Lost Kin

by Anderson, Steve

Where Felix Menning found him.

  And here he was now, pacing his Munich jail cell, thinking, pleading, please, I must get back to the Šumava and get those people out.

  Twenty-Five

  AS HARRY LEFT HIS MANSION Irina ran up to him shouting, arms flailing, her hair in her eyes wet with tears.

  Harry’s first thought—my brother is dead.

  “You must help,” she shouted. “They have him!”

  Max was in a German jail, she told him. Harry put a good face on it, holding her close as he ushered her inside and onto the sofa. His initial relief turned to dread when she recounted the details.

  “It was black market raid but different. The bulls search only for Max and they push many people out of way to find him.”

  It was all Harry could do to get Irina to stay put. Gerlinde wasn’t there on a Sunday morning so he brought her soup, but she refused to eat it. She began crying. He told her she had to stay at the mansion while he figured this out.

  “You must help,” Irina cried, “you must,” and lunged for him and grabbed at his lapels. Her eyes were wild. Tears streaming down her cheeks again.

  “Can’t you see I’m working on it?” he said, hoping she couldn’t hear the strain in his voice. He managed to get her up to the bedroom she was sharing with Max. He stood back, blocking the doorway. Irina curled up in a ball on the bed, squeezing at the very pillow Max slept on, but her breathing calmed. She looked up to him.

  “I know you will try,” she said. “I’m sorry. Go and do what you must.”

  Harry turned for the door.

  “Mister Harry? I’m sorry for wound on your head.”

  “So am I,” Harry said and, to make sure Irina was not thinking stupid thoughts, added, “If you flee from here like you did that first time? I cannot help you. I cannot help your Alex.”

  Harry wondered who could have fingered Max. It was as if Max’s old nemesis Felix Menning were a ghost, playing the trickster, tripping up Max for evermore. If Harry went to Military Government, it might trigger even more snafus and troubles unforeseen. He thought about trying Warren Joyner, but his plan had been to hold out for that. Joyner had to be ready. The timing had to be perfect. Harry again considered the inscrutable Aubrey Slaipe but ruled out the option. He didn’t want Slaipe selling both of them down the river. Max could have been mixed up in more than he had admitted. He hadn’t meant to be, Harry was sure of that. And yet Max had left a sinkhole-sized gap in his story stretching from the end of 1944 on well into ’45. At least Max was sitting in a German cell and not a US stockade—not yet.

  If he couldn’t get Max out, what would Max want him to do? Max would want him to do what Irina wanted: He had to get the Cossacks over, no matter what. That was everything. It was November 4 already. They had to get back to the Šumava and get those people out.

  The Germans had Max, so Harry would keep the bleeding isolated for now. He had to keep the matter from the Americans.

  Hartmut Dietz was working that Sunday. Harry went straight to Dietz’s desk at police headquarters. Dietz took Harry by the arm and led him down a dark and narrow hallway. They faced each other, each man’s back to a wall.

  Dietz said, “Something’s gone wrong?”

  “Where’s the film?” Harry said.

  “I have it. Just developed it. But I have work. So I couldn’t come straight to you … wait here. No, better yet, wait downstairs, outside by that statue of the general.”

  Harry waited down by the statue sucking on a Chesterfield, wondering if Max was in the same building complex somewhere. But where? It had to be a different unit, another jurisdiction. Maybe they simply had him on a black market crime. It could be denazification. Or there was some other ridiculous act Max had committed as a carefree actor, now come back to haunt him?

  “Let’s go.” Dietz wore his overcoat and carried his scruffy briefcase. He led Harry on a roundabout way to the pub that was draftier with the door closed. There he paid the bartender three cigarettes, the bartender then told his three drunk patrons they were closing a while, and the three men stumbled out. The bartender locked the door and disappeared. Dietz pulled down the shade. The detective laid out the briefcase and drew out a few blurry prints. These were the most damning ones. Harry made out the figures of men running panicked back and forth, as the soldiers fired at them. Other victims lay sprawled in the mud, their dark figures mixing in with the shadowy earth. In one corner of the print, a Soviet flag hung from the warehouse. In another, Harry could see the sign for the St. Stephanus station. A person would be able to make that out with a magnifying glass, he assured himself.

