His features never dimmed for her, unlike those of so many others of her past—forgotten lovers, fallen comrades, and even Hussein. Although she had been only five years old at the time of his suicide, his image had been scorched into her memory. She recalled her slippered toes upon his polished brown shoes, her chin planted in his belly, looking up into the false severity as Papa played her prince, his jaw thrust out and away, his spectacles gleaming in the light of a chandelier, the smile at the corners of his eyes, and the brush of hair so great and thick it was like the coat of an aging raccoon. But they had never danced like this, and she still longed to feel the flow of his pride, had he lived to see her grown.
She knew so much more about him now, for as she reached her teenage years she had sought out every detail. Of course, her mother had survived, but by that time Katharina Klump’s descent into an alcoholic oblivion had blurred her memories, frustrating Martina with contradictions. Apparently, the wife of a German officer lived in blessed ignorance, asking few questions about her husband’s career.
The truth, as it emerged, was a simple story of a man of science, whose brilliance would have brought him glory had the flag outside his ministry waved stars and stripes instead of a swastika. Dr. Otto Klump was holding a prestigious physics chair in Berlin when the NSDAP swept through German politics, offering talented scholars a choice: the boundless research coffers of a burgeoning war machine, or academic oblivion. Though unimpressed by uniforms or ranks, the doctor was a slave to his own scientific curiosity. And who could dismiss such an offer, to exchange an old bench of stained beakers and Bunsen burners for a staff of fifty researchers? And so he went to work as one of Albert Speer’s Wunderkinder, reporting directly to Karl Saur, chief of the Technical Department in the Ministry of Armaments.
The ministry was a physicist’s paradise, where, encouraged by Adolf Hitler’s rapture for secret weapons systems, fertile imaginations conceived of television-guided missiles and smart torpedoes. Klump and his colleagues drafted designs, constructed models, cursed failures, and leapt with joy whenever some wild fantasy actually flew, while they remained carefully ignorant of Nordhausen, where their successes were replicated by thousands of dying slave laborers. It was a cauldron of brilliance, hampered only by the lack of as yet unborn computers and microchips, and the advance of the Allied armies.
And suddenly, one day, Dr. Otto Klump went from Führer’s pet to fugitive. The American Army’s Counter Intelligence Corps was sweeping across the scorched German earth like an avenging angel, and one by one the architects of the Nazi war machine were plucked up and subjected to Selektion: interrogation, trial, prison, execution. But Otto Klump was not a runner, and he sent Katharina south to her sister in Bavaria, while he waited for the young Americans in their peaked caps and trench coats.
He spent nearly a year at Chesnay, a palace on the grounds of Versailles converted into a detainment center by the U.S. Army. Many of the German scientists were processed through this central clearinghouse, where Allied interrogators extracted knowledge that might aid them in the inevitable conflict with the Soviet Union. Complete cooperation could gain one a slot in Project Overcast, a secret program devised to bring worthy Germans and their families to America for anonymous employment in the U.S. defense industries. The alternative was that you could find yourself wearing headphones in the defendants’ box at Nuremberg. When his turn came, the doctor made his play, redrawing each of his designs down to the last rivet.
Yet the payoff never materialized. President Truman, having already allowed a thousand former Nazis to grace America’s shores, decided to close the door. Klump was shown to the gate, informed that he had two weeks to clear out of Europe (for what the Americans declined to have, they also wished to deny the Russians), and given the name of a contact in a “ratline,” an escape organization that would get him to Argentina. It was strongly suggested that he venture no closer than that to the United States.
Another man might have been embittered, but Klump considered himself lucky. He was alive, liberated, and he fetched Katharina. Soon they found themselves as pillars of a growing German exile community in Buenos Aires. Juan Peron’s government was sympathetic and his arms industry thirsty for talent. The Klumps had their first and only child in 1955, and they flourished.
