Despite himself, Stefan laughed.
‘Did you ever meet my brother?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘You didn’t have to. He was exactly the way you describe him. Very intelligent. Very generous. But blind. And often deaf.’
‘Good. Excellent. You join the Navy. You go to Flensburg. You go to sea on the square rigger the Horst Wessel. The war is coming. You know that. But Hamburg isn’t far away and every spare moment, you get home.’
‘To see my mother?’
‘Yes. Especially your mother. Because you sense something about her. Maybe an emptiness, an inner loneliness. Then one day you come back to find your mother in tears. Your father is at work in the shipyard. She’s alone in the kitchen. She’s just received a letter from Berlin. And you know who the letter comes from?’
‘Sol Fiedler.’
‘Exactly. Your half-brother. And so you ask about the letter, about why your mother is so upset, and in the end she tells you everything. About the affair she had before you were born, about the baby she gave back to the father and about the life this child has had since.’
Stefan, despite himself, was doing the sums. This had to be 1938, the year before the war began. By then, Sol Fiedler would be thirty-two.
‘So what’s he doing? This half-brother of mine?’
‘He’s working at the KWI.’
‘The what?’
‘The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. He’s a physicist first, a metallurgist second. In his field, he’s brilliant. He’s winning prizes, publishing papers, getting himself recognised, getting himself noticed.’
‘All this is true? This is the real Sol Fiedler?’
‘Yes. By now he’s married. A woman called Marta from Budapest. Also Jewish. But something isn’t quite right because he’s got to know about his past, about his real mother, about the world he’s left behind in Hamburg. And you know what he wants to do? Before he flees like all the other Jewish scientists with a little money to their name? The ones who could get a job in England? Or a new life in America?’
‘He wants to meet my mother.’
‘He does, Stefan. And he’ll also want to meet you.’
Stefan nodded. It was the first time Erwin had used his Christian name and it seemed to put the whole relationship on a new footing. They were suddenly complicit, co-conspirators in a fiction that doubtless had a purpose and would – if Stefan agreed to play along – save his life.
Stefan swallowed the last of his coffee. It was cold. He wanted to know whether he could have a little time to think about what Erwin had said.
‘You mean to make your mind up?’ Erwin asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then the answer’s yes. Of course you can. Shall we say an hour?’
‘That would be fine.’
Erwin got to his feet and put the empty cups on the tray. About to leave the office, he paused.
‘A word of warning, Stefan. If you say yes, then you pick up the story where I left it. Sol has to come to Hamburg. You two have to meet. There has to be something more than friendship between you. There has to be real trust, real kinship. Because Sol will be writing you letters. From England. From America. And he will be telling you certain things that will turn out to be important.’
‘He writes these letters to me?’
‘He does.’
‘So where are they?’
‘They burned in the firestorm,’ Erwin smiled down at him. ‘Like everything else.’
*
Hector Gómez was arrested within minutes of leaving the waterfront. The dead man’s accomplice limped to the main road and flagged down a passing police car. That was bad enough. Worse still, it turned out that both of them were off-duty police, administering a little recreational justice. They’d known exactly when and where to find Ramón, and they considered themselves obliged to punish the maricón for taking too close an interest in the kids in the water. Mexico’s youth needed protection against the attentions of people like Ramón. And Ensenada’s finest had been only too happy to oblige.
Gómez sat in the back of the police car, wedged between two cops. Both of them had seen the damage he’d inflicted on their colleagues and although there was doubtless a beating awaiting him at the police station, for now they were content to stare out of the window. Twice he asked them whether they were interested in taking witness statements – from the kids, for instance, or the woman who’d come running to help – but both times they’d ignored him.
At the police station, word of the incident had somehow preceded their arrival. Gómez, handcuffed, was escorted through the filthy tiled space inside the main door that served as an enquiry desk and hustled up four flights of steps. The top landing was lined with cops and plainclothes detectives on both sides. Most simply spat on him. A couple landed a blow or two. One tried to kick him. Head down, Gómez kept walking. Once they really started, he told himself, they’d need a locked bathroom, preferably soundproof.
The Bureau could be rough when required but he’d heard some terrible stories from south of the border. As well as a lavatory brimming with excrement, most of them featured an assortment of objects destined for various orifices. Gómez knew enough about interrogation techniques to expect an hour or so in a cell by himself, quietly contemplating the excitements to come. That way, you’d frighten yourself half to death before the questions even began.
It didn’t happen. At the end of the corridor, Gómez found himself in a biggish office. Maps of the city papered one wall. The windows in the other offered a view of the mountains beyond the port. An officer sat behind the desk. Mexicans love uniforms but this guy, thought Hector, belonged in an opera: the enormous shoulder boards, the crisp olive shirt, the line of medals on the heavily buttoned jacket, plus the inevitable moustache.
‘You killed one of our men, señor. Not good.’
‘I intervened in a fight. They were beating another guy to death. There’s a difference.’
