“Yes, what’s wrong?” Gustav said, a doctor’s question.
“I don’t know. My stomach. It’s nothing, maybe something I ate. And the next day you’re fine.”
“Too many rations perhaps,” Gustav said, the edge back in his voice. “You should come to our sector. Seventeen hundred calories a day. A stomach problem? No, hunger. Thanks to the Russians. Of course it’s different for you. He probably gave you extra rations. Payoks.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Irene said, looking at him. “As much as I wanted. I never went hungry.”
Gustav, held by her gaze, took a step back, a physical retreat. “Well, we should find the Bowens.”
“They helped Gustav with the license,” Elsbeth said, explaining them. “So he could practice again. They think the Americans are mad. To make it so hard, if you were a Party member. Everyone was, all the doctors.”
“Some even believed in it,” Irene said smoothly, avoiding Gustav’s eye.
“Well, everything seemed different in those days,” Elsbeth said. “It’s funny, though, you know, to ride in a car with a British flag. Like the ones on the planes. That bombed us. Maybe even the ones that killed—”
“The British bombed at night,” Gustav said, annoyed. “In the daytime it was the Americans.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Elsbeth said. “It was the Americans. So at least we don’t ride with them.”
Gustav straightened himself to go, a heel-clicking motion. “I hope you feel better.”
“Do you know the play?” Elsbeth said suddenly. “I read it. She loses everything in the war. Her children. But she goes back to it. To make her living. So maybe she’s part of it too. Do you think that’s what he meant?”
Irene, not answering, leaned over and kissed her cheek. “With Brecht it’s always more than one thing. I’ll come see you soon.”
Elsbeth nodded, letting Gustav pull her away into the crowd.
“Why did you tell her Erich was in the West?”
“Well, he will be, won’t he? At least now Gustav won’t be tempted to turn him in. If he’s already gone.”
“He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t want to go near the police. Any police. You do that and before you know it, they start looking at you.”
Irene lowered her head. “What if I never see her again?”
Alex said nothing.
“You know what it feels like with her?” Irene said quietly. “She’s just waiting now. On a platform, maybe. Bags packed. Waiting.”
“Irene—”
“There you are,” Martin said. “Can I borrow him for a few pictures? Neues Deutschland. Quite an evening, yes?”
“You’ll be all right?” Alex said to Irene, waiting for her to nod. “She hasn’t been feeling well,” he said to Martin.
“I thought maybe you and Comrade Seghers,” Martin said, not listening. “She’s over here.” Nodding toward the familiar white hair, pulled back in a bun. “Both friends of Brecht. And of course in your own right—”
“What news of Aaron? Any?”
Martin stopped, as if someone had clutched his shoulder. “No.” His eyes darted anxiously, not here, not now.
“Does anyone know where he is? His wife?”
“I don’t know. Herr Meier—Alex—please. Tonight—”
Alex looked around the room. Did anyone else feel it, the undertow? People slipping away under the bright lights. Not just late to work at DEFA. People everyone here knew. Now no longer talked about, like nervous tics kept under control, willed away.
“You say you’ll come to see me, but you never do,” Anna Seghers said, taking his hand.
“But I will. It’s been a busy time.”
“Oh, with this one?” she said, nodding to Martin. “Always arranging things.”
“Stand together. Just there. That’s right.”
Flashbulbs.
“I wanted to ask you,” Alex said, turning to her, another picture, casually chatting. “Have you heard anything about Aaron? Where he is? I’m worried—”
“No, nothing,” she said, looking at him. “Someone said they’re keeping him in Potsdam, but I think it’s a rumor only.”
“But why?”
“Alex,” she said, touching his arm, a quieting, like a finger to the lips.
“Can’t anyone do something?”
“But we don’t know yet what is happening. Perhaps questions only. Maybe an indiscretion.” Her voice low, one more smile for the camera. “We don’t know the reasoning. The Party doesn’t always explain. That doesn’t mean they have no reason.”
Alex looked at her, wondering if she could possibly believe this. The Party innocent until proven guilty, not Aaron. But her eyes gave away nothing, her voice even, not shaded with irony.
“It’s not the Fascists,” she said, then looked away, flustered.
“No,” Alex said. “It’s us.”
Seghers looked up at this, about to respond, then caught herself, seeing Dymshits coming to join them. “Major,” she said, her voice louder, a signal to Alex.
“My favorite writers. What a good picture, seeing you together like this.” His glasses were shining in the lobby light, the slicked-back Thalberg hair gleaming. His body seemed to bounce, as if he were clapping his hands in delight. “Everyone is here. They say Emil Jannings might come. He hasn’t been well, but for such an occasion—”
“A man who makes films for the Nazis?” Anna said, surprised. “He’s invited?”
“Not invited. It’s a question of getting tickets. Look around. They come from all over Berlin. So why not Jannings. It’s not the old Germany anymore,” he said to Anna, a gentle reproach. “Tonight it’s the new Germany. And where is it? Here. In the East. They all come to us.”