Chapter One and Chapter Two

Chapter One:

November, 1947, Berlin, Soviet Zone.

 

Ned Brock rinsed the last of the blood from his hands with astringent and then dried them carefully on a threadbare towel, laundered to the point of near transparency.  The child's life was out of his hands now.  If her parents were able to keep her clean, she might escape infection, and if they could keep her fed she might grow strong. She had been run over by a delivery cart, her leg shattered.  For four hours Ned had labored to save the limb.  If she survived the next week she would walk again, might even be able to dance at her wedding.

Thomas, his nurse, began to clean up the small operating room. 

“It's late,” Ned said.  “Go home.  We'll wash up in the morning.”

Gratefully Thomas nodded and struggled into his coat.  It was comically small, but it would keep the snow off him on his walk back to the small apartment he shared with his young wife and her parents.

 

Ned went to lock the front door of his surgery and was surprised to see a well-dressed man sitting quietly, glancing through a newspaper.

“Comrade Stahler,” Ned said, “forgive me.  I was in surgery.  I had no idea that you were here.  I hope you are not injured?”

“Comrade Doctor Brock,” the other nodded politely.  “No, this a social call only.”

In contrast to most of the inhabitants of Berlin, Helmut Stahler was well dressed, his suit tailored to his portly frame, his coat rich caramel leather.

 

He held up his paper. “You have seen this, I trust?  The United Nations continues to support the Zionists. A nation of Jews—can you imagine such a thing?”

“The Jewish people have suffered so much at the hands of... barbarians,” Ned gave particular emphasis to the last word. “Perhaps in their own nation they will at last find peace.”

“Oh, nations,” Stahler replied sadly, “In nations we will not find peace.  It was the Nationalists who created the camps, after all.  It is the love of a country that causes disorder and strife—only when all men are united as comrades will the world be at peace.  I am no anti-Semite, of course, but one more nation is not the answer.”

“Indeed,” Ned said noncommittally.  “Comrade, I have been in surgery for half of the day and I am exhausted.”

“Of course, how thoughtless of me,” Stahler made no move to rise, instead he lit a foul-smelling French cigarette.  Like his fine clothes, the foreign cigarettes were a status symbol, proof that he could get what most could not.

 

 “You will have heard that Comrade Major Vanzin has been recalled to Moscow?”

“Kolja?” Ned was surprised. “Recalled to Moscow?  Why?”

Stahler shrugged.  “Who can say?  Orders of the First Directorate. Quite sudden.”

Ned leaned back against the door of his operating room. “Surely it is just some administrative matter.”

“As you say,” Stahler's eyes were cold. “We have received word that a new section chief will be appointed.  As you can imagine there is quite a bit of gossip. Rumors of inquiries.”

“Thank you for telling me, Comrade,” Ned said numbly.  He was fearful for his old friend. Here in Soviet Berlin the First Directorate of the Committee For State Security was a name to conjure with.  Those recalled to Moscow seldom returned.

Stahler stood then, wrapped his fine coat firmly around himself. “You knew the Major as a child, I believe?  When your parents were stationed in Russia?”

“Yes, in St. Petersburg,” Ned said absently.

Stahler raised an eyebrow.  “You meant to say Leningrad, I assume?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ned said quickly. “Leningrad. Comrade, I must beg your indulgence.  I am quite exhausted from surgery, I really must go home.”

“Of course, Comrade Doctor,” Stahler said kindly. “And you with no wife to tend to you.  You should marry again, if I may be so bold.  At least take a mistress. It's not good for a man to be alone.  A man without a woman has too much time to think.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Ned said.  “Good day, Comrade.”

“Good day.” Stahler said.  “We'll see each other again soon, I'm sure.”

 

The early winter evening was bitterly cold; Ned couldn’t remember cold like this, not even from his childhood days in Russia. Perhaps all the pain from the last decade has shifted something in the world. The suffering has turned the world against itself.

He shook his head, the day had left him feeling tense. Disheartened in some way. The news about Kolja hadn’t made him feel any better. Even though thirty years had passed since he had seen Kolja last it hadn’t made any difference. After the initial shock to run into each other here in Berlin had settled down, the two now full grown men had fallen back into the friendship with ease. And now the only person he could call a friend in this broken city was gone.

 

He had to walk around a pile of rubble on the sidewalk. Some men had been working in there earlier today. Sorting through what was left of an apartment building. He knew that it happened quit often that the workers found people in the rubble, or more correctly what was left of them. Sometimes whole families clutched together under a bed.

The rambunctious city from his youth was long gone. No better place to be twenty years old than Berlin. Jazz clubs everywhere, cabarets, art and open-minded people. Now the only thing he saw on his way home were prostitutes, children sleeping in doorways, fires in the ruins and soldiers.

