Jake looked up at the truck where Ron was standing with his hands on his hips, obviously annoyed at the delay. “We’re going to be late,” he said to the men.
“What game?”
“Football,” Ron said. “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”
A few of them moved, climbing reluctantly into the truck.
“The Brits’ll wait,” Tommy said.
“I can’t leave him,” the woman said.
“This could take all day,” Ron said, but the house was groaning again, as compelling as a fire, working to some kind of end.
“Helmut,” the woman said, hearing the rumble, and then, before anyone could stop her, bolted up the pavement to the door and raced inside.
“Hey!” the MP shouted, but no one moved, frozen like a crowd held at gunpoint. “Fuck,” he said, watching her disappear. “Well, that’s one less to worry about.”
The words seemed to push Jake by the shoulders. He glared at the MP, then broke away without thinking and ran after her. The entry-way was littered with plaster. “ Frau!” he yelled. “Come. It’s not safe.” No one answered. He stopped, listening in the creaking house for an animal whimper, the terrified Helmut being rescued. Instead, a calm “One moment” came from the front room. She was standing in the middle, just looking around, holding a picture frame.
“You must come out,” he said gently, going over to her. “It’s not safe.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know. It’s all I have, you see,” she said, looking down at the picture. A boy in a Wehrmacht uniform.
He took her elbow. “Please,” he said, leading her away.
She began to walk with him, then stopped at an end table near the doorway and picked up a porcelain figurine, one of those pink-cheeked shepherdesses that gather dust in parlors. “For Elisabeth,” she said, as if she were apologizing for taking her own things.
The house, having held its breath for a few minutes, now exhaled again with a loud thump in the back. She started, and Jake took her by the shoulder to keep her going, so that his arm was around her when they came out on the stoop.
“Hold it.” The voice, oddly, of a policeman catching looters. But it was only Ron, next to the newsreel camera. For a brief moment, as they stood on the stoop, Jake realized that it was running and, worse, that what it had hoped to catch was his death. American journalist killed in Berlin-something finally worth filming.
“Anna!” the other woman shouted, hysterical. “Are you crazy? Are you crazy? ”
But Anna was undisturbed now, the picture clutched to her chest. She left Jake’s side, walked calmly down the steps, and handed the figurine to the other woman.
“Fucking Boy Scout,” the MP said to him.
“Ain’t he, though?” Tommy said. “Probably do the same for a cat.”
“Where is fucking Helmut anyway?” the MP said, disgusted.
“It’s her son,” Jake said. He turned to the truck. “Get a good picture?” he said to Ron. “Sorry it didn’t fall down for you.”
“Maybe next time.” Ron grinned. “Come on, hop up. Next stop, Allied games. The boys who fought together play together. Collier’s will love it.”
Jake looked up at him. The truth was, Collier’s would. The Allies in peace, conference table to playing field. Not Nazi cops and homeless Berliners. He could file this week, before the impatient telegrams started coming.
“The Russians too?”
“They’ve been invited.”
“Hey, buddy,” said the MP, subdued now. “Ask them if they’ve got someplace to go.”
Jake spoke with the women, standing now arm in arm, their backs to the soldiers.
“She has another sister in Hannover.”
“She’ll need a travel permit for that. Tell her we’ll get her to the DP camp down in Teltowerdamm. It’s not bad.”
But the word, once translated, jolted them, the clang of a cell door closing. “Not a camp!” the woman with the figurine shrieked. “Not a camp. You can’t make us.” She clutched Jake’s arm.
“What’s lager?” the MP said.
“Camp. They’re afraid. They think it’s a concentration camp.”
“Yeah, like the ones they used to run. Tell them it’s an American camp,” he said, certain this would be a comfort.
“They look to you like they ran anything?”
“What the hell. Krauts.”
