The Good German - by Joseph Kanon

  

No water, but still the telephone. So he called?”

“From his father’s. He wanted to come for me, but the streets—”

“Yes, dangerous. The Russians were there?”

“Not yet. But near. Between us, I think, but what’s the difference? It was impossible. The Germans were just as bad, shooting everybody. I was afraid to leave the hospital. I thought, at least I’ll be safe here. Not even the Russians—”

“A terrible thing for him. So close. And after coming so far. The Zoo tower was still secure, I think, but perhaps he didn’t know that. To get through that way.”

Lena looked up. “You mustn’t blame him. He’s not a coward.”

“My dear lady, I don’t blame anyone. Not that week.”

“I don’t mean that. I told him not to come.”

“Ah.”

“I was the coward.”

“Frau Brandt—”

“No, it’s true.” She lowered her head and took a sip of coffee. “I was afraid we’d both be killed if he waited. I didn’t want another death. It was crazy to come then—there wasn’t time. I told him to leave with his father before it was too late. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t care. It was foolish, but that’s how it was. Why do you want to know this?”

“But his father didn’t leave either,” Gunther said, not answering. “Only the files. Did he mention them?”

“No. What files?”

“A pity. I’m curious about those files. It’s how he got the car, I think. You remember there were no cars then. No gas either.”

“His father said he came with SS.”

“But even they had no cars for personal matters. Not then. So it must have been for the files. What files, do you think?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Or the Americans.” He turned around to Jake. “What do the Americans say? Did you find out?”

“Admin files, Shaeffer said. Nothing special. No technical secrets, if that’s what you mean.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to read them. Not like our Herr Teitel. A genius with files, that one. In his hands, a weapon.” He raised his hand, uncannily like Bernie in the courtroom, the invisible file a kind of gun. “He knows.”

“Well, if he does, he isn’t saying, and he’s been sitting under them for weeks now. It’s his home away from home.”

“What is?”

Jake stared at him, then turned to the map. “The Document Center,” he said quietly, putting his finger down on Wasserkäfersteig, a short line, just a byway off the Grunewald. “The Document Center,” he said again, moving his finger left. A straight line across the Grunewald, under the Avus, where they’d stopped in the rain, a straight line to the lake.

“You’ve thought of something?”

“Tully had an appointment with Bernie, right? The next day. But he came early. Why would anyone want to see Bernie?” He moved his finger back to the street. “Files. Nobody knows those files better than he does. He’d be the man to see.” He thought of Bernie racing in to dinner, folders cascading over the startled serving man—the night, in fact, Tully was killed. He tapped his finger on the map. “That’s where Tully went. The numbers connect here.”

Gunther got up and looked where he was pointing, hand over chin in thought. “Bravo,” he said finally. “If he went there. Unfortunately, only he can tell us.”

“No, they keep records, a sign-in book. He’d be in there.” He looked at Gunther. “Want to bet? Even money.”

“No,” Gunther said, shaking his head. “Today you have all the answers. But why?”

“To look at files,” Jake said, improvising. “Tully was Public Safety too—he didn’t need Bernie’s permission to do that, just his help. But he came a day early. So he started on his own.”

“On Herr Brandt’s files,” Gunther said. “I assume.”

“That’s where it connects.”

“Where your friend found ‘nothing special.’ So what did Meister Toll hope to find?” He sighed. “Unfortunately, only he can tell us that too.”

“But that’s just it. It’s still there. Nothing leaves the Document Center. It’s like Fort Knox. Whatever he was after is still there.”

“Then I suggest you start reading.” Gunther touched Jake’s shoulder, not quite patting it, and looked at the map again. “Nothing special. And yet Herr Brandt comes to Berlin for them.”

“He came for me,” Lena said.

“Yes, of course,” Gunther said, nodding politely to her. “For you.”

“But Tully didn’t,” Jake said.

“No,” Gunther said, turning back to the map, thoughtful.

“Now what?” Jake said, reading his face.

“Nothing. I wonder, how did he know to look?”

“Emil must have said something. They did a lot of talking at Kransberg. They were friends.”

“An expensive friend, perhaps.”

“How do you mean?”

“Meister Toll—he wasn’t the type to do anything for free.”

Jake looked at him. “No, he never did anything for free.”