He stopped at the sole open bakery on the way home and bought a Schwartzbrot. The old lady in the bakery smiled when she saw him and they exchanged a few words about the unusually cold weather.

 

A few houses away from his apartment building he stopped. A young man dressed in the Russian army uniform stood outside the door. Ned moved slowly, thousands of thoughts in his head. He could feel sweat breaking out on his back, pretty sure this had something to do with Kolja. When he came a little closer he saw that the soldier had a package of some kind under his arm.

“Dr Brock!” the young man said with a big smile on his face. He probably wasn’t more than twenty and looked like he was cold.

Ned nodded cautiously.

“I have a package for you from Comrade Major Vanzin.”

Ned looked around, thought he would see more soldiers coming down the street to arrest him.

“You don’t remember me?”

Ned had to pull his attention back to the young man and focus on the Russian language. The language was better now after he had spent time with Kolja but it was still not as good as his German.

“No, have we met?”

The young man pulled of his glove and shoved his hand in Ned’s face. Ned saw the three missing fingers.

“You stitched me up in the summer. I was cleaning out rubble and I put my hand into a broken car light…” he stopped and waited for Ned’s response.

“Yes, now I remember.” Ned smiled at him. “You cried because you would never be able to play the Bandura.”

The young man looked sad for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“This is for you.”

The package was thin, rectangular and wrapped in brown paper. Ned took the package and thanked the soldier.

 

 

His apartment was cold but he was lucky tonight because he had electricity. He quickly set a fire in the wood burning stove, put a teapot on the stove and in the light from his single lamp in the ceiling he opened the package.

The painting was colorful; the yellow woodhouse was surrounded by apple trees blooming in pink and white. The grass was bright green, the sky was blue and the shed on the side of the house was red. In the left corner was Kolja’s signature. The last time he had seen this painting was in Kolja’s dining room a few weeks ago. He had been invited over for dinner. The food was delicious and plentiful and Ned had left the house a bit drunk and overstuffed.

On the back of the painting was a letter with his name on it. He opened it up.

 

Dearest Teddy,

I am sending you this painting in hopes that you will cherish the memories of our childhood. To see you again after all these years must be one of life’s great serendipities.

I hope I will see you again.

Kolja

 

P.s I wonder if you remember where we found the kittens.

 

Ned read the letter over and over, his head was spinning. As his stomach growled he realized that he was starving. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and that was now almost ten hours ago. He walked out in the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Took out a jar of Chivres marmalade. His mother had sent a big box from London a few weeks ago filled with crackers, tea and spreads. A taste of home. A luxury. Made the hard bread taste heavenly.He ate five slices of bread and drank his tea standing up. When he was finished he could feel how unsteady he was and went to bed.

 

Even though he was dog tired he couldn’t fall asleep. The girl’s injury mixed with Kolja’s recalling to Moscov bounced around in his mind. Finally he started to relax; he yawned, turned to his side and closed his eyes.

The memory came creeping. He and Kolja. It was spring, the trees had started to open up. They sat on the kitchen stoop and ate new baked bread. A black cat came sneaking around the house.

“She has kittens.” Kolja said certain. “Look at her belly. The tits are hanging down.”

Ned, the city boy, looked but could only see that the cat had a large belly.

“Come,” Kolja said and got up. He slowly walked after the cat. Behind the shed. The red shed. And there under a few old boards they found five kittens. Two black, two grey and one yellow. Behind the red shed.

 

Ned’s eyes flew open. He slowly got up, turned on the light again and grabbed the painting. Looked at the picture carefully. Touched it gently and around the red shed he could feel that the paint was different. Slightly convex, he followed the bowed shape with his finger and realized that it was a line all around the shed. He grabbed his doctor’s bag, fished out his scalpel and cut along the line. The whole shed fell out of the picture and inside was a letter.

 

It was written in English, crudely.  The letters were printed in haste, by a hand long unfamiliar with the language.  Ned remembered how Kolja had struggled with the language lessons Ned’s mother had held in the kitchen. How jealous he had been of the ease with which Ned could switch from Russian to Finnish to English.  The words were Kolja's, though, Ned was sure of it, his friend's voice coming through the halting translation.

 

I impose with regret upon friendship already much burdened.  If you read this know it will be for last time. My old friends in Kremlin tell my name has been seen on certain lists, time is short.  Already I am watched. I write you for someone very important to me.  Her name is Leni Kappel. She is dancer at club on Eisenstrasse.  You know the one, it is where we had beers after you open your surgery.

Leni carries my child. 

No one knows of this save her and myself and now you, of this I am certain.

 

You know what life for a girl with child will be in this city.  Nothing can be done for me, I know, but I beg of you, take Leni and my child to West.  To London, or to Paris.

 No one knows she was once mine, the Directorate will not seek her if she is outside of Soviet.