The Allies had treated Otto and his relocated compatriots with such objectivity that they were lulled into forgetfulness about their other, less sympathetic judges. The Jews. But the Israelis, after stitching up the gaping wounds of Holocaust and fighting off their neighbors, had not forgotten. Otto Klump had been a scientist, first, last, and always, and he had viewed the Nazis’ anti-Semitism as a distasteful lever with which to place and keep themselves in power. But when the Israelis began to hunt, and Adolf Eichmann disappeared, only to reemerge behind a glass booth in a Jerusalem courtroom, Klump knew that the earth would offer no more ratlines. His comrades fled, his employment disappeared, his optimism collapsed, and he found his final solace in a bullet.
The smiling toddler whom he had called meine kleine Prinzessin was—except for a helpless mother with a shattered heart—alone. . . .
“You’re leading.”
Martina looked up, realizing that her partner had coasted to a standstill and was smiling down at her. “Not that I mind, ma’am. But we ought to come to an agreement.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.” She put a hand to her mouth and forced a girlish giggle. “I am lost in the music, and my feet betray me.” She offered her arms submissively. “Please.”
“Are you French?” the officer asked as he began to spin her again, slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “And at times, so are my manners.”
He laughed and opened his stride as Martina concentrated on remaining supple. She was not quite finished with her memory, so she ended the recollections of her father as she often did, with a silent prayer for forgiveness.
For many years, while underground with the ultra-extreme German left, she had rejected and divorced him. Her female comrades had convinced her that Nazi Germany was a male-dominated, racist abomination, the antithesis of their righteous view of global liberation. But with maturity, she had come to the conclusion that all effective political movements contained the same cast of characters. Few leaders were idealists, most soldiers pure in that they announced their killing natures by their garb. And her Papa had been neither, just a professor, a good man who loved her and had been frightened to death….
Across the crowded dance floor, she suddenly saw the object of her quest. A naval officer in formal dress, black double-breasted blazer with shiny brass buttons, rows of chest ribbons, gold braiding near the cuffs. His skin was smooth and dark, his hair short and gleaming. He was not too tall, and he held his triangular back erect as he gripped a homely, chattering brunette and moved as if praying for a switch to disco. He was not exactly Mussa’s twin but could easily serve as a photo stand-in.
As Martina’s partner turned her again, she moved into the navy officer’s field of vision and focused on him hard until he looked her way. She smiled at him, a knowing grin of sympathy, and in turn he flushed a bit, smiled back, and rolled his eyes.
The couples passed, while Martina glanced back over her shoulder to find the navy man still looking at her. She longed now for the waltz to end, for her new-found love could not be allowed to escape. Then she calmed, knowing he was not going anywhere, not after she used that smile.
A sea of uniforms, and yes, she felt some kind of strange elation, perhaps a remnant of the Argentine soirees of her childhood. A part of her adored them for their foolish simplicity, their childish games of glory. All soldiers were strutters, their egos pinned to their chests.
Except for Benjamin Baum.
A Schwein who passed himself off as a faithful bloodhound, a vulture cloaked in the joviality of a dodo bird. A coward who belonged to that netherworld of soldier spies who coveted their rank and power as did tank commanders but were loath to risk their sacred skins in battle. A li
ar who left his uniform somewhere in a Jerusalem closet while he donned the costume of a father, friend, or lover, deluding himself that God had granted him a license to betray for the sake of the mission.
A rattlesnake who did not have the decency to rattle.
Ten years had passed since the dogs brought her down at Bad Reichenhall. But it had taken far less time for Martina to assemble the pieces, to realize that the episode that nearly ended in her death had been, from the start, the impious plot of Hans-Dieter Schmidt, or Hugo Klein, or Benjamin Baum, all one and the same, of Israeli Military Intelligence.
