It went wrong from the start. The Russians, for no apparent reason, had set up a checkpoint at the Brandenburg Gate, and by the time Jake had shown his ID and was waved through he was late. He lost more time trying to find his way through the deserted shell of the Adlon, rescued finally by a man in a formal cutaway who appeared out of the dark like a ghost from the old days, a desk clerk without a desk. Given the damage, it seemed a miracle that anyone still lived here at all. The lobby and main block facing the Linden were smashed, but a rough path had been cleared through the rubble to a wing in the back. The clerk led him with a flashlight past small heaps of brick, stepping over them as if they were just something the hall maid hadn’t got around to yet, then up a flight of service stairs to a dim corridor. At the end, as surreal as the rest of it, was a brightly lit dining room, buzzing with Soviet uniforms and waiters in white jackets carrying serving dishes. The open windows looked down on the gaping hole where Goebbels’ garden had been, and Sikorsky sat near one of them, blowing smoke out into the night air. Jake had barely started toward him when a hand caught his sleeve.
“Whatever are you doing here?”
Jake jumped, more nervous than he’d realized. “Brian,” he said numbly, the florid face somehow surreal too, out of place. He was sitting at a table for four, with two Russian soldiers and a pale civilian.
“Not the food, I hope. Although Dieter here swears by the kohlrabi. Have a drink?”
“Can’t. I’m meeting someone. Interview.”
“You couldn’t do better than this lot. Took the Reichstag. This chap here actually planted the flag.”
“He did.”
“Well, he says he did, which comes to the same thing.” He glanced across the room. “Not Sikorsky, is it?”
“Mind your own business,” Jake said.
“You won’t get anything there. Blood out of a stone. You’ll be at the camp later? Ought to be quite a blowout.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard? The Rising Sun’s about to set. They’re just waiting for the cable. Be all over then but the shouting, won’t it? Six bloody years.”
“Yeah, all over.”
“Cheers,” Brian said, lifting his eyes toward Sikorsky as he raised his glass. “Watch your back. Killed his own men, that one did.”
“Says who?”
“Everybody. Ask him.” He drained the glass. “Actually, better not. Just watch the back.”
Jake clamped him on the shoulder and moved away. Sikorsky was standing now, waiting for him. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just nodded as Jake took off his hat and placed it on the table facing his, brim to brim, as if even the hats expected a standoff.
“A colleague?” Sikorsky said, sitting down.
“Yes.”
“He drinks too much.”
“He just pretends to. It’s an old newspaperman’s trick.”
“The British,” Sikorsky said, flicking an ash. “Russians drink for real.” He poured a glass from the vodka bottle and pushed it toward Jake, his own eyes clear and sober. “Well, Mr. Geismar, you have your meeting. But you don’t speak.” He took a puff from his brown cigarette, holding Jake’s eyes. “Something is wrong?”
“I’ve never looked at a man who wanted to kill me before. It’s a strange feeling.”
“You weren’t in the war, then. I’ve looked at hundreds. Of course, they also looked at me.”
“Including Russians?” Jake said, poking for a reaction. “I heard you killed your own men.”
“Not Russians. Saboteurs,” he said easily, unaffected.
“Deserters, you mean.”
“There were no deserters at Stalingrad. Only saboteurs. It was not an option. Is this what you want to discuss? The war? You know nothing about it. We held the line. Guns in front, guns at your back. A powerful inducement to fight. It was necessary to win. And we did win.”
“Some of you did.”
“Let me tell you a story, since you are interested. We had to supply the line from across the Volga, and the Germans had the shore covered from the cliffs. We unload the boats, they shoot at us. But we had to unload. So we used boys. Not soldiers. We used the children.”
“And?”
“They shot them.”
Jake looked away. “What’s your point?”
“That you cannot possibly know what it was like. You cannot know what we had to do. We had to make ourselves steel. A few saboteurs? That was nothing. Nothing.”
“I wonder if they thought so.”
“You’re being sentimental. We didn’t have that luxury. Ah,” he said to the waiter, handing him some coupons. “Two. There is no menu, I’m afraid. You like cabbage soup?” “It’s one of my favorites.”
Sikorsky raised his eyebrows, then waved the waiter away. “It’s as Gunther says. Fond of jokes. A cynic, like all sentimentalists.” “You’ve discussed me with him.”
“Of course. Such a curious mix. Persistent. What did you want? That, I still don’t know.” “Did you pay him too?”
“To discuss you?” A thin smile. “Don’t concern yourself. He is not corrupt. A thief, but not corrupt. Another sentimentalist.” “Maybe we don’t want to be steel.”
“Then you will not win,” Sikorsky said simply. “You’ll break.”
