“And others. Herb Kleinbard, for God’s sake.”
“I didn’t know that you knew him.”
“I met them at the Kulturbund. His wife’s upset—”
“Well, yes. That’s to be expected. I would be too, in her position. So you come to me? I have nothing to do with this.”
“State Security? Who else would it be?”
Markus looked at him. “Our Soviet comrades. We don’t interfere. It’s not our role.” He hesitated. “You don’t want to get involved in matters like these.”
“I’m not involved. That’s the point. I don’t want to be.”
Markus frowned, not following.
“My little chat with Aaron? I don’t want that used against him.”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Yes, it is. Just pull it out of the file and throw it away.”
“That’s against the law.”
“What law? Arresting innocent people? Aaron Stein, for chrissake.”
“Be careful what you say. Innocent? You know this? Better than the Party does? It’s trouble, thinking like this.”
“Get rid of it. I won’t be used against him.”
Markus looked, then shook his head, smiling a little. “Writers. All dramatists. Brecht says this too. Not Aaron. It’s impossible. Before anything is known of the circumstances.” He walked over behind the desk, then leaned forward. “Now listen to me. As your friend. You don’t want to compromise your position. There is nothing I can do about this, even as a favor to a valued collaborator. They already have Stein’s file. Not a small one, by the way. They may ignore your report, they may not. They may ask you to appear at his hearing.”
“I won’t—”
“And if they do, I suggest that you speak willingly. Your concern must be the safety of the German Socialist state. That’s why you came back. That’s why you cooperate. There is nothing you can do for Comrade Stein.”
Alex was quiet for a minute, letting this settle.
“He is charged with high treason and counterrevolutionary activities. These are very serious charges. You don’t want to get in the way of Party discipline in a case like this.”
“High treason? Aaron? And what’s Kleinbard charged with? Laughing at Stalin’s building plans?”
Markus stared, then came out from behind the chair. “Comrade Kleinbard is another matter.” He put a hand to his chin, thinking. “There may be something I can do.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Markus looked at him. “Why? Who are these people to you?”
“I just think it’s the right thing to do, that’s all. Germany needs people like him.”
“And not people like us?” Markus said, his eyes amused. “Alex,” he said, drawing the word out, an intimacy. “Everyone has his part to play. Now you.” He walked to the door, hand on the knob. “Next time a café, yes? Like old friends. To come here—” He let it drift, unfinished, then opened the door. “You understand about Irene? Stay close. The eyes she doesn’t suspect. He’ll send for her, you’ll see. A sensualist. And then we have him.”
The door opposite opened as they stepped into the corridor, a small confusion of people, two men leading out a short old woman. She looked up at Alex and stopped, her eyes puzzled, trying to place him. His heart stopped. The woman in Lützowplatz. But he’d had a hat then, half covering his face. No sign now that she’d actually recognized him, just some vague stirring. He turned his face away. Keep moving, don’t draw attention. He started toward the reception area, expecting to hear the voice any second, a hoarse screech, finger outstretched, pointing.
“English overcoat,” she said, low, half to herself.
Involuntarily he looked down. Why hadn’t he got rid of it, flung it in the rubble somewhere or let it pass from hand to hand in the black market? But who threw away a winter coat in Berlin? Last year’s, from Bullocks, now marking him like a fingerprint.
“English overcoat,” she said again, still working it out.
“Yes, Pani, you’ve told us,” one of the men said, a little weary. Pani. Polish. Two men, one to translate. Things got lost that way, language to language, a police form of the telephone game. A longer process, cumbersome. “A few more pictures to look at, yes? And then you can go.” Expecting nothing.
But Markus would know what she meant, ears up, alert. A woman he’d already interviewed, his only lead. He’d catch the smallest nuance. Alex felt Markus’s eyes boring into his back. He’d know. After everything, Markovsky in the river, to be tripped up by a coat. Alex turned. Markus had stopped, staring straight ahead over his shoulder, his face white. The others stopped now too, the whole room suddenly still. Alex followed his gaze. Not the old woman, someone else, haggard, prison thin, standing by the secretary’s desk, her head raised to meet Markus’s eyes. A blank expression, and then a gasp, her face crinkling.
“Markus,” she whispered, face moving now, some uncontrollable tic. “It’s you?”
“Mother,” he said, a whisper, still, not moving.
She nodded, eyes moist.
“Mutti,” he said, another whisper, his body still rigid, the shock of seeing someone dead.
She started toward him, tentative, the rest of the room watching.
“Markus. This place,” she said, a hand open to it. “What are you doing here?”
He said nothing, still stunned, afraid even, and when she reached him she held back too, extending her arms to him and then stopping short, as if he were some fragile object, easy to break.
“Markus.” She raised a hand to his cheek, barely touching it, a blind woman forming a picture. “My God. You were just a child.” Resting her hand against the side of his face. “A child.” Her eyes, already moist, began to overflow. “What did they tell you?” she said, her hand now at his hair, Markus not even blinking. “Never mind. Tell me later.”