Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Forty-­eight,” the German replies, squeaking his wrench around a pipe.

“Right, forty-­eight,” Aaron corrects himself. “That was the same year you came, Rachel, honey,” he says, as if she needs reminding.

Rachel issues him a look as she filches one of his Luckies, igniting it from his Zippo. “And what did you do, Mr. Bauer, before you came?” she inquires, expelling smoke.

The German shoots her a quick glance, frowning. “Before?”

“Before you came to America. During the war? Was hast du während des Krieges gemacht?”

Another glance, another frown. He answers her in English. “I was a ‘Sanitäter.’ In the army, Missus Perlman. As I told to your husband. A medical soldier,” he says.

“Right. A corpsman.” Aaron offers clarification. “Or. Or a medic.”

“Yes. Medic,” the German confirms. “But only because I was—­how is the word said? Forced into the army? Eingezogen.”

“After he was conscripted,” Rachel translates dully, expelling smoke.

“Oh yeah. Drafted,” Aaron says. “Me too. I was drafted too. I ended up assigned to the Quartermaster Corps in California. Course it was the Japs who were our problem,” he assures the German.

But the German only nods and grunts again, clunking about with a wrench before he announces, “That should finish the job, Mr. Perlman.” Standing with a huff, he opens the tap on full. Water gushes. “The drain flow is now correct.”

“Terrific,” says Aaron and makes a point of shaking the German’s hand. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Bauer.”

“Oh yes,” Rachel chimes sardonically. “Wir sind so glücklich, dass ein ehemaliger Reichssoldat unsere Pfeifen bewacht,” she says.

The German looks at her warily. Then nods once with a half frown. “Missus Perlman.”

After the German leaves, lugging his toolbox, Aaron shuts the apartment door behind him. “So ya see, Rach. Not so bad,” he declares. “Not some mad-­dog Nazi after all. Just another poor shlub who got drafted like everybody else.” Grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair, he bounces a quick kiss off her temple. “Anyhow. I gotta get going. We’re down two busboys, so I’ll probably end up schlepping dirty dishes all afternoon.” And then he says, “Aren’t you supposed to go see what’s-­his-­name today?”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. He’s Mr. Absentminded when it comes to things like picking up milk or dry cleaning, but he seems to have her schedule with the psychiatrist engraved on his brain. “Yes. At three o’clock,” she says.

Flapping his arm into his overcoat sleeve, he says, “Okay. Don’t forget.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t forget a thing,” Rachel replies.

At the door, though, Aaron pauses. “By the way, what was it you said to the super right before he left?”

“Nothing,” she answers with an innocent frown. “Just how lucky we are to have a former soldier of the Reich guarding our pipes.”

Aaron looks pained. Releases a breath.

“So I understand, Aaron, what you’re trying to prove,” she tells him directly. “Shaking hands with that man. I understand that you’re trying to help. Trying to show me that there’s nothing to fear. The world is not so dangerous. Not all Germans are murderers. I understand,” she repeats, “and I appreciate your effort. But here’s the truth: The world is dangerous. And if to me every German is a messenger of death, it’s only because that is what history has taught me.”

Aaron sags slightly. Starts to speak but instead just shakes his head. “H’okay” is all he can utter, eyes dropping to the floor. “H’okay, I get it,” though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. Flopping on his old snood, he says, “See ya later.”

She watches the door close and hears her eema on the couch. If you truly hope for him to understand you, Ruchel, she says, then you must show him your true self. Not housewife or refugee but the true person. Mais l’être humain authentique.

She notes the shift of his eyes to the clock on the opposite side of the room. A small clock placed discreetly on a bookshelf ticking off the minutes of the therapeutic hour.

“Am I running out of time, Doctor?” Rachel asks.

The doctor does not answer this question. Instead he sniffs lightly and says, “I want you to think about something, Rachel. I want you to think about how you can express your emotions in your art. And I don’t mean emotions on the surface. I mean the emotions you have trapped inside you. Down deep. The emotions that erupted the day at the department store counter.”

Rachel is silent.

“I firmly believe you should return to painting. And I don’t want to give up on the idea, even though you’re resistant. It’s important. Honestly, not only important to you. But important that it be known.”

“Known?”

“The truth. The truth of what happened. It’s been over a decade since the end of the war. I think it’s time the truth be told.”