Hitler's Finger

by PJ Skinner

  ‘Wow, I was so freaked out by the hotel décor that I didn’t recognise him. Mind you, I don’t believe he recognised me either. We’re definitely in the right place. Are you sure about this? These people may be dangerous. We don’t know what they are capable of.’

  ‘I know what they can do. I saw first-hand but I think it’s worth the risk. Think of us as bait.’

  ‘Okay, but be careful.’

  Saul descended the stairs to the reception. Fritz Schmitt was bent over the ledger and jumped when Saul put his passport on the desk.

  ‘Here is my ID,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. If you wait a moment I will take down your details and give it back to you.’

  Schmitt opened the passport and turned to the page with Saul’s data on it. A slight widening of the eyes was the only visible reaction. He started to copy the information into the ledger without looking up. The pencil bit into the page and left a furrow due to the exaggerated pressure placed on it. The lead snapped and he took a deep breath.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?’ he said, emphasising every syllable of the last work.

  ‘Yes, we’d like to have dinner. What do you recommend?’ said Saul, ignoring the ferocious re-sharpening of the pencil.

  ‘We’ve a nice restaurant here in the hotel,’ said Schmitt through gritted teeth. ‘To tell you the truth, our restaurant is the only place in the village that opens at night. It’s only built for day trippers and we don’t get many people staying overnight.’

  ‘Sound’s good to me,’ Saul said.

  ***

  The two men came down for dinner at eight o clock. They followed Schmitt into a quaint dining room with checked red and white table cloths and carved wooden chairs with cut outs of deer on the seat-backs. There was a log fire burning in the grate. The mantelpiece had a set of elaborate candle holders on either side, framing a shadow on the panelling where an image had been removed. It looked a bit like a shrine. Schmitt caught Saul looking at the square of fresh paint revealed by the image’s absence.

  ‘Some tourist got a bit drunk and damaged the painting we had there. It’s in for repairs.’

  ‘What was the painting of?’

  ‘Oh, a local dignitary. No harm done.’ His tone of voice suggested otherwise but Alfredo shook his head at Saul, who looked like he was about to interject. The painting must have been removed when they arrived at the hotel to prevent them seeing it. But why?

  ‘Drunks, eh?’ said Alfredo.

  ‘Quite. And on that note, what can I get you to drink, gentlemen?’

  They laughed. It is not religion but humour that is the opiate of the masses, thought Alfredo.

  ‘I’ll have a beer,’ he said.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Saul.

  ‘Is there a menu?’

  ‘Not as such. We have typical German dishes here like Wiener Schnitzel with potato salad, wurst with red cabbage and sauerbraten with dumplings or any combination of these. We also have potato pancakes, potato dumplings and potatoes fried with bacon and onion but I don’t expect you’ll want that,’ and here he looked at Saul.

  ‘We’ll have two Wiener Schnitzels with sauerkraut and potato dumplings please. Is it veal or chicken?’

  ‘It’s veal.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’

  Saul had changed colour and was clutching the armrests of his chair.

  ‘Hang in there,’ said Alfredo, ‘remember what you came for.’

  The beer was cold. Saul drank his in long swallows and Alfredo asked for two more. By the time the new drinks arrived, both men had managed to control their emotions. The food followed not long after and the plates were groaning with huge portions of soothing calories which had the desired effect.

  Their progress had slowed to a crawl and they were playing with the remnants of their meals, when two men walked into the restaurant and sat down at the opposite end of the room. They were both grey-haired with military bearing, wearing cravats above creaseless shirts.

  ‘It seems that the neck tie is de rigueur in San Blas,’ murmured Alfredo.

  Saul had stiffened like a cornered dog. He was staring at one of the two men.

  ‘Easy there, old chap,’ said Alfredo, ‘don’t want to set the cat among the pigeons yet, do we?’

  ‘It’s him. Kurt Becker, the scourge of Brussels.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s been forty years since you last saw him.’