 

I have money hidden in gold.  This ticket is for a bicycle, held at repair shop.  The gold is inside the frame.  Take it and use it to get Leni to West.  Take what you see just, give her rest for child.

Tell Leni that you have been sent by the man with the onion rolls.  She will know that I send you.

 

It was signed with three Russian capitals, N. A. V.

Nikolaj Alexandrovitch Vanzin. 

 

A girl? Ned was confused. A pregnant girl? Money in a bike frame? Now his head was spinning faster than the Sun flare at a carnival. The man with the onion rolls? When he had talked to Kolja a few days ago he had seemed like himself, perhaps a little tired but he hadn’t mentioned a pregnant girl. They had talked about how to protect Kolja’s soldiers from the influenza and venereal diseases. Ned read the letter again, contemplated if it was anything he could do at this hour but decided against it. Not only was he exhausted but the city at night was dangerous for a lone man. He would have to do his best to sleep and tomorrow in daylight he would see what he could do.

 

His dreams were filled of confusion, stress and darkness. Teddy was there, small, dressed in his pajamas calling out for him. “Daddy, daddy.” Then the planes came, London was on fire. He ran down the street, knowing it was too late. Knowing that they both were gone. A woman stood before him, dressed in a top hat and sequence dress. Her belly was humongous. She opened her mouth and flames burst out. Flames filling the dark sky with orange.

 

He woke up abruptly, the blanket twisted around his body and the morning sun in his face. At first he wasn’t sure if last night had been real but when he got out of bed and saw the painting and the letter he knew. No hot water this morning so he heated some on the stove and used it for washing up and shaving. Ate some more bread with jam and drank tea.

The morning outside was crisp and clear, he had only walked for a few minutes when a black ZIS-110 stopped by the curb and Helmut Stahler stepped out

 “Comrade Doctor Brock,” he called out as he took a few steps towards Ned.

Ned knew it was no point pretending he didn’t hear.

“Good morning Comrade Stahler. What can I help you with?

Stahler smiled friendly, he knew how to play this game.

“Can I have a few minutes of your time, doctor?”

Ned nodded.

“Of course,” he said politely.

Stahler put a hand inside his leather coat and brought out silver cigarette case. He opened it and took out a cigarette.

“I heard you got a package delivered from Major Vanzin yesterday.”

When Stalher snapped the case closed Ned saw the Egyptian Scarab beetle on the lid.

“How did you like Egypt?” Ned asked. The question was met with a confused look on Stalher’s face.

“Your cigarette case,” Ned said and pointed. “The engraving on the top.”

Stalher looked at the case like he had never seen it before.

“The case is a gift. I have never been to Egypt.”

A bribe is probably a better word. Ned wanted to say but he only smiled.

 

Stahler lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blow out a smoke ring.

“What was in the package?”

“A painting of Major Vanzin’s childhood home.”

Stalher looked surprised.

“A painting? Why would he send a painting to you?”

Ned started to walk slowly and Stalher followed.

“I need to get to my clinic and clean up. I am not sure Comrade Stalher, why he sent the painting. Sentimental value perhaps. He left a note too.”

“A note? What did it say?”

They turned a corner and a small boy almost ran into Ned.

“Es tut uns leid, mien Kind,” Ned said.

The boy looked up at Ned with big blue eyes. Very close to the same shape as Teddy’s.

“Bitte,” the boy said and reached out a beggar’s hand.

Ned fished out some change from his pocket and gave it to the boy. Stahler looked on disapprovingly, almost disgusted.

“What did the note say?”

 

Ned looked behind them, the gleaming car followed slowly. Ned’s father, the brilliant yet gentle diplomat always said; “With a gun you can kill. With information you can rule.”

Ned repeated the note word for word. Stahler stopped and stared at him with misbelief.

“Kittens? What does that mean?”

Ned laughed and shook his head.

“I am not sure Comrade. Perhaps he was under a lot of stress when he wrote it.”

They were almost at Ned’s clinic now, he would have to go and check on the girl from yesterday’s surgery later.

“I would like to see the painting and the note.” Stahler said.

“Of course, I can bring it over later. I’m going to Eisenstrasse tonight. You were right! I need at least look at some women.”

Stahler smiled but Ned could see how the thoughts moved rapidly in the man’s mind.

“Yes, bring the painting and the note.”

The ZIS-110 stopped at the curb and Stahler stepped in. Not until the car had disappeared down the street did Ned realize how nervous he had been during the whole conversation.

 

That evening, Ned walked downtown, a parcel wrapped in newspaper under his arm.  His destination was a fine house, one that had belonged to an executive of Krupp Steel before the war and had somehow escaped both the shelling and the fires during the last days. 

The door was opened by a pretty blonde girl in a shapeless black uniform who curtsied and admitted him into the front parlor.  After a few minutes the lady of the house—short, heavyset, and in Ned's opinion overdressed for a weekday evening at home—bustled into the room with her habitual cheer.

