She turned and picked up a cigarette, a pause between rounds. “Protect me,” she said, lighting it, her hand shaking a little. “Protect yourself, you mean. Your girlfriend, right under your nose. It doesn’t look so good for you, does it? Protect me.”
“Where is he?” He looked at Alex. “With you maybe? This is how she pays?” He nodded toward the bed. “To have you hide him? Once a day? How many times?”
“Bastard,” Irene said. “And what does that make you?”
He crossed over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where is he?”
“Take your hands off me. I don’t know. Anyway, how do you know it’s Erich? Because somebody says so? Maybe he’s lying.”
“He was in no condition to lie,” Markovsky said flatly.
For a minute, no one said anything.
“So it’s true? He’s in Berlin?” Irene said.
“You know he is.”
“And if I did know, I would tell you? Sasha, he’s my brother,” she said, her voice softer, tacking. “How can you send him to such a place? My brother.”
“I didn’t send him there.”
“But you’d send him back.”
“No one leaves. Until we say.”
“Oh, we. Who? You and God? It’s one man, that’s all.”
“If he can do it, so can others. It’s not possible, to allow it.”
“So he’s a slave?”
“He was a German soldier. And he pays for that.”
“For how long? The war’s over and we’re still paying. The new lords and masters,” she said, cocking her head toward him. “First the rapes. Animals. And now what? Drunks like Ivan. Pawing me at the table. Like peasants.”
Markovsky colored, then looked down, not rising to this. “That’s what they think, you know,” he said to Alex. “They lose the war. Everything. And they still know best. The great German Volk. All gentlemen. Not like us.”
“At least they could flush a toilet,” Irene said, her voice suddenly haughty, von Bernuth. “The Russians—a mystery to them. Where were they from? I don’t know. The back of beyond somewhere. You never got the chance to ask. Before they raped you. That they knew. Experts.”
“What are you doing?” Markovsky said. “Talking to me like this. Me.”
“Why? Are you going to send me to the mines too? More slaves for the masters? Erich’s not enough? Or maybe you want to rape me first.”
“I never had to rape you,” he said, his voice a kind of growl. “A few cigarettes, some ham—that’s all it took for you to open your legs. Not rape.”
“No? That’s what it felt like. Every time.”
The hand came up so quickly that Alex heard the slap before he saw it, a blurred movement, her cheek twisting away from it, a little cry.
He reached for Markovsky, all instinct. “Don’t—”
“Mind your own business.” He turned back to Irene. “That’s what it felt like? And what did it feel like with him?”
“Get out,” she said, touching her cheek, still red.
“Tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then get dressed. You can tell someone else.”
“Who?”
“A man at Hohensch?nhausen. Very persuasive. Another Russian peasant.”
“Sasha, I—”
“Get dressed,” he said, grabbing her upper arm.
“Leave her alone,” Alex said, pushing him away.
Markovsky looked down where Alex’s hands had been. “Well. The hero of the Kulturbund. You think it’s another story? The damsel in distress? So. Assault a Russian officer? Sleep with his—well, what do we call her? No need. Let me tell you now how it ends.”
“Leave her alone.”
“We take you into custody,” Markovsky continued as if he hadn’t heard, “while we search your place. No one there? Then maybe you’re released. No embarrassment for the Kulturbund. And then your whore tells us where he is. And she will. That’s the ending. Now get dressed,” he said again, turning back to her, taking her arm again to push her toward the bedroom.
Alex stepped forward, facing him. “Stop it. You can’t do this.”
A cold glance, running through Alex like a chill. “I can do anything I want. Anything.”
“What? Have some goon beat her up? What are you?”
“What? A peasant. Ask her.”
Alex looked at him, beginning to panic. The face set, determined. Just a matter of time before they searched Rykestrasse. The back stairs too, Erich cowering but trapped.
“This is all I am to you?” Irene said, angry, a different argument. “You’d do this? Send me to the Gestapo?”
“Gestapo,” Markovsky said, sneering at the word. “Tell me where he is.”
“Go to hell.”
Markovsky raised his hand again, Alex reaching up to block it.
“Get away from her.”
Markovsky grasped Alex’s arm. “The hero,” he said, then pushed him back, out of the way, and turned again to Irene.
Alex lunged at him, the force of it surprising Markovsky, who staggered back, bumping against the table. A baffled second, then a look of rage, leaping for Alex, knocking him back to the wall.
“Stop it!” Irene yelled, frightened, the room suddenly shaking with violence.
Markovsky pinned Alex against the wall, hand on his throat. “Idiot,” he said, an end to it, having won the point.
Alex gasped, choking, but then brought both hands up, a desperate strength, shoving him away. Markovsky stumbled, not expecting this, off balance, his thick body reeling back, smashing his head against a shelf, the sound of dishes falling.
“My God,” Irene said. “The china. Stop.” The absurdity of it unheard, everything happening too fast.
“Idiot!” Markovsky said again, a roar this time, touching the back of his head, looking at his fingers, a smear of blood, reaching for Alex.
But Alex, hands already on Markovsky’s chest, pushed again, the head snapping back, another crash.