The Wind Chill Factor

by Thomas Gifford

  A clock ticked loudly in another room, cat hair clutched at my throat. It was so dry. The schnapps tasted like childhood’s candy.

  “Is Lise Brendel my sister?”

  “It is possible. When two men come to Munich, two brothers, and ask the same question a few months apart—ach, the likelihood of such a happening seems to increase.” He sipped from his glass. “Let me say this, I do not know who Lise Brendel is. And neither does she,” he concluded. “Nor do you. …”

  “What are you saying?” Peterson broke the silence like a sledge.

  Roeschler seemed to be addressing his cat, stroking its whiskers.

  “Lise Brendel has been undergoing a kind of identity crisis for several years, that is, a psychological search for who she might be, what her life is all about—that is what brought her to confide in me. For her, I became a substitute for the father she never knew.” I quickened at that. “Then your brother Cyril Cooper appeared out of the blue to present her with his question: Was she, in fact, his sister? Now her problem became a concrete reality, you see. Now she was not alone with her thoughts—where she had been questioning the purpose of her life, wondering who the real Lise was, there was now someone else with a shattering new question: Who was she actually?

  “Was she Lise von Schaumberg as she had always assumed … or was she somehow another person, back from the dead, someone called Lee Cooper, an American of all things? And why would such a question arise? Where was the logic of it?”

  He wet his lips with the schnapps. “For you, for me, for anyone who knows perfectly well who he is it is difficult to imagine the confusion of the orphan. Lise had always been told that her parents had died in an automobile accident, there were records to prove it, a trust fund waiting for her on her twenty-first birthday, a family of uncles and aunts and good friends. Then your brother came to Munich, sat with her in this room, and showed us photographs of his mother and a newspaper photograph of Lise, and very pleasantly asked if such a thing was possible. He poked through what records there were that survived the war, made inquiries in Dresden, took too many people very much by surprise. He created rather a stir in certain circles and in the end he learned some things, some truths, which many people here wanted to remain secret. He was a problem, Mr. Cooper. … Fortunately, he was able to leave Munich before it was too late.”

  Roeschler took a carved wooden bowl from a table within his reach; the cat only flicked one eye open to see what was going on. He lowered the bowl lightly onto the cat’s side and took out a brightly painted walnut and a nutcracker Tchaikovsky would have loved, a troll or a Black Forest dwarf with a hooked nose and a predatory grin. He squeezed it around a walnut, splintered the shell, and dug the meat out with a thick finger.

  “But I am much too far ahead of the story,” he said, “the story which began during the war. It begins there because that was when I met Gunter Brendel.” He stroked the cat and told us a very sad story.

  Gerhard Roeschler had wanted to become a psychiatrist, an analyst, and with that in mind had been studying in Vienna when Hitler came to power and annexed Austria. In his studies he had worked with many Jews and had in fact married a Viennese girl who was one-quarter Jewish. There was a baby about a year after the Nazis murdered Dolldorf. And Roeschler’s money was running low. Finally, he left his studies to become a science writer for a newspaper. The offer of a better job brought him back to Munich, where he set up his family in Schwabing because of its proximity to Munich University and because it had been for a very long time the bohemian colony, the natural home for artists and writers. It was also the center of a good deal of anti-Nazi sentiment, and, in fact, some action of a more overt kind.

  “Those of us who both hated and feared the Nazis here in Munich, here in Schwabing, centered in the university—my hatred and fear stemmed from my wife’s Jewish connection, small, fractional though it was. We didn’t think they knew but there was always the fear that they might find out. We had heard stories about Dachau, just outside of town. We weren’t sure, but in our hearts … yes, we were sure … and I became involved in what was called the White Rose. And my life was … never the same again.”

