“I didn’t come here to put anyone on trial. I just want medicine for Erich. He’s sick. You’re a doctor.”
Mutter turned away, hesitating, then went over to the dispensary bureau. “Wait a minute,” he said, rummaging through the drawer. He came back with a tube and a handful of vials and small bottles. “For the legs,” he said, handing Alex the tube of salve. “Once a day only. These twice, once before food, yes? It’s not much, but it should help. Believe it or not, rest and liquids are even more important. The old remedies. Of course, this does nothing for whatever’s really wrong. Working in mines—the dust, think of the damage. The conditions were harsh?”
Alex nodded.
“Well, I don’t put anything past the Russians.”
“No.”
He glanced up, catching Alex’s expression. “Or the Germans? Is that what you were going to say? You don’t come to judge, but you do. Such terrible people. So now we’re all guilty. Do you include yourself?”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“No? Why, because you already know? Someone not even here? How can I tell you what it was like? What we had to do? I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Start with my parents. They were—what? Racial impurities? Now they’re nothing. Smoke. Start with them.”
“And you blame me for that?”
“Who do you blame? I’d like to know. Or do you think it happened all by itself?”
For a minute neither said anything, then Alex held up one of the bottles.
“Thank you for this. I won’t say where we got it.”
Mutter half turned, waving his hand in dismissal, no longer meeting Alex’s eyes. “He needs antibiotics,” he said quietly. “Streptomycin. Get him to the West.”
* * *
Alex fed him soup and more tea and put him to bed, under the covers.
“But it’s your—”
“I’ll take the couch. We can switch when you’re better.” He held Erich’s head up, spooning him medicine. “Gustav said this would bring the fever down.”
When Erich lay back his face became Fritz’s, the same tall forehead and high cheeks, so that for a second Alex felt he was nursing the old man, some odd transference. Not blustering for once, eyes half closed, a child’s trust. Alex lifted the edge of the sheet and started spreading the salve on Erich’s leg. “Gustav said these were rat bites. Yes?”
“In the barracks. At night. They waited for you to go to sleep.” He reached over to Alex’s arm. “I won’t go back there.”
“No.”
“But if they come?”
“They won’t. Go to sleep. I’m just outside.”
But what if they did? Alex walked through the apartment. A good view of the street from the windows. An armoire, big enough to hide in, if this were a French farce. The back door out the kitchen led to service stairs, a utility closet on the next landing, not locked, something Erich could reach in seconds. Alex looked up—presumably the stairs went all the way to the roof. But why would anyone come, unless they’d been told, in which case they’d search everywhere and there’d be no real escape. The only way to be safe was to be nonexistent, unseen, unheard. Alex scoured the apartment for listening bugs—lightbulb sockets, behind the watercolor of a Wilhelmine street scene, the telephone mouthpiece. Nothing. A trusted guest of the Soviet Military Administration.
Erich was asleep when Alex left for the reception at Aufbau Verlag. A table with coffee and cakes had been set out in the boardroom, the staff crowded around it, curious and deferential. The art director showed him mock-ups of the jackets for his books. There was a polite joke about the author’s photo, now a good ten years old. Aaron Stein, after a public toast, introduced him to smaller groups, department by department, then led him into his office.
“I know, I should give them up,” he said, offering Alex a cigarette. “Helga says they’ll kill me. Well, something will.” A cultured, almost elegant voice that reminded Alex of his mother. Someone who’d been to school, who could play the piano.
“The new editions look wonderful. Thank you.”
“It’s we who should thank you. Our writers are so important to us now. To know there is another Germany, of culture, not just Nazis. If that’s our only history, we’ll die of shame. We are more than that.”
Alex nodded another thank-you, waiting, watching Aaron fidget with his cigarette, working up to something.
“Alex—you don’t mind I call you Alex? I wanted to have a word. Something—delicate.”
Alex raised his eyebrows.
“Martin tells me—you know he’s a great admirer of your work? He tells me you had—a reservation, perhaps. About the Festschrift. For Stalin.”
“No, I said I’d do it.”
“Yes,” Aaron said, uncomfortable. “We appreciate that.” He paused. “I don’t want you to feel that you are being asked to do something against your will.”
“No, I said I would. A Kulturbund project.”
“Well, that’s just it. I wanted you to know, so there’s no misunderstanding, the project did not originate with us. The SED asked. Of course, it was an appropriate idea, we were only too glad to help.” He looked up. “You know, it needn’t be long. The fact that so many contribute is really the point. For him to know he has our support.”
“I understand.”
“The Kulturbund—sometimes we find ourselves in an awkward position. To make German culture live again. And also to please the occupation authorities. A question of balance. Anyway, we are so pleased to have you with us.”