Читаем A good German полностью

Before Jake could answer, the side wall finally gave way, collapsing inward and taking the weakened body of the house with it in a roar. There was a crack of wood splintering and masonry smashing down, all the sounds of an explosion, so that when the dust rose in a cloud from the center it seemed the house had been bombed after all. One of the women gasped, holding her hand over her mouth. Everyone stood still, mesmerized. In the truck the cameras were running again, grateful for a little spectacle after the dud rescue. Some of the neighbors had run over and joined the crowd, standing away from the two women, as if their bad luck were catching. No one spoke. A part of the back wall buckled. Another crash, more dust, then a series of thuds, like aftershocks, as bits of the house detached themselves and slid into the center heap, until finally the noise stopped and they were looking through the standing facade at another one of Ron’s decayed teeth. The woman holding the figurine started to cry, but Anna simply stared at the wreck without expression, then turned.

“Okay, okay,” the MP said, waving his white stick, “let’s break it up. Show’s over.”

Jake looked at the house. Hundreds of thousands of them.

The truck driver started the engine, a signal to the others, and the soldiers began to climb on, shoving good-naturedly and joking.

“What about the women?” Jake said to the MP. “You can’t just leave them.”

“What are you, the Salvation Army?”

“Come on, Jake,” Tommy said. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

And in fact, what could he do? Take them home and ask them to tell him their troubles for Collier’s? The old couple from the billet had begun to lead them away. A night or two in the cramped basement, perhaps, living off the B rations from upstairs. Then a travel pass to Hannover and another basement. Or maybe not. Maybe just a tramp through the Tiergarten with the others, DPs because of a minute of falling plaster.

“You know, we didn’t start the fucking war,” the MP said, evidently reading his face.

“No. They did,” Jake said, confusing him, and followed Tommy into the truck.

They drove up into the British sector, past the radio tower where Jake had made the Columbia broadcasts, and out to the Olympic Stadium. The area around it was the usual mess, trees blasted into stumps, but the stadium, even scarred by shelling, looked just the way Jake remembered it. It had probably been the best of the Nazis’ monumental buildings, deceptively horizontal until you went through the gate and saw the long steps dropping down into the sunken amphitheater. He recognized the spot where he’d sat with the Dodds watching the games, his first job in Berlin. Miles of loudspeakers had been strung from the stadium out across the city to flash the news of each event to the center. Goebbels’ idea, a modern marvel to impress the visitors. It was the first time he’d seen Hitler, taking the salute in his emperor’s box. Fresh out of Chicago, years before Lena.

Today groups of soldiers were lying shirtless on the patchy grass, drinking beer and getting some sun before the game. The rows and rows of seats that had held thousands now had only a few hundred. but still a larger crowd than he’d expected, about the same as at a high school game back home. They were clustered at one end of the vast oval, where a football field had been chalked out in lime, British and Americans side by side, with a few French near the end, wearing hats with red pompoms. No Russians. On the sidelines a few soldiers sat in a circle playing cards, grumbling when they had to move for the news-reel camera crew. In the middle of the field, the players, in jerseys and shorts, were jumping up and down in warmup exercises. An occupying army with nothing to do but occupy.

“So the Russians didn’t show,” Jake said to Ron. “Who’s playing the French?”

“They’re here for the track events. That’s all the Russians are scheduled for too, so they’ll probably turn up. Want to interview some of the players?”

“I’ll just watch. Where’d the Brits learn to play?”

Ron shrugged. “They say rugby’s close. We’re mixing the teams, just in case. Keeps things fair.”

“You’re a born diplomat.”

“No. We’ve got the British reels to consider,” he said, pointing to another crew with tripods. “They don’t want to show their guys getting trounced, do they? Who’d watch that? Allied games, remember?”

But in fact after the kickoff it was an American show, GI quarterbacks calling the plays, the British blocking, and everyone getting scraped by the rough field in pile-up tackles. The crowd cheered every play, even the referees throwing red foul flags, and swapped money in side bets and whooped until finally the high spirits were infectious, like a Saturday somewhere in the Big Ten. A piece of home. Even the players, healthy and pink in the sun, seemed to be in another country, miles from the pasty, grim bodies in the streets outside.