A good German

They went up the gate stairs behind the congressman, who seemed to have acquired an entourage, and into the waiting hall, the same tawny marble walls and soaring space as before, when flying had been a romance. People had come to the restaurant here, just to watch the planes. Jake hurried to keep up. Ron moved the way he talked, breezing a path through the gangs of waiting servicemen.

“You missed the president,” he said. “Went into town after lunch. Had the whole Second Armored lined up on the Avus. Quite a picture. Sorry your plane was so late, that’s probably it for town shots.”

“Wasn’t he at the conference?” Liz said.

“Hasn’t started yet. Uncle Joe’s late. They say he has a cold.”

“A cold?” Jake said.

“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Truman’s pissed, I hear.” He glanced at Jake. “That’s off the record, by the way.”

“What’s on?”

“Not much. I’ve got some handouts for you, but you’ll probably throw them away. Everybody else does. There’s nothing to say till they sit down, anyway. We have a briefing schedule set up at the press camp.”

“Which is where?”

“Down the road from MG headquarters. Argentinischeallee,” he said, rolling it out, a joke name.

“Out in Dahlem?” Jake said, placing it.

“Everything’s out in Dahlem.”

“Why not somewhere nearer the center?”

Ron looked at him. “There is no center.”

They were climbing the big flight of stairs to the main entrance doors. “As I say, the camp’s right by MG headquarters, so that’s easy. Your billet too. We found a nice place for you,” he said to Liz, almost courtly. “Photo schedule’s different, but at least you’ll get out there. Potsdam, I mean.”

“But not press?” Jake said.

Ron shook his head. “They want a closed session. No press. I’m telling you this now so I don’t have to hear you squawk later, like the rest of them. I don’t make the rules, so if you want to complain, go right over my head, I don’t care. We’ll do the best we can at the camp. Everything you need. You can send from there, but your stuff goes through me, you might as well know.”

Take looked at him, forced to smile. A new Nanny Wendt, this time with gum and get-up-and-go.

“Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of copy. We’ll have a briefing after every session. Besides, everybody talks.”

“And what do we do between briefings?”

“Drink, mostly. At least that’s what they’ve been doing.” He turned to Jake. “It’s not as if Stalin gives interviews, you know. Here we go,” he said, swinging through the doors. “I’ll get you out to your billet. You probably want to clean up.”

“Hot water?” Liz said.

“Sure. All the comforts of home.”

In the driveway the congressman was being bundled into a requisitioned Horch with an American flag painted on the side, the others into open jeeps. Beyond them, at the end of the drive, were the first houses, not one of them intact. Jake stared, everything emptying out again. Not an aerial glimpse anymore; worse. A few standing walls, pitted by artillery shells. Mounds of debris, broken concrete and plumbing fixtures. One building had been sliced through, a strip of wallpaper hanging off an exposed room, scorch marks around the window holes. How would he ever find her in this? The same dust he’d seen from the plane, suspended in the air, making the afternoon light dull. And now the smell, sour wet masonry and open earth, like a raw building site, and something else, which he assumed was bodies, still lying somewhere under the rubble.

“Welcome to Berlin,” Ron said.

“Is it all like this?” Liz said quietly.

“Most of it. If the roofs gone, it was bombs. Otherwise, the Russians. They say the shelling was worse. Just blew it all to hell.” He threw the bags into the jeep. “Hop in.”

“You two go on ahead,” Jake said, still looking at the street. “Something I want to do first.”

“Hop in,” Ron said, an order. “What do you think you’re going to do, get a taxi?”

Liz looked at Jake’s face, then turned to Ron and smiled. “What’s the rush? Take him where he wants to go. You can give me a tour on the way.” She patted the camera slung around her neck, then put it up to her eye, crouching down. “Smile.” She snapped his picture, busy Tempelhof behind.

Ron glanced at his watch, pretending not to pose. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“A little tour,” Liz said, wheedling, snapping a few more. “Isn’t that part of the service?”

He sighed. “I suppose you want to see the bunker. Everyone wants to see the bunker, and there’s nothing to see. The Russians don’t let you in anyway, say it’s flooded. Maybe Adolf’s floating around down there, who knows? But it’s their sector and they can do what they want.” He smiled back at Liz. “You can get the Reichstag, though. Everybody wants a picture of that and the Russians don’t care.”

“You’re on,” she said, lowering the camera.

“If I can get us there. I know the way from Dahlem, but-”

Liz jerked her thumb toward Jake. “He used to live here.”

“You navigate then,” Ron said, shrugging, and motioned Liz into the jeep. “You can ride up front.” Another grin.