“Doctor, how good to see you,” she gushed, “You are here to see Helmut, of course, he has not yet returned, the office, you see, is so busy and he must attend to so many things.  Please, make yourself at home. I am sure that he will be back shortly.”

Ned bowed. “Frau Stahler, I regret that I cannot stay.  I spoke with your husband earlier today and he asked me to bring some items—papers left to me by a mutual acquaintance.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, “you may leave whatever you wish. I will see that he gets it.”

 

Ned handed her the package.  Inside was the painting and one of the letters from Kolja—the obvious one.  The secret letter and the ticket for the bicycle were hidden below the false bottom of a case of surgical instruments that he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.  Not a perfect hiding place, not these days, but all that he could manage without leaving his practice today.  He had worked on the painting, very carefully, with a scalpel and a swab of alcohol until he couldn't see where the hidden letter had been with a magnifying glass.  Again, not perfect, but he dared not take more than a day before surrendering the things to Stahler.

Frau Stahler took the parcel with an air of gravity and then held it, unwilling to be seen putting it down.  I will guard these papers with my life until my husband comes to claim them, her manner seemed to say.

“Are you quite sure that I cannot persuade you to stay?” she asked.  “We have tea, and I can have the cook make you some, just as you have in Britain.”

“Another time,” Ned said, and bowed again.  “I am on my way to prior engagement.  However, since I was passing this way, I thought it best to deliver my parcel while the matter was fresh in my mind. You will give my regards to your husband?”

“Of course, of course,” she repeated, and laughed. “Why would I not?”

“Until we meet again, then,” Ned said, and turned to go.  He felt a sudden flash of pity for the woman, who used that constant bonhomie as a mask for her fear. Her fear for her husband, that his position might be snatched away. Her fear of her husband, that he might choose to replace her.

So much fear in this city, Ned thought.  Kolja was right. This is no place for a child. Any child.

 

Ned walked slowly away from Stalher’s house, took a few extra turns and walked a few extra blocks before he started to walk to Eisenstrasse. He didn’t think he was being followed but you could never be sure of course. Anyone of the people he met on the street might actually be out there to keep an eye on him. This town was filled with desperate, war torn, hungry people. Still people seemed to fall in love, get married and have children. What will they tell their children? What will they tell them about the war? Can they find anything to justify what happened? What scars will this nation carry? And for how long?

 

Ned was so deep in thought he almost passed the club. Or maybe club was a too grand word for the place, it wasn’t much more than a bier hall with a stage where girls danced. But in this broken city that was all that was needed to draw a crowd. When Ned opened the door a young woman walked straight into him. She had brown hair in cut in a short bob and enormous brown eyes.

 “Entschuldigen Sie.” Ned said.

The woman only shook her head and smiled. He watched her as she walked across the street and disappeared down the street. She walked fast and kept looking over her shoulder.

 

Inside the club the windows were steamy and the air thick with smoke and the smell of beer. Ned opened his coat and ordered a beer. The man behind the bar had typical frostbite scars on his nose and ears. On his left hand three fingers were amputated from the knuckles. Ned had seen these kinds of scars many times here in Berlin. Either on survivors from Germany’s failed attempted to conquer Russia or concentration camp survivors. Ned glanced at the man’s arms but could not see any numbers tattooed.

“Stalingrad?” he asked friendly and pointed to the bartender’s hand.

At first the man looked defensive but then he relaxed.

“Yes,” he said and put the hand on the gleaming counter. “Had to amputate these three here. I was a sniper. Left handed you see. Couldn’t do it with the right. I was sent home…” The man’s voice faded.

Ned nodded; the man didn’t have to say anything more. Kolja had told him about the horrible slaughter at Stalingrad. Ned drank some beer and looked around.

“I was here a while ago. Met a really nice girl. Leni?” Ned tried to make his voice casual. 

The bartender wiped the counter in front of Ned a few times, looking him over.

“Is she here tonight?”

The man shook his head.

“She left,” he pointed to the door, “right before you came in. You didn’t see her?”

 The young woman who had walked into him flashed before his eyes but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Do you know where I can reach her?”

The bartender’s face grew hard, he leaned very close and stared into Ned’s eyes.

“As a sniper you have to read signs no one else can see. You have to be accurate but most of all you have to be careful.”

Ned nodded without breaking eye contact.

“If I leave a note here for her, will you give it to her?”

 

The bartender bent over and came up seemingly empty handed. He put his undamaged hand on the counter and lifted it. Ned looked down.  On the counter were a scrap of butcher paper and a nub of a pencil.  Ned glanced around.  The crowd was watching the stage where a trio of musicians—violin, clarinet, and a tiny drum set—were warming up. 

“Leni,” he wrote in German, “a mutual friend asked me to look you up.  I hope to see you dance, soon.” He paused, carefully considering his next words. “Perhaps we can go out for some onion rolls?”

