“I don’t know,” Martin said, uncomfortable.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Alex said, feeling the key in his hand, squeezing it.
“No, no, just to talk. Maybe a good thing, your having to go. I should be getting to work, not drinking coffee.” But not moving, a speech that seemed endless, each word like a rope tying them to the floor. And still the key. Alex turned to the desk.
“Is Peter here this morning? The boy?”
The desk clerk nodded and whispered something to another bellhop, presumably a go-find-him request.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Alex explained.
“We should hurry,” Martin said. “The car-”
“There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” Markus said. “I just remembered. You will find this odd, maybe.”
Alex waited.
“Do you carry a gun?”
“A gun?” Alex said, surprised. “No. Why? Do you think I need one?”
“Need? No. But many people keep a gun here. Berlin can be a dangerous city. I was curious if you had brought one from America. And someone took it maybe. We had an incident with American bullets. So to find the gun-”
“Markus, there must be thousands of American guns in Berlin. Thousands.”
“Army guns, yes. But not this one. A gun a civilian might have. Or so the bullets suggest. There are not so many of those in Berlin. So we have to check.”
“So you ask me?”
“To eliminate you,” Markus said calmly. “Someone just arrived from America. Someone who was in Lützowplatz-”
“What does Lützowplatz have to do with it?”
“That’s where the incident took place.”
“The traffic accident you mentioned.”
“Well, perhaps it was more than that.”
“With bullets? Yes. Well, I didn’t see anybody shoot anybody either. Just my house-or what’s left of it.”
“It was a simple query.”
Alex looked at him, saying nothing, then spied Peter across the room. “There he is. Excuse me a moment.” He went over quickly, before Peter could reach them and took his hand, a tip movement, a bill slipped into a maître d’s palm. Peter’s eyes widened at the feel of the key, then looked up, a kind of approving glance for the smooth handover. He put his hand in his pocket, then saw Markus.
“You know he’s K-5?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. He’s just poking around. If he asks you-”
“I know what to say. He talks to Oskar.” Indicating the doorman.
“Thanks for this. I’ll tell Dieter.”
Peter bowed, backing way, Adlon training.
“You know it’s not necessary to tip here,” Markus said when he came back.
“I know, I keep forgetting. Old habits.”
“Bourgeois habits.”
“Well, he’s just a kid.”
“He did a special service for you maybe?”
“No. It’s just, a kid-”
“Not the best lesson, perhaps. I know, you mean to be generous, but what does such an exchange do? Reinforce an artificial distance between the classes.”
“It was only a mark,” Alex said easily. “An East mark.” Something Peter was likely to have.
“Well, I am perhaps too didactic. I’ve been told this. But you know, it’s true all the same.”
“We should go,” Martin said. “The car-”
Markus glanced at Alex’s suitcase. “A light traveler.”
“Just until the rest of my things arrive. Well, until our coffee then.”
“You can leave messages at the Kulturbund,” Martin said to Markus. “In fact, there is good coffee there. You would be most welcome.”
This seemed to amuse Markus, who smiled. “I will find you, don’t worry,” he said to Alex. “You don’t mind my saying? A very nice coat.” He ran his eyes over it, appraising. “It’s English?”
“No, just Bullocks Wilshire.” And then, at Markus’s blank expression, “A store. In California.”
“When people say ‘English coat’ what do they usually mean? I’m so ignorant of such things.”
“Tweed, I guess,” Alex said, wondering what he was asking. “Anyway, not Bullocks.”
“Of course, if it’s not German, they might say any foreign coat was English. American. English. How many would know the difference? It’s a difficulty with witnesses. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re seeing.” His eyes cool again, steady, not letting it go at all. The old woman? One of the English soldiers? Or nobody? Just his way of pulling a string to see if anything twitched.
The flat was in a nineteenth-century block of pale stucco and ornamental balconies, facing the street, not one of the gloomy back courtyards. Rykestrasse seemed to have escaped any serious bombing, the buildings shabby but intact. A few doors down there was a synagogue that had been converted to stables and at the end a small park with the red brick water tower that Alex could see from his window if he leaned out and craned his head.
“The SA took it over,” Martin said, pointing out the tower to him. “They tortured people in the basement.” He pulled his head back inside. “So, it seems comfortable to you? I realize, not so big, but the light is good. And even-” He paused for effect. “A telephone.”
“It’s wonderful,” Alex said, looking at the phone, clearly a great rarity. “I’m very grateful. You’ve gone to so much trouble.”
“No, no, we are so pleased you’re here.” Meaning it.
A separate bedroom, a worn sofa in the living room for Erich, small galley kitchen and a table by the window facing the street where he could write. A pressed glass pitcher with flowers. Lace curtains, recently ironed. Home.
“I have brought food packages but there are also shops in Schönhauser Allee.” As if everything were there for the asking, shelves filled.
Alex glanced at his watch. Erich would have left by now. “Thank you for everything. I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, no, it’s my job.” He took out a notebook, a secretary. “Perhaps now is a good time to look at your schedule?”
“My schedule?”
“A radio interview. We were hoping-”
“Can’t it wait?”
“But everyone is so anxious to hear what you have to say. A talk at the Kulturbund naturally would be later. So you have time to prepare. But the radio-”
“What kind of interview?”
“A conversation. Like talking over coffee. How it feels to be back. Conditions in America-why you left. Your hopes for the Socialist future. And your work, of course.” His voice implacable, something Alex would have to do sooner or later.
“All right. Let me know when. Anything else?”
Martin looked up, hesitant. “We’re preparing a Festschrift. A special book for Comrade Stalin’s birthday. It was hoped that you might contribute.”
“Contribute?”
“A short piece, whatever length you like. Some members are writing poems, but you-”
“Write a piece,” Alex said. “Praising Stalin.”
Martin turned his head, embarrassed. “His leadership during the war perhaps. A heroic period.” He waited for a moment, as if he were testing his words first. “Shall I say that you are thinking what to say?”
“Who else are you asking to do this?”
“Our prominent members. You of course-”
“Brecht? Brecht is writing something?” An impossible idea.
“A request has been made.”
Alex raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.
Martin licked his lips, nervous. “It’s an awkward situation. We want to show a certain solidarity. You understand.”
The more valuable you are, the safer you are. Alex nodded. “When do you need it?”
“The end of March. So the printer will have time. Sometimes, you know, there are delays, with the shortages.”
“Not for this, surely.”
“No, not for this.” Embarrassed again. “The Kulturbund appreciates-”
“Anything else?” Alex said, cutting him off.
“For now, no. May we expect you for lunch today? I can keep a place at the members’ table.”
“No, not today.”
“But Comrade Stein will be disappointed. He wanted to take you afterward to Aufbau. To meet the staff. I think they are expecting you.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. It’s just-I’d like to get some work done. It’s been awhile since I had a place to work.” He waved his hand toward the table.