“You shouldn’t be so critical,” said Mike the bartender. “Some people like this kind of thing, you know.”
“The kind of person who gets excited over that, I don’t care about,” said Ernest.
“I’ve always wanted to meet Phil Gatelin,” said Suzy. Ernest just spat again.
“I wish we had time to go over to the bar,” said Mike. “I feel bad about leaving all that good Drambuie to rot. But we don’t have time. In, let me see, less than a minute and fifty-five seconds, we’ll all be dead.”
“It’ll take some getting used to,” said Eagle.
“I don’t want to get used to it,” said Ernest. He felt lightheaded, maybe a little delirious. He wasn’t going to be able to stand it much longer, he knew.
“That’s one of the good points about being a drunk,” said Eagle.
“There aren’t many others,” said the derelict from the schoolyard.
“You dumb idiot,” said Ernest stridently. “You told me there would be tokens in the subway station.”
“I’m only a drunk,” said the shabby man. “How many other times in the rest of your life have you ever listened to a drunk?”
“You know,” said one of the policemen in the cruiser, “there’s a standard procedure we employ against perpetrators and individuals. That’s why when you’re questioned, it’s usually by two officers.”
“Right,” said the other cop. “See, what happens is one of the interrogators starts off being a tough guy, threatening the suspect, slapping him a little maybe. And then the other officer steps in and says, ‘Hey, take it easy.’ So, naturally, the perpetrator is so relieved he trusts the second officer. Then we get the confession. But it doesn’t make any difference which policeman is which. Sometimes I’m the tough guy, and sometimes I’m the nice one.”
“And you’re in a lot of trouble right now,” said the first cop. “But you only have, oh, about a minute and ten seconds to figure out which of us you can trust.”
“That’s him, all right,” said the man who had twice attacked Ernest. “My wife is dead on account of him. Look.”
Ernest glanced in the direction the man was pointing. He saw the rigid body of the man’s wife. He saw the ugly, discolored corpse of a twelve-year-old girl, lying in a pile of garbage.
“That’s the other one,” said the girl who had had such a good time wandering through the crowd. “I’m still alive. That’s the one you told me about, though. She’s really dead.”
Ernest laughed loudly, bellowing, crying. “Have I forgotten anyone?” he asked the girl.
“I’m what you want, you know,” she said with a sly expression. “I’m really everything you’ve ever wanted. I’m clean and young. I don’t know anything at all about men. You could teach me to do whatever you wanted. But you wouldn’t dare, because I’m so clean. That’s why you want me so much.”
“This isn’t what I want,” said Ernest, sobbing. He sank to his knees as the seconds, one by one, cracked away. He was crying helplessly, his head bowed to touch the pavement, his fingers contorting. “This isn’t what I want!”
Twelve o’clock.
The only sound came from the loudspeakers, the MIU boxes on the rooftops. “Attention, all citizens. You are in no immediate danger. Please return to your homes and await further reports from your Representative. We repeat, you are in no further immediate danger. You can only risk doing yourself serious injury by remaining in the streets. Return to your homes. A special bulletin from the Representative Council will be broadcast tomorrow at noon. …”
Meantime G
It was early in February 1933. The village of Springfield slumbered in the peace, if not the prosperity, of the times. The news from Europe was of only meager interest to the townspeople; the Nazi Party, once so thoroughly discredited, had risen anew, but the Jerman politicians seemed united in their efforts to keep Hitler from seizing any meaningful power. The Nazi used as their chief propaganda weapon the idea that, rather than having won the World War, Jermany had gone down to economic defeat. Ostamerika, an unofficial colony of sorts, appeared to be the master in most trade agreements; cries of conspiracy and treachery arose in Jermany, but the fever of Jerman-American hostility was unfelt in Weintraub’s adopted land.
“I do not like these coming Jerman national elections,” said Weintraub.
“Of course not,” said Gretchen. She was a few years older now, a little more harried, a little heavier, but still the sharp-witted Party director. “Hitler may be Chancellor, but without a National Socialist majority in the Reichstag, he will have won nothing.”