  During the war the White Rose grew up around Hans and Sophie Scholl, a couple of students at the University of Munich, and one of their teachers, a Professor Huber. The group was small, not really dangerous to so oppressive a regime, but an embarrassment at the very least. They felt a commitment to fight against the Nazis in any way that they could and about all they had was the ability to turn out a certain amount of secret propaganda. Anna Roeschler threw herself into the group’s efforts with the kind of enthusiasm which had drawn Gerhard to her in the first place. She wrote leaflets, spent early morning hours delivering them, chalked slogans on walls in the dark of night. She began to feel more Jewish, more of a part of the group than her husband did. But, still, she drew him farther and farther into the machinery of the group. He didn’t mind, he shared her sentiments, but by nature he was no activist. Frequently, he stayed home with the baby, Heinrich, while Anna was on one of her missions. He would work on his own writing while she worked on hers.

  He never knew how they learned of his marginal involvement in the White Rose but one night they came, no uniforms, no fuss. There were only two of them in their trench coats, standing in puddles of rain, asking him if they might have a few moments of conversation.

  They knew that his wife was partly Jewish. Which, of course, made young Heinrich Jewish. And made Gerhard guilty of harboring two known Jews. They acknowledged that sometimes these things happen, that love can lead anyone into shadowy paths, and not infrequently, illegalities.

  The taller and more distinguished-looking of the two men did all the talking. He was calm, well mannered, smiled in a friendly way. He told Gerhard Roeschler that they knew of his and Anna’s involvement in the White Rose; he suggested that unless he cooperated with them in breaking up this “minor irritation, this pimple on the Führer’s behind”—and he had chuckled man to man with Roeschler—it would be necessary to interrogate Anna. And, of course, Heinrich too would be taken to be with his mother. It was a conversational threat. Wife and child. Taken away.

  On the other hand—and the man had offered Gerhard a cigarette and lit both of them with a Hermes lighter while the other man leaned against the door—on the other hand, there was a way out, wasn’t there?

  “It was all incredibly painless,” Roeschler said, his hand embedded in fur, the chair creaking, “or so they made it seem. I was doing the right thing—what were my principles, my disgust with Hitler and the war—when compared with the life of my wife, the life of my child? Naturally I said nothing to Anna but I did increase my involvement with the group. Anna was very proud of me—of course. My increased interest was the result of the need to be able to report to my newfound friend in the trench coat. And it wasn’t purely blackmail, oh no, he actually paid me for my information and for some time there was no result that I could see. The group continued and I kept meeting the man in the trench coat in the English Park nearby, passing odd bits of information.

  “Then, in November of 1943, the group planned a big night, an extravagant night. I tried to keep Anna from going but my man assured me that there would be no trouble, that she would be absolutely safe. I believed him. So Anna went with them while the White Rose painted DOWN WITH HITLER seventy times—all along Ludwigstrasse. Seventy times! And—this will surprise you, gentlemen, no arrests were made, no trouble, my Anna returned safe and sound.

  “A few days later Hans and Sophie Scholl were arrested passing out leaflets, which Anna had written, and Professor Huber was picked up almost immediately. They were tried, condemned to death, and beheaded. Anna was never interrogated, I received a bonus from the man in the trench coat—after all, I had set the Scholls up for the arrest. I was never able to supply them with any other really useful information but I was—ah, in their pockets from then on. Not only did they know about Anna and Heinrich but now they could hold my t
reachery over me, all wonderfully subtle, never any open pressure. Sometimes I couldn’t quite believe it had all happened to me. …

  “Anna was eventually killed in the bombing of Munich, an accident of the war, and my friend in the trench coat was very comforting. He came to visit me in my flat, drank an occasional schnapps with me, built up a peculiar bond of friendship with me. His Munich assignment to uncover the White Rose had been only an interlude—he was a liaison officer, very young, but favored at the highest levels. When he passed through Munich he always stopped in. He saw to it that Anna received a very nice funeral, though he never met her.

