"No desire?"
"Of course not. How could there be? They are spirits. Desire is nothing more than a cage for the body. And without desire they can be one, just as they are one.with all those who are blessed. And I am one of them. They have taken me in and we meet on the moor and talk to each other."
"What do you talk about?" asked Demel.
"About everything that happens in the camp. My friends are very interested in that. And about my anxiety for the children. When I don't know what to do with some boy or girl, if a child is difficult or sick or has tried to run away—they advise me." Fraulein Louise cocked her head to one side, listened, nodded.
"What is it?" asked Pastor Demel.
"The Frenchman," said Fraulein Louise. "He's listening."
"I see. Where is he?"
"Standing by the window, behind you, Herr Pastor. He just said I should tell you that they never express themselves quite directly to me. They don't tell me what to do. For instance, they don't say, 'Go back to the camp and be very friendly and considerate with that naughty child—it's only naughty because it's had so many experiences'; no. They say things like, 'What you intend to do, do it soon, because you will succeed.' And then I know exactly what they mean. That's quite clear, isn't it?"
"Hm. Yes. Of course. Quite clear. Do the voices sometimes warn you, Fraulein Louise?"
"Of course they do! Often! And always in a way that I have to interpret. It's the only way they can communicate."
"Why is that?"
"Why? Because there is nothing tangible in the beyond," said Fraulein Louise. "That's perfectly understandable, isn't it, Hen-Pastor?"
17
"Schizophrenic," I said.
"That's what I think," said Paul Demel, running his fingers through his short hair. "The poor woman. I told you all this because by now everybody knows it anyway. They don't want her in the social workers' barracks anymore; she's ostracized by the women and hides there. Feelings against her have become so strong that Dr. Schall is thinking seriously of retiring her. It's a real tragedy."
Irina was staring at the phone as if she could hypnotize it. "I'm going crazy," she said. "It cant be busy for hours! The operator's forgotten me!"
"I'm sure she hasn't." I laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Be patient. The call will come through soon."
"I'm sure it will," said Pastor Demel.
"You said a while ago that you were going to find out something about her past," I said to Demel, "whether she ever had to have psychiatric treatment."
"Yes," he said.
"And with what results?" I glanced at my recorder. It was working.
"She was born and brought up in Reichenberg," said Demel, pulling the cord out of the hot plate. "It's all right now. Nothing wrong with it. Yes. Her parents died when she was young. She was in a home for two years, fine character, very nice young girl, helpful and outgoing. From the age of eighteen she was a social worker in Vienna. At the age of twenty-four she was sent to the Riesengebirge in Silesia for a while, on the Czech side, not far from the White Meadow." 78
"What is the White Meadow?"
"A moor, like this one. You see, everything fits. But it—it get even better. In the Riesengebirge, Fr&ulein Louise experienced love for the first time, relatively late in life and the only experience of its kind, as far as I could find out. The young man—he was younger than she—went out on the moor one day and never came back. He died on the White Meadow. His body was never found. I wasn't able to ascertain whether it was an accident or whether the young man had suicidal tendencies."
"But he died young," I said, "long before his time. Just like—" I stopped.
"Yes, just like Friiulein Louise's friends here," said Demel, nodding. "After her stay in the Riesengebirge, there is a gap of about six months. I don't know what happened during that time."
"Perhaps the first attack of schizophrenia," I said, stroking Irina's shoulder. "Calm down, girl. The call's got to come. Any minute."
She looked up at me and tried to smile, a tortured smile.
"You may be right," said Demel. "She may have been in a sanitarium and then, when she recovered, worked as a social worker again. She has always been a social worker, and always in camps."
"Under all sorts of regimes."
"Yes," said Pastor Demel. "And her behavior seems always to have been as it is now—she was friendly and helpful, but kept to herself. Aloof with adults. The only thing she loved was children. She always gave them everything she had. She's been here twenty years now. Imagine it, Herr Roland—twenty years. You have no idea what it's like here when the fog really settles down in the winter and the snow is meters deep. Kuschke drives her to Zeven once a month. She hasn't been to Hamburg or Bremen in years. So I imagine that out of scraps of memories of the few people she has felt close to in life, and through the stories peasants have told her about the many dead in the moor—"
The telephone rang. Irina leaped to answer it. "Yes... yes... thank you... thank you!" To us she said, "She's making the connection."
