by John Brady
“Ach,” said Felix’s grandfather. “So they say. No one knows.
He disappeared, a casualty. God only knows.”
“Did you not approve of the marriage or something?”
“At first, no. But then your father came out, and bit by bit, he won us over. So much different from your granddad. Life is strange that way. It was your oma, I say.”
“Farming, then his own garage too. What else did he do for a living?”
“He had other things, I think. Christ, I’m like an old woman, gossiping! Ach, it’s ancient crap.”
“Tell me.”
“Gossip? We heard rumours he was in business of course gasoline, coffee, cigarettes. But that was what a lot of people did.
And it died out.”
“I only found out he was in the Gendarmerie recently.”
“Hah. They’d take any fellow then. So many men hadn’t come back. There were still ‘operatives,’ guys up in the hills or loading trucks with things they didn’t own.”
“That was it? All of it?”
Felix’s grandfather narrowed his eyes and stared at the door to the hallway.There were voices, Felix’s oma and Speckbauer, and the intonations of polite and elaborate demurrals and assurances and appreciation.
“I heard years ago that he used to run messages for people. He had one of those motorbikes. But he was up and down a lot with it.
Someone, I forgot, who told me.”
“To Viktring? The DP camp there?”
“I heard Viktring too,” said his opa, but with a cautious look at Felix now. “And other camps. Hey, don’t kid yourself now, not all those people in the camps after the war were refugees. Believe me.”
“Nobody talks about that stuff here,” Felix said after a pause.
“Do they?”
His opa didn’t seem to hear the question. His face lit up with some recollection.
“There were DP camps right in Graz too, the city?”
His grandfather stopped as though frozen.
“Sure there were,” he said quietly. His eyes settled on Felix.
“Other places too. Over in Carinthia as well.”
“For refugees coming in from the east? The ones who had settled up the Danube and all that? Jugoslavian Germans, Swabians?”
His grandfather nodded.
“Guys on the losing side too,” he murmured. “Nothing German to them at all.”
“Grandfather Kimmel was smuggling too, right?”
His grandfather darted a quick glare at him.
“Don’t make my sins worse, Felix.”
“Sorry. I just never heard, never knew this.”
“Are you crazy? Why would a parent burden the next generation with the load of the past? Who knows what he was doing. But the DPs were Yugos, Slovenians a lot of them. I only remember that fact because I couldn’t figure out what the hell Slovenes were in a ‘jail’ for. Okay, not a jail but it didn’t make sense.”
“Like Slovenes who were Austrian maybe before the war?”
His grandfather waved his hand.
“All that history and empire crap. You see? There you are: history confusion.”
“But he made his rounds, visits to these places?
“Just a rumour, Felix. I mean no one would ever ask him.
Christ! Around here? Look. He was a sour, tough fellow. People kept out of his way. ‘Mustard in his arse’ they used to say. But his father had been taken from him. So, who can preach? Cruel stuff, this damned history.”
“But it ended, that stuff.”
“Did it? It wasn’t just Slovenes in those camps you know.
Maybe you were thinking, it’s okay to help out, say, people who are from your own side. A sausage, a crust of bread, a letter? But there were others in those places who got by the Tommys. Yes, we were really relieved when the Russkis left and the Englander took over. Christ, yes! But they were nice men. Naïve though but what am I saying? I’ve never been beyond Munich, or that lousy ‘holiday’ in Italy. Italy. You’re a gypsy though, the zigeune of the family. Are they all like that in England, all nice and fair with you, but boring?”
“Food’s bad,” said Felix. “Everything costs a million.”
“‘Dull but decent,’ eh? You’re in no hurry to go back there.”
Felix’s mind was adrift now again, cluttered and sliding, turning back on itself. He watched his oma lift a statue of Mary from the mantel, and dust it. She crossed herself after she replaced it. His opa rolled his eyes, and leaned in. He gestured for Felix him to come closer.
