“What do you mean, took a bullet?” Benson said, but Ron was moving Jake’s hand away, staring.
“The U.S. Army,” Ron said to Jake, “that’s who. Pull fucking guard duty yourself, if it makes you so nervous.”
“What’s wrong?” Benson said.
“Nothing,” Ron said. “Geismar’s been seeing things, that’s all. Maybe you ought to check into the infirmary yourself, have them give you a once-over. You’re not making a lot of sense these days.”
“There’s someone there all the time?”
“Uh-huh,” Ron said, still looking at him. “No Russians allowed. Ever.”
“So I can see him?”
“That’s up to you. He isn’t going anyplace. Why don’t you take him some flowers and see what it does for you? Christ, Geismar.” He glanced toward the crowd shuffling back into the courtroom. “There’s the bell. You coming, or do you want to run right over and play nurse?” he said, then looked at Jake seriously. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you don’t have to worry about him. He’s as safe as you are.“ He nodded at the Russians by the door. ”Maybe safer.“
“I didn’t know you and Shaeffer were friends,” Benson said, still curious.
“Geismar’s got friends stashed all over Berlin, haven’t you?” Ron said, beginning to move. “How do you know this one, by the way?” he said, jerking his thumb toward the court.
“She was a reporter,” Jake said. “Just like the rest of us. I trained her.”
Ron stopped and turned. “That must give you something to think about,” he said, then followed Benson through the door.
Bernie was standing at the end of the table with Gunther but came over as Jake took his seat. The judges were just returning, walking in single file.
“So,” he said to Jake. “How do you think it’s going so far?”
“Jesus, Bernie. Crutches.”
Bernie’s face grew tight. “The crutches are real. So was the gas.”
“Why not just take her out and shoot her?”
“Because we want it on the record-how they did it. People should know.”
Jake nodded. “So she’s what? A stand-in?”
“No, she’s the real thing. No different from Otto Klopfer. No different.” He took in Jake’s blank expression. “The guy who wanted the exhaust pipe fixed. Or maybe you forgot already. People do.” He looked back to the press section, a restless scraping of chairs. “Maybe they’ll listen this time.”
“They made her do it. You know that.”
“That’s what Otto says too. All of them. You believe it?”
Jake looked up. “Sometimes.”
“Which gets you where? Everybody’s got a sad story, and the end’s always the same. One thing I learned as a DA-you start feeling sorry for people, you never get a conviction. Don’t waste your sympathy. She’s guilty as hell.”
The prosecutor began by calling Gunther to the stand, but before he could take the chair the defense attorney jumped up, stirred finally to some activity.
“May I address the court? What is the purpose of these witnesses? This emotionalism. The nature of the prisoner’s work is not in ques tion here. She herself has described it for the court.“ He held up a transcript. ”Work, I would add, that she performed under the threat of her own death. She has also, let us remember, helped us identify her employers, given her full cooperation so that the Soviet people can bring the real fascists to justice. And what is her reward? This? We have here a matter for the Soviet people to decide, not the western press. I ask that we dispense with these theatrics and proceed with the serious business of this court.“
This was so clearly unexpected that for an instant the judges just sat expressionless. Then they turned to each other. What they asked, however, was that he repeat his statement in Russian, and Jake wondered again how much of the trial they really understood. Renate stood impassively as the pleas rolled out again in Russian. Her full cooperation. Beaten out of her? Or had she sat down willingly and filled sheets with names? A new assignment, catching the catchers. When the lawyer finished, the judge dismissed him with a scowl. “Sit down,” he said, then looked at Gunther. “Proceed.”
The lawyer lowered his head, a schoolboy reprimanded for speaking out of turn, and Jake saw that he had missed the point. The business of the court was the theater. What happens when it’s over, the summer after the war. Not clearing the rubble, not the shuffling DPs-peripheral stories. What happened was this season of denunciations, personal reprisals, all the impossible moral reparations. Tribunals, shaved heads, pointed fingers-auto da fes to purge the soul. Everyone, like Gunther, would have his reckoning.
They started his testimony carefully, a slow recitation of the years of police service, his voice a calm monotone, a return to order after Frau Gersh’s crying. Bernie knew his audience. You could soften them with crutches, but in the end they would respond to this, the sober reassurance of authority. The judges were listening politely, as if, ironically, they had finally recognized one of their own.
“And would it be fair to say that these years of training had made you a good observer?”
“I have a policeman’s eye, yes.”