She waited, listening; suddenly her face was filled with an expression of utter disbelief. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"I hear music," she said. "And what music! Listen!" She held the receiver to my ear and I could hear a slow, melancholy waltz, played by violins but almost inaudible because of the static.
"'Remembering/" I said, and gave the receiver back to her.
"My favorite song," she said. "I'm old-fashioned when it comes to music." She hummed a few bars, and suddenly I realized that Irina, in spite of the profession she had chosen, in I spite of her intelligence, was a helpless, lost creature. I was sure that one could lie to her easily, hurt her easily; I was sure that she believed anything a loved one told her. And she had put her faith in this man she was trying to reach, given all her love to this fiance of hers, Jan Bilka.
"Jan loves 'Remembering,' too," said Irina, "and that I should hear it now ... it must be a good omen, don't you think?" And then, almost immediately, she cried, "Jan!" and began to speak very fast in Czech. Pastor Demel and I watched her. Suddenly she stopped abruptly, looking angry. "Hello! Hello!" she cried. "Operator!" And she tapped the phone furiously.
"What's the matter?"
"We've been cut off!"
Fraulein Vera must have answered because Irina began to talk into the phone again, agitatedly. "Fraulein! The line went dead suddenly. We were cut off. No, no, no! We were disconnected before I tried to reach you. Please try again! Please! Yes... yes,.. thank you."
Irina waited. She drummed with her fingers on the desk. A pity Bertie wasn't there to take pictures. "What happened? What did you say?"
"I-I-"
"Calm down," I said, "and try to tell me what you said."
"I said, 'Jan, this is Irina. I'm in the West, in Camp Neurode. You can come and get me out. Come with your friend '"
"And then what?"
"And then the line went dead."
"Who answered the phone?"
"Jan, of course."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive!" she said angrily.
"No use getting angry with me," I said. "It isn't my fault."
"I'm sorry."
"That's all right," I said, and thought: the little boy, the schizophrenic old spinster, the escaped refugee from the Czech Defense Ministry ... if things went on like this, we'd hit pure gold! I could sense it. I could always sense it when I was on the trail of a story. "What did your fiancS say?"
BO
"When he answered?,'2-2068-54.'"
"In German?"
"Yes."
"Nothing else?"
"Then I started to talk/'
"Because you recognized his voice?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Are you sure it was his voice?"
"I just told you. It was Jan's voice. His voice!" She hadn't put the receiver down; she was holding it with both hands. Now she said, "It's ringing again."
The rays of the setting sun fell o
n her, blood red. I looked out of the window. The alders and birches were silhouetted black against the fiery sky in the west. "She's still ringing," said Irina, and suddenly she began to cry. "But that's impossible," she sobbed. "He just answered!"
I took the receiver from her. It was damp. I listened. The phone was ringing... ringing— Irina was weeping. Pastor Demel went over to her. "Don't cry," he said. "Please. We'll find out what's wrong. Don't be afraid."
"But it was his voice! A minute ago he was there! Something must be wrong!"
"Just a minute," I said, trying not to show my excitement as I hung up. Seconds later I picked up the receiver again and got the operator. "Fraulein Vera? Roland speaking. Please don't be angry, but you don't seem to be getting an answer in Hamburg."
"I've been ringing 2-2068-54." She sounded annoyed.
"I'm sure you have. Perhaps it was a faulty connection. Would you mind trying again? Please? Do it for me!" I laughed softly. Me and my effect on women. Crazy, when you come to think of it—an old lush like me—still, I could have any woman I wanted. They told me I was charming.
"All right, Herr Roland. But I've got bigger and better things to do."
I was sure she had. "Thank you, Fraulein Vera."
