by P J Skinner
‘Don’t be afraid. It was a minor tremor. We don’t need to leave the building. It’s safer indoors anyway, as a piece of concrete can land on your head in the street.’
‘Hmm, I don’t fancy that. It gave me a fright though. I don’t think I can go to sleep again right away. My heart is thundering in my rib cage. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Good plan. I’ll put on some water. See you in the kitchen.’
Sam shuffled into the kitchen in a pair of tiny slippers provided by Gloria who seemed unaware that her friend had penguin-sized feet. Sam’s large feet were a source of chagrin due to her inheriting a shoe fetish from her mother that rivalled Imelda Marcos; one unrequited due to the lack of women’s shoes in her size. Gloria was pouring water into a bright yellow teapot and humming. It was typical of her to be so unaffected by what seemed like disturbing events. She had a sangfroid about her that was unusual.
‘Can you get the milk from the fridge, please?’ asked Gloria. ‘Or should I say milkshake?’
‘Hilarious. It wasn’t that strong.’
‘So, are you going to tell me about Simon or not?’
Straight to the point as usual, Gloria had no sympathy for Sam’s barriers. She did not distinguish between what was private and what she discussed in technicolour detail. There was nothing sacred for Gloria’s inquiring mind. Sooner or later they would have to talk about him. No time like the present as the latest episode had the potential to produce an earthquake in Sam’s existence if the clues were pointing in the right direction.
‘What about him?’
‘Come on. I’m not stupid. You’ve got that face on, as if someone killed your cat. Something’s wrong. Have you broken up with him again?’
‘No, I haven’t. We are ecstatically happy.’
Gloria raised an eyebrow so high it was in danger of disappearing into her highlights.
‘Really?’
Sam blushed. She felt Gloria’s disbelief through her pores.
‘Well, um, relationships and all that.’
‘Is he sleeping around again?’
‘No, well, I don’t think so, although it’s not easy to tell. That’s not the problem.’
There was a pause as she sipped her tea and took a deep breath.
‘It’s like pulling teeth, gringa. Out with it.’
‘I think I might be pregnant.’
A teaspoon fell on the floor as Gloria’s hand flew to her mouth. They both jumped. The neon light in the kitchen flickered making them both look even more shocked.
‘Holy shit and all the saints,’ said Gloria. She felt in her dressing gown pocket for her cigarettes. Withdrawing one from the packet with shaking fingers, she clicked the lighter without success. Sam leaned across the table and grabbed the lighter. It worked first time and soon Gloria was sucking on the cigarette as she regained her composure.
‘What will you do, Sam?’
‘Do? What do you mean?’
‘If you are pregnant? Will you keep it?’
Good question and one that Sam had asked herself many times. What did anyone do when they were going out with a man who couldn’t keep his hands off other women and then they discovered that they were pregnant, or might be? She felt raw panic under her sternum and stared at her cup of tea.
‘That’s not something I’ve considered yet,’ she mumbled, ‘I won’t know how I feel unless it’s confirmed. My first instinct is to get an abortion before anyone finds out. It’s wicked, but I can’t do the whole baby thing right now.’
She looked up from her tea expecting to see Gloria glowering at her with disapproval. Instead her friend’s face had gone white, and she held on to the edge of the table as if on a roller coaster.
‘I may not even be pregnant. Ignore me.’
But Gloria did not respond. She shut her eyes as if visualising something far away and Sam wondered what on earth she had triggered with her premature panic attack. She waited for Gloria to speak. After what seemed an age, her friend opened her eyes again and spoke so softly that Sam struggled to hear her.
‘I had an abortion,’ said Gloria, ‘after getting pregnant when I was nineteen. I was so innocent that when the nuns told me I couldn’t get pregnant before I married, I took it literally.’
She forced out a laugh but the painful sound stabbed Sam like a knife.
‘I didn’t even realise I was pregnant until my mother noticed me putting on weight and took me to the doctor. When they told me I was shocked, but not as horrified as my mother. It would have been such a scandal had anyone found out. Single mothers were beyond the pale. It was a disgrace that my parents were not prepared to go through.’
‘What happened?’
‘They shut me in my room for days, forbidden to see or talk to anyone, and then my mother announced that we were going to Miami. She said it was to buy baby clothes. I didn’t understand where we were going until we pulled into the doorway of the clinic. I had no choice.’
‘How awful for you. It must have been hard to forgive your mother.’
‘She had colluded with my father to get me an abortion which was devastating, but I understood. She was already ill, dying, from cancer and she didn’t want to leave me alone with a baby.’
‘But why didn’t they discuss it with you? Didn’t you have a right to decide, too?’
‘They were ashamed because in those days, nice girls didn’t get pregnant. They were trying to protect me, I guess. When I got back to Calderon, the father of the baby had disappeared.’
‘Did he run away?’
‘I never found out what happened to him. He may have gone back to Peru. I was afraid to ask my father, because I suspected he had something to do with it.’
She faltered. Fat tears leaked from her eyes, splashing on the Formica table top and she wept, wailing with grief. Senor Sanchez had a reputation, and he was not a man to be crossed. Sam could imagine his rage when he discovered that someone had deflowered his daughter and left her pregnant.
