‘‘I’m sure I could take a taxi to the Embassy, Herr Standartenf ührer, and then another to the Casino Hotel, if that meets with your approval.’’
‘‘No. I know what to do. I’ll telephone him that I’m here. He will come out to meet me. Presumably, you can turn over the pouch to him?’’
‘‘To the Security Officer? Of course, Herr Standartenf ührer.’’
‘‘And then he can drop you at the hotel, we can go about our business, and we will pick you up at the hotel in the morning. How does that sound?’’
‘‘Whatever the Herr Standartenführer wishes.’’
‘‘Where is a telephone?’’
‘‘Just inside the terminal, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Well, I’ll make the call, and you do whatever you have to do to the airplane.’’
‘‘Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer!’’
While they waited, Peter took the opportunity to refuel the Storch. As he was doing that, he wondered why Goltz’s old friend the Embassy Security Officer, or at least someone from the Embassy, was not waiting for them at the airport when they landed. Thirty minutes later a canary-yellow 1941 Chevrolet convertible, roof down, raced up to the entrance of the terminal building.
A nattily dressed, somewhat portly man in his forties, sporting a neatly manicured full—à la Adolf Hitler—mustache jumped from behind the wheel and walked quickly to Goltz.
‘‘Herr Standartenführer, how good it is to see you!’’
‘‘Werner, how are you?’’ Goltz said, enthusiastically shaking his hand, then asking admiringly, ‘‘Where did you get that car?’’
‘‘Inge saw it,’’ the portly man said, gesturing to the woman stepping out of the car. ‘‘Said it matched her hair, and absolutely had to have it.’’
‘‘My dear Inge,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘As lovely as ever!’’
Christ, I know her!
‘‘Josef, how good to see you. Welcome to Uruguay.’’
‘‘May I present Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein? ’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck and his lovely bride.’’
‘‘I believe,’’ Frau von Tresmarck said coyly, ‘‘that the Major and I have met. Isn’t that so, Herr Major?’’
Frau von Tresmarck was a tall, slim blonde perhaps fifteen years younger than her husband.
Indeed, we have met—if memory serves, in the bar at the Hotel am Zoo—and then spent two days in the Hotel am Wansee, leaving bed only to meet the calls of nature. I returned to the Squadron with just barely enough energy to crawl into the cockpit.
‘‘I believe we have, Frau Sturmbannführer,’’ Peter said, bobbing his head and clicking his heels. ‘‘I’ve been trying to recall where.’’
‘‘Me too,’’ she said. ‘‘It’ll come to me, where we met.’’
Peter offered his hand to von Tresmarck, who smiled when he took it but looked at him oddly.
Are you aware, Herr Sturmbannführer, that your wife has probably taken to bed one in four of the fighter pilots in the Luftwaffe? Is that why you’re looking at me that way?
‘‘We have a small problem, Werner,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Von Wachtstein has a pouch for the Embassy, and presumably there will be another for him to take back to Buenos Aires tomorrow. . . ."
‘‘That shouldn’t be a problem, Josef,’’ Inge von Tresmarck said. ‘‘When we reach the house, Werner can call the Embassy and have someone come for it.’’
‘‘Unfortunately, Inge,’’ Goltz said, ‘‘arrangements have been made for von Wachtstein to stay at the Casino Hotel. He has business of his own to transact.’’
You either know the Gnädige Frau von Tresmarck fucks like a mink and are trying to avoid Inge and me causing a social problem, or you don’t want me around with you and von Tresmarck. One or the other. Or both.
‘‘What a pity,’’ Inge said.
‘‘I can take the pouch off your hands, von Wachtstein,’’ von Tresmarck said. ‘‘And we can drop you at the Casino Hotel. It’s not far from here.’’
‘‘You’re very kind, Herr Sturmbannführer.’’
‘‘And we’ll work out how to deal with the outgoing pouch sometime today,’’ Goltz said.
‘‘I am at your orders, Herr Standartenführer.’’
