by Ward Just
“You might want to hear this first, old friend.”
“No,” he said.
Kleust looked closely at him. “God almighty. What did they do to you?”
“Cut my neck,” he said. Then, smiling: “Successfully.”
“Shrapnel?”
“That’s what they said.”
“If that was a success, I’d like to see one of their failures.”
He laughed. Old Kurt, he had a great bedside manner. “Well, fuck you, too.” Christ, he was tired; tired and slow, moving as if he were under water.
Kleust said tentatively, “Bill—”
“Funny thing, I was just thinking about him.”
“Who?”
“Bill Jr. That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it?”
Kleust put the car in gear.
“Well, then. Let’s go home.” They rode in silence to O Street, where, miraculously, there was a parking space in front of the house.
Elinor was downstairs. When she saw him, so obviously out of it, she gave a little cry. When Kurt came in the door behind him, she recoiled; there was none of the usual banter of the unexpected visit. Where had he come from? One look at the two of them told her it was bad news, and when Kurt held out his hand and kissed her on the cheek, she pulled away in confusion. They stood awkwardly in the vestibule, embarrassed as if they had a secret between them. Bill asked her gently to bring in a drinks tray. She listened for a signal but his voice was neutral, perhaps with fatigue. He and Kleust went into the study.
He took a pill. The house was cool after the heat of the park. He noticed that Kleust was wearing a tweed suit, and sweating freely; probably he had just gotten off the plane. Elinor came in with the drinks tray and some peanuts and cheese. She poured Scotch for them and Coke for herself. Then, on second thought, she added rum to the Coke. Her hand was shaking but she was certain they didn’t notice, they were so caught up with each other, and whatever secret they were sharing.
Bill took a long drink and felt better at once. “You just got off the plane?”
Kurt nodded. “From Frankfurt.”
Bill smiled sadly at Elinor, then said, “I’ve got about thirty minutes of concentration.”
Elinor said quickly, “Do you want to stay for dinner? We have plenty, I’d just have to set another place.” She knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it. She pulled both legs up under her on the chair, both hands around the glass in her lap.
“I’ve probably got to get to the embassy.”
She caught the ambiguity in his voice and nodded. They could decide later.
Kleust looked at each of them in turn. “We have word about Bill Jr.”
She murmured, “Thank God,” and put her face in her hands, the glass cold against her cheek. “Thank God, thank God.” She reached across the table and took Bill’s hand. “I thought he was dead. I thought Kurt had come to tell us he was dead. All this week I’ve thought, ‘He’s dead.’ Something kept pushing at me, telling me that he was dead in Europe. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Every time the telephone rang—” She put the glass down.
“No,” Kleust said. “He’s alive. He’s in Germany.”
She turned away, her glance falling on the photographs in the bookcase. The three of them ten years ago, Bill and the boy demarcating her, like a picture frame. They towered over her, though Bill Jr. had yet to reach his full height. They looked so young; they looked like the product of Picasso’s early years, a family portrait before the Blue Period, before Cubism, before things got so fantastically complicated. She turned to Bill, staring silently into his drink. She said, “How do they know where he is?”
Kleust said, “We have reliable information.” He put his hands out, palms up.
Bill said, “His name is Duer.”
“Well, who’s Duer? I don’t know any Duer.”
Kleust said, “He’s one of our people, Elinor. He’s very reliable.”
She turned to her husband. “Do you know him?”
“I met him in Africa, remember? I told you about him, Herr Duer. He was the one who had the photographs, Bill Jr. and the girl in Hamburg. I didn’t like him.”
“I don’t know him,” she said firmly. “I don’t remember Herr Duer.”
Kleust leaned forward, speaking quietly as if fearful he would be overheard. “They have been tracking Bill Jr., and his group. One of them, a young woman, flew from Hamburg to Munich to Rome. And from Rome to Montreal. By train from Montreal to Burlington, Vermont. And by air from Burlington to Washington. They are very thorough. That was last week. She disappeared in Washington, so easy to do despite the assets we control. It is easier to disappear in Washington, D.C., than in the Amazon Basin. Your government does not control its own borders! We are certain she was here yesterday, but perhaps she has flown away again.”
