“Press number five,” he said, idling the car at the green door.
But Erich was already there, waiting.
“Oh, so pale,” Irene said, a mother hen’s fluttering, as he got in the back. “You still have the fever?”
“It’s better,” Erich said. “Let’s go.”
“Duck a little,” Alex said, “so no one sees your head.”
“They’re following you?”
“Not yet.”
“I have a message for you. He said to tell you the refrigerator is still working.”
Alex smiled.
“Who said?” Irene asked.
“No one.” Alex looked at her. “No one.”
She said nothing, turning to the side window. “But he helps Erich,” she said finally. “How do you arrange these things?” Not really a question. She raised her voice, to the back. “You have your coat? It’s cold.”
“Yes, I’m warm enough. Don’t worry.”
“Enka’s,” she said vaguely. “I kept it. I didn’t want to sell it. For those prices. He always had good things, Enka.”
“It’s lucky for me you kept it,” Erich said.
“Yes,” Irene said, “At least we have the coats on our backs. Imagine if father knew this. Leaving Berlin with nothing. Just the coats on our backs. And a purse,” she said, raising it.
“How’s your voice?” Alex said to Erich. “Still hoarse?”
“Not so much. I’ve been thinking what to say. What will he ask, do you think?”
“He won’t. I will.”
“You?” Irene said.
“Well, not on the air. I can’t use my voice. They’d pick it up right away. I’ve written some questions out. You just answer, then say whatever you want.”
“But we’re not on the radio?”
“You will be. Make a tape recording, they can play it anytime. Don’t worry, you’ll sound as if you’re there in the studio.”
They were crossing the Spree now, into Spittelmarkt, and turning up to the center.
“We’re going to the house?” Erich said, suddenly excited, head up.
“It’s not there anymore, Erich,” Irene said gently, to a child. “It was bombed.”
“But it’s just up here. Let me see. I want to see it.”
“There isn’t time,” Alex said.
“But it would be the last time. I can’t come back.”
Irene turned to Alex. “We have one minute? We can spare that? If he wants to see.”
“Stay in the car. One minute.”
He turned into Kleine J?gerstrasse, stopping the car by the mound of rubble where he’d had his morning cigarette. The street was deserted. In the moonlight you could see the jagged outline of the remaining walls, still, lifeless.
“Oh,” Erich said. “Look. Only the door.”
“I told you. It’s gone,” Irene said.
“So many years. And then gone. I thought it would always be like that, the way we lived here.”
“So sentimental,” Irene said. “It was an ugly house.”
“Not to me. Not to Mama. She loved it. And to be like this—who was it, the British or the Amis?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? By that time it wasn’t ours anyway. Papa sold it. To the Nazis. Well, who else was here to buy it? So it’s not von Bernuth for a long time. You miss it? What do you miss? Your own childhood, that’s all. The house—” She waved, letting the house slip away.
“Still,” Erich said.
“It wasn’t the same after Mama died,” Irene said, partly to herself now. “He let it go. Like everything else. I think he never liked it here anyway. He liked the farm. Where he could bully his Poles.”
“He never bullied—”
“Ouf,” Irene said. “More stories. Anyway, they have it now, the farm, so in the end—” She trailed off, then turned to Erich. “And we have our coats. So that’s something. Maybe this time we won’t be so careless.”
“Who was careless?”
“Well, maybe not you, so young. Look at Papa, one card game and another piece of furniture’s gone. Look at me.” She stopped, gazing out the window at the house. “You know, when you put us in the book,” she said to Alex. “The girl wasn’t me.”
“No, I—”
“You thought it was, maybe, but it wasn’t. A story. Now I think you want to put me in another story. And I’m not her either.”
Alex stared at her. “What do you—?”
But she cut him off, turning to Erich again. “But you’ll be safe, that’s all that matters. So take a look and now it’s gone, poof. Bricks. That time, too. Gone.”
“Okay?” Alex said, putting the car in gear, anxious to start again.
“Never mind,” Irene said, a stage cheerfulness. “We’ll start over.” She nodded to Erich. “Maybe for once a von Bernuth who amounts to something.”
Erich smiled. “Do you remember what you used to say to me?”
“What I—?”
“Remember who you are. You used to say that. Remember who you are.”
“Well, in those days.”
“Always proud of that, who we were. So you don’t change.”
Irene said nothing and turned back to face the street.
“Look, the French Church. The dome’s gone,” Erich said, still having his last look at the city. Alex thought of the day he’d left for good, Berlin draped in swastikas, everything intact. “What happened to St. Hedwig’s? Is it all right?”
“No, bombed too,” Irene said. “Where are we going?” This to Alex, who was looking in the rearview mirror. Nobody.
“The Kulturbund.”
The club was quiet, the few people there already in the dining room. Up the stairs, past Goethe. Martin’s office was dark, but unlocked, the tape recorder still on the side table. A portable mike had been attached to it, a makeshift studio, ready to send the word to Dresden and points east. Alex looked through the supply cabinet for a spool of tape and started threading it.
“Are we supposed to be here? What if someone—?”
“He’s at the theater. Let’s just hope he doesn’t count these,” he said, tapping the spool. “Here, give me a voice check. Directly into the mike, don’t turn your head. Your normal voice. Irene, close the door. Ready?”