But in spite of his best effort to focus on the columns of numbers in front of him, Willi's loud, angry voice eventually pierced his concentration: "Dammit, Erika, don't call me here for crap like that! I haven't got time to worry about it, and I sure as hell haven't got time to deal with it."
Heinrich looked up. He couldn't help himself. He saw he wasn't the only one. Nor, of course, was Willi the only one who'd ever had his personal life intrude on work. But he was the one with problems at the moment, which meant he was the one everybody else was pretending not to listen to now. That he was one of the more flamboyant men in the office only made his troubles more fascinating.
Erika said something. Heinrich couldn't make out what it was, but she sounded angry, too. He wouldn't have wanted to talk to her the way Willi just had. Whatever she said, it struck a nerve. Willi went red from the base of his neck all the way up to his forehead and ears. "That's a lie, too," he growled. "I'm just being friendly. You wouldn't know about friendly, would you?"
Someone must have told Erika about Ilse-or maybe Willi was being friendly, or more than friendly, with some woman Heinrich knew nothing about. He looked back to the numbers the Americans had submitted to the Reich. Before he could do anything but look, Erika said something else.
"Me?" Willi exclaimed. "Me?You've got your nerve! What about you and-" He didn't go on. Instead, he slammed the receiver into its cradle hard enough to start a young earthquake.
Had be been about to say,What about you and Heinrich? Erika hadn't been subtle. She'd done everything but send up a flare, in fact. Up till now, Willi hadn't paid much attention-or so it seemed. But maybe he could see what was right under his nose after all.
Or, then again, maybe he couldn't. His color faded as quickly as it had risen. He managed a smile of sorts as he swung his swivel chair toward Heinrich. "Women are strange creatures-you know that?" He might have been imparting some great philosophical truth. "We can't live with them, and we can't live without them, either."
Fourteen placid, happy years of marriage with Lise looked better and better to Heinrich. "I hope everything turns out all right for you," he said.
"So do I," Willi said. "Sometimes, though, what can you do?" He sounded as happy-go-lucky as usual. He meant,You can't do anything-things will either work out or else they won't. If Heinrich's marriage were in trouble when he wanted to keep it going, he would have tried everything under the sun-and looked in the dark, too, in case it was hiding something the sun didn't show. Did that mean Willi didn't want to keep his marriage going, or did it mean he didn't want to try? Heinrich didn't know. He couldn't tell. He wondered if Willi knew.
When lunchtime came, Heinrich said, "Shall we go to Admiral Yamamoto's?"
Willi nodded. "Why not? We haven't been there since the day old Haldweim kicked the bucket."
"Uh, right." True, the old Fuhrer was dead. Even so, Heinrich couldn't have made himself talk about the ruler of the Germanic Empire so casually-so callously, even. Willi, confident in his perfect Aryanness, could be more expansive.Or maybe he doesn't think about it at all. Maybe he just says the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
Heinrich found that hard to imagine, let alone believe. But Willi was a law unto himself. He had been for as long as Heinrich had known him, and no doubt for years before that.
Sitting in the Japanese restaurant, eating Berlin rolls and sashimi and rice and washing them down with a seidel of beer (German beer, not Japanese-Japanese electronics were fine, but Japanese beer couldn't measure up to the Reinheitsgebot, the medieval purity law, and was barred from the Greater German Reich), Heinrich tried not to worry about anything except the havoc the wasabi was playing with his sinuses. But Admiral Yamamoto's got customers from a lot of ministries, and the SS men at the next table were too loud to ignore.
"Did you read the Volkischer Beobachter this morning?" one of them demanded of his pals. "Didyou?"
"Can SS men read?" Willi said-in Heinrich's opinion, not nearly quietly enough.
"I saw it, all right," another blackshirt-a bruiser-answered. "That goddamn son of a bitch."
"Takes one to know one," Willi said-again, much too loud.
"Oh,Willi," Heinrich murmured. The other table held five SS men. If they got mad, it wouldn't even be a brawl. It would be a slaughter. But getting Willi to pay attention…was like getting him not to lead away from kings. You could wish, and much good wishing would do you.
