by Richard Wake
The laughter from the deputies was long and loud, exaggerated guffawing, fat-necked sycophants on parade. I started to say something, but Grundman shushed me.
"—Since this international smear campaign of the press must naturally be interpreted not as a reconciling element, but as one presenting a threat to international peace, I have resolved to undertake the reinforcements of the German Wehrmacht, which will lend us the certainty that this wild threat of war against Germany will not one day be transformed into a bloody reality. These measures have been in progress since February 4 of this year and will be continued with speed and determination."
"Fuck me," Grundman said. "Fuck us."
"It's not like he ever needed a pretense, but press reports? I mean, really?"
"He's drawing the roadmap. You wonder if anybody in Vienna is even listening."
Then Hitler got to the meat of the meal:
"Two of the states at our borders alone encompass a mass of over ten million Germans. Until 1866, they were still united with the German race as a whole in a political federation. Until 1918, they fought shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers of the German Empire in the Great War. Against their own free will, they were prevented from uniting with the Reich by virtue of the peace treaties. This is painful enough in and of itself. Yet let there be no doubt in our minds about one thing. The separation from the Reich under public law must not lead to a situation in which the races are deprived of rights; in other words, the general rights of völkisch self-determination—which, incidentally, were solemnly guaranteed to us in Wilson's Fourteen Points as a prerequisite for the Armistice—cannot simply be ignored because this is a case concerning Germans! In the long run, it is unbearable for a world power to know that there are volksgenossen at its side being constantly subjected to the most severe suffering because of their sympathy or affiliation with their race, its fate, and its worldview . . .
"Yet he who wields force in attempting to prevent a balance from being achieved in Europe in that the tensions are lessened will at some point inevitably call violence into play between the peoples. . . . Just as England looks after its interests in every corner of the earth, modern Germany, too, shall know how to look after and protect its albeit much more limited interests. And these interests of the German Reich include protecting those German volksgenossen who are not, of their own power, in a position to secure for themselves on our borders the right to general human, political, and weltanschaulich freedom!"
I said, "That's the real roadmap—persecution of Germans in Austria and Czechoslovakia."
Grundman sat back in his chair, throwing up his hands. "Yeah, like jailing a Nazi who gets caught firebombing a Jewish restaurant is persecution."
Hitler started saying a bunch of stuff about his recent rape of Schuschnigg, but it didn't really add much to what we already suspected, and what he had just made clear. He said, "The idea and intention were to bring about a lessening of the tensions in our relations by granting to that part of the German-Austrian Volk which is National Socialist in terms of its views and Weltanschauung those rights within the limits of the law which are the same as those to which other citizens are entitled."
And then he said, "At this time, I would like to express before the German Volk my sincere gratitude to the Austrian Chancellor for the great consideration and warmhearted readiness with which he accepted my invitation and endeavored, with me, to find a solution doing equal justice to the interests of both countries and the interests of the German race as a whole, that German race whose sons we all are, no matter where the cradle of our homeland stood. I believe that we have thereby also made a contribution to European peace."
Now Grundman snorted. "I hope Schuschnigg is pleased with the Führer's gratitude. I mean, how does he sleep at night?"
"Maybe he's just playing for time. Maybe he's got a plan."
"He's definitely playing for time. But a plan? He doesn't have shit."
"Maybe he's hoping for Mussolini?"
"I don't think Il Duce is in the Austrian protection business anymore. I think that's over. I know he saved us in ’34 when Dollfuss got killed, but four years is a long time. Somebody would have reported something by now if he’s still on our side. But there's been nothing. I read everything I can get my hands on, and there hasn't been a hint."
Hitler droned on for a few more minutes, ending with, "Long live the National Socialist Movement, long live the National Socialist Army, long live our German Reich!" As the applause built again, Grundman snapped off the radio and said, "I'm not sure we have a month."
I asked him if he was still planning on resisting, and he laid out some of the plans he had made. Needing to unburden myself, in reply, I told him everything: about being a courier, and my suspicions about Uncle Otto's death, and my determination to find out more. I was looking for some kind of validation from him, I know. But after I finished telling him, his silence was unnerving.
"What?" I said. It was almost a panicked cry.
"I was just thinking about your mother and father. He would be cautious. I think she would be proud."
I felt like crying. "So you think I should keep pursuing how Otto died?"
"That's the part that worries me. The courier business is done for the right reasons, as a soldier in a just war. The rest is personal and personal scares me. Some of these kids I'm organizing, all they talk about is getting revenge against certain people: 'I'll strangle that so-and-so with his big red flag.' But that's not what this is. And getting revenge against the Gestapo? I'm as much of an idealist as you'll ever meet, but even I think that's fucking crazy."
"It's not revenge I'm looking for. I'm looking for information, that's all."
"Come on, that's bullshit. Make the assumption it was the Gestapo. There's your information. What are you going to do about it?"
