THE JOURNALIST

Leonhard is wrong. She cannot sleep. He lies beside her, on the outer edge of the berth, lost in the deep, contented slumber of a man who has just been soundly bedded. She spoke the truth to him earlier that day: being a good girl is not one of her talents. She has many others that he much prefers anyway.

He looks younger when he sleeps, boyish somehow. The deep lines on his brow smooth out, his mouth relaxes. She lifts the glasses gently from his face—she hadn’t noticed that he’d left them on—and sets them on the ledge beside the bed. They will be the first thing he reaches for in the morning. He turns to the side and buries his face in the pillow while Gertrud pushes the sheet away and rolls around, unable to get comfortable. It’s not that she doesn’t want to sleep; she simply can’t. Her mind is sharp and clear, every thought standing out in deeper contrast the longer she lies here. This is always what happens when she’s on deadline. When a story has piqued her interest. When there is a trail to chase. But right now there are only worries to catalogue.

Egon. She tries to push that thought away but he only becomes clearer in her mind.

Colonel Erdmann.

The bomb threats. Bomb threats, for God’s sake! And credible ones at that. How can a girl get an ounce of sleep with that on her mind? She balls her hand into a fist and pounds it against the mattress. Leonhard doesn’t stir and she frowns in the dark, resenting this singular male ability to sleep like the dead after sex.

Gertrud thinks of the fact that at this very moment they are flying over the Atlantic Ocean in an aircraft lifted by combustible gas. Of course a man would come up with this, she thinks; you’d never find a woman inventing a floating bomb.

Her press card and its current location at the bottom of a desk drawer in Frankfurt. The thought makes her wince. And then cuss. “Drecksau.” She spits the word out, not even bothering to whisper, but Leonhard doesn’t so much as stir beside her.

That was easily the single worst day of her career. Leonhard had been so calm on the surface, so unperturbed, as he’d taken her arm and turned her back down the hallway after she’d insulted not only the Kulturstaatssekretär but the Hure fungus of a mother who brought him into the world. She regrets that last part. Gertrud hates the word, hates it entirely, and has made a point never to insult other women. For a woman who trades in words and wields them with precision, using such a word was inexcusable. And yet it came unbidden in her rage, and even Leonhard could not hide his astonishment.

The Frankfurt branch of the Ministry of Propaganda leases office space at Neue Mainzer Strasse 56. It’s on the fourth floor and has an impressive view of the city. As do all the other floors, but they are empty except for a small sublet office on the third floor. She was told it is occupied by an American advertising company. Which would make sense. Many Germans aren’t comfortable with the idea of doing business anywhere near the Ministry of Propaganda.

Something clicks in Gertrud’s mind and she sits up so quickly the blood rushes to her head. She waits for the dizziness to subside, then picks the thought up. Turns it over. Examines it closely.

Neue Mainzer Strasse.

Her press card.

Americans.

“Oh shit.”

Gertrud scrambles over Leonhard and stands stark naked in the middle of the room, thinking. She presses the heels of her hands against her temples, forcing her mind into submission. Forcing it to slow. Caution is not one of Gertrud’s greater attributes, and she throws it to the wind now. She checks the watch on Leonhard’s limp wrist. Two a.m. Her decision is made before she has time to stop and consider the consequences. She gathers her discarded clothing from the floor and dresses herself in the dark. Runs fingers through her hair. Pinches her cheeks.

Gertrud places a tender kiss on Leonhard’s cheek and quietly slips out the door. The bathrooms are open at all hours and well lit. Thank goodness. So she’s able to inspect her appearance with greater care before heading toward the bar. It will close in one hour, and she desperately needs a glass of wine and a good cigarette—something she hasn’t enjoyed since becoming pregnant with Egon. The doctors told her she needn’t quit, that smoking was a benign pleasure, but she had given it up anyway. The same way she’d given up coffee and drinking and a distinctly unladylike penchant for bicycling five miles a day.

“Oh. Back again?” the bartender asks. He takes in her wrinkled clothing, her disheveled hair with a curious tilt of his head.

