The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Fraulein Louise didn't answer. I asked again. Again she didn't seem to hear.

  "How much money can you spend per person daily?"

  "Two marks fifty," she replied promptly. So this was a question she was willing to answer. "That's for clothing, bed and board, pocket money, heating in the winter—everythingl Not much, is it?"

  "No." Bertie was smiling. "Not much."

  'The adults in the other two camps also got only two marks fifty a day, but my children got ten pfennigs more." My children, she said—

  Two marks fifty per person. And sixty kilometers from here, Bertie and I had had two rooms with bath in the Park Hotel for eighty-five marks a day each. Just for the room. Not quite sixty kilometers away—

  We had reached Fraulein Louise's barracks. Almost directly behind it, I could see a row of black alders, growing close together, and behind them the high barbed-wire fence and the searchlights on their poles. "Does the camp end there?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "Back there."

  "And what lies beyond the fence?"

  Again she didn't answer. I repeated my question. No reply. Then I could see for myself. Beyond the fence lay the eerie, endless moor, great areas of which were already obscured by fog.

  10

  The door of Fraulein Louise's office flew open. "Okay! In you go!" growled driver Kuschke, his usually good-natured face grim. With the help of a shaky old camp guard he shoved in the fat man who was wearing a light blue suit under his gray coat, a pink shirt, and a wild tie, and who reeked of a sickly sweet perfume. He spoke in a high sing-song voice and made a flabby and effeminate, but sly and thoroughly unpleasant impression.

  "You're going to be sorry for this!" he whined. "I have friends in Hamburg. In the administration! Wait till they hear what goes on in this place!"

  "Shut up!" said Kuschke, and to Fraulein Louise, "Here's the fat slob. And we've brought Indigo, too. Was going to bolt with the bastard."

  The girl whose name was Irina Indigo came into the room, led by Pastor Demel. She was hysterical with rage. The young pastor, who wore a black tie and his hair in a crew cut, was trying to calm her down, without success. She screamed at Fraulein Louise, "I can't stand it here! Not another minute! I've got to get out of here!"

  Bertie was standing beside me, taking pictures with the Hasselblad. "Who's the fat one?" he whispered.

  "No idea."

  "I know him."

  "You do?"

  "I know him." Bertie was staring at the fat man. "I know him, goddamn it! But I can't place him." He scratched his head above the bandage.

  Meanwhile Fraulein Louise had pounced on the girl. She was extraordinarily sharp with her, considering how pleasant she had been until now. But then I remembered her outburst over the damaged hot plate. Apparently she gave in to such rages.

  "Fraulein Indigo, you know better than that. Haven't I told you you can't leave the camp without permission and a pass?"

  Irina Indigo had black hair. She wore it pageboy cut. She had dark eyes that were flashing now, full red lips, and very white skin. She was tall, slender, and wore flat shoes, a light blue jumper, a skirt to her knees, and a matching coat. She had long silky lashes. Her Czech accent was barely noticeable.

  "I must get out! I must get to my fianc&! I've said so a dozen times. I've got to get to him!" She pointed to the fat man. "This gentleman was going to take me to him. In his car."

  "That's what you get for trying to help somebody," said the fat man, rubbing his sore head.

  Kuschke lifted his free arm as if he wanted to strike again, but the fat man ducked. "Don't you dare!" Then he noticed that Bertie was staring at him. "And what's the matter with you?"

  "I know you," said Bertie.

  "That's what you think," said the fat man.

  "But I do," said Bertie. 52

  "You can kiss my ass!" said the fat man. Kuschke wrenched the arm behind his back higher, and the fat man bellowed with pain.

  Fraulein Louise walked up to him belligerently, a female animal protecting her young. "What are you doing here? Do you have a pass?"

  "He doesn't have a thing," said the guard, looking embarrassed.

  "If he doesn't have a pass, how did he get in?" asked Fraulein Louise.

  The camp guard's face reddened.

  "Well?" said Fraulein Louise.

  "It's our fault," was the camp guard's embarrassed reply. "The game. Germany-Albania."

  "What?"

  "Soccer, Fraulein Louise. On television. A lot of the young ones were watching, too."

  "Well... that is unbelievable!" said Fraulein Louise. "That's what happens when people have nothing but amusement on their minds and don't attend to their duties."

