“It always does,” Muller said. “We just bring the food.”
But language had divided the party into its own occupation zones. The Russians Jake met nodded formally, tried a few words in German, and retreated back into their steady drinking. The piano had returned to the American zone with “The Lady Is a Tramp,” but the Russian player hovered behind, ready to reclaim the keyboard for his side. Even the laughter, getting louder, came from isolated pockets, separated by untranslatable jokes. Only Liz, gliding in with a quick wink to Jake, seemed to bring the party together, suddenly drawing both sets of eager uniforms around her like Scarlett at the barbecue. Jake looked around the room, hoping to find Bernie and his armload of questionnaires, but got caught instead by a burly Russian covered with medals who knew English and, surprisingly, also knew Jake.
“You traveled with General Patton,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I read your dispatches.”
“You did? How?”
“It’s not forbidden, you know, to read our allies.” He nodded. “Sikorsky,” he said, introducing himself, his voice accented but amused and sure of itself, an officer’s gift of rank. “In this case, I confess, we were interested to know where you were. A very energetic soldier, General Patton. We thought he might even reach Russia.” His face, fleshy but not yet sagging with jowls, creased with good humor. “I read your description of Camp Dora. Before the general pulled back to your own zone.”
“I don’t think he was thinking much about zones then. Just Germans.”
“Of course, as you say,” Sikorsky said gracefully. “You saw Nordhausen then. I saw it too. A remarkable place.”
“Yes, remarkable,” Jake said, the word absurdly inadequate. The underground rocket factory, two vast tunnels into the mountain crisscrossed with shafts, hollowed out by walking corpses in striped pajamas.
“Ingenious. To put it there, safe from bombs. How was it possible, we wondered.”
“With slave labor,” Jake said flatly.
“Yes,” the Russian said, nodding solemnly. “But still remarkable. We called it Aladdin’s cave.” Whole production lines, some of the V-2s still waiting, assembled, machine shops and tunnels full of parts, dripping with moisture from the rock. Bodies scattered in dark corners, because no one had bothered to clear them away in the frantic last days. “Of course,” the Russian went on, “there were no treasures in the cave when we got there. What could have happened, do you think?”
“I don’t know. The Germans must have moved it all somewhere.”
“Hmm. But where? You didn’t see anything yourself?”
Just the endless line of American trucks hauling their spoils west- crates of documents, tons of equipment, pieces of rockets on flatbeds. Seen, but not reported-the general’s request. When he became a friend to the army.
“No. I saw the gantries where they hanged the prisoners. That was enough for me. And the camps.”
“Yes, I remember. The hand you could not shake off.”
Jake looked at him, surprised. “You did read the piece.”
“Well, you know, we were interested in Nordhausen. Such a nuzzle. So much, to vanish like that. What is the expression? A disappearing trick.”
“Strange things happen in wartime.”
“In peace too, I think. At our Zeiss works, for example-four people.” He waved his fingers. “Like that, into thin air. Another disappearing trick.”
“Telling stories out of school, Vassily?” Muller said, joining them.
“Mr. Geismar has not heard about our trouble at the Zeiss factory. I thought perhaps he would be interested.”
“Now, Vassily, we’ll save that for the council meeting. You know, we can’t control what people do. Sometimes they vote with their feet.”
“Sometimes they are given transportation,” the Russian replied quickly. “Under nacht und nebel.” Night and fog, the old nighttime arrests.
“That was Himmler’s technique,” Muller said. “Not the American army’s.”
“Still, one hears these stories. And people vanish.”
“We hear them too,” Muller said carefully, “in the American zone. Berlin is full of rumors.”
“But if they are true? ”
“This one isn’t,” Muller said.
“Ah,” the Russian said. “So it’s a mystery. Like Nordhausen,” he said to Jake, then lifted his empty glass in a mock toast and politely headed away for a refill.
“What was that?” Jake said.
“The Russians are accusing us of snatching some scientists from their zone.”
“Which we wouldn’t do.”
“Which we wouldn’t do,” Muller said. “They would, though, so they always suspect the worst. They’re still kidnapping people. Mostly political. Not as bad as in the beginning, but they still do it. We Protest. So they protest.”
“Like having each other over for drinks.”
Muller smiled. “In a way.”
“And what’s Zeiss?”
“Optical works. Bomb sights, precision lenses. The Germans were way ahead of us there.”
“But not for long.”
Muller shrugged. “You never stop, do you? I can’t help you with this one. A few engineers took off. That’s all the story I know, if it is a story. Personally, I wouldn’t blame anyone for trying to get out of the Russian zone.”
“So our friend’s just blowing smoke.”
“Well, that’s what they do best. Don’t let him fool you. Just because he speaks English doesn’t mean he’s a friend.”
“Who is he exactly?”
“Vassily? General Sikorsky. He’s at the council. Does a little bit of everything, like all the comrades, but our counterintelligence boys know him, so I always thought he had a finger in that pie. Maybe even a kidnapping or two. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“So I should watch my back.”
“You?” Muller smiled, amused. “Don’t worry. Even the Russians wouldn’t want a reporter.”
Jake moved past the front parlor, where a group had begun singing, and down the hall toward the French doors in the back, open to let the smoke drift out. It was still light, the late light of a northern summer, and he looked at the muddy garden where grass and canvas chairs must have been, now trampled over and uprooted, like everything else in Berlin. There had been mud at Nordhausen too, so much that the trucks had slid in it, spattering the work party as they roared away with Aladdin’s treasures. No nacht und nebel, just gum-chewing T units, loading their convoys of steel prizes for the trip west. Where now? Somewhere over the Rhine, maybe even already in America, getting ready for the next war. If he asked now, he’d be told it had never happened. A disappearing trick. And he’d let that story go without a qualm, happy to oblige, because there was always another, until suddenly they were gone, all the big war stories, leaving nothing but rubble.
“Hey, Jackson,” Liz said, standing hesitantly in the doorway, as if she were afraid to interrupt. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just arguing with myself.”
“Who won?” she said, coming over.
Jake smiled. “My better instincts.”
“That must have been close.” She lit a cigarette, offering him one. “Catch any flak about today?”
“Not much. Nobody seems to think it’s anything special. They wonder why I care.”
“Why do you?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s an old superstition. If a story falls in your lap, it’s bad luck to waste it.”
“Old superstition.”
“Sorry about the camera.”
“No, I got it back. A nice Russian brought it to the press camp. Seemed to think I might go out with him, me being so grateful.”
