The Second Son: A Novel

by Jonathan Rabb

  Mila said, “Don’t underestimate them.”

  Hoffner used the handkerchief again and turned to the door. “Come.”

  The door opened, and the second man stepped through with a plate of crackers and cheese and a glass of water.

  Hoffner said, “Good.” He turned to Mila with a nod. “Señora. I’ll see you at the café.” With nothing else, he headed into the office.

  * * *

  “You came through Barcelona?”

  Captain Doval sat behind his desk. He held Hoffner’s papers casually in his long fingers, which showed a recent manicure.

  “Yes,” said Hoffner. He placed his empty glass on the desk and reached for another cracker. The cheese was surprisingly fresh.

  “And you encountered no difficulties?”

  Hoffner dabbed his finger at the crumbs on his shirt. “You wear a red neckerchief, raise your hand with a ¡Viva la República! and Barcelona is your friend.” He licked at the crumbs.

  “I wish it were all so easy.”

  “It will be.” Hoffner finished the cracker and brushed off his hands. “So. I can expect your help in finding this man?”

  Doval’s expression remained unchanged. “Your German. Herr Bernhardt.”

  “Yes.”

  There really had been no other choice. If guns were coming in, this was where they would be heading. Besides, it was always best to bring a bit of truth to the table with a man like Doval. And arrogance—German arrogance—with crackers, brushed hands, and a thoroughly polished indifference.

  Doval placed the papers on the table. He rubbed something off one of his nails, and said, “Papers are an easy thing to come by these days, Señor Hoffner. Especially in Barcelona.”

  Hoffner showed nothing. “I imagine they are.”

  “A Safe Conduct is impressive.”

  “Especially one signed by Señor Franco.”

  Doval seemed less convinced. He waited before saying, “Your Spanish is excellent.” Even a compliment seemed a sneer.

  Hoffner could see where this was going. Papers wouldn’t be enough. Funny, he thought: where better than Nationalist Spain to be forced to have it all come down to an act of faith. It was now just a matter of waiting for the right moment. Hoffner continued, “But not your German.”

  “No—I don’t speak German.”

  “Odd,” said Hoffner. “I would have expected a bit more from the Reich’s liaison.”

  “Odd is having a member of the Reich appear without warning.”

  Hoffner appreciated Doval’s impatience. It was coming now. “You’re going to waste both our time, aren’t you?”

  “I have a man with the woman at the café.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “He can detain her if need be.”

  “Or shoot her. Or you could shoot me. There are so many possibilities for you.”

  Doval tried to match Hoffner’s effortlessness, but it came off as preening.

  “You will admit it’s surprising,” said Doval. “A German with rare yet ideal papers arriving with a Spanish woman. She was also in Barcelona?”

  “She was.”

  “And you just happened to be carrying a second Safe Conduct for her?”

  Doval was taking them closer and closer. Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He chose not to offer one. “You ask very good questions.”

  “I hope they’re not wasting your time.”

  “Not at all.” Hoffner lit up and let out a long strain of smoke. “When we speak about Bernhardt, I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

  “Assuming I know who this Bernhardt is.”

  Hoffner took another pull. “But that’s not the point, is it—whether you know.”

  The power of German arrogance lay in its cruelty; Spanish arrogance relied too willingly on dignity. It placed Doval at a considerable disadvantage.

  Hoffner said, “The better question is why do I know about Herr Bernhardt, and why do I choose to come to a rebel stronghold to talk about him. The rest is meaningless. I’m assuming you can set up a direct telephone line to Berlin.”

  Doval needed a moment. He had never imagined the request coming from across the desk. “Yes.”

  “How long will it take?”

  Again Doval hesitated. He was convincing himself of the logic. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

  “Good. And you have someone here who speaks a perfect German?”

  “I have.”

