“Drugs? Meds?”
“Who could afford such a racket? Not Felix. I’m guessing it was cigarettes, small amounts of cash, to string Felix along. Don’t forget we’re all bottom tier, Harry. Our narcotic is calories.”
“Information, then?”
“Certainly. Whatever it was, it was giving Felix a swagger. Felix was wearing that Ami uniform again. The costume was not convincing, Harry.”
“I could’ve told you that even with all that blood on it.”
“That’s the way Felix was—he wouldn’t listen to reason.”
A great mass had built up in Max’s chest like when he needed to cough onstage and held it in with all his might. He rubbed at his face so Harry couldn’t see his pain.
“Irina didn’t kill him,” Harry said.
“No, brother of mine.”
“You had to do it. He was pushing you to do it.”
“I stabbed and I stabbed and kept stabbing into the same spot. I had to be sure. I had to finish it. I kept stabbing through that blade striking wood, the blood it was everywhere, strings of it, all over his face, how does it get everywhere?” The sweat returned, itching at Max’s scalp, running cold down his sides from his underarms. Shivering, he wiped it off his neck. He sighed at a grim thought: The same impulse running through his very marrow that used to make him need to perform and delight and dance and sing had demanded that he snuff out this scorching wildfire that was Felix Menning. Watching him, Harry nodded as if understanding. “But you must realize,” Max went on. “It was to save Irina and her people. Her boy Oleksandr. All the children. Not for me. It was true I had let him become who he really was, a monster. I had practically made him. We were a team at one point. Felix saved my life once. I didn’t want to do it, he made me do it, to save them …”
“You’re not on trial, Max. But, what I don’t get … You fled the scene. You left Irina.”
Oh, Harry knew how to carve a bird, all right. Leaving Irina behind like that had been the real torment. Max’s hands rose high, as if tugged by wires. “You think I wanted her there? Every woman I touch? You heard what happens.”
“It was her decision. She wanted it that way.”
“Yes, yes. We argued again, naturally—how we screamed, Harry. We knew you were in Munich. I told her. I didn’t want to see you, not yet. Why burden you with me and my suspect past? But Irina, she was going to find you. She demanded it. Based on my hopeful assessment of your good humanity. We had only minutes, I tell you. Seconds. A decision had to be made.”
Harry looked away. He consulted the fire, his eyes etched with the reflection of it. He stood. It was his turn to pace the room. He traversed the room once, past the windows, the entry, the bookshelves. He faced Max from the middle of the room, arms crossed at his chest, needing more.
“I warned her,” Max confessed. “I told her the tough position we would put you in, what with my brother being a naturalized American now. Congratulations by the way—I never told you.”
“Thanks. You didn’t trust me.”
“Would you, were you I?” Max pressed at his chest.
“No. The same goes for me, Max.”
“So here we stand.”
Harry sighed. Max sighed.
“Irina found me through Detective Dietz,” Harry said.
“We’d made too much noise. Someone from the block alerted the detective to us, so Irina had no choice but to try him. What can I say? She got lucky there. His price wasn’t too high either. I never met this Dietz. What do you think?”
“Seems on the level. A survivor, like anyone. Why did she run from me? I had her here at my billet. What? Look at me, Max.”
“She said that your girlfriend could not be trusted. That’s all it was, I’m afraid. Women.”
“Her name is Maddy. I’m not with her anymore.”
“I know. That impressed us, your shedding her. So we’d decided to try again. After all, you’d worked a masterstroke by putting Felix’s corpse on ice. You bought time. I was proud of you. But we’d just track you, see how you’d respond. See if you could live up to this reputation you have.”
Harry turned away. He stared at the window leaden gray with murky clouds, not so much looking out that window as assessing its dimensions. When Harry turned back around he was smiling, to Max’s wonder. Harry went to the fireplace and stoked the fire. Then Max watched Harry stride over, pick up his army Soldbuch, and throw it into the fire.
“But, that’s the only proof I have of anything,” Max said.
“You’re starting over,” Harry said.