“Did you see that? Best to keep the church at arm’s-length too, I tell you. It’s part of that mess too, you know but don’t tell your oma I said that.”
“Mess?”
“Ach,” he whispered. “It’s years since I heard anyone talk about those times. Even then, it was just like a story, or a fairy-tale, like the old ones up in the forest.”
“What stories.”
“I’ll do you a big favour and say nothing. That is what I will do.”
“Nothing, about what?”
“Ach, you are like a badger, Felix. What I’m saying is just common sense. The leopard never loses his spots. That’s all.”
But his opa was getting up now, making the sighs and groans he used as a way to escape conversation. From the hall Felix heard Speckbauer thank Oma Nagl again. There were chuckles, and he caught most of the words: hospitable, splendid, hearty.
“Just like your dad,” Opa Nagl murmured, half listening to the talk in the hall.
“They are?”
“You are.”
“He talked about this?”
“Talked? He bent my ear, how many times. But it was much later.This was only shortly before, well, you know. I think people get to an age and they look over their shoulder, and they get curious. If you ask me, that’s useless. I am a farmer. I get older, slower, stupider, happier. Then comes ‘freedom.’ I used to worry when I was a kid, about hell and that, but I know different now. God could be a woman. And a fine one too! That fear shit they threw at us, to keep us in line . . . a crime.”
He made a sharp gesture as though lopping a branch.
“When I saw what they did back then . . . It all comes back to the same thing. Them and their stupid politics.”
“Around here, Opa?”
“Here? I don’t know. But the priest here is a nice fellow. Still, he must do what he is told. Tell you the truth, I feel sorry for him.
And you know, he probably hasn’t a clue himself. If he did, he doesn’t believe any of it.”
“Politics?”
“No, no. You know when rats leave a sinking ship? A rat line?
Rats are infernal bastards. Christ, they’re smarter than a room full of Jesuits. They’ll eat through anything. They can climb like frigging monkeys too.Yes, the ‘ratline.’”
“Rats,” said Felix. “What do rats have to do with anything there?”
“Not those rats, boy don’t be a depp. It’s people I’m talking about. The ‘ratline’ is how a lot of the bastards got away.You know who I mean – the higherups.”
“I don’t. Who?”
“Oh come on. The bad guys.
“The war?”
“Of course! But not just here in humble little Styria. I’m talking about ones from all over, and other guys, in the DP camps.
Look, is Yugo a bad word in the city?”
Felix nodded.
“Okay. Well call them what you like. I am not referring to the ordinary ones, the ordinary decent folk. No these were the higherups. What did they call them, the ones down there, the ones who loved Hitler? Ustashi? Yes! That’s their name. But it wasn’t just them hiding in those camps. It was some of the ones from close to Berlin, the really black bastards. They had their escape plans ready for years. Some of them went to places like South America, can you believe it?”
“Where did you learn all this, Opa?”
“I forget.”
“You read it?”
<
br /> “I said, I forget.”
“But you know a lot.”
“I forget a lot too. A happy man does both equally well.”
There was something sharp in the retort. Then his grandfather’s face softened.
“Look,” he said. “There were ‘ratlines’ everywhere.
Switzerland, Italy, here. Some of them went right to the Vatican, they say. That’s what I’m talking about. Along with loot they’d stolen off Jews, that went with them, some of it anyway.That’s never going to see the light of day, now, is it?”
“Up here?”
“Why not? You ask where I heard this. It was years ago. That’s why I am ashamed to tell you. I went to Grade Six, Felix, but look at you, and Lisi Uni. Fantastic.”
“You heard rumours, gossip?”
“That’s it. People back then believed anything. Remember, this was after the war, when one potato was a feast. People make up stories here in the hills, it’s natural: a giant deer, or a wolf with red eyes, a giant, a mountain of gold anything.”
“Who could tell me?”
His grandfather leaned against the countertop and massaged his knuckles.
“Who?”
“Niemand,” his grandfather said. “No one.”