I thought for a second. It was the question I was avoiding as best I could. I was barely audible when I said, "I don't know."
Grundman grabbed me by the shoulders. "That's why I'm scared."
37
Frankfurt was a complete waste of time. I never liked the city—don't know why. Too many bankers, probably. But I got off the train, as instructed, ate lunch at Dimble's, went to the bathroom, checked under the lid of the toilet tank, and there was no envelope. Just the usual rust stains. And the food was crap. Three hours of my life I would never get back.
Because of the change in schedule, I was in Cologne by dinnertime, with nothing to do except pretend to be a detective. My first stop—really, the only stop I had planned—was at the Wasserhof, Otto's hotel of choice.
We both were slaves to our road routines. I always stayed at the Dom Hotel because it was nice and because they could accommodate me with the typewriter and supplies I needed. Otto always stayed at the Wasserhof, even though it had deteriorated over the years to the point where a nice person would call the appointments "tired." A less polite person, like me, would go straight to "shithole." But whenever I asked Otto why he still stayed there, he told the story about being snowed in one year—like in 1921 or something—and how they kept the kitchen and the bar open for him and three other guests when nobody else was in the hotel, and how he felt he still owed them his loyalty "even though the old girl's undergarments are getting a bit frayed." That was Otto.
I got there and headed straight to the bar; that made the most sense. It was a complete snooze. There was nobody in there except the bartender, who very much fit the surroundings—meaning that, in all likelihood, he’d probably been working a shift the night of the Armistice. When I sat down at the bar, I think I startled him. But he recovered nicely and returned quickly with a credible Manhattan.
He put down the drink. I reached into my breast pocket and removed the photo of Otto that Hannah had given me. I asked if he knew him.
The old gent didn't hesitate. "Ah, Mr. Kovacs. That's him, it is. It's a shame what happened. I have to tell you, the night manager and I drank a toast to him the next night, after we heard."
"What do you know about it?"
"Just what we read in the paper, that his body washed up along the river, and that it was presumed to be a suicide. It was a little, short article, a day or two after the police searched his room. We weren't surprised when we read it because the detective had told the night manager the same thing."
He stopped for a second, my inquisitiveness finally registering. "But who are you?"
I had rehearsed my story, which did not include the words "jealous husband" or "Gestapo." I told him I was Otto's nephew, and that our family was so shocked by the suicide, and that even though it was more than a year later, we still had so many questions, especially Otto's longtime girlfriend. So as a favor to her, and because I was here on business anyway, I figured I would take a little time and try to figure out whatever I could. This was the only place I knew to come.
The old man nodded. "That makes sense. But I don't know what I could tell you. I served him two or three drinks a night, three or four days a year. It does go back decades, that's true, but that was it. I didn't know anything about him—nothing about you, or a girlfriend, or anything really."
He stopped, smiled. "Sometimes he would have a lady with him."
"Ever the same lady twice?"
"Never." And the old man smiled again.
"What about the last night you saw him? I know it's been a while, but do you remember anything?"
"I do because I told the detective when he asked. Mr. Kovacs was in from about nine to eleven, which was pretty typical. Soon after he got here, another gentleman joined him. They sat over there," he said, pointing to a table by the window.
"They seemed to know each other well, but I don't know if your uncle was expecting him when he arrived—he had some notes he was looking through. They had three or four drinks, and they were laughing a lot—I couldn't really hear much because it was pretty busy, believe it or not."
I looked around. I was still the only customer.
"There really isn't much else to say. About eleven, they paid up and walked out into the lobby together. That's all I know. And nobody saw them leave the hotel or go up to your uncle's room or anything—I remember that, too, from when the detective was questioning all of the employees. The night manager was behind on his paperwork and was in his office behind the front desk. The police were here maybe three days later."
I asked him what the other guy looked like. He said he was about my uncle's age, nothing special, just a man in a suit. That's all he had. So I learned something, but I learned nothing. I didn’t know who I was kidding, thinking I could come up with an answer so many months after Otto died. Real detectives would tell you that the trail grows very cold after only 48 hours. Fourteen months later, what chance did a fake detective have?
The answer: no chance. Before I left, I bought the bartender a shot, and he drank with me. He raised his glass and said, "To Herr Kovacs."
38
A terrible trip morphed into an absolute waste of time when the phone in my hotel room woke me at 7:30. It was the secretary for Michael Bader, owner of the family steel mill, my appointment for the day. He was Uncle Otto's client, maybe the company's oldest client in Germany. We didn't get along badly, but we didn't get along great, either. Anyway, the secretary was calling to tell me that Bader's wife had suffered a heart attack the previous night and was hospitalized. She asked if the appointment could be rescheduled in about 10 days. I checked my calendar and agreed.