He paused again, longer this time, then left the note unsigned.  He dropped a few marks on the counter, over the paper, and nodded at the bartender. “Danke.”

 

He took his mug to the scattering of tables and sat at the first empty one.  With Leni gone for the evening he had no reason to stay, but it was possible that his movements were being observed and leaving the bar so soon might cause someone to wonder why. 

Considering how his actions might look to someone watching had become automatic to him, as he assumed it was to the other inhabitants of the city.   There was no spontaneity here, no unconscious gestures.   Even the drunks at the bar moved with a premeditated gravity.

Living our lives under a microscope, watched by strangers who we must assume are hostile—how did such an intolerable state of affairs become so commonplace, so quickly?  Ned had no real opinion about Communism, his father had taught him that no matter what system governed the people, it was the people who governed the system that mattered.  Neither the Russian people nor the Germans were monsters, they were little different from the English or the Danes or, Ned assumed, the Bantu tribes of darkest Africa.  People were the same the world over, they wanted the same things, feared the same things, laughed and cried the same. 

We bleed the same, Ned thought to himself.  Under the skin there are no Communist arteries or Royalist veins, the bones of Trotskyite are indistinguishable from the bones of Trappist. 

 

Ned sipped his beer.  As weak as it was, he felt it go to his head.  It had been a long time since he had any.  The girls, when they arrived on stage, seemed out of place.  They looked so young, scarce more than children, and so full of life.  The mismatched musicians were surprisingly good, the violinist a virtuoso, striking up a melody that warmed the blood.  The dance was simple, a folk dance chosen to display smooth limbs and plump flanks. 

Smiling, always smiling, their faces frozen in a counterfeit offer that, for all Ned knew, could become genuine for a handful of marks. I am a surgeon, Ned thought, a professional, a cosmopolitan man, by the standards of this wretched city a fine gentleman.  I could have my pick of these girls, purchase a night for the price of a breakfast with sausages made with real pork.

Ned hated himself for the thought, but the hate was a comfortable thing, a matter of habit that did not stop the thoughts.  It had been a long time for that as well.  Not since London. Not since the night that Hell fell from the sky.

 

A pause in the music—the girls rushing off stage for a costume change—gave Ned the chance to finish his weak beer and stand.  Tomorrow there would be the usual parade of the damaged and misused at his surgery, and tomorrow night he would return, and see if Leni would take her place on the stage.  Kolja's request suddenly seemed an intolerable burden.  Why me?  We were boyhood friends in another life, another world.  Why choose me in your hour of extremity?

Ned nodded at the bartender on the way out.  The walk home in the chill darkness cleared his head, but his heart was still in turmoil. When he had first read Kolja's letter he felt a flash of contempt for the man.  How could he give into weakness, take a chorus girl as a lover, leave her carrying his child?  Now, though, he felt a kinship to his old friend.  In a world gone gray, what price would a man not pay for something bright and beautiful and alive? 

Perhaps that was the real strength, to continue to be human, to be a man.

Chapter Two

 

 Helmut was in the middle of a pleasant dream containing a barn full of soft hay and a farmer girl. He tried to stay in that barn with the young girl who smiled and smiled at him but he woke up anyway. The room was still dark, but he saw gray light filter under the heavy curtains. That meant that the sun was about to rise and that meant that soon his children would wake up and come rushing in. Jumping all over their father. Happy to see him.

 

The image from his dream was still very much in his mind and his wife was sleeping on her side right next to him. She was no young farmer girl but she had round smooth hips and warm soft skin. He moved closer to her, put a hand on her breast and his mouth on her neck.

“Amalia, my love.” He murmured into her ear. She woke up and moved her hips against his body. She was a good wife. Never asked for much. Always supportive. Never denied him. With one hand on her hip he found his way in. The warmness made him gasp.

“Helmut,” she whispered. “I don’t want another child.” 

“I agree. Four is enough.”

She grabbed his hand and put it back on her breast.

“Will you?” she asked as she pushed against him.

“Yes of course.”

His answer made her body relax.

 

But before they got that far the door flew open and their two youngest came in. Twins, one boy and one girl. They had recently learned how to climb out of their cribs. Their kindermädchen, an old angry lady, had said they needed to restrain the children in their beds but both Helmut and Amalia found this barbaric.

“Papi!” they both screamed delighted when they saw him. Helmut groaned, only a few more minutes and he would have finished.

“Papi!” Both children were now standing by the bed reaching their arms toward him to get picked up into the bed.

Amalia got out of bed and took the children by their hands. “Papi needs some more rest.” Berta scrunched up her sweet little face and started to sob.

“Let the children be, Amalia.” His wife smiled at him and let go of the children’s hands. They both rushed up to the bed and he reached down and picked them up. They bounced around in the bed, sat on his stomach, and patted his face.