The door opened and Felix’s grandmother came in giggling at something Speckbauer had said in a low voice.
“Such kindness, I will not forget this. Truly.”
Felix’s opa nodded at Speckbauer in return for his compliment.
There was a sardonic glint in his eye, Felix noticed. He remembered his opa mock-grumbling about her falling for anything in uniform after Felix had shown them his Gendarmerie uniform.
“I have asked your wife’s kind indulgence, Herr Nagl,”
Speckbauer said. “If I might leave Franzi here a little while so that Felix and I may continue with some business that needs attending to.”
As though on cue, Franzi appeared by the window and nodded.
“I hope that is not an imposition.”
“He’ll be put to work.”
“I’m sure that will be a joy to him, Herr Nagl.”
THIRTY-SIX
SPECKBAUER REPEATED FELIX’S QUESTION.
“How long, you say?”
He had closed the passenger door and was trying to find a comfortable way to fit himself in the confines of the seat of Felix’s Polo.
There was a smell of soap off him. He did not look like a man who had spent half the night in a ditch watching the comings and goings in the Nagl home.
“Exactly,” said Felix, shielding his eyes from the morning sun.
“How long before we get real help here?”
“Franzi can do lots,” said Speckbauer.
“He can barely move.”
“Not so. He takes relaxants if he has to do exertions.”
“So, he’ll be half-drugged, being a sleeping bodyguard for my grandparents?”
“Is he a bodyguard?”
“He better be. What if those guys, or that guy decides to come back.”
“This is what we are working on, you and me. Why we’re going to pay a proper visit to that pub in Weiz. This time we lean on him.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t tell you? Mr. Friendly who serves up the drinks.
Remember him? Well he does me the occasional favour. Today, it will suit him to do one. Let’s go.”
Again Felix thought about the maps and photocopies he had put under the bed.
“Geh’ma jetzt,” said Speckbauer with an edge of impatience.
“Let’s go now.”
“Give me a minute,” said Felix. “I forgot something.”
He made it upstairs with no more than a greeting from his grandmother. When he came back into the yard, Franzi and Speckbauer were standing by the back of the Passat. Speckbauer was rummaging in the trunk. When Franzi saw Felix, he said something and held the lid down halfway. Something that Speckbauer was doing with the contents of the trunk stopped Franz closing it anymore.
“Jesus, Franzi!” Speckbauer said, emerging from under the trunk-lid.
Felix saw two grey sleeveless jackets over an open container, or case.They were Kevlar vests, the patrol-duty cut that he had trained in.
Speckbauer stood upright slowly. He held the trunk lid and looked at Felix.
“Our toy box,” he said.
Felix didn’t want to look surprised.
“We take things with us,” said Speckbauer.
The metal box Felix had seen yesterday was open. Felix recognized the AUG 88 lying on one side, with its stock folded.
“You carry that stuff?”
“‘Stuff’?”
“An assault rifle,” said Felix. “The same one we trained on in the Service.”
“So,” said Speckbauer.
“We lock them behind two doors at the post. But you, in the trunk of a car . . . ?”
“Okay,” said Speckbauer. “It looks serious, doesn’t it? Don’t go academic on me. Bad police, bad police state, etc. We have to move on this thing.”
There were also electronics of some kind. They seemed to be bolted or attached to the bottom of the container.
“In case we get lost,” said Speckbauer.
“GPS?”
“Yes.”
Speckbauer let the trunk-lid up, leaned into the trunk again, and drew out the submachine gun.
“Franzi,” he said, but did not turn toward either of them.
“Check, safety, and then put the damned thing back on, will you?
And quit arguing. The operation is ongoing. And for the love of Christ and his suffering Mother, stick your jacket over it.”
“It’s going to be hot,” said Franzi. “It’ll give me a rash. The Glock is enough.”
“You are like a kid. Give me the pistol and put the damn thing on.”
