Fatherland

last half hour. The Orpo men were scrutinizing every male over sixty. A derelict without papers was being led away, complaining.
    Globus! March turned away from the handrail and stepped onto the descending escalator, in search of the one person in Berlin who might be able to save his life.

4

    To travel on the central U-bahn line is, in the words of the Reich Ministry for Propaganda and Cultural Enlightenment, to take a trip through German history. Berlin-Gotenland, Bülow-Strasse, Nollendorf-Platz, Wittenberg- Platz, Nürnberger-Platz, Hohenzollern-Platz—the stations succeed one another like pearls on a string.
    The carriages that work this line are prewar. Red cars for smokers, yellow for nonsmokers. Hard wooden seats have been rubbed shiny by three decades of Berlin backsides. Most passengers stand, holding on to the worn leather hand grips, swaying with the rhythm of the train. Signs urge them to turn informer. "The fare dodger's profit is the Berliner's loss! Notify the authorities of all wrongdoing!" "Has he given up his seat to a woman or veteran? Penalty for failure: 25 Reichsmarks!"
    March had bought a copy of the Berliner Tageblatt from a platform newsstand and was leaning next to the doors, skimming through it. Kennedy and the Führer, the Führer and Kennedy—that was all there was to read. The regime was clearly investing heavily in the success of the talks. That could only mean that things in the East were even worse than everyone thought. "A permanent state of war on the eastern front will help to form a sound race of men," the Führer had once said, "and will prevent us from relapsing into the softness of a Europe thrown back upon itself." But people had grown soft. What else was the point of victory? They had Poles to dig their gardens and Ukrainians to sweep their streets, French chefs to cook their food and English maids to serve it. Having tasted the comforts of peace, they had lost their appetite for war.
    Way down on an inside page, in type so small it was barely readable, was Buhler's obituary. He was reported as having died in a "bathing accident."
    March stuffed the paper into his pocket and got out at Bülow-Strasse. From the open platform he could see across to Charlotte Maguire's apartment. A shape moved against the curtain. She was at home. Or rather, someone was at home.
    The concierge was not in her chair, and when he knocked on the apartment door there was no reply. He knocked again, more loudly.
    Nothing.
    He walked away from the door and clattered down the first flight of steps. Then he stopped, counted to ten and crept back up again, sideways, with his back pressed to the wall—one step, pause; another step, pause—wincing whenever he made a noise, until he stood once more outside the door. He drew his pistol.
    Minutes passed. Dogs barked, cars and trains and planes went by, babies cried, birds sang: the cacophony of silence. And at one point, inside the apartment, loud above it all, a floorboard creaked.
    The door opened a fraction.
    March spun, rammed into it with his shoulder. Whoever was on the other side was knocked back by the force of the blow. And then March was in and on him, pushing him through the tiny hall and into the sitting room. A lamp fell to the floor. He tried to bring up the gun, but the man had grabbed his arms. And now it was he who was being pushed backward. The back of his legs made contact with a low table and he toppled over, cracking his head on something, the Luger skittering across the floor.
    Well, now, this was quite funny, and in other circumstances March might have laughed. He had never been very good at this sort of thing, and now—having started with the advantage of surprise—he was on his back, unarmed, with his head in the fireplace and his legs still resting on top of the coffee table, in the position of a pregnant woman undergoing an internal examination.
    His assailant fell on top of him, winding him. One gloved hand clawed at his face, the other seized his throat. March could neither see nor breathe. He twisted his head from side to side, chewed on the leather hand. He flailed at the other man's head with his fists but could put no force behind his blows. What was on him was not human. It had the remorseless power of machinery. It was grinding him. Steel fingers had found that artery—the one March could never remember, let alone locate—and he felt himself surrendering to the force, the rushing blackness obliterating the pain. So,