“It didn’t include that I was forced to serve in the SS. It might have helped.”
“Would it have? Months and months are missing from that book.”
Harry was a fine Mensch, to be sure, so much so that Max felt an immense sadness swell up in him. Max himself could never be that good, not after what he had done.
“Thank you so much. You could have turned me in,” he muttered.
“I could have,” Harry said. “But you’ve changed.”
“I just want others to survive. I don’t care about me.”
“There you go. It’s rare for a person to change.”
Together they watched the last embers of Max’s army pay book vaporize into ash.
It was now October 26—two weeks to the day since Max had plunged a saber into Felix Menning, at about the same time that his Cossacks hiding in the Šumava, frantic from fear and hunger, had to kill two Soviet soldiers or risk detection.
“Tell me something,” Harry said. “Would you do it again?”
“Kill Felix? I never thought I could kill a man.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“No. Then, yes—yes I would.”
Harry nodded, at the flames.
“So. Here we stand,” Max repeated.
“Still standing, Max. And you know what I think? Belgium back in 1944, that was certainly not your final act.”
Nineteen
HARRY WAS READY FOR ANYTHING. He had made his decision. Yes, it was tragic that the Cossacks felt compelled to snuff out those two apparent Soviet Army deserters even if those Ivans were repatriation agents. Yet the Cossacks were only a cog. And Max was only a cog. By committing to Max, Harry could help his brother free himself from the grinding machine of doom and leave his worst days behind. Together. They would liberate helpless, hopeless human beings from the methods of the madmen in charge. The notion was dramatic as hell, but this was what Harry told himself. He ignored the other voice in his head. It whispered to him that, after the hard vengeance he’d wreaked on one fraudulent and murderous colonel named Spanner—real name of Virgil Eugene Tercel—he only hungered again for violent action and for its own sake, repercussions be damned. Even if those nightmares returned.
So when Harry got a call from Major Joyner the following day, he said, “You just name the place, sir.”
Major Joyner was sorry to call on a day of rest, but he said he had something new for Harry. The major met Harry in that same officer’s club-beer hall Joyner hated to love. This time Harry had the eggs and toast though it was pushing dinnertime. The place was half-full with officers drinking liter steins of beer, and Joyner took Harry to a booth in a corner.
Joyner brought up the subject of repatriation right where Harry had left it. Harry didn’t tell Joyner just who needed saving, and Joyner did not need to know—not yet.
“You’ll have to figure out yourself if they can be saved at all,” Joyner said. “Based on what I’m telling you.”
And Joyner dumped the sorry facts on Harry.
Harry, his head and stomach aching with worry, returned to his mansion showing a smile he’d worked hard to stick on his face. He’d spent the whole walk back hoping the glue would hold. It only gave him a worse ache.
Max met him in the foyer, his face pale. “Brother of mine, you are the worst actor I believe I have ever seen.”
They went into the main living room, passing the fire
place and sofa and chairs, shuffling impulsively toward the two broad tapestry armchairs set at the base of the column at the farthest edge of the room. Voices did not carry here. No clear sight line to the window. It was the same spot, Harry realized, where he’d questioned Irina.
“Irina is taking a bath,” Max told Harry. She had returned to the mansion, sharing Maddy’s old room with Max. Harry had insisted that she and Max stay put here, at least for a few hours, to prepare for what was soon to come.
“Good, that’s good,” Harry said.
Max sat with his hands pressed to the armrests as if ready to hear about an audition lost or a bad review.
“We, meaning the Americans, have a new policy called McNarney-Clark,” Harry began.
“Sounds like a songwriting duo,” Max said, adding a bitter laugh.
“It’s not. I’ve asked some American officers what they think, you know that, but the stark reality is expressed in the McNarney-Clark Directive. Every American officer must obey it. The Brits signed off on it, too. The intent was good, I think. Someone finally realized that last year’s broad and indiscriminate repatriation was too harsh on certain groups that did not want to return to the Soviet territories. It was also doing a harsh number on the Allied officers, GIs, and Tommies who had to enforce it.”