 

It was late, but he had to know, so they made the long drive back to Zehlendorf. The same narrow street rising up from the dark woods, the wire fence spotted with floodlights. A guard chewing gum.

“We’re closed, bub. Can’t you read?” He jerked his thumb at a posted sign.

“I just want to see the night duty officer.”

“No can do.”

“For Captain Teitel,” Jake said quickly. “He has a message for him.”

A name that literally opened doors here, or at least the mesh gate, which instantly swung back.

“She stays here,” the guard said. “Make it quick.”

The hallway guard, half asleep with his feet propped up on the sign-in desk, seemed startled to see anyone at this hour. If Tully had been here, it hadn’t been late.

“Captain Teitel asked me to check the sign-in book for him.”

“What for?”

“Some report. How do I know? Can I see it, or what?”

The guard looked at him, dubious, but pushed the book around, a desk clerk with a hotel register.

“How far back does this go?” Jake said, beginning to leaf through it. “I need July sixteenth.”

“What for?”

“Your needle stuck?”

The guard pulled out another book, opening it to the right page for him. Jake started scrolling down, running his finger under the names. A busy day. And suddenly there it was—Lt. Patrick Tully, a script to match the riding boots, showy. Signed in and out, no times. He looked at it for a second, the closest he’d been to him since the Cecilienhof, no longer elusive, caught where the numbers connected. He took the photograph from his breast pocket, an off chance.

“You ever see this guy?”

“What are you, an MP?”

“You see him?”

He glanced at the picture. “Not that I know of. You get people in and out here. After a while, they all look alike. What did he do?”

“Anybody takes a file, they sign it out, right?”

“Nobody takes files out of here. Can’t.”

“Teitel does.”

“No, he brings them in. Nothing goes out unless you brought it in the first place. Not while I’m on duty, anyway.”

“Okay, thanks. That’s all I needed.”

The guard began to pull the open book back.

“Wait a minute,” Jake said, his eye caught by a florid signature. A few names down, Breimer, a rounded B. And underneath, Shaeffer. Where they’d gone that evening.

“Anything wrong?”

Jake shook his head, then closed the book. “I don’t know.”

Outside he stood for a moment, struck by the lights, just as he had when he’d walked into Liz’s picture. Shaeffer had been here that day too. Two visits.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Lena said in the jeep.

“Yes, he was here. I was right.”

“And the files?”

“Tomorrow. Come on, we’ll go home. You got some sun.”

She looked down at her skin, red under the floodlights.

“Yes, you were right about that too,” she said with an edge.

“What’s the matter?” Jake said as the jeep started down the hill.

“Nothing. They’re so important, the files?”

“Tully thought so. He was here—I knew it.”

“More numbers, for Emil’s weapons. That’s what’s in them—numbers?”

“Not according to Shaeffer.”

“But Emil came for them. That’s what the policeman thinks. Not for me.”

“Maybe he came for both.”

“To make more weapons? The war was finished.”

“To trade. That’s what they have, the scientists—numbers to trade.”

“For what?”

Jake shrugged. “Their future.”

“To make weapons for someone else,” Lena said.

Jake turned left at the bottom of the hill, then jogged right toward the woods.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see how it worked. How long it took.”

“What?”

“To dump the body.”

She said nothing, hunching into herself the way she had the last time in the woods, shivering from the rain. The Grunewald was dark, nothing visible beyond the arc of their headlights and a small patch of moon reflecting on Krumme Lanke. No one in the road, the thick trees hiding whoever might be there, small bands of DPs looking for shelter. No one to see them either. The body could have been slumped over like a drunk. Easy. Anywhere along here, not the center with its guards and lights; here, in the dark. Or on the beach itself. In minutes they were there, the water rippling with moonlight. The last thing Tully might have seen.

 

Danny had a shrewd eye for real estate. His building, an art nouveau block on one of the side streets off Savignyplatz, had once been elegant and would always be well located. The flat was on the first floor, its door wedged open by a suitcase and some pillowcases stuffed with clothes, last minute packing.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” the girl said when she saw them. Almost pretty, with ankle-strap heels and lipstick, an annoyed expression twisting her face. “He said by ten. Vultures.” This to herself as she flung a skirt into the last bag.

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, embarrassed.

“Ha.”

