All the Allies were here, many in uniform, so that the evening seemed a kind of international conference, the meetings they no longer had. Airplanes were still droning overhead, delivering coal, but they receded into the background too, like the ruins, while everyone faced the light. Alex thought of the photographs of the famous Weimar openings, white tie at the Zoo Palast, now bulky wool coats in the unheated salon, but the same eager sense of occasion, Berlin having its moment.
There were drinks for sale in the lobby, a crowded milling, no one prepared yet to go inside, the drama still here, heads turning to the doors as they opened, craning. The Kulturbund was out in force, wartime jersey dressed up with flashes of costume jewelry, sneaking glances at the Allied wives in better coats and permanent waves, everyone clinking glasses of Sekt as if the blockade were over, some bad memory.
“Remember, you’re not going to be feeling well later,” Alex said, handing Irene a glass.
“In our play,” she said. “Look, is that General Clay?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
“I think so. Or maybe they all look that way.”
“Alex.” Ruth Berlau, behind them. “You got the tickets? Well, of course you did, you’re here. I’m so glad. You don’t mind they’re upstairs? The Americans all wanted the orchestra. So then the French had to— But of course you can see everything up there, the full stage.” Fluttering now. “You can feel it, yes? Everyone so excited. All these years, and now—a million things to do. Everyone thinks it just happens by itself.”
“How’s Bert? Nervous?”
“Oh, you know him. Like a slug. He pretends—but he must feel it too. It’s the homecoming. I said to him, you arrived in October but it’s tonight that you come home. Be sure you make an entry in your journal. January 11, 1949. Years from now, people will look for that. How you felt when Mother Courage opened. I’m sorry,” she said, finally turning to Irene.
“Irene Gerhardt,” Alex said, introducing her. “An old Berlin friend. From before the war.”
“The war,” Ruth said vaguely, distracted. “Do you know what is so interesting? We were here at rehearsal. So in the Thirty Years’ War. And I went for a walk in the Tiergarten, and it was the same. The same landscape.” She held out her hands, a scale weighing. “Outside, inside—the same. What a vision he had. And now everyone will feel the play is about them. A play about war. In Berlin. Who knows better about that?”
“Irene, how wonderful. You’re here. I was hoping—” Elsbeth leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Still pale, the Dresden doll skin pasty, eyes retreating. “And Alex. You’re here too. How is Er—?” Stopping in time, a quick, awkward glance to see who might have heard, but Ruth had already drifted away.
“Better. He’s better.”
“Well, yes, Gustav helped him with the medicine. He’s so generous, you know, and for family—”
“He’s here?” Irene said.
“Getting drinks. But, my God, look at all these lights. We’re down to two hours a day now. Electricity. It comes and you rush to do everything at once. The ironing. The sewing machine. Everything all at once, before it goes off again. And of course the refrigerator, it’s hopeless. I said we would be better off if we had an icebox, like in the old hinterhofs. But then where do you get the ice? The worst part is you never know when the two hours come. Once it was one in the morning. So you iron when you want to be sleeping.”
Alex glanced toward the bar, spotting Gustav’s tall head, Elsbeth’s litany of complaint indistinct, background noise. Maybe the way people talked during the Thirty Years’ War too, consumed by domestic grievances. But someone who would try to keep Irene in sight, a possible monkey wrench in the plan.
“Where are you sitting?” he said suddenly, trying not to sound anxious.
“Where? With the Bowens,” she said. She fished a ticket out of her purse. “Good seats, I think. You know, he’s the British—Row D. So close. They said we should come. I don’t like to, you know. I’m afraid to go to the East. But Gustav said, what could be safer? Travel with the British command. Who would dare to bother you? And I thought, well, that’s right, isn’t it? And it’s Brecht.” She looked at Irene. “Like the old days. How long has it been? You remember Papa?” Smiling now, dropping her voice. “?‘Quatsch. Plays about whores.’?”
“No, he preferred the real thing.”
Elsbeth giggled, suddenly a girl, then looked around. “Why don’t you come see me?” she said, keeping her voice low, intimate. “You never come anymore.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And Erich?” Almost a whisper. “He’s with you?”
“No. He went to the West,” she said, looking at Alex.
“The West? How?”
“I don’t know. Someone helped him, I guess. He sent a message. He’s safe. Don’t worry.” Saying it to herself.
“Where?” Elsbeth said, pressing.
“I don’t know. He said he would write. I’ll let you know.”
“We’ll never see him again,” Elsbeth said, looking down. “The Russians will squeeze and squeeze and then they’ll come in and that will be that. That’s how it’s going to end. How else? They’ll round us up. I’m sure Gustav is on a list.”
“What list?” Gustav said, joining them. “Irene.” Nodding to her, then to Alex. “How is your patient? It was TB?”
Elsbeth put a hand on his arm. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Ah, family secrets.”
“He’s fine,” Irene said.
“And you? No Russian friend tonight?” he said, a suppressed sneer.
“He was called back to Moscow,” Irene said evenly.
“For good?”
Irene shrugged.
“So you’re alone now. No protector? I said this would happen, no? It’s always the same.”
“Alex protects me. So you don’t have to worry.”
Gustav hesitated, not sure how to take this.
“Oh, it’s so nice to see you,” Elsbeth said again, taking Irene’s hand. “What are you doing after? Maybe we can—” Not noticing Irene’s hand grow rigid, alarmed.
“What are you thinking?” Gustav said. “We told the Bowens—” He broke off and turned to Irene. “Our hosts. But another time.”
“Yes, it’s better really. I’m not feeling well tonight.” In the play again.