by Philip Kerr
“Tell me something,” she said. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often, Herr—what did you say your real name was again?”
“Gunther, Bernhard Gunther. And you make it sound like you weren’t there, Anna.”
“I can assure you, I’m not likely to forget this evening in a hurry.” She stopped walking for a moment and then threw up.
I gave her my handkerchief. She wiped her mouth and took a deep breath.
“All right now?” I asked.
She nodded. We reached my car and got in.
“That was quite a date,” she said. “Next time, let’s just go to the theater.”
“I’ll take you home,” I said.
Anna shook her head and wound down the window. “No. I can’t go home. Not yet. Not feeling the way I do now. And after what happened, I don’t want to be alone, either. Let’s stay here for a moment. I just need to be still for a while.”
I poured some of the coffee she’d brought. She drank it and then watched me smoke a cigarette.
“What?”
“No trembling hands. No unsteady lips on that cigarette. No deep drags. You smoke that cigarette like nothing happened. Just how ruthless are you, Herr Gunther?”
“I’m still here, Anna. I guess that speaks for itself.”
I leaned across the seat and kissed her. She seemed to enjoy it. Then I said, “Tell me your address and I’ll drive you home. You’ve been out all night. Your father will be worried about you.”
“I guess you’re not as ruthless as I thought.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
I started the engine.
“So,” she said. “You really are going to drive me home. That’s a first. Maybe you do want to be a saint after all.”
She was right, of course. The fact is, I wanted to prove to her how polished and shiny my armor really was. I drove quickly. I wanted to get her home before I changed my mind. Nobility swims only so far in my gut before it hits its head on something hard and unyielding. Especially where she was concerned.
14
BERLIN, 1933, AND BUENOS AIRES, 1950
THE FIRST WE KNEW about it was a strong smell of burning. Then we heard the fire engines and the ambulances from Artilleriestrasse. Frieda went outside the hotel entrance to take a look and saw an excited crowd of people heading northwest across Pariser Platz. Above the rooftops of the French Embassy something lit up the night sky like an open furnace door.
“It’s the Reichstag,” said Frieda. “The Reichstag is on fire.”
We ran back into the hotel, intending to get a better view from the roof. But in the lobby I met Herr Adlon. I told him the Reichstag was on fire. It was just after ten p.m.
“Yes, I know.” He drew me to one side, thought better of what he had been about to say, and then took me into the manager’s office. He closed the door. “There’s something I want you to do. And it might well be dangerous.”
I shrugged it off.
“Do you know where the Chinese Embassy is?”
“Yes, it’s on Kurfürstendamm. Next to the Nelson Theater.”
“I want you to go there, to the Chinese Embassy, in the hotel laundry van,” said Louis Adlon, handing me some keys. “I want you to pick up some passengers and bring them straight back here. But on no account let them alight at the front door of the hotel. Drive them through the gate to the tradesman entrance. I’ll be waiting for you there.”
“Might I ask who it is, sir?”
“You may. It’s Bernard Weiss and his family. Someone tipped him off that the Nazis were coming to his house tonight to lynch him. Fortunately, Chiang Kai-shek is a friend of Izzy’s and agreed to let him and his family take refuge there. He just called me a few minutes ago and asked if I could help. Naturally, I agreed to let him stay here. And I assumed you would want to help, too.”
“Of course. But wouldn’t he be safer remaining in the embassy?”
“Perhaps, but he’d be more comfortable here, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, we are used to having people stay here in our VIP suites in conditions of almost total secrecy. No, we shall look after him very well, and for as long as is necessary.”
“This has something to do with Reichstag fire, I’m certain of it,” I said. “The Nazis must be planning a complete overthrow of the republic. And to declare martial law.”
“I think you must be right. Are you carrying a gun?”
“No, sir. But I can fetch one.”
“There’s no time. You can take mine.” He took out a key chain and unlocked the safe. “The last time I took this gun out of the safe was during the Spartakist uprising of 1919. But it’s been well oiled.” He handed me a broom-handled Mauser and a box of ammunition. Then he upended a leather briefcase, emptying the contents onto his desk. “Put the Mauser in this. And be careful, Bernie. I don’t think it’s going to be the kind of night that makes one feel proud to be a German.”
Louis Adlon was right. The streets of Berlin were full of marauding gangs of storm troopers. They sang their songs and waved their flags as if the fire were cause for celebration. I saw some smashing the windows of a Jewish-owned store near the zoo. It was all too easy to imagine what would have happened if they’d met up with an old rabbi or some luckless idiot wearing a Lenin-style peaked cap and a red flag on his lapel. There were police vans and armored cars everywhere, but I didn’t suppose they were intent on protecting Communists and Jews. And seeing the SCHUPO men doing very little to stop disorder in the city, I was very glad I was no longer a policeman. On the other hand, it was an excellent night to be Chinese. When I arrived, I saw that no one was paying any attention to the Chinese Embassy or its occupants.
