Gunther opened one eye. “No. You will play the policeman. Find out who authorized his pass. I’m retired. I’m going to have a brandy.”
Jake put his drink down, ready to leave. The room was even more crowded, the bar almost invisible behind a wall of people, and the noise was rising now with the smoke, covering the band. “Sleepy Time Down South,” the clarinet again, peppier, straining to be heard. A girl squealed somewhere, then laughed. He took a breath, claustrophobic. But no one else seemed to mind. They were all young, some as young as Danny, who was tapping the table in time to the music. He’d never taken Lena dancing in her blue dress. The clubs by then had become shadowy, dimmed by the Nazis, taking notes in the audience during the comedy sketches. No longer fun, just something to show the tourists, who wanted to see the Femina with the telephones on the tables. Nobody had been young then, not like this, and it only came once.
“Back in a sec,” Danny said, standing up. “Goes through you, don’t it? Keep an eye on Gunther-he goes right out when he naps.”
Jake watched the slick head move through the crowd. How many nights did Gunther sit here, finally oblivious even to the smell? The couples on the floor had taken on a kind of blur. This is probably what he saw, people bouncing through a haze, the music almost an echo. It occurred to Jake that he was probably a little drunk himself. Another dream song, “I’ll Get By.” There was the dress again, leaning against the soldier. The overweight blonde.
He narrowed his eyes. If you blocked out the rest, the dress would come into focus as it had been, without the bulges and damp spots, moving with her. He remembered the Press Club party when he’d sat watching across a different room, the dress finally turning, her eyes laughing at him in secret, a quick flash like the sequins.
The blonde turned, the dress hidden now by the uniform, only the shoulder visible, shimmering with sequins. Jake blinked. Not drunk, not a trick of the eye. The same dress.
He stood up and began to cross the room, a swimmer, people sweeping past him like water. When the blonde looked up, her face alarmed, he saw what he must look like, a drunk plowing through the crowd with the crazed, determined steps of a sleepwalker. Her eyes darted away, anxious with fear. No, not fear, recognition. Not as plump as she’d been in the office, but still a big girl. Fraulein Schmidt. A poor typist, Goebbels’ spy.
“Hannelore,” he said, going up to them.
“Go away.” A rasp, nervous.
“Where did you get the dress?” he said in German.
The soldier had stopped dancing, annoyed. “Hey, buddy, get lost.”
Jake grabbed her upper arm. “The dress. Where did you get it? Where is she?”
She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “What dress? Go away.”
“It’s hers. Where is she?”
The soldier placed himself between them, holding Jake’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you, you deaf or something? Blow.”
“I know her,” Jake said, trying to get past him.
“Yeah? Well, she doesn’t want to know you. Beat it,” the soldier said, shoving him.
“Fuck off.” Jake pushed him aside, and the soldier staggered a little. Jake took her arm again. “Where?”
“Leave me alone.” A wail loud enough to draw attention, people around them stopping in midstep. She reached for her soldier. “Steve!”
The soldier grabbed Jake’s shoulder, spinning him around. “Blow or I’ll deck you, you fuck.”
Jake swatted his hand away and moved toward her again. “I know it’s hers.”
“Mine!” she screamed, moving away.
His eyes were still on her so that he missed the punch, a hard jab to the stomach, making him double over, winded.
“Now beat it.”
Chairs scraped behind them. Jake’s mouth filled with the taste of sour whiskey. Without thinking, he lunged for the soldier, trying to push him away, but the soldier was waiting. He stepped aside, then smashed his fist into Jake’s face, sending him backward. Jake heard the shouts around him as he reached out to grab the air, a stunned weightlessness, going down, until he felt his head crack against the floor. Another crash as the crowd moved back against a table, then everyone leaning over him, pushing away the soldier with his fist still raised. When Jake tried to lift his head, blood filling his mouth, he felt a surge of nausea and closed his eyes to hold it down. Don’t black out. The band stopped. More yelling. Some men were dragging the soldier away. Another soldier bent down.
“You okay?” Then, to the crowd, “Give us some air, for Christ’s sake.” Jake tried to get up again, clenching his mouth against another taste of bile, dizzy. “Take it easy.”
Faces bent over him. A girl with bright red lipstick. But not Hannelore.
“Wait. Don’t let them go,” Jake said, trying to rise. “I have to-”
The soldier held him down. “What are you, crazy?”
“He started it,” someone said. “I saw it.”
Then Gunther was there, alert, dabbing the corner of Jake’s mouth with a handkerchief. He reached up, pulling a bottle from the next table and pouring whiskey over the cloth.