Then the first SS man, a Sturmbannfuhrer, said, "He's going to bring it in by the back door. You wait and see if he doesn't."
Before Willi could make yet another rude comment-and Heinrich knew just what sort of rude comment he would make about that-the bruiser nodded and said, "Bet your ass he is. 'A thorough examination of its political underpinnings.'" He made a loud retching noise.
And Willi Dorsch, canny political creature that he was, suddenly became quiet as a mouse. If he could have wiggled his ears, he would have swung them toward the table full of SS men. Heinrich felt the same way. The blackshirts weren't talking about just any goddamn son of a bitch. They were talking about Heinz Buckliger, newly chosen Fuhrer and the most powerful man on the planet.
"Sure as hell, we'll hear more crap about the first edition," another SS man predicted gloomily. "If we'd hadour way, we'd've knocked that stinking nonsense over the head once and for all."
"That's about the size of it," the Sturmbannfuhrer — the most senior man at the table-agreed. "But the Wehrmacht wouldn't play ball with us, and so we got stuck with this asshole."
A fragment of Latin went through Heinrich's head.Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Whowould watch the watchmen? The SS was and always had been a law unto itself. Maybe, between them, the rest of the Party and the Wehrmacht could keep it in check. And, by all the signs, the SS itself had split on a candidate to replace Kurt Haldweim. That seemed promising. If no one else could, maybe some of the watchmen would keep an eye on the rest.
"He's young, too." The bruiser sounded depressed at the prospect.
"Well, maybe-" But the Sturmbannfuhrer broke off. Whathad he been about to say?Maybe he won't live to get old? No, that wasn't the sort of thing to blurt out in a crowded restaurant. Had Heinrich wanted to say it, he couldn't imagine anyone but Lise whom he trusted enough to hear it. Even as things were, the blackshirts had run their mouths far more than he thought wise.
He looked at his watch. "Getting on towards one o'clock," he said. "We'd better head back to the office." Willi looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, or possibly started speaking Chinese. He wanted to hang around and listen to the SS men. That was exactly why Heinrich wanted to leave. He kicked his friend in the ankle under the table. Reluctantly, Willi left his chair. Heinrich paid the bill. They left the restaurant together.
Once out on the sidewalk, Willi practically exploded with excitement. "Did you hear them?" he demanded. "Did youhear them? Practically talking treason, right there in Admiral Yamamoto's!"
"Don't be silly. How can SS men talk treason?" Heinrich said. "What they want is what the state wants. And if you don't believe me, just ask them."
"Ha!" Willi said. "I didn't know you were such a funny fellow."
"I wasn't joking."
"I know. That only makes it funnier, but you have to look at it the right way to see it." Willi walked along for a while, whistling a tune from the new show about a theater owner who wanted an excuse to close down his firetrap of a house, booked a dreadful play about the evil machinations of Churchill and Stalin, and found to his horror that it was bad enough to become a comedy smash. The show itself was a comedy smash in Berlin, too, and had already spawned several companies touring the rest of the Reich. After a block or so, Willi stopped whistling-a mercy, because he was flat. He said, "Well, I hate to admit it, but you were right."
"About what? Getting out of Yamamoto's? You bet I was."
"No, no, no." Willi impatiently shook his head. "About that piece in the Beobachter this morning. If those bastards don't like it, there's got
to be more to it than I thought. Buckliger does need to take a good long look at our underpinnings after all." A girl with nice legs came toward them. Willi said not a word about her underpinnings. Heinrich knew then that his friend was serious. After a few more steps, Willi added, "You may have been right about something else, too."
"What, twice in one day?" Heinrich said. "Such compliments you pay me. I've caught up with a stopped clock."
"No, you haven't, because this other one was a while ago." Willi waited to make sure Heinrich was suitably chastened, then went on, "If our lovely luncheon companions don't care for the first edition, it's probably got something going for it, too."
"You never said anything like that before." Heinrich didn't try to hide his surprise.
"That's because I thought it was a load of garbage before," Willi answered. "But if those Schweinehunde think the same thing…then they're wrong, and that means I must be wrong, too."
Heinrich made as if to feel his forehead. "You must be feverish, is what you must be. Saying I'm right? Saying you're wrong? Delirium, if you ask me."