  Dietz brought over two thin beers and set them on a free corner of the table. “These may be blurry shots,” he said, “but they’re damn good for a Riga Minox from that distance.”

  Harry nodded. Another print showed the families being herded into the trucks with the warehouse in the background. He leaned over it, peering at the pleading children and sagging, resigned old men.

  “Just what the hell is going on here in these photos?” Dietz said.

  Harry told what he could. It had to do with his brother Maximilian. Max was involved in safeguarding one of the last hideouts of Cossacks who had fought with the Germans—Cossacks from the Ukraine, Harry admitted to Dietz, who listened sitting upright and respectful, his glass of beer untouched. Irina was a Cossack. Harry didn’t need to state the obvious. If the people Max was safeguarding got sent back, the Soviets would shoot them down just like those men in the photos—who’d themselves come from another group of Cossacks. This was their hard proof.

  “This is damn brave of you,” Dietz said. “You went into the Soviet zone for this?”

  “I wouldn’t call it brave. We were supposed to be in and out by afternoon. Then they gave me this souvenir of mine.” Harry felt at the scab forming under his hair.

  “And they’re still in hiding? Mein Gott. The Americans and British were sending them all back last year. Not just Cossacks. All. Families. Millions went back.”

  “That’s right. For Cossacks, it goes on.”

  “For how long?”

  “We don’t know,” Harry said. “Times are changing, but … the thing is, we’re trying to do this our way, in secret. My brother, others, they always say there are spies around, Soviet Repatriation agents and various weasels on the Soviet take. I wasn’t listening. Maybe I should start.”

  Dietz nodded.

  Harry needed Dietz to know all this about Max before he sprung the rest on him.

  “Max got fingered this morning,” he said.

  “He what?”

  “It was at a black market raid, right here in Munich.”

  “Ours or yours nab him?”

  “Yours.”

  “Oh. All right. Go on, fill me in …”

  Harry told Dietz about the way Dietz’s fellow cops had picked Max right out of a crowd. Dietz rubbed at his face, his shoulders slumping. A cop was used to hearing tales of friends and family of friends getting unfair treatment from the police, but Dietz seemed truly concerned.

  “Someone must have told them,” Harry added. “I just wonder if it was someone trying to put him on ice.” Hot blood pulsed through him now, and he wanted to pace this tiny closet of a room. He stood, sat back down. He lifted his glass, set it down.

  “Look, we should not panic here. The police haul in plenty of people, for many reasons. People finger each other all the time. Your brother might have been buying or selling on some other Hans’ corner and Hans wants him gone. All sorts of reasons.”

  “What if it’s denazification?”

  “Was he in the party?”

  “No. Well, he didn’t say he was. But, he served other ways. You all have.”

  Dietz looked away, at the shaded window, as if wondering if he should dare ask what Max had done. Who was he to ask? They had all done something and each was paying in their own way. The detective finally took a drink of beer. “Did he have ID on him? Papers?”

 
“No. He shouldn’t have, in any case. He never does.”

  “That’s good, actually. A denazification court jail cell is the best place for your brother. They take forever. They don’t call in other agencies. You Americans don’t care about them anymore. Then, often they just give up. Not enough resources. So many records have been lost, burned. So, I will see what I can do.”

  “What about the Cossacks? Can you help us?” Harry blurted. He hadn’t meant to say us, but he couldn’t take it back now. He took a drink of the beer, wishing it were a hot shower he was taking instead. He couldn’t help feeling a little unsavory here. So soon after the war, and here he was asking Germans for too many favors. So much had changed indeed.

  Dietz paused to think, swirling his beer. “Possibly. The rules keep getting revised. But it might take time.”

  “You know I’m going to make this worth your while.”

  “That’s not why I’m doing this now.”

  “Why are you then?”