‘They were arresting him, señor. Because he’d become aggressive. Here in Mexico, we call that self-defence. The moment he stops resisting, we put him in a car and it’s over.’
Gómez didn’t bother taking the argument any further. He wanted no part in this charade.
The officer asked him for ID. Gómez said he wasn’t carrying any.
‘We understand you work for the US Army. Is that true?’
Gómez didn’t reply. Diego, he thought. Diego’s already on top of this.
‘I’m American,’ he admitted at last. ‘And, yes, I work for the Army.’
‘As what?’
‘An investigator.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t answer that either.’ Gómez paused. ‘We have a presence in Tijuana,’ he said. ‘A branch of the Foreign service. I need representation.’
‘We can find you a lawyer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A Mexican lawyer.’
‘I’d prefer someone from the legation.’
‘You don’t trust us? You don’t think we have the right to decide your representation? After you’ve killed one of our men?’
‘He fell badly. Cracked his head.’
‘His fault, then? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’ll wait for the autopsy. As I’m sure you will.’
‘That might not be wise.’
Gómez nodded, said nothing. Guys like these demanded the bended knee but they also respected people who could handle themselves.
The officer appeared to have lost interest in the conversation. He was reading one of a number of documents on his desk. At length the door opened, and a younger man appeared.
‘Take him away.’ The officer didn’t even look at the newcomer.
Gómez got to his feet. He must have a buzzer, he thought. Probably under the desk. He’s taken a good look at me. And now he’ll come to some kind of decision.
The
cells were in the basement, as filthy as everything else. There was a tiny window high in one wall that wouldn’t open and a concrete plinth where a small man might be able to lie down. Gómez didn’t even try. He sat on the plinth, his elbows on his knees, tracking a cockroach as it scurried across the cracked tiles. The place stank of sweat and urine and there was a puddle in the corner where someone had pissed. There was still daylight in the window, just, but within the hour the cell would be in darkness. No light. No water. No blanket. No bucket. Nothing.
Replaying the fight in his mind, Gómez thought suddenly of Agard Beaman. Was that why he’d done what he’d done? Was that why he’d gone to Ramón’s defence? He didn’t know but he guessed at the very least that the people upstairs would be carefully weighing what to do next. If they troubled themselves with the facts, and if they sensed any advantage in returning the gringo to his masters across the border, then it was just possible that they might let him go. Otherwise, he was in for a real taste of Mexican justice.
For longer than was healthy he thought about the rest of his life in a cell like this, or worse still in some overcrowded jail where every inmate demanded a piece of you. Places like that existed in the States, especially in the South, and he’d seen grown men – men for whom he had some respect – reduced to ghosts by their years inside. At length, he got to his feet and padded across to the door of the cell, meaning to hammer for attention, for water, for some acknowledgement that he still existed. Then he realised that this would be exactly what they wanted, evidence that he was cracking, that he was afraid. And so, in the thickening light, he returned to the plinth. In vain, he searched for the cockroach but, sensibly, it had gone.
16
Stefan wondered whether the bar down by the harbour was Schellenberg’s idea. When Erwin returned to the office, Stefan had said yes to his plan. He’d play along with the story. In fact, he’d already had an idea or two of his own. Erwin had nodded his approval. Wise decision he’d said. And one that deserves a modest celebration. And so here they were, at the back of the bar, with two plainclothes men from the legation just a table away. Stefan knew they were armed because Erwin had told him so in the car on the way down. Any bid to escape, Erwin warned with a hint of regret, and he’d be shot.
Stefan had no intention of escaping. He could still barely walk. And so now, with plates of tapas on order and a beer at his elbow, Stefan eased his leg beneath the table and picked up the story of Sol Fiedler.
‘I don’t know what he looks like,’ he said at once.
‘Here.’
Stefan found himself gazing at a sheaf of photos. They showed a man with receding hair and a fondness for open-neck shirts. He looked far older than his years. He had a kind face, gentle eyes, and in three of the photos he had his arm round a plump woman in a check dress. She was smiling at the camera. Her smile was uncertain. All three photos had been taken in a kitchen. Huge refrigerator. Glimpses of cactus and bright sunshine through the nearby window.
Stefan turned the photo over. July 1944.
‘This is Sol now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were they taken?’
‘In America.’
‘Does he like it there?’
‘He loves it there.’
‘And her?’ Stefan nodded at the woman.
‘Less so. I think she misses Budapest.’
‘This is his wife? Marta?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re in touch with these people?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Erwin didn’t answer. Despite the setting and the hospitality there were clearly limits to this conversation.
The tapas arrived. Stefan had always adored seafood. Huge gambas in a dressing spiced with cayenne and splinters of roasted garlic. Smaller clams tasting of lemons and the ocean. He reached for the basket of bread, took a swallow of beer, and then his eyes returned to the photos. He’d imagined someone bigger, more sure of himself, more commanding, but he could live with the real thing.
‘He looks a nice man,’ he said. ‘Maybe one day we’ll meet.’
