The Man with the Iron Heart

by Harry Turtledove

  “Doing all right.” Diana wasn’t lying…too much. Her conscience still gnawed at her for that San Francisco night. She did feel bad about it-and she felt worse because she’d felt so good while it was going on. I was drunk, she told herself. I didn’t know what I was doing. The first part of that was true. The rest? She’d known what she was doing, all right. And she’d gone and done it. And she’d enjoyed it like anything-then. Afterwards was a different story. Afterwards commonly was. She ducked away from the worries: “What can I do for you this morning?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to comment on the death of Reinhard Heydrich.”

  “I’m glad the miserable skunk is dead,” Diana said at once. “So many people have called me a Nazi, and it’s a filthy lie. You know it’s a lie, E.A. The maniacs that evil so-and-so led murdered my Pat. If we’d caught him alive, I’d’ve been glad to string him up myself.”

  “To hang the Hangman?” Stuart asked.

  Diana nodded, which the reporter couldn’t see. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s just right.”

  “Okay.” By the pause, E. A. Stuart was likely nodding, too. “How do you think his death changes the situation in Germany?”

  Since Diana’d been thinking about that ever since the news broke, she could answer without the least hesitation: “It just gives us one more reason to keep bringing our troops back to America. We’ve been saying all along that we wanted him dead, that we needed him dead, that he was the most dangerous man in the world, and I don’t know what all else. Fine. Now he’s dead. Now the fanatics can’t cause anywhere near as much trouble as they could before. That means we’ve got even less excuse for sticking around. The sooner all the soldiers come home, the better.”

  “Hang on,” Stuart said. She could hear him scribbling notes. Even though he took shorthand, she’d got ahead of him. Then he asked, “What would have happened if all the American soldiers were out of Germany before we found out where Heydrich was hiding out?”

  Diana scowled at the telephone. Doggone it, E.A., you’re supposed to be on my side. But she didn’t say it out loud. He would have to deny it, and he might have to go out of his way to show it wasn’t true. That wouldn’t be so good.

  “Maybe we would have gone back after him. I’ve never said we shouldn’t get rid of him,” she answered. “Or maybe the German police could have dug him out on their own.”

  “Mm. Maybe.” Stuart didn’t sound as if he believed it. He tried a different kind of question: “How do you feel about President Truman taking credit for bumping him off?”

  “If we’d caught Heydrich right after V-E day, he would’ve been entitled to some,” Diana said tartly. “Now we’re only a couple of months away from 1948. It’s not just about time Heydrich’s dead-it’s way past time.”

  “Hang on,” E. A. Stuart said once more, and then, “Okey-doke. Got it. Thanks a lot, Mrs. McGraw. ’Bye.” He hung up.

  “So long.” Diana set the phone down, too. She heated up the coffee, took the pot off the stove, and poured herself a cup. It wasn’t as good as it had been when she made it right after she and Ed got up, but it wasn’t too much like battery acid yet. And she was too lazy to fix a fresh pot.

  Battery acid. She shook her head. Would the comparison even have occurred to her if Ed hadn’t worked at the Delco-Remy plant since the Year One? How many car and truck batteries did they turn out there every year? Zillions-that was all she knew.

  The phone rang again. This time, it was a reporter from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He wanted to find out what she thought of Heydrich’s untimely demise, too. She was still all for it. He asked almost the same questions as E. A. Stuart had. Later on, she got a call from the Boston Globe, and one from the Los Angeles Mirror-News.

  “Do you feel like you’ve got revenge for your son now?” the reporter from the Mirror-News asked.

  That was a more…interesting question than she usually got. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “When it’s your own flesh and blood…No, it’s not revenge, or not enough revenge. I don’t think there can be enough revenge for your own child. I’m still glad Heydrich’s dead, though.”

  “You and everybody else. Well, thanks.” The reporter didn’t even say good-bye. He just went off to write up his piece.

  In between phone calls, life went on. Diana sliced potatoes and carrots and chopped onions and put them into a pan with a pot roast. If a few tears fell, she could blame them on the onions. Supper went into the oven.