Leaving the engine running and the doors open, I got out of the van and rang the embassy’s doorbell. A Chinese answered the door and asked who I was. I told him Louis Adlon had sent me, at which point the double doors to a ground-floor anteroom were flung open and I saw Izzy and his family waiting there with their luggage. They looked at me anxiously. Izzy shook my hand and nodded silently. We didn’t say anything much. There wasn’t time. I grabbed their suitcases, threw them in the van, and when I was satisfied that it was quite safe, I waved my passengers out of the embassy, slamming the doors of the van shut behind them.
When I reached the Adlon, I drove through to the tradesman entrance as instructed and found Louis Adlon waiting. Max, the hall porter, loaded the Weiss family belongings onto a baggage trolley and disappeared into a service elevator. He didn’t even look for a tip. Everything was strange about that night. Meanwhile, we hurried the refugees into another service elevator and along to the best suite in the hotel. That was typical of Louis Adlon, and I knew the significance would not be lost on Izzy.
Inside the magnificent suite, the heavy silk curtains were already drawn and a fire was burning brightly in the grate. Izzy’s wife disappeared into the bathroom with her children. Adlon was pouring some drinks for us all. Max showed up and began to put the luggage away. While you couldn’t see anything of what was happening outside, you could hear a lot. Some storm troopers had come along Wilhelmstrasse and were chanting, “Death to the Marxists!” Izzy’s eyes were full of tears. But he tried to smile.
“It sounds as though they have already found the people to blame for the fire,” he said.
“People will never believe that,” I said.
“They’ll believe what they want to believe,” said Izzy. “And right now they certainly don’t want to believe in the Communists.”
He took the glass offered by Louis, and the three of us toasted one another.
“To better days,” said Louis.
“Yes,” said Izzy. “But I fear this is just the beginning. This is more than just a fire. Mark my words, this is the funeral pyre of German democracy.” He placed an avuncular hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to have to watch yourself, my young friend.”
“Me?” I grinned. “I’m not the one who was hiding out in the Chinese Embassy.”
“Oh, it�
�s been over for me for a while. We’ve been prepared for something like this. Our suitcases have been packed for weeks.”
“Where will you go, sir?”
“Holland. We’ll be safe there.”
I could see he was tired. Exhausted. So we shook hands and I left him. I never saw him again.
I went up to the roof and found Frieda, watching the fire with some of the guests and hotel staff. One of the waiters from the cocktail bar had brought up a bottle of schnapps to help ward off the cold night air, but no one was drinking very much. Everyone knew what the fire meant. It looked like a beacon from hell.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I’m scared.”
I put my arm around her. “Why? There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re perfectly safe up here.”
“I didn’t mean that, Bernie. I’m Jewish, remember?”
“I’d forgotten. I’m sorry.” I drew her closer to me and kissed her on the forehead. Her hair and overcoat smelled strongly of smoke, almost as if she herself had caught fire.
I coughed a little. “So much for Berlin’s famous air,” I said.
“I was worried about you. Where have you been?”
A strong gust of bitterly cold wind filled our faces with smoke. Where had I been? I didn’t know. I was dull, without thoughts. I swallowed with some difficulty and tried to answer. The smoke was bothering me a lot now. There was so much of it that I couldn’t see the fire anymore. Nor the Adlon’s rooftop. Or even Frieda. After a minute, I took a deep breath that hurt my throat. Then I called out to her: “Where are you?”
A man peered at me out of the smoke. He was wearing a white coat and a gold wristwatch. His eyes were on my collarbone and then his fingers, too, as though he expected to find something he was looking for under my Adam’s apple.
I turned my head on the pillow and yawned.
“How does that feel?” asked the man wearing the white coat.
“Hurts a bit when I swallow,” I heard myself say. “Otherwise it feels fine.”
He was tanned and fit-looking, with a smile as neat as the teeth on a comb. His castellano wasn’t up to much. He sounded English, or American perhaps. His breath was cold and perfumed, like his fingers.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the British Hospital in Buenos Aires, Señor Hausner. You had an operation on your thyroid. Remember? I’m your doctor. Dr. Pack.”
I frowned, trying to remember who Hausner was.
“As it happens, you’re a very lucky man. You see, the thyroid sits on either side of your Adam’s apple like two small plums. One of them was cancerous. We took that part of your thyroid out. But the other part was fine. So we left it there. All of which means you won’t have to spend the rest of your life having to take thyroxin pills. Just a little calcium, until we’re satisfied with your blood analysis. You’ll be out of here and back at work in just a few days.”
There was something attached to my throat. I tried to touch it, to feel what it was, but the doctor stopped me.
“Those are some little clips to keep the skin over the incision together,” he explained. “We won’t stitch you up finally until we’re quite satisfied that everything in there is all right.”
“And if it’s not?” I croaked.
“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is all right. If the cancer hasn’t already spread from one side of your thyroid to the other, it probably won’t now. No, the reason we don’t sew you up yet is because we like to keep an eye on your windpipe. Sometimes, after removal of the thyroid or a part of the thyroid, there’s a small danger of asphyxiation.” He brandished a pair of surgical pliers. “If that happens, we unlock those clips with these, and open you up again. But I can assure you, sir, there’s really very little chance of that happening.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t mean to be rude. But there was too much dope inside me to mind my manners. And I was having a hard job just trying to remember my real name. My name wasn’t Hausner, I was certain of that much.