Peter took the receipt form for the pouch from his jacket pocket and gave it to von Tresmarck to sign. When he put the signed receipt in his pocket, he saw that Inge had climbed back into the car, into the rear seat.
‘‘My dear Inge,’’ Goltz said, ‘‘I will ride in the back with von Wachtstein.’’
‘‘No, you’re our honored guest,’’ Inge said.
Von Tresmarck gave Peter another strange look as he climbed in the back with Inge.
As soon as they were moving, Inge slid forward on her seat and rested her elbows on the back of the seat between her husband and Goltz.
‘‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you, Josef,’’ she said. ‘‘Now, don’t go running to the Ambassador to tell him I said this, but those Foreign Ministry people are dull, dull, dull.’’
‘‘This isn’t Berlin, is it?’’
‘‘And one feels . . . oh, I don’t know how to say this, and I know Werner is doing important things, but I feel . . . guilty I guess is the word . . . guilty about being away from the home front, where I could do something for the cause!’’
‘‘But my dear Inge,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘You are doing something for the cause! Your very presence here helps Werner in the accomplishment of his responsibilities.’’
‘‘I wish I could do more,’’ Inge said.
She pushed herself off the seat back and slid back into the rear seat. The fingers of her right hand moved slowly and provocatively up Peter’s leg.
With a little bit of luck, we are almost at the Casino Hotel, and I can bid auf wiedersehen to the lovely Frau Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck before anything happens.
Ten minutes later, after passing through a residential area that reminded Peter of the Zehlendorf section of Berlin, they came to a large, ornate, stone, balconied, turn-of-the-century building. It sat alone, where three streets converged in a half-circle.
‘‘There it is!’’ Inge announced, squeezed his inner thigh almost painfully, and withdrew her hand.
As von Tresmarck drove up to the main entrance, Peter saw a sandy beach and a large body of water on the other side of a four-lane divided highway.
Muddy brown water, which probably means that’s still the Río de la Plata.
A doorman and a bellboy—a boy; he looked about twelve or thirteen—came down the wide marble stairs to the car.
Goltz opened his door for Peter to get out, and von Tresmarck went to the trunk to reclaim Peter’s small canvas bag.
‘‘I will leave word what time I’ll be here in the morning, ’’ Goltz said.
‘‘Thank you, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said, and clicked his heels. ‘‘And thank you, Sturmbannführer.’’ Von Tresmarck nodded but did not say anything. ‘‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Frau Sturmbannführer,’’ Peter concluded, clicked his heels again, and marched up the stairs after the bellboy.
He did not look back at the car.
The lobby of the hotel was crowded with well-fed, well-dressed, prosperous-appearing people. There seemed to be fewer blond, fair-skinned people here than in Buenos Aires, but he wondered if this was just his imagination.
He was shown to a suite on the second floor, a foyer, a sitting room and room with a large double bed. When he opened the vertical blinds, he saw there was a balcony overlooking the water. He went out on it.
A few moments later he left the room, descending to the main-floor corridor by a wide flight of carpeted marble stairs, rather than by the elevator. He had just decided that the place reminded him somewhat of the gambling casino in Baden-Baden when, glancing down a side corridor, he saw the hotel casino.
He went in. He was not a gambler, but he was curious. Three-qu
arters of the casino’s tables were in use. He watched roulette for a few minutes, then baccarat, and that was enough.
When he left the casino, he passed through the hotel dining room, which was in the center of the building. It was a large, somewhat dark room from whose three-story-high ceiling hung four enormous crystal chandeliers. There was a grand piano at one end of the room, beside the bar, and a pianist was playing Johann Strauss. The bar was crowded.
A headwaiter offered him a table but he declined.
He left the hotel and walked around the street across from it. The smell of burning beef caught his nostrils, and he followed it to a small restaurant where an amazing amount of beef was cooking over glowing wood ashes.
He had a steak, french fried potatoes, a tomato and lettuce salad, and washed it down with a bottle of the local beer. He was surprised that the bill was so small.