Slowly Franzi took off his nylon Adidas jacket. He checked the clasps for the belt of the gun, undid one, and laid the submachine gun on the floor of the boot. Speckbauer twisted the safety on it several times. He pulled out and returned the stock twice. He took a furtive look over the lid of the trunk and motioned to Franzi. Franzi lifted his right arm. The skin on his upper arm was grey and pink, and lines like a map were revealed when his shirt sleeve slid back over his wrists. Speckbauer draped the belt over Franzi’s shoulder, and then held up his jacket. Felix heard Franzi grunt as he reached for the second arm of his jacket.
“Help him, will you? He is like a puppet, a stubborn puppet.”
Speckbauer was speaking to him. Felix put down the bag and helped Franz guide his arm slowly down the sleeve hole.
Franzi adjusted how the gun hung under his arm. Speckbauer held up two magazines. He was muttering to himself, his upper body still bent over the lip of the trunk.
“Okay,” said Franzi. “Three o’clock is the deal.”
“What deal?” Felix said.
“Three it is,” said Speckbauer. He fingered a keypad and then closed the lid on the box. He tested it after a small wirp came from somewhere inside.
“What deal?” Felix repeated.
Nobody answered him. Speckbauer tested the lid to the box to see it had caught on something, and was really locked. His face was flushed when he stood up.
“Look, I’m not some clown that just tags along to run errands for you.”
“Nobody said you were. It was Franzi I was referring to as the idiot.”
“Why are we going in my car?”
“Because it’ll show you have left.”
“Show who? You think the house is being watched?”
“I don’t know. But anyone passing can see a car parked here.
That’s on purpose.”
“The police car here?”
“Is it a police car? It’s a car that Franzi may need. We may have to change our approach later in the day.”
“My grandparents have a clue what’s going on.”
“They have a guest. Isn’t that enough? A friend of their bel
oved grandson.”
“If they see the AUG he’s carrying”
“Franzi will not be displaying it. Now calm down. What’s with the bag anyway? Let’s go. Komm.”
Without any will on his part, Felix found himself following him across the yard. His anger swirled around the leaden, crushing feeling that had already settled on him. It was one of those middle-ofthe-night-wake-up-for-no-reason feelings he remembered all the way back to childhood, when for a while he didn’t know if he was really awake.
Speckbauer was already pulling the passenger door closed behind him. The Polo squeaked as Speckbauer wriggled about trying to get the safety belt organized.
Felix stood by the driver’s side and looked back at the house.
Franzi was strolling toward the kitchen door, walking in that careful stiff way, moving his right arm in small arcs. The morning sun had reached the geraniums in the window boxes now, and the stained wood looked sharp and darker in the light. Felix thought of what Giuliana would be doing now. She’d be awake, maybe brooding what to do finally with her stupid boyfriend. The last straw, this one lousy week’s holiday, the precious time they’d waited a whole long winter for: screwed.
Speckbauer was tapping on the window. Felix threw the bag in the back seat and sat in behind the wheel.
“Any maps in this shitbox of yours?” said Speckbauer, craning to see some that had slid onto the floor from the bag. “Do we need them?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
THEY WERE PULLING INTO A DECENT PARKING SPOT IN WEIZ, close to the town hall at the top end of the old hauplatz, within 20 minutes. Speckbauer was out quickly. He bought a two-hour ticket from the machine.
“It’ll be a nice surprise,” he said, and slammed his door hard.
“For Mr. Smiley.”
Felix fell into step beside him. The streets were already busy.
Small groups of kids were making their way along by the shops toward school. A pasty-faced assistant was sluicing the leftovers of a bucket of disinfectant along the sidewalk by the door to the butcher’s. The smell from a bakery began to overcome the faint dieselly tang as they walked along. A man brushing in the doorway greeted them.
“He’s not a fool,” Speckbauer said. “But if I think he’s spinning me one . . . ”
Felix tried to remember what ‘Mr. Smiley’ looked like.
