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“No, I’m a journalist.”
“You are English or American?”
“American.”
“Ach,” the cheerful youngster said in a thick accent, “welcome to Berlin, mein Herr. ”
“Thank you.”
The second boy noted Paul’s gaze and said, “You are liking our Party’s flag? It is, would you say, impressing, yes?”
“Yeah, it is.” The Stars and Stripes was somehow softer. This flag sort of punched you.
The first boy said, “Please, each parts is having a meaning, an important meaning. Do you know what are those?”
“No. Tell me.” Paul looked up at the ba
Happy to explain, he said enthusiastically, “Red, that is socialism. The white is, no doubt, for nationalism. And the black… the hooked cross. You would say swastika…” He looked at Paul with a raised eyebrow and said nothing more.
“Yes,” Paul said. “Go on. What does that mean?”
The boy glanced at his companions then back to Paul with a curious smile. He said, “Ach, surely you know.”
To his friends he said in German, “I will lower the flag now.” Smiling, he repeated to Paul, “Surely you know.” And frowning in concentration, he brought the flag down as the other two extended their hands in one of those stiff-armed salutes you saw everywhere.
As Paul walked toward the dorm, the boys broke into a song, which they sang with uneven, energetic voices. He heard snatches of it rising and falling on the hot air as he strolled away: “Hold high the ba
Paul looked back to see them fold the flag reverently and march off with it. He slipped through the back entrance of his dorm and returned to his room, where he washed, cleaned his teeth then stripped and dropped onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for sleep as he thought about Heinsler – the man who’d killed himself that morning on the ship, making such a passionate, foolish sacrifice.
Thinking too of Reinhard Ernst.
And finally, as he began to doze, thinking of the boy in the brown uniform. Seeing his mysterious smile. Hearing his voice over and over: Surely you know… surely you know…
III. GÖRING’S HAT
Chapter Five
The streets of Berlin were immaculate and the people pleasant, many nodding as he walked past. Carting the beat-up old briefcase, Paul Schuma
The park was beautiful, filled with dense trees, walkways and lakes, gardens. In New York’s Central Park, you were forever aware of the city around you; the skyscrapers were visible everywhere. But Berlin was a low city, very few tall buildings here, “cloud catchers,” he overheard a woman say to a young child on the bus. On his walk through the park with its black trees and thick vegetation he lost any sense that he was in the city at all. It reminded Paul of the dense woods in upstate New York where his grandfather had taken him hunting every summer until the old man’s failing health had prevented them from making the trips.
An uneasiness crept over him. This was a familiar feeling: the heightened senses at the begi
He crossed the murky Spree River and found Spener Street then continued north, away from the park, noting that, curiously, the homes were in vastly different states of repair. Some were grand while right next door might be others that were abandoned and derelict. He passed one in which brown weeds filled the front yard. At one point the house had clearly been very luxurious. Now, most of the windows were broken and someone, young punks, he assumed, had splashed yellow paint on it. A sign a
The sun finally sets…
He found the restaurant easily. He saw the sign but didn’t even notice the word “Bierhaus.” To him it was “Beer House.” He was already thinking in German. His upbringing and the hours of typesetting at his grandfather’s plant made the translations automatic. He looked over the place. A half dozen lunchers sat on the patio, men and women, solitary for the most part, lost in their food or newspapers. Nothing out of kilter that he could see.
Paul crossed the street to the passageway Avery had told him about, Dresden Alley. He walked into the dark, cool canyon. The time was a few minutes before noon.
A moment later he heard footsteps. Then a heavyset man in a brown suit and waistcoat strode up behind him, working a toothpick in his teeth.
“Good day,” the man said cheerfully in German. He glanced at the brown leather briefcase.
Paul nodded. He was the way Avery’d described Morgan, though he was heavier than Paul had expected.
“This is a good shortcut, don’t you think? I use it often.”
“It certainly is.” Paul glanced at him. “Maybe you can help me. What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexander Plaza?”
But the man frowned. “The tram? Do you mean from here?”
Paul grew more alert. “Yes. To Alexander Plaza.”
“Why would you take the tram? The underground is much faster.”
Okay, Paul thought; he’s the wrong one. Get away. Now. Just walk slowly. “Thank you. That’s most helpful. Good day to you.”
But Paul’s eyes must have revealed something. The man’s hand strayed to his side, a gesture Paul knew well, and he thought: pistol!
Goddamn them for sending him out here without his Colt.
Paul’s fists clenched and he started forward but, for a fat man, his adversary was surprisingly quick and leapt back, out of Paul’s reach, deftly pulling a black pistol from his belt. Paul could only turn and flee. He sprinted around a corner into a short offshoot of the alley.
He stopped fast. It was a dead end.
A scrape of shoe behind him and he felt the man’s weapon against his back, level with his heart…
“Don’t move,” the man a
He dropped the briefcase on the cobblestones, feeling the gun leave his back and touch his head, just below the sweatband of his hat.
Father, he thought – not to the deity but to his own parent, gone from this earth twelve years.
He closed his eyes.
The sun finally sets…
The shot was abrupt. It echoed briefly off the walls of the alley and then was smothered by the brick.
Cringing, Paul felt the muzzle of the gun press harder into his skull and then the weapon fell away; he heard it clatter on the cobblestones. He stepped away fast, crouching, and turned to see the man who’d been about to kill him crumpling to the ground. His eyes were open but glazed. A bullet had struck him in the side of the head. Blood spattered the ground and brick wall.
He looked up and saw another man, in a charcoal-gray fla