The Russian captain said, “He stole a motorbike at Wilmsdorf and asked for Fritsche at the station. What will he do now?”
“He’ll have another schedule. Tonight,” the sergeant replied. “If he’s got anything to say.”
“At the same time?”
“Of course not. Nor the same frequency. Nor from the same place. He may go to Witmar or Langdorn or Wolken; he may even go to Rostock. Or he may stay in town but go to another house. Or he may not send at all.”
“House? Who would harbor a spy?”
The sergeant shrugged as if to say he might himself. Stung, the captain asked, “How do you know he’s sending from a house? Why not a wood or a field? How can you be so sure?”
“It’s a very strong signal. A powerful set. He couldn’t get a signal like that from a battery, not a battery you could carry around alone. He’s using the mains.”
“Put a cordon around the town,” the captain said. “Search every house.”
“We want him alive.” The sergeant was looking at his hands. “You want him alive.”
“Then tell me what we should do?” the captain insisted.
“Make sure he transmits. That’s the first thing. And make him stay in town. That is the second.”
“Well?”
“We would have to act quickly,” the sergeant observed.
“Well?”
“Bring some troops into town. Anything you can find. As soon as possible. Armor, infantry, it doesn’t matter. Create some movement. Make him pay attention. But be quick!”
“I’ll go soon,” Leiser said. “Don’t let me stay. Give me coffee and I’ll go.”
“Coffee?”
“I’ve got money,” Leiser said, as if it were the only thing he had. “Here.” He climbed out of bed, fetched the wallet from his jacket and drew a hundred-mark note from the wad.
“Keep it.”
She took the wallet and with a little laugh emptied it out on the bed. She had a ponderous, kittenish way which was not quite sane; and the quick instinct of an illiterate. He watched her indifferently, running his fingers along the line of her naked shoulder. She held up a photograph of a woman; a blond, round head.
“Who is she? What is her name?”
“She doesn’t exist,” he said.
She found the letters and read one aloud, laughing at the affectionate passages. “Who is she?” she kept taunting him. “Who is she?”
“I tell you, she doesn’t exist.”
“Then I can tear them up?” She held a letter before him with both hands, teasing him, waiting for him to protest. Leiser said nothing. She made a little tear, still watching him, then tore it completely, and a second and a third.
She found a picture of a child, a girl in spectacles, eight or nine years old perhaps, and again she asked, “Who is it? Is it your child? Does she exist?”
“Nobody. Nobody’s kid. Just a photograph.” She tore that too, scattering the pieces dramatically over the bed, then fell on him, kissing him on the face and neck. “Who are you? What is your name?”
He wanted to tell her When she pushed him away.
“No!” she cried. “No!” She lowered her voice. “I want you with nothing. Alone from it all. You and me alone. We’ll make our own names, our own rules. Nobody, no one at all, no father, no mother. We’ll print our own newspapers, passes, ration cards; make our own people.” She was whispering, her eyes shining.
“You’re a spy,” she said, her lips in his ear. “A secret agent. You’ve got a gun.”
“A knife is quieter,” he said. She laughed, on and on, until she noticed the bruises on his shoulders. She touched them curiously, with respect, as a child might touch a dead thing.
She went out carrying a shopping basket, still clutching the mackintosh at her neck. Leiser dressed, shaving in cold water, staring at his lined face in the distorted mirror above the basin. When she returned it was nearly midday and she looked worried.
“The town’s full of soldiers. And army trucks. What do they want here?”
“Perhaps they are looking for someone.”
“They are just sitting about, drinking.”
“What kind of soldiers?”
“I don’t know what kind. Russian … How can I tell?”