Another Kind of Country by Kevin Brophy Read Free Book Online Page B

on you, Herr Miller.’ She poured his coffee, handed him the delicate, gold-rimmed cup and saucer. ‘He said you sounded like an interesting man – English by birth, East German by choice. He said that you were probably the right kind of person to evaluate his book.’
    Miller could hear the question in her words but his years in this office had taught him a little side-stepping adroitness.
    ‘The general is an interesting man.’ He sipped the coffee, black, the better to savour its richness. ‘You are, I understand, the general’s stepdaughter.’
    ‘No.’ The eyes looking at him over the rim of the gold-rimmed cup were deeper and blacker than the coffee. ‘I am General Reder’s adopted daughter.’ He felt himself – the plain office, the metal desk, the inevitable hidden recorders – he felt it all being measured by dark eyes that seemed to him to have known a world wider than where they sat. She laid the cup and saucer on the desk and Miller noticed the silent way she did so.
    ‘I lived with General Reder and his wife almost from the time I arrived here. Just before Frau Reder died, they adopted me.’ Her eyes locked on Miller’s. ‘The general is my father now.’
    ‘I’m sorry if I intruded.’
    ‘You didn’t.’ She might have been addressing a group of students. ‘Now, what can I tell the general about progress with his book?’
    Miller spread hishands, tried to hold her gaze. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. Here we just read the book and give whatever advice we can to improve the work. The date of publication – and all the rest of it – is the business of the publishing house.’
    ‘But the Berlin Press must wait for the go-ahead from you. So,’ the faintest of smiles, ‘I think what my father wants to know is whether that go-ahead will now be given.’
    ‘That decision is, of course, made by the Director.’ Miller gave up trying to meet the steady gaze of those black eyes. ‘It’s the decision of Herr Hartheim.’
    ‘Who suggested meeting you, Herr Miller, to discuss the matter.’
    ‘And I’m delighted to do so.’
This is a fuck-up, I’ve only ever dealt with these affairs through the post or – very occasionally – on the phone
. ‘But the ultimate decision is the responsibility of the Director.’
    ‘Ah, I see.’ The tiniest clink of porcelain, the gold-rimmed cup raised to the cherry mouth, the black eyes widening at him. ‘And how would you describe your responsibility here, Herr Miller?’
    Mostly I lie: to my colleagues, to the Director, to the writers whose work lands on my desk. Maybe even the stuff I send to Redgrave and his assorted ‘chums’ is no more than lies. Mostly I lie: even to myself
.
    To Rosa he said, ‘I read stuff, I evaluate it, I make considered judgements.’
    She leaned forward slightly to return the cup and saucer to the desk. Her nearness seemed a threat, a potent mixture of talcum powder and fresh soap and fresh undergarments that would scorch your skin and trouble your sleep.
    ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, Frau Rossman.’ He tried to smile. ‘But I’m sure everything will be OK – after all, the general is recognized as a hero of the state.’
    Shut it: even the most bland of political statements can be replayed on the listening tapes as a form of treason
.
    ‘That’s whateveryone says, Herr Miller, that my father is a hero of the German Democratic Republic.’
    Miller could hear a ‘but’ coming. It didn’t come, seemed swallowed behind those inviting lips. For the umpteenth time he asked himself why such a fuss was being made by Hartheim over an innocuous book by a retired general. Maybe Frau Rosa Rossman herself knew the answer.
    Miller wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Ignorance was almost always the safer option.
    Rosa Rossman was getting to her feet, thanking him for his time.
    ‘You are happy here, Herr Miller? You do not miss England?’
    He forced a smile, said something platitudinous. There were topics you did not