"This man who was going to take me with him, is it true—was he arrested for blackmail?" Irina asked hesitantly. "Do you think he was going to kidnap me? Do you think there's some connection between him and Jan? Do you think something's happened to Jan?"
Yes. I was thinking just that. "Nonsense!" I told her. "Nobody wants to kidnap you. That bastard had something quite different
in mind. And what do you mean, 'something's happened to Jan? Didn't you just hear his voice?" Pure gold, I was thinking. "They're ringing again," I said.
She tried to take the receiver from me, but I pushed her away. This time I wanted to be at the end of the wire when somebody answered. I looked at my wristwatch and let the phone ring a full three minutes, then I said, "No answer," and hung up.
Irina's lips were trembling, she was breathing hard, her voice was hoarse. "I'm afraid," she said. "Something has happened! I know it has! I know!" You can bet your sweet life on it, I thought, and said, "Try to control yourself, girl. Something seems to have gone wrong, yes, but we don't know what. It could be something harmless. There are hundreds of reasons—"
"Give me one!"
Oh no, I thought, and said, "Fr&ulein Indigo, you mustn't go to pieces. That's the most important thing right now. And I'll try to help you."
"You? Why should you want to help me?"
"Because I'm a reporter and a reporter needs stories. And we may have one here. But I can only help you if you trust me."
The telephone rang. Irina cried out. I picked up the receiver. It was Fr&ulein Vera. "Did you get through?" she asked.
"Unfortunately, no. But thanks a lot, anyway. I'm going to make another call in a minute, to Frankfurt."
"Very good, Herr Roland. I'm sorry about Hamburg."
I turned to Irina. "So, what about it? Will you trust me?"
"No!"
"Fraulein Indigo!" It was Pastor Demel, protesting.
"I don't trust anybody here! Why should I?" And she sat down in front of the desk, laid her head on her arms, and wept. I let her cry for a while. I knew how it would end. She had no choice. And sure enough, she soon lifted her head, sobbed some more, and said, "I didn't mean it."
"So you're willing to trust me?"
She nodded.
"Good. Now we'll make some headway." And then I began to phone.
I asked Fraulein Vera to connect me with my office in Frankfurt. I gave her the number, and the call came through right away. The voice of the girl at the other end of the wire: "Blitz. What can I do for you?"
I have a good memory for voices. I'd known all our operators
for years. "Hello? Marion, my love? Roland speaking."
"Oh, Herr Roland!" She sounded breathless. What did I tell you?
"I'm up north. Let me speak to Herr Kramer, please."
"Right away."
"Thanks, sweetie."
Kramer's secretary came next, then I had Kramer himself on the wire. He was executive editor in charge of all copy, and a good friend of mine. I'd known him as long as I'd been with Blitz.
"Hello, Hem," I said.
"Hello, Walter. What's new? Laid out somewhere up there? The jackal on your trail again?"
"No, Hem."
We called him "Hem" because Paul Kramer, age fifty-six, was a dead-ringer for the great Hemingway, the same face, the eternally unkempt hair, the metal-rimmed glasses, the plaid lumberjack-type shirts he liked to wear, the wrinkled flannel pants, but most of all—his character. If there was anything that kept me upright at Blitz —at any rate to some extent—it was Hem. The kindest, smartest, and best editor I'd ever known, probably the best editor alive. The only man in the world whom I admired. I would have liked to be like him, but that was not possible.
"Are you in the cathouse?" he asked.
"No."
"Well, now I'm curious. Talk!"
I talked. Irina and Pastor Demel listened. I told Hem everything that had happened; when I got to Irina and her fiance, I chose my words carefully. But Hem got the message that I was onto something big. We had evolved our own language for that sort of thing.
"Boy... Walter... if it works out—"
"Exactly."
"Stay with it."
"I intend to."
"As far as I'm concerned, you've got carte blanche. Do whatever you think's right. And keep in touch. Every hour on the hour."
"Will do."
My curt replies were making the pastor and Irina nervous. I grinned at them.
"At night, call me at home. You've got the number?"
"Yes."
"We've got to know where you are."