Elinor said, irrelevantly, “All that travel. It costs a lot of money.”
“Yes,” Kleust agreed.
“Where did she get the money, Kurt?” Bill wanted to get back to specifics.
Kleust smiled. “They kidnaped a child in Munich.”
Bill raised his eyebrows.
“A banker’s daughter. The banker paid, immediately. A half a million Deutschmarks, cheap at the price. And the banker actually got her back, which isn’t usual.”
“Was she hurt?”
“No, she wasn’t hurt. She was hysterical, but not harmed. They told her to say nothing, or they would return and mutilate her. They made her believe it. They were very persuasive. The entire transaction was over in twenty-four hours.”
“All right,” Bill said. “And what else?”
“That’s where the money comes from,” Kleust said.
“I know that,” Bill said.
Kleust looked at his drink, picked it up, and took a sip. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “The question is, Why is she here? What does she want? The evidence that we have is not a hundred percent conclusive. But we believe she is here because of you. She wants to make contact. She is carrying a message, to be delivered privately. A message to be delivered to you alone. They would suspect a telephone tap, and suspect a mail cover; so it would not be a phone call or a letter. We believe. Herr Duer believes. They want to arrange a meeting.” He had been moving his eyes back and forth between Bill and Elinor. Now he looked only at Bill.
He said, “She has been in Washington a week?”
Kleust said, “Yes.”
“But you think she may have gone?”
“Only if she has made the contact.”
Bill was silent.
“Has she?”
Elinor put her hand on Bill’s arm. “A meeting. For what purpose?”
“We are not sure,” he said evasively. Then, “But they killed a man in Berlin. Bill Jr. and his girlfriend did.”
Elinor said, “I don’t believe it.”
“Who was he?” Bill said.
“I don’t believe it,” Elinor said again. “Were there witnesses?”
Kleust looked at Bill. “There is evidence.”
“Who was he?” Bill asked again.
“We’re not sure.”
“Kurt,” Bill said.
The German looked up with sudden understanding. “It wasn’t an American. No one connected with your government. Or ours.” He added, “I’m not at liberty to say who it was. We are still waiting for positive identification. I have instructions. I am going by my instructions.”
“This is an official visit, then.”
Kleust said, “No, Bill. There will be one, no doubt. But this isn’t it. This is private.”
Elinor began to speak. She was looking at the portrait, suddenly rearranged in her vision. Bill and Bill Jr. looked misshapen to her. She was trying to connect then to now, but it was all now. She realized she was incoherent and shut up. Bill listened a moment, then rose and went to the window. O Street was brilliant in the fading yellow light; it was almost dusk. He looked without seeing, imagining the girl s
omewhere nearby, perhaps the park or on the crowded Wisconsin Avenue sidewalks; perhaps she was in a singles bar, listening to the chatter. It would encourage her, evidence of decay from within; Marx confirmed in Clyde’s. But it was a large city, she could be almost anywhere. No doubt she had already left, as Kleust suspected. Bill knew now that it was important to betray nothing. He looked left and right at the people in the street, his neighbors returning home from work. Then he stood by Elinor’s chair, listening. The postcard was in his pocket, and he restrained an impulse to touch it; to check on it, as one would check on a sleeping infant.
He said, “What else, Kurt?”
Kleust put ice in his glass, and Scotch on top of the ice. He was entirely American in his drinking habits. He said nothing for a moment, stirring the drink with his index finger. They could all hear the ticking of the clock in the hallway.
Elinor said, “Why is she here, Kurt?”
“She hasn’t been in touch, then?”
“No,” Bill said. Elinor glared at him: Nothing meant nothing, not no, not yes, not maybe.
Kleust caught the look and said softly, “You’re certain?” Then, realizing suddenly where he was and with whom he was talking—a colleague, one of his oldest friends—he looked at the floor, understanding that he’d caused offense. “I’m sorry, Bill.”