Not by random order of the German Ministry of Justice had she first been remanded to Preungesheim Three, the women’s section of the Justizvollzugsanstalt prison complex in Frankfurt. It was an unusual choice for a terrorist with a DM 50,000 price on her head; not a remote and isolated facility but a walled-off suburban block in the northern section of the city. And there in the female quarters, lulled by the false aesthetic decor, the purple paint, and the cotton curtains, it had been no accident when she first heard her name carried on the wind through the bars. She climbed onto her cot and pressed her nose to the chill air, to hear it clear as gunfire. The male degenerates locked in the massive blockhouse of Preungesheim Two, pounding on the walls as they sang it over and over: Martina Ursula Klump, Martina Ursula Klump, Marteena Ursoolah Klaahmp. Had they read of her incarceration in a newspaper? Could they have known of her whereabouts through the radio or television?
No. Not bloody likely. It was part and parcel of Baum’s plot. The prosecutors became alarmed that the RAF would attempt to free her, and she had to be moved, ever closer to his gallows.
And whose idea, then, was it to ship her off to Bruchsal, that sprawling brick fortress with its massive ramparts and medieval turrets for the machine-gun-toting guards? For her own security, they said, as she peered from the transport wagon, its only passenger, and entered the hideaway that nearly became her tomb. Was she truly so naive? Or was she then, as before, in the power of the absence of her father, even in her violent courage susceptible to the false kindness of men of his generation? Baum had hatched this final humiliation, to secrete her in a facility for male murderers and rapists, to strip her of her dignity, to have her locked away inside her cell, forbidden even from communal meals or exercise with the cream of Germany’s scum.
And then, the prize. The deal. The ultimate insult. Major Benjamin Baum, arriving to the rescue, her savior. You will not be harmed, he had said. It has all been arranged, he assured her. Your escort on the soccer pitch will be felled by your groin kick, the helicopter will sail over the northern wall and never touch the ground, and you will be on it and gone within twenty seconds. And the delicious secret of this place is that even if the guards are tempted by reflex to bring it down, they will never open fire, because a children’s hospital sits fifty meters outside that wall, and God help them if they cause a crash.
She had only half believed him then, and should have heeded her own cynicism. But she was deep inside the isolation cells, with Baum’s warm German tones, his talk of children, his Münchner jokes, his oath that if she would trust once more and talk to him of matters of the recent past, she would be free to begin her life anew.
If she would just trust . . .
And then she was sprinting across the exercise field, the cold wind of rushing rotors on her face, her faith renewed as the silhouette leaned forward from the guard turret and she saw the spitting submachine gun and felt the full metal jacket lift her by her guts. Screaming his name, cursing his race, she somehow crawled to the skid and hung on as her blood streamed down her legs, and they flew.
There is a children’s hospital, he had said. Baum cared for children? He cared for nothing but his own agenda. Baum knew pain? She wanted him to feel the wounds of his own betrayals. Baum said “trust”? She longed to etch the word in his chest. Vertrauen.
If she was blessed with the opportunity, she would teach him about love. And loss . . .
Martina’s partner was bowing to her. The waltz had finally ended, and she answered his gesture with a smile and a dip of her knees.
“A drink?” he offered.
“The ladies’ room,” she said with an apologetic shrug, and she waved and walked away.
She moved toward the stern but almost immediately swung back and began to cruise along the hangar deck’s perimeter. She found him standing off to one side of a bar table, sipping a scarlet drink, his patent-leather shoes set firmly apart and his dark eyes scanning the dance floor. She could easily envision him at the bridge of a vessel. She smoothed her dress again and straightened her shoulders, striking all thoughts from her mind but the desire for this nautical stranger. She made as if to pass him by, stopped just off his port beam, smiled, and gestured at the officer’s cap tucked under his arm.
“Are we leaving already?”
The navy man looked down at his cap, then back at her. “We, ma’am?”
Martina laughed, a rich sound from her throat. “It’s European English. I mean you.”
He grinned back at her. Very white teeth. “Well, we were thinking that we’re a lousy dancer and we’ve crushed enough toes for one night.”