“I have worked for the Communist Party for more than fifteen years,” said Weintraub. “Never, in all that time, have things looked as black as they do now.”
“Yes, they look black,” said Gretchen. “Black, red, and white. With a bent-up cross in the middle.”
“That is a very bad joke,” said Weintraub, crossing the room to hug her.
“I was not chosen for this role because of my humor,” she said. “I was merely trying to point out to you that our job cannot slacken now, even though our worst enemy enjoys his moment of authority. Indeed, we can serve our Party best by increasing our efforts. Imagine, then, how much better off we shall be, after the Nazis are put down forever. We will have been laboring all during their days of leisure, and nothing shall stand in our way.”
Weintraub only smiled; he had heard that same vain hope expressed many times over the years. He had watched several governments come and go in Jermany, but never did the Communist Party seem able to use the political chaos for final victory.
“Our work here seems to be finished,” said Gretchen sometime later. “What happens as a result is out of our hands.”
Weintraub sighed. “This has been a busy few years, eh?”
“Yes and, I might say, quite successful. The Party is pleased.”
“It was just a matter of careful planning. The execution was simple; our victims were so willing!”
“Now, elsewhere,” said Gretchen seriously. “We must start all over again, from the beginning, in a new location. It won’t be so difficult this next time. Here are your tickets, Ernst, your papers, and your orders. Be careful, my dear. When we finish this, we may retire. Go to the Western States, or even back to Jermany.”
“Is it so necessary that we travel separately?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Gretchen. “Remember that it must seem as though you have gone away on one of your usual speaking engagements. The Party has arranged for news releases to be issued concerning a false accident. We have workers among various police and emergency groups, so that the information will become official history. We will say that you have been killed.”
“That effectively gets me out of Springfield,” said Weintraub doubtfully. “But what about you? And how will we arrive in our new assignment?”
“I told you once that the Party never wastes anything, or leaves loose ends. Though our stay in Springfield is over, there are still benefits that we may gain from our departure. A simple train-station farewell would hardly be adequate after the years of notable citizenship we have given to this community. But, on the other hand, if you were tragically killed in a terrible mishap, all public sorrow would be focused. You would become a great civic leader in retrospect, and your cleverly disguised Party propaganda will not be forgotten. It will find a new home in newspaper editorials all over this state. There will be books donated to libraries in your memory, scholarships in your name begun for college-bound radicals, who knows what else?”
“Then I am ‘dead,’ in a few days. Will you be the grieving widow?”
Gretchen smiled warmly. “Of course, Ernst. I shall have the comfort of my friends in Springfield, though. It shall not be so difficult a time, and I will find amazing ease from pain in my activities. In a week or so, I will announce that a hypothetical sister has invited me to live with her, and I will take a train to meet you in our new home. Then, under new names, we will repeat prec
isely our methods of the last thirteen years. At the end, we shall be an aging and respected couple, and our term of active undercover service to the Party will be completed.”
These were the instructions from the Communist leaders in Berlin. Weintraub was saddened to leave Springfield, where he had come to love his neighbors and the slow, comfortable life which he had built to mask his true purposes. But such sadness and reluctance were not the marks of a good Party worker, he knew. He repressed those emotions, and three weeks later prepared to take his final leave of the village.
“Don’t forget me, Gretchen,” he said at the train station.
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. He grasped her hand, and they both smiled. Then she turned back to her taxi and climbed in.
Weintraub went into the waiting room. Within an hour his train arrived and he boarded it alone, taking a coach seat by a window so that he could watch the Ostamerikan coastline roll past. Some time later, after midnight, he stepped out in a strange station in a distant part of the country.