Lena turned away and leaned against the wall to wait, not looking at Jake. Halfway down the hall a man carrying a rucksack was coming out of another flat. He squinted and then, recognizing them, walked over and took off his hat.

“Hello again. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, the doctor.”

“Yes. Rosen. You’re well?”

Lena nodded. “I never had the chance to thank you.”

He waved this off, then turned to Jake, the same old eyes in the young face. He glanced down at the suitcases.

“She’s living here?”

“Just for a while.”

Rosen looked again at Lena. “No recurrences? The medicine worked? No fever?”

“No,” she said with a polite smile, “just sunburn. What do I do for that?”

He lifted a scolding finger. “Wear a hat.”

The girl was glaring at them from the doorway. “Here,” she said, handing Jake the key.

“Take care. It’s good to see you again,” Rosen said to Lena, leaving. “Don’t get too much sun.” He nodded at the girl. “Marie,” he said, then shuffled away.

“So you’re the new girl. An American to pay—very nice for you. You already know Rosen?”

“He took care of me when I was ill.”

The girl made a face. “That Jew? I won’t let him touch me. Not there, with Jew hands.”

“He saved my life,” Lena said.

“Did he? Very nice for you.” She grabbed up one of the bags. “Jews. If it wasn’t for them—”

Jake carried their cases through the door to get away.

“I’m sorry to put you out,” Lena said, following him.

“Go to hell.”

The flat had the disarray of leave-taking, everything angled slightly out of place. In the next room he could see an unmade bed and a wardrobe with the door left open. A scarf had been draped over a lampshade, turning the light a dim red.

“Nice girl,” he said.

Lena walked over to the lamp and lifted the scarf, then sank into the easy chair next to it, as if seeing the room had exhausted her.

“There were lots like her.” She lighted a cigarette. “She thinks I’m a whore. Is that what this place is?”

“It’s a flat. No one will bother you.” He glanced out at the street, then drew the curtains.

She smiled wryly, staring at the cigarette. “My mother was right. She said if I came to Berlin I’d end up like that.”

“I’ll find someplace else if you don’t like it.”

She looked around the room. “No, it’s a good size.”

“It’ll seem better after we clean it up. You won’t even know she was here.”

“Jew hands,” she said moodily. “There was a girl like that at school. Not even a Nazi, a girl. How do you clean that away?” She drew on the cigarette again, her hand shaking a little. “You know, after the Russians came, they made us see films. Of the camps. Germans, they said, this is what was done in your name. Imagine, they did it for me. So now what? It’s my fault too? All that business.”

“Nobody says that.”

“Yes. The Germans did it, everyone says that. And, you know, somebody did. Somebody did those things.” She looked up. “Somebody made the weapons—maybe it’s worse. German people. Even my brother. He came on leave, just before—You know what he said? That terrible things were being done there, in Russia, and no one must ever know. And I thought, what things would Peter do? A boy like that. Now I’m glad I don’t know. I don’t have to think about that. Whatever he did.”

“Maybe he didn’t do them,” Jake said quietly. He sat down next to her. “Lena, what’s this about?”

She put out the cigarette, still agitated, pushing it around the ashtray. “I don’t want to know what Emil did either. To think of him that way. I don’t want to know what’s in the files. His numbers. Maybe it’s terrible what they were doing, making weapons, but he was my husband. You know, when he came to Berlin, I thought I was saving him. Go, I told him, before it’s too late. I said it for him. Now you’re—”

“Now I’m what?”

“Making him a criminal. For working in the war. So did my brother. So did everybody, even your policeman. Who knows what they did? In my name. Sometimes I think I don’t want to be German anymore. Isn’t that terrible? Not wanting to be who you are. I don’t want to know what they did.”

“Lena,” he said patiently, “the files are there. They’ve already been seen. Emil handed them over himself. They’re not about him.”

“Then why do you want to see them?”

“Because I think they can tell us something about the man who was killed. He was in the business of selling information, so what was there to sell? Now, doesn’t that make sense?” he said calmly, coaxing a child.

“Yes.”

“Then why does it worry you?”

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“It’s the flat. We’ll move.”

“It’s not the flat,” she said dully.

“Then what?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “He came to Berlin for me.” She looked up, her voice faltering and dispirited. “He came for me.”

He reached over and covered her hand. “So did I.”