from the lost part of the evening. He looked at her for a minute, listening to the water running. A trickle to get the most out of the geyser.
“I’m not the same person,” he said quietly.
She tipped her head back, not expecting this.
“I have a family.”
She nodded, still surprised. “The wife who wasn’t me.”
“A son.”
“Yes?”
“Everything is for him now. What I do. Sometimes things I don’t want to do. It’s not about me anymore. I can’t explain—” He paused. “It’s not the same.”
“Just now. In the street. It wasn’t the same?” She looked away. “Why are you telling me this? You want to be faithful to a woman you divorced?”
For a second he almost smiled. An Irene response, tart, fast.
“You know before, it was the same for me. So let me think that. Not that everything’s different.” She rapped on the bathroom door. “It’s enough water, Erich. There’s soup ready.” She started setting out a bowl, willed activity, still fidgeting. “So this son. What is he like? A wunderkind?”
“No. Just a boy. A beautiful smile, when he smiles. Serious. He thinks about things.”
She held the soup spoon in midair. “Like his father. And have you thought about this?” She nodded toward the bathroom. “What it means? It’s prison, helping a POW escape. I’ll keep him here. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Because of some old debt? It’s foolishness. Paying back Fritz?”
“I don’t know why. Does it matter? He needs help.”
“Is that what happened in America? Why you left. Something you had to do. Why? Because you had to. And now look.”
“That’s right. I had to.” Ending it. “Where are the clothes? I’ll pick some out.”
“Who is the friend at the Adlon, the one who’s away?”
“A friend.”
“Oh, without a name.”
“She doesn’t know she’s helping. Neither do you.”
“But how can I go then? See him?”
“You don’t. Not yet. He’s not really there. There’s nobody in the room.”
“Then what do I do?”
“For one thing, don’t tell Sasha.”
“But he could help.”
“You mean that much to him? That he’d do this for you? Maybe you believe it.”
“You don’t know him.”
“He couldn’t. He’s not just some Ivan—five wristwatches and a German girlfriend. He’s a big shot at Karlshorst. Who do you think is after Erich?”
“Oh, Sasha. Chasing soldiers,” she said, dismissive.
“He works for Maltsev,” Alex said, thinking out loud. “Security. So he might hear. Any escapes, there’d be reports. You could keep an ear open—you could do that.”
“How do you mean?”
“If he says anything. What they’re thinking. Do they know he’s in Berlin? They might still think they’re hiding in the woods by the camp. Do they know about the truck? He’d hear things.”
“And if he never says?”
“Ask him how his day was. Talk to him.”
Irene looked at him. “Spy on him, you mean.”
Alex took a breath. “Yes, spy on him.” That easy, the line not even visible.
They left by the Luisenstrasse end of the street, under the elevated tracks, with the charred wreck of the Reichstag looming up on the right. No cars, nobody following. The snow had stopped, patches already disappearing in the streets, leaving a wet sheen. Erich was dressed for the cold, his lower face wrapped in a scarf, a hat covering the rest, safely indistinguishable. But eventually they’d be in the lobby. Work out the logistics. Not the bar, where Brecht might be holding court, with some spillover group from the Kulturbund.
They were lucky. The bellhop was there, immediately at his side, eyes wide, scenting trouble.
“Frau Berlau’s room,” Alex said, a low voice, almost a mumble. “What number?”
“One forty-three.” No hesitation, already part of it.
“Get the key. Meet us there.”
The boy slid away. Not much older than Peter.
On the first floor, no one in the hall, they only had to wait a minute before he reappeared and opened the door.
“The maid won’t come in,” he said. “But she’s back Friday. Frau Berlau.”
Alex nodded, leading Erich inside. “Let me give you something.” He reached into his pocket, but the boy waved it aside.
“Don’t forget the park tomorrow. The Fairy Tale Fountain,” he said, pulling the door closed, this just part of the same drama, in on it.
It was the room of a nun, tidy and austere, a single bed and neatly stacked piles of books, Brecht’s plays, copybooks with production notes and reminders.
Erich began taking off his coat. “Someone’s already in the room?”
“Ruth Berlau. Can you remember that? A friend of yours. She said you could use it. If anyone asks. Don’t go out. No noise. No one’s here, understand? It won’t be for long.”
“And then what. What’s going to happen?” He started shaking, a nervous tremor, crying without tears.
Alex took him by the shoulders. “We’ll get you out. But right now, you need some rest.” He glanced at the bed. “Better sleep on top. Then nobody’ll know. They usually keep a duvet in here,” he said, opening the armoire.
“Out,” Erich said, brooding. “The house in Pomerania maybe. The Poles would hide me.”
Alex shook his head. “It’s gone. Here, this should be warm enough. Off with the shoes.”
“So where? They have to send you back if they find you. It’s an agreement. If I go there,” he said, cocking his head to the West. “They have to send me back. So where do I go?”
“We’ll get you out, don’t worry. But first sleep, okay? In you go.” Talking to a child.