  Ed got home about twenty to six, the way he always did. He took a Burgie out of the icebox, drank it faster than he was in the habit of doing, and then opened another one. “You all right?” Diana asked. “You don’t do that very often.” Ever since she got back from San Francisco, she’d watched him more closely than usual.

  He let out a wordless grunt and got to work on the second beer. That alarmed her. Everything alarmed her these days-a sure sign of her guilty conscience. That same guilty conscience had made her extra accommodating in the bedroom since coming home. If only it had made her take more pleasure in what went on there.

  Doggedly, she tried again: “Everything all right at the plant?”

  “Fine,” Ed said. He poured down the Burgermeister.

  He opened another one to go with supper. “You’ll get snockered,” Diana warned. She remembered too well what had happened when she got snockered. Ed just shrugged. He killed the beer, and killed one more while she was doing the dishes.

  That seemed to get him where he needed to go. While she dried the last fork and put away the dish towel, he sat there waiting. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?” he said, sounding sad and resigned at the same time.

  “What is?” Her voice, by contrast, was a thin, nervous squeak.

  “Us,” he said, and then, as if that weren’t comprehensive enough, “Everything.”

  “What? We’re fine! I love you!” The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Diana hadn’t read any Shakespeare since high school. Why did that particular line have to come back to her right now? Why? Because she was protesting too goddamn much-why else?

  “Yeah, well…” Ed turned toward the icebox, as if to get one more Burgie. But he didn’t. His smile was sad, too, sad and sweet at the same time. “You’ve got your head turned, babe. It took a while, but you do.”

  “What are you talking about?” Diana wouldn’t have sounded so scared if she hadn’t known precisely what he was talking about.

  He spelled it out for her anyhow: “You go here, you go there, you go all over the darn place. Reporters call you all the time. How many calls you get today on account of Heydrich’s kicked the bucket?”

  “Four.” Automatically, she answered with the truth.

  “Uh-huh.” Ed nodded. “And you hang around with big shots when you go traveling. Congressmen and mayors and Lord knows who all. And they figure you’re a big shot, too, ’cause you’ve got all this clout you made for yourself, and that’s great. And I bet they hit on you, too-you’re a darn good-lookin’ gal. I oughta know, huh? And then you come home.”

  “I’m glad to come home,” Diana said. And she always had been, till this last trip.

  Ed went on as if she hadn’t spoken: “You come home, and waddaya got? Me. Foreman at Delco-Remy. Ain’t gonna be anything more than foreman at Delco-Remy if I get as old as Methuselah. And it isn’t enough any more. I can tell.”

  “How?” she whispered. Did she have a scarlet A on her chest? Did she remember high-school lit classes better than she’d ever thought she could? She sure did, but why, for God’s sake?

  “How?” Her husband snorted. “I’ve known you for thirty years, that’s how. I’m not smart like a big shot, but I’m not blind, either.”

  Diana started to cry. “I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want any of this to happen-not any of it. If Pat was alive-” She cried harder. Ed hadn’t really guessed. She hadn’t really admitted anything, either. But how much difference did that make? He’d nailed everything else d
own tight. Hadn’t he just! “What are we going to do?” she wailed.

  His shoulder went up and down in a tried shrug. “I dunno, babe. What are we gonna do?”

  When it came to American foreign policy, she found answers with the greatest of ease, and she was always sure they were right. Here? Here she had no answers at all. She started crying again.

  “He’s dead. Good riddance to him,” Jerry Duncan said on the House floor. “And now, God willing, the fanatics in Germany will see that their cause is hopeless. And, I note, this is all happening even though our troops are coming home from Europe. The world hasn’t fallen to pieces. And it won’t fall to pieces, in spite of the doomsayers’ croakings in this very House.”

  Congressmen who agreed with him clapped and cheered. Congressmen who didn’t were much less polite. Boos, catcalls, shaken fists…Jerry didn’t seen any upraised middle fingers this time, which was progress of a sort. He did hear several insistent shouts: “Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!”

  Joe Martin pointed. “The chair recognizes the Representative from California.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” Helen Gahagan Douglas said.

