by James Remmer
Helldorf saw the wavering look in his eyes. ‘Carl, don’t!’
Von Menen picked up the radio, grabbed his valise and inched towards the aircraft, each step more leaden than the last. He hesitated, then broke into a jog, the purser running to meet him. ‘Take care of Lutzi!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘And make sure to keep Sigi out of trouble! Oh, and don’t forget to give my very best wishes to your mother!’ He reached the foot of the steps, turned, waved one last time and hurried into the cabin, the door closing behind him.
Von Menen looked out through the window, the Junkers starting to roll, his dreams, his hopes and his friends melting away. All he had now was a gun, a radio, a pile of money, a crazy assignment and the tormenting thought of a man called Erhardt Jost.
3
‘Carl! Carl! Bienvenido, mi amigo!’
Dropping his valise to the ground, von Menen wedged the transceiver between his feet and braced himself for the inevitable Latin greeting.
Juan Cortes was in a jubilant mood. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, Carl,’ he said, his handshake finally coming to an end. ‘And looking very important.’
‘Me? You don’t look so bad yourself.’ Von Menen stepped back a pace, sunlight pressing through the windows, glinting on Cortes’s oiled black hair. The moth-eaten sweater, flannelette shirt and scuffed suede shoes had gone, replaced by a sand-coloured suit, smart silk tie, crisp white shirt and crocodile skin shoes, a Fairbanks-style moustache adding to the affluent image.
‘Positively prosperous,’ said Cortes. ‘Six months ago, Father made me a partner. Now, I have my own secretary and a clerk. But enough of that… I’ve a taxi waiting outside.’
Clambering into the back of a beaten old Citroën, they set off for downtown Madrid, a cooling breeze blowing through the open windows.
‘It’s been a long time,’ said Cortes, voice still ringing with enthusiasm.
‘Almost two years to the day,’ replied von Menen. ‘The war in Spain had been over for three months and I’d almost finished my first year with…’ von Menen drew back, the driver all ears, ‘la tenue sur Wilhelm rue,’ he whispered in French.
‘A grudging first year, as I recall. Your only incentive being the wishful prospect that one day you might end up in Madrid. Well, here you are, the posting you’ve always wanted.’
‘Not exactly; I’m only passing through, on my way to…’ Von Menen reeled in again, inquisitive eyes reflecting in the cracked interior mirror. ‘I’ll explain later,’ he winked.
Not until they had reached Cortes’s apartment above the offices of the family law firm, off Calle Gran Vía, did von Menen explain his unexpected arrival from Germany.
‘Sorry I clamped up so sharply in the back of the taxi, Juan, but I’m not staying in Madrid. I’m on my way to Lisbon.’
‘Lisbon? You’re kidding?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, well, even Lisbon’s a damn sight nearer than Berlin. By train, I can be there in just over half a day; under three hours if I take the plane.’
Von Menen shook his head. ‘Sorry, old chum, but I’m not staying in Lisbon, either. I—’
‘You’re not going to South America, surely?’
‘Yes, Buenos Aires. Embarking at Lisbon on Wednesday, sailing on Thursday morning.’
‘You lucky devil, how did you wangle that?’
‘I didn’t. I was ordered, with less than a week’s notice; hardly had time to pack.’
‘Must have taken your family by surprise.’
‘Mother was a bit anxious, but Father doesn’t even know. He’s—’
‘Somewhere east of Warsaw, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘That’s about the measure of it, yes.’
‘Katrina?’
‘She doesn’t know, either. She and Jürgen are in Italy, due back any day now.’
‘But your mother knows?’
‘Yes, she’s staying with Aunt Ingrid at the moment, at Flensburg. I took the train up there a few days ago. Remember Aunt Ingrid?’
‘How could I forget?’ smiled Cortes. ‘Your Uncle Manfred’s boat, a rough sea and Aunt Ingrid with a face as green as a cabbage!’
‘Well, they send you their best wishes,’ said von Menen, sharing the amusement. ‘I’m sure Father and Katrina would, too, if they knew I was here.’
