“No,” Alex said, just a sound. He looked around. Modest suburban houses, just a short walk from the barbed wire, the sky a heavy gray again, the color of lead.
On the S-Bahn they stared out the window, not talking. Finally Alex turned to her. “But you kept your American passport? It might be a good time to leave. For a while anyway. Until we know what this is. In case—”
“What?”
“In case they make trouble for you too. His wife. If anything happened, the boy would be on his own.”
Her eyes grew moist. “But nobody’s done anything. What did we do? He just wanted to be—part of it.”
At Rykestrasse, she asked him in for tea.
“I can’t really.”
“Please. I’ll go out of my mind alone. I’ll be all right after Danny gets home. What do I say to him? My God, what do I say?”
She busied herself with the kettle and cups, the familiar ritual.
“They don’t even say what you’re charged with. Just ‘Come with us.’ I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Like Nazis. Well, in the movies anyway.”
“What are these?” Alex said, trying to distract her, leafing through some architectural drawings on the table behind the couch.
“Schematics for the project. In Friedrichshain. You know it, that part of town?”
Alex nodded, thinking of the narrow gauge rail cars bringing rubble up to the park. “Stalinallee,” he said idly.
“Well, he won the war.”
Alex glanced over. A believer still, with a husband in prison.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the tea. “Two buildings. They’re both his?”
The pure geometry of the Bauhaus, white with lines of sleek horizontal windows, the inside presumably a model of efficient design, the old dream, postponed by the war.
“If they build them. There’s a stretch across from Memeler Strasse, he fit them both on the plot, to make a continuous line on the street. Beautiful, don’t you think?”
“But—?” he said, hearing it in her voice.
“But they want these.” She reached under the plans and pulled out a new set of renderings. “Wedding cakes, Herb called them. Oh God,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth, “do you think it’s that? He called them Stalin wedding cakes. In public. A dinner at the Kulturbund. With Henselmann, the other architects. He wasn’t the only one. I mean, everybody thinks they’re—well, look. Gorky Street. But that’s what they like. You have to work with the client. In the end it’s—”
“These are his drawings too?”
“No. He’s supposed to study them. Learn from them. Herb. Who can design something like this. You don’t think it’s this, do you? Making fun of the plans? I mean, in the end he’ll do it. You have to. Everybody was laughing, not just Herb.” She looked down. “Maybe someone reported him. Out of spite.” She raised her hands to her arms, crossing her chest, huddling in. “Oh God, what a place. I don’t want to stay here. Not anymore. But we can’t go back.”
“He could go to the West. A German. They take in any German.”
“The West? And work for all the old Nazis? Another Speer? No, thank you. This is the Germany he wants. You’re here too. You understand how he feels. You don’t go.”
“I’m not in Sachsenhausen.”
The boy came in just as they were finishing the tea.
“Danny, this is Mr. Meier. Also from the States.”
Danny raised an eyebrow at this, intrigued. “From New York?” he said, politely shaking hands. About Peter’s age, the same unformed features, hair falling into his eyes.
“California.”
Danny said nothing to this, reluctant to offer anything further, looking for his cue to leave.
“Mr. Meier’s a writer.” No response to this either. “Do you want something to eat?”
“Homework,” he said, lifting his satchel and then, at Roberta’s nod, “Very nice to meet you.”
Alex watched him go, a shuffling walk, as if he were kicking fallen leaves.
“He’s like that with strangers,” Roberta said.
“Mine too,” Alex said, his eyes still on the boy, suddenly wanting him to be Peter, an almost physical hunger. Just have him in the room. Not saying anything, maybe reading the funnies in the other chair while Alex flipped through the paper. Just there, in his presence. He turned to Roberta. “You have to think about him. What it’s going to be like for him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Roberta sat up straight, about to chafe at this, then sank back. “I know. But I can’t, not now. We have to get through this first. What do I say to him?”
What had Marjorie said? At least at first.
Roberta looked at him. “Please, I know I shouldn’t ask, you’ve done so much already, but you’re somebody there, at the Kulturbund. I mean, they give parties for you. You could get to Dymshits. He won’t talk to me but he’d talk to you. He’s the one who invited Herb. You too, yes? He’d at least listen. You don’t have to vouch for Herb—politically, I mean, if there’s some kind of trouble. You’re just concerned. There must be some mistake. Even some information—” She stopped. “I know I shouldn’t ask. But it’s not sticking your neck out or anything, is it? I mean, he hasn’t done anything.”
“Who?” Danny said, at the doorway again.
Alex looked at his face, grave and apprehensive, an adult’s face, what Peter’s looked like now too.
“All right,” he said to Roberta. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The Kulturbund was quiet, no crowds hurrying past Goethe up the marble stairs, no one sitting in the old club lounge where Fritz had told his stories. Even Martin seemed to be alone in his small office.
“Where is everybody?” Alex said.
“The flu. You know, the winter,” he said, evasive. “I’m glad to see you. Look at this.” He pointed to a tape recorder on a small table, microphone next to it. “You can be on the radio here. For Dresden, anywhere. No need to go there. We just send the tape. We’ve been waiting so long for this. It’s an expense, the trains. And you know the writers prefer—”
“I need a favor,” Alex said, breaking in. “If you can.”
“Of course.”