“You’ve had a long day.” He placed his hand on Elinor’s temple, caressing her. He touched her neck, and placed his hand flat on her shoulder. She was cool to the touch, but he could feel her trembling. She was trembling inside. Probably she had it now. “And it’s not over, is it, your day?”
“No,” Kleust said.
“Why do you suppose he didn’t come himself? My son.”
Kleust shook his head. “He is careful.”
“He’s waiting in Hamburg,” Bill said.
“Probably in Hamburg,” Kleust said.
Bill leaned down and spoke only to his wife. “I’m the next target, El. That’s why she’s here. That’s what the hugger-mugger is about, her setting up a rendezvous. Except I’m not supposed to know that. I’m not supposed to know what’ll happen at the rendezvous. I’m such a dumb son of a bitch. He thinks I’m so stupid or ignorant or arrogant I’ll miss that.” He took his wife’s hand. God, he was tired. He was only fifty and he felt at the end of the road, out of gas, the last ambassador. He held her hand more tightly. He had to fight, but he didn’t know if he had the strength. He had the will but not the strength. He wondered if Bill Jr. knew the difference. Probably he did. The lad was quite a military historian, and would know the example of the Battle of Hamburg. Bomber Command under the authority of Air Chief Marshal Butcher Harris deciding that the war could be won by terrorizing the civilian population of Germany. Hamburg was convenient in 1943, as London had been convenient in 1939. Destroy the morale of the people of Hamburg and you’ve won the war. This, a virtue of necessity; Bomber Command did not have the skill to destroy military installations, the precision bombing of the penny press being in reality bombs dropped out of planes helter-skelter. Forty thousand men, women, and children dead in a single night of firestorm, five thousand more in the next month. July 1943. Christ, he thought, what an attractive analogy, though not without edge. The ambassador was as irrelevant as the Hanseatic League. And the boy every bit as brutal and careless as Butcher Harris and his German opposite number. The strategy worked, too. Hamburg’s spirit was destroyed and driven mad, as any would be under merciless medieval torture. Hamburgers called the events of July 1943 Die Katastrophe.
Elinor looked at Kleust.
“That’s what we think,” Kleust said.
“And what do you advise, Kurt?” Bill rose, swaying.
“Don’t do it.” He smiled helplessly. “And keep me informed.”
“What does Duer think?”
“They have killed once. Probably more than once. Almost certainly more than once. As for Herr Duer, Herr Duer has other priorities.”
“I’ll bet he has,” Bill said.
“He has his own job,” Kleust said stiffly.
“Duer,” Bill said. He put his glass down. He thought he was going to collapse. He said, “I'm going upstairs to rest. Call me in ninety minutes. We can have dinner together after all.”
“Please stay,” Elinor said.
“Do. I’m bushed, but I’ll be all right after a little rest.”
“You’re sure?” Kleust said.
“Yes,” Elinor said.
Walking upstairs, putting one foot laboriously in front of the other, he paused and leaned against the wall. He knew that Elinor was at the bottom of the stairs, watching him. Ahead of him was one of her pen-and-ink portraits, an old man behind a desk; he thought it was a drawing of his father, though she denied it. Generic old man, she said. He worked his way down the corridor, her pictures on the wall, either side, and entered their bedroom and lay down on the unmade bed, not bothering with his shoes, though his feet hurt, and he hated to dirty the spread. The room was dark and cool. He felt the presence of the girl outside, sensed her as he had sensed the hot African wind. The girl was waiting for him, just out of reach; she would be in the shadows, waiting. He stared at the ceiling, absently flexing the fingers of his left hand. He knew Elinor was at the door and he wanted to make some reassuring gesture, a wave or a wink, but instead he said, “El? What do you suppose my father would do?”
She smiled wryly, as if about to make a smart remark. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, baby.”
“I don’t either.”
“He didn’t like it when you joined the Foreign Service.”
“Hated it.”
“But he didn’t think it dishonorable.”
“No,” he said. “Not dishonorable.”
“And you didn’t threaten him.”