  "Yes," the tired camp guard admitted unhappily.

  "All four of you watching television?"

  "All four of us. Yes, Fraulein Louise. That's when he must have got in."

  "That's a nice state of affairs!" raged Fraulein Louise. "Meanwhile anything can happen!"

  "We're sorry, Fraulein Louise. Nothing's ever happened before."

  "Aha!" Kuschke had frisked the fat man. He sounded triumphant. "There we are!" He pulled a pistol out of the fat man's belt and handed it to the guard. "A Walther 7.65." He released the clip. "Loaded."

  Kuschke found two more clips in the left pants pocket of the fat man who smelled to high heaven of musk. "Christ! A whole arsenal!"

  "Do you have a gun permit?" asked the guard.

  "Of course," said the fat man.

  "Where?"

  "In Hamburg. Do you think I carry it around with me?"

  "But the gun—yes," said Kuschke. "We're confiscating the pistol."

  The fat man whirled around. "You're not confiscating

  anythingI" he shrieked in his high-pitched voice. "What you're doing here is absolutely illegal!"

  "Shut your big mouth 1" Kuschke said quietly. He was a strong man with huge hands. "Or you'll hit the wall and won't get up again."

  Irina Indigo had looked startled when Kuschke had found the pistol. Now she stood there helplessly, not saying a word, and avoided looking at Fraulein Louise. Bertie walked around the fat man, eyeing him from all sides, frowning. He was obviously trying to remember where he had seen the man before. I smiled at the girl. She didn't seem to notice.

  "Identification!" barked the guard.

  "What for?"

  "One more shitty question like that and I'll flatten you!" said Kuschke.

  The fat man handed over his passport. The guard walked over to Fraulein Louise's desk and began to take notes. Suddenly Irina Indigo cried out, "This gendeman came into the camp because I waved at him!" Bertie took a picture of the fat man.

  "You can't do that!" he shouted. "Not to me!" And he went for Bertie. I took a flying leap across the office, punched the guy in the ribs, then in the stomach. Gasping for breath, he collapsed in a chair. Bertie took pictures. Action pictures.

  Now the girl screamed at me. "What do you think you're doing? Who are you?"

  "Okay, honey." I lit a cigarette. "You and I will have a little talk in a minute." I looked at Bertie. "All right?"

  "First-rate," said Bertie, and took two more pictures of the fat man.

  As I said before, I have an instinct for people. And for events. Now I had what I call hunting fever. At first I'd thought we'd drawn a blank by coming to this miserable place, but since Fraulein Louise had spoken to her invisible audience, everything had changed. I went over to the guard who was taking notes. "What's the man's name?"

  "Karl Concon."

  "Concon..." Bertie repeated the name. "Concon "

  "His profession is hotelier."

  "Hotelier!" said Kuschke scornfully. "A brothel on the Reeperbahn's more like it. Excuse me, Fraulein Louise, but isn't it a filthy mess? They come to us in droves, the bastards. They 54

  promise the little bitches a co-op apartment and two thousand marks a month, guaranteed! And what do they get? Gonorrhea!"

  "Herr Concon didn't
promise me anything," cried Irina Indigo. She looked furious.

  Bertie slapped his forehead. "Now I know who you are! I never forget a face! You were on trial. 1956—no, 1957. I was there. We had a story on it in Blitz."

  "You're soft in the head," said Concon and laughed, but it was a shaky laugh.

  "In Hamburg," said Bertie. "A picture story."

  "What was he being tried for? Who is he?" I asked.

  "A slob," said Bertie. "A big fat slob. A fag. Not that I have anything against fags."

  "Neither do I," I said. "God knows, I've got lots of gay friends. Make very good friends."

  "Sure," said Bertie. "But not this guy. This guy doesn't know how to be a good friend. This fag blackmails fags. Among others, a quite important German officer. That's why he was in court."

  "For blackmail?" asked the pastor.

  "No. For treason."

  "I wasn't convicted," Concon cried angrily, rubbing his sore head again.

  "Because of insufficient evidence," said Bertie.

  "Treason? Blackmail?" Fraulein Louise was beside herself.

  "Right," said Bertie. "Treason and blackmail. Herr Concon, you've grown considerably fatter since then. Take down all the information, Walter—passport number, date of issue. Let's do our research properly."

  "I need the information, too," said Fraulein Louise.