Von Menen’s overnight suitcase was already lodged in the guest bedroom, but the valise and the disguised transmitter remained glued to his feet. Cortes was discerning enough to sense their importance. ‘There’s a steel cupboard in my office, Carl,’ he said, flicking a glance at the valise. ‘It’s very secure and plenty big enough. If it would make you feel more comfortable…’
Von Menen welcomed the offer, the notion of a restrained evening in Madrid too much to contemplate.
Restaurant El Barquero was dim and discreet, full of shadows, flickering candles and the melodic sound of Spanish guitars.
Von Menen seemed relaxed, but Cortes was uncommonly edgy, the memory of Spain’s civil war rising inside him; a ferocious, unreal past, father against son, brother against brother, Madrid crumbling to her knees, the flames of destruction fanned by Germany and Italy. He thought about the old Basque town of Guernica, destroyed by Hitler’s Condor Legion, hundreds killed, two of them his grandparents. He would neither forgive nor forget it and he’d always believed that von Menen felt likewise. But von Menen’s new-found status puzzled him, and Cortes’s mind was a maelstrom of doubt.
A good friend, an emissary of the Third Reich, no less, just arrived from Berlin by plane – by plane, mind – en route to the most glamorous city in South America, a first class ticket for a passage on Cabo de Hornos in his pocket; the same man who had been ushered, reluctantly, into the German Foreign Office by his illustrious grandfather at the expense of his long-held dream – ‘I want an exciting life, Juan, adventure, discovery, journeys to the unknown. The humdrum of government is not for me. The thought of working for the Nazis abhors me. I can’t abide them.’ Cortes remembered the words as if von Menen had spoken them only hours ago.
The last spoonful of gazpacho brought the small talk to a halt. With the paella came the troubling topic of Germany’s expansionist drive into Russia, which, for Cortes, meant only two things – Hitler and the Nazi Party! He ordered a second bottle of wine, watched the waiter leave, took a deep breath and averted his eyes in readiness for the answer he hoped he wouldn’t hear. ‘You’ve joined, then?’
Von Menen laid down his fork, a fat, juicy prawn impaled on the end of it. ‘Joined? Joined what?’
‘The Nazi Party… Hitler’s hoodlum empire. “I can’t abide them,” you said, your exact words. And yet here you are, on your way to Argentina. I’d imagined that such jobs were for the Hitler-worshippers.’ Cortes’s tone bore the delicate weight of a sledgehammer.
Scarcely believing his ears, von Menen shifted uneasily in his chair. Flensburg and Mother all over again. ‘Juan, there are many people at the Foreign Office who are members of the Nazi Party,’ he said. ‘Some are even honorary members of the SS, von Ribbentrop included, but me, definitely not. I can understand your scepticism, but believe me, my feelings now are the same as they were when I first realised what Hitler stood for. I despise him and his Nazi ideology.’
Reflecting pensively on his association with the Kreisau Circle, von Menen placed a finger on the base of his wine glass, inching it at a snail’s pace across the white linen tablecloth. ‘You might find this a little strange,’ he continued, ‘but I have no real enthusiasm about going to Argentina, no enthusiasm whatsoever. Given the choice, I’d rather stay in Berlin. To understand that, you have to appreciate how fervently I believe that the Nazi regime will come to an end eventually. It might take a few years, but it will happen, I know it will. But, please, this conversation is strictly between us. You’re a good friend and I trust
you.’
Cortes flopped back in his chair, cursing his impertinence. ‘I’m sorry for being such a damn fool, Carl. Of course I understand. And, yes, you can trust me. It’s just that, well, you know, the Nazis, the Fascists, call them what you like, they’re all a bunch of gangsters.’
‘In that case, seeing as we’re at one on the subject, let’s talk about something else… Argentina. You were there at the end of ’35. Tell me, is it really the Paris of South America?’
‘Most definitely. It’s a wonderful place. The people are marvellous, very European, more so than the Europeans, if you get my meaning. It’s a tricky place politically, though. Whilst most Argentines have little time for what’s happening in Germany, there are those who are only two steps behind Hitler and Mussolini, and most of them wear uniforms. They’re crazy about military expansionism and would love to see Argentina as a dominant pro-Nazi/Fascist state in the Southern Hemisphere.’ Cortes paused, shaking his head. ‘As far as the war in Europe is concerned, Argentina might be neutral, but it’s hardly Switzerland. It’s a place where the unsuspecting could easily find themselves in deep trouble.’
