“No, I asked him why he had resigned from the secretariat last year.”
“Ah,” Markus said, pleased, another test passed. “And what did he say?”
“Nationalist feelings. He thinks the SED should be more protective—of German interests.”
“Yes, I have heard this.”
“But that’s all,” Alex said, looking at him. “He’s a loyal Communist.”
“That is your assessment?”
“Yes. Completely loyal. I’m sure of it.”
“The first rule of the service?” Markus said. “Don’t be sure of anybody.” Teasing, almost waggish. “Well, perhaps you’re right. We’ll see. Good night. It’s such a pleasure for me, all this. Who could have predicted it?”
Alex watched the car pull away. We’ll see. Inside he stopped at the foot of the stairs, suddenly unable to move, as if his knees had given out, and leaned against the wall. Now what? Maybe he could get out before he had to do anything. But what if he never got out? Writing odes to Stalin and looking and listening, betraying everybody. What both sides wanted. Because of course in the end he’d have to do it. Think about it, Markus had said. But who said no to such a request? From a grateful Party. A refusal would make him suspect, someone to watch, the last thing he could afford. Make yourself valuable to them.
His breath was coming faster, running in place. What if Campbell never got him back, kept him dangling here, waiting to drop into Markus’s net? One slip. Who got out of Berlin now anyway, all blockaded up, his Dutch passport something the Soviets could flick aside, like a gnat. Their property now, with his privileged telephone. Making reports for Markus’s files. Another line crossed, maybe all of them just lines after that first one, a raised gun in his hand. No witnesses. Except there had been. Had Markus dug the old lady up? Someone to tighten the noose around his hapless colleague’s neck. Markus, who now believed in coincidences. And being sure of someone.
He turned his head toward the stairs. Voices. Only one flight up, his flat, unless they were loud enough to carry down another floor. He started up, instinctively on tiptoe. Had Erich let someone in? But there was no light under the door. Voices again, rising, then falling. No, not voices, one voice, talking into a void. At the door, he listened. Nothing, then the voice again. Erich’s. A few words, a falling off, then a sound of distress, almost a whimper, no words, as if someone had twisted his arm, caused some sudden pain. Alex put his hand on the doorknob, beginning to turn it quietly, surprise whoever it was, but it stuck, still locked. No one then, just Erich, but loud enough to be heard by some curious neighbor, loud enough to give himself away.
Alex unlocked the door and switched on the light. Another sound, muffled, talking to himself in the dark. Alex went into the bedroom and sat, trying to wake him gently. A startled cry, eyes still closed, afraid, wherever he was.
“Shh. Erich. It’s all right.” Hand clammy, some night sweat on his forehead. “It’s a dream.”
Eyes open now, staring at Alex but not seeing him, then filling with tears.
“I didn’t know. What they would do to me.”
“Shh. It’s all right.” Quietly, almost a whisper.
“But I couldn’t. At first I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Shoot. Not after the women. Nobody ran. Why didn’t they run? That would have been—like a hunt. Not like this. Lined up, then in the pit. Then another group. And no one runs.”
“In the pit? In the mines?” Alex said, trying to make sense of it.
“No,” Erich said, his eyes focusing now, grabbing Alex’s sleeve. “Not in the mines. Before. We made them dig the pit and then we shot them. It’s a dirty business, Schultz said. But we had to do it. They gave us vodka before, for our nerves. You know, when you see them fall in like that, over and over, it does things to you. So we tried to help each other—”
“Who did?” Alex said, sitting up, motionless.
“Us. The soldiers. They said somebody had to do it, so we did it. And then I didn’t have the stomach for it, but I thought what will they do to me? Some punishment. So I had to keep going.”
“Shooting,” Alex said.
Erich nodded. “Until it’s done. The whole village.”
“And then what?”
“Then we covered the pit. Not us, other soldiers. The shooters were excused from that. And you know what Schultz said? A good day’s work. They don’t give medals for this, but—” He looked up at Alex. “He said we should be proud.”
Alex froze, hearing the thuds of the bodies falling in. He moved his hand away. What had happened to everybody?
“Now I dream about it sometimes,” Erich said. “The way they looked at us. Before we shot them.”
Alex looked over, dismayed. The man he was risking everything to help. Fritz’s son.
Erich turned his head on the pillow, somewhere else again, back in his waking dream.
“The children stayed with the mothers. It was easier. Sometimes hiding the face in the skirt, so those we didn’t have to see. And once, after they fell in, we saw one of them crawling—we had missed him somehow—so Schultz went over to the edge and did it himself. Two shots, to make sure.” His voice had begun to drift. “And you know that night we had more vodka and what do you think comes? A letter. From Elsbeth. How she knew I must be suffering in the cold, it was always cold in Russia, but everyone in Germany was so grateful, how brave we were. And I thought, how can I tell her? What we were doing. Dirty business, he said. But it was worse than that, wasn’t it? I couldn’t tell her. Anybody. Schultz said we couldn’t tell.” He turned back, facing Alex. “Anybody. You won’t report it? That I told you this?”
“No.”
“We couldn’t tell the Russians. In the camp. They would have killed us. Revenge. It was bad enough, just being there. So we didn’t tell. But you, it’s different. An American.” He stopped, his face wrinkling in confusion. “I thought you were there.”