“Hey. Use your own fucking booze.”
A sharp, cauterizing sting, as surprising as the first punch. Jake winced.
“Heroics,” Gunther said, wiping Jake’s mouth. “Can you move your head?”
Jake nodded, another sharp pain, then seized Gunther’s arm and pulled himself up. “Don’t let them get away,” he said, looking around wildly and starting for the door.
A dozen hands grabbed him, pinning his arms. “Sit the fuck down. You want the MPs in here?” He was pushed into a chair. Someone Motioned to the band to start playing.
“It was her dress,” Jake said to Gunther, who looked at him dumbly.
“He with you?” the soldier said to Gunther. “We don’t want any trouble here.”
“You don’t understand,” Jake said, standing.
The soldier grabbed him again. “No, you don’t. It’s over, verstehe? You make one move and I’ll fucking deck you too.”
“I’ll take him home,” Gunther said calmly, moving the soldier’s hand away. “No more trouble.”
He clutched Jake’s arm and forced him to walk slowly toward the door. People stared as they squeezed past the tables.
“I have to find her,” Jake said.
Outside, the same parked cars and drivers, the street black. Jake looked in both directions, everything swallowed up in the dark.
“Now, my friend, what happened?”
Jake felt the back of his head, a trickle of blood. “There isn’t time. Go back. I’ll be all right.” He went over to one of the drivers. “You see a blonde in a blue dress?”
The driver looked at him suspiciously.
“Come on, it’s important. Big girl with a soldier.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Tell him,” Gunther barked, suddenly a cop.
The driver jerked his thumb east, toward the Memorial Church.
Gunther held him. “They’re gone,” he said simply. “It’s not safe.”
But Jake had already thrown off his hand and started to run. He could hear Gunther call out behind him, then even that died away, covered by the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Clouds had covered what little moon there was, so that the dark seemed tangible, like a fog you could brush away. They’d been gone only a few minutes, not long enough to vanish, but there was no one in the street. What if the driver was lying? He ran faster, then rammed his foot into a stray brick lying on the pavement. The pain shot up through him, joining the dull ache in his head, and he stopped, holding his stomach to catch his breath. They couldn’t be far. They’d stick to the Ku’damm, hoping for the lights of a cellar bar. The side streets would be impossible, clogged with unseen rubble. Assuming they went this way at all.
Up ahead, a tiny light flickered in a doorway. Jake started again, limping slightly, his sore foot slowing him like a brake.
“Hello, Tommy.” A soft voice called out where the light had been, then another flicker, a flashlight shining up under the whore’s chin, bathing her tired face in a ghost’s light.
“Did you see a couple go by?” he said in German. “A blond girl.”
“Come with me. Why not? Fifty marks.”
“Did you?” he said, insistent.
“Go to hell.” She snapped off the flashlight, saving batteries, and disappeared in the dark.
He could make out the jagged edges of the bombed church against the sky as a truck swept around the intersection. The old heart of the west end, flashing with theater lights, now just dark shadows. He remembered London in the blackout, buses appearing out of nowhere, headlights dimmed to slits like crocodile eyes. He had always hated it, the blindness, stumbling over curbs, but the ruins here made it worse, disturbing, twisted shapes in a nightmare. A jeep swung out of the broad Tauentzienstrasse, lighting up the sidewalk for a second. A pack of soldiers coming out of a bar, and there, beyond them, holding a flashlight, a tall soldier with a fleshy blonde.
Jake picked up his pace, ignoring the pain in his foot. They were heading toward Wittenbergplatz, the way he used to go home, down past the KaDeWe windows. Don’t lose her now. They had walked, so it couldn’t be far. Maybe another club. Hannelore Schmidt, Goebbels’ spy, who didn’t want to be recognized, arm in arm with the new order. He wondered what she’d put on her fragebogen. Not the calls to Nanny Wendt. Where had she got the dress? Ransacking the old flat in Pariserstrasse. Maybe a trade for food coupons. She’d know something. Not a pointless search through Bernie’s files, a real connection.
Jake saw them crossing the street now, guided by the weaving flashlight, which picked up a group of DPs huddled in the square. She’d be safe with Steve, a handy man to have around in a fight. Jake touched the corner of his mouth, tender, still streaked with blood. They were across Wittenbergplatz.
It was then he stopped, in front of the broken plate glass window, watching the tiny beam of light move toward the familiar heavy door. Almost a joke, there all along. His old flat, passed around the