“I hope you operated on the right patient, Doc,” I heard myself whisper. “I’m someone else, you know. Someone I used to be, a long time ago.”
THE NEXT TIME I woke up, she was there, stroking the hair back from my forehead. I’d forgotten her name but I certainly hadn’t forgotten how lovely she was. She was wearing a figure-hugging cigar-brown dress with short, tight sleeves. It made her look like she’d been rolled on a Cuban girl’s thigh. If I’d had the strength, I’d have put her in my mouth and sucked at her toes.
“Here,” she said, putting a little necklace around my neck. “It’s a chai necklace. For life. To help you get well.”
“Thanks, angel. By the way, how did you find out I was here?”
“They told me at your hotel.” She glanced around my room. “It’s a nice room. You’ve done all right for yourself.”
I had a private room at the British Hospital because they didn’t have a private room at the American Hospital and because Colonel Montalbán didn’t want Dr. George Pack from Sloan-Kettering in New York seen anywhere near the President Juan Perón Hospital, and especially nowhere near the Evita Perón Hospital. But I couldn’t tell Anna any of that. It was a very British room. There was a nice picture of the king on the wall.
“But why here instead of the German Hospital?” asked Anna. “I suppose you’re scared someone will recognize you, is that it?”
“It’s because my doctor is an American and doesn’t speak German,” I said. “And because his castellano isn’t much, either.”
“Anyway, I’m cross with you. You didn’t tell me you were ill.”
“I’m not, angel. Not anymore. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll prove it.”
“All the same, I think I would have mentioned something if it had been me who had cancer,” she said. “I thought we were friends. And that’s what friends are for.”
“Maybe I thought you’d think it was contagious.”
“I’m not an idiot, Gunther. I know cancer’s not contagious.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to take that risk.”
I could tell the king agreed with me. He didn’t look too well himself. He was wearing a naval uniform and enough gold braid to supply a shipful of ambitious officers. There was pain in his eyes and in the sinews of his thin hands, but he seemed the type to stick it out in silence. I could tell we had a lot in common.
“And talking of risk,” I told her sternly, “I meant what I said, angel. You’re to say nothing about what happened. Or to ask questions concerning what we found out about Directive Eleven.”
“I don’t know that we found out very much,” she said. “I’m not convinced you’re the great detective my friend said you are.”
“Well, that makes two of us. But either way, this is not something people in this country want anyone asking about, Anna. I’ve been in this business a long time and I know a big secret when I smell one. I didn’t tell you this before, but when I mentioned Directive Eleven to someone in SIDE, he started twitching like a divining rod. Promise me you won’t talk about it. Not even to your father and your mother and your rabbi confessor.”
“All right,” she said sulkily. “I promise. I won’t say anything about any of it. Not even in my prayers.”
“As soon as I’m out of here, we’ll put the wheels in motion again. See what we can find out. In the meantime, you can answer me this question. What are you? A Jewish Catholic? Or a Catholic Jew? I’m not sure I can tell the difference. Not without chucking you in the village pond, anyway.”
“My parents converted when they left Russia,” she said. “Because they wanted to fit in when they got here. My father said that being a Jew made you too noticeable. That it was best to keep a low profile and seem like everyone else.” She shook her head. “Why? Have you got something against Jewish Catholics?”
“On the contrary. If you go back far enough, you’ll find that all Catholics are Jewish. That’s the great thing about history. If you go back far enough, even
Hitler’s Jewish.”
“I guess that explains everything,” she said, and kissed me tenderly.
“What was that for?”
“That was in lieu of some grapes. To help you get well soon.”
“It might just help, at that.”
“Then so should this: I’ve fallen for you. Don’t ask me why, because you’re too old for me, but I have.”
I HAD OTHER VISITORS, but none of them as lovely as Anna Yagubsky, and none who made me feel as good. The colonel looked in on me. So did Pedro Geller. And Melville from the Richmond Café. He was kind enough to beat me at chess. It all felt very civilian and commonplace, as if I were part of a community instead of a man in exile from his own country. With one very tall and scar-faced exception.
He was about six-feet-four, and two hundred fifty pounds. His hair was thick and dark and, brushed back from a broad, lumpy forehead, looked like a Frenchman’s beret. His ears were enormous, like an Indian elephant’s, and his left cheek was covered with the Schmissen beloved of German students for whom a dueling saber had been a more attractive diversion than a slim volume of poetry. He was wearing a light-brown sports jacket, a pair of very baggy flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a green silk tie. His shoes were very polished and stout and probably contained a tape-recording of a military parade ground. In his left hand was a cigarette. I guessed he was in his early forties, and when he spoke German, it was with a strong Viennese accent. “So, you’re awake,” he said.
I sat up in bed and nodded. “Who are you?”
He picked up in his huge mitts the surgical pliers—the ones that were supposed to open the clips on my neck in case anything went wrong with my windpipe—and started to play crab with them.
“Otto Skorzeny,” he said. His voice sounded almost as rough as my own, as if he gargled with battery acid.
