calling all the major infirmaries or her ability to recall them all at will. “How about his family?”
“His parents are dead. His brother moved abroad. Before the war. I don’t know whether he’s alive. They weren’t close.”
“Friends?”
Anna shrugged, licked her lips. “How would I know? I have not seen him in—” She stopped, embarrassed, grew angry at her embarrassment. “He expected me back. I sent him a wire. Surely he would have left a note if he was going to be away.”
The detective nodded, ran a palm over his hair along the path of his neat parting. “So he has no reason to be out of town.” He bent forward again, studied the form. “He’s a doctor, I see. What specialization?”
“Psychiatry and neurology. But he ran a general practice the past few years. Before he was conscripted.”
“Quite. He wasn’t a member of the SS by any chance?” His smile was innocent, avuncular; the eyes bloated, drowning in their seas of glass.
Anna frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s routine, really. Certain people—people with qualifications, scientists, experts—they are being ‘requisitioned,’ if you see what I mean. Largely in the Soviet sector. People who have special knowledge, or have conducted research of a classified nature.” He paused, slipped his hands into his pockets. “In one of the camps, say. Or at some special facility. Others make themselves scarce of their own accord. There are trials going on for war crimes, you see, and—”
“It isn’t like that,” she interrupted, gratified by the flush of loyalty that rose to her throat and cheeks. “Anton is … a good man. And now your sergeant tells me I will find him in the morgue.”
The detective merely nodded. He had the good grace not to ask her why they had been living apart, she and this good man of hers.
“Anything else we should know? People he might have socialized with, places he liked? Any personal habits we should be aware of?”
The question startled her. She shook her head, rose to leave. “There was blood on the wall,” she said abruptly. “A little patch.”
“Blood?”
“In the study.” She described the size and position of the stain.
“It’s probably nothing. He tripped and bumped his head. All the same, I should like to take a look.”
“Too late,” she said. “I washed it off.”
The detective looked at her quizzically, then nodded. “Very well, Frau Beer. We will be in touch if we hear anything.”
She pressed his hand—dry, weightless, without pressure—and left with the vague impression that it was she who was under investigation, or, in any case, had been disbelieved. Anna had boarded a tram by the time it occurred to her that she had not even learned the detective’s name.
5.
She headed east, into the inner city rather than back to the apartment, crossed without incident into the international zone, and was amused when, stepping off the tram, she saw her first patrol roll past in a military jeep, four men in the respective uniforms of their nations, the Russian blond and ruddy, the Frenchman with a pencil moustache, the American and the Brit both smoking, laughing, distinguishable above all by the differing quality of their teeth. They were so perfect, so unhurried, they might have been heading to a photo shoot for Life magazine. The Russian even had the good grace to turn and stare after her with his hungry peasant’s eyes; had it been the Frenchman, he might have blown her a kiss. She smiled despite herself, straightened her hat, and headed into the warren of streets behind the Stock Exchange.
Within ten steps the city absorbed her. She had been born here, knew the streets and intersections, the flights of steps that connected the different levels of the city. As she walked and stared, familiarity began to wrestle with suspicion. It was as though her childhood city had been snatched and then replaced by its near copy: at every corner the relish of homecoming soured by
“His parents are dead. His brother moved abroad. Before the war. I don’t know whether he’s alive. They weren’t close.”
“Friends?”
Anna shrugged, licked her lips. “How would I know? I have not seen him in—” She stopped, embarrassed, grew angry at her embarrassment. “He expected me back. I sent him a wire. Surely he would have left a note if he was going to be away.”
The detective nodded, ran a palm over his hair along the path of his neat parting. “So he has no reason to be out of town.” He bent forward again, studied the form. “He’s a doctor, I see. What specialization?”
“Psychiatry and neurology. But he ran a general practice the past few years. Before he was conscripted.”
“Quite. He wasn’t a member of the SS by any chance?” His smile was innocent, avuncular; the eyes bloated, drowning in their seas of glass.
Anna frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s routine, really. Certain people—people with qualifications, scientists, experts—they are being ‘requisitioned,’ if you see what I mean. Largely in the Soviet sector. People who have special knowledge, or have conducted research of a classified nature.” He paused, slipped his hands into his pockets. “In one of the camps, say. Or at some special facility. Others make themselves scarce of their own accord. There are trials going on for war crimes, you see, and—”
“It isn’t like that,” she interrupted, gratified by the flush of loyalty that rose to her throat and cheeks. “Anton is … a good man. And now your sergeant tells me I will find him in the morgue.”
The detective merely nodded. He had the good grace not to ask her why they had been living apart, she and this good man of hers.
“Anything else we should know? People he might have socialized with, places he liked? Any personal habits we should be aware of?”
The question startled her. She shook her head, rose to leave. “There was blood on the wall,” she said abruptly. “A little patch.”
“Blood?”
“In the study.” She described the size and position of the stain.
“It’s probably nothing. He tripped and bumped his head. All the same, I should like to take a look.”
“Too late,” she said. “I washed it off.”
The detective looked at her quizzically, then nodded. “Very well, Frau Beer. We will be in touch if we hear anything.”
She pressed his hand—dry, weightless, without pressure—and left with the vague impression that it was she who was under investigation, or, in any case, had been disbelieved. Anna had boarded a tram by the time it occurred to her that she had not even learned the detective’s name.
5.
She headed east, into the inner city rather than back to the apartment, crossed without incident into the international zone, and was amused when, stepping off the tram, she saw her first patrol roll past in a military jeep, four men in the respective uniforms of their nations, the Russian blond and ruddy, the Frenchman with a pencil moustache, the American and the Brit both smoking, laughing, distinguishable above all by the differing quality of their teeth. They were so perfect, so unhurried, they might have been heading to a photo shoot for Life magazine. The Russian even had the good grace to turn and stare after her with his hungry peasant’s eyes; had it been the Frenchman, he might have blown her a kiss. She smiled despite herself, straightened her hat, and headed into the warren of streets behind the Stock Exchange.
Within ten steps the city absorbed her. She had been born here, knew the streets and intersections, the flights of steps that connected the different levels of the city. As she walked and stared, familiarity began to wrestle with suspicion. It was as though her childhood city had been snatched and then replaced by its near copy: at every corner the relish of homecoming soured by
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