On the way back to the hotel he stopped at a newsstand, where there was an array of American magazines. There was nothing in German except for yesterday’s Buenos Aires Frei Post. He bought copies of Time, Look, The Saturday Evening Post, and a men’s magazine, with a racy picture of a woman in a bathing suit on the cover, called Esquire.
He carried them back to the Casino Hotel, nobly decided against quenching the thirst his first beer had caused by having a second in the bar, and walked back up the stairs and down the wide corridors to his suite.
There, he called room service and ordered three bottles of the local beer on ice in a wine cooler. That much beer would last him until he finished reading the magazines. By then it would be time for supper. He would then go back to the small restaurant, have another steak and perhaps another beer. He would then return to the hotel stuffed and sleepy.
He took off his trousers and shirt and hung them neatly in the closet beside his jacket. He jerked the bedspread off the bed, arranged pillows against the headboard, took off his shoes and socks, laid the magazines out, and settled himself comfortably in the bed to wait for room service.
The knock came just as he opened Esquire.
‘‘Come,’’ he said as he reached for the money on the bedside table to tip the waiter.
‘‘You must have been rather sure that I would come!’’ Inge von Tresmarck called from the door.
He turned to look at her.
‘‘The last thing I expected you to do was come,’’ he said, truthfully.
‘‘But you are glad to see me?’’
‘‘Delighted,’’ he lied.
She walked to the bed and sat down on it. She laid her hand on the magazines.
‘‘You really didn’t expect me, did you?’’
‘‘No. What about your husband?’’
‘‘I don’t think we have to worry about him,’’ Inge said. ‘‘Not this afternoon, anyway. They went right in Werner’s study and closed the door.’’
‘‘They may have already opened the door and are wondering where you are.’’
‘‘I’m shopping,’’ she said. ‘‘Where else would I be?’’
‘‘Your husband looked at me strangely at the airport.’’
‘‘Werner looks that way at every good-looking young man,’’ she said.
There was a knock at the door.
‘‘Oh, you were expecting someone,’’ Inge said petulantly. ‘‘Not me. But someone.’’
‘‘That’s probably my beer.’’
‘‘Your beer?’’
‘‘I ordered beer.’’
‘‘Well, let him in, and order champagne,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t drink beer. Don’t you remember?’’
She stood up and walked to the bathroom.
‘‘Come!’’ Peter ordered.
A waiter entered carrying three bottles of beer in an ice- filled silver cooler.
‘‘I’ve changed my mind,’’ Peter said. ‘‘What I really need is a bottle of champagne. Is that going to cause any problem?’’
‘‘No, Señor,’’ the waiter said, and walked to the desk, taking from it a leather-bound wine list. He opened it and handed it to Peter.
Over the waiter’s shoulder, Peter could see Inge in the bathroom. Smiling naughtily, she was working her skirt down over her hips.
He didn’t recognize one name among the twenty different champagnes on the list. He ordered by price, selecting one twice as expensive as the cheapest listed, but considerably cheaper than the most expensive.
Inge ducked behind the bathroom door a split second before the waiter turned to leave. When she heard the door close, she reappeared, now naked, posing in the door with her hand on her hip.
He felt a stirring in his groin.
She is a good-looking woman. And it is apparently true that a stiff prick has no conscience.
‘‘Please tell me you don’t think I’m fat,’’ she said.
‘‘I don’t think you’re fat,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Foolish, perhaps, but not fat.’’
‘‘Why foolish?’’ she said, walking to the bed.
‘‘You have a husband,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I would guess a jealous husband.’’
She sat down on the bed and rested her hand on his leg, just below his shorts.
‘‘Werner worries that I will succumb to the attentions of some tall, dark, and very rich Uruguayan rancher, and that there would be talk," Inge said. "There aren’t very many blondes here, and a great many tall, dark, and very rich Uruguayan ranchers seem to be fascinated with us.’’
Her hand moved under his shorts.
‘‘Oh, you are glad to see me, aren’t you? I wasn’t really sure.’’
‘‘I don’t know how soon the waiter will be back with the champagne,’’ Peter said.