  ‘Sure? How can you ask me that? He took my family from me and sent them to Auschwitz. Do you think that I could forget something like that? And that other man, I recognise him from the photos. That’s Boris Klein. I’m sure of it’

  ‘Okay. Calm down. We need to find out where they live and how many others there are in San Blas. If there are more, we’re going to need help to catch them. Don’t let him see your reaction.’

  ‘Reaction? He’s a fucking mass murderer.’

  ‘Yes, and we’re going to get him for it. But not this minute. Trust me. We need to leave. Stand up now, there’s a good chap.’

  Saul stood up and Alfredo grabbed his arm and frogmarched him out of the restaurant as if forcing a drunk friend to go to bed. He smiled at the two men and raised his eyebrows in mock distress. There was no reaction.

  They started up the stairs, Saul tripping in his reluctance to abandon the scene. Alfredo kept a firm grip on him and pushed him onwards.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said to Schmitt. ‘Can you put the meal on our bill, please?’

  ***

  ‘I knew that bastard Ramon Vega was trouble,’ said Kurt Becker when Alfredo and Saul had left the restaurant and gone to their rooms.

  ‘I thought we’d had him snuffed out. Anyway, didn’t Ponce say that Vega was working on his own? You should never trust a politician,’ said Boris Klein.

  ‘I’m pretty sure Vega didn’t collaborate with anyone on his report. He was working on his own for months. Then Kleber Perez saw this Dr Vargas fellow poking around in the archives asking for information about German settlers and became suspicious.’

  ‘Kleber who?’

  ‘Perez. The lad who works for us at the archives. You know, he comes from Rolf Hermann’s farm.’

  ‘Oh yes, that boy. Is he the one who told us that a Jew had visited Mrs. Hermann with Dr Vargas?’

  ‘The same. He claims that he followed Dr Vargas to Ramon Vega’s house after Dr Vargas found the address in the archives. Kleber told us that he suspects that Vargas was given the final report by Ramon Vega before the house burned down. He even tried to search for it in Dr Vargas’ house but he was thwarted when Vargas returned from the airport with the Jew sooner than expected.’

  ‘How come we didn’t know about these jokers? The Jew and Dr Vargas. Where did they spring from and who the fuck are they, anyway?’

  ‘The Jew is a journalist from New York. My sources tell me that he is a survivor from the pogrom in Brussels. He’s well known. He was on that transport that got held up by the resistance.’

  ‘The one that got away. He may be dangerous. Revenge is a powerful motive. I wonder if he had family on that train. How about the doctor?’

  ‘Dr Alfredo Vargas is an expert on the Inca and Valdivia cultures. He is rumoured to be a lush. Ponce tells me that Vargas has lost the respect of some of his colleagues because of some of his drunken escapades. We don’t know what his connection with Vega is. They may have studied together or been childhood friends.’

  ‘A Jew and a drunk? Well, we may be old but we can deal with this little inconvenience without too much trouble.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Anyway, the Jew is about the same age as the Fuhrer when he died so that may prove to be ideal for our purposes.’

  ‘Huh, I never thought of that. You may be right. Well, I must get on if we are to deal with this tomorrow. Do you want a lift home?’

  ***

  The next morning, Alfredo and Saul breakfasted on eggs and black bread before setting out to tour the sites. There was not much
point pretending to be tourists anymore but they decided to carry on with the charade. As Alfredo pointed out, it was too much of a coincidence that Becker and Klein had turned up to eat the same evening that they were there. He was pretty sure that Schmitt had alerted them after he had seen Saul’s passport. Jewish journalists were not a dime a dozen in German theme villages, especially one hidden in the mountains of Sierramar. If there was a conspiracy, Fritz Schmitt had to be part of it. They told him that they would be back for dinner and would check out the next morning.

  Alfredo went up to his room and tried to ring Gloria. He dialled several times but there was no connection. He went back downstairs.

  ‘Mr Schmitt, I need to speak to someone but I cannot get through to Calderon. Can you help me?

