Fatherland

leaves the Reich Chancellery to travel to the Great Hall. It's months since he's been seen—their way of building excitement. You may be sure the guards will have a radio in the customs post, and be listening to it. If ever there's a time when they're more likely just to wave you through, that's it."
    She stood and unwrapped the turban. In the weak light of the attic room, her hair gleamed white.
    She let the second towel drop.
    Pale skin, white hair, dark eyes. A ghost. He needed to know that she was real, that they were both alive. He stretched out a hand and touched her.
    They lay entwined on the little wooden cot and she whispered their future to him. Their flight would land at New York's Idlewild Airport early tomorrow evening. They would go straight to the New York Times building. There was an editor there she knew. The first thing was to make a copy—a dozen copies—and then to get as much printed as possible, as soon as possible. The Times was ideal for that.
    "What if they won't print it?" This idea of people printing whatever they wanted was hard for him to grasp.
    "They'll print it, all right. God, if they won't, I'll stand on Fifth Avenue like one of those mad people who can't get their novels published and hand out copies to passersby. But don't worry—they'll print it, and we'll change history."
    "But will anyone believe it?" That doubt had grown within him ever since the suitcase had been opened. "Isn't it unbelievable?"
    No, she said with great certainty, because now we have facts, and facts change everything. Without them, you have nothing, a void. But produce facts—provide names, dates, orders, numbers, times, locations, map references,
    schedules, photographs, diagrams, descriptions—and suddenly that void has geometry, is susceptible to measurement, becomes a solid thing. Of course, this solid thing can be denied or challenged or simply ignored. But each of these reactions is, by definition, a reaction , a response to something that exists.
    "Some people won't believe it—they wouldn't believe it no matter how much evidence we had. But there's enough here, I think, to stop Kennedy in his tracks. No summit. No reelection. No detente. And five years from now, or fifty years, this society will fall apart. You can't build on a mass grave. Human beings are better than that—they have to be better than that—I do believe it— don't you?"
    He did not reply.
    He was awake to see another dawn in the Berlin sky. A familiar gray face at the attic window, an old opponent.
    "Your name?"
    "Magda Voss."
    "Born?"
    "October 25, 1939."
    "Where?"
    "Berlin."
    "Your occupation?"
    "I live at home with my parents, in Berlin."
    "Where are you going?"
    "To Waldshut, on the Rhine. To meet my fiancé."
    "Name?"
    "Paul Hahn."
    "What is the purpose of your visit to Switzerland?"
    "A friend's wedding."
    "Where?"
    "In Zürich."
    "What is this?"
    "A wedding present. A photograph album. A Bible? A book? A chopping board?" She was testing the answers on him.
    "Chopping board—very good. Exactly the sort of gift a girl like Magda would drive eight hundred kilometers to give." March had been pacing the room. Now he stopped and pointed at the package in Charlie's lap. "Open it, please, Fräulein."
    She thought for a moment. "What do I say to that?"
    "There's nothing you can say."
    "Terrific." She took out a cigarette and lit it. "Well, would you look at that? My hands are trembling."
    It was almost seven. "Time to go."
    The hotel was beginning to wake. As they passed the lines of flimsy doors they heard water splashing, a radio, children laughing. Somewhere on the second floor, a man snored on regardless.
    They had handled the package with care, at arm's length, as if it were plutonium. She had hidden it in the center of her suitcase, buried in her clothes. March carried it down the stairs, across the empty lobby and out the narrow fire exit at the rear of the hotel. She was wearing a dark blue suit, her hair hidden by a scarf. The hired Opel stood next to his Volkswagen. From the kitchen came shouts, the smell of fresh coffee, the hiss of frying food.
    "When you leave the Bellevue, turn right. The road follows the line of the valley. You can't miss the bridge."
    "You've told me this already."
    "Try to see what level of security they're operating before you commit yourself. If it looks as if they're searching everything, turn around and try to hide it somewhere. Woods, a ditch, a barn—somewhere you can remember, a place