by Joseph Kanon
“I meant terrible things with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes. What was he like as a father? How did you feel when you heard that he was dead?”
She was quiet for a minute. “How did I feel? Free. Does that surprise you? Not a very nice thing to say. His daughter.” She looked up. “I felt free. All that weight—gone. You could breathe. I didn’t have to think about him anymore. And I didn’t have to talk about him anymore.”
“You don’t. But I think you should.”
“Why?”
“It’s important. A part of history.”
“Being his daughter? It didn’t feel like history, not at the time.”
“What did it feel like?”
She looked up, alert. “It felt like being his daughter. Is this the interview? This is how you do it?”
He held up his hand, palm out. “I was just asking.”
“But I’m talking. Isn’t that the idea? History,” she said, exhaling, dismissing this. “I think that’s already been written. Do you think I’m going to say he didn’t do those things? He did. What else? Apologize for him? To whom? The dead? Now that he’s dead too? Maybe they’re settling accounts somewhere. I hope so. But I don’t have to.” She put down the glass. “I don’t want to be in a book. I don’t want to talk about it. So there’s your answer. Sorry if you’ve wasted your money. But it’s only the price of a drink.”
“That’s not the only reason I called.”
She sat back, eyes on him, assessing. “It’s interesting how you do this. Good cop/bad cop. Except there is no bad cop.”
“No cop.”
“Now let me ask you a question. Someone works with Jamie but says he doesn’t. Never mind.” She waved away his protest before he could make it. “So maybe he’s on his own. But still one of them. So what do you want from me? You. Not this made-up friend with his made-up book. You.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Looking straight at each other, another swerve, the air charged.
“Not sure,” she said.
“Is that why you came? You thought I set this up for the Agency? Why? Why would they want to talk to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still holding his gaze. “I came to see what you wanted—you know, someone in your—what? Line of work.”
“So you’re here under false pretenses too.”
“Both of us. Imagine. So what’s the truth? What do you want?” Her voice lower, slightly smoky, really asking.
“The truth? I didn’t make up Fritz. Or the book. You can ask him yourself. When he gets here.”
But she had moved somewhere else, interested in the game now, what was going to happen.
“And when’s that?”
“A few days.”
“So I won’t know until then. If he’s real. And meanwhile?”
He looked at her. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“I don’t trust many people.”
He moved his shoulder as the waiter put down a dish of nuts.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“Mm. It is. I’ve been married.”
“So have I.”
“What happened? Did you cheat on her?”
“No. We just—grew apart.”
“Now it’s your turn to ask.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t ask. Did he?”
She smiled. “Only when I wasn’t looking. Except I always was—I knew every time. So maybe it wasn’t cheating. Is it cheating if the other person knows?”
“If she cares.”
She tilted her head slightly, considering some new idea.
“We both knew. And pretended we didn’t know. After a while it was the only interesting thing in the marriage, wondering what the other one knew.”
Aaron nodded. Her senses already trained to pick up anything off, what she was doing now.
“Well, that’s out of the way,” she said. “Sometimes it takes hours. Tiptoeing around.”
“What does?”
“Wondering about the ring,” she said, nodding to his left hand.
“I just haven’t bothered to take it off yet, that’s all.”
“Yes? I thought it was another false pretense. Camouflage. You know.” Almost flirting now, a couple peeking around hedges in some old drawing.
He twisted the ring, tighter than he remembered, then pulled it off and put it in his pocket.
“Better?”
She smiled. “Now at least I know what to expect.” A second’s pause. “Are you Jewish?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me. Not that you would believe that, I suppose.”
“Then why ask?”
“I just like to know who I’m talking to. Especially about my father.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
She ignored this. “What kind of axe you have to grind. Putting him in a book. Why? Everyone knows he’s guilty.”
“But what else? Who was he? That’s the book.” He waited a second, letting this hang in the air. “At least you don’t think I’m making it up anymore.”
She looked at him over her glass. “Maybe. I thought you were here for them—Jamie’s people. They have their fingers in every pie down here. But why ask about my father? He’s dead, they know he’s dead. The police went through his papers. Why? Because they’re police. And if they went through them, then your people know too. That’s the way it works. What did you find?”
He opened his hands. “I just want you to see Fritz.”
“No, something else.” She put down her glass, finished. “Anyway, I don’t want to be in a book. Why should I? And never mind about history. Whatever he did, it’s finished. Was he a monster? You decide. You will anyway. But he was my father. You don’t say such things in books.”
“You were fond of him.”
“Fond? Other things. It’s complicated. Oh, here I am talking about him. It’s a technique you have.”
He shook his head. “I know it’s complicated. That’s why we’re only talking to sons—daughters—of those who’ve died.” Trying it, like a new fishing lure. “We don’t expect people to talk about their fathers if they’re still alive. It’s too difficult.”
“They’re all dead? In the book?” she said, a nibble.
Aaron nodded. “We find it’s easier. For the children. In a way, it’s a chance to bury them. All the mixed feelings they’ve had over the years.”
