Leaving Berlin by Joseph Kanon Page B

blaming you. I’m sure it’s right—give the land to the people who farm it. My father would have sold it anyway, so what’s the difference? It would still be gone. Don’t worry, I forgive you,” she said, teasing.
    “She forgives me. I’m the politburo,” Markovsky said, but smiling, charmed.
    Alex looked at them, a life together he knew nothing about.
    “Major Markovsky, the telephone.” The bellboy from the Adlon, his eyes fixed on Markovsky, not even a glance to Alex. “They said urgent.”
    “Urgent. At this hour?” Markovsky said, checking his watch. “Excuse me a moment. There was some trouble this morning, so maybe it’s that.”
    “The phone is here,” the boy said, leading him away, still ignoring Alex.
    “So,” Irene said, her voice suddenly her own again, not at a party. “My God, what do I say to you? Why are you here? You leave America and everyone else wants to go there.”
    “I had to leave.”
    “And the whole world to choose, you come here? Who comes to Berlin?”
    “People,” he said, indicating the room. “Brecht.”
    “Oh, Bert. He thinks it’s like before. Well, maybe for him. When he was first here, we took a walk up Friedrichstrasse, where the theaters used to be. Gone. I thought, now you’ll see what it’s like. And you know what he says? You see those people looking at us? They know it’s me. So that’s how it is for him.” She paused. “Not for us.”
    “Tell me how you are,” he said, looking at her.
    “How I am,” she said, flustered. “I’m— I still have the flat. Marienstrasse, by the Charité. The upper floors were hit, but not mine. So. Sasha brings food.”
    “And lipstick.”
    She looked up at him. “He’s all right, you know. Don’t judge.”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “No? Well, so maybe it’s me, I judge myself. You think it was so easy to survive here? The bombs every night. The shelters. Nothingto eat. My God, to have a bath. People on the street in dark glasses, wrapped in blankets—for the smoke, you know—I thought it’s some Ufa film, people from space. Except, no, it’s everybody, we’re living like this. And then after, it’s worse—” She stopped. “After a while that’s all you think about. Getting through it. The reckoning? That comes later.” She looked up. “So I go with him. Markus didn’t tell you? He likes to do that, I think. He blames me for Kurt. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I took a gun and went to Spain and shot him and that’s how it happened. And you? Do you still blame me for Kurt?”
    “It was a long time ago.”
    “Yes,” she said and then for a minute neither of them said anything.
    “What about the others? Markus said Elsbeth was a Nazi. Elsbeth?”
    “Well, but that husband of hers. A madman. I think he still believes, a little anyway. So of course she does what he says. And now, since the children were—”
    “What?”
    “He didn’t tell you this? Both killed. A direct hit. She was away from the house and when she came back—the nanny, both boys, in the cellar, where they were supposed to go, but a direct hit. I think she went a little crazy then. You know, ‘If I had been there, they wouldn’t,’ things like that. And now they only have each other, she and Gustav, so whatever he says—”
    “Do you see her?”
    “Sometimes. When he’s out. Then I don’t have to listen to him. You ought to go. She’d be pleased.”
    “And Markus said Erich was—I’m sorry.”
    “But at least not dead. I’d know if he were dead. I’d feel it.” Putting a hand to her chest. “He’ll come back.”
    “Irene—”
    “No, it’s true. You can feel these things. People you know. You don’t believe it? That you can sense—?”
    “No.”
    “I knew something would happen to Enka.”
    “Your husband.”
    “I suppose you know all about that too? From Markus? Another black mark against me.”
    “He was killed?”
    She nodded. “His own fault. But I could feel it, that something would happen. We were