impossibility.
7
The city lay beneath clouds, and Vollman banked the plane low to cut his way through. The rain was colder here and fell across Hoffner’s face with the sour taste of wild turnips. It was familiar enough, and he breathed in and tried to remember Berlin in August.
The plane touched down easily. A gray dusk covered the fields and runways. Vollman cut the engine, and the two got out and walked toward the hangar.
“I have a car,” Vollman said. “I can take you into town.”
The drive passed in silence. Dusk slipped into evening, and the oncoming headlights flashed across the windscreen like the sudden flares of a match. Hoffner kept his window down and let the rain slap at his face. The chill and the quiet seemed foreign. Cars raced by, the streets grew brighter with lights and people, and Hoffner wondered if there was anything to recognize in these lives lived so carelessly.
Vollman pulled up in front of an old repair garage. There were two large rooms above, furniture, a telephone. The lights were on.
Vollman said, “This is it?”
Hoffner continued to stare up at the rooms. He nodded.
“You’ll be all right?”
It was a pointless question. Hoffner turned to Vollman. There was nothing more to this; still, he asked, “You’ll fly back to Spain now? Or Moscow?” Vollman said nothing. “We won’t be seeing each other again, I imagine.”
Hoffner waited. Vollman stared through the windscreen and Hoffner opened the door. He stepped out.
Upstairs, the last of the Berlin he knew trundled along as it always had. A table stood at the far end of the room, large Rolf behind it, with a line of men winding its way back to the door. Rolf was writing out slips of paper and handing them to Franz, who entered them in a ledger. The men were a ragtag bunch-pickpockets, swindlers, thieves-each with a little something to show for a day’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the tools of the trade smelling of old Dutch tobacco. Hoffner recognized the son of a man he had sent to the gallows fifteen years earlier. There had never been any hard feelings. The father had beaten the boy’s mother to death. The boy had been happy to see him hang.
Radek was in the second room, lounging on a long sofa and reading through one of his papers, when Hoffner stepped through the line.
“Pimm always did this at daybreak,” Hoffner said. “Kept them on their toes.”
Radek looked up. He tossed the paper to the side and nearly sprang up. He did nothing to hide his delight. “About time.” He pulled Hoffner in for a hug. Hoffner tried to return it. A few men looked over. The rest knew not to take notice.
Radek pulled back and smiled. “You found a plane.” He was already moving to a small cabinet where glasses and bottles stood in disarray. He uncorked one. “I had to bring Mueller back,” he said as he poured. “Couldn’t be helped, but I gather it all worked out.”
“Yes.”
“He said you met Gardenyes. Lunatic, even by my standards. You weren’t around when he got shot, were you?” He handed Hoffner a glass.
“No,” Hoffner said.
“Good.” He raised his glass. “
Hoffner watched as Radek drank. He watched as the eyes peered across at him. And he watched as the glass slowly came down.
Radek stared for several moments. Finally he said, “Georg didn’t make it, did he?”
“No.”
“Christ. I’m sorry. How?”
Hoffner waited, shook his head. “The usual way. What you’d imagine.” He handed back the glass. It was untouched. He glanced into the other room. “Business seems good.”
Radek set the glasses down. “Have you told the wife?”
Hoffner watched the men. He followed the slow movement of the line, the great care Rolf was taking with his penmanship. Hoffner shook his head.
Radek said, “She has the mother and the father in Berlin. And the boy. That should make it easier.”
A man was sitting at the far end in a chair by himself. He had bruising around his eye and cheek. He had been crying. Hoffner had no idea why. He turned to Radek. “It’s all gone, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This. The city.”
Radek knew to tread carefully. “You should have that drink.”
“She won’t be finding her way back, will she?”
Radek recorked the bottle. There was no point in fighting it. “And what would you have her go back to, Nikolai? Berlin wouldn’t know herself, even if she went looking.” Radek stared down at Hoffner’s glass of whiskey. He picked it up and tossed it back.
There was nothing real to this, thought Hoffner, nothing he could touch. “Sascha’s dead,” he said.
Radek brought the glass down. He waited before saying, “Is he?” He lapped at what was left and set the glass on the cabinet. “I’m sorry for that.” He refused to look at Hoffner. “We’ll go out. Rucker’s, the White Mouse. Last night of the games. Everyone wants to have a drink the last night of the games.”
Hoffner saw Radek’s face grow tighter, and Hoffner said, “You enjoy the drinks, Zenlo.” He turned toward the door.
Radek said, “They weren’t yours to save, Nikolai.”
Hoffner might have heard him say something else, but he chose to ignore it.
The house was dark, all but Lotte’s bedroom window. Hoffner stared up at it. He had been standing like this for the better part of an hour. The street was quiet. A car drove by, and Hoffner saw a figure peer through the curtains. He stepped out under the streetlamp, and the curtains fell back. Hoffner walked to the front steps.
The door opened before he could knock, and Lotte stood in the vestibule, her face pale, her hair fighting against the pins. Hoffner saw her father and mother-Edelbaum and his wife-standing by the stairs. There was nothing to hide the age and the fear in their faces.
Lotte looked at Hoffner. She saw the swelling around his eye, the gauze on his hands. Her breath grew short and she stepped back. Hoffner reached for her, but she was already sliding to the floor, her back against the wall, her legs tangling in her apron and skirt. She sat there and began to weep, and Hoffner crouched down. He heard her mother crying.
Arms limp at her sides, Lotte began to slap the back of her hands onto the tile, one after the other. Her weeping became moans, and Hoffner took hold of her and brought her close into him. He lifted her and carried her inside. He set her on the couch, and her mother quickly moved to her. Hoffner stepped back. He stood by the father.
“How?” said Edelbaum.
They both stared across at Lotte. She had nothing but memory now, stripped of hope and more desperate by the minute. How easy to shatter a life, thought Hoffner, drain the strength from it, and make courage something only vaguely remembered.
“Wilson never came?” he said.
It took Edelbaum a moment to answer. He watched his daughter and said absently, “Who?”
“The man from Pathe Gazette. He never came by?”
Edelbaum tried to think. It was too much. He shook his head, and Hoffner wondered if this had been kindness or cowardice on Wilson’s part.