After a few minutes their other two children came in. Krista was now twelve and didn’t partake in the rambunctious activities. She stood on the side for a few minutes and then she left again. Raimund, four years younger gladly crawled around in the bed. He started to sound like a truck. “I am a Tryokhtonka,” he said and pushed on the smaller children. “Will you be home today, papi?” the boy asked without looking up. Helmut pushed his bad conscious away. “For a little while.”

 

After lunch he left the house. The day was sunny and crisp. Along the street were his office was located farmers had started to put up farm stands. They came in with their wagons every Saturday to sell what they didn’t need themselves. This time of the year the tables were covered in bright red and green apples, pointy carrots, potatoes and beets in different sizes. Helmut stopped by one of them and bought a bag of apples. Maybe he would be home tomorrow. They could light a fire in the fireplace and fry some apples. The children would like that. The painting and the note that Dr. Brock had delivered yesterday needed to be inspected some more. He had spent a few hours last night staring at the note and the painting but he could not discover anything suspicious. Major Vanzin was suspected to be working with the Americans but they hadn’t been able to locate his contact.

 

“If I could find his contact…” Helmut said quietly to himself as he walked into his office. He stopped right inside the door. The General himself was seated behind the desk. Helmut was utterly surprised; he hadn’t seen the General’s car or any soldiers out on the street.

“Comrade Stahler.” The voice cold, the face smiling. “You slept late? Your work not urgent enough?”

Helmut didn’t like to be told what to do, never had. His father used to slap him in the back of the head. His mother had chased him with a wooden spoon on more than one occasion. And both his parents blamed the other for this most obstinate child. But Helmut was no child anymore. He was a grown man. He had his mother to worry about. His brothers and his family. So he took a deep breath in and smiled as apologetically as he could.

“Comrade General, my deepest regrets. I simply spend the morning with my family. My children…”his voice faded when he realized this didn’t lead anywhere.

 

The general stood up, walked over to the window and looked out.

“I have been informed that Doctor Brock delivered a painting to you yesterday.” The General turned around again and walked over to him. “Apples?” He pointed to the bag in Helmut’s hand. “Could I have one?”

For a split second Helmut’s brain didn’t commute, then he readily put down the bag on the desk and fished out a shiny, red apple. The General took a big bite. The apple crunched.

“My mother used to bake the best sharlotka in the fall when the apples were ripe. Ah, yes I still miss my mother sometimes. How is your mother, Comrade Stahler?”

The treat hung in the air in between them.

“She is doing very well, thank you.” Helmut wanted desperately to stop talking about his mother. “I have studied the painting and the note that came with it and I have not been able to find anything to point to…” The General interrupted him.

“I heard Dr. Brock paid a visit to a Club on Eisenstrasse last night.”

 

If you know everything why are you here? Helmut thought but stifled the urge to ask.

“Yes, comrade and I am planning to go there a little later this afternoon. They open at five and I thought I would be there before they open to question the bartender and the showgirls.”

The General finished the apple, the whole thing except for the stem.

“Good, Comrade Stahler. Could I have another apple?”

“Yes, of course Comrade General.”

 

The General bit into the apple and then said, conversationally, “I am informed that Major Vanzin suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after his arrival in Moscow. Very sudden, very tragic. A man of his age, the stress of his travels.  You understand…”

“That is... regrettable,” Helmut said.

“Most regrettable,” the General agreed.  “His death leaves certain questions unanswered.  Questions of some urgency, in fact.”

The General stood.  “A man will be arriving this afternoon, from the GRU.  A Comrade Orlov. You will place yourself entirely at his disposal for the duration of his investigation.”

“Of course, Comrade General.  What is to be the scope of this investigation?”

“The scope of Comrade Orlov's investigation is whatever Comrade Orlov wants to know.  He asks, you answer.  He orders, you obey.  You will provide him with any records he asks for.  You will give him access to any area that he wishes to see.  If he wants to fuck your wife, Stahler, you will turn down the sheets for him. Is this clear?”

“Entirely clear, Comrade General,” Helmut answered quickly. 

The General is scared of this Orlov, he realized.  The General fears what he might find. “I will insure that nothing hampers the investigation.”

“Very good,” the General walked from the office, then paused at the door.  “You will be in your office on time from now on, yes?” It wasn't a question.

“Of course, Comrade General.”

 

At two o'clock that afternoon Helmut was at the station.  The train from Moscow was set to arrive at two thirty.  He had requisitioned a staff car, a driver, and a porter, all of which were sitting at the curb, idling.  He found the freight-master in his tiny office.

“The Moscow train, Peter?  It is on time?”

Peter looked up, peering over his perpetually filthy glasses.  “There's no goods train from Moscow today, Helmut.  You should know that. Not until early tomorrow morning.”