  “Heinrich grew up a healthy, intelligent lad. Today he is an architect, lives in Rome, has his own family, remembers nothing of his mother. As a matter of fact, Mr. Cooper, he is just about your age. And my friend—he and I have remained friends through the years. He knows the truth about me and I have had certain opportunities to aid him at various times since I still have access to certain circles from which he is excluded. After all, I have served the new Republic, I have served on certain European commissions relative to scientific planning. I have led an active life as a writer and at times a diplomat manqué. … I am a survivor of the White Rose, you see, and there aren’t many of us left. I am an honored personage, understandably so. But my friend from those afternoons long ago in the English Park has remained … and I have never failed to exhibit my gratitude for what he did for me. Again and again, I have been grateful.

  “As one of the White Rose, I was even a member of the committee which arranged for the plaque at the university which commemorates the sacrifice made by Hans and Sophie and Professor Huber. Future generations should be aware of their dead heroes, shouldn’t they? We made sure they were remembered. The university stands at the top of the Ludwigstrasse and the square is cut in half by the road—on the left is the Geschwister-Scholl Plate, on the right Professor-Huber Plate. Quite fitting.

  “How ironic, you say? Of course, ironic—life is, I find, continually more and more ironic. I had coffee there just last week with my old friend in the trench coat—he was leaving for a business trip to London and wanted to know if he could take any particular message to Heinrich, who is there working on a new Italian-financed housing project. My old friend, always thoughtful. He is, as you have doubtless guessed by now, Gunter Brendel … my old friend.” Roeschler smiled out from behind his spectacles. A bit of tape held them at the side and his eyes crinkled. He offered Peterson the bowl of nuts.

  “Why in the world are you telling us all this?” Peterson asked. “First you know who I am—then you tell us what I assume must be your deepest personal secret. Why?”

  “That, I regret, is the question I must not answer. But listen, because, for whatever reasons I may have, I am a friend of yours. You can trust me.” He smiled benignly. Behind him the cats appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, tongues darting out at cream clinging to whiskers.

  He settled back in the old rocker, snapped his fingers for the cats, and tasted more schnapps.

  “The arrival of Lise on the scene concerned me from the very beginning. She was a strangely passive young woman when I first met her, at a small dinner party at Brendel’s. Gunter had never married and was well into middle age; Lise was in her mid-twenties. She came to the party almost by accident as I was given to understand at the time—although I’ve often wondered about that.

  “Well, Gunter was quite taken with her—surprisingly so, I assure you, since his sexuality had always been a matter of some doubt in my mind. Now he was in hot pursuit of this Lise. And for her part? She seemed innocent, even virginal, inexperienced, masking her limited experience with the remoteness which Gunter seemed to find so appealing. She never really responded to my offer of friendship until after the wedding. Which came inevitably about six months after they met. It was a social event of some magnitude here in Munich—Gunter was a man of substance and Lise was of a good family, solid Bavarian stock. Large wedding. They moved into the big house near Nymphenburg, took a large flat here in town, she quickly began to do the sort of things his wife should do. With a real cultural bent. The opera, dance, art shows, film societies—she was always involved … very busy but quiet, still, and withdrawn.

  “My concern for her was greater than it might have been if she had not seemed so troubled. Gunter even spoke to me about her—he always remembered my ambitions from my days in Vienna. She was unhappy, stayed in her room for days at a time, stayed silent, would only come to life when she was required to entertain. He asked me if it could be a sexual matter—he trusts me, you see, as only a man who knows the truth about another can trust, and he confessed what he called his sexual inadequacies.

  “He wondered if perhaps she should come more into contact with some younger people. Perhaps then she would not have such a quiet life, would not seem so isolated—I told him it was a risk, throwing a lovely young woman into contact with young men, surely he understood that, and he said yes, he understood that but he didn’t really care.” Roeschler spread his hands, palms up. “What to do? I told him that some variety among her friends might do her a world of good. Then he did what seemed to me a remarkably stupid thing. He gave her a very great shove in the direction of Siegfried Hauptmann. I would never have countenanced that, but it never occurred to me that Gunter could have had Siegfried in mind. He was actually drawing her into the greatest secret of all. It was unthinkable. But, by God, he did it.”

