The Peace Process

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  “My understanding, sir, is that you’re a film producer.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’m a distributor.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I have no understanding of the nuances.”

  “We don’t make as much money,” I offered.

  He chuckled.

  “Now I understand. And before you tell me why you’re here, let me ask you quickly. Double Indemnity or Dial M?”

  “Dial M for Murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?”

  “Your preference.”

  A discussion of film classics seemed out of place here. It certainly wasn’t the purpose of my visit. But apparently he was a movie buff. Aren’t they all over the place these days?

  And there was that gentle and ingratiating manner. I considered the question.

  “It’s a close call, but I’d have to give the edge to Indemnity.”

  And there I was, shortening the title in the nauseating style of a show-biz maven.

  “The Edward G. Robinson performance,” I added. “In a secondary role. That’s what puts it over the top.”

  “I see,” he said, stroking his chin as if I’d thrown some light on a hitherto puzzling matter.

  “High Noon or Shane?”

  My patience began to run out. Was this a talk show of some kind? Yet in spite of myself—that sweet and self-effacing manner of his—I answered his question and tacked on an explanation that was probably unnecessary.

  “Both wonderful at the time. It’s been years since I saw either one. Here again, I’m tempted to say Shane—the great Jack Palance, again in a secondary role … I actually do an imitation of him hyperventilating and then delivering the line ‘Prove it,’ but I won’t bore you with it. …”

  “No, no, please, I’d enjoy seeing it.”

  “Not just now,” I said.

  The idea of doing my Jack Palance imitation in the office of our top penal administrator—a man I hardly knew—was preposterous. I returned to his question.

  “My choice, finally, would have to be High Noon. I should add—and this is absurd—that I’ve always been bothered by Alan Ladd’s height … I’m told that in order to film his scenes, they had to stand him up on boxes.”

  “Boxes, you say. …”

  He seemed to have difficulty imagining such a thing.

  “Oh yes, boxes. To bring him up level with the other actors.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “There are many such examples,” I said, unable to stop running on. “Bing Crosby, for one. Dustin Hoffman, although I think in his case they do it with camera angles. So many of them are little fellows … Pacino. … But there’s no need to go into that.”

  “Boxes for Bing Crosby?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Olson shook his head and muttered something about movie magic.

  “In the case of Shane, there is also the problem I have with Ladd’s son, who became a film producer. ‘Laddie’ is what he’s called by individuals who want it known that he’s more than a casual acquaintance.”

  “Fascinating,” said Dr. Olson.

  “I had differences with Alan Ladd Jr.—Laddie—over the distribution here of Star Wars, which he produced. He didn’t think I’d done a very good job of it. Obviously, this shouldn’t interfere with my feelings about Shane. …”

  “We’re all human,” said Dr. Olson.

  “Yes, I suppose we are.”

  I could understand now Olson’s ability to find some trace of humanity in the most noxious members of our criminal class.

  “But I’m afraid that none of this relates to why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?” he said, leaning forward, chin in hand, as if genuinely curious. “Perhaps you’d like to show movies to our prison guards? Our inmates?”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all. It’s this Asmund fellow—”

  “Yes. And what about him?”

  “What about him? What about him, indeed. How can you even ask such a question?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Well, to begin with, the man’s a monster. He should be put out of his misery, our misery, actually, to be correct about it, with all possible speed—”

  I became aware that I wasn’t making much of an effective case for the elimination of Bernhard Asmund. In advance of our meeting, I’d carefully marshaled my arguments, all of them reasonable, but such was my rage that they’d all become scrambled and distorted.

  I took another try at it.

  “Now, look,” I said, “the man has taken from us some of our finest citizens. But even if he’d taken only one … what grounds are there for allowing him to continue on Earth … ?”

  My arguments had become weaker and weaker, if indeed they were arguments. Olson studied me as if I were a strange laboratory specimen he’d never before encountered.

  “Now, looky here,” I said. (Looky here? Where did that come from? Clearly I was losing it.) “The man slaughters an entire camping ground of innocent people and what do you do? You study him as if he’s a guinea pig of some kind and when you’re finished, you release him to slaughter again. He takes a breath and happily obliges you. … And how do you react? You study him some more!”

  “Your point being?” said Dr. Olson, who began to shift in his chair, his patience clearly running out.

  “My point being … he’s a dirt bag.”

  Obviously that wasn’t the correct description at all. I’d struggled to find the perfect description of Asmund—and failed. If you executed every dirt bag in the country, you’d seriously thin out the population.

  “For God’s sakes,” I said, and I could feel my blood pressure rising. “WHY DON’T WE JUST KILL THE FUCKER? TAKE HIM OUT AND FEED HIM TO THE WOLVES. TAR AND FEATHER THE BASTARD”—that wasn’t it; much too archaic—STICK A NEEDLE IN HIS ARM AND BLOODY GET RID OF THE COCKSUCKER—”

  My outburst, I could see, was not having the effect I’d intended. Instead of resonating, making a powerful case, my passion doubled back on me, causing me to become dizzy and then to faint. (I should point out that I come from a family of fainters. We are more likely to faint under pressure than the next one.) I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. When I awakened, I was momentarily confused as to my whereabouts. My head cleared a bit and I could see that Dr. Olson was standing over me. He’d put a damp cloth over my forehead.

