Читаем A good German полностью

Pastor Fleischman had lost whatever flesh he’d had-rail thin, with an Adam’s apple jutting out over his white collar. He was waiting in front of Anhalter Station with a handcart, so that in his clerical suit he looked, oddly, like a porter.

“Lena. I was getting worried. See what I found.” He pointed to the cart. “Oh, but a car-” He looked eagerly at the jeep.

Lena turned to Jake, embarrassed. “You wouldn’t mind? I don’t like to ask-I know it’s not permitted. But they’re so tired after the train. It’s such a long way to walk. You’ll help?”

“No problem,” he said to the pastor, then extended his hand and introduced himself. “How many are you expecting?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps twenty. It’s very kind.”

“We’ll have to take them in shifts, then,” Jake said, but the pastor merely nodded, unconcerned with details, as if the Lord would multiply the jeep, like the loaves and the fishes.

They waited on the crowded platform, open to the sky through a rib cage of twisted girders. Fleischman had brought another woman to help, and while she and Lena talked, Jake leaned back against a pillar, smoking and watching the crowd. People sitting around in clumps, dispirited, holding on to rucksacks and bags, the usual station clamor slowed to a kind of listless stupor. A pack of teenage boys, feral, looking for something to snatch. A Russian soldier wandering up and down, probably after a girl. Tired women. Everything ordinary, what passed for peace. He remembered his going-away party, the platform alive with champagne and crisp uniforms, Renate winking, getting away with something.

“How is it you speak German?” Fleischman asked, something polite to pass the time.

“I used to live in Berlin.”

“Ah. Do you know Texas?”

“Texas?”

“Well, forgive me. An American. Of course, it’s a large country. There’s a church, you see. Fredericksburg, Texas. A Lutheran church, so I think maybe German people once. They’ve offered to take some of the children. Of course, it’s a chance for them. A future. But to send them so far, after everything-I don’t know. How do I select?”

“How many do they want?”

“Five. They can take five.” He sighed. “Now we send our children. Well, God will take care of them.”

Just as he did here, Jake thought, looking at the scorched wall.

“They’re orphans?”

Fleischman nodded. “From the Sudeten. The parents were killed during the expulsion. Then Silesia. Now here. Tomorrow, who knows? Cowboys.”

“I’m sure they’re good people, if they offered.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s the selection. How do I select?”

He moved away, not expecting an answer, before Jake could say anything. Names in a hat. Outside, the light was fading. People were still milling aimlessly. The train was now an hour late.

“I’m sorry,” Lena said. “I didn’t know. Do you want to leave?”

“No, I’m fine. Here, sit. Get some rest.” He sank to the bottom of the pillar, pulling her down with him, her head against his shoulder.

“It’s boring for you.”

“No, gives me time to think.”

But what he thought about, his mind drifting in the half wakeful-ness of waiting, was the cards, eyes facing in two directions. Deception. Nonsense. He wished he had a crossword puzzle, where one clue led to another, rational. A man gets on a plane, one across. With no baggage but a piece of information, the one thing you didn’t have to carry. Worth money. Russian. So information to a Russian. In Potsdam. Where he’s dead by nightfall. How did he spend the rest of the day? Not looking for Emil. But neither was the Russian at Professor Brandt’s. A possibility, Gunther had said, they already know where he is. But then who wanted Tully dead? Not the paymaster, presumably, or why pay in the first place? Maybe he just got in the way. Whose?

His head dropped onto his chest, nudging his eyes open. For a second he wondered if he was really awake. The station had grown black, dotted with harsh little pools of light from a row of bare bulbs strung between the pillars, a dream landscape where things crept in the dark. Lena was still leaning against him, breathing softly, safe. He closed his eyes. You couldn’t solve a crossword without the key. No matter which way he worked it, the central piece was always Emil, who knew where the columns met. Without him, it was just tea leaves, the chance arrangement of cards. Sometimes they surprise even me. But people heard what they wanted to hear.