"Get away from me." Willi sidestepped to escape Heinrich, and almost bumped into a man wearing the light blue of a Luftwaffe official. They made mutual apologies. The Luftwaffe man kept going up the street, towards Admiral Yamamoto's. Willi looked back over his shoulder. "Iam in a state. I can't help wondering if that fellow's on his way to plot with the thugs in black shirts."
That hadn't even occurred to Heinrich. "If you see plotters behind every potted plant, they're going to put you in a rubber room, you know."
"Not if the plotters are really there," Willi said. "Was Hitler wrong when he said everybody ganged up on Germany after the First World War? No, because everybody really did. You only get in trouble when you see things that aren't there."
"Right." Heinrich knew when arguing with Willi was more trouble than it was worth. This looked to be one of those times.
When they got back to Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, Ilse came up to them and said, "Excuse me, Willi, but you got another call from your wife." She rolled her eyes to show what she thought of that. The secretary was supposed to call Willi Herr Dorsch. That she didn't made Heinrich Gimpel want to roll his eyes. She did address Willi as Sie rather than using the intimatedu, but she sounded as if she were usingdu even when she wasn't.
"What did Erika want?" Willi asked. "Do I want to know?"
Ilse pouted. Willi's eyes lit up. The Berlin rolls roiled in Heinrich's stomach. Ilse said, "She wouldn't leave a message-just told me to tell you to call her back. And she said she wondered why I was there when you weren't. That wasn't very nice."
Scowling, Willi said, "I'll call her. I don't know what I'll call her, but I'll call her." Ilse thought that was very funny. Heinrich retreated to his desk. He'd never seen financial statements look so alluring.
But, however much the numbers beckoned, he couldn't avoid hearing Willi's side of the conversation-if a shouting match could be dignified by the term. The longer it went on, the louder and angrier Willi got. At last, he slammed down the phone."Scheisse," he muttered.
Heinrich felt like saying the same thing. If Willi and Erika were fighting, she'd be looking for a shoulder to cry on, and the first shoulder she was likely to look for was his. His shoulder wouldn't be the only thing she was looking for, either. He stared up to the heavens-or at least to the sound-deadening tiles and fluorescent panels of the ceiling. What red-blooded man wouldn't want a beautiful blonde in hot pursuit of him? Heinrich didn't, and he had one. Most of the men who would have liked nothing better had to do without. If that wasn't unfair, he couldn't imagine what would be.
"Guten Morgen,Dr. Dambach," Esther Stutzman called as she walked into the pediatrician's office.
"Guten Morgen, Frau Stutzman." Dambach's voice floated out from the back. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine, thanks. How are you?" Esther answered. He didn't ask her to help him set the coffeemaker to rights, which had to mean he hadn't tried messing with it before she got there. She took a look. Sure enough, it wasn't even plugged in. She loaded it with water and ground coffee and put in a filter. "I'm making coffee, Dr. Dambach," she called. "Would you like some when it's ready?"
"Ja, bitte,"he said. "Somehow, you always get it just right."
"I'm glad you like it," she said, in lieu of calling him a thumb-fingered idiot. He wasn't an idiot, and she knew it. He was a very sharp man; she could wish he were less so. But, whenever he got near a coffeemaker, thumb-fingered he definitely was. Before long, she brought him a steaming foam cup. "Here you are, Doctor."
"Danke schon."Dambach sipped. "Yes, that's very good. And you know just how much sugar I take, too."
"I should, by now." Esther lingered for a moment, wondering if he felt like making small talk. Sometimes he did; more often he didn't. When he picked up the coffee cup again, she slipped back to her station and looked at the morning's appointments. When she saw Paul Klein's name on the list, she grimaced. If only she'd thought to look in Eduard's chart…
She tried not to think about that as she checked the computer to see whose bills were overdue. She printed out polite dunning letters for those whose first notice this was, sterner ones for people getting a second reminder, and letters threatening legal action for two dedicated deadbeats. She happened to know Dr. Dambach had never sued anybody, but with a little luck the people who hadn't paid him wouldn't.
