villas and trees in Grunewald were as lovely as ever. Why hadn’t he noticed before? He didn’t see the rubble as he sped up the Kurfurstendamm, just the happy morning light. For a moment it seemed still lined with shops. The important thing was to get fluids into her to prevent dehydration. Soup, every mother’s remedy.
As Ron had predicted, Hannelore fell on the sandwiches.
“Ham, my god. And white bread. No wonder you won the war, to eat like this. We were starving.”
“Save one, okay?” he said, watching her gobble it down. “How’s Lena?”
“Sleeping. How she can sleep, that one. What’s that?”
“Soup,” he said, putting the pot on the ring.
“Soup,” she said, a child at Christmas. “Is there another tin, maybe? My friend Annemarie, she would be so grateful.”
The thought of getting her out of the house made him generous. He handed her two cans, then a pack of cigarettes.
“These are for you.”
“Luckies,” she said in English. “You’re not a bad sort.”
When he took the soup in, Lena was awake, looking out the window. Still pale. He felt her forehead. Not as bad as before, but still feverish. He began to spoon soup for her, but she took it from him, sitting up.
“No, I can feed myself.”
“Hike doing it.”
“You’ll make me an invalid. I feel so lazy.”
“Never mind. I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“You should work,” she said, and he laughed-a sign of life, the way she used to scold him back to the typewriter.
“Would you like anything?”
“A bath, but there’s no hot water. It’s terrible, how we all smell.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Let me see what I can do.”
It took forever. The boiling water seemed to turn cold the minute it touched the porcelain, so he had to carry more pots from the gas ring like a slow conveyor belt, until finally he had a shallow bath, not really hot but a little better than tepid. He thought of Gelferstrasse and its steaming tub.
“Soap,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
“U.S. Army. Come on, hop in.”
But she hesitated, the old self-consciousness. “You don’t mind?” she said, indicating the door.
“You didn’t use to be so shy.”
In the same tub, bubbles covering her breasts, laughing at him when he patted her dry, getting himself wet.
“Please. I’m so thin.”
He nodded and closed the door behind him, then went into the bedroom. Musty, despite the open window; rumpled sheets Hannelore probably hadn’t changed in weeks. But how could she have washed them? The smallest household task had become an ordeal. He found another set in the closet and changed the bed while he listened to the splashing next door. Hospital corners, everything stretched tightly.
He was in the kitchen, washing up, when she came out, toweling her hair. She looked brighter, as if the dark circles under her eyes had been merely dirt.
“I’ll do that,” she said.
No, you get into bed. I’m going to spoil you for a few days.“
Your typewriter,“ she said, moving to the table and touching the keys.
“Not the same one, though. That’s still in Africa somewhere. I had a hell of a time getting this one.”
She touched the keys again. He saw that her shoulders were shaking, and he went over to her, turning her around.
“So silly,” she said, crying, “a typewriter.” Then she fell against his shoulder, holding him, so that his face was in her hair, a fresh smell now, and he burrowed into it.
“Lena,” he said, feeling her shudder, still crying, the way it should have been at the train station, some involuntary release.
Her head nodded against him and they stood that way for a minute, just holding each other, until he felt the heat through her hair and pulled away, brushing tears from the corners of her eyes with his fingers.
“Maybe some rest, huh?”
She nodded again. “It’s the fever, this,” she said, wiping her eyes, collecting herself. “So silly.”
“That’s what it is,” he said.
“Just hold me,” she said, “like you used to.”
And for a moment he didn’t want to do anything else, so happy the room around him seemed to melt away. But her hair was damp with sweat again and he could feel her sag against him.
“Come on, we’ll put you to bed,” he said, his arm around her as he walked her down the hall. “Clean sheets,” he said, pleased with himself, but she didn’t seem to notice. She slipped into bed and closed her eyes.
“I’ll let you sleep.”
“No, talk to me. It’s like medicine. Tell me about Africa. Not the war. What it was like.”
“Egypt?”
“Yes, Egypt.”
He sat on the bed, brushing back her hair. “On the river it’s beautiful. You know, sailboats.”
She frowned, as if trying to see it. “Boats? In the desert?”
“And temples. Huge. I’ll take you someday,” he said, and when she didn’t respond, he went on, describing Cairo and the old souk, the pyramids of spices, until he saw that she had finally drifted on, another sailboat.
He finished washing up, then out of habit sat down at the typewriter. Lena was right; he should work, they’d expect something in a day or two, and here was the old table, where he used to type out the broadcasts, looking into the busy square. The street was almost deserted now, just the usual thin stream of army trucks and refugees, but the spell had caught him, all the familiar props. When he started typing the clicking sound filled the room like an old phonograph record, found at the bottom of the pile.
“Potsdam Up Close,” something he could make up from hearsay and pictures, but with a chance to put himself on the spot, face-to-face with the Big Three, almost as if he’d been at the baize table too, talking to them, the only journalist there, something Collier’s would like. Maybe even a cover line. Dressed up with eyewitness details-the red star of geraniums, the chimneys, the patrolling Russians. Then the contrast to central Berlin, his trip that first day, Churchill at the Chancellery, putting himself in Brian Stanley’s place, who wouldn’t mind and who probably wouldn’t see it anyway. Our man in Berlin. Not what had really happened-a squalid murder, getting his life back-but what mattered to Collier’s, enough to keep the contract going. The football game as a finish, building the peace even while the Big Three negotiated. When he finished, it was a thousand words too long, but Collier’s could worry about that. He was back in business. Let them cut Quent Reynolds.
Rosen came before dinner, not furtive this time, even apologetic.
“Mr. Alford explained the situation. Forgive me if I—”
“Never mind. You’re here, that’s what matters. She’s been sleeping.”
“Yes, good. You didn’t say anything-what I told you? Sometimes its a little sensitive, even after everything. Their sweethearts come back, they think everyone waits. It’s difficult.”
“I don’t care.”
“No? It’s not always the case.”
Another Berlin story that didn’t make the piece, arguments and tears. He thought of the soldiers crossing the Landwehrkanal that day, almost home.
This time Rosen had brought a thermometer.
“A little better,” he said at the bed, reading it. “The penicillin must be working. A miracle drug. From mold. Imagine.”
“How much longer?”
“Until she’s better,” he said vaguely. “You can’t kill the infection with one shot. Not even a miracle drug. Now you, gnadige frau, drink sleep, that’s all-no shopping.” A friendly bedside phrase, as if there were shops. “Think good thoughts. Sometimes that’s the best.”