‘I’m so sorry, Gloria. I didn’t know.’
‘That’s why I don’t have children. I can’t anymore. Something went wrong.’
Her bravado had evaporated. Sam now understood why Gloria wasn’t married in the land of the teenage engagements. She had always presumed that it was a choice, like hers, but it wasn’t. Poor Gloria, there were no fairy tale weddings for the barren in Sierramar, no matter how rich you were. Speechless with sorrow for the hidden pain trapped behind Gloria’s glossy façade that was now leaking out in the form of bitter tears, Sam put her arms around her friend and held her as she mourned.
***
The contact provided by Hernan Sanchez was waiting at the door to the Migration building. He was short and plump with a bad wig resembling a random piece of cat skin perched at an angle on his head. He beamed at them, a smile of such radiance it almost made him handsome.
‘What did you tell your father?’ said Sam to Gloria as they approached him.
‘I said we were checking to see if one of your relatives had settled in Sierramar.’
‘We could do that, too.’
‘No, we couldn’t. This is urgent. Senor Salazar?’
‘Yes, Senorita Sanchez, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And your friend?’
‘I’m Sam. Hello, Senor Salazar, nice to meet you, too.’
‘So, how can I help you ladies?’
‘We need to look in the archives. My friend is German, and she is trying to find out if any relatives came to Sierramar after 1938.’
‘You mean because of the war in Europe?’
‘Yes, it would have been around that time,’ said Sam.
‘Follow me.’
They registered at the security desk leaving their ID cards with the guard and got into a rusty lift which plummeted deep into the earth at a disconcerting speed. The doors slid open at level B4 and they stepped into a gloomy basement with some old-fashioned microfiche viewers on a bench.
‘Wait here, please,’ said Senor Salazar. Apart from the bench running down one wall of the room, parallel rows of shelving containing boxes with numbered labels on them filled the space. He walked past the entrances to several rows of shelving before disappearing into one. After about five minutes he re-emerged pushing a trolley which had boxes on both the bottom and top trays.
‘Here we are. If you can’t find them in here, they don’t exist. These are the records for residential immigrants into Sierramar from Germany for 1938 to 1946.’
‘Thank you. This is fantastic.’
Senor Salazar beamed again and stood there waiting. Sam opened one box. It contained sheets of see-through plastic that appeared to have minute writing on them. She had no idea what to do.
‘Um, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to read these.’
‘Ah, but you need to use the screens.’
‘Please can you show me how to do it?’
‘It would be my pleasure, Miss Sam.’
Mr Salazar selected a box and took the first sheet out of it. He sat at one screen and switched it on. A glass plate on the bench under the screen was illuminated. He lifted the plate and put the plastic sheet upside down on another plate below it. Sam was about to point this out but Gloria stopped her. He lowered the top plate onto the plastic sheet. The image appeared on the screen in a magnified form and they could see that the record was for one Frau Magda Glaub from Cologne.
‘Wow, that’s great,’ said Sam.
‘I recommend you do this in order,’ said Senor Salazar, ‘work through the box from back to front and you shouldn’t miss any records. Good luck in your search. When you finish, can you please log out at the security desk?’
‘We will. Thank you,’ said Sam. ‘Gloria, we need to avoid repetition here to save time. I’ll do the boxes on the top tray if you take those on the bottom. Let’s pile the boxes which have already been checked over here on the bench and then we can load up the trolley again when we finish. We should make notes about any German men from twenty to forty-five years old who arrived from 1938 to 1946.’
Gloria, who hated being told what to do, rolled her eyes to heaven at Sam’s British obsession with efficiency. However, this would not be a quick task if they weren’t organised and she hated basements.
‘Good idea,’ she said.
They sat down at the microfiche screens, side by side at first, but then Sam moved down one machine to give herself more room. It was simple work from then on. The forms were identical and gave the same information; name, date of birth, profession, origin. As they worked, Gloria gave out the odd exclamation and waved a microfiche in the air.
‘I know him,’ she said, ‘he lives in the valley.’
After a couple of hours, Sam finished the last box, and she had a list of about twenty names.
‘Well, I’m finished. What about you?’
‘I’m on the last box. Give me a minute. I think these are women but I want to be positive.’
Sam made a table in her notebook with crude columns with the same headings as the report cards. She transferred the information from her list and then copied Gloria’s data too. When they had finished, there were thirty-six names in the table.
‘So?’ she asked Gloria, ‘do you recognise anyone?’
‘Most of them. I’m shocked. You should choose one to be your long-lost-relative.’
‘There’s a doctor, Dr Kurt Becker. I shall pretend that his sister is my grandmother. That will make it less obvious than using a real person.’
‘Good idea. We should contact some of these people and pretend we are looking for her, or her brother.’
‘Is there anyone that stands out?’
‘Boris Klein. His daughters were at the same school as me. He made them dye their hair blonde so they would be more Aryan.’
‘Holy crap! Do you know where they live?’
‘I have their phone number.’
