“Too long. Why didn’t you call before?”
But that was too complicated to explain, so Jake just stood there, hovering. “Can I do something?”
“You can make some coffee. I’m not often up at this hour.”
Jake went to the kitchen, sent off like an expectant father, superfluous. Filling the kettle, a small pop as the gas lit. In the living room, Hannelore moaned and turned over.
He went back to the bedroom and stopped at the door. Rosen had opened her robe so that she lay naked on the bed, his hands spreading her legs to examine her, an unexpected intimacy. The body Jake had seen so many times, stroking it to life, now being prodded like a slab.
She’s not one of Danny’s girls, he wanted to shout, but Rosen had already caught his look of dismay.
“I’ll call you,” he said curtly. “Go make the coffee.”
Jake backed out of the doorway. Why examine her there? The only thing Danny’s doctor would know. But who else could he have called? He saw the hands on her white thigh.
In the kitchen, he stirred the fake coffee in a cup. No sugar, nothing. He heard them talking down the hall, questions, Lena’s faint replies. He picked up the cup to take it in. But Rosen didn’t want him there. Instead he put it on the table and sat watching it grow cold. Hannelore’s hair had come undone, a messy girl even in her sleep.
When Rosen finally came out, he washed his hands again under the kitchen tap. Jake started for the bedroom.
“No. I’ve given her something to sleep.” He poured some of the kettle water into another cup and dropped in a syringe needle. “She should be in a hospital. Why did you wait? ”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“These girls,” Rosen said, shaking his head. “Who did the abortion?”
“What abortion?” Jake said, stunned.
“You didn’t know?” He went over to the table and sipped some coffee. “They shouldn’t wait so long.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes, it’s done. But there was an infection. Lack of hygiene, perhaps.”
Jake sat down, feeling sick. Another bed, hands probing, not washed.
“What kind of infection?”
“Don’t worry. Not venereal. She can work again.”
“You don’t understand. She’s not—”
Rosen held up his hand. “That’s your affair. I don’t ask. But she’ll need more penicillin. I only had the one dose. Can you make an injection? No, I thought not. I’ll come back. Meanwhile, use these.” He put some tablets on the table. “Not as strong, but you need to bring the fever down. Make her take them, never mind the taste.”
“Thank you,” Jake said, taking them.
“They are expensive.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“A valuable girl,” Rosen said wryly.
“She’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Just give her the tablets.” He glanced toward the couch. “You have two here?”
Jake turned away, feeling like Danny stung by Sikorsky’s money. But who cared what Rosen thought?
“Did she tell you she had an abortion?” Jake said.
“She didn’t have to. That’s what I do.”
“Are you a real doctor?”
“You’re a fine one to ask for credentials,” Rosen said, then sighed and took another gulp of coffee. “I was a medical student in Leipzig, but of course I was thrown out. I became a doctor in the camp. No one asked for a degree there. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
“And now you work for Danny.”
“You have to live somehow. You learn that in the camp too.” He put down the coffee cup, ready to go. “So, the tablets, don’t forget,” he said, getting up. “I’ll come tomorrow. You have something on account?”
Jake handed him some money. “Is this enough?”
He nodded. “The penicillin will be more.”
“Anything. Just get it. But she’ll be all right?”
“If you keep her off the streets. At least no Russians. They’re all diseased.”
“She’s not a whore.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor, either. Such niceties.” He turned to go.
“What time tomorrow?”
“After dark. But not so late as this, please. Not even for Danny.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to thank me at all. Just pay me.”
“You’re wrong about her,” Jake said, wondering why it mattered. “She’s a respectable woman. I love her.”
Rosen’s face softened, surprised at the words, something from a forgotten language. “Yes?” he said. He turned away again, his eyes weary. “Then don’t ask about the abortion. Just give her the tablets.”
Jake waited until the steps had died away in the stairwell before he closed the door. Don’t ask. But how could he not? Worth putting your life at risk. A matter of hygiene. He put the cup in the sink, then turned out the light and started down the hall, exhausted.
She was sleeping, her face smooth in the soft glow of the lamp. The way he had imagined it, the two of them in bed, his bed even, holding each other as if the war hadn’t happened. But not yet. He sank onto the chair and took off his shoes. He’d wait here until it was light, then wake Hannelore to keep watch. But the chair was springy, poking at him like thoughts. He went over and lay down on his side of the bed, still in uniform. On top of the sheet, so he wouldn’t disturb her. When he reached over to switch off the light, she stirred with a kind of dreamy restlessness. Then, as he lay staring up at the dark, she took his hand and held it.
“Jacob,” she whispered.
“Ssh. It’s all right, I’m here.”
She tossed a little, her head moving in a slow rhythm, so that he realized she was still asleep, that he’d become part of the dream.
“Don’t tell Emil,” she said, her voice not quite in the room. “About the child. Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said, and then her body relaxed, her hand still locked in his, peacefully, while he lay staring at the ceiling, wide awake.
Lena slept through most of the next day, as if his being there had finally allowed her to be really sick, not to have to make the effort to get up. He took the time out to get things: the jeep, miraculously still there; money from his army account; supplies at the PX, goods bulging on the shelves and piled high on the floor; a change of clothes at Gelferstrasse. Life errands. He threw his battered portable into the bag with his clothes, then told the old couple he’d be away for a day or two and was there any food he could take? More cans. The old man handed him something wrapped in paper, about the size of a bar of soap.
“Nobody in Germany has had butter for a long time,” he said, and Jake nodded, a conspirator.
At the press camp, where he went to collect messages, there were sandwiches and doughnuts. He filled another bag.
‘Well, somebody got lucky, I see,“ Ron said, handing him a press release. ”Today’s schedule, if you care. And details on the U.S. dinner a good time was had by all. It was, too. I hear Churchill got pissed. Take the ham sandwiches, it’s what they like. Can’t get enough ham, the frauleins. Need any rubbers?“
“Somebody ought to spank you.”
Ron grinned. “You’ll thank me later, believe me. You don’t want to go home with pus between your legs. By the way, they loved you in the newsreel. Maybe they’ll use it.”
Jake looked at him, puzzled, then shrugged it off, not wanting to talk.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Ron said as he hurried out.
But he already was. Potsdam, even tiddly Churchill, felt a million miles away. When he passed the flags in front of the headquarters building, he felt he was leaving a foreign country, saluting itself, a provider of tins. He glanced at the full sacks on the seat beside him. They’d eat out of cans, but they’d eat. In the bright sunshine, the