  Maybe Martin had recognized her because her voice stood out among those of the Democrats clamoring for his notice (and well it might-not only was she a woman, but she’d also sung opera, so she had impressive volume when she needed it). Or maybe he’d thought she would be milder than most of her colleagues. If he had, he was unduly optimistic. Now that the wartime consensus lay dead, nobody saw much point to mildness any more.

  And Congresswoman Douglas proved as much, saying, “Many years ago, Chancellor Bismarck remarked that God loved children, drunkards, and the United States of America. The way things are these days, I hesitate to speak well of any German, but it seems to me that Bismarck knew what he was talking about. The distinguished gentleman from Indiana wouldn’t be celebrating Reinhard Heydrich’s death today if he’d got his own heart’s desire a few months earlier. If we didn’t have any men on the ground to dig him out once we learned where he hid, he’d still be down there sneering at us.”

  People on her side applauded. People on Jerry’s side were at least as rude to Helen Gahagan Douglas as people who agreed with her had been to him. The first thing that ran through his mind was Well, fuck you, bitch. He didn’t say it. Consensus might have expired, but civility, though hospitalized, still breathed.

  And she wasn’t a bitch, and Jerry knew it perfectly well when he wasn’t pissed off himself. She was a highly capable Congresswoman who disagreed with him on the President’s German policy. The way things went these days, the distinction seemed ever more academic.

  “Mr. Speaker!” Jerry said.

  “You have the floor, Mr. Duncan,” Joe Martin replied.

  “Thanks, Mr. Speaker. How many of our young men did the fanatics murder and torture while we lingered in Germany because President Truman couldn’t see we didn’t belong there? Are they a fair trade for Heydrich?” Jerry asked. Attacking the President was easier and more likely to be profitable than swinging directly at Helen Gahagan Douglas.

  She didn’t mind swinging right at him. “If someone makes a habit of murdering and torturing our young men-and that’s what the Nazis do, no doubt about it-isn’t it better to make sure he can’t do it any more than to run away from him?” she demanded.

  “I would say yes, except the Army has made it much too plain they can’t do that, either,” Jerry answered.

  “How do you expect it to, when you’ve been doing everything you could to hamstring it since V-E Day?” Helen Gahagan Douglas said. “You’ve been blaming the administration for Chiang Kai-shek’s losses in China. But when the administration tries to blame this Congress for our losses in Germany, you don’t think that’s fair.”

  “It isn’t fair,” Jerry snapped. “Our losses in Germany started long before Republicans gained the majority. We gained it not least because of American losses in Germany. And those losses started almost before the ink dried on the so-called surrender. The Army in Germany had full wartime appropriations in 1945, as I am sure the distinguished Representative from California recalls.” His tone declared he was sure of no such thing. “Even with those full appropriations, even with that flood of manpower, the U.S. Army had no better luck against partisan warfare than the Wehrmacht did in France or Russia or Yugoslavia.”

  “Mr. Speaker!” Congresswoman Douglas exclaimed. “It’s outrageous to compare the United States Army to Hitler’s murder machine! Outrageous!”

  “I wasn’t comparing them, except to point out that even the Wehrmacht couldn’t stamp out partisans. The Red Army isn’t having much fun trying it, either. And if you can’t hope to win a fight like that, why keep flushing blood down the toilet trying?” Jerry said.

  Neither Helen Gahagan Douglas nor any of the other pro-administration Representatives wanted to listen to him. They yelled and fussed and carried on. So did the Congressmen on Jerry’s side. Up on the rostrum, Joe Martin banged his gavel and, not for the first time, looked as if he had no idea why he’d ever wanted to become Speaker of the House.

  Flashbulbs burst like artillery shells. Blinking, Lou Weissberg tried to hide a shiver. He knew more about bursting shells-or at least mortar bombs-than he’d ever wanted to find out. Up there on the platform with him stood Bernie Cobb, Shmuel Birnbaum in black fatigues with “DP” armband, and Second Lieutenant Mark Davenport, the young officer who’d stopped Cobb and his buddies from leaving their position, so they’d been there when Heydrich and company came out.

