Hitler's Finger

by PJ Skinner

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘It’ll be good for us. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

  She didn’t feel as brave as she sounded but a reminder of how much he missed her would be productive when she had to broach the subject of her pregnancy. Oh God, how had she been so unlucky? She was always so careful to take the pill each morning without fail. Bloody hormones. And what was she supposed to do with a baby? Strap it across her back and carry on up the Amazon? What a disaster. She considered telling her sister Hannah but she knew that the information would get back to her mother. Hannah was as leaky as a sieve where secrets were concerned. Anyway, she had had a pointless fight with her about Simon. She had gone to see her to say goodbye and things hadn’t gone to plan. Hannah had been in a foul humour because she had broken up with her latest boyfriend and he wouldn’t stop ringing her.

  ‘Honestly, he’s like a stalker,’ she said. ‘He won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘You should listen to what he has to say. Sometimes closure is a good thing,’ said Sam, who had never liked him anyway, but got a certain enjoyment from annoying her sister.

  ‘What? Like you and Simon? Ha! Do you think that I’m as wimpy as you?’

  ‘That’s not fair, I wanted to give him another chance. We still love each other, you know,’ said Sam.

  ‘Seriously? You call that love, what he did to you?’

  ‘That’s in the past now. We talked it over and we are trying again. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You are so naïve; I can’t believe it. What makes you think Simon’s going to be faithful this time? Has anything changed?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. Anyway, I’ve seen you together. You get on, in fact I’d say you fancy him yourself the way you look at him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I don’t.’ Hannah went pink and Sam knew she had touched a nerve. She couldn’t blame her. All the girls fancied Simon. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m not cross with you. I’m cross with the stalker.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry you're having a rotten time. Listen, I have to go now. Simon will be home soon and he’s not happy that I’m off on my travels again.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. You are not making it easy for him, home alone again.’

  ‘I have to trust him. I can’t spend my life wondering if he’s strayed again. He has to police himself or he’ll never grow up. I’m not prepared to go out with an adolescent anymore.’

  ‘Okay, I suppose he’s no worse than my disaster of a boyfriend. Have a good time with Gloria.’

  ‘I will. Look after our parents for me.’

  They embraced warmly despite the argument which was one in a long line on the same subject. Sam knew Hannah disapproved of her being back with Simon, and for good reason, but so did her parents. It was a case of joining the crowd. She even thought they might be right but now there was a complication that she hadn’t counted on. She had to get away, as far away as possible to give her thinking room. Gloria would know what to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  August 1988

  Alfredo Vargas had been working in his study when the telephone rang. Despite the loud and persistent nature of the tone, it was not easy to locate it in the sea of documents and open books that were layered on his desk like a giant piece of filo pastry. He put his ear to the pile and felt in the dust with his hand for the vibration that would give its position away. Finding the handset, he untangled the cord from a dead pot plant. Whoever was ringing him was persistent and determined. Most people tended to give up much sooner. He held it to his ear with some trepidation as he was not sure he wanted to answer. Perhaps it was someone to whom he owed money? Or his mother demanding an update? He listened.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Alfredo Vargas please?’

  American accented Spanish. Nasal and whiney with a touch of Brooklyn.

  ‘Who’s speaking please?’

  ‘Ah, you speak English. My name is Saul Rosen. I’m a journalist.’ Alfredo noticed that English was not his mother tongue either. It was a weird mix of Brooklyn and some European accent. French?

  ‘I still don’t know who you are. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for Alfredo Vargas, the historian. I’ve a proposition for him.’

  ‘What sort of proposition? I’m busy right now.’

  ‘Are you Dr Vargas? That’s a piece of luck. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get hold of you.’

  Alfredo made concerted efforts to avoid most human contact, which he found mundane and trying, so he knew exactly how tricky it was to get hold of him.

  ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘From Dr Gallagher in New York.’

  ‘Ah, Dick Gallagher, that explains it. You’ve a proposition for me? What does it involve?’

  ‘I need some help with an assignment in Sierramar. It’s confidential and may even be dangerous. I want you to do some research for me.’

  ‘What’s the subject of this investigation?’

  Alfredo was excited but determined not to show it. He was self-sufficient in funds, being the product of a wealthy family with money to burn, but he needed something to engage his mind and to force him to control his drinking which had spiralled out of control again despite the efforts of his girlfriend, Gloria. He wanted to make her proud and to get her father to accept their relationship, but being underemployed only made drink more appealing.

  ‘I’m working as a consultant for the Simon Wiesanthal Centre doing research into Nazi war criminals who fled to South America after the end of the second world war. The War Crimes Commission is keen on finding and arresting them. I’ve been following several lines of inquiry that lead to Sierramar.’

  ‘Sierramar? Are you sure?’

  Alfredo was startled. He was well aware that several notorious war criminals had been found in Argentina, Chile and Brazil but he had never heard of any in his country. Sierramar was one of the few democracies in South America without a fascist regime in its past.

