couldn’t be far. They’d stick to the Ku’damm, hoping for the lights of a cellar bar. The side streets would be impossible, clogged with unseen rubble. Assuming they went this way at all.
Up ahead, a tiny light flickered in a doorway. Jake started again, limping slightly, his sore foot slowing him like a brake.
“Hello, Tommy.” A soft voice called out where the light had been, then another flicker, a flashlight shining up under the whore’s chin, bathing her tired face in a ghost’s light.
“Did you see a couple go by?” he said in German. “A blond girl.”
“Come with me. Why not? Fifty marks.”
“Did you?” he said, insistent.
“Go to hell.” She snapped off the flashlight, saving batteries, and disappeared in the dark.
He could make out the jagged edges of the bombed church against the sky as a truck swept around the intersection. The old heart of the west end, flashing with theater lights, now just dark shadows. He remembered London in the blackout, buses appearing out of nowhere, headlights dimmed to slits like crocodile eyes. He had always hated it, the blindness, stumbling over curbs, but the ruins here made it worse, disturbing, twisted shapes in a nightmare. A jeep swung out of the broad Tauentzienstrasse, lighting up the sidewalk for a second. A pack of soldiers coming out of a bar, and there, beyond them, holding a flashlight, a tall soldier with a fleshy blonde.
Jake picked up his pace, ignoring the pain in his foot. They were heading toward Wittenbergplatz, the way he used to go home, down past the KaDeWe windows. Don’t lose her now. They had walked, so it couldn’t be far. Maybe another club. Hannelore Schmidt, Goebbels’ spy, who didn’t want to be recognized, arm in arm with the new order. He wondered what she’d put on her fragebogen. Not the calls to Nanny Wendt. Where had she got the dress? Ransacking the old flat in Pariserstrasse. Maybe a trade for food coupons. She’d know something. Not a pointless search through Bernie’s files, a real connection.
Jake saw them crossing the street now, guided by the weaving flashlight, which picked up a group of DPs huddled in the square. She’d be safe with Steve, a handy man to have around in a fight. Jake touched the corner of his mouth, tender, still streaked with blood. They were across Wittenbergplatz.
It was then he stopped, in front of the broken plate glass window, watching the tiny beam of light move toward the familiar heavy door. Almost a joke, there all along. His old flat, passed around the
Columbia staff until finally Hal Reidy had left too. Had Hal given it to her, a farewell bonus? Or had she simply moved in, another spoil to pick up, like the French cognacs and Danish hams that flooded into the city that last year. The meek inherited after all, even Hannelore Schmidt. Now what? Race up the stairs for another punching session with Steve? Now he knew where she was. He could come back tomorrow, bring some coffee, a peace offering, and talk to her calmly. A light went on in his window. His window. He imagined Hannelore draped over his couch with her GI, Lena’s dress flung aside, sequins crumpled on the floor. Where did she get it?
He crossed the square, warily circling the DPs, and went into his street. A walk he’d taken a million times. He pushed open the tall wooden door. Pitch dark, the hall light either gone out or stolen. In one corner he could hear the dripping of water in a bucket. But this was home, stairs he could climb with his eyes closed. He felt his way up the banister. A turn at the landing, then up to his floor, along the railing to the door. He knocked, not loud, a force of habit. The most terrifying sound in Germany, a knock on the door. Harder now. “Hannelore.” What if she refused to open? He tried the doorknob. Locked. His flat. He knocked again, then banged his open palm against the door, a steady pounding. “Hannelore!” Finally the sound of the lock clicking, the door opening a crack, then wider. A woman with frightened eyes standing with the light behind her. Not Hannelore, a gaunt woman with stringy hair, sickbed pale, another ruin. But over the dark circles her eyes widened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed, turning away.
“Jacob,” she whispered.
He glanced back, startled. Her voice. And now the face, familiar, was taking shape too, behind the pale skin. Not the way he’d imagined it. The same weightless feeling, falling into Ronny’s tables.
“Lena. My god.” His voice also a whisper, as if sound would chase her away, a ghost not yet real.
“Jacob.” She reached up her hand, touching the blood at the corner of his mouth, and he realized that he was the ghost, wild-eyed and bloody, someone from another world. “You came back.”
He took her hand from the streak of blood and moved it to his mouth, kissing it, grazing the fingers, not yet able to take in any more. Just the fingers, real. Alive.
She moved them along his lips, a Braille touch, trying to make sense of the ridges.
“You came back.”
He nodded, too happy to say anything, weightless but not falling, rising now, a balloon, watching her eyes fill, still too startled to smile.
“You’re hurt,” she said, touching him, but he took her fingers away, holding them as he shook his head.
“No, no. It doesn’t matter. Lena, my god.” And then he reached out for her, drawing her to his chest, arms around her. He kissed the side of her face, moving his head with hers, kissing her everywhere, as if he were still afraid she’d evaporate unless he touched her. “Lena.” Just saying it. Holding her tightly, his face in her hair, feeling her against him, until suddenly she let go, slumping, a dead weight, and he realized she’d fainted. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jake carried her inside. There was a pillow on the couch where Hal used to flop-evidently her bed. Struggling under her weight, he moved past the bathroom to the bedroom door. No hands free to open it, so he kicked. The door was flung open by Steve, down to dog tags and boxer shorts, his socks still on. Behind him, Hannelore, in a slip, let out a squeak.
Steve started toward him. “Boy, you don’t quit, do you?”
“She passed out. Help me get her on the bed.”
Steve looked at him, dumbfounded.
“It’s all right. I’m an old friend. Ask her.” He cocked his head toward Hannelore. “Come on, give me a hand.”
Steve stepped aside. “Who is he?” he said to Hannelore.
“From before the war. No,” she said to Jake as he carried Lena in. “That’s my bed. She’s on the couch. A few days, she said, and now look.”
“Go fuck in the hall for all I care. She’s sick-she needs the bed.” He put her down gently, stepping on the blue dress lying on the floor. “Do you have any brandy?”
“Brandy. Where would I get brandy?”
Steve walked over to his dropped uniform, took out a pint bottle, and handed it to Jake. A few drops on her lips, then a faint choke, eyes half open. He wiped sweat from her forehead. Feverish.
“You going to tell me what’s going on here?” Steve said.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jake asked Hannelore.
“I don’t know. I took her in, she was all right. I thought, well, two rations. It’s a help, you know? Now this. She just lies there all day. It’s always the same when you’re kindhearted. People take advantage.” Her voice hard and aggrieved.
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“Who has money for doctors?”
“You look like you’re doing all right.”
“You can’t talk to me like that. What do you know about it? Coming here like this. It’s not your flat. It’s mine now.”
“This your place?” Steve asked.
“It was. She used to work for me,” Jake said, looking at Hannelore. “And Dr. Goebbels. She tell you that?”
“That’s not true. You can’t prove anything.” She looked at Steve, then walked over to the nightstand and lit a cigarette, defiant. “I knew it was trouble when I saw you. You never liked me. What did I do? I take in a friend. Kindhearted. Now you’re going to make trouble.”
