He made noise on the stairs, enough to reach Frau Schmidt’s block warden ears, then knocked on the door while he slipped the key in so that it sounded as if Irene were opening it to him. Entertaining a visitor, the usual. Alex spoke to the empty room, a phantom Irene, hoping his voice would carry, and shut the door behind him, imagining Frau Schmidt below, nodding her head, pursing her lips. Or maybe already in bed, but aware of the sounds above in the flat, Irene moving about, making tea for some new friend. He left the curtains open so that the light would be visible, Irene at home.
In the bedroom there was the smell of her, powder and perfume, gifts from Sasha, and he stood for a minute breathing her in, staring at the bed. Where they’d made love. Where others had too. And now where she imagined some new life together, trusting him, living off his privileges. He gripped the bedpost, suddenly aware how impossible that would be now. He’d planned the evening to evade her watchdogs, but anyone following her would have stopped them earlier. Certainly at the airport, the escape hatch. But no one had. Instead they’d been waiting at RIAS, knowing he’d be coming with Erich. Which meant they knew about him. They’d been waiting for him. He felt a shiver of cold. They knew. How much? But just helping Erich would put him in Sachsenhausen. And the car burning on the S-Bahn tracks? Being Alex Meier couldn’t protect him anymore, not the privileges, not the pictures in Neues Deutschland, the ode to Stalin. They knew. He had to get out.
He went back to the main room, breathing fast. Take some tea, think it through. Dieter’s advice. He went over to the heirloom shelf and picked up the candlestick. Washed clean, no sight of blood, still their secret. Why say Markovsky was in Moscow? Toying with him, a cat with a mouse, knowing Sasha wasn’t in Wiesbaden. Who knew about Erich’s interview? Ferber? Who sent an assistant out to the waiting car? But that one was easy, just a matter of listening to RIAS tomorrow. If they broadcast the tape, then it wasn’t Ferber. Someone else. They’d been waiting for him.
He sat down, still in his coat, cold again, thinking of that first night at the Adlon when he lay in a cold sweat feeling the dread creep over him. And now it had finally come. They knew. Think about the interview. He tried to work through the chronology, when, who knew, eliminating. Until there were two. Two. And Irene. Who didn’t want to go West. Who wanted to make a life with him. He looked at the piano shelf, lined with framed photographs. Irene at DEFA, Irene in the old house, her hair now a period touch, Irene with a man who must be Gerhardt, in a flashy topcoat, Irene with Elsbeth and Erich, a golden summer, before anything had happened. Remember who you are. Who learned to do anything to survive. Who’d just had another Russian in her bed.
He stopped. He was mixing things up, confusing the issue. They knew. For how long? How much time did he have? Just leave now and walk through the Gate, into the park, his first morning again. And do what? Go to F?hrenweg, to people who didn’t want him back, had never wanted him. Think of something. Make them want you. He was a mouse, wriggling in the cat’s claws, waiting for the inevitable. He had to get out.
He switched off the light and crept quietly down the stairs, still in Irene’s bed in Frau Schmidt’s hearing. In the street he didn’t bother to look around. If they were going to pick him up, they would. Or toy with him some more. Maybe wait to see if Erich was still with him. No one who’d followed his car from RIAS had survived. Irene had been home in Marienstrasse. So there was only Erich to account for, still stashed away somewhere.
He walked up to Nordbahnhof, then caught the late tram that ran along Danziger Strasse. You have to trust somebody, Dieter had said. He sat looking through the tram window at the dark city, juggling memories, what people had said. One more story. But even if his instinct was right, two now one, what he didn’t know was who else knew.
He got off just before Prenzlauer Allee and walked down Rykestrasse. No waiting car parked in front, still in the cat’s paw. On his door an envelope had been pinned with a tack. Inside he turned on the overhead light. An official envelope, in Russian and German. A summons to appear at the trial of Aaron Stein, a perverse gift of time. Maybe enough to work something out. They wouldn’t come to get him until he’d helped them destroy someone else.
8
BRANDENBURG GATE
ERICH WAS ON THE radio in the morning, crisp and clear, as if he were actually in the studio. Just as Ferber had promised. Alex imagined the interview playing at breakfast tables all over the East, the Erzgebirge slave camps no longer just rumors, Erich’s fare paid.
He’d been up early, at the typewriter, drafting the letters he’d need later, ready to be retyped on official paper. Then his speech, weighing the words, getting the language right. The only writing he’d done since he’d come to Berlin. He looked at the small pile of manuscript on the desk, untouched, something from his former life. Leave the flat as if you’d just gone for a walk. But what writer would leave an unfinished book behind? He took out a large envelope and sealed the manuscript inside. A look around the room. Neat, but not abandoned, the bed still unmade. If anyone checked.
He walked past the water tower, its red bricks like embers in the pale winter sunshine, then down the hill to the park. Gretel, a sentimental pick, where he’d waited the first time. Wondering if he could do it, be two people.
“They get off?” Dieter said, joining him. “No trouble?”
“One of them did. She’s still here.”
Dieter waited.
“Answer me something.”
Dieter opened his hand. Go ahead.
“What Gunther found. Did you tell anyone else?”
“No.”
“I mean anyone.”
Dieter shook his head. “Why?”
“You once told me I had to trust somebody. So now I am,” he said, nodding at him.
“When did you decide, before the question or after?”
“Before. But you like to be right.”
“And to what do I owe this honor?”
“Instinct. And a few other things.”
Dieter grunted. “So?”
“I need your help. Someone tried to kill us last night. Down at RIAS. Hear anything yet on your grapevine? A car going over a bridge?”
“No. So they must be calling it an accident. But they know you’re involved, with the broadcast?”