“Now,” he thought as he looked around him at the dim, deserted station, “I must find this Herr Liebknecht. Or better, I suppose, he will find me. That is the way of the Party.” He took a new hold on his suitcase, and carried it to the hard wooden benches. The other people from the train hurried through the station as quickly as possible, as though some nocturnal evil lingered in the drafty spaces; Weintraub didn’t see anyone who looked like he might be a Party contact. Of course, Weintraub himself didn’t look much like the American idea of a skulking Communist. That was part of what made him so valuable. He waited alone in the cold railway station.
“Herr Weintraub? Ernst Weintraub?” said a man dressed in a tan overcoat.
“Yes,” said Weintraub.
“Excuse me. Have you read the late papers? There is a story from the foreign news services which I think you might find of particular interest.”
“How do you know me?”
“You are modest, Herr Weintraub,” said the man. “You have given many speeches and written many essays. I have been following your career for more than ten years, now. At home I have a scrapbook with every single article you’ve ever published. I’ve heard you lecture simply dozens of times.”
“I don’t recall your face,” said Weintraub, studying the small man closely. “I’m terribly sorry, but I meet so many people on my various tours that I can’t keep everyone firmly in mind.”
“No, no, you probably wouldn’t remember me,” said the man with a quick gesture. “This is only the first time I’ve ever approached you in person. And I do so now only to show you this.” He handed Weintraub a torn, crumpled copy of the New Aulis Press. The headline read: terror in berlin! Beneath that was a story of the burning of the Reichstag building, a malignant and symbolic act of arson directed against all the people of Jermany.
“Who would do such a treacherous thing?” asked Weintraub, genuinely upset.
“We believe it was the Communists,” said the man, his voice suddenly hard. “Would you please come with me?”
“Are you from Herr Liebknecht?”
“No,” said the man. “I’m afraid Herr Liebknecht is too busy right now to meet you. I have come in his place.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t believe that I want to go with anyone other than the gentleman who was supposed to meet me here. I’ll ring him up, if you will excuse me.”
The man in the overcoat took Weintraub’s arm roughly. “You will come with me, eh? And do not try to attract attention. I, at least, am not alone.”
“What does this mean?” asked Weintraub, beginning to panic.
“You will guess, shortly. But now, if I may, I would like to ask you a question. Are you of, ah, Jewish extraction?”
“What? Jewish? Why, no.”
The other man smiled grimly and led him away. Three other men fell in behind them. They marched out of the train station to a large black sedan parked along the curb. One of the men got in the back seat, and Weintraub was pushed in next to him.
“Make yourself comfortable, Weintraub. You’re going to need your strength.”
They drove for several minutes. Weintraub was in a strange city, lost, alone, and increasingly frightened. “Listen to me,” he said nervously. “If I’m in some sort of legal trouble, I have the right to notify counsel.”
“Weintraub, Weintraub,” said the man in the overcoat, evidently enjoying the situation. “You’ve lived in this sewer of weaklings too long. Perhaps, a few years ago, you might have been cured, if you had stayed in the fatherland. But you deserted Jermany when our nation needed every one of its children to fight off the insidious rot of the Jewish Communist gangsters. Now, I’m afraid, you’re going to have to face some difficult questions.” The car stopped, and the men escorted Weintraub into a dark building in the business center of the city. Even though it was well past midnight, workmen were busily hanging National Socialist banners on the outside of the building.
“A little pre-election celebration,” said one of the men.
“In here,” said the man in the overcoat. He opened the door to an office and stepped through. A man in a black uniform rose from behind a cluttered desk and walked toward them. Weintraub looked around the room: several telephones; racks of rifles; boxes of ammunition; flags of red, white, and black; a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler. This was the Nazi Party headquarters of New Aulis.
“I am sorry,” said the black-uniformed man. “I regret that we in the SS have yet to acquire more appropriate quarters. But with the flames of the Reichstag still unquenched, at least in the hearts of the Jerman people, it will not be long. Sit down, Herr Weintraub. Tell me what you know of that fire.”
Weintraub was astonished. “I know nothing,” he said. “I am here in Ostamerika. I have been here for thirteen years. How could I know?”