  Dietz took his time with his answer. He looked away again. He looked into his beer. His chin quivered, his eyes went a little glossy. He looked up, and he glared at Harry as if he’d just been slapped. “It’s time we all start stepping up. Germany’s starting over. We cannot look the other way, not this time.”

  “Thank you,” Harry said.

  Dietz sat forward. “Now. Tell me where they are, your Cossacks. How many. I would need all the information if I’m going to help.”

  “What do you think you can do?”

  “There are plenty of ways. Papers. Trucks. Connections. Trains even. I have connections. You know I do. You saw me at that club playing cards.” Dietz lifted his beer with both hands as if it were hot tea. “So? Where are they?”

  “I can’t reveal that,” Harry said.

  “Fair enough, fair enough,” Dietz said. He drew out more of the prints and lay them out, standing over them like a field marshal. He pointed at images, eyeing Harry.

  “Austria. Right? St. Stephanus is Austria.”

  Harry nodded. He wouldn’t tell outright, but Dietz could guess all he wanted.

  “But, that’s not where your Cossacks are,” Dietz said.

  “Of course not. They would be dead.”

  “But, they’re close? Somewhere between there and here. They would have to be.”

  Harry nodded again.

  “They would have to be in a forest, a deep forest … The mountains are too high, they would freeze … no, somewhere dark, and yet with access to water, animals, smugglers …” Dietz held up a finger. “The Bavarian Forest?”

  “Close.”

  “Give me a hint, Harry—this isn’t children’s play now. Your brother is sitting in a cell.”

  “Close, but, it’s not called the Bavarian Forest where they are.”

  Dietz’s eyes widened. They rolled up, consulting an imaginary map in his head. “The Šumava? In Bohemia? But Harry! That’s Czechoslovakia.”

  “The Soviet Army doesn’t know,” Harry said as if stating the obvious might help.

  Dietz shook his head, baring teeth at the grimness of it all. “True, but they will soon. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “You said you could help. You saw these photos. You know what will happen.”

  Dietz stared at the wall, deep in thought, and his eyes rolled up again as if consulting something else. What? A calendar? A payment? A litany of small crimes and white lies he might erase with this job? He sighed. Harry lit him a Chesterfield, but he waved it away. Then his shoulders gained bulk and width.

  “These people,” Dietz said, “I’m guessing they’re getting excitable. Being cooped up here has not helped them? Right, this is what I thought. If they were crates or animals even, it would make it easier. Humans are such unpredictable cargo. A shout misplaced. Someone shits from their mouth—how do you say it, you Amis? ‘Loose lips sink ships’?”

  “They’re keeping it together,” Harry said. “If they weren’t they’d be dead already. Besides, no reason to panic, just like you said—”

  “Fear is necessary,” Dietz cut in. “It keeps a people vigilant. And then, suppose we do get them over to the West? You can’t be sure the Amis—your colleagues—back in Munich or Frankfurt or wherever wouldn’t suspect Soviet spies among these people. I know I would.”

  “That’s absurd. Max has been with these people through thick and thin. They fought alongside the Wehrmacht, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m just pointing it out. People’s loyalties can swing widely when the pressure turns on its head.”

  Harry’s blood ran hot again. “What are you trying to say, Dietz? Can you help or not?”

  “Of course. But we must play this very safe. Whatever you do, do not let those people leave there, even if those Russian patrols get closer. Especially not in any direction east. Keep them right there. It’s the safest place for them. I doubt the Soviet Army will find them in the next few days, week even. My guess is, the Russians are only worried about the border itself. Right under their noses is often the best solution in these cases. Don’t you think?”

  “It’s been working so far. I’m afraid you might be right.”

  They toasted to it, each drinking their beers empty. Eyeing each other.

  Harry slid the prints back into the briefcase.

  “Keep it,” Dietz said.

  “What? They’re my prints.”

  “No, I meant the briefcase. Easier to carry them out that way.”

  “Thanks.” Harry felt around inside. “Wait. There’s only prints in here.”

  Dietz broke into a grin. “Ach, yes, of course. You’ll need the negatives too. I almost forgot.” He produced an envelope from his overcoat pocket, and he slid that into the briefcase. “So careless of me. How could I forget?”