“You sound like a clerk. Don’t disguise this for what it is.”
“They wrote McNarney-Clark specifically for cases like ours. The directive is crystal clear, Max: No one, not even Soviet citizens, now has to go back against their will.”
Max’s eyebrows went up. Harry held up a hand.
“Easy for them to say, though,” he added, “since so many millions have already been sent back. There’s now only, what—twenty-thousand or so up for grabs?”
“That’s still a lot to Joe Stalin. He wouldn’t have agreed to this easily,” Max said.
“No, not without clear conditions. Which brings me to the real rough part. So that the Soviets wouldn’t protest, Allied policy-makers formulated a clear opposing distinction—a counter balance, if you will.”
“Ah. A volte-face,” Max said.
“An about-face to be sure. Policy language would read something like this: ‘certain precise categories are now liable for return without regard to their wishes and by force if necessary—’”
“Stop, let me guess: Those captured in German uniforms. Those who fought on the German side. Those who rendered aid and comfort to the enemy.”
Harry nodded. “Before, there was a good gray area. At least there was that. Now there’s no breathing room for ones like the Cossacks. So that others can stay off the hook. Officially.”
“And the families? The innocents?”
“That’s still unclear, policy-wise. Way I heard it, it’s proving different in every case. The Soviets are demanding that all be returned. There’s been a couple near international incidents, but … The thing is, Americans just don’t want to know about Cossacks who fought with Hitler. Intelligence isn’t touching matters like this. MPs, Constabulary, CIC. Everyone wants them to just go away.”
“And die. I see.” Max’s hands had slid off the armchair, hanging from the sides.
Harry gave him a moment.
Max growled, “You’re not finished. So get on with it.”
Harry sighed. “Yes, well, that was the good news, I’m afraid. Your Cossacks are technically over in the Soviet zone. So none of this really applies at all, technically.”
“Not until we got them over into the US zone.”
“Right. But even then? It could be worse for them. The Sovs are becoming the new bad guys and fast, so anyone coming over from the Soviet zone could be looked upon with even greater suspicion than if they’d fought for the Germans.”
“Soviet spies? These are Cossack women and children, old men, a few broken boy soldiers.” Max hissed out a laugh, threw up a hand. “Oleksandr, Alex …”
“All I’m telling you is, it’s got to be watertight all down the line. Getting them over. Getting someone to take them in when over. Finding someone who will refuse to send them back. Eventually, someone who’ll get them to a third country, where they can start over. Look, Max: The Soviets are still our allies, and we made an agreement to give them what they want. But things are changing fast—”
“We can’t wait any longer.”
“I know, I know.” Harry rubbed at his temple. The coffee hadn’t helped the ache of worry Joyner had given him. He should have had the beer. And Max didn’t even know that he only had a couple weeks of duty left. After that, he’d have little more power than Max or Dietz.
“Harry?”
“I said ‘officially.’ It’s the official policy. But I’m guessing—betting—that I know a higher-up in US uniform who could be convinced otherwise.” Harry didn’t mention Major Joyner by name. If Max had heard the legend of Sheriff Joyner, he might just take his chances with Joe Stalin. Yet Max didn’t know Joyner like Harry did, hadn’t seen how the man, deep down, must loathe his grim obsession with hounding Germans. It had to be eating away at him. How could it ever avenge his son’s death?
“Harry, stop rubbing. Stop thinking for one goddamn second. I know you have a new plan. Why else keep me here in Munich?”
“You’re right. I do. I hope I do.”
It was all about showing the Soviets’ intention. Harry and Max would have to prove, without a doubt, that people were in immediate danger of execution. Sabine Lieser told Harry how to prove it. Now Harry needed the tools. That Saturday evening, well after dark, he bought Detective Hartmut Dietz a beer in Dietz’s least favorite local pub—a damp and smoky shanty with candles for light and more prostitutes than ashtrays and fewer ears on them than the summit of an Alp. Before that first thin beer was down, Dietz was sure he could get what Harry needed. Sunday evening, Harry met Dietz in the rubble of the National Theater of all places (Harry picked the spot—it worked for Max). They stood in the dark, using the light from passing military vehicles, neighborhood cook-fires, and failing street lamps that flickered and flashed and bounced around inside this giant pinball box of debris.