CHAPTER VIII
Saul and Alfredo August 1988
Saul Rosen wasted no time in getting a flight to Calderon and travelled south within the week. He had not slept or bathed and had only eaten scraps from the fridge before catching his flight. The apartment he left behind bore an air of neglect that suggested a deep depression or worse.
He had forced himself to pack a bag with items suitable for hiking and general tourist activities but he had none of the usual essentials like shorts or sun screen. He packed the Glock and bullets in his suitcase wrapped in his underwear. Old photographs of men in uniform were put into his carry-on bag along with his single ticket and passport. He was feeling oddly light-headed and struggled to behave normally. His behaviour concerned his neighbours but in true big city style they left him alone.
‘Poor man. I heard he was in a concentration camp. He’ll never recover you know.’
***
Alfredo drove to the airport to collect him, feeling rejuvenated by the expectation of adventure and history generated by Saul’s quest to find the fugitive Nazis. He would get revenge for his friend Ramon, whatever it took. Leaving the car in the official carpark, he strode across to the arrivals hall to find that the flight had been delayed by thirty minutes and that most of the passengers were still queueing in immigration. He bought himself a bitter coffee and a super sweet biscuit at a stall in the foyer. The muscles in his face tightened as he forced the coffee down his throat. Large groups of excited people were jostling to get to the barriers forcing him backwards. Some of them were holding helium balloons and other party paraphernalia. It was traditional for the whole extended family to welcome someone home from a trip abroad.
By the time, Saul emerged from the customs area, Alfredo was hopping from foot to foot in expectation. Saul was recognisable with his big nose and journalist’s leather satchel. He was a tall man and stooped despite only being in his late fifties. Alfredo stepped forward to shake his hand and noticed that his shirt was pungent with sweat and his trousers were also covered in miscellaneous marks. He wrinkled his nose and tried to hide his disgust.
‘Welcome to Sierramar. I’m Alfredo Vargas. I’m so glad you are here.’
‘Thank you. That’s a hell of a landing. I’ll need clean shorts.’
‘Oh, yes, I should have warned you,’ replied Alfredo, who was not impressed by this smelly New Yorker. He was tempted to tell him that a shower would be a good idea, too, but he realised that personal hygiene often went by the wayside when people got obsessed. His own had improved from necessity after he met Gloria who was fanatical about it. So, he gave Saul the benefit of the doubt and wound down the windows in the car for the journey home.
It was a bright windy day in Calderon and the traffic had not yet built up enough to block the roads. They drove through the modern part of town which seemed to impress Saul.
‘I thought Calderon would be full of colonial streets with tiled roofs and stone roadways.’
‘Oh, it has them, too. I live in the modern part of town. The old town is to the south. We can have a look around if you want. They have lots of beautiful churches, covered in gold leaf.’
‘Oh, I’m not one for churches. I prefer libraries.’
‘We have those, too.’
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting naked Indians with loin cloths.’
‘That’s a relief.’
***
They soon pulled into the garage at the side of Alfredo’s house and pushing through the kitchen door with Saul’s luggage. A door slammed.
‘I didn’t realise that you lived with someone,’ said Saul.
‘I don’t,’ said Alfredo, ‘and the maid already went home.’ He ran into the hall and out of the back door which was swinging open. A slim man with a pudding bowl haircut escaped through the back garden and jumped over the hedge. There was no hope of catching him. Alfredo turned to re-enter the house and stopped in horror. On the grass to his left lay the body of his dog, surrounded by dark fluid seeping into the e
arth. His throat had been cut and the gaping hole was already attracting ants. He gasped and turned away. These people were dangerous. He struggled to control his emotions. Saul came to the door.
‘Did you see who it was?’ he said.
‘I didn’t, although I may have talked to him in the National Archive. I have an idea what he wanted.’
Saul was staring in horror at the damp body on the grass.
‘Oh my God, he killed your dog. I’m so sorry. How devastating.’
‘He wasn’t much of a dog, more of a food disposal unit. He didn’t like me unless I was eating.’
‘Still, it’s a shock. The bastard!’
‘There’s nothing we can do now. Leave the body here. I’ll deal with it later. Shall we go in?’
The two men walked back inside the house trying not to smell the metallic odour that permeated the garden. Alfredo opened the door to the sitting room, and they went in. The room was carpeted in papers, some had been moved but the room was as he had left it. He guessed that they had disturbed the thief before he had finished.
‘Oh no, he’s trashed the place,’ said Saul, ‘do you think he found the report?’
‘I doubt it, my study always looks this way,’ said Alfredo, ‘even I can’t find anything, so I doubt he did.’
‘I apologise. If it’s any consolation, my office also looks like a bomb site.’
Alfredo guffawed, but he was worried. Someone had seen him visit Ramon. But who? Whoever it was suspected that he had the report on the Nazis in Sierramar and had sent Kleber to steal it. Or Kleber had been spying on him. Whatever the explanation, someone was concerned about the possibility that any information from Ramon’s report might get released. It was lucky he took the copy with him in the poacher’s pocket of his jacket. He patted it for reassurance.
