“It’s all right. They won’t come back,” he said, holding her. “We’re almost at the church.”
But in fact the street frightened him too, sinister now in the pale light, unnaturally still. When they passed a standing wall, the moon disappeared behind it for a minute and they were back in the early days of the blackout, when you picked your way home by the eerie glow of phosphorus strips. But at least there’d been noise, traffic and whistles and wardens barking orders. Now the silence was complete, not even disturbed by Frau Dzuris’ radio.
“They never change,” Lena said, her voice low. “When they first came, it was so terrible we thought, it’s the end. But it wasn’t. It’s still the same.”
“At least they’re not shooting people anymore,” he said easily, trying to move away from it. “They’re soldiers, that’s all. It’s just their way of having fun.”
“They had their fun then too,” she said, her voice bitter. “You know, in the hospital they took the new mothers, the pregnant women, they didn’t care. Anybody. They liked the screaming. They laughed. I think it excited them. I’ll never forget that. Everywhere in the building. Screams.“
“That’s over now,” he said, but she seemed not to hear.
“Then we had to live under them. Two months-forever. To know what they did and then see them in the street, wondering when it would start again. Every time I looked at one, I heard the screams. I thought, I can’t live like this. Not with them-”
“Ssh,” Jake said, reaching up to her hair the way a parent soothes a sick child, trying to make it all go away. “That’s over.”
But he could see in her face that it wasn’t. She turned away. “Let’s go home.”
He looked at her back. He wanted to say something more, but her shoulders were hunched away from him, waiting now for more soldiers in the shadowy street.
“They won’t come back,” he said, as if it made any difference. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
Tommy Ottinger’s farewell party coincided with the end of the conference and so became, without his intending it, a Goodbye Potsdam bash. At least half the press corps were leaving Berlin too, as much in the dark about the actual negotiations as when they arrived, and after two weeks of bland releases and cramped billets, they were ready to celebrate. By the time Jake got to the press camp, it already had the deafening noise and littered bottles of a blowout. The typing tables had been pushed to one side for a jazz combo, and a sprinkling of WACs and Red Cross nurses took turns like prom queens on the makeshift dance floor. Everyone else just drank, sitting on desks or propped up against the wall, shouting over each other to be heard. In the far corner, the poker game that had begun weeks ago was still going on, oblivious to the rest of the room, cut off by its own curtain of stale smoke. Ron, looking pleased with himself, was circulating with a clipboard, signing up people for tours of the Cecilienhof and the Babelsberg compound, finally open to the press now that everyone was gone.
“See the conference site?” he said to Jake. “Of course, you’ve already been.”
“Not inside. What’s in Babelsberg?”
“See where Truman slept. Very nice.”
“I’ll pass. What are you so happy about?”
“We got through it, didn’t we? Harry’s gone back to Bess. Uncle Joe’s-well, who the fuck knows? And everybody behaved himself. Almost everybody, anyway,” he said, glancing at Jake, then grinning. “Seen the newsreel?”
“Yeah. I want to talk to you about that.”
“Just part of the service. I thought you looked pretty good.”
“Fuck.”
“The thanks you get. Anybody else’d be pleased. By the way, you ought to check your messages. I’ve been carrying this for days.” He pulled out a cable and handed it to Jake.
Jake unfolded it. “Newsreel everywhere. Where are you? Wire firsthand account rescue ASAP. Collier’s exclusive. Congrats. Some stunt.”
“Christ,” Jake said. “I ought to make you answer it.”
“Me? I’m just the errand boy.” He grinned again. “Use your imagination. Something will come to you.”
“I wonder what you’ll do after the war.”
“Hey, the movie star.” Tommy came over, putting his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Where’s your drink?” The top of his bald head was already glistening with sweat.
“Here,” Jake said, taking the glass out of Tommy’s hand. “You look like you’re drinking for two.”
“Why not? Auf wiedersehen to this hellhole. So who gets my room, Ron? Lou Aaronson’s been asking.”
“What am I, the desk clerk? We’ve got a list this long. Of course, some people don’t even use theirs.” Another glance at Jake.
“I hear Breimer’s still around,” Jake said.
“Take an act of Congress to get that asshole out,” Tommy said, slurring his words a little.
“Now, now,” Ron said. “A little respect.”
“What’s he up to?” Jake said.
“Nothing good,” Tommy said. “He hasn’t been up to anything good since fucking Harding was president.”
“Here we go again,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Bad old American Dye. Give it a rest, why don’t you?”
“Go shit in your hat. What do you know about it?”
