Breimer was studying the chart with care, familiar with the world as a pyramid of boxes. “Where does Frankfurt come in?”
“Well, that’s USFET, G-5, civil affairs.” ‹›“USFET. The army’s got more damned alphabet soup than the New Deal,” Breimer said, evidently his idea of a joke, because he looked up. Ron smiled obligingly.
“In other words, overlap,” Breimer said.
Ron smiled again. “That I couldn’t say.”
“No, you don’t have to.” He shook his head. “If we ran a business this way, we’d never make any money.”
“We’re not here to make money,” Muller said quietly.
“No, to spend it,” Breimer said, but pleasantly. “From the looks of things, we’ve got a whole country on relief and the American taxpayer footing the bill. Some peace.”
“We can’t let them starve.”
“Nobody’s starving that I can see.” ‹›Muller turned to face him, his expression grave and kindly, Judge Hardy lecturing Andy. “The official ration is fifteen hundred calories a day. In practice, it’s closer to twelve hundred, sometimes lower. That’s only a little better than the camps. They’re starving.” His voice, as precise and rational as one of Ron’s boxes, stopped Breimer short. “Unless they work for us,” he went on calmly. “Then they get a hot meal every day and all the cigarette butts they can scrounge.” He paused. “They’re the ones you see.” Jake glanced over at the serving man, quietly removing plates, and noticed for the first time his thin neck bobbing in its oversized collar.
“Nobody wants anybody to starve,” Breimer said. “I’m not a hard peace man. That’s that nut Morgenthau in Treasury.” He glanced over at Tommy. “One of your trust-busters, by the way. Wants to make ‘em all farmers, take the whole damn thing apart. Dumbest thing I ever heard. Of course, those people have their own agenda.”
“What people?” Tommy said, but Breimer ignored him, sweeping along.
“I’m a realist. What we need to do is get this country back on its feet again, not put ‘em on relief. Now, I’m not saying you people aren’t doing a fine job here.” This to Muller, who nodded dutifully. “I’ve been in Germany two weeks and I can tell you I’ve never been prouder to be an American. The things I’ve seen- But hell, look at this.” He pointed to the chart. “You can’t do much when you’re spread this thin on the ground. One group here, another in Frankfurt-”
“I believe it’s General Clay’s intention to combine the organizations,” Ron said.
“Good,” Breimer said, annoyed at being interrupted. “That’s a start. And here’s a whole other group just for Berlin.”
“Well, you know, the city’s jointly administered, so there’s no way around that,” Ron said, still on his chart. “The Coordinating Committee set up the Kommandatura to deal with Berlin. That’s Howley-we see him tomorrow after Clay.”
“Kommandatura,” Breimer said. “That the Russian name?”
“More international than Russian, I think,” Ron said, evading. “Everyone agreed to it.”
Breimer snorted. “The Russians. I’ll tell you one thing. We don’t get these people back on their feet, the Russians’ll come in, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that’s one way to stop the drain on the American taxpayer,” Tommy said. “Let Ivan pick up the tab.”
Breimer glowered at him. “That’s not all he’ll pick up. Well, have your fun, have your fun,” he said, sitting back. “I suppose I’m making speeches again and ruining the party. My wife’s always telling me I don’t know when to stop.” He gave a calculated smile, meant to disarm. “It’s just, you know, I hate to see waste. That’s one thing you learn in business.” He glanced again at Tommy. “To be a realist.” He shook his head. “Four Ds. We ought to be putting these people to work, not giving them handouts and breaking up their companies and wasting our time looking for Nazis under every bed.”
A plate crashed, like a punctuation mark, and everyone turned to the door. The old man, distraught, was looking at the floor, held at the elbow by the short, wiry American who had just bumped into him. For a second no one moved, suspended in a stopped piece of film, then the reel caught again and they tumbled forward into a kind of slapstick, the gray-haired woman rushing out, hands to her cheeks, the old man moaning, the American apologizing in German. When he bent down to help with the pieces, the files under his arm slid onto the floor in a heap of papers and broken crockery. More excited German, a fuss too elaborate, Jake thought, to be about a plate-the fear, perhaps, of losing a job with its one hot meal a day. Finally the woman shooed both men away from the china and, with a bow, pulled back a chair for the late arrival.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” he said to the quiet room, busy stacking files on the table. He had a terrier’s sharp nose and nervous energy, his face covered with a dark five-o’clock shadow he hadn’t had time to shave. Even the air around him seemed to be running late, his tie loosened from its open collar by the same hurried gust.
