“When you’re finished, just switch it off here. Well, I’ll leave you. I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, moving to the door, his bad leg making a shuffling sound.
Alex took one of the typed papers out of the big envelope and faced the microphone. The testimony Aaron would never hear, another gift to Ferber. His own airfare. He told the story everyone already knew: the exile returning to Berlin, the excitement of homecoming, the Socialist hopes. Then the disillusionment, the growing alarm at the Party’s abuse of its own people, finally his refusal to condemn an innocent man. His decision to leave the East, burning every bridge now, every smiling Neues Deutschland picture turned upside down. Voting once more with his feet. He imagined Brecht hearing the broadcast, dismissing it, a foolish self-immolation, maybe framing some sardonic twist to excuse the rest of them. But no turning back now.
He finished and put the tape in his pocket, feeling his heart racing, some clock ticking in his head. Almost there. When he left the office, waving thanks to Martin, he wondered if anything showed on his face. How did a man look with a gun in one pocket and a grenade in the other?
Markus was still out but his mother was at the office, perched on the edge of a chair in the waiting area, her eyes darting around the room, on guard.
“Alex,” she said, her shoulders relaxing. “How nice.”
“You’re waiting for Markus?” he said, just to say something. Her face, if anything, looked thinner, skin stretched tight over the bones.
“He wanted to see me. The Commissar,” she said, a wry edge to her voice. Alex looked up. A Berliner still.
“Won’t they let you wait in his office?”
“I like it here. Where I can see. And you, you’re well?”
“Yes, fine,” he said, sitting down next to her. “How is it going with you?” He touched her hand.
“Well, how would it go with me? The coughing keeps me up at night.”
“But you’re comfortable? Your room—?”
“They watch, I think.” She looked down. “Well, maybe they don’t, I don’t know. But then it’s the same, isn’t it, if you think it?”
He said nothing, remembering Oranienburg, the months after, an eye at every window.
“Maybe Markus will find a bigger flat, so you can be together.”
“Then he watches.”
“Well, but to be together,” Alex said, not sure how to respond to this. “It’s a big adjustment. So many years.”
“You know some of the German children, the young ones, were given away. To Russian families. So they’re Russian now. Impossible to find. Even if you knew where. And the others? Dead, most of them. I never thought I would see him again. But all the time he’s at the school. For the ones they wanted to send back.” She stopped, going somewhere else. “Do you know what I remember? How your mother played the piano. The music in that house. Do you play?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s not like eyes or hair, is it? Something passed down. Maybe you’ll come one day for coffee. We can talk.”
“I’d like that.”
She looked up, suddenly clutching his hand. “He thinks it was some kind of school. A classroom somewhere. Lessons. To correct myself. When I try to tell him, he doesn’t hear. He thinks it was a school.”
“No, he knows what it was. He knows.”
“He knows and he doesn’t know. Like everybody. All right, that’s how he survives. But he doesn’t just survive. He’s one of them.”
“Mutti,” Markus said, coming in. “Alex.” Looking at her hand, still clutching Alex’s. “You’re here?” he said to Alex, annoyed.
“Something came up.”
“Yes, all right, come.” Eager to get him out of the room, like sweeping dust under a carpet. “Mutti, I won’t be long. They gave you some tea?”
“I’m fine.” She let go of Alex’s hand. “So you’ll come see me?”
“Yes, soon. I promise.” Another one broken.
“What’s all that?” Markus said, pointing to the big envelope under Alex’s arm as they walked down the hall.
“Papers. For a speech. On the radio.”
“The radio. You heard about the brother this morning? And now it’s our fault. ‘How could you let this happen?’ The Russians don’t tell us he escaped, they don’t tell us he’s here, and now it’s our fault. Nothing changes with them.” He stopped, hearing himself, and pulled back. “What did she say to you, Mutti?”
“Nothing. The old days. How is she doing?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe a little—” He put a finger to his temple. “Fantastical ideas.” He opened the door to his office. “I thought it was understood you don’t come here.”
“This couldn’t wait.”
“Yes? What?”
“I have something for you. But I want something too.”
Markus looked up, surprised. “What?”
“I want to be excused from Aaron’s trial.”
“Again with this,” Markus said, impatient. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes there is. Say you need me and this will compromise my position. They’ve got plenty of others to hammer the nails in the coffin. Nobody’s going to talk to me, if they think I’m part of this.” He opened his hand to take in Markus’s office.
“It’s the Russians who hold this trial, not us. Do you think they consult me—anybody—who should be a witness? Saratov doesn’t ask for permission.”
“No, but he’ll do you a favor. He’ll owe you.”
“Owe me for what?”
“Markovsky. I know where he is. That’s what I have.”
Markus stood staring for a minute, not moving. “How?” he said.
“I slept with her. Irene. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it? And you were right. Once we went to bed—well, you know what it’s like.”
Markus blinked, a tiny shift of his body, squeamish, and it suddenly occurred to Alex that he didn’t know, that his contempt for Irene came out of some monastic ignorance. An unexpected piece of luck—something he wouldn’t question.
“Where is he?” Markus said carefully, as if any sudden movement would scare Markovsky away.
“The Americans have him. Here. But they’re going to move him. And that’s our chance. I can deliver him to you.”