“It’s gone. The money, everything.”
“Yes, I know. You wrote about this. And then the war. But look how she stands. The shoulders. That’s not money, something else.”
“That’s Fritz,” Alex said. “Well, I’d better go rescue her.”
Markus smiled. “Still the servant. But servants hear things, so it’s good. Maybe you could bring her one day, to see my mother. Someone from the old days,” he said, trying to sound casual.
Alex stopped. “I forgot to ask. How is she?”
“Not so well. Still at the Central Secretariat guest house. She prefers it there.” He hesitated, weighing, then looked up. “Can I tell you something? You’re the only one now from those days. The others-”
Alex waited, his silence a kind of assent.
“We’re strangers to each other,” Markus said finally. “I know,” he said before Alex could answer. “She’s my mother. But it’s too many years maybe. Maybe that.”
“Give it some time.”
“She says things. I think, who is this woman? Does she know what it was like for me, to suffer for her crimes?”
“For you?” Alex said.
“Yes. All the children. After the parents were taken away. We were-orphans. Imagine what terrible things might have happened. Only the Party saved us.”
Alex stood still, unable to speak, people brushing past on their way into the theater. He thought of her bony hand on the railing, too afraid to risk the elevator, a punishment box. He’s one of them.
Finally, at a loss, he just nodded and said, “I’ll bring Irene.” But of course she’d be gone, another ghost after tonight.
He went over to her, still talking to the Russian. “We should go up.”
“Yes,” she said, relieved to get away.
“We meet again,” the Russian said to Alex.
Alex acknowledged this with a look, taking Irene’s elbow.
“But a minute,” the Russian said, blocking them. “The general wanted to meet you.” This to Irene.
“General?”
“Saratov. The one who replaces Markovsky. He had to use the toilet, but I know he wanted-ah, here. General, Frau Gerhardt.”
“I have heard of you, of course,” he said, a curt nod to Irene, but taking them both in.
Saratov was barrel-chested and dark, a short man with none of Markovsky’s blond good looks-Georgian, perhaps, or Armenian, a permanent stubble on his face that suggested hair everywhere else, and an almost feral alertness in his eyes.
“I was told you were beautiful and I can see the reports were accurate.”
A line meant to be charming but said without inflection, something memorized from a foreign language.
“Well, I think exaggerated,” Irene said, “but thank you. When did you arrive in Berlin?” Making conversation.
Saratov ignored this, looking at Alex instead, waiting for the Russian to introduce him.
“Your friend,” the Russian said to Irene, prodding her to do it, Alex unknown to him.
“Oh, Alex Meier. A friend since childhood. Here in Berlin. He’s back from America to be with us again. A writer, very celebrated. You never think someone you knew as a child can be famous-”
“America,” Saratov said, not interested in the rest. “You were there how long?”
“Fifteen years,” Alex said, returning his stare. A hard-liner, close to Beria.
“A very long time.”
“The Nazis took a long time to be defeated.”
“But you didn’t return immediately.”
“No one did. It wasn’t allowed. And then the Soviet Military Administration invited me to come home. So here I am.”
Saratov grunted, frowning a little, as if Alex had been impertinent. He turned back to Irene.
“You were a friend of Major Markovsky.”
“Yes, we knew each other.”
“Then you’ll be pleased that I bring good news of him.”
“Yes?” Irene said, momentarily still, blinded. Only her hands moved, clutching her purse as if it were about to slide between her fingers.
“Yes, he is well. In Moscow.”
Alex froze. Don’t react. But Saratov’s eyes were fixed on Irene, a beady relentless gaze. Her hands jerked again, tighter on the purse, and Alex thought of a hare in a trap, pulling at its leg.
“In Moscow,” she said, buying time, even a second. Alex held his breath, the noise around them now just a hum. And then she found it, some miraculous reserve of will, and smiled. The von Bernuth shoulders. “Oh, I’m so glad. We were worried. People came asking questions-they said he was missing. So you found him?”
“Not missing,” Saratov said smoothly. “More misplaced. He became ill and he went to the infirmary, but not his assigned one. No one thought to look in the other. A foolish mistake. I’m sorry if anyone disturbed you-”
“No, no, I’m so happy to know it. So he’s back in Moscow?” The hands still now, finding the part.
“Yes, with his wife.” A jab, just to see the reaction.
Irene looked down. “Yes, of course. His wife.”
“You knew he had a wife.”
She raised her head, meeting his eyes. “Of course. He often spoke of her. She must be happy that he’s back.”
Saratov, not expecting this, said nothing.
The lights flickered, the call to go in.
“So,” Irene said. “No more mystery. All is well in the end. Like a play.”
“Yes, a good ending,” Saratov said, his voice steady, almost insistent.
Alex looked over at him, uneasy. Close to Beria. They rewrote history, whole swatches of it, why not Markovsky? People erased from photographs, evidence fabricated, confessions taken down. The world was what you said it was. Markovsky was happy in Moscow, Irene discarded-but wasn’t that the way of things, the way it had to end? And now it had. But why?
“I hope you will be easy now in your mind,” Saratov said, putting on his hat.
“Yes, thank you for telling me. You’re not coming in?”
“No. Leon here is the one for the theater. I prefer facts.”
Alex looked at him again. Was he toying with them? Watching the hare twisting in the trap.
“I came for the reception only. A courtesy to Major Dymshits. And my German, you know-I don’t think it’s up to this. A whole evening.”
“It will come to you. Sasha-Major Markovsky-had only a little when he arrived.”
“No doubt he had an excellent teacher.” Dipping his head, but not smiling.
“And what good will it do him now?” Leon said. “In Moscow, I mean,” he said, catching Saratov’s glance.
“We’d better go up,” Alex said.
“I’ll say good night, then,” Saratov said.
The lights flickered again.
“Don’t worry,” Leon said to Irene as Saratov left.
“Worry?”
“Sometimes his manner-but it’s just his manner.” He paused, a quick side glance to Alex. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“And you,” Irene said. “Is your wife in Moscow too?”
“In Perm,” he said, a knowing faint smile. “Even further away.”
Irene turned toward the stairs, not answering.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Alex said.
“The family friend,” Leon said, another smile.
Alex looked at him. Not here. Not tonight. “And what are you?” he said, then started for the stairs.
“My God,” Irene said on the landing. “I’m shaking.”
“No, you were perfect.”
“He kept looking at me, just to see how- But what does it mean? Why would he say that? Sasha in Moscow.”
“I’m not sure.”
“To see what I know, I think. If I’m surprised. If I’m not surprised. And either way he suspects.”
“Maybe. And maybe he wants you to think he doesn’t suspect. They’re walking away from it. So you don’t have to worry anymore.”
“And then put a rope around my neck.”
He took her elbow. “They don’t know he’s dead.”
“They must know something. Why would they make such a lie?”
“I don’t know. I have to think.”
“Oh, think. Look at me. Shaking. I really will be sick.”
“We’re almost there. Remember, go to the ladies’ room before the curtain. Establish it.”
“And he doesn’t even come to the play. So maybe he’s outside. Waiting to see who comes out. Who doesn’t believe him about Moscow.”