Dry Bones

by Peter Quinn

  “When?”

  “It arrived the day after he died.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s a Luther Bible, in German, a 1932 edition, the year before Hitler came to power.” He handed the Bible to Dunne. “An odd choice—it’s the thought that counts, I suppose—but Pully was an odd man. Eccentric, I mean. Odd in a good way. That was the problem with the OSS and what followed. The eccentrics were replaced by fanatics.”

  Dunne leafed through and stopped where a paper match bookmarked a page. There were pencil marks amid the lines. “Can I borrow this?”

  “Be my guest. I haven’t much interest in Holy Writ, particularly when it’s in German.” Van Hull’s eyelids rolled down. He mumbled, “Some world we live in. Hunt queers, hide Nazis. Persecute lovers, protect murderers. A shit world, you ask me.” His mouth fell open. He began to snore.

  Dunne’s eyes swept the room a final time. Lieutenant Michael Jahn stared out from his portrait, lips parted as in the photo, as if about to speak, or sing, or ask a question:

  What do you see, Fin?

  A tired man who’s had too much to drink.

  It’s become a habit, don’t you think?

  A bad habit, but it happens to good people all the time.

  Do you think he’s sick?

  He’s sick in his soul from missing you.

  He’s queer for sure, I know.

  I know something else for sure.

  What’s that?

  The queer heart beats the same as any other heart, loves the same, and breaks the same.

  Dunne turned off the light. He slipped the volume of Yeats’s Collected Poems and the German Bible beneath his arm and pulled the door shut.

  Part VII

  Thus Saith the Lord

  Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live:

  And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord.

  So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone.

  And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them.

  Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

  So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.

  Then he said unto me, Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel: behold, they say, Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost: we are cut off for our parts.

  Therefore prophesy and say unto them, Thus saith the Lord God; Behold, O my people, I will open your graves, and cause you to come up out of your graves, and bring you into the land of Israel.

  And ye shall know that I am the Lord, when I have opened your graves, O my people, and brought you up out of your graves …

  The Book of Ezekiel

  August 1958

  GRAYBAR BUILDING, MANHATTAN

  MISS O’KEEFE OPENED THE DOOR AND ENTERED DUNNE’S OFFICE. Hand to mouth, she muffled a yelp. “You startled me. I had no idea you were here.”

  Dunne looked up from the book that lay open on his desk. “I got in early.”

  “I see.” She checked her wristwatch. “It’s only eight thirty. Can I get you coffee?”

  “I’m set.” He nodded at the paper cup by his elbow.

  “You saw the messages on your desk?” She raised the eyeglasses strung around her neck and put them on.

  “Yes.” He gulped lukewarm coffee.

  “Mr. Billings called several times.”

  “I’ll get back to him today.”

  “The last time it was Billings himself, not his assistant. He sounded annoyed.”

  Dunne went back to reading the book. “Can you get me a Bible?”

  “A Bible?”

  “There must be one somewhere in the office.”

  “Why on earth do you want a Bible?”

  “I want to see how this translates into English.”

  “What translates?”

  He pushed the book to the left side of the desk. “Have a look.”

  She came around the desk and leaned over. “It’s in German.”

  “I know.”

  “I minored in German.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “I can try. I was good at it.”

  Dunne got out of the chair. “Here, have a seat.”

  Perched on the front edge of the chair, she pressed the corners of her glasses between thumb and middle finger. She flipped back and forth through the pages. “It’s Hesekiel—Ezekiel in English.”

  Dunne placed his finger on a verse bracketed by pencil marks. “Read here: Chapter thirty-seven, verse twelve.”

  Miss O’Keefe made a nervous adjustment to her glasses. “Some of these letters are underlined. Why?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  He watched over her shoulder as she read aloud, slowly: “Darum weissage und sprich zu ihnen: So spricht der Herr.” She cleared her throat. “‘Therefore predict and speak to them, thus says the Lord.’ … Siehe, ich will eure Gräben auftun und will euch, mein Volk…. ‘Behold, my people I will open your …’ Gräben … ‘your graves …’”

  She stopped and looked up. “What’s with these underscored letters?”

  “Go on translating. You’re doing great.”

  “Where was I? Okay, here we are.” She placed her finger on the text. “… aus demselben herausholen … ‘and make you’ … herausholen … ‘get out—make you leave them’ … und euch ins Land Israel bringen … ‘and bring you into the land of Israel.’”

  “I remember more than I thought I would.” She removed her glasses and let them hang around her neck. “Amazing, don’t you think, in light of the Jews’ return to Israel?”

  She ran her finger across the verse and stopped at the underscored letters. “But these—these underlined letters—do they mean something?”

  “They must.”

  “What?”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “I’ve no clue.”

  “Well, let’s see if they spell something.” She put her glasses back on, took a pencil, and printed the letters on the pad next to the phone: “B-A-I-E-E-A-G. No German word I’m familiar with.”

  “Could it be a word jumble? Maybe in English.”

  Miss O’Keefe printed BEG A. She shrugged. “That uses four letters but leaves A-I-E.”

