Fatherland

shield to ward off the blows.
    "What am I supposed to do? Shrivel up and die?" Globus squatted on his haunches and grabbed March by the ears, twisting his face toward him. "They're just names, March. There's nothing there anymore, not even a brick. Nobody will ever believe it. And shall I tell you something? Part of you can't believe it either ." Globus spat in his face—a gobbet of grayish-yellow phlegm. "That's how much the world will care." He thrust him away, bouncing his head against the stone floor.
    "Now. Again: where's the girl?"

6

    Time crawled on all fours, broken-backed. He was shivering. His teeth chattered like a clockwork toy.
    Other prisoners had been here years before him. In lieu of tombstones they had scratched on the cell's walls with splintered fingernails. "J.F.G. 2-22-57." "Katja." "H.K. May 44." Someone had gotten no further than half the letter "E" before strength or time or will had run out. Yet still this urge to write . . .
    None of the marks, he noticed, was more than a meter above the floor.
    The pain in his hand was making him feverish. He was having hallucinations. A dog ground his fingers between its jaws. He closed his eyes and wondered what time was doing now. When he had last asked Krebs it had been— what?—almost six. Then they had talked for perhaps another half hour. After that there had been his second session with Globus—infinite. Now this stretch alone in his cell, slithering in and out of the light tugged one way by exhaustion, the other by the dog.
    The floor was warm to his cheek, the smooth stone dissolved.
    * * * *

    He dreamed of his father—his childhood dream—the stiff figure in the photograph come to life, waving from the deck of the ship as it pulled out of the harbor, waving until he dwindled to a stick figure, until he disappeared. He dreamed of Jost, running on the spot, intoning his poetry in his solemn voice: "You throw food to the beast in man, / That it may grow . . ." He dreamed of Charlie.
    But most often he dreamed he was back in Pili's bedroom at that dreadful instant when he had understood what the boy had done out of kindness— kindness! — when his arms were reaching for the door but his legs were trapped—and the window was exploding and rough hands were dragging at his shoulders . . .
    The jailer shook him awake.
    "On your feet!"
    He was curled up tightly on his left side, fetuslike—his body raw, his joints welded. The guard's push awoke the dog and he was sick. There was nothing in him to bring up, but his stomach convulsed anyway, for old time's sake. The cell retreated a long way and came rushing back. He was pulled upright. The jailer swung a pair of handcuffs. Next to him stood Krebs, thank God, not Globus.
    Krebs looked at him with distaste and said to the guard, "You'd better put them on at the front."
    His wrists were locked before him, his cap was stuffed onto his head and he was marched, hunched forward, along the passage, up the steps, into the fresh air.
    A cold night, and clear. The stars were sprayed across the sky above the courtyard. The buildings and the cars were silver edged in the moonlight. Krebs pushed him into the backseat of a Mercedes and climbed in after him. He nodded to the driver: "Columbia House. Lock the doors."
    As the bolts slid home in the door beside him, March felt a flicker of relief.
    "Don't raise your hopes," said Krebs. "The Obergruppenführer is still waiting for you. We have more modern technology at Columbia, that's all."
    They pulled out through the gates, looking to any who saw them like two SS officers and their chauffeur. A guard saluted.
    Columbia House was three kilometers south of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. The darkened government buildings quickly yielded to shabby office blocks and boarded-up warehouses. The area close to the prison had been scheduled for redevelopment in the 1950s, and here and there Speer's bulldozers had made destructive forays. But the money had run out before anything could be built to replace what they had knocked down. Now, overgrown patches of derelict land gleamed in the bluish light like the corners of old battlefields. In the dark side streets between them dwelled the teeming colonies of East European Gastarbeiter .
    March was sitting stretched out, his head resting on the back of the leather seat, when Krebs suddenly leaned toward him and shouted, "Oh, for fuck's sake!" He turned to the driver. "He's pissing himself. Pull over here."
    The driver swore and