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Dr Vargas. The telephones are not working at the moment. I think that the line may be down. It’s quite windy in the valley.’

  Alfredo was pretty sure that he had seen Schmitt on the telephone when they came out of the dining room after breakfast but it was more evidence that something untoward was going on. He decided to contact her from Lago Verde when they got there.

  They left on foot and worked their way through the town, criss-crossing the main street as they looked for evidence of the hidden community. It was not easy to look for something that was on display already. They did not see any evidence of swastikas, heel clicking or pencil moustaches but the whole village reeked of German culture and history and they did not find a single native local working or living in the village. Eating lunch in a local bar they were surrounded by barmaids dressed in white blouses singing songs about beer and carrying on.

  ‘It’s like Disneyland on drugs,’ said Alfredo in wonder.

  ‘More like Springtime for Hitler,’ said Saul, shaken by the overload of Germanic bonhomie. ‘I’m not sure what I expected to find, but this isn’t it. I don’t know what we do next.’

  ‘Search me, I’m germanated right now. However, cheese making and bad singing are not illegal in Sierramar as far as I am aware so we can’t take matters into our own hands yet. I’ve a feeling that things may get nasty around here so we’d better make ourselves scarce. Let’s go back to the hotel.’

  ‘It’s not like we haven’t spotted any Nazis. They almost had dinner with us last night but how can we confirm their identities? We can’t go up to them and ask them who they are.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘What? Asking them to incriminate themselves? I don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘No, but Schmitt knows who they are. Why don’t we ask him?’

  CHAPTER 15

  September 1988

  Gloria fielded a phone call from Mr. Chiriboga at the Geographical Institute who informed her that the aerial photographs were ready for collection.

  ‘Sam, hurry up, we’re going to pick up the photos of San Blas.’

  ‘Okay, just putting my shoes on. How are we going to search for clues using the photographs? We need a special viewer to see them in three dimensions.’

  ‘Ah, I already thought of that. I’ve a friend who works in the seismic monitoring centre. They’ve every kind of equipment and he has a crush on me so the combination is promising.’

  Sam was not surprised to hear that Gloria had another admirer. She was the sort of woman that men lost their heads over, being as beautiful as Venus, as rich as Croesus and ultra-high maintenance.

  ‘Sound’s perfect. I’m ready. Let’s go, then.’

  They drove to the Geographical Mapping institute and parked outside, walking up the hill to the atrium, and through to the aerial photograph department. Mr. Chiriboga had already put the photographs in a big brown envelope for them.

  ‘Do you know if the Seismic Monitoring Centre has the correct viewers for seeing these in three dimensions?’

  ‘Yes, I believe they do. I’m sure there is someone up there who can help you. Good luck, ladies.’

  The Centre was situated on the flanks of the large volcano that towered over Calderon and threatened to engulf the population of one million inhabitants with its next eruption. It was five hundred metres higher than the city and Sam could feel her heart and lungs working overtime trying to combat the lack of oxygen in the thin air. Gloria, unconcerned, lit a cigarette and surveyed the view from the car park.

  ‘Pretty amazing, huh? Calderon gets bigger and bigger.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ panted Sam.

  When Gloria had finished her cigarette, they entered the non-descript concrete building and found themselves in a plain orange room with a scruffy reception desk. A bored looking woman was plaiting her hair behind it.

  ‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d want to see Guillermo Palacios, please.’

  ‘Sure, go into the room on the right and keep walking. His desk is the last one on the left at the end of the office.’

  Sam was surprised. No security, no I.D. checks? It was almost disappointing. They walked through the long office through parallel lines of cubicles, each with an earnest looking occupant scrutinising their screen and taking notes. Stopping at the last cubicle, they looked in. A man wearing thick glasses and a big moustache that resembled a fat caterpillar balancing on his lip, was peering at a print-out on his desk. He was worrying the cuticle on the side of one finger, which looked inflamed already. Gloria coughed.