  “Then I’ll save us both some time.” Acts of faith require so little preparation, he thought. “You’re to have your man contact Gruppenführer Edmund Präger at the SS offices of the Sipo in Berlin. Präger. With an umlaut. I have the number, but coming from me you’d question it. So we’ll sit together while your man tracks it down. When he has the Gruppenführer on the line, I’ll tell your man what he needs to ask. And then you’ll tell me what I need to know about Bernhardt. We’re clear?”

  * * *

  Eighteen minutes later the telephone on Doval’s desk rang through. Hoffner had spent the time drinking a second glass of water and finishing the cheese and crackers.

  Doval said nothing. Instead, he chose to watch Hoffner. It was an old technique and not terribly effective in the hands of a man still green with his own power.

  Doval nodded to the man who had promised a perfect German, and the man picked up the telephone.

  “Hello?” The man’s eyes darted as he listened. “Yes … slower please … yes … thank you … I can wait.” The eyes settled on the rind of cheese before suddenly refocusing. “One moment.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Doval. Doval looked across at Hoffner, and Hoffner said in Spanish, “You’re to tell the Herr Gruppenführer that SS Hauptsturmführer Nikolai Hoffner is in Zaragoza, Spain, at the Nationalist headquarters with a Captain Doval.”

  Doval nodded to the man. The information was relayed in German and Hoffner watched as the man continued to listen. Either Präger would understand or Hoffner would be dead. It was as simple as that.

  The man with the perfect German said in Spanish, “I think he’s asking why you’ve contacted him, Captain.”

  Doval again looked at Hoffner, and Hoffner said, “You’re to say this and only this: ‘Braunschweig.’ ”

  Doval again nodded and the man said hesitantly into the receiver, “Braunschweig.” There were several more seconds of darting eyes, and the man said in Spanish, “SS Hauptsturmführer Hoffner has the Gruppenführer’s complete authority. Contact is not to be made again.” The man listened for more and then said, “Hello?… Hello?” He held the receiver out to Doval. “The line has disengaged, Captain.”

  Doval was looking across at Hoffner. “Set it down, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

  The man placed the telephone in its cradle, saluted, and moved to the door. Doval waited until they were alone.

  “I’ve never heard of this Präger,” said Doval. His caution remained.

  “No,” said Hoffner, “I’m sure you haven’t.” It was nice to know that two old bull cops could still wreak a little havoc. “The Gruppenführer’s immediate superior is SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. That, I suspect, is a name you’re more familiar with. We can put a call directly through to the Obergruppenführer if you prefer.”

  Doval had evidently spent time enough in the company of the SS not to give way to this kind of bullying. Instead he said, “Langenheim never mentioned Braunschweig.”

  Langenheim, thought Hoffner. All the names from Georg’s wire were finding their way onto the table. Granted, Hoffner had no idea how Doval knew Langenheim—or who Langenheim might be—but at least they were heading in the right direction.

  “No,” said Hoffner. “I’m sure not.”

  “And the woman?”

  Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. This time he offered one to Doval. “The woman is no concern of yours.” Doval took one and Hoffner lit it. “She has a brother who fights for you. That should be enough.” He lit his own and sat back. “When was Bernhardt here?�
��

  Doval was doing what he could to reassert control. He sat back as he stared across through the smoke. “He wasn’t,” he said.

  Hoffner knew to tread carefully. Any moment this could all come crashing down. He began to feel a dull throbbing at the back of his neck. He took another careless pull on the cigarette and said, “Really?”

  “But I would have assumed you knew that.”

  Doval was proving surprisingly adept. Hoffner let the smoke trail from his nose. “Would you?” he said. His only choice was a quiet contempt. “And when would I have learned this, Captain, having been in Barcelona for the past four days? When I telephoned to Berlin from the Ritz? I’m sure no one at the anarchist telephone exchange would have thought to ask why.” And with no time for a response, “I need to know when Bernhardt was here. Do we understand each other?”

  Doval might not have found the sweating German—with his half stories and vague papers—compelling, but Hoffner had brought something else with him: the aura of Nazi infallibility. It was enough to cut through any lingering concern.