“The passenger train.  The express.  Is it on time?”  Helmut asked, exasperated.

“Oh, I imagine so,” Peter said agreeably.  “Provided the tracks hold up in the Warsaw station.  They've been having problems, you know, with subsidence. Poles... not gifted engineers, as a rule.”

“Call Poznan,” Helmut snapped.  “See what time the express left the station.”

Peter blinked up at Helmut.  “Who is on this train?”

 

Helmut closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead.  “A man from the GRU. He's investigating Major Vanzin.”

Peter nodded gravely.

Helmut leaned forward, lowered his voice.  “Things could come out in an investigation, Peter.  All kinds of things.”

“What are we going to do?” Peter asked, wide-eyed.

“You are going to make damned sure that every manifest, every shipping order, every bill of lading. Every goddamned timetable is exactly where it is supposed to be and says exactly what it is supposed to say. I am going to help the GRU man to get his investigation wrapped up posthaste and send him on his way back to Moscow.”  Helmut sighed. “Will you call Poznan?”

Peter nodded, picked up his telephone.

 

 It had no dial, instead Peter clicked the switchhook repeatedly. “Ja,” he said at last, “could you put me through to Poznan station-master, please?”

Peter looked up.  “This may take a moment.  I suppose I should be grateful that we've any wires at all along the route.”

Helmut waited, fidgeting.  After a few minutes Peter spoke in Polish then hung up. “The express left there on time.  It should be here any moment.”

“Danke,” Helmut left for the floor of the station.

 

What does a man from the GRU look like, Helmut wondered as the train pulled in.  He stood at the front of the platform, where the first class car would stop. There wouldn't be many passengers.  The first off the train was a small, round man in a simple brown suit, a large black valise tucked under his arm.

“Comrade Orlov?” Helmut ventured tentatively.

The other broke in a wide grin and extended his hand.  “You must be Helmut Stahler.  So pleased to meet you.”  His German was clear, but he made no effort to conceal his Russian accent.

“Comrade, if you—” Helmut began, gesturing to the lobby.

“Please, call me Dima, Helmut,” Orlov protested.  “We are all workers together, yes?”

“Dima, then,” Stahler said, a bit uncertainly, waving over the porter. “You will have bags to take?”

“One trunk, yes, thank you very much,” Orlov said. “I must say, Helmut, I am very impressed by your record.  A pleasure to be working with you.”

“My record?” Helmut asked.

“In the war, of course,” the other explained.  “Your reports on the logistics of the Albertstadt Borough, invaluable, simply invaluable. And here you are in Berlin. The beachhead of our struggle against the West.”

Helmut paused, caught off guard by the other man's cheerful praise, “Thank you, Comrade. I serve as best I can.”

 

The porter had returned with Orlov's luggage, a simple steamer trunk.  “Splendid,” Orlov beamed, rubbing his hands together, “Thank you so much.  If you can take me to the Major's office, I think I should like to begin there.”

“Of course... Dima,” Stahler said, leading him to the car.  “Do you expect your investigation will take long?”

“Investigation?  Oh, hardly that,” Orlov smiled. “One or two small questions, details really. Just a few minor matters that the boys in the Kremlin want clarified.  A job for a clerk.”

Orlov lowered his voice.

 “To be honest, I took this job just to get away from Moscow for a few days.  Stuck in a dusty office, slaving over reports that no one will ever read. I'll tell you, intelligence isn't what you'd think from the yellow press.  If I didn't get the chance to see the sun and breathe some fresh air every once in a while I'd go mad. Absolutely mad!”

Helmut nodded.  “I understand completely.  I am a country boy. The city can be so confining.”

“Exactly so! And this is such a lovely country. The trip was quite refreshing.”

They had reached the car.  The porter carefully placed Orlvov's luggage in the trunk, then slid in beside the driver.  Helmut and Orlov got in back.

“To the major's office,” Helmut instructed the driver.

 

Orlov chatted happily about his trip in the car and Helmut answered politely as he tried to wrap his mind around what actually was going on. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut but nothing really substantial to explain this feeling. When the car pulled up and stopped outside Major Vanzin’s office Orlov turned to him with a friendly smile on his face.

“You can stay in the car. I prefer to work alone.” He patted Helmut’s knee and stepped out of the car. Helmut watched the small man walk up to the door and disappear in. He looked at his watch, a quarter past three. He would never make it home for dinner at six. The children would be disappointed again. Amalia too but she never said anything. From the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out the small notebook he always carried and started to jolt down thoughts. He couldn’t see any pattern yet but the fact that they sent a man from Moscow to be part of the investigation was not a good sign. And the General was scared of this man to make things worse. When he had finished writing he stepped out of the car to smoke and stretch his legs.

 

Orlov didn’t reappear until a 4:30. The small man sat down in the back of the car with the same friendly smile on his face. “Hard work really makes me hungry.”

