Her eyes, already shiny with fever, grew moister, but she smiled. “Yes, you’re the same.”
He brushed the bare hairline above his temple. “Almost, anyway.” He looked down at her. “You’ll see. Just like before.”
She closed her eyes, and he busied himself wetting the handkerchief, disconcerted by his own words. Not like before.
“So you found Hannelore,” he said, trying to be conversational, then, “Where’s Emil?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice curiously detached. “Dead, maybe. It was terrible here, at the end.”
“He was in Berlin?”
“No, up north. For the army.”
“Oh,” he said, not trusting himself to say more. He stood up. “I’ll get some more water. Try getting a little sleep before the doctor gets here.”
“Like a nurse,” she said, closing her eyes.
“That’s right. I’m going to take care of you. Go to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
“It seems impossible. I just opened the door.” Her voice drifting.
He turned to leave, then stopped. “Lena? What makes you think he’s dead?”
“I would have heard.” She moved her hand up, covering her eyes. “Everyone’s dead. Why not him?”
“You’re not.”
“No, not yet,” she said wearily.
He glanced at her. “That’s the fever talking. I’ll be right back.”
He walked through the main room to the kitchen. Everything the same. In the bedroom, littered with Hannelore’s clothes and bottles of lotion, he could imagine being somewhere else, but here it was his flat, the couch against the wall, the little table by the window, not even rearranged, as if he’d simply gone away for the weekend. The kitchen shelves were bare-three potatoes and a few cans of C rations, a jar of ersatz coffee. No bread. How did they live? At least Hannelore had her dinner at Ronny’s. Surprisingly, the gas ring worked. A kettle to make coffee. No tea. The room itself felt hungry.
“It’s cold,” she said when he put a new wet cloth on her forehead.
“It’s good for the fever. Just keep it there.”
He sat for a minute looking at her. An old cotton wrapper dotted with patches of sweat, wrists thin enough to snap. Like one of the grim DPs he’d seen plodding across the Tiergarten. Where had Emil been?
“I went to the Elisabeth,” he said. “Frau Dzuris said you worked there.“
“With the children. There was no one to help, so-” She winced. “So I went there.”
“Did they get out? Before the raid?”
“Not bombs. Shells. The Russians. Then the fire.” She turned her head, eyes filling. “No one got out.”
He turned the cloth over, feeling helpless.
“Don’t think about it now.”
“No one got out.”
But she had, somehow. Another Berlin story.
“Tell me later,” he said softly. “Get some sleep.”
He smoothed her hair again, as if it would empty her head, and in a few minutes it seemed to work. The little gasps evened out and became almost soundless, so that only the faint movement of her chest showed she was breathing at all. Where was Hannelore?
He watched her sleep for a while, then got up and looked around the jumbled room. Clothes had been flung over the chair, a pair of shoes resting on top. Without thinking, he began putting things away, filling time. A messy room is the sign of a messy mind-his mother’s old saying, ingrained after all. He realized, absurdly, that he was tidying up for the doctor. As if it mattered.
He opened the closet door. He had left a few things with Hal, but they were gone, traded perhaps on one of the message boards. In their place, a fur coat was hanging next to some dresses. A little ragged, but still fur, the kind of thing he’d heard they collected to send to the troops on the eastern front. But Hannelore had kept hers. A present, no doubt, from a friend in the ministry. Or maybe just salvaged after one of the bombing raids, when the owner hadn’t got out.
He went into the living room. There wasn’t much to straighten here-the lumpy couch, a suitcase neatly set underneath, some stray cups that hadn’t been washed. Near the window table, something new-an empty birdcage, Hannelore’s one addition to the room. Otherwise, just as before. He washed the cups in cold water, then wiped off the sink counter, settling in. When there was nothing left to do, he stood by the window smoking, thinking about the hospital. What else had she seen? All the time he’d imagined her in the old flat getting dressed to go out, frowning at herself in the mirror, safe under some bell jar of memory. The last four years were only supposed to have happened to him.
A few cigarettes later, he heard Hannelore on the stairs.
“Leave the door open,” she said, switching off her flashlight. “He’ll never find it otherwise.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“He’s coming. They had to get him. How is she?”
“Sleeping.”
She grunted and went into the kitchen, pulling down a bottle hidden over the top shelf.
“Where’s Steve?” Jake said.
“You ruined that for me,” she said, pouring a drink. “He’ll never come back now.”
“Don’t worry, there’re plenty more where he came from.”
“You think it’s so easy. What am I supposed to do now?”
“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll pay for the room, too. She can’t sleep out here.”