He looked at her a long moment, wondering; threats came in various guises. His father was skeptical of diplomacy—it had not been a conspicuous success in the Second World War, not even in Italy, where it was invented. However, it would be a struggle, as one hears struggle in Beethoven or Brahms. The old man had had a turbulent history, very much of the Old World, not an optimist. He felt the necessity of making himself obscure, half visible. Bill said, “I think he was frightened of America. America’s potential, its reach, its grab, its ignorance of the dark side of things. America had no understanding of true malevolence.” That was what he thought about in the evening, studying his texts. The notion that God had a special place in His heart for the American continent seemed to him fantastic, ludicrous, and dangerous.
“I’ve got to see to Kurt,” she said.
“He thought, you know, that I’d find anti-Semitism in Washington.”
“Yes,” she said. It seemed to her so long ago.
“He thought the Foreign Service was like university presidencies and New England banks.”
“I know,” she said.
“He said, ‘You’ll have to lie low.’ ”
“I know, Bill.”
“And I said I wouldn’t have to because things were changing. In Washington no one gave a damn, except some of the old farts and they were on their way out.”
“Go to sleep,” she said.
“I saw the prettiest girl today.”
“Goodness,” she said with a broad smile.
“She was gorgeous. Sexy, too.”
“Young, I suppose. I suppose she didn’t have a gray hair in her head.”
“She’s the one who sees Bixby.”
“I’ve seen her. She’s a very pretty girl. Too young for an old fart like you.”
“What about Bixby? He’s older than I am.”
“It’s part of the therapy.”
“Maybe we can have some therapy tonight.”
“I’d love it,” she said.
“Who was the one with the orgone box?”
“Reich,” she said.
He patted the bed. “Orgone box, right here.”
“Dear Bill,” she said. “What a good idea. It’s bee
n weeks.”
He said, “You go, look after Kurt.”
“All right,” she said.
He said, “I’ll be down in an hour. I’m not so tired anymore. Thinking about the therapy.”
She smiled. “Pretend you’re in Back Bay.”
He laughed. “God, all those ghosts.”
“Sleep for an hour, Bill.”
“I’ll think about the Back Bay, be asleep in seven seconds.” She left, closing the door behind her. The golden sunlight stirred his memory. It was reminiscent of Marlborough Street in October, and when he closed his eyes he could see his father, expressionless, so still in his heavy dark suit, the light coloring his bald head pink. They lived on Marlborough Street, but the old man had never left central Europe. He had a ghetto mentality, always apprehensive, fearful of the future. The old man had not chosen Marlborough Street; his wife had. It was a Gentile street in a Gentile city, and she had to convince him. She had to convince him of its anonymity and privacy. She had to convince him that she knew best, being both a Bostonian and a Gentile. But he could never refuse her, she understood him so thoroughly, and loved him without reservation. They loved each other and their music, and their privacy. In time he came to cherish Marlborough Street because it reminded him of a residential district near the Grünewald, big, heavy houses, a district that seemed indestructible. In the street there was always the sound of German music, Bach, Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert. And the same was true of Marlborough Street, in the ’forties and ’fifties. Gas lamps, narrow streets, and the Public Garden two blocks away. Walking distance to Symphony, the Goethe Institute around the corner. People kept to themselves, it was almost a condition of residence. The hurly-burly of political Boston was infinitely remote; it might as well have been taking place in Dublin. The old man came to understand that on Marlborough Street he could be as inconspicuous in Boston as he had been in Berlin, even after the advent of the National Socialists. And with a Gentile wife, he remarked drolly, he was covered. She always surprised him. He was surprised when he married her, surprised that he wanted her so; and surprised that she wanted him, a European refugee, tormented sometimes beyond understanding. Of course he had no immediate family that would object, not that he would have respected their wishes. Some demands you had to refuse, no matter how painful; and without pain, life was not life. The old man thought that to be invisible was to be secure, or less insecure. For that reason, among other reasons, he hated New York. Or was it fear? He guessed it was fear, though the old man had never said.