“Really?” Martina’s frown showed her disappointment. “And I thought you held your own very well with the lady.” She made an obvious effort to see the fingers of his left hand. “Your . . . ?”
“A stranger,” the navy man said, and realizing that she meant business, he began to search her eyes.
She held his gaze for a moment, then recovered her smile and said brightly, “That looks good.”
He glanced down at his drink, reached the bar table in one stride, and ordered, “Bloody Mary,” in a tone with which Martina imagined he also said “Hard to starboard.”
The barman served him quickly to make him go away, and he offered the cold glass to Martina. She took it in her left hand as she extended her right.
“Sandra Russel,” she said as she felt his grip, sea-weathered and strong.
“Rick Delgado.”
“Happy holidays.” She touched her glass to his, and they both sipped. “It is good.” She licked a bit of tomato pulp from her upper lip. “Ensign?”
“Lieutenant.”
“I apologize. The ranks confuse me.”
“I guess that makes you a civilian.” He touched her elbow, and they stepped away from the bar crowd.
“I confess.”
“And not from the States.”
“So what am I doing here?” She sighed as if weary of this recitation. “Well, my father is English, my mother French. I work for the attaché at the French Consulate, and he insisted that I take a ticket and charm some of his American comrades.”
“And how are you doing?”
“My feet hurt!” They did not, but Martina dipped like a skier, took off her heels, held them up like felled rodents, and said, “Ahh.”
The bandleader’s chipper voice suddenly echoed over speakers.
“Okay, folks. We’ve got over a thousand of you here, so odds say we have at least three birthdays.” A waiter zoomed onto the dance floor on a pair of Roller-blades, holding a white cake with spitting sparklers high over his head. “Birthday boys and girls on deck!” the bandleader shouted, as the crowd oohed and applauded. The musicians launched into a blasting version of the Beatles’ celebratory tune, some bashful guests were coaxed out by their partners, and the rest joined them in a raucous flail.
Martina took Delgado’s elbow. “Can we skip this one?” she asked, as if he had been keeping her on the boards all evening.
“Sure.”
They strolled toward the bow as they sipped their drinks, through a section of the hangar deck that held a maze of displays. Large-scale ship models shone from long glass cases, and grainy photographs of sea battles papered the walls. A poster from the early forties showed a muscled ironworker, fist upraised. Avenge December 7!
“There are still some good wars,” Martina offered as sh
e looked at the colored print.
“Hmmm.” Delgado smiled ironically.
“My grandfather was in the OSS,” she responded defensively. “He died near Paris in 1944.”
“Yes.” The lieutenant stopped to assuage her. “That one was a ‘good’ war.”
“And the Gulf?”
“In some ways.”
“Were you there?”
“On a destroyer.”
She moved him forward again, looking down and bobbing on the carpet as if to relieve her aching feet. “I have learned not to ask too much of military men. Their secrets make them . . . how should I say? Nervous.”
“I don’t have a lot of secrets.”
“We shall see.” She briefly squeezed his arm and sipped her drink without looking at him, careful not to promise too much, too soon.
They arrived at the forward section of the hangar deck. Most of the space was occupied by two perfectly preserved airplanes, a Curtiss torpedo bomber and a Grumman Hellcat. Beneath the Hellcat’s high wing a rack of rockets were slung, and in the shadow below, a Marine corporal was gripping the red, sequin-covered rump of a girl while she explored every tooth in his head with her tongue.
Delgado tried to turn away, but Martina trapped him with the intense grip of a rewarded voyeur. They watched for a long moment, and then she came to her tiptoes and put her mouth to his ear.
“Is that what they mean by kissing under the missile toe?” she whispered, and Delgado started to laugh so hard that he had to pull her away. They were still laughing as they returned to the dance area, where the band had now settled into “Moonlight Serenade.”
“Now, this is more my speed,” he said as they watched the languid swaying of the couples.
“One dance,” said Martina. “And then I will let you go.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
The Nylon Hand of God Page 14