Free Leaving Berlin by Joseph Kanon Page A

And there’s me with my foot in my mouth again.” She rolled her eyes.
    Alex smiled. “Only the Austrians care. So you’re mostly right. Anyway, never met him. What about you? What do you do while your husband’s building Berlin?”
    “Well, they’re not building it yet, so I’m still helping him with the drawings. That’s how we met. I was a draftsman. And there’s Richie to look after.”
    “Your son?” he said, a sudden drop in his stomach, unexpected.
    “Mm. But he’s in school now, so he’s gone most of the day.” She looked away, following her thought. “You do get homesick sometimes. And some of the ideas they have. About the States. All we do is beat up people on picket lines and lynch Negroes. Not that things are so wonderful but—”
    “They really say that?”
    “Well, the Russians. But you see things in Richie’s books now, so you wonder what they’re getting in the schools. The evils of capitalism, all right, fine, plenty of those to go around, I agree, but lynching—are we talking about the same place?” She looked back. “But it’s better than having his father in jail. And things’ll improve.”
    “They might even have lipstick soon,” he said lightly.
    She flushed, as if she’d been caught at something. “I can’t believe I said that. Lipstick when—”
    “No, it’s nice to see a woman looking her best. Even Socialist ones,” he said, harmless party talk, then saw that she had taken it as a pass, her eyes moving to the room.
    “Is your wife here?”
    “No, she’s—in the States. We’re separated.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Because of this—you coming here?”
    “Because of a lot of things.”
    “They never talk about that, the strain it puts on people. Do you testify? Do you cooperate? What it does to the families. Always wondering. Are they watching? Friends of ours, they’d see a car parked outside—so, FBI? How do you know? It’s the strain.”
    He looked at her, at a loss, not what he had meant, but now Martin joined them, slightly shiny from the wine.
    “There you are. I have to steal him for a few minutes. You don’t mind? Anna’s here,” he said, lowering his voice.
    He led Alex across the room, his bad leg skipping over the floor, to a woman talking to a small circle of men. Anna Seghers was shorter than Alex had expected but otherwise the same woman he’d seen in jacket photos for years. Her hair was white now, pulled back around her head, a halo effect that made her seem radiant. Martin, clearly dazzled, presented Alex as if she were granting him an audience, a gnädige Frau . Alex dipped his head as he took her hand.
    “Oh, I’m not as grand as that,” she said easily. “Or as old. How nice to meet you finally. Not just in your books. Welcome home.”
    “And you not just in yours.”
    “Tell me, did you have anything to do with the film they made of The Seventh Cross ? They said every German in Hollywood had a hand in the script.”
    “Not this one,” Alex said, holding his hands up. “All clean.”
    Seghers laughed. “Good. Now we can be friends. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It was very nice to have the money. Even in Mexico money doesn’t go very far. So, a godsend. And how are you getting on here?”
    “I’ve just arrived. Literally. Last night.”
    “The first few days, it’s difficult,” she said, her voice warm, confiding. “When you see Berlin now. The trick is to see what it’s going to be. Germany without Fascism. Sometimes I thought I would never see that. I hoped, but— And now it’s here. So never mind the mess, you can always clear bricks away. Fascists were a little harder, no?”
    “You sure they’re all gone?”
    “Well, it’s like weeds, always there. So you get new soil, not so good for them. Change the economic system and they don’t grow so well.”
    “Maybe they become something else.”
    She looked at him, interested. “Maybe. Let’s talk about this. Not here. You have