The Berlin Connection (53 page)

A new one: Yet in my hand I hold something intimately tied to the past: the little golden cross Shirley once gave me. The little cross, warm in my hand, had been my constant companion.

I shall keep it. A new part of my life does not mean a new life. This cross is part of my life, my expiation. I cannot abandon Shirley's precious gift. Just as I cannot relinquish my past. That tiny symbol will always remind me ...

16

We climbed higher and higher through the hurrying, dirty-gray clouds.

After lunch the steward served drinks. Natasha ordered cognac, the two detectives whisky. My seat companion was now friendlier. "Shall we drink to the fright you gave us?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

He gave me a suspicious glance, then he remembered. "Ah yes, naturally. Please forgive me." He raised his glass to Natasha, who returned the gesture. I turned my head to the window. The smell of the drink made me feel nauseous.

The voice of a stewardess announced that we were flying above the Simplon and would soon be able to see the Rhone valley. The plane was still climbing. Suddenly blinding sunlight streamed through the cabin.

The light seemed super-terrestrial. We had to close our eyes. Then I looked at Natasha. She nodded and smiled. The moment she had told me about, had longed for, in a sense had come. Natasha was flying above the Alps again with a man she loved.

A part of her hope had been realized. We were together—^but forcefuUy separated. Yet Natasha's smile

gave a sense of fulfillment. She straightened her glasses and in her look I read the strength of confidence.

Misha quickly motioned to his mother. She rose and from a blue flight bag she took a sketch pad and the crayons I had once given him. He waved to me and began to draw, his tongue moving from side to side with excitement.

The announcer, repeating it in English and French, told us that we were flying above the summit of the Jungfrau. Soon we would see the massif of the St. Gotthard. Passengers were crowding the windows, many taking photographs.

Dark, almost black clouds blanketed the Rhone valley. They became lighter, almost white. From the valley, as though bursting from a mass of white cottonwood, rose the snow-covered Silverhorn of the Jungfrau. The peak glowed and glittered in all colors of the spectrum, a gigantic diamond, transcendental; indescribable.

"Did you ever see anything that beautiful?" asked my detective companion, his voice a little hoarse. He ordered more drinks.

I looked out on the sea of clouds and the Jungfrau that thrust through them. Natasha and I smiled at each other. Misha was busily drawing and glancing through the window.

The St. Gotthard too' was as magnificent as the Jungfrau, resplendent, a rainbow view.

Natasha's eyes and mine met again. From that moment on I knew that nothing would separate us: neither prison bars, nor people, nor events; that each would wait for the other until both were free to begin that 'little while" of happiness.

Speaking with his hands, Misha gave his drawine to his mother. Natasha spoke to her detective, who spoke to mine.

He told me, "His mother is explaining to him that it is the peak of a mountain but he insists that it is an island.

He says it is a wondrous, beautiful island. His mother told him that then it is an inaccessible island. He said, I think one can get there if one tries very hard and does not become dizzy. Naturally, it is an island in the sky."

Natasha passed the drawing to her seat companion who admired it before handing it to his partner. We looked at it together. A movement made my handcuff clank.

Misha had indeed drawn an island in a blue-white sea, glowing and glistening in all the colors of the Jungfrau. On the island stood three people: a little boy between a woman and a man. The woman wore hom-rimmed glasses. The man held a glass in one hand.

I was still looking at the drawing when my man said, "He would like the drawing back. He made a mistake."

The sketch was passed back to Misha who erased something, corrected a part and returned it to his mother. He looked at me, his mouth smiling broadly, his eyes sparkling.

Natasha looked solemn when she studied the drawing. So did both detectives when they saw it. There had been one change. The man's hand was now empty.

My detective was moved. "He erased the glass because he knows that you don't drink any more."

The plane changed course. We were flying directly" toward the St. Gotthard. The sun suddenly shone through my window and its rays were too strong for my eyes. I had to close them.

I leaned back into my seat. Fresh ozone-laden air from the small ventilators hit my face. I heard the detective's voice. "What a lovely boy he is!"

"Yes," I said.

"So polite. So intelligent. So talented."

"Yes," I said.

"Will he always be deaf and dumb?"

"Yes."

"How sad."

"Yes," I said. "Isn't it sad?"

«