Erwin said nothing. He was busy spearing one of the gambas. Then he wiped his mouth with the napkin.
‘Sol Fiedler arrives in Hamburg,’ he said. ‘It’s early 1939. How long is he staying?’
‘Two weeks.’ Stefan had thought this through. ‘He says he has money. He says he’s booked a room at the Atlantic Hotel in St Georg. The first time I meet him, he’s invited me to the courtyard bar.’
‘You’ve been inside the Atlantic?’
‘Yes. A couple of times. Naval functions on both occasions.’
‘So what happens with Sol? What do you make of him?’
Stefan was looking at the photos again, adjusting this story of his. An hour ago, he’d imagined they’d sunk a bottle of the hotel’s excellent Gewürztraminer between them. Now he wasn’t so sure. Sol Fiedler didn’t look like a drinker.
‘We have afternoon tea in the lounge,’ he said. ‘Just like the English.’
‘And?’
‘He tells me his story. I know most of it already from my mother but not about his plans to get out of Berlin.’
‘You mean Germany.’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you ask him why?’
‘I do. Kristallnacht happened everywhere. Berlin, Hamburg, all over. I was at sea at the time but my parents told me about it when I came back for Christmas.’
Kristallnacht. November the 9th 1938. Nazi thugs off the leash, looting and burning Jewish businesses and synagogues after the assassination of a German diplomat in Paris. Erwin, it turned out, had been in Hamburg at the time, a student at the university. Stefan was right. Thugs. Untermenschen.
‘So how much does he tell you? Sol?’
‘He says that he’s been to get the permissions. He says it’s tough. The regime will take everything they have, he and Marta, but he thinks it’s worth it. Or, more precisely, he tells me he has no other choice. Friends of his are disappearing. Berlin is a big city but there’s nowhere to hide.’
‘Does he tell you where he’s going?’
‘To England.’
‘To do what?’
‘He doesn’t say. When I ask him he says he doesn’t have a job to go to. Just contacts.’
‘And a reputation?’
‘Yes. He’s well-known in the field. Partly word of mouth but mainly because he’s contributed a number of papers to various publications.’
‘Is that an assumption on your part?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Excellent. You’re good at this. As we thought you might be.’
Stefan accepted the compliment with a nod. Something had occurred to him.
‘Does Marta know about me?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It’s important she knows nothing. This is something he keeps to himself.’
‘In case they check with her?’
‘Of course. Here. Take a look at these.’
From the same envelope as the photos came a sheet of specialist scientific periodicals in which Sol Fiedler’s work had appeared. Many of them had been published by the Deutsche Physikalische Gesellschaft. Stefan quickly scanned the list, then looked up.
‘These are genuine?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. Strange, he thought. Grafting himself on to the life of someone so real.
‘You need me to memorise them?’
‘A couple maybe. You need to know enough about the man to sound credible but not too much. Otherwise you’re going to sound coached.’
Coached. Perfect. Stefan sipped at his beer.
‘So where does all this end? Who do I have to impress?’
‘Convince would be a better word.’
‘Convince, then. Are we still talking about the English?’
Erwin wouldn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know what kind of impression Sol made on him that afternoon they me
t at the Atlantic Hotel.
‘He was older, obviously. I’m nineteen. He’s going to be …’ he frowned, looking at the photos, remembering Sol’s year of birth, ‘… thirty-five. I’m surprised by that because he looks even older and maybe I’m expecting someone much younger, like Werner, my brother.’
‘Do you like Sol?’
‘I do, yes. He’s very easy to talk to and he wants to be my friend.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. I’m asking myself the same question. Maybe he wants to tidy up the German end of his life before he leaves. We’re half-brothers, stepbrothers, whatever.’
‘So what do you talk about? Apart from Berlin?’
‘Me. He wants to know what I’m up to. My mother has mentioned the Navy in a letter she wrote to him. He wants to find out more about that. He wants to know why I joined up, what it’s like to be in a submarine, what will happen to me when war comes.’
‘He thinks war’s coming?’
‘We both do. A short war, but a war nonetheless.’
‘Against the English?’
‘No. First of all against the Poles. Maybe then Hitler will stop.’
Erwin picked up one of the photos and studied it for a moment.
‘He looks very Jewish, this new relative of yours. Are you aware of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it make you feel uncomfortable?’
‘At the hotel, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Stefan sat back in his chair, aware of the escorts watching them both. He hadn’t thought about this. He tried to visualise himself and this middle-aged Jewish scientist in the courtyard bar, surrounded by men and women who were feasting on the regime. Erwin was right. For the first time he realised that the Atlantic Hotel was no place for the likes of Sol Fiedler.
‘OK,’ Stefan said. ‘This is the way it really happened. I’m sitting in the Atlantic Hotel, just like I described, but you’re right, it doesn’t feel good and there’s something else, too. The place costs a fortune. And whatever he says to the contrary, I know that Sol has no money because the Nazis were taking everything off the Jews. So why waste money you don’t have? Why take the risk?’
‘And the answer?’
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