Читаем A good German полностью

“Look at you,” she said, watching him, then stirred, lifting herself up. “Jake? The boy-I noticed. I thought all the Jews-you know,” she said, nodding at his penis, as self-conscious as Renate had been, even lying there still wet with him.

“She didn’t have it done. She wanted him to be German.”

Lena sat up, troubled, holding the dress to cover herself. “She wanted that? Even after-”

He took a drink. “To protect him, Lena.”

“Yes,” she said dully, shaking her head. “My god, what it must have been like for her.”

He looked down at the story on the table with its missing piece. “You said it yourself-you do anything for your child.” He took the glass again, then stopped it halfway to his lips and put it down in a rush. “Of course.”

“Of course what?”

“Nothing,” he said, moving over to his clothes. “Something I just thought of.”

“Where are you going?” she said, watching him dress.

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it. A reporter’s supposed to know when something’s missing. You read the story and you can feel it’s not there.” He looked up, finally aware of her. “Just a hunch. I’ll be back.”

“At this hour?”

“Don’t wait up.” He bent over and kissed her forehead. “And don’t open the door.”

“But what-”

“Ssh, not now.” He held his finger to his lips. “You’ll wake Erich. I’ll be back.”

He raced out of the building, then up the side street where he’d stashed the jeep, fumbling in the dark with the ignition. There was only a glimmer of moon in the narrow streets off the square, but when he got up to the broad Charlottenburger Chausee there was an open field of light, pale white and unexpectedly beautiful. Now, when he had no time to look at it, the blunt, unlovely city had turned graceful, making him stop in surprise, its secret self, maybe there all the time, when everything else was dark. It occurred to him, fancifully, that it was finally lighting the way for him, like Hansel’s white pebbles, down the wide, empty street, then up Schloss Strasse, making good time, and still there when he needed it most, picking his way through the trail in the rubble, all easy going, so that he knew he must be right. Not even a shadow at young Willi’s lookout post, just the pointing, friendly light. When Professor Brandt opened the door, he no longer had any doubts at all.

“I’ve come for the files,” he said.

“How did you know?” Professor Brandt said as Jake started to read.

They were sitting at a table with a single lamp, a pool of light just wide enough for the pages but not their faces, so that his voice seemed disembodied.

“He told them at Kransberg you were dead,” Jake said absently, trying to concentrate. “What possible reason could he have, unless he didn’t want them to find you? Didn’t want to take the chance-”

“That I would tell them,” he said. “I see. He thought that.”

“Maybe he thought they’d search.” He turned a page, a report from Mittelwerks in Nordhausen, another piece missing from the Document Center. Not cross-referenced, never handed over-the missing part of the story, like Renate’s child. “Why did he leave them with you?”

“He didn’t know how bad it was in Berlin, how far the Russians had come. Not just the east, almost a circle. Only Spandau was open, but for how long? A rumor, that’s all. Who knew? It was possible he wouldn’t get out-I thought so myself. If they were captured-”

“So he hid them with you. In case. Did you read them?”

“Later, yes. I thought he had died, you see. I wanted to know.”

“But you didn’t destroy them?”

“No. I thought, someday it’s important. They’ll lie, all of them. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’ Even now they- I thought, someone has to answer for this. It’s important to know.”

“But you didn’t turn them over, either.”

“Then you told me he was living. I couldn’t. He’s my son, you understand. Still.”

He paused, causing Jake to look up. In his dressing gown he seemed frail, no longer held together by the formal suit, but the scrawny neck was erect, as if the old high collar were still in place. “Was it wrong? I don’t know, Herr Geismar. Maybe I kept them for you. Maybe they answer to you.” He turned away. “And now it’s done-you have them. So take them, please. I don’t want them in my house anymore. You’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

“Wait. I need your help. My German isn’t good enough.”

“For that? Your German is adequate. The problem, maybe, is believing what you read. It’s just what it says. Simple German.” He made a small grimace. “The language of Schiller.”

“Not the abbreviations. They’re all technical. Here’s von Braun, requesting special workers. French, is that right?”

“Yes, French prisoners. The SS supplied the list from the campsengineering students, machinists. Von Braun made his selection from that. The construction workers, it didn’t matter, one shovel’s as good as another. But the precision work-“ He looked over to the word Jake was pointing at. ”Die cutter.“

“So he was there.”