"Yes."
"I take it you'll try to get to Hamburg with Bertie and the girl. On the double."
"Yes."
"She's listening."
"Yes."
"Ill pass it on to Lester and Herford." Lester was editor-in-chief, Herford was our publisher.
"Hem, I need money."
"That figures." I didn't have to say what for. For years now Hem and I had understood each other with a minimum of words. "How much?"
"Fifteen thousand," I said. "I'd like it by wire. Park Hotel, Bremen. In my name. No—in Bertie's." Something had occurred to me.
"Okay. Just a minute while I tell Ruth, so we don't lose any time." Ruth was my secretary. I could hear him talking to her, then to me again, "Okay, go ahead."
"I need everything you can find on Karl Concon." I spelled the name. "There's a file on him."
"From when?"
"1957. According to Bertie. We did a picture spread on his trial. Send me the original or copies. Makes no difference."
"You want the stuff in Hamburg."
"Right. Fuhlsbiittel airport. General delivery. Bertie or I will get it. Address it to both of us. Send it airmail special delivery."
"Right away."
"And, finally, send Conny a teletype." Conny was Conrad Manners, our correspondent in Hamburg. "Tell him to get going on it right away. Just a minute." I turned to Irina. "What's the address of your Herr Michelsen?"
"The address?" For a moment my rapid-fire dialogue with Hem seemed to have stunned her. "Eppendorfer Baum 187."
I repeated the address to Hem. "Tell Conny to see if he can locate Jan Bilka. But quietly. He's only to keep an eye on him."
"I get it," said Hem. "Tread softly."
"Right. And if he finds him, he's not to let him out of his sight. Doesn't Conny have a girl he lives with? I can't remember her name."
"Edith," said Hem. "Beautiful Edith."
"Now I remember. Conny's to let her know where he is, at all times, until I get there. Ill go see Edith first. Conny will need a description of Bilka. Ill give you Fraulein Indigo." I handed her the receiver. "Describe your fiance."
"Yes," she s
aid obediently. To Hem she said, "Griiss Gott. I'm supposed to... yes. He's thirty-two years old, about one-eighty tall, blond hair cut very short... yes, military style. Gray eyes, a longish face, a scar on the right side of his chin. He's thin but very strong, and he's tanned. That's about all I can tell you. Just a minute," and she gave me back the receiver.
Hem said, "That should do. I'll get the teletype out to Conny right away, and you keep in touch."
"I will. 'Bye, Hem. And now connect me with Rotaug." Dr. Helmut Rotaug was head of the legal department for Blitz.
"I realize you can't speak freely," said Hem, and for a moment I thought I could smell his Dunhill tobacco. He smoked a pipe. "I take it you want to talk to Rotaug about the releases."
"Yes."
"Ill brief him. Then all you have to do is write down what he says. So long, Walter." There was a click on the wire as he made the connection with Rotaug. I waited and smiled at Irina, who was watching me and looking worried. I couldn't blame her. Then Rotaug was on the wire, with his low voice, which always managed somehow to sound menacing.
Rotaug was sixty years old, had been with Blitz since the beginning, was trusted implicitly by publisher Herford, and looked like a toad. He was shrunken and stooped, always wore black suits, white shirts, silver ties, and high stiff collars with the corners turned down, like our former financial wizard, Dr. Hjalmar Schacht, God rest his soul. He had a long, wrinkled neck, the skin of which was yellow, peppered with liver spots, and hung in folds; an oval face—cold, expressionless, and also covered with liver spots; and a completely bald head, yellow like his neck, but the skin was taut. He had almost no lashes on the lids of his small, beady eyes, and he always wore a beautiful stickpin in the knot of his tie. He had the face of a banker, a chairman of the board, a financier, and he was a genius in his field. A genius, not a human being.
Our relationship? Polite but frosty. I knew that Rotaug had told Herford years ago, "Ace reporter? Maybe. We make millions with him? All well and good. A great fellow. But mark my words, one day this great fellow is going to involve us in the
The Traitor Blitz Page 9
