“Stop!” Irene yelled, a quiver of hysteria now.
Not a fight anymore. No rules. The two bodies locked together, twisting, trying to throw each other over. One of the shelves, bumped again, collapsed. The clunk of something heavy hitting the floor. Markovsky pushed Alex’s face back, stronger, trying to flip his body, then suddenly aware of Irene screaming “Stop!” and pounding on his back, her fists like flies, something to brush aside. The two bodies moved away from her, still locked together, both staggering, refusing to fall, and then Markovsky roared, a grunt of extra effort, and finally managed it, throwing Alex to the floor, then following him down, pinning him there, hand again on his throat to immobilize him, bring an end to it. Something else fell, the room noisy with thuds and the men panting, gulping air, Irene still yelling “Stop!” Markovsky grunted again, pressing his hand against Alex’s throat, waiting for some sign, a raised hand, surrender.
“You’ll kill him!” Irene screamed. “Stop! My God, you’re choking him.”
A growl from Markovsky, beyond speech now, tightening his hand to end it, all of his strength pressing into Alex, his eyes fixed on him, waiting for the sign, so that he didn’t see Irene grabbing the candlestick off the floor, out of the jumble from the fallen shelf, see her raise it over him like a club.
“Stop! You’ll kill him!” she said, bringing it down, not planning it, just some way to get his attention, surprised when she heard the crack, the bone splitting.
Markovsky reared back, stunned, blood welling out of the wound.
“Stop it!” she shouted, bringing the brass base down again, a splatting sound this time.
For a second Markovsky went rigid, his legs straddling Alex, his hand still on his throat, then he slumped, the hand loosening, and Alex pushed up, the body falling on its side.
“My God,” Irene said, a whisper now. “My God.” She looked at the candlestick, the first time she’d seen it.
Alex now changed positions, leaning over Markovsky, putting fingers at the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.
“My God. Is he—?”
“No. He’s alive.”
“What do we do? What do we do?” Talking to the air.
Markovsky’s face moved, a twitch, then an eye opening, a grunt. Alex looked down. Blood on his head, the eyes open now, but stunned, the same look as Lützowplatz. If he lived, they would die. The simple mathematics of it. No witnesses. Another gasping sound, coming back. Alex put his hands on Markovsky’s throat and pushed. The eyes opened wider, a choking gurgle, his body moving, trying to gather strength. Alex pushed harder, feeling the body writhe beneath him, trying to move him away. A soldier, trained, would know what to do, how to smash into the windpipe, end it. Alex just held tight. A rasping sound now, struggling for breath.
“Alex,” Irene said. “My God.”
Don’t think. Do it. If he lives, we die. Harder. The last line. An extra push, crossing it. And then a spasm, Markovsky twitching, a protest, the last effort. Hands tight, no air at all, keep pushing. Almost. And then he was there, the body suddenly slack, no sound at all. You could feel it, a split second, the rasp then the sudden quiet. He looked at his hands on the throat, no longer needed, and slowly moved them away, staring at Markovsky’s face, blank, still. His own breath coming in shallow gulps, hands trembling. What it felt like. Murder.
He looked over at Irene, on her knees now near the china, the candlestick still in her hand. Blood on the base.
“It was my mother’s,” she said, in a daze. “Schaller. From her side.” Something important to establish. She picked up one of the smashed plates. “It’s the last of the china.”
“Get dressed,” Alex said. “Do you have an old towel?” And then, at her look, “For the blood.”
“The blood,” she said, an echo. She put her hand over her mouth, stifling a yelp, bewildered, like a wounded animal. “My God. My God. What do we do now?”
“I know,” Alex said. “But we can’t—think about it. Not now. We have to get rid of him. Clean up.” Lists, tasks, the reassurance of the ordinary. “Frau Schmidt’s away. So that’s one thing.”
“Alex,” she said, shaking, still on her knees. “I can’t. My God, look. What do we do?”
“Help me,” he said steadily, offering his hand up. “We have to get him out of here. Find someplace for Erich. You’ll need a story—” More lists.
“It was this,” she said, holding the candlestick. “Imagine. My mother’s. Brass. To kill somebody with this.”
“I killed him,” he said, taking her by the shoulders.
“Both,” she said. “Both of us. That’s what they’ll say anyway. Maybe he would have died just from the head.”
“But he didn’t.” He waited a second. “Get dressed. I’ll start here.”
The cleanup didn’t take long. Broken china in the dustbin, the shelf put back, candlestick washed, blood wiped.
“There’s not so much,” Irene said. “I thought there would be more.”
“Not after his heart stopped,” Alex said, matter of fact.
“Oh. No, not after that,” Irene said, staring at Markovsky. “Well, now I’ve done this too.” Her voice soft, distant.
“He’s heavy. I’m going to need you to help. You all right?”
She nodded. “Where do we take him?”
“The river. It’s not far. We just have to get him there.”
“He’ll float. You saw bodies floating there. For weeks.”
“We’ll weight him down. He has to disappear.”
“Disappear?”
“To give us time.”
Irene looked at him, not understanding, but nodded anyway.
“Okay, get his other side. We can use the banister, slide him down, but in the street we’ll have to prop him up.”
“Carry him? Sasha?”