  ‘Yes, I know, I was surprised, too. I guess as a historian it’s something you would expect to know but that’s the point. It’s been hushed up and the evidence hidden. The government of Sierramar colluded with the German government to let war criminals escape justice.’

  ‘So how can I help?’

  ‘I thought that you might have access to the files in the National Archives which could back this story up. I doubt they would let an American access them, but I presume that you wouldn’t experience any problem getting the information that I need.’

  ‘I go there often as it happens. I don’t see why I can’t help you with this. It seems straight forward enough. How much would you pay me?’

  ‘I can offer you one hundred dollars a day with an upfront payment of five hundred. Does that suit you?’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ said Alfredo, covering his surprise at the generous offer, after all, most gringos were rich. ‘Do you have a pen with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, my fax number is 02687865. You’ll need to put the country code for Sierramar in front of it and you may need to eliminate the zero. Why don’t you fax me a proposal and I will get back to you with my decision and, if necessary, my bank details, in due course.’

  ‘I’ll do that today.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Vargas.’

  ‘Alfredo, please. Can I call you Saul?’

  ‘Sure. Okay, goodbye for now.’

  Alfredo hung up the receiver and sat back in his large leather armchair. He was a bit suspicious that Saul was willing to pay so much for some simple research but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. How difficult could it be? It was well paid work and Gloria would be pleased.

  ***

  Saul was ecstatic. He couldn’t believe his luck in finding Alfredo, who seemed to be the one person who might be able to help him. He owed Dick Gallagher a bottle of whisky. There was no need to tell anyone the real reason why he was
researching the Nazi presence in Sierramar. It was unlikely that Alfredo would come up with anything concrete if he had never even heard of his government’s collaboration with the Third Reich. Saul couldn’t imagine that incriminating documents were sitting on the shelves of the National Archives, waiting to be discovered. It had taken years for him to follow the trail of Dr Kurt Becker from Brussels to Calderon. It might be a long time before Alfredo would come up with anything of substance. He could wait. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and this had mould on it. He folded the piece of paper with Alfredo’s number and put it carefully in a zipped compartment of his wallet. Then he went into his study and looked for a document he could use as a template for Alfredo’s contract. Money was no object in this case. He knew that his search was coming to a climax and he was hopeful that it would finish with a bang.

  ***

  Alfredo was almost as excited. He loved a new project and couldn’t wait to get started. It was impossible to wait for Saul to formalise their relationship before starting his research. He had been mystified by the suggestion that there were Nazi war criminals hiding in Sierramar. It was as if his status as a historian had been challenged. At thirty-five years’ old, he was already considered to be one of the most knowledgeable men in his field but his studies tended to the esoteric side and were heavily influenced by the study of the Valdivia and Inca cultures of South America. The second world war wasn’t worthy of his interest; it was yesterday, for heaven’s sake. Hardly history. He couldn’t imagine his little country with its mountains, beaches and jungles being anything other than a democratic paradise. Despite the revolutions and fascist regimes that plagued the rest of Latin America, Sierramar had never had a civil war or a dictator. It had dodgy governments, with the usual bribery and corruption that accompanied real poverty, but the suggestion that it was harbouring Nazi fugitives was shocking for him. And yet, there was something about the story which rang true.

  Intrigued, he racked his brains for clues. There were some people of German descent in Calderon, many of them his age, who hung out with the wealthy local families similar to his. He knew their mothers, but he couldn’t remember meeting their fathers. Not often anyway. It had never occurred to him before because he didn’t place much importance on family relationships. He didn’t know anything about the history of the German community in Calderon but he now was determined to trace its origins. He started at the source of most of his local knowledge, Gloria, his girlfriend and daughter of the nouveaux-riche Hernan Sanchez, a government contractor.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, mi amour, what’s up?’

  ‘Do you want to meet me for lunch today? I know it’s short notice but I need to see you.’

  ‘I can be at the Banana Verde in an hour.’

  ‘Great, I’ll wait for you outside.’

  He drove into the centre of town, buying a newspaper from the street vendor who was breastfeeding her child at the traffic light in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Various little children sat on the divider in the middle of the road, under a tree with shrivelled leaves poisoned by lead particles, their dirty faces pictures of boredom and misery. He tried not to notice and refused his change with a wave of the hand. Calderon was a relatively prosperous town but the indigenous population formed a large part of the begging and jobless in the capital. There seemed to be a family at every junction.

  Arriving at the restaurant, he sat on a bench to wait for Gloria and read his newspaper in the shade of an ugly tower block. Some dusty birds pecked at the dry earth in the flower bed which held only painted stones and lumps of chewing gum. She arrived half an hour later than promised, doing what looked like a handbrake turn into a parking spot, leaving a fresh arc of rubber in the road. She jumped out of the car in her skin-tight jeans and cowboy boots, her bright shirt straining at the buttons. Her hair was painted in the multi-coloured stripes that passed for highlights in Calderon. She was sucking on a cigarette and glancing around, her eyes screwed up against the bright rays of the noon-day sun.