‘‘I don’t want to start something and then be interrupted, ’’ she said. ‘‘So we will just tease each other until the waiter comes and goes.’’
She moved her hand on him, then took it out of his shorts.
‘‘Tell me about Werner,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Was he around when we knew each other?’’
‘‘He’s been around forever,’’ she said. ‘‘He used to work for Goltz in the Office of the Reichprotektor.’’
‘‘You were married to him?’’
‘‘No. Let me think. Was I? No, I wasn’t. I was then Frau Obersturmbannführer24Kolbermann,’’ she said. ‘‘I would have thought I would have told you about Erich.’’
‘‘You didn’t.’’
‘‘Erich was then on the Eastern Front with the Waffen-SS ’’—the military branch of the SS—‘‘He was killed shortly before von Paulus surrendered the Sixth Army at Stalingrad.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘I needed another husband, of course,’’ Inge said, matter-of -factly. ‘‘Someone who could keep me out of the hands of the Labor Ministry.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
Inge lay down on the bed beside him.
‘‘Liebchen, do I look like the sort of girl who should spend ten hours a day sewing shoes together—or worse, in a shoe factory?’’
‘‘No, you don’t,’’ Peter said, chuckling.
"I was safe for a while,’’ Inge explained. ‘‘Daddy had me on the payroll at the mills. I was ’constructively employed in industry essential to the war effort.’ Then the mills were bombed out, and Albert Speer25decided they weren’t worth rebuilding. Which put Daddy and me on the ‘available labor’ list. Daddy—who doesn’t know the first thing about steel; he spent his entire life at the mills—was sent to the Saar, where he’s living in one room and working as sort of a clerk in the Kruppwerke. The Labor Ministry ordered me to report to Gebruder Pahlenberg Schuhfabrik in Potsdam as a ‘trainee.’ ’’
‘‘What kind of a trainee?’’
‘‘I never found out. Erich came along right then and swept me off my feet—he was on a twenty-day furlough from the east. A whirlwind romance. He had friends in the police side of the SS who could deal with the Labor Ministry. The wife of a Waffen-SS Obersturmbannführer heroically serving the Fatherland on th
e Eastern Front certainly could not be expected to do something as undignified as working in a shoe factory. It would be terrible for his morale.’’
‘‘An older man, was he?’’ Peter asked.
‘‘Older than you and me, Liebchen, younger than Werner. Actually, he was rather nice. I felt sorry for him. He was a Hamburger, and had lost his wife and two children in the bombing. And his apartment, too, of course.’’
‘‘Why the older men?’’
‘‘Well, for one thing, younger men tend to be lieutenants and captains—you’re an exception, of course, Peter. And they don’t seem to be able to afford drinking at the Hotel am Zoo, much less to take on the responsibility of a wife with expensive tastes.’’
‘‘And Werner can, I gather?’’
‘‘I don’t think he really could,’’ Inge said. ‘‘Now, of course, it’s different.’’
‘‘How?’’ Peter asked.
There came another knock at the door.
‘‘Ah, the champagne,’’ Inge said, ‘‘that was quick.’’
She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. Peter went to the door, took the champagne in its cooler and two glasses from the waiter, and signed for it, without letting the waiter into the room.
Inge came out of the bathroom as he was unwinding the wire around the cork.
‘‘The champagne’s not bad here,’’ she said. ‘‘The wine’s very nice. And the food is marvelous!’’
‘‘I’ve noticed,’’ Peter said.
He worked the cork out with his thumb, and poured champagne into the glasses.
‘‘I would have preferred to marry someone like you,’’ she said. ‘‘But you weren’t available, were you?’’
‘‘No, I wasn’t.’’
‘‘You were my first failure,’’ she said. ‘‘Perhaps that’s why I was—am—so fascinated with you.’’
‘‘How a failure?’’
‘‘You didn’t fall in love with me, and beg me to be faithful to you when you went back to the war.’’
‘‘Everybody else did?’’
‘‘Everybody else I took to the Hotel am Wansee did,’’ she said. ‘‘I saved the Wansee for special people.’’
Blood and Honor Page 42