  “Are you feeling any better?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  “Good … your pulse is a little patchy. I’d take it easy for a few days.”

  “I’m behind in my work.”

  “You can address it … just don’t go at it too hard. Now, in reference to that other business, how many victims were there in the first episode?”

  “Asmund’s first attack? I’m not sure of the exact number. Seventy, maybe seventy-five?”

  “And the second?”

  “Seventeen. I’m sure of it. My nephew was among them.”

  “I’m sorry about your nephew. But seventy-five and then seventeen. I call that headway, wouldn’t you say?”

  “In a most twisted sense—”

  “But it is headway. You could make that argument.”

  “You can make any argument,” I said, quickly running out of energy.

  “But you could make it.”

  At this point I was weak enough to faint again.

  “Yes,” I said, with a groan. “Stop torturing me. You can make the bloody argument.”

  “Then good,” said Dr. Olson, ignoring my extreme discomfort. “I’m glad we’ve settled the question.

  “Now, tell me,” he said, leaning forward in his most affable manner, “Cate Blanchett or Kate Beckinsale?”

  A Fan Is a Fan


  When the phone rang, Max Wintermann jumped as if he’d been struck on the head from behind. These days, everything unsettled Wintermann. A car exhaust. A gust of wind. God forbid a knock at the door, although chances were the visitor was a gypsy who lived, or more correctly existed, on the floor below.

  “Yes?” he answered tentatively, holding the receiver as if he’d pulled it out of a hot oven.

  “Is this the voice of the celebrated Max Wintermann?”

  “This is Wintermann. Regrettably, no longer celebrated.”

  “You are, to those who matter. This is Joseph Goebbels.”

  There was a hesitation, as if the name alone might not be sufficient identification.

  “Reichminister of Propaganda, and editorial director of the Volkischer Beobachter, the last being central to the purpose of this call.”

  “I’m honored, Herr Goebbels, to speak to the editor of the People’s Observer. I’m a longtime subscriber.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that. We make no claim to ‘higher thought.’ But we try to deliver an engaging mix of entertainment and a sprinkling of the political.”

  A sprinkling, thought Wintermann.

  The rag was nine-tenths anti-Semitic screed, the other tenth gossip and cartoons, many of them grotesque depictions of the Jews. Big noses. Spittle on the lips. A leer directed at prepubescent girls. It was an engaging mix, all right. Though he made an effort to ignore the publication, he found, to his shame, that the gossip columns were irresistible; an occasional feature was amusing. No doubt he would burn in hell for this filthy pleasure, but there it was.

  “Many of us on the staff are fans of yours. As a young student in Heidelberg, having just had an essay of mine criticized—unfairly, I thought—I returned to the dorm, picked up a Wintermann collection, read it, and was transported to a place I wanted to be. This is satire, I told myself. Not the university brand. This is how I will learn.”

  “I am, of course, flattered, Herr Goebbels.”

  And in a sense he meant this. It was a depressing philosophy, but he had always believed that a fan was a fan. He hated every bone in the man’s body, and the ground he stood on. Yet there was no denying the Reichminister’s prominence. It disgusted Wintermann that this mattered to him.

  “May I share a secret with you?” asked Goebbels.

  “Please.”

  “I have witnessed the Führer himself chuckling over one of your essays … one of the earlier, lighter ones, I might add.”

  “This is beyond my comprehension.”

  “I saw this with my own eyes. And I tell it to you in confidence. I trust you not to share it.”

  “Of course,” said Wintermann.

  Share it? And who was left to enjoy this “nugget”?

  His mother’s death, many years back, had, in a sense, spared her. His father simply disappeared. A walk along Mulackstrasse … a patrol car pulls alongside … he is asked to step in … then a void, as if he’d never existed. One by one, family by family, friends and acquaintances had disappeared, a number of them spirited away in vans in the dead of night. The awful siren as the vehicles sped off. His building was like a toothless crone. For the most part it was uninhabited … a few Poles, some junior officers …

  His teenage daughter still lived with him. Uneasily.

  “Are you being treated well, Herr Wintermann? The account we arranged at the greengrocer … it has worked out decently, one hopes.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And there have been no irritating interrogations? No abuse on the street? I issued a directive that you and the child needn’t wear an armband.”

  “We have been treated fairly, Herr Goebbels.”

  “Has the homeschooling been effective for your daughter?”

  “She’s getting along nicely.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Goebbels. “With Max Wintermann as her instructor. Has she shown a penchant for creating literature?”

  “That has been disappointing,” said Wintermann. “She has the tools, but there is a lack of focus.”

  “These are troubled times. But she’s young. She’ll come ’round.