  “It was the nephew,” said Doval. “The boy from Barcelona. No doubt you’ve met him.”

  Nephew, thought Hoffner. The drug addict was a nephew. Which meant there was a second, older Bernhardt. Hoffner had spent a career being told things he was meant to know. It made revelations like this quickly digestible.

  Hoffner said, “I don’t trust anyone involved with that. Opium is a mind without control, too easily persuaded. When was he here?”

  Doval flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. “Six days ago. He said he was having trouble establishing contacts.”

  “The Chinese were being less than accommodating?” Hoffner let this settle for only a moment. “As I said, I don’t trust any of it. I haven’t from the start.” Hoffner finally saw what he had been hoping for: an instant of mutual understanding. They would find common ground in their distaste for the drug lines. Hoffner said, “Bernhardt thinks he’s helping the nephew. I’m here to make sure he understands that’s no longer in his best interests. Where was the nephew heading?”

  “South.”

  “And the elder Bernhardt knew this?”

  “I assume so.”

  Hoffner decided to take a chance. “You assume so? You have wires to this effect?”

  It was not a good choice as Doval looked momentarily puzzled. “I don’t think I follow.”

  The throbbing became a dull ache. Hoffner retreated to frustration. “The elder Bernhardt. Did he communicate this to you?”

  Doval was no less forthright. “He made it clear we were no longer to continue in this direction.”

  “With the Chinese and the drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the nephew knew this?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knew the guns were still coming from the south?”

  Doval’s hesitation returned. The SS never asked; they gave orders. This was too many questions. Regardless, Hoffner had swum well beyond his limits; there was no point in worrying about getting back to shore now.

  “The elder Bernhardt,” Hoffner pressed. “He made it clear that the drug lines were no longer a possibility, that the new routes were to go through Teruel.”

  Doval showed a moment’s pause. This had struck a nerve.

  Hoffner said, “I’ve said something that confuses you, Captain?”

  Doval kept his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “No, Hauptsturmführer, you haven’t.”

  The answer was too weak, and with nothing behind it. “You’re aware of Teruel, Captain?”

  “Yes,” said Doval. “Of course.”

  “You’re not filling me with tremendous confidence. I need to see these wires.”

  “You continue to refer to routes, Hauptsturmführer.” Doval spoke with an unexpected resolve. “What routes would those be?”

  The gaze across the desk showed none of the weakness of only moments ago. Mila had been right. These were not men to be underestimated. Hoffner wondered if this was where Doval had been leading him all along.

  Hoffner waited. He took another pull on his cigarette. He let the smoke spear through his nostrils. And then he did what any good Nazi would do. He smiled.

  “You don’t speak German,” said Hoffner. His voice carried a newfound respect. “Now I see why.” He leaned forward and slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Ambition is a far more vital quality.”

  Doval showed nothing, and Hoffner knew it was only a matter of time before there would be a second telephone call to Berlin.

  Hoffner continued. “Bernhardt chose not to tell you about the routes, Captain. I have to accept that. My mistake was assuming you knew, Teruel notwithstanding. If that means you take me outside and shoot me, so be it.”

  Doval sat remarkably still. Hoffner returned the gaze and understood the reason Gabriel and his kind had taken no time for celebrations: if this was Spain’s future, there would be no Spain worth remembering.

  Doval said, “I wouldn’t bother taking you outside, Hauptsturmführer. The walls in my office are sturdy enough.”

  Hoffner gave in to another smile, and Doval opened the top drawer of his desk. He reached in and pulled out a thin file of papers. He handed them across and sat back while Hoffner read.

  A WAY THROUGH

  The air outside was remarkably fresh. Or perhaps it was just that Hoffner felt himself breathing again for the first time in the last hour. The young lieutenant assigned to escort him to the café walked with no such appreciation for the air.

  Hoffner said, “Your German was excellent on the telephone.”

  The young lieutenant nodded once. He spoke again in German. “Thank you, Hauptsturmführer.”