  Dunne took the pencil and printed BEIGE.

  “Nice try. But what do you do with A-A?”

  “I’m sure the answer is staring us in the face. He wouldn’t have made it impossible to decipher.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I don’t see we’re going to get anywhere with this unless …” She tapped the pad with the eraser.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless it’s among the oldest tricks in the code maker’s book. We used it in the Girl Scouts.” She printed the alphabet across the top of the page. “You substitute numbers for letters. A is 1, B is 2, and so on, right up to Z, 26.” She wrote numbers beneath each letter. “Thus, ‘LOVE’ becomes 12, 15, 22, 5. Or we can do it the other way around, in which case ‘BAIEEAG’ becomes 2, 1, 9, 5, 5, 1, 7.”

  “A combination to a safe?”

  She shook her head, touched each numeral with the pencil tip. “Seven numbers.”

  “So what?”

  “What has seven numbers? Something we use every day.”

  “I’m no good at riddles.”

  She tapped the telephone with the eraser and rested it on the number printed in the middle of the dial. “Your
number is SH-3-5264.”

  “You think 2, 1, 9, 5, 5, 1, 7 is a phone number?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then let’s give it a try. Start with the first two letters: B, 2; A, 1. That could be the exchange—BAltic, maybe—and go with the next five numbers: 95517. That gives us BA-9-5517.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Only one way to be certain.” She handed him the receiver and turned the dial seven times with the eraser end of the pencil.

  “It’s ringing.” He put his hand over the speaker. “What should I say?”

  “Try ‘Hello.’”

  Someone picked up. Dunne took his hand away. “Yes, hello.”

  He heard soft breathing on the other end. “Hello,” he said again.

  “Who is it you wish to speak with?” The voice was just above a whisper.

  He pressed the receiver to his ear. “Ezekiel.” Silence. He counted the seconds … eight … nine … “Hello? You still there?”

  “Who is this?” The voice was so faint it was barely audible.

  “A friend of Louis Pohl’s.”

  He counted to six. The voice was distinct this time: “Louis Pohl is dead.”

  “He left me this number.”

  “And you waited all this time?” Feminine voice, a slight accent.

  “He wanted it this way.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fintan Dunne.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “My office.”

  “What’s the number?”

  He gave it to her. “Can we meet?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly.” She hung up.

  He recradled the receiver.

  Miss O’Keefe folded her arms. “Well?”

  “You missed your calling. If you were head of U.S. cryptography operations, we’d have broken all the Russian codes by now. I’m going to see that you get a raise.”

  “Thanks. How about doing me another favor?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Call Mr. Billings.”

  “Sure,” Dunne said. “Right after the party I was just on with calls back.”

  “It could be hours.”

  “In that case, call the phone company. Get a name and address for BA-9-5517.”

  Miss O’Keefe stalked out of the room.

  The phone rang. He snatched the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Is this Fintan Dunne?” It was the same voice from before.

  “It is.”

  “Mr. Dunne, we spoke a moment ago.”

  “Sure.”

  “My name is Frieda. Frieda Schwimmer. Do you remember?”

  Why remember one thing and not another? Van Hull and he work the cast-iron seesaw bolted to the floor, up and down, heigh-ho, it’s off to Bratislava we go, green-eyed girl holds red-and-white kerchief above her head, ballerina-like, moves it up and down.

  “In Slovakia.”

  Long ago and far away.

  “With Doctor Niskolczi.”

  Oh dem bones.

  “Yes, Frieda, I remember.”

  Noon at the seal pool in the Bronx Zoo: time and place Frieda Schwimmer stipulated on the phone. (The exchange turned out to be BAinbridge, not BAltic. Miss O’Keefe traced the number to an address on Marion Avenue, off Fordham Road.) Though the crowd at the seal pool wasn’t as large as on weekends, feeding time always drew an audience.

  The trainer appeared with a pail of pungent-smelling fish. The seals clapped, waddled, dived, barked, whatever it took to get fed. The audience (mostly kids and their mothers) cheered and laughed.

  Except for the assertive way she stated where and when they should meet, Frieda spoke haltingly. But she was glad he had called. “We,” she said—not “I” but “we”—“didn’t know who to contact after Mr. Pohl left.” She made it sound as if he’d taken a trip.

  Dunne strolled the periphery of the crowd. Frieda hadn’t said anything about what she’d be wearing. He didn’t imagine he’d recognize her face. There was a better chance she’d recognize him. What he remembered most about her were her green eyes.

  The one woman he picked out as a likely candidate had two small children in tow. He smiled and said hello. She smiled back. She had blue eyes.

  Feeding time ended. The audience drifted away. He checked his watch: 12:45. He’d wait another fifteen minutes, then look for a phone booth. Maybe she got the time wrong. He recalled that tentative note in her voice. Maybe she was afraid of some sort of trap. Her address wasn’t far away. If he couldn’t reach her by phone, he’d pay a visit. He pulled a folded copy of the Standard from his jacket pocket and read.

