anything. We’re sticklers for
the law here. We don’t want to start an inquisition,“ he said, back in his dining room voice. ”We’d rather cut the Nazis a little slack.“
“Summary court—that’s you?”
Bernie shook his head. “We try to keep the foreign-born minorities out of court. In case they’re not—impartial. I’m just the hound. Right now I’m on the fragebogen” He touched the files. “Questionnaires,” he translated. “‘Were you a member of the party? BDM?’ Like that. They have to fill one out if they want a job, a ration card.”
“Don’t they lie?”
“Sure. But we have the party records, so we check. Wonderful people for keeping records.”
Jake stared at the bulky files, like a hundred message sticks in the rubble.
“Could you locate somebody with those?”
Bernie looked at him. “Maybe. If they’re in the American zone,” he said, a question.
“I don’t know.”
“The British files would take a while. The Russians—” He let it dangle, then said gently, “A relative?”
“Somebody I used to know.”
Bernie took out a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. “I’ll see what I have,” he said, handing him an office number. “Come by tomorrow. I have a feeling my three o’clock will be canceled.” He left the piano, then turned back to Jake. “They’d have to be alive, you know.”
“Yes. Thanks.” He pocketed the address. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Bernie shook his head. “Have to get back to work.” He shifted the files under his arm, running late again.
“You can’t get them all,” Jake said, smiling a little.
Bernie’s face went hard. “No. Just one at a time. The way they did it. One at a time.”
<>It took over an hour the next morning to find Frau Dzuris, in one of the crumbled streets not far from the British headquarters in Fehrbelliner Platz. Plaster had fallen off the front of the building, leaving patches of exposed brick, and the staircase smelled of mildew and slop buckets, the signs of a broken water line. He was shown to the second floor by a neighbor, who lingered in the hall in case there was trouble. Inside, the sounds of children, immediately silent after the knock on the door. When Frau Dzuris opened it, looking frightened, there was the faint odor of boiling potatoes. She recognized him, her hands fluttering to smooth her hair and drawing him in but the welcome was nervous, and Jake saw on the children’s faces that it was the uniform. Not sure what to do, she insisted on introducing everybody—a daughter-in-law, three children—and sat him at the table. In the other room, two mattresses had been pushed together.
“I saw your notice in Pariserstrasse,” he began in German.
“For my son. He doesn’t know we’re here. They took him to work in the east. A few weeks they said, and now look—”
“You were bombed out?”
“Oh, it was terrible. The British at night, the Amis in the day—” A quick glance, to see if she had offended him. “Why did they want to bomb everything? Did they think we were Hitler? The building was hit twice. The second time—”
The daughter-in-law offered him water and sat down. In the other room, the children watched through the door.
“Was Lena there?”
“No, at the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Not hurt. She worked there. The Elisabeth. You know the one, in Liitzowstrasse. I said it was God protecting her for her good works. You know, the others, in the basement, didn’t make it. Herr Bloch, his Greta, everybody. They killed them all.” Another glance. “Herr Bloch wouldn’t go to the public shelter. Not him. But I never trusted the cellar. It’s not deep enough, I said, and you see it wasn’t.” She had begun to wring her hands, and Jake saw the flesh of her upper arms hanging in folds, like strips of dough. “So many dead. Terrible, you can’t imagine, all night—”
“But Lena, she was all right?”
She nodded. “She came back. But of course we
the law here. We don’t want to start an inquisition,“ he said, back in his dining room voice. ”We’d rather cut the Nazis a little slack.“
“Summary court—that’s you?”
Bernie shook his head. “We try to keep the foreign-born minorities out of court. In case they’re not—impartial. I’m just the hound. Right now I’m on the fragebogen” He touched the files. “Questionnaires,” he translated. “‘Were you a member of the party? BDM?’ Like that. They have to fill one out if they want a job, a ration card.”
“Don’t they lie?”
“Sure. But we have the party records, so we check. Wonderful people for keeping records.”
Jake stared at the bulky files, like a hundred message sticks in the rubble.
“Could you locate somebody with those?”
Bernie looked at him. “Maybe. If they’re in the American zone,” he said, a question.
“I don’t know.”
“The British files would take a while. The Russians—” He let it dangle, then said gently, “A relative?”
“Somebody I used to know.”
Bernie took out a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. “I’ll see what I have,” he said, handing him an office number. “Come by tomorrow. I have a feeling my three o’clock will be canceled.” He left the piano, then turned back to Jake. “They’d have to be alive, you know.”
“Yes. Thanks.” He pocketed the address. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Bernie shook his head. “Have to get back to work.” He shifted the files under his arm, running late again.
“You can’t get them all,” Jake said, smiling a little.
Bernie’s face went hard. “No. Just one at a time. The way they did it. One at a time.”
<>It took over an hour the next morning to find Frau Dzuris, in one of the crumbled streets not far from the British headquarters in Fehrbelliner Platz. Plaster had fallen off the front of the building, leaving patches of exposed brick, and the staircase smelled of mildew and slop buckets, the signs of a broken water line. He was shown to the second floor by a neighbor, who lingered in the hall in case there was trouble. Inside, the sounds of children, immediately silent after the knock on the door. When Frau Dzuris opened it, looking frightened, there was the faint odor of boiling potatoes. She recognized him, her hands fluttering to smooth her hair and drawing him in but the welcome was nervous, and Jake saw on the children’s faces that it was the uniform. Not sure what to do, she insisted on introducing everybody—a daughter-in-law, three children—and sat him at the table. In the other room, two mattresses had been pushed together.
“I saw your notice in Pariserstrasse,” he began in German.
“For my son. He doesn’t know we’re here. They took him to work in the east. A few weeks they said, and now look—”
“You were bombed out?”
“Oh, it was terrible. The British at night, the Amis in the day—” A quick glance, to see if she had offended him. “Why did they want to bomb everything? Did they think we were Hitler? The building was hit twice. The second time—”
The daughter-in-law offered him water and sat down. In the other room, the children watched through the door.
“Was Lena there?”
“No, at the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Not hurt. She worked there. The Elisabeth. You know the one, in Liitzowstrasse. I said it was God protecting her for her good works. You know, the others, in the basement, didn’t make it. Herr Bloch, his Greta, everybody. They killed them all.” Another glance. “Herr Bloch wouldn’t go to the public shelter. Not him. But I never trusted the cellar. It’s not deep enough, I said, and you see it wasn’t.” She had begun to wring her hands, and Jake saw the flesh of her upper arms hanging in folds, like strips of dough. “So many dead. Terrible, you can’t imagine, all night—”
“But Lena, she was all right?”
She nodded. “She came back. But of course we
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