  ‘Ahem. Guillermo? It’s me, Gloria.’

  He spun around to face them, his face going deep red in pleasure and embarrassment.

  ‘Gloria? Oh goodness. It’s been far too long. You’re still as beautiful as a flower. The roses must be jealous when you walk by.’

  ‘Thank you. I should come here more often if I want to feel wonderful.’

  ‘But what’re you doing here? And who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Sam. We need your help. If you’ve time?’

  ‘Hello, Sam. Nice to meet you. I’ve all the time in the world when it comes to you, Gloria. How can I help?’

  ‘We need to look at some aerial photographs in three dimensions and to blow them up to a bigger size if possible. Is that something you can do?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can do that. Have you got them here?’

  Gloria handed over the envelope.

  ‘What’re you looking for?’

  ‘I know it sounds strange but we’re looking for concealed or camouflaged buildings outside the village of San Blas de Lago Verde.’

  ‘Isn’t that the village where they make the cheese? I’m guessing you’re not looking for secret cheese makers?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s more like a game of hide and seek. We’re looking for some people who don’t want to be found.’

  ‘Sounds mysterious. Okay, let’s see what we can do.’

  He crossed over to the opposite cubicle where there was a flat table and a pair of thick lenses suspended above the table on tripods. Selecting two of the photographs, he placed them under the lenses and moved them around muttering. At last, he was satisfied.

  ‘There you go. Nice clear images, I’d say.’

  Sam leaned over the table and looked through the lenses at the photographs which merged and came towards her in relief. She could see individual trees and people.

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad that’s what you needed. Now in return I want a favour, too.’

  ‘Name your price.’

  ‘If you’d like to stay here and look through the photographs, I want to take Gloria for a coffee.’

  Sam looked at Gloria for confirmation. She nodded.

  ‘That’ll be perfect.’

  Gloria stuck her arm through Guillermo’s to prevent him from floating off in a cloud of happiness, and went off to have coffee with him in a nearby café. Sam stayed behind examining the photographs for any clues to the secret hide-out of the Nazi officers. It was painstaking work but she could be meticulous when required and she had refined observational skills, part and parcel of being a geologist. She had r
eviewed four of the pairs of photographs without spotting anything of note when something caught her eye. The image taken of the eastern part of the village had some raised bumps that didn’t look natural due to some straight lines in their formation. They appeared to be covered in grass of some sort but they had dark depressions that could have been entrances in their sides. Even more interesting were the human figures in the photograph. It might have been a trick of the light but Sam was pretty sure that they were wearing white coats. They might have been dairy workers but she couldn’t see any rubber boots. Then she realised what she was looking at. Laboratory coats. They were so out of place that she couldn’t believe her eyes even when she magnified the figures by lowering the lenses. What the hell was going on? Why would someone be wearing a lab coat in the outskirts of a village miles away from anywhere? It didn’t make any sense.

  By the time that Gloria and Guillermo came back, Sam was almost hysterical with pent up excitement. Guillermo looked as if he had been smoking a psychotropic substance, and Gloria had the smug look of an opera singer that has experienced a standing ovation.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ asked Guillermo.

  ‘I think so,’ said Sam. ‘Can you tell me what you see?’

  He leaned into the glasses and moved the photographs into focus. He grunted in surprise and moved the lenses around again.

  ‘I think they’re doctors. Is there a clinic in the village?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gloria, ‘I believe there is, paid for by the dairy.’

  She took a look through the lenses and turned to face Sam, raising her eyebrow.

  ‘We need to go now, Guillermo,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to pick up something at the chemist before it closes.’

  ‘Please don’t leave such a large gap between visits next time flower. I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Off course I won’t, poppet. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s been so useful,’ said Sam.

  They made their way to the car where Gloria lit another cigarette. She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. The day had become overcast and dark clouds smothered the top of the volcano which brooded over them menacingly. Sam shivered and Gloria offered her a drag of her cigarette which she didn’t refuse.