  Roeschler got up again, walked the worn carpet to the window, and drew the curtains back. He turned back to us. “Let’s get some air.”

  He set off at a steady pace, keeping to the quiet side streets. It was cold but his wind was good. His voice carried in the night.

  “Siegfried Hauptmann is very rich, very handsome, and the leader of a small but powerful group of elitists centered here in Munich. They are Nazis. But no one really knows how extensive their operations are. What is known is that they are young. And they have formed their cell around Siegfried Hauptmann.

  “And this is the man Gunter chose to be Lise’s new friend.” He shook his head. “It was a purely political move on Gunter’s part—perhaps a rapprochement, reconciling his own political interests with Siegfried’s. After all, Gunter represents the real Nazis in Germany these days—perhaps he feels the competition between the old and the new has gone on long enough. Perhaps, to take another more pragmatic view, he is trying to lull Siegfried’s people into relaxing their vigilance. Perhaps Gunter is preparing another night of the long knives for his young friends. He is certainly capable of it. But I only see the outlines of it, I don’t know the details.”

  We walked a bit farther. Peterson was puffing in the cold. My mind raced, imprecise, driven by fear and curiosity. Roeschler was so calm.

  “Did Lise tell you to tell us this?”

  “No, Mr. Cooper, certainly not.”

  “Does she even know about her husband’s political activities? Or Siegfried Hauptmann’s? I can’t remember who knows what around here,” he muttered.

  Roeschler stopped in the middle of the street and took hold of both our arms, his grasp firm.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how much she knows. I think, quite frankly, that she is almost totally egocentric. I don’t know if she is aware of anything beyond the limits of her own being. I don’t even know if she is altogether sane.” He gave me a wintry smile and was quiet during the walk back to his home.

  We sat in one of the Schwabing coffeehouses an hour later, staring at one another over bitter espressos. Snow had begun to sift down through the soft glow of the paraffin lamps and there was an ache behind my eyes. Peterson stared dolefully into the night and absent-mindedly applied the Benzedrine inhaler to his nose. I shook my head.

  “Two groups of Nazis—there’s no end to it, it’s like a children’s game, fighting over whose bat and ball it is. I’m punchy, I can’t even remember what he said.”

  “It’s not what he told us,” Peterson said. “It�
�s that he told us at all that’s so amazing. And he knew I would be with you. And he expected us to swallow all that stuff. Poor Anna, dear little Heinrich, sad and bewildered Lise, rich and dashing Siegfried, and good old Gunter, the only sane one in the bunch. He’s right about that, it’s a madhouse, Cooper, a madhouse, and that’s what makes it so hard to figure out. It’s a goddamn playpen. Steynes is a nut, Dawson is a robot, Lise is a manic-depressive having an identity crisis. Shadow Nazis are running around all over the field and then we run into a comic-opera killer like Milo Keepnews and I wind up killing him in a toilet. Everyone seems to die but you, no matter how hard they try they can’t seem to nail you, an absurd situation if they know what they’re doing.”

  “It’s real enough for me,” I grunted. “I keep thinking they’ll get me eventually. I’m so tired of it—I just don’t want them to get me until I see her tomorrow. That’s all I’m waiting for at this point, beyond that I’m beginning not to care. …”

  Peterson was grinning more widely with each minute. “I’ve been trying to figure them out, see their plan, get a bead on what was going on. Well, goddamn it, they don’t know what’s going on. They don’t care who dies but they’re very sloppy about their methods. It explains a lot. They’re bunglers and they’re amateurs. Christ!” Glee curled around his cigar like a Christmas wreath. “Roeschler!”

  “Roeschler what? Don’t you believe him?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. He’s playing a game of his own. Steynes is playing his game. Brendel his. They are all playing their own games and we’ve been trying to fit in, play all the games at once because we thought there was just one game. But that’s wrong—lots and lots of games. When I faced up to it with Keepnews we began to play ours. When you called Lise we were still playing ours—now we can’t start backsliding.”