  A man who looked to be in his late thirties, early forties sat on the other end of the bench. Navy-blue suit. Gray hat. Black wing tips, highly polished. Crisp crease in his pants. Not the type to make a special trip to see seals being fed.

  The odor of dead fish lingered in the air.

  “Looks like feeding time is over.” He stretched an arm across the back of the bench.

  “Lions and tigers are next.”

  “I prefer the reptiles. They seem closest to humans.” The man had an indifferent smile, hazel eyes. “I’m Stefan Schwimmer, Mr. Dunne. Frieda’s brother. I apologize for being late. The bus was delayed. There were no cabs.”

  Dunne put down the paper. He was sure Stefan—if that was his real name—had been in the vicinity the whole time, observing him to make sure he was alone. “She never mentioned a brother.”

  “It never came up. I was in the room when you called.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Home.”

  “I’ll stop by and say hello.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Let her decide.”

  “She’s not well.”

  “If it’s not contagious, it’s not a problem.”

  “It’s more emotional than physical. She’s never completely recovered.”

  “She recovered enough to make an appointment to meet me.”

  “I don’t blame you for being skeptical.” Stefan Schwimmer got up from the bench. “Please, walk with me. I’ll explain best I can. If you think I’m not telling the truth or you want no part of it, you’re free to walk away. I understand.”

  “I don’t have all day.” Dunne tucked the paper back in his pocket.

  “Neither do I.”

  They stood in front of the Lion House. Schwimmer took a cigarette from a silver case. He offered one to Dunne, lit both with a silver lighter.

  Feeding time was imminent. The roars and snarls of the big cats reverberated across the courtyard.

  “I’ll try to make this concise.” Schwimmer walked with his head down. “I’m the oldest of four children, thirteen years older than Frieda, the youngest. Our father was a piano manufacturer in Budapest. The business had been in the family for several generations. He thought I’d follow in his footsteps, but I took a different path. I graduated from university as a chemical engineer. That year, once again against my father’s wishes, I joined the International Brigade in Paris and went to Spain to fight the Fascists.

  “I was wounded. But I didn’t return home. Few of us did. Admiral Horthy’s regime made it clear we weren’t welcome. I went to Prague and found work. Soon enough the Germans came to Prague. I fled to England. When the war broke out, I served with the RAF’s Czechoslovak Squadron as a bombardier.

  “At war’s end, I returned to Budapest. Strangers lived in our house. They said they knew nothing of my family. The family business had been expropriated by the Nazis and then seized by the Communists. I soon learned that my parents and three siblings had all been deported to Auschwitz. Although I was told in so many words that it was a waste of time to look for them, I set out in search of any survivors.

  “After several months, I located Frieda—the only survivor from my family—weak and emaciated, in a displaced persons camp in the Britis
h zone in occupied Germany. The wounds to her body gradually healed. Her soul continues to bleed. Once she was a master cellist. People spoke of the great career she had in front of her. Now she has no interest.”

  Schwimmer tossed his cigarette on the asphalt path and crushed it with his heel. “I was hired by a Swiss chemical company and sent to head up their offices in Toronto. I tried to limit my traveling. Frieda hates to be alone. Despite my reluctance, since I was fluent in English, German, and Spanish, the company had me on the road a good deal.

  “About two years ago, in the lounge of the Alvear Hotel in Buenos Aires, a garrulous gentleman sat next to me. He introduced himself as Hans Bleier, proprietor of a photography supply business. When he heard my name, he asked if I was related to ‘the piano people.’ I said yes, but we were Jews and the company had been taken by the Nazis.

  “Bleier drew close. It was obvious he didn’t want to be overheard. He said he was half-Jewish and had left Germany for Buenos Aires the year Hitler came to power. ‘I smelled disaster,’ he said, ‘from the very first time I heard that Austrian shit speak. Some of my Jewish friends and relatives stayed. They were convinced Hitler would soon fail and Germans would come to their senses. They paid for that mistake with their lives.’

  “He didn’t bother mentioning this to the other German émigrés with whom he sometimes spent a social evening dining and drinking. Their numbers had exploded after the war, and though his presence was tolerated, his lack of military experience and absence from Germany during the existence of the Third Reich meant he was treated by most with a certain degree of distance, if not distrust.

  “One evening, after a good deal to drink, a tablemate mentioned the name of Oscar Hemmer. The word was Hemmer was returning to West Germany. Well in his cups, the man went on about that ‘stuck-up little ass-wipe der Blaue Engel,’ who never deigned to share a drink with his fellow exiles: ‘He’s lucky he isn’t going back to be hanged. But I guess they can’t hang Hemmer since Heinz is already dead.’

  “There were a few snickers. The topic was changed. Bleier didn’t ask any questions. The next day, he undertook his own quiet inquiry into who Oscar Hemmer was and what relation he had to ‘der Blaue Engel’ and ‘Heinz.’ It didn’t take long to find out the story of SS-Hauptsturmführer Dr. Karsten Heinz, who’d worked at Auschwitz and died of natural causes while being interrogated in London in 1946. But what to make of the remark ‘they can’t hang Hemmer since Heinz is already dead’?