“You are a Communist,” said the SS man. “We have observed you for quite a long time. There is such a thick file on you in the office of Obergruppenführer Heydrich, I’d hate to have to carry it from room to room. Your name may even be on a memo or two on the very desk of Reichsführer Himmler, himself.”
“I had no idea,” said Weintraub faintly.
“Come now, Weintraub,” said the SS man. “Of course you had no idea. Do not be foolish. Now, you shall tell us everything you know about the operations of the Communist Party, both in Jermany and here in Ostamerika. I am not suggesting that you do this. I am merely allowing you to understand the next few hours.”
“I know nothing,” said Weintraub. “I am only a tool.”
“Here,” said the SS man. He handed Weintraub a sheet of stationery. The words on the paper at first meant little to Weintraub; he stared at them through tear-filled eyes. But the typed letters looked familiar: the broken-off “Z,” the extra curl on the capital “C.” It was a letter to HSSPF Starkwitz, Ostamerikanischer Wehrkreis, written on Weintraub’s own typewriter, informing the SS of Weintraub’s intended arrival in New Aulis, his future plans, and the necessity to delay no longer in apprehending him. Weintraub read the note again, then looked up into the smiling face of the SS man.
“Come,” said the officer, “let us talk before they come for you.”
Was this the way Weintraub’s comrades operated? The years of his service, followed by betrayal when he was needed no longer. He could not imagine how Gretchen could have done the thing, unless she had only pretended for thirteen years that she loved him; he didn’t want to consider that. But the Party had demanded this; Weintraub was to be a scapegoat, the local conspirator in the Reichstag tragedy. “I suppose I can’t doubt them,” he thought, as his heart pounded, as his mouth grew dry, as he felt his head become airy and his thoughts giddy. “After all, the Party has the broadest perspective. I don’t have any real sense of this worldwide operation. It’s all for the greater good, I guess. They know what they’re doing.”
CHAPTER 14
Ernest’s eyes felt like they had been sealed shut with glue. A hand was
on his shoulder, shaking him. He wanted to roll over and smash whoever was doing it, but he couldn’t find the energy.
“Ernie?” said Gretchen. “Are you awake? Come on, already, wake up.”
“I’m awake, for God’s sake. And get your hands off me. I feel like I’m ready to die.”
She gasped. Ernest wasn’t prepared to face her yet. He stayed in bed, turned to the wall. She shook him some more. “Hey, Ernie, get up. And don’t talk like that.”
“It’s goddamn true,” he said, at last turning around. “My body hurts so much I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”
“You can take a bath later,” she said. “But hurry up. They’re going to make the broadcast in a couple of minutes.”
“I don’t know what you’re so excited about,” he said, looking at her with cloudy eyes. “You couldn’t even get yourself going yesterday. You don’t even have the tiniest idea of what I went through. You never saw any of the riots, or anybody going nuts right next to you, or had your head nearly torn off by a couple of thousand stupid people. You spent the whole day in here mumbling to yourself. So let me rest. If I want to stay in bed today, I’m going to. I didn’t get so much sleep the night before last, and you know doggone well I wore my ass oft trying to find us tokens.”
“Did you really ask them for three?” she said hopefully. “Like I wanted you to? Oh, Ernie, I knew you wouldn’t let me down. And little Stevie. I’m sorry, Ernie.”
“I didn’t ask them for three,” he said angrily. “I didn’t ask them for any, for the very good reason that I never in the whole damn day saw anybody to ask.”
“You really didn’t?” she said. “You’re not just saying that? Maybe you got one token for yourself, and you don’t want to tell me?”
Ernest glared at her. “I dreamed about you yesterday,” he said. “I don’t know exactly when. But you said some ugly things about me, and afterward I thought about them. I got to feeling maybe I haven’t been keeping up my end of this as well as I should be. I thought maybe I should give you and me another chance. But you know something? After that last crack, I wouldn’t care if you were the only person in the whole world that didn’t get a token. You’re a whole lot better as a dream.”
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