“It’s so easy, you think,” she said, looking down at her glass. “And what do they say? Are they ashamed? Proud? Well, how could they be proud? A Wehrmacht general maybe. Clean hands. Cleaner, anyway. But that wasn’t my father.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“I don’t know what the others said. You’ll have to ask Fritz. Sometimes it’s good to talk.”
“I don’t need another therapist,” she said quickly. “You think that’s the way it’s done? Talk to some stranger on his way to Bariloche?” She stopped. “If you’re going. Are you?”
“No.”
She raised her eyebrows, intrigued. “Another pretense. So what else? Maybe everything. Who are you really? Israeli?” Looking at him, a question.
“No.”
“If you are, it’s too late. He’s dead.”
“American. Born in Germany.”
“But not German. Jewish. So you don’t have to answer for that.”
“Neither do you. You were a child.”
“That’s right,” she said, looking away. “I don’t have to answer.”
“When did you know?” he said quietly, a first step.
“Who he was? Always. I had to change my name too. What he did? Much later.”
“How did you find out?”
“A magazine. There was an article.” She made a wry face. “Maybe your friend wrote it. If he exists.”
“But before that?”
“No one ever talked about it. Why would they? He was in the army—well
, the SS, it turns out, but I thought it was just part of the army. So when the Americans won, they were arresting everyone, putting them in camps. Like criminals. We had to change our names so they wouldn’t find him. That’s all I knew. And then he left.”
“Without you?”
“My mother was still well in those days.”
Aaron felt the prickling again, knowing something she didn’t know he knew, the simplest detail still a deceit.
“Then she got sick, so my aunt sent me to him.”
“In Argentina?”
“Yes, Argentina. Who else would take people like him? The government even helped sometimes. Jobs, you know, places to live. Perón liked the Germans—he thought they should have won. So now he’s Helmut Braun. An ethnic German from the Alto Adige—the first papers were Italian. And I was Hanna Braun. Auf Wiedersehen, Schramm. That was all right with me. Why not a new life? Germany was like a graveyard in those days. My mother—” She stopped, shifting back. “And Argentina—we were rich in Argentina. A big house. In Palermo Chico. On Calle Aguado. It’s an embassy now, so imagine how big. The parties.”
“So you weren’t in hiding?”
“Not on Calle Aguado. Not Helmut Braun. The other Germans knew who we were, but we knew who they were. A protection racket. The Argentines didn’t care. The war, that was a long time ago. Far away. And he could be charming, you know. Perfect manners. They love that here.”
Aaron thought of Max, taken smoothly off the line. You’ll see him later.
“And then Perón left and we had to be more careful. I was never told why, just that it wasn’t good to stand out. He sold the house. No more parties. Of course, it was still safe, really. Perón wasn’t the only one who’d helped. He still had friends here. But he was going through money living that way. So, a quiet life.” She smiled. “And where does he go? The Kavanagh Building. On Plaza San Martín. You know, the tall one there.”
“Yes,” he said, back in the surveillance report.
“That’s his idea of a quiet life. Moving to the Waldorf. So we lived there. With all the society people. And then I saw the magazine.”
She took a second, suddenly at an end.
“What did he say?” Aaron said quietly.
“Say? Nothing. I didn’t mention it. How do you talk about something like that? And then later, when I did—he said it was an exaggeration.” She looked down, another wry smile. “That’s what he said to me. It was all an exaggeration.” The words uneasy, not practiced, what had really happened. “Maybe he even believes that.”
Aaron held himself still, as if he hadn’t heard the present tense.
She looked up. “But now it doesn’t matter what he believed. A doctor. A scientist. That’s how he saw himself. And all the rest of it—” She waved her hand. “An exaggeration. They’re all like that, you know. Not just him. It was all someone else’s fault. Look at Eichmann. He had nothing to do with it. I guess that’s how they live with themselves.” She met his eye. “Or how they did,” she said. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe—I think he’s still here. With all his excuses. But that’s in the past now too. And here we are. You wanted the story of my life? So now you know.”
He sat back, taking her in, the soft white of the sweater picking up the dim light from the bar, surrounding her, shining on her skin, like the warm sheen of her pearl earrings. The voice tentative, not just being careful, haunted. He imagined her holding out the magazine, her life turned upside down. Not at all what he’d expected. But so what? Otto still walking.
“It’s a start,” he said.
“Oh, a start. What would be enough? Always another question with you, I think. No, the end.” She put out her cigarette, a kind of punctuation mark.
“But I still don’t know anything about you.” Keep her in her seat.
“Then we’re even, aren’t we?” she said, looking at him.
“All right. You ask.”
“Why are you here?” she said, the voice direct again.
“Right now, to see you. Persuade you to talk to Fritz.”
“And the rest of the time?”
He waited a second. “I can’t tell you.”
She smiled. “The perfect answer. Now I can’t ask anything more.”
“About my work. There’s still me.”
“The one who’s not doing whatever you do for Uncle Sam. Can you separate them like that?”