Helmut hesitated, he wasn’t sure what was most important; to feed this man or make it to the club in time but before he could make a decision Orlov interrupted him.

“What time is dinner time in the Stahler family?”

“Ehh,” Helmut said confused. “At six.”

“Excellent!” Orlov said and put his hands together. “Then we better hurry. I am sure Amalia wants you in time. My wife,” Orlov chuckled, “she calls my office every day at five to remind me to be in time for dinner.”

Helmut smiled and nodded.

“Yes, we just have to do a short stop on Eisenstrasse first.”

“Certainly. You are in control Helmut.”

 

The bartender they talked to said he hadn’t worked the night before and the Küchenleiter confirmed this so they headed behind the stage to the girls dressing room. The room wasn’t really a room but a area in the back of the stage enclosed by sheets hung on clothes lines. There were a couple of tables and mirrors and racks with dresses and costumes. The girls walked around in their underwear or robes without being seemingly embarrassed or paying much attention to them.

 

 Orlov hummed to himself as he stood next to Helmut. 

“Like butterflies,” Orlov said.

“Pardon?”

“Women are like butterflies.”

Helmut smiled at the small man but wasn’t sure he truly understood. She stood across the room, fully dressed, blonde hair in prefect curls and red lips. Helmut made his way across the space, bumped into a girl who he thought smelled like Shalimar. She looked at him briefly with big brown eyes but didn’t say anything.

 “Comrade Stahler,” the woman said with her typically mocking voice. “What brings you here?” She looked over his shoulder to where Orlov stood. “Who is the little man?”

“That is Comrade Orlov from the GRU. Greta I need to ask you some questions.”

Greta smiled and put a finger on his nose.

“Of course you do.”

 

Stahler had been asking around about Greta. There were plenty of stories. Some said she was Swedish other said she was Polish. No one was really sure how old she was or where she was from. What he knew for certain was that she had been the queen of the nightclub scene in the twenties. The reason according to many that she had survived the Nazi era was that she had provided the very top with whatever they desired. Girls or boys. Young or old. Blond or dark. Sweet or naughty. Dominant or subversive. Now she did the same for the new powers.

 

“I know that Major Vanzin have been here on more than one occasion.” Greta’s face showed nothing. “Did have a favorite girl? Did he spend more time with one or the other?”

Greta looked over at Orlov again, pursed her lips, and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Clearly she was thinking, calculating what to do. 

“Why don’t you ask Major Vanzin himself? He should know if he has a favorite.”

“I can’t do that, Greta because Major Vanzin had a heart attack a few days ago and passed away.”

For a second Greta’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in surprise but she pulled herself together quickly.

“Oh, that was sad to hear. He was a very good costumer. Always friendly, perhaps a little bit odd taste sometimes but I don’t judge.” Then she smiled. “Now I remember he did spend a lot of time with Leni.”

“Who is Leni?”

Greta pointed and Helmut turned around.

“The girl with the dark short hair and the blue robe.”

Helmut saw that it was the girl he had bumped into before. The girl he thought smelled like Shalimar.

As they turned Greta said conversationally, “Give my regards to the General, won't you, Comrade?”

Helmut didn't answer.

 

Leni looked more at her hands than at him as he introduced himself and Orlov. She looked fragile in Helmut’s eyes. Thin and those big brown eyes seemed to only be filled with sadness. What did a girl like her do here?

“Greta told me that you spend time with Major Vanzin.”

“Yes, but I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. I haven’t been feeling well.”

“You look like you could need a few good meals.” Orlov said and patted her on the shoulder and then he left the hand there. Helmut could see discomfort in Leni’s face but she didn’t move.

“What did you and Major Vanzin talk about?” Orlov asked.

“Talk?” Leni’s voice confused. “We didn’t talk. He paid me to….” her voice died out.

“Yes, we understand that but he never talked about anything?”

She shook her head and looked more uncomfortable. Orlov bent down and put his hand on her face.

“Poor girl,” he said softly. “Where are you parents?”

“They are dead,” she said and Helmut could see her eyes fill up with tears. “My father in Sachsenhausen and my mother in the Final Battle.”

 Orlov patted Leni’s cheek and stood up again.

“If you can think of anything contact Comrade Stahler.” Orlov said briskly. “Helmut we better leave so we are not late for dinner. Shall we?” He pointed towards the door and Helmut left hesitantly.

As the car drove away from the club Orlov rubbed his stomach.

“The girl is lying,” he said casually.

“Pardon?”

“The girl is lying,” Orlov said again and looked over at him with a smile. “Why do men go to whores?” Helmut was just about to open his mouth. “Yes, yes for sex but also to be allowed to talk to a woman who won’t interrupt and won’t argue. She is lying. We should bring her in. But now it is time for dinner.”