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He asked a question of his own: "Are the two of you really going to patch things up now, or will you go on squabbling?"And cheating on each other, he added, but only to himself. He always tried to stay polite-maybe even too polite for his own good.
Willi answered with a shrug. "I don't know what the hell we're going to do. If it weren't for the kids…But they're there, and we can't very well pretend they're not." How much did he worry about his son and daughter when he took Ilse out for lunch and whatever else he could get away with? Maybe some. He did love them. Heinrich knew that. Love them or not, though, he went right on doing whathe wanted to do.
At the train station, Heinrich shelled out fifteen pfe
"Ja,"Willi answered uncomfortably. "A Jew in Berlin-I mean, somebody they thought was a Jew in Berlin-isnews."
"Did anybody say anything when they let me go?"
Now Willi looked at him as if he'd asked a very dumb question indeed. And so he had. "Don't be silly," Willi said. "When was the last time the SS admitted it made a mistake? The twelfth of Never, that's when."
The train rumbled up. Doors hissed open. Heinrich and Willi fed their cards into the fare slot, then sat down side by side and started reading their papers. The upcoming election dominated the headlines. Rolf Stolle had given another speech calling on the Fuhrer to move harder and further on reforms. The Volkischer Beobachter covered it in detail, quoting some of the juiciest bits. A year earlier, even if the Gauleiter of Berlin had presumed to give such a speech, the Beobachter would have pretended he hadn't.
Out of the commuter train. Up the escalators. Onto the bus. Into downtown Berlin traffic. Willi looked out the window and shook his head. He said, "I'm glad I'm not driving in this."
"You'd have to be crazy to want to," Heinrich agreed. But the swarms of cars clogging every street argued that a hell of a lot of peoplewere crazy.
Out of the bus. Up the steps to Oberkommando der Wehrmacht headquarters. Nods to the guards. Identification cards. One of the guards nudged his pal. "Hey, look, Adolf! Here's Gimpel back."
Adolf nodded. "Good. I didn't figure you were really a kike,Herr Gimpel. The Security Police couldn't grab their ass with both hands."
"I'm here." Heinrich pocketed his card once more. What would Adolf have said, knowing he was a
Jew? That seemed only too obvious. But they'd decided he wasn't, or at least decided they couldn't show he was. There was an improvement in the way things worked. When Kurt Haldweim was Fuhrer, suspicion alone would have earned him a trip to the shower.
He got to his desk late. Analysts and secretaries-and Wehrmacht officers, too-kept stopping him in the corridor to shake his hand and tell him they were glad to see him. He was slightly dazed by the time he finally did walk up to the familiar battleship-gray metal desk. He hadn't realized so many people cared.
He was just about to sit down in his squeaky swivel chair when Ilse spotted him. "Oh,Herr Gimpel, I'm so happy you're back!" she squealed, and ran up to him and gave him a hug and a kiss. Then she laughed. "Now I've got lipstick on you, the way I do with Willi."
Willi chose that moment to have a coughing fit. Heinrich would have, too. Ilse turned and made a face at her lunchtime lover. She pulled a tissue from her purse and rubbed at Heinrich's cheek. She drew back, looked him over, and rubbed a little more.
"There! All better," she said briskly.
"Is it?" Heinrich said. She nodded. He was almost as much an object to be dealt with for her as he had been for the Security Police. Her ministrations were a lot more enjoyable, though.
Off she went. Heinrich sat down. The chair did squeak. He tried to remember what he'd been doing when the blackshirts grabbed him. Before he could even come close, Willi stalked over and spoke in a mock-tough voice: "Trying to steal another woman of mine, are you?"
Heinrich hoped it was just mock-tough. He said, "The only thing I'm trying to do is mind my own business and have people leave me alone. Up till now, I never realized how hard that was."
Willi laughed and slapped him on the back. "All right. I can take a hint." Heinrich wasn't at all sure Willi could. But his friend-and in spite of everything, Willi did still seem to be his friend-went back to his desk and got to work. With real relief, Heinrich did the same. He knew he wouldn't accomplish much this morning. It would be like coming back from vacation: he'd need to figure out what had gone on while he was out before he could do anything useful.
Here, what had gone on while he was out couldn't have been more obvious if it had marched by with a brass band. The Americans were kicking up their heels. They took Heinz Buckliger's policy for weakness. Payments were lagging. Excuses were some of the plainest lies he'd ever seen. Over on the other side of the Atlantic, they were finding out how much they could get away with.
So far, they seemed to be doing exactly that. Panzers hadn't rolled out to plunder the countryside-or to surround the American legislature and bureaucrats in Omaha and make them cough up what was due the Reich. Haldweim would have arrested people. Himmler would have machine-gu
If I were ru
"How about some lunch?" Willi asked. Heinrich looked up in astonishment. It couldn't be lunchtime yet. But his watch insisted it was ten to twelve. Willi went on, "How about Admiral Yamamoto's?"
"Sounds good to me." After cabbage stew in prison, any real food sounded good to Heinrich. Several big meals at home had only just begun to fill the hole inside him.
Shrimp tempura, teriyaki beef, and a plate of Berlin rolls enlivened with soy sauce and wasabi went some way toward hole-filling. Miso soup came with the meal. So did rice, which was to be expected, and potato salad, which never failed to leave him bemused. It was pretty good potato salad, but he didn't think the average Japanese came home to potato salad every night-or any night. But Admiral Yamamoto's wasn't the only Japanese place in Berlin that included potato salad in its meals, so maybe he was wrong. More likely, the restaurant owners just knew what their customers favored.
As usual, plenty of customers favored Admiral Yamamoto's. It drew people from every government agency within several kilometers, along with hotel clerks, shopgirls, and even the occasional Japanese tourist hungry for the tastes of home and discovering that the restaurant offered…some of them.
Heinrich ate, rather clumsily, with chopsticks. He sipped a good wheat beer, which went well with the spicy, salty lunch. And he listened to the people chatting at nearby tables. The tables were so close together, he couldn't help listening to his neighbors. One question he heard over and over was, "Who are you going to vote for?"
Once, to his astonishment, he heard one trooper from the Waffen -SS division Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler ask that of his pal. He was even more astonished when the second trooper answered, "Me? Stolle, who else?" The tough young Aryan warrior sounded as if no other choice besides the radical Gauleiter of Berlin were possible. And the first man nodded, plainly agreeing with him.
"I wasn't sure what I thought of this whole election business," Heinrich said. "Sounds like everybody's excited about it, though."