  “And now,” he said, his tone more formal, “the business at hand. The board would like you to do a satirical piece for the Beobachter. One with the Wintermann touch, which of course is redundant. Each time Max Wintermann puts pen to paper, the result is unique. And often memorable.”

  “Once again, Herr Goebbels, I’m flattered. But I’m afraid what you ask is impossible. The quality that you admire requires a particular state of mind. It’s been several years since I’ve so much as approached a typewriter.”

  “The Olivetti. How well we all know it. The Fatherland is in its debt. But forgive me, Herr Wintermann, we both know that great satire often arises out of discomfort, if not actual pain. And even if this was not the case, we’ve gone out of our way to make you comfortable. …”

  “It has been much appreciated.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  Wintermann cleared his throat. “No doubt this is delicate,” he said, “but Kristallnacht put an end to any hopes I had—”

  “I can’t believe,” said Goebbels, cutting him short, “that you’ve allowed some sophomoric incident, dreamed up by underlings, to interfere with the work of a genius. I can assure you, the offenders have been properly admonished.”

  “I was saddened,” said Wintermann simply.

  “In a way, I’m happy to hear that. You will use that grim outlook of yours as a spur to catapult you to new and greater satirical heights. I become weak when I anticipate the results.”

  Goebbels prepared to end the call, then stopped.

  “Few know this, but as a young man I dreamed of being a writer. A Max Wintermann. I wrote eight novels, each one an unpublished failure. I stopped when it became clear that only one among millions is born with that priceless gift of yours. One that only the heavens can grant. By some fluke, I finally published a novel … Winter Storm … you probably know it.”

  Wintermann was aware of the novel, but hadn’t read it. He struggled to find a way of saying this gently. Goebbels rescued him by pushing on.

  “It was well received, but in my heart I know it’s a pedestrian effort. To mention it in the same breath as ‘a Wintermann’ is blasphemous.”

  Wintermann felt he could hear the click of Goebbels’s heels.

  “Three thousand words. Monday morning. Forty-eight hours should be sufficient. You will be paid our most generous fee.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Goebbels, but to put a time restriction—”

  Goebbels spoke as if he hadn’t heard Wintermann. “If there are any difficulties … If your daughter, for example, should be jostled by one of our inexperienced and, shall we say, randy young officers, please call my private number.

  “Heil Hitler.”

  Through a dry mouth Wintermann repeated. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Ten o’clock sharp,” said Goebbels.

  Oddly enough, what rankled Wintermann most was Goebbels’s claim that the publication of his (ninth) novel was “a fluke.” He was perhaps the second most powerful figure in Germany. Lived there a publisher who would dare to say, “It’s not quite for us”? It would not surprise Wintermann if the eight unpublished novels were suddenly “discovered” and brought out with great ceremony.

  But to dwell on Goebbels’s “literary” career was to be attentive to rubbish. Hypocritically, Wintermann did read—or glance at—the Beobachter. But to write a sentence, two words, for the tabloid was of course out of the question. Better ask him to piss on the graves of the forlorn army of Jews whose great number had not yet been established. It was bad enough that he had accepted “protection” for himself and his beloved daughter. A man with an ounce of courage would have told the Reichminister what he could do with his offer.

&nb
sp; Shove it up your ass, Herr Goebbels. Then come and get me if you like. Tear off my balls. But you will not get a single word …

  And to his daughter: Run … it doesn’t matter where … be swift … and never stop.

  Yet he had remained silent. Compliant.

  Though it was difficult for him to be in the same room as his battered Olivetti, Wintermann did not lack for ideas. There was one thought that nagged at him, virtually calling out for his attention. It was no secret that Hitler protected a small number of Jews he found useful. A master tailor. An arms merchant. A man with great surgical skills. Wasn’t Wintermann, in his way, one of the select few? A human bone Hitler had thrown to Wintermann’s passionate fans.

  It fascinated Wintermann that throughout the war years—and before—Hitler supported a psychiatric institute in Berlin. There were three hundred practitioners at work there, some of them Jews who had been spared. Half worked on eugenics. The others practiced conventional therapy. At root and in the overall, a psychiatrist’s goal was to make a troubled patient feel more comfortable. It took little effort for Wintermann to imagine a Third Reich psychiatrist counseling a guilt-ridden Nazi official.

  What is your work?

  Each day I dispatch roughly five hundred Jews to a “labor camp,” the equivalent of sending lambs to slaughter.

  Is that your assignment?

  Yes.

  You do your job well?

  I do.

  Then I’m puzzled. What is it that troubles you?

  The scene virtually satirized itself and hardly called for the touch of a master. Wintermann needed only to record, almost literally, such a session. The Wintermann of old would have tossed it off in an afternoon, nap included.

  Not for a moment did he consider proceeding. The notion, for all its absurdity, required a light touch, what some had called, clumsily, a style that was “Wintermannesque.” Could he still produce it? In his present state, his “touch” would be that of an elephant’s hooves.