“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, neither do I, half the time,” Brian said pleasantly. “Just a little conceit of mine. Never mind. Here, have a drink,” he said, taking another, his forehead sweaty.
The congressman ignored him, turning instead to the young soldier wedged next to him, a last-minute arrival, no duffel, maybe a courier. He was wearing a pair of high riding boots, his hands gripping the bench like reins, face white under a sprinkling of freckles.
“First time in Berlin?” the congressman said.
The soldier nodded, holding his seat even tighter as the plane bounced.
“Got a name, son?” Making conversation.
“Lieutenant Tully,” he said, then gulped, covering his mouth.
“You all right?” Liz said to him.
The soldier took off his hat. His red hair was damp.
“Here, just in case,” she said, handing him a paper bag.
“How much longer?” he said, almost a moan, holding the bag to his chest with one hand.
The congressman looked at him and involuntarily moved his leg in the tight space, out of harm’s way, turning his body slightly so that he was forced to face Brian again.
“You’re from New York, you said?”
“Utica, New York.”
“Utica,” Brian said, making a show of trying to place it. “Breweries, yes?” Jake smiled. In fact, Brian knew the States well. “Fair number of Germans there, if I’m not mistaken.”
The congressman looked at him in distaste. “My district is one hundred percent American.”
But Brian was bored now. “I daresay,” he said, looking away.
“How did you get on this plane anyway? I understood it was for American press.”
“Well, there’s Allied feeling for you,” Brian said to Jake.
The plane dropped slightly, not much more than a dip in a road, but evidently enough for the soldier, who groaned.
“I’m going to be sick,” he said, barely opening the bag in time.
“Careful,” the congressman said, trapped.
“Just get it out,” Liz said to the soldier, a big-sister voice. “That’s it. You’ll be all right.”
“Sorry,” he said, half choking, clearly embarrassed, looking suddenly no older than a teenager.
Liz turned away from the boy. “Did you ever meet Hitler?” she asked Jake, the question bringing the others with her, as if she were drawing a privacy curtain in place for the soldier.
“Meet, no. Saw, yes,” Jake said. “Lots of times.”
“Up close, I mean.”
“Once,” he said.
A sultry early evening, coming up from the Press Club, the street almost in shadow, but the new Chancellery still catching the last of the light. Prussian moderne, the broad steps leading down to the waiting car. Just an aide and two guards, curiously unprotected. On his way to the Sportpalast, probably, for another harangue against the devious Poles. He stopped for a second near the bottom stairs, looking down the empty street at Jake. I could reach into my pocket now, Jake had thought. One shot, put an end to all of it, that easy. Why hadn’t anyone done it? Then, as if the thought had carried like a scent, Hitler raised his head and sniffed, anxious as prey, and looked back at Jake. One shot. He held the look for a second, assessing, then smiled, just a twitch of the mustache, lifted his hand in a languid heil of dismissal, and headed toward the car. Gloating. There was no gun, and he had things to do.
“They say the eyes were hypnotic,” Liz said.
“I don’t know. I never got that close,” Jake said, shutting his own, making the rest of the plane go away.
Not long now. He’d go to Pariserstrasse first. He saw the door, the heavy sandstone caryatids holding up the balcony over the entrance. What would she say? Four years. But maybe she’d moved. No, she’d be there. A few more hours. A drink at the cafe down the street in Olivaerplatz, catching up, years of stories. Unless they stayed in.
“Pleasant dreams?” Liz said, and he realized he was smiling, already there. Berlin. Not long now.
“We’re coming in,” Brian said, his face at the little window. “God. Come have a look.”
Jake opened his eyes and jumped up, a kid. They crowded around the window, the congressman at their side.
“My god,” Brian said again, almost in a hush, silenced by the view. “Bloody Carthage.”
Jake looked down at the ground, his stomach suddenly dropping, all his excitement draining away like blood. Why hadn’t anyone told him? He had seen bombed cities before-on the ground in London, ripped-up terrace houses and streets of glass, then Cologne and Frankfurt from the air, with their deep craters and damaged churches-but nothing on this scale. Carthage, a destruction out of the ancient world. Below them there seemed to be no movement. Shells of houses, empty as ransacked tombs, miles and miles of them, whole pulverized stretches where there were not even walls. They had come in from the west, over the lakes, so he knew it must be Lichterfelde, then Steglitz, the approach to Tempelhof, but landmarks had disappeared under shifting dunes of rubble. As they dropped lower, scattered buildings took shape, smashed but there, a few chimneys sticking up, even a steeple. Some kind of life must still be going on. A beige cloud hung over everything- not smoke, a thick haze of soot and plaster dust, as if the houses could not quite bring themselves to leave. But Berlin was gone. The Big Three were coming to divide up ruins.
“Well, they got what they deserved,” the congressman said suddenly, a jarring American voice. Jake looked at him. A politician at a wake. “Didn’t they?” he said, a little defiantly.
Brian turned slowly from the window, his eyes filled with scorn. “Boyo, we all get what we deserve. In the end.”
Tempelhof was a mess around the edges, but the field had been cleared and the terminal itself was still there. After the tomb city they’d seen from the air, the airport seemed dizzy with life, swarming with uniformed ground crews and greeters. A young lieutenant, full of hair and chewing gum, was waiting at the foot of the stairs, picking out faces as they disembarked. The sick soldier had staggered down first, running off, Jake guessed, for the men’s room.
“Geismar?” The lieutenant stuck out his hand. “Ron Erlich, press office. I’ve got you and Miss Yeager. She on board?”
Jake nodded. “With these,” he said, indicating the cases he’d been lugging off the plane. “Want to give me a hand?”
‘What’s she got in there, her trousseau?“
‘Equipment,“ Liz said behind him. ”You going to make cracks or give the man a hand?“
Ron took in the uniform, with its unexpected curves, and smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said, giving a mock salute, then picked up the cases in one easy movement, impressing a date. “This way.” He led them toward the building. “Colonel Howley sends his regards,” he said to Liz. “Says he remembers you from his days in the ad business.”
Liz grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll take his picture.”
Ron grinned back. “You remember him too, I guess.”
“Vividly. Hey, careful with that. Lenses.”
They went up the gate stairs behind the congressman, who seemed to have acquired an entourage, and into the waiting hall, the same tawny marble walls and soaring space as before, when flying had been a romance. People had come to the restaurant here, just to watch the planes. Jake hurried to keep up. Ron moved the way he talked, breezing a path through the gangs of waiting servicemen.
“You missed the president,” he said. “Went into town after lunch. Had the whole Second Armored lined up on the Avus. Quite a picture. Sorry your plane was so late, that’s probably it for town shots.”
“Wasn’t he at the conference?” Liz said.
“Hasn’t started yet. Uncle Joe’s late. They say he has a cold.”
“A cold?” Jake said.
“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Truman’s pissed, I hear.” He glanced at Jake. “That’s off the record, by the way.”
