Free Leaving Berlin by Joseph Kanon Page B

to meet a hundred people. Say nice things. The same nice things. I know how it is. But maybe you’ll come see me? Come for tea and we can talk all afternoon. About what the Fascists become. Martin, you’ll tell him where?” Meeting everyone, just as Willy said. A true believer, used for ribbon cutting.
    Martin nodded, impressed, the invitation clearly an honor.
    “Ach, there’s Brecht,” she said, noticing him across the room. “Poking, poking with the finger. More mischief. He thinks he’s eighteen years old still. Well, maybe that’s the answer, he is. You knew him in America?”
    “Yes.”
    “Not a happy time for him. He says. Imagine what it was for Helene. But of course he doesn’t. Imagine it. And now making everyone dance. First this, then that. Now he wants a car and a driver. When everything is so difficult for people, scarcely enough to go around, he wants a car and a driver. Like a—” She searched for the word.
    “Great dramatist.”
    Now it was Seghers who smiled. “I look forward to our tea. Come this week. You’re free?”
    Alex opened his hands.
    “We have a few things scheduled,” Martin said, playing secretary.
    “The Kulturbund,” Seghers said, an indulgent glance to Martin. “They hate to see us actually write . Fill the days, fill the days.”
    “It’s lunch with Dymshits.”
    “Well, then you must go. Our masters.” She put a hand on Alex’s arm. “It won’t always be like this. An occupied country. Now they can do what they like—take away factories, anything. Well, so it’s the spoils. It’s difficult for the German Party, people think we’re lackeys, but what else can we do? Wait. And one day, it’s a German government. And at least when they leave, they leave a workers’ state. A German idea. Marx always had Germany in mind. I often wonder, how would it have been if it had happened here, not Russia. Well, we’ll see.” She stopped, cutting herself off. Did Campbell, anyone, really want to hear all this? Just static in the air. “Go have your lunch with Dymshits. He’s a cultivated man. Brecht says he reminds him of Irving Thalberg.”
    Alex raised an eyebrow. “Brecht never knew Thalberg. He was dead before Brecht got there. Years before.”
    Seghers snorted. “Typical Bert. So your wife is here? I’d like to meet—”
    Alex shook his head. “In America. She’s American.”
    “Ah,” Seghers said, looking at him, shuffling through stories, reluctant to ask. “Maybe later. When things are easier here.”
    “Yes, maybe later.” A harmless lie, closing things off.
    He felt someone hovering at his side and turned. A young man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, neatly combed hair.
    “So you don’t recognize me.”
    Alex stared, trying to imagine the face fifteen years ago. Serious, sharp-edged now, not a hint of the youthful fuzziness he must have had in old school pictures. “I’m sorry.”
    “No? Well, who remembers the younger brother? There’s a clue.”
    Another look.
    “Never mind. I don’t blame you. I was ten years old. So things have changed.” He held out his hand. “Markus Engel.”
    “Kurt’s brother?” His head in her lap.
    “Ah, now the bell goes off. The little brother. Maybe you didn’t even notice back then. But of course I knew you. All of Kurt’s friends.” He turned his head. “Comrade Seghers. We haven’t met but I recognized you from your photographs.”
    “If only I still looked like that,” she said pleasantly. “Well, I’ll leave you to talk old times.” She took Alex’s hand. “So glad you’re with us. I’ll have Martin arrange the tea.”
    Markus watched her go. “A good Communist. There should be more like her.”
    Alex looked at him, surprised. “Aren’t there?”
    “I mean the exiles. So many years in the West, it changes people sometimes. But not her.” He half smiled at Alex. “Or you it seems. You came back.” He paused. “You didn’t bring your wife, I think? She’s staying in