“Stalingrad,” Ivan said. “Political officer. They were all bastards. Tough. No trouble in the mines with him.”
“There is no trouble in the mines,” Sasha said.
“No, of course not. I just meant—”
“You think that’s all it takes? Tough? Anyone can be tough. You have to know how to run things. Eighty, ninety villages in the district. Workers? Thousands. You think it’s easy, to keep all that going? Make the quotas? Things happen. You can’t always predict— It’s not just a question of being tough. Let’s see how he does, Saratov. I want to see that.”
“But you’ll be gone,” Irene said.
“Yes,” Sasha said, his face clouding, as if that hadn’t occurred to him.
“In Moscow!” Ivan said. “Think how wonderful. Maybe two secretaries—why not? One for the typing and one for—”
“Don’t talk foolishness,” Sasha said, cutting him off, then turned to Alex. “Who is the friend? The one under review?”
“Not a friend,” Alex said, wary. “Just someone I met. I don’t even know his name. He wanted to know if they had called in my membership book. I think because he had been in America, so maybe—”
“Yes, they’re suspicious of that. Maybe it’s that.” His expression still thoughtful. “But it’s often the way. A few, a handful, then so many all at once.”
“So many what?”
But Sasha was distracted by another commotion at the door. Not Weigel’s entrance this time, two Russian soldiers scanning the room, people turning their heads, avoiding eye contact.
“Rostov. Now what?”
Sasha got up and went over to the door, a hasty conference, then made his way back to the table.
“Excuse me. I must go,” he said curtly, his voice completely sober.
“Again?” Irene said. “Another drive?”
“No.” Not saying anything more, on duty.
“Shall I wait for you?”
He looked at her, thinking. “No, don’t wait. It’s an interrogation. Sometimes it goes fast, sometimes not, so I don’t know. Anyway, it’s enough tonight. Look at Ivan. Put him in the car, yes? I’ll go with Rostov. Don’t let him sleep on the table.”
“Who’s asleep?”
Markovsky bent over, a public kiss, but Irene moved her head, an involuntary shying away.
“So, I’m already gone?” Markovsky said.
“People are—” she said vaguely, taking in the room.
He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, kissing her.
“I paid for that much, no?” he said.
“That much, yes,” she said, turning away.
He took her face in his hand again, turning it back. “The rest tomorrow.”
Her eyes flashed, looking for a comeback, but he had already begun to move away, and she took a drink instead, looking down at the table.
“I’m sure it’s a promotion,” Ivan said, half to himself. “I didn’t mean—”
“Come, let’s get you home,” Irene said. “Can you stand?”
“Can I stand? Of course I can stand.” He pushed himself up, holding the table, weaving a little. “I’ll take you home.”
“I’m around the corner. You take the car. Come on. Alex, help him.”
“You don’t want me to take you home?” he said, leering. “No, not some Ivan.” He turned to Alex. “She wants to wait for Saratov, the next one. Only the boss, not—”
“Go to hell,” Irene said, dropping his arm and turning.
“Come on,” Alex said, holding him up. “The car’s outside.”
“German cunt,” Ivan said after her, loud enough for the next table to hear.
She turned, staring at him, a silence.
Ivan shook himself free of Alex’s hand. “I don’t need any help,” he said, taking a step, then rocking a little, finally sitting down again.
Irene looked down at him. “And what will you do when he’s gone?” she said. “You think Saratov wants you?”
“Cunt.”
“Have another drink,” she said, leaving.
Outside she told the Karlshorst driver to take care of Ivan and started down Luisenstrasse alone, heels clicking on the pavement, then stopped at the corner, head bent. Alex, following behind, put his hands on her shoulders.
“He’s drunk,” he said to her back.
Irene nodded. “But he can say it. If Sasha were— But now he can say it. So he’s right. I should see what Saratov is like. Maybe a new possibility for me, eh? Another wife in Moscow.”
He turned her around. “Don’t.”
“What do you think of your old friend now? A man talks to her like that. And what can she say?” She grimaced. “Look how we all turned out. Elsbeth with that crazy. He still thinks they were right. Me. Well, so there’s Erich—he’s the same. One von Bernuth left. One.”
Alex looked at her, unable to speak. A pit with a crawling child, vodka to steady the nerves.
“Don’t talk like that,” he said finally.
“No? How? It’s what I am. Someone he puts his hands on. In front of everybody. His property.”
“He had too much to drink, that’s all,” he said, reaching up to her hair, smoothing it back.
“I’m used to it. But tonight—” She broke off, turning her head. “In front of everybody. In front of you.”
His hand stopped, as if he’d heard a sound, unexpected.
“Looking at me. Seeing that. I felt—ashamed. Imagine feeling that now, after everything. To still feel that. Even a—what Ivan said.”
“Who cares what he says?” His hand on the back of her neck now.
“Maybe Sasha’s worse. I’ll miss you—so one last time before I go. As if it’s a love affair he has with me. Ha. Maybe I’ll say no. Just to see his face.” She lowered her head. “But then it’s trouble, so—”
“He’s leaving. All that’s over.”
She looked up. “Yes. Then all my troubles will be over. Until the next one. So there’s an opportunity for you. You can catch me between,” she said, trying to smile, then dropping her head forward, almost to his chest. “Alex,” she said, just his name. “You don’t think I’m like that?”
“Shh. How could I think that?” he said, kissing her, not thinking, falling into it. “I know you.”