  Twenty-Six

  THAT EVENING, WITH MAX STILL STUCK in a Munich jail, Harry worked out the angles at the mansion. He introduced Hartmut Dietz to Sabine, who shook Dietz’s hand with one quick thrust, all business, neither smiling. Dietz had come straight from the jail. He couldn’t get in to see Max, but they told him to try back Monday morning. Irina hugged Dietz for helping, and Dietz playfully admonished Irina for having fled Harry’s mansion, but his joke seemed forced.

  A runner had reported in from the Šumava, Irina told them—the Soviet Army was erecting white posts along the zonal border, the Russian patrols were increasing, and the Cossacks’ food was running lower. The four shared strategies, timetables, the possible allies. Sabine would handle the Cossacks once they were in the West while Dietz would see to it that no one witnessed them crossing over. Harry would land the necessary American commitment. He didn’t tell them how tricky this was. Warren Joyner was his best bet but still a gamble, and Harry wasn’t the best salesman—a born German and an émigré liaison officer who spent his days doing who knew what. And now this Harry Kaspar character comes looking to save sorry old Slavs who fought with Germans? His priorities looked skewed at best. The alternatives had no better odds. He couldn’t just go waltzing into Aubrey Slaipe’s office and ask for help, not until he knew the full story between Slaipe and Max—and now he couldn’t even confer with Max. He certainly couldn’t go begging a general in his castle. He needed more than a defined mission for that. He needed benefits that he could produce for a general—kickbacks, political gains, a reputation made, if not all the above. He should have been more of a climber, an opportunist. Maddy always told him that. Now he feared that she might have been right for once.

  Later, after Dietz left, Harry showed Sabine the prints of St. Stephanus, laying out the harsh images on his bed. Sabine’s eyes became wet, and her face darkened. “This is exactly why we must be careful,” she said.

  “Of course. In what way exactly?”

  “Your policeman—I do not trust him.”

  “You mean Dietz? I wouldn’t worry about him,” Harry said.

  She and Dietz had kept their distance throughout the evening, addressing each other with formal German�
�the detective was the Herr Kriminalkommissar and she Frau Lieser the Mitarbeiterin, a colleague. Yet each listened intently to the other’s opinion, heads cocked as if listening for incoming bombers. Harry hadn’t told her what Dietz had whispered about her when he got Harry alone: “Frau Lieser was a Communist, did you know that? She probably still is.”

  “I knew that,” Harry had replied. “She was imprisoned for it, too. Scars to show for it.”

  Dietz just shrugged. “Well, I just wanted you to know in case you did not.”

  That night, Harry could not sleep. Sabine heaved heavy breaths as she slept. She finally woke and rolled over to him. They were lying on their backs, staring into the stout web work of the timbered bedroom ceiling.

  “You were a young Socialist, right?” he asked her. “But, what about the Communists?”

  “What about them? We Social Democrats, we mostly fought with the Communists. And that was our downfall, in part. We didn’t join forces soon enough. The Nazis used that against us. That’s politics for you. The infighting, it destroys the cause.”

  “Were you a Communist ever? I read that a lot of activists changed teams, late twenties, early thirties.”

  Sabine’s voice hardened. “Harry, you must remember that I was barely an adult then. A girl really. This was a good excuse to skip lessons, run around with boys, smoke cigarettes with girlfriends, wear a leather cap like the workers.” She added a sad chuckle. “So, later, the fascist thugs beat me for that. For playing revolutionary.”

  A few moments passed. Harry said, “Why are you so suspicious of Dietz? I’m not questioning. Just trying to learn here.”

  Sabine took a while. She sighed, once. Shifted her head on her pillow. “Maybe it’s because I’m a German. Not like you—rather, as someone who lived through these last twelve years here. The detective, he seems different. He seems to me … well, like he didn’t live through it.”

  “Not sure if I follow. So he trades and hustles. He has connections. Everyone does that.”

  “This is not what I mean.”

  “Some of the worst Nazis weren’t even in the Nazi party. There’s no way to track them. That what we’re talking about here?”