  ‘Ah, mi amour! There you are. Let’s go inside.’

  ‘How are you, darling? You look wonderful. I love your hair.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s all the rage.’

  She did a flirtatious twirl in front of him and his heart skipped in his chest. He was a man besotted. Until they got together, he had considered Gloria so out of his league that he had never dared to talk to her.

  They pushed through the door into the cool interior and were shown to the best table as befitted the daughter of Hernan Sanchez. A waiter gave them menus.

  ‘Do you want to hear the specials?’ he said.

  ‘No, thank you. Can you bring me some potato soup with an extra portion of avocado, please? Alfredo?’

  ‘Raise the dead soup please, although it would be a miracle if it worked this time.’

  ‘Can you bring us a jug of fresh lemonade, too, please?’

  ‘Certainly, Senorita Sanchez.’

  The waiter withdrew leaving them in the relative privacy of their corner table.

  ‘Well, what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me on the phone?’ said Gloria, ‘and why do you look so exhausted? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Drinking? Oh, not really, that is, not much, only thinking amounts.’

  ‘Thinking amounts? Thinking about what?’

  ‘I’ve been offered a job.’

  Gloria’s jaw dropped so far that he could see her fillings.

  ‘A job? You?’

  But she managed to blurt out ‘How wonderful!’ before an embarrassing silence occurred. Alfredo didn’t notice because she leaned forward resting her bosom on the table, a manoeuvre which distracted him.

  ‘Yes, it’s wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘Oi, concentrate. So, what’s the job?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to do some research on the German community in Calderon for an American journalist. I wanted to ask you about it because my social contacts aren’t as good as yours, and I’m not sure this isn’t a red herring. I don’t want to waste my time if there’s nothing to find. I need your advice before I get started with searching in the National Archives.’

  ‘How mysterious you are today. I’d love to help you if I can. Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Okay, but I need you to please listen and not comment or fly off the handle until I finish. It’s not an easy subject and its implications may upset you.’

  Gloria lit a cigarette.

  ‘Okay, I promise to listen first and shout later.’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, this journalist claims that he’s found evidence that some important Nazi war criminals may be hiding in Sierramar. He wants me to research the story to see if we can verify it. According to him, our government knew about this and actively colluded with the Third Reich.’

  Gloria looked as if she was going to interject but Alfredo held his hand up to stop her. ‘I know you will defend our country to the death rather than accept this but please consider the possibility first. I have been doing a lot of thinking and it does ring true in some aspects. I wish it didn’t.’

  ‘Hence the drinking.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It helped soften the blow when I began to think there was some substance to the story. There are lots of wealthy German families in Calderon and I don’t know where they came from or where they got their wealth. The older men have disappeared, or were never there, or, well, I don’t know why so many families have a matriarch but no patriarch.’

  He paused. Gloria looked as if she was struggling to contain an outburst. She lit another cigarette and smoked it, tapping it hard on the ash tray. The soup arrived. They both attacked their bowls without speaking. Gloria’s brow was furrowed in concentration. She pushed back her empty bowl and gulped down a glass of lemonade.

  ‘You’re right, you know,’ she said at last. ‘There’s definitely been something odd happening in the German community in Calderon.’

  Alfredo let out the breath he had been holding as surrept
itiously as he could. Gloria paused, shutting her eyes as if to focus on her recollection of a half-remembered episode.

  ‘There were some weird goings on among my German friends at school,’ she said. ‘There were two sisters who had blonde hair, but they had dark eyebrows. We know what that means.’

  And here she looked at Alfredo for affirmation but he was flummoxed.

  ‘Ay, but men are so stupid sometimes. It means that they are dying their hair. Blonde women have blonde eyebrows.’ She sighed.

  ‘So? How is that weird?’

  ‘One of these sisters was in my class, and she was a friend of mine, so we used to have sleepovers. Sometimes we had a glass of wine stolen from my father’s drinks cabinet. One night, she had too much wine and I asked her why she dyed her hair blonde. She was only fourteen then, you know.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘Apparently, when the girls were little, they both had blonde hair and their father doted on them. Their hair started to turn brown as they got older and their father got furious because he wanted them to look more Aryan. He told them that the Aryans were the master race and that anyone else would be enslaved or eliminated when the Fourth Reich came into being. He had a violent temper so their mother decided to protect them from his rages by dyeing their hair.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I remember that he often left them alone for weeks without telling them where he was going. He disappeared for good with several of his friends when we were about eighteen. There were rumours that they were headed for Argentina.’

  Alfredo was transfixed.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘I’d no idea that people like that were living here. I must find out if there were more of them.’

  ‘You’ll need to be careful. If the government helped the Third Reich to hide some of their war criminals from justice, they’ll not be happy to be exposed as collaborators. They’d be in their late sixties and seventies now so a lot of them are still alive.’

  But Alfredo was no longer listening.

  CHAPTER 3