  The pastor gave her a strange look, but he didn't say anything. Fraulein Louise picked up a pad and pencil and walked over to the guard who was copying the information. I heard a click. The cassette had run out. I put in a new one fast and went and stood beside Fraulein Louise and recorded all the data on Concon's passport. Bertie was right. Assignments like Neurode were usually given to our researchers. When something had happened or was suspect, they went out with their cameras or took along a photographer and collected all the necessary material, then I or some lesser light wrote it up. This time things were different. I was doing the research. Herr Karl Concon was bom in 1927, on May 13, and was therefore forty-one years old.

  Fraulein Louise told the unhappy camp guard, "Hang onto the man and call the police in Zeven. They're to come and get him."

  "Yes, Fr&ulein Louise."

  "You can't hold me!" cried Concon, and collapsed. He was evidently badly hurt.

  "Sure we can hold you!" Kuschke rubbed his big hands.

  Tm telling you, you can't hold me, you pigs!" Concon was screaming.

  "We're going to bring charges against you," said Fr&ulein Louise.

  "Don't make me laugh! For what?"

  "For entering the camp without a permit. For disturbing the peace. For trying to kidnap a young girl," said Fraulein Louise. I never—

  "You didn't?" Kuschke, with his almost unintelligible Mecklenburg accent. "We dreamed it all, maybe?"

  "And we shall also examine what Herr Engelhardt told us about you."

  "You asshole!" Concon to Bertie, who was smiling.

  "Please, please, Fr&ulein Louise, let me at least call my fiance!" begged Irina Indigo.

  "Impossible!" said Fr&ulein Louise.

  "Why don't you let the girl call him?" I asked.

  "I've begged and begged, and the answer's always no!" the girl pleaded.

  "Because it's forbidden," said Fraulein Louise. "If we permitted it, they'd all be calling. We can't allow it. Two marks fifty each is all we get for every one of them."

  I said, "111 pay for the call."

  "You?"

  "Yes. I have to call my editor, too."

  Fr&ulein Louise hesitated.

  "Please—"

  The phone rang. Fraulein Louise took the call. "Gott-

  schalk Yes, Herr Doktor. All right. We'll come right over."

  She hung up. "It's a girl," she said.

  She walked over to the door of her living room and opened it. Kuschke and I followed her. The driver said, "I'm glad. The Panagiotopulos girl was so afraid it was going to be a boy and he'd have to be a soldier in the next war."

  We looked into the living room. Karel was sitting on Fr&ulein Louise's bed, pale, his hair disheveled. The trumpet was still lying at his feet. Fraulein Louise walked up to him.

  "We're going to see the doctor," she said. "He's too busy to come to us. Do you think you can walk?" The boy nodded and got up, swaying a little. Fr&ulein Louise supported him. Bertie shoved me aside and took pictures.

  Fraulein Louise led the boy through her office, saying as she passed Irina Indigo, "Since Herr Roland is willing to pay, you may call. But don't try to get out of here again!"

  "I won't, I won't, Fraulein Louise." Suddenly she looked happy. "If I can just talk to him—"

  "Are you through?" Fraulein Louise asked the camp guard.

  "Yes!" The guard put his notebook and Concon's pistol in his pocket. "Let's go," he said to Concon, trying to sound energetic and firm, the poor old fellow. "And don't try anything or you'll get more of the same."

  "And I'm here, too," said Kuschke.

  "Ill go with them," said Bertie.

  "Okay," I said. "When the police come, call me."

  "Will do."

  As he left the room, Concon hissed, "I'll speak to the mayor in Hamburg about this, and you'll be fired! Every one of you! And for this sort of thing we're paying taxes!"

  Fraulein Louise had almost reached the front door when Karel turned and without a word walked back into the other room. He came out again right away. He had gone to get his trumpet. He was holding the gleaming instrument in his little hand. He didn't say a word but walked slowly, cautiously, like a blind child. He saw us and bowed, like the little gentleman he was. "See you later, Karel," I said.

  "I'll go with you," said Pastor Demel. But FrSulein Louise had something else on her mind. "Please, Herr Pastor...I can manage the boy by myself, but my hot plate—the coil is broken again. You're so clever, you fixed it once. Would you take a look at it again?"

  "Ill be glad to," said Pastor Demel.