“I appreciate your letting me help,” Dietz said.
“Don’t mention it—you’ve proven yourself,” Harry said. “Well, do you have it?”
From his overcoat, Dietz extended a brown bag into Harry’s hand. Inside, Harry felt, was a small rectangle about three inches by one. “No bigger than that cheese bar you gave me,” Dietz said. “Delicious, by the way.”
“Good to hear. This is it? I didn’t think they made them this small.”
“We are still in modern Germany, don’t forget. Go ahead.”
Harry drew the odd camera from the sack and held it up to the dim flutters of light. All metal, a uniformly dull gray, it looked like a small gun cartridge.
“Gray, so that it doesn’t catch sunlight when you use it. It’s a Riga Minox.”
“A spy camera? You went out of your way, Detective.”
“And why not? It wasn’t so hard. You know how many fine German cameras are floating around? They’re our hundred-mark notes now. But be careful with your shots. I could only get one film cartridge. It’s in the camera.”
Dietz, reveling in the workmanship, showed Harry how to shoot by pulling on the rectangle, like cocking a pistol slide, explaining in greater detail than Harry needed, like a schoolmaster to a farm boy.
Harry set the camera back into the sack and pushed the sack into his pocket. “How do I develop it?”
“Not so difficult. Surely you have a photo man somewhere in your ranks—that is, if it’s someone you trust.”
Harry didn’t know anyone in Signal Corps. None of the MG men he knew took photos. He simply hadn’t considered this part. He lit a Chesterfield. He lit up Dietz.
Dietz shrugged, releasing a barrel of smoke. “Cameras like this,” he whispered, “they are not used for tourist photos, for shooting castles or a Fräulein’s long legs.”
“I’m not some kind of spy,” Harry
told him. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Clearly,” Dietz said, adding a smile. “So, what’s it for?”
From his overcoat, Harry held out a larger sack. In it was a hundred occupation dollars and a one-time pass to the main Munich PX. “It’s for this.”
Dietz didn’t look down at the sack. He kept his hands in his pockets. A strand of thin hair hung loose from under his hat.
“This means no questions,” Harry added.
“It’s something to do with that girl, isn’t it? The Russian. Irina. That what she is, Russian?” Dietz was grimacing now, and soft tails of smoke snaked out from between his teeth.
“It’s Military Government business,” Harry snapped.
Dietz held up his index finger. “I know—it’s your brother? What is his name?”
Harry yanked his Chesterfield. “What did you say?”
“It’s all right. I know about him coming back. You’re reunited, yes? Just like you wanted. Please, do not glare at me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have secrets—”
“Who’s ashamed?”
Dietz held his hands up. “Say no more. Say no more …”
Harry wasn’t about to grill Dietz, not now. Harry was the one who’d gone asking Dietz about Max in the first place. Besides, did he really think Max would remain a secret? The man and his girl were staying in an MG officer’s billet. Gerlinde might have even mentioned it on the black market unintentionally. It could have been anyone. The occupied were constantly gathering around and the thrill of a sale makes happy chitchat, which loosens lips.
“Max,” Harry said. “His name is Max.”
“Well, I congratulate you both.” Dietz stood close to Harry, and Harry caught a whiff of Dietz’s warm and stale cigarette breath. “Look here. Why don’t you let me help? Tell you what—why not let me do this with you? As your photographer. I know my way around. I can work a tiny Minox well enough.”
“Suddenly you’re the eager beaver? Trying to double up on me, that it? No.”
Dietz pulled back. His eyebrows pinched up. “Have it your way. But remember: Not all of this is about money,” he hissed and stomped off around a pile of bricks and charred lumber, the steam and smoke pulsing out his mouth and nostrils in balls of fume like so many fists.
Lost Kin Page 18