  “In the coming weeks, Captain Doval will need you more than he knows.”

  “Yes, Hauptsturmführer.”

  Hoffner found himself lighting a cigarette as he walked.

  He suspected Doval might be telephoning to Berlin at this moment, perhaps even to Langenheim. That said, there was very little in the wires to concern Doval—at least in showing them to someone who had mentioned routes and guns and Teruel.

  As far as Hoffner could tell, the wires served as confirmation: the nephew had been in Barcelona; he had come to Zaragoza; he had gone on to Teruel. After that, he was due to head west, stopping along the way in places now, or soon to be (God willing), in fascist control: Cuenca, Tarancón, Toledo, Coria, and finally Badajoz on the Portuguese border; a straight line across the heart of Spain.

  More than that, there were contact names in each of the towns and cities, along with addresses for each man. Hoffner had written them all down.

  The travel itinerary was the elder Bernhardt’s way of assuring Captain Doval and his fellow liaisons across the country that mechanisms were being set in place to guarantee the steady flow of guns and ammunition from Germany into Spain. How they hoped to accomplish that—and how these contact names played a role—remained the mystery.

  Hoffner was guessing Georg might be trying to piece that together himself.

  “Here we are,” the young lieutenant said.

  Hoffner tossed his cigarette to the ground and followed the boy to the café door.

  * * *

  The Gran Café was wall-front windows and wooden pillars throughout, with the smell of fresh coffee and garlic hanging in the air. Mila was at a table at the back, beyond the bar. A man in the uniform of a requeté sat with her. He was reading through a letter.

  Only two of the other tables were occupied: a trio of officers sat knee to knee as they sipped silently through bowls of something brown; closer to the door an old priest was reading a newspaper and drinking from a glass of yellow liquid. He looked up with a gentle smile as Hoffner stepped inside. Mila’s own escort stood by the bar with a cup of chocolate and a plate of churros. The strips of dough were powdered and had left white specks under his nose. They made the man’s sharp nod to Hoffner’s lieutenant somewhat less imposing.

  Hoffner drew up to Mila’s
table. The lieutenant was now with his friend at the bar, delicately trying to inform him of the powder. There was a flurry of nose activity over Hoffner’s shoulder, and Mila said, “Everything all right?”

  Hoffner nodded. The brother looked up with the same features as his father, although here they were hidden behind a neatly cropped beard and mustache. It was unclear whether he had been crying, but the eyes showed a heaviness. He stood. He was tall like his sister.

  Hoffner said, “Sergeant Piera.”

  “Señor Hoffman.”

  Mila corrected. “Hoffner.”

  Piera looked at his sister. His mind was clearly elsewhere. He looked again at Hoffner. “Yes, of course. Señor Hoffner. My apologies.”

  Hoffner motioned to the chairs, and the two men sat. Mila said nothing, and Piera went back to his letter. Hoffner noticed a loose stack of perhaps twenty on the chair beside him, a brown piece of twine at the side. Three of the letters had already been opened and read.

  Mila kept her eyes on her brother as he flipped to the back of the one in his hand, read it, and set it down. He stared for several moments before saying, “That’s the last?” His eyes remained fixed on the table.

  “Yes,” said Mila.

  Piera’s eyes moved as if he were reading something only he could see. “She wrote well.”

  “She did.”

  He nodded. His mind was struggling to find its way back. The eyes filled and his breathing became heavier, but he refused to cry. Mila placed her hand on his.

  She said, “I don’t like the beard.”

  Even his smile showed pain. “Then you’re lucky you don’t have to see it that often.” He looked at Hoffner. “Forgive me. A friend has died. I’ve just been told of it.”

  It was clearly more, but Hoffner knew to say only, “I’m sorry.”

  Piera tried to move past it. “You’ve been to see Captain Doval?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve come from Barcelona?”

  Hoffner nodded. He had no intention of opening this up, but Piera saved him by saying, “Thank you, then. For bringing Mila. I won’t take any more of your time.”