I managed to reschedule my train for that night, but still had a day to kill. My first thought was to grab a beer and head for the river until I looked out the window and saw the rain. Also, the idea of sitting along the river with a cold one had lost a bit of its traditional appeal, given that a quick glance to the right would always leave me staring at Uncle Otto's bridge. So, it was breakfast in the hotel dining room, accompanied by a newspaper that featured a front-page story about the persecution of German Nazis by the good citizens of Salzburg, and how this couldn't be allowed to stand. There had been a different story the day before, and there undoubtedly would be another one the day after, all pretty much the same article, just substituting the name of the town and the number of Nazis who were supposed to have been roughed up. It was all bullshit, but it was relentless, and given the low growl I got from the waiter as he read the story over my shoulder, it also might just have been effective.
The rain stopped, so I decided to wander around. In Cologne, wanderers seemed almost automatically drawn to the cathedral. Something told me to go inside and sit in a pew. It was a massive place, not particularly beautiful but just so solid and imposing, comforting in its permanence. I hadn't been to Mass since Otto's funeral, and I couldn't remember the time before that, but I sat through the second half of this one, standing and kneeling at all of the right times, reciting the prayers by rote, the whole business burned somewhere into my consciousness. And when it was over, I just sat there and thought about I don't know what. I'm not sure how long I had been there when a priest in his black cassock slid into the pew next to me.
"Alex," he said. I looked up and didn't recognize him, except that I did. It was one of those situations where you see someone outside of their usual context and can't quite place them, although you know that you know them.
He smiled at my apparent confusion. "Peiper," he said. "Major Peiper."
Then it was my turn to smile. "So which are you, a Luftwaffe major or a priest? Because if you're really a priest, I personally would be thrilled, although I think I should tell you that your superiors probably frown on your walks down the back corridor."
"This is a fact: There is no specific mention of back corridors in scripture—so learn your Bible. But I'm in the Luftwaffe. I borrowed this from a friend who happens to be posted in the rectory here. A friend who happens to agree with what I'm doing and occasionally helps me out."
That he knew my travel plans and had been following me was as evident as it was unsettling. That I was a pawn in this entire business had become plain in recent months, but the number of people whose fingerprints were on me, trying to push me around a board I didn't understand—the major, the Gestapo, the Czechs—seemed to be multiplying. And there was no way for me to just turn over the board and run away.
Peiper started to say something, but I stopped him.
"My Uncle Otto," I said. "Do you know about him?"
Peiper looked at me quizzically. I told him the whole story. The last time I had seen Peiper, in August, I was still under the impression that it was suicide. I hadn't yet met Detective Muller in the bar, didn't know about the bruising on Otto's body. The Gestapo had not been a possibility that I had even considered.
So I told him everything, from the beginning. Peiper never interrupted, just took it all in before answering.
"First thing, I'm sorry about your uncle. But I didn't know him. I had never heard of him until you started talking five minutes ago. I'm sure you're wondering if he was an agent, but I'm pretty confident that he wasn't. I think I'd know. We're a pretty small circle. You know, I would definitely know if we were working with him. I would also know if he was working for the Gestapo against us because that would mean we killed him. And we didn't."
I had never even considered that Otto could have been working for the Germans as a spy. But if the Czechs thought I could be helpful because of my extensive traveling and my contacts, I guess the Germans could have felt the same way. Then again, what would the Nazis need Otto for? They had ministers in the Austrian cabinet, for fuck's sake. They controlled half of the Vienna police department, at least.
No, that wasn't it—and that was beside the fact that Otto hated the Nazis.
"Are you sure you would know?"
"Look, there are only six of us in this area. I promise you, I would know. Your uncle just wasn't working for us."
An old woman came into the pew behind us. It was a vast, empty church and she was right up our ass. Peiper leaned closer and whispered. "Stay here for five minutes and then
meet me on the other side, in the last confessional on the right."
39
After five minutes, I approached the confessional, but the red light was on above the booth. Somebody else was in there, which didn't seem possible. I surveyed the area, and it was, indeed, the last confessional on the right. So I waited in a nearby pew. A minute or two later, an ancient woman wearing a rain bonnet tied tightly beneath her chin emerged. She walked with a cane.
I took her place in the booth and kneeled. The partition slid open, but the priest was in the shadows behind a screen, so I wasn't 100 percent sure it was Peiper. I began the rite from memory, just in case. But it must have sounded like a question as I said it.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned—"
"Alex?"
"Thank God. You didn't really hear that old lady's confession, did you?"
"I did. There was nothing I could do—she followed me right in."
I was laughing, something I had never done in a confessional. "Anything juicy?"
"Haven't you ever heard of the seal of the confessional?"
"Yeah, but that's for real priests."
"All right. Let's just say she had some impure thoughts, the old girl did. I gave her three Hail Marys for her penance, but what I really wanted to do was congratulate her. God, she sounded like she was 80."
"She walked like she was 90."
We eventually got down to the reason why Peiper was following me into the cathedral in the first place. He said there was nothing physical to bring home this time. He just wanted me to listen and give a verbal report to my contact in Vienna.