“It’s wonderful,” Alex said, looking at the phone, clearly a great rarity. “I’m very grateful. You’ve gone to so much trouble.”
“No, no, we are so pleased you’re here.” Meaning it.
A separate bedroom, a worn sofa in the living room for Erich, small galley kitchen and a table by the window facing the street where he could write. A pressed glass pitcher with flowers. Lace curtains, recently ironed. Home.
“I have brought food packages but there are also shops in Sch?nhauser Allee.” As if everything were there for the asking, shelves filled.
Alex glanced at his watch. Erich would have left by now. “Thank you for everything. I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, no, it’s my job.” He took out a notebook, a secretary. “Perhaps now is a good time to look at your schedule?”
“My schedule?”
“A radio interview. We were hoping—”
“Can’t it wait?”
“But everyone is so anxious to hear what you have to say. A talk at the Kulturbund naturally would be later. So you have time to prepare. But the radio—”
“What kind of interview?”
“A conversation. Like talking over coffee. How it feels to be back. Conditions in America—why you left. Your hopes for the Socialist future. And your work, of course.” His voice implacable, something Alex would have to do sooner or later.
“All right. Let me know when. Anything else?”
Martin looked up, hesitant. “We’re preparing a Festschrift. A special book for Comrade Stalin’s birthday. It was hoped that you might contribute.”
“Contribute?”
“A short piece, whatever length you like. Some members are writing poems, but you—”
“Write a piece,” Alex said. “Praising Stalin.”
Martin turned his head, embarrassed. “His leadership during the war perhaps. A heroic period.” He waited for a moment, as if he were testing his words first. “Shall I say that you are thinking what to say?”
“Who else are you asking to do this?”
“Our prominent members. You of course—”
“Brecht? Brecht is writing something?” An impossible idea.
“A request has been made.”
Alex raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.
Martin licked his lips, nervous. “It’s an awkward situation. We want to show a certain solidarity. You understand.”
The more valuable you are, the safer you are. Alex nodded. “When do you need it?”
“The end of March. So the printer will have time. Sometimes, you know, there are delays, with the shortages.”
“Not for this, surely.”
“No, not for this.” Embarrassed again. “The Kulturbund appreciates—”
“Anything else?” Alex said, cutting him off.
“For now, no. May we expect you for lunch today? I can keep a place at the members’ table.”
“No, not today.”
“But Comrade Stein will be disappointed. He wanted to take you afterward to Aufbau. To meet the staff. I think they are expecting you.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. It’s just—I’d like to get some work done. It’s been awhile since I had a place to work.” He waved his hand toward the table.
“Then coffee perhaps. I know they have prepared something. Say four o’clock? I can have a car—”
“That’s all right. I can get there.” Imagining a car idling, Martin on the stairs, Erich hiding.
“Of course,” Martin said, smiling. “An old Berliner. So. Four o’clock then. I’ll let Comrade Stein know.” He looked over at the table. “What are you working on, may I ask?” Eyes eager, interested.
“A story about a marriage. How we deceive ourselves. When we want to believe in something.”
“A political metaphor?”
Alex smiled. “I hadn’t thought—”
“As in The Last Fence,” Martin said, earnest.
“If you like. But really it’s about the marriage. A bourgeois subject, our friend Markus would say.”
“Well, Markus,” Martin said, putting his notebook away. “I think it’s because he knew you before that he’s so curious. Everything. Even your coat.”
Alex shrugged this off. “Cops are like that.”
“It was the same in America?”
“Well, they never asked about my coat. Just my politics.”
Martin looked at him, not quite sure how to take this. “I’ll tell Comrade Stein to expect you at four.”
And then, another embarrassed nod and he was finally gone, the room suddenly quiet, not even a clock ticking. Alex looked around. How long would he be here? Long enough to tell the world Stalin was a hero? Even longer? He went over to the window, watching Martin go down the street. No parked cars, nobody lurking in doorways, flowers on the table.
Erich got there an hour later, worn out from the walk. He was shivering, even in the heavy coat, so Alex made tea, spiking it with some schnapps he’d found in Martin’s food package.
“You need to see a doctor.”
Erich shook his head. “No papers and then they report you and you’re finished.”
“Does Irene have a phone?”
“Now? I don’t know. Before, yes.”
“Do you remember the number?” Had they kept the same numbers? But she answered.
“Irene? Alex,” he said, holding the receiver close, aware of his own voice. A phone was a privilege. Why had they given him one? To listen? “I have a flat. I thought I’d give you the address.”
“You’re not at the Adlon?” she said quickly, worried.
“No, they found me a flat. Very nice. Big enough for two.”
“For two?” she said, trying to read his tone.
“If I had a guest. Some day. Bigger than the Adlon. Even a phone. Do you have a pencil? I’ll give you the number.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Everything. Very lucky to find a flat so soon, don’t you think? To have my own place. Do you have an address for Elsbeth?”
“Elsbeth?”
“Yes, I want to visit her. Say hello. She’s married to a doctor, you said, yes? So useful, having one in the family.”
“Yes, useful,” she said slowly, putting this together.
“She’d be so angry if she knew I was here and didn’t come to see her.”