She took the letters in to him for his signature. She could have made the squiggle that passed for that signature at least as well herself, but that wasn't how things were done. "Oh, the Schmidts," Dambach muttered when he came to one of the strongest letters. "I just heard they bought themselves a new Mercedes-and they paid cash."
"Oh, dear," Esther said. "Maybe you really ought to talk to your lawyer, then."
The pediatrician shook his head. "I don't want to have anything to do with the courts, not if I can help it. Whether you're right or you're wrong, you go into court a pig and you come out a sausage. I'd rather do without the fee. But seeing the Schmidts spend their money on everything but their bills does sometimes tempt me to prescribe ipecac for their brat."
Esther laughed; she knew he was even less likely to do something like that than he was to sue. Take his anger out on a child? Impossible. Unthinkable. But what if he found out a child he treated was a Jew? She had no doubt he would call the authorities, and never lose a moment's sleep afterwards worrying about what happened to it or to its family. He was conscientious, law-abiding-a good German.
She took the signed letters and made envelopes for them. The stamps she used were black-and-white mourning issues for Kurt Haldweim. As she put them on one by one, she wondered about the folk among whom she lived-something else she'd done many times before. Germans were the sort of people who would stay on the path and off the grass in a park even if someone was shooting a machine gun at them.
And yet…A lot of the Jews surviving in Berlin were there because Germans had helped their parents or grandparents get false papers during the war. Without the right papers, life in the Reich had been impossible even so long ago. They'd been easier to get then, when enemy bombs sent records up in smoke and replacements were issued without many awkward questions. More than a few friends and neighbors had vouched for Jews, and some of them, discovered, had paid for their kindness with years in prison or with life itself.
And some Jews in Nazi hands had kept themselves alive-for a while-by going out onto the streets of Berlin and capturing other Jews still free. Set them in the scales against the brave Germans and it taught you…what? Esther sighed. Only what anyone with a gram of sense already knew: that there were good Jews and bad Jews, in proportions not much different from those of any other folk.
The door to the outer office opened. Esther looked at the clock in surprise. Was it nine already? It really was. In came a squat, heavyset woman with jowls and protruding eyes. She looked like nothing so much as a bulldog. And her seven-year-old daughter, poor thing, might
have been her in miniature.
"Good morning,Frau Bauriedl," Esther said. "And how is Wilhelmina today?"
"Well, that's what I want the doctor to see,"Frau Bauriedl answered.
She brought Wilhelmina in every couple of weeks regardless of whether anything was really wrong with the little girl. Dr. Dambach tried to discourage her, but he hadn't had much luck. She did pay her bills on time; neither Esther nor any of the other receptionists had ever had to send her even the most polite letter.
The telephone rang. "Excuse me," Esther said, glad for an excuse not to have to talk to Frau Bauriedl. She picked up the handset. "Dr. Dambach's office."
"Frau Stutzman?" The woman on the other end of the line waited for Esther to agree that she was herself, then went on, "This is Maria Klein,Frau Stutzman. I'm…I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel Paul's appointment this morning. You see, we are under investigation for something…something of which we are certainly not guilty. Good-bye." She hung up.
She hadn't let on that she knew Esther in any way except as the pediatrician's receptionist. There in the warm, bright, sterile calm of Dambach's office, Esther shivered as if caught in a Lapland blizzard. Was Maximilian Ebert or some other hard-faced Nazi in the uniform of the Reichs Genealogical Office or the Security Police standing next to Maria, listening to every word she said and how she said it? Or was she just afraid her line was tapped?
Under investigation. How long had it been since the Germans caught a Jew in Berlin? It must have been some time not long after Esther found out she was one. There had been a great hue and cry then. How much more strident would it be now, when the whole Reich was thought to be Judenfrei for years? And if the Kleins were found guilty of such a heinous crime, what else would the investigators be able to tear out of them?
When Esther got to her feet, her legs didn't want to hold her up. She held on to the top of the desk for a moment till she steadied. She made the trip back to Dr. Dambach's personal office more by main force of will than any other way. He looked up from a medical journal, a question on his face. "That telephone call was from Frau Klein," Esther said carefully. She had to watch every word, too, in case her turn came up next. "She won't be bringing Paul in this morning after all."
In The Presence of mine Enemies Page 17