  "Thank you," said FrSulein Louise, and the door closed behind her and Karel. The pastor looked at the hot plate, took a big pocket knife with a lot of different blades and tools on it out of his pocket and began to work on the coil.

  Irina Indigo looked at me. Her eyes were dark and they were sad again. I looked at her. We were standing at least two meters apart, but our gaze held.

  A fresh squadron of Starfighters came roaring out of the sky, louder and louder, and again the windows rattled. I waited for my nerves to react. They didn't. For the first time I remained absolutely calm as the planes passed overhead. I looked for my jackal. He wasn't there. The roar of the engines grew less and faded away altogether. Irina Indigo and I were still looking at each other.

  11

  I remembered that I was a wreck of a man, a lush but a hard-working reporter who was onto something that showed promise, not a playboy who could lay a beautiful, helpless young girl, certainly not before he had helped her, so I pulled myself together and asked, "What's his number?"

  "When I was fleeing, I used it £s a prayer. Hamburg 2-2068-54;'

  "Does he have an apartment in Hamburg?" Pastor Demel was sitting on the desk now.

  "No. That's the apartment of his best friend in the Bundesrepublik. Rolf Michelsen. They've known each other for years. Herr Michelsen lives on a street called Eppendorfer Baum. Number 187." My recorder took notes. "Herr Michelsen took in my fiance. That was agreed upon long before he fled. Herr Michelsen often visited Jan in Prague." Janr

  "Jan Bilka. That's my fiance's name."

  "What does he do, this Herr Michelsen?"

  "I don't know. I don't know him personally. Jan used to talk about him, but he couldn't tell me everything. Jan was a very important official in the Ministry of Defense, so there were many things he couldn't talk about."

  Suddenly I felt hot. "Of course not. You said in the Ministry of Defense?"

  "Yes," said Irina. "Can we put through the call now?"

  "Right away," I said, and walked over to the phone. "If he was a top official
in the Defense Ministry, he must have been at least thirty."

  "Thirty-two," said Irina. "Why are you looking at me like that? I'm eighteen. So what!"

  "Nothing," I said.

  "I'm studying psychology," she said. "He had an apartment; I had one on the top floor in the same house. A sublet. We've known each other for two years. Satisfied?"

  I nodded and dialed the first number that came to me—nine—and, lo and behold, got central. I recognized the voice. "Is that pretty Fraulein Vera?" I said. "This is Roland, Fraulein Vera. Yes, I was the one who came in to see you a while ago. Please get me—" I looked at Irina.

  "Hamburg 2-2068-54."

  "Hamburg 2-2068-54," I repeated. "I'll be coming by to pay for the call. Fraulein Louise gave her permission. Thank you, Fraulein Vera." I gave Irina the receiver. "Hello!" She sounded breathless. And then, after a pause. "Yes, of course. I understand." And to us, "It'll take a while to make the connection. I'm to wait."

  "Fine."

  "You are Herr Walter Roland?" asked Pastor Demel. He was looking at me curiously.

  "I am." I sounded unfriendly, which had not been my intention, but suddenly I felt miserable.

  He introduced himself. "Paul Demel."

  "Pleased to meet you," I said curtly, and to Irina: "When did your fiance escape?"

  "Almost three months ago. On August twenty-first." She was holding the receiver to her ear.

  "Fraulein Louise told me you were coming." Pastor Demel was smiling. "I'm very pleased to meet you personally. I have a lot of questions to ask you."

  "You're the man who liked my books," I said, and there he was again, the miserable animal, my jackal.

  "Yes. I especially liked The Infinite Sky.**

  "And I suppose you want to know why I'm not writing any more novels."

  "Among other things," he said amiably.

  "Because I can't write any more books!" I said, trying

  desperately to control my feeling of harassment, without entirely succeeding. "That's why! All I can do now barely manages to come under the heading of journalism. I'm a reporter."

  "I find that hard to believe. I think you proved—"

  "I proved nothing!" I cried. "Please, Herr Pastor!"

  "You just became discouraged too soon," he said.

  "And I was hungry!" But I was thankful he didn't know the name I was writing under now. My profession was riddled with gossip, and a lot of people knew I was writing under another name. But Pastor Demel was apparently not one of them. I would have been ashamed to face this young priest if he had known who stood before him besides Walter Roland.