  Also on the platform stood General Lucius D. Clay. Lou had figured the only way he’d get to meet the commander of American forces in Germany was by monumentally screwing up. He’d never dreamt he could do something right enough to draw a four-star general’s notice. Life was full of surprises.

  Clay stepped over to the microphone. More flashbulbs went off. Reporters got out notebooks and poised themselves to report. A movie camera recorded the event for posterity-and for the newsreel before next week’s two-reeler, or maybe week after next’s.

  Looking straight into the camera, General Clay said, “These four brave men with me today are most responsible for ridding the world of Reinhard Heydrich, would-be Fuhrer of the Nazi diehards and war criminal beyond compare. The U.S. Army and the government of the United States take pride in honoring them and rewarding them for their courage.”

  Lou translated Clay’s remarks into low-voiced Yiddish for Shmuel Birnbaum. Then Clay called the DP’s name. Lou stepped up to the mike with him to go on interpreting. Clay said, “We offered a million dollars for help leading to Heydrich’s capture or death. Mr. Birnbaum, who was forced to help excavate the Nazi leader’s headquarters and who later narrowly escaped the murder that would have silenced him forever, gave information that led us to him. His share of the reward will be $250,000.”

  Reporters and soldiers gave Birnbaum a hand. Shyly, his head bobbed up and down as he acknowledged the applause. “What will you do with the money?” somebody called. Lou translated the question.

  “I want to go to Palestine,” the DP answered without hesitation. “Everybody else has a homeland. Jews should have one, too.” After Lou also translated that, the mostly American crowd nodded. Englishmen wouldn’t have; the UK wasn’t having much fun trying to keep its old League of Nations mandate from exploding into civil war. An ordinary Jewish DP would have had a devil of a time even getting British permission to enter Palestine. For the man who’d fingered Reinhard Heydrich, though-and for a man with a quarter of a million smackers in his pocket-many more things were possible.

  Birnbaum and Lou stepped back. “Lieutenant Mark Davenport!” Lucius Clay said.

  Davenport strode forward and delivered a parade-ground salute. “Sir!” he said. He was skinny and blond, and looked about seventeen.

  “For your cool head, for your gallantry on the mountainside, and for your vital role in ensuring that Heydrich could not escape after coming out of his shelter
, I am pleased to promote you to first lieutenant, to present you with a Silver Star in recognition of your courage, and to reward you with $250,000. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you very much, sir!” Davenport sounded as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. Well, if he didn’t, who could blame him? As if to compound the surreal atmosphere, Clay personally pinned the Silver Star on his chest.

  “Private Bernard Cobb!” Before Cobb could even salute him, General Clay corrected himself: “Sergeant Bernard Cobb!”

  “Thanks, sir.” Bernie Cobb did salute then. Lou had got to know him a little the past few hectic days. Cobb had had as much of the Army as he wanted, and then some. Three stripes on his sleeve wouldn’t impress him. Neither would a Silver Star, even if Lucius Clay presented it with his own hands. A quarter of a million dollars were bound to be a different story.

  “What will you do next?” a reporter asked.

  “Soon as I get out of the Army, I’m going back to New Mexico,” Cobb answered. “I’ll buy me a house, buy a car, maybe go to school, find a girl, find a job, settle down. No offense to anybody, but I’ve worn a uniform as long as I want to.”

  “The Army needs men like you, but I have to admit I understand-and I sympathize,” General Clay said. Then he turned to Lou. “Captain-no, Major-Louis Weissberg!”

  “Sir!” Lou blinked-he hadn’t expected the promotion. Down in the crowd, Howard Frank grinned and waved and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Lou wasn’t sure he deserved a Silver Star, either. Unlike Bernie Cobb or Lieutenant Davenport, he’d spent a hell of a lot more time in Heydrich’s valley getting shot at than shooting. Then Lucius Clay said, “You earned your share of the reward for ending Reinhard Heydrich’s career not just in the valley last week but also in your relentless pursuit of him and of other war criminals since V-E Day. As I told Sergeant Cobb, the Army needs more men like you. Well done!”