Schulze. His name is Schulze, she thinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“And your husband?”

“That’s not something he struggles with. Unfortunately.”

“And what can I do for you, Frau…”

“Adelt.”

“A nightcap perhaps? I make a fine hot toddy.”

She had come for wine—Sauvignon blanc in particular—but something about the idea of whiskey and cinnamon, honey and lemon, cloves and a warm mug very much appeals to her right now. “That would be wonderful. And a pack of Chesterfields, if you have them.”

“I do have them, but I can’t give you a pack. I can bring you two to start with, and then more if needed. But the packs are not allowed out of the bar, and the cigarettes themselves stay in the smoking room. I’m sure you understand the need for this?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Follow me.” Schulze motions toward the air-lock door.

There is only one other passenger in the room, and Gertrud stops short inside the door. His jacket is off. His tie is loose. And despite the fact that there are no fewer than five empty glasses on the table before him, his eyes are clear, quite different from how he looked on the bus that afternoon. The American has dark hair, parted down the middle, and a stray piece hangs across his forehead. It has been a long day for everyone, apparently. His mustache is neat and trimmed, but his lips are pursed. He is not happy to see her. The American slides something off the edge of the table—some sort of pendant on a ball chain—and tucks it in his suit pocket.

“Forgive me,” Schulze says, “where are my manners? Frau Adelt, this is Edward Douglas. He’s traveling home to visit family in America. Herr Douglas, this is Frau Adelt, a journalist, I believe?”

She nods when he looks at her in question.

Perhaps it’s because her mind is already ticking along faster than she can control, but Gertrud makes the first move. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.

The American takes it. “Charmed.”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Gertrud succeeds in summoning a perfectly guileless tone. “My husband is asleep, and I detest drinking alone.”

“Of course.” He stands and pulls out a chair from the table, the one farthest from him, she notes.

Having seen her neatly situated, Schulze returns to the bar to prepare her drink. Gertrud does not speak as she waits. Neither does the American. They simply survey one another, like two predators circling. Schulze returns with a tray and places it on the table, and she thanks him. Takes a sip of her hot toddy. Assures him that everything is to her liking.

The bartender lifts one of the cigarettes from the tray and pulls a pack of matches from his pocket. He is the keeper of flame on this airship. To Gertrud it appears as though he guards it with his life.

“May I?” Schulze asks.

“Please.”

A sweet, pungent smoke drifts from the glowing end of her Chesterfield. She inhales once to show the bartender her gratitude but then waits until the air-lock door clicks shut behind him before she speaks. She looks at the American. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“But I asked first.”

“You heard the introduction. I’m American. I’m traveling home to visit my family in New Jersey.”

“You’re also a very, very good liar.” She looks at the empty glasses on the table. Shakes her head.

“I’ve spoken nothing but the truth, Frau Adelt.”

“Forgive me. You’re a good actor, then.”

He shrugs. “And you?”

“I’m a terrible actor.”

“I’d imagine you’re a damn good liar, though.”

“I prefer the truth. I’m a journalist. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I did.”

“You were there that day in Frankfurt.”

He nods.

“Why?”

“I work in the building.”

“No one works in that building. Not unless they have a death wish.”

“Cheap rent.”

“You don’t work for the Ministry of Propaganda?”

He snorts. “No.”

“But you were in the hallway when it happened.”

“You made quite a ruckus, Frau Adelt. It was hard to ignore.”

“So curiosity brought you up those stairs?”

“It did rather sound as though you were being slaughtered.”

“No. Not me. Just my career.”

“It’s one and the same where I come from,” the American says.

This is why Gertrud pursued a career in journalism. She imagines it to be why people charge into battle or go on safari. There is nothing so addictive as the hunt. Her problem is that she likes it a little too much. Finds it too compelling. She swings her foot beneath the table, and her hands begin to tremble in anticipation, so she slowly raises the Chesterfield to her lips and pulls a mouthful of smoke into her lungs. Gertrud lets the cigarette sit there, burning, until her extremities settle.

“Just who the hell are you?” she asks.