“Mostly.” He looked up. “You’re not part of the work. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s good to know. If it’s true.” She tilted her head slightly, looking at him. “I would never know with you, would I?”
“That’s true of everybody, don’t you think? Who someone is—it’s always a mystery in the end. Another drink?”
“No. One’s the limit. Gentlemen take advantage.”
“Not all of them.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Then let’s take our time finishing this one.”
She sat back, settling in. “So you can ask me more questions?”
“Why don’t you just talk, then I won’t have to. I’ll listen.”
“Mm, like my psychiatrist. Not a word—it’s like a vacuum, just empty space. So you talk to fill it up.”
“How long have you been in—”
“Since I got back. After the divorce. I didn’t want to do something like that again, so I thought I’d better sort myself out.”
“And did it work?”
“Well, I’m still seeing him.”
He took a sip of his drink. “How old were you when you—”
“Got married? Twenty. So what did I know?”
“No, found out about your father.”
“Back to that. Fifteen, sixteen. Old enough to know it wasn’t an exaggeration, that he was lying to me. I think I was more shocked about that than— You know, at that age everything is about what happens to you.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“No, not the way you mean. But I started to listen. When he talked about this and that—never the war, just thoughts about things—I paid attention. Looking for clues, I suppose, to explain how he could do it. A doctor, that’s what I couldn’t understand, how a doctor could be part of that. But to him it made sense. Crazy sense, but—” She stopped. “Anyway, it happened. And he must have known what it was, really, or why would he lie to me about it?”
Aaron thought of Max’s photograph, the laughing nurse. Who must have known too.
“He never practiced afterward?” Aaron said. An odd unexpected symmetry with Max.
“No. That would have made him easier to trace. He had to be Helmut Braun. Businessman. Nothing medical. So he gave it up—no medicine. Another thing to hold against the Amis.”
“He blamed them?”
“Who would he blame, himself?” She shifted in her chair, suddenly restless. “This is a funny sort of drink.”
“Why?”
“Talking about all this—” She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late.”
“Have another.”
“No, it’s enough.” She looked over. “I’ll talk to your friend. The writer.”
“Fritz.”
“Yes, it would be,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So it’s a success for you. Mission accomplished. How did you do it?” she said, beginning a mock conversation. “I charmed her. We talked about the camps. She can never resist that. Just mention her father and off she goes. You won’t have any trouble.” She shook her head. “Who else does he have, in this famous book?”
“I don’t know. Hans Frank’s son, I think. Bormann’s.”
“So he thinks Bormann’s dead.”
“Presumed dead anyway. The son thinks so.”
“Then let’s hope he doesn’t turn up someday after all. Think how the son would feel. Better to be dead and gone.” She began putting her cigarettes into her purse. “Well,” she said, moving the purse. “Such talk.”
She lifted her head, about to force a
smile, say something light, get up, but her face clouded, a flicker of unwanted recognition, and her neck tensed, the neck at Ohlsdorf. Aaron turned to see an older couple coming toward them, suit and tie, long dress, slicked-back hair and a gray perm, dressed for Baden-Baden, a trip to the casino after dinner.
“Hanna,” the man said, then a flurry of German, quick and familiar, the sense clearly how nice to see you or what a surprise, but the words themselves indistinct, another language. She got up, Aaron following her lead. The man’s manners, like his clothes, had a prewar formality, a hand kiss for Hanna and a half bow to Aaron.
“Trude,” Hanna said to the wife in English. “I thought you were in Mar del Plata. Markus—oh, forgive me. Markus Bildener, Trude Bildener, Aaron Wiley. A friend from the States.”
“Wiley,” Markus said, nodding again, trying the name on as if it were a jacket.
Aaron said nothing, no response expected. Another appraisal.
“What luck to find you here. So elusive these days,” Markus said, correct but accented, a stage German speaking English.
“Just busy. I didn’t realize you were in town.” Getting through it, but the neck still rigid.
“The States,” Markus said, now turning to Aaron. “New York?”
“No. Washington.”
“Ah, you’re with the embassy here, then?”
“No, just traveling.”
“We have friends in common,” Hanna said quickly, explaining him.
“Yes,” Aaron said, surprised but not showing it.
“Not Tommy, I hope,” Markus said, and then, to Aaron’s blank expression, “Hanna’s first husband.”
“Only,” Hanna said. “Aaron’s on his way to Bariloche.”
“Very beautiful this time of year. And Buenos Aires is always a little dull in the summer, I’m afraid. Of course, there’s Da Silva, bless him, he never stops. You’re going to the party Thursday, I hope,” he said to Hanna. “It’s very important that you go. João’s gone to such trouble. You know the Brazilians care about these things. And he was so fond of your father.” The words deliberate, as if he were speaking in code and waiting for the decryption. He turned to Aaron. “But I hope you get to see a little of the city. You don’t know the ambassador, then? A shame, because the residency is one of the finest houses in Barrio Norte. Wiley. There was a Bill Wiley a few years back, a commercial attaché, I think, but that was a changed name.”