Wednesday 2nd July 1941
Spain’s newspapers were crammed with the news of Germany’s amazing successes on the Eastern Front. Barely a week had passed and the German army was less than 450 miles from Moscow. Hundreds of thousands of Russian soldiers had been taken prisoner. West of Minsk, Stalin’s soviet regime was bending to a new “system” of repression and terror. Hitler’s extravagant concept of colonising the east was looking far less fanciful than anyone could ever have imagined.
Later that afternoon, Cortes drove von Menen to Barajas Airport, the Deutsche Lufthansa flight from Barcelona already on its descent as they pulled up outside the terminal.
‘When I get back, Juan, I’d like you to come to Mecklenburg again. We’ll sail the Baltic, visit Sweden, if you like.’
‘I’d like that very much, Carl,’ said Cortes, fumbling in his jacket pocket and pulling out a small pink stone, which he pressed into von Menen’s hand.
‘A boiled sweet?’ joked von Menen.
‘No, rhodochrosite. It’s a semi-precious stone. The Argentines call it Rosa del Inca. It was discovered a few years ago in an abandoned copper mine in Argentina’s Catamarca Province. I’d like you to have it. It’s supposed to bring good fortune. If nothing else, it will remind you of our trip to Sweden.’
Good fortune?
Von Menen held no belief in the supernatural, but for some weird, inexplicable reason, his eyes remained riveted to the small pink stone resting in the palm of his hand, Helldorf’s chilling warning ringing in his mind. ‘Be careful. You might find yourself in the lion’s den over there.’ He looked wistfully in the direction of the Sierra de Guadarrama, thought of Jost, Müller and Schmidt, saw his own ghost dancing in the clouds and asked himself if he would ever see Europe again.
Flicking the stone high above his head, he snatched it from the air and squeezed it tight shut in his hand. ‘Thanks, Juan,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Luck is something I usually make myself, but on this occasion, I’ll make an exception.’
*
Von Menen followed the porter into the passenger terminal, through the control point and along the quay, catching his first glimpse of Cabo de Hornos: a mass of twinkling lights, grey smoke lazing from her funnel and spiralling towards a crimson sky.
An eye-catching young lady, her dark brown hair trailing from beneath a floppy straw hat, stood awkwardly at the foot of the gangway, the hem of her dress snagged against a stanchion, two cumbersome hat boxes and a large travel bag more than she could cope with.
Von Menen laid down his valise and called the porter to a halt.
‘Fala Portuguese?’ he asked the lady, raising his hat.
‘No, Español.’
Von Menen responded in flawless Spanish. ‘You look as though you need help.’
‘Thank you. I thought I could manage, but…’
Von Menen smiled, set free her dress and picked up her travel bag, grimacing at the weight of it.
‘Books and instruments,’ she said apologetically.
Von Menen concealed his curiosity. ‘Right, you lead the way. I’ll follow.’
They parted in the ship’s lobby; she, grateful for his help; he, smitten by her stunning good looks. ‘Perhaps we’ll bump in to each other again,’ he said, tipping his hat.
‘I’m sure we will,’ she said with a smile.
Even before von Menen had removed the last of the three padlocks from his cabin trunk, Ramon, his cabin steward, an elderly, cheery individual with a shock of grey curly hair, launched into his well-rehearsed ‘Welcome on board Cabo de Hornos’ routine.
The unpacking finished, Ramon fished into his waistcoat pocket and plucked out a crumpled piece of notepaper. ‘You have an item for storage in the ship’s strong room, señor?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Von Menen reached for a weighty cardboard box, festooned in a web of string and dotted with large blobs of red wax. ‘I was asked to deliver this to an address in Buenos Aires,’ he explained. ‘A family heirloom, I believe. Seeing as it’s been entrusted to me…’
‘Of course, señor, I’ll see that the purser gets it.’ Ramon referred to the notepaper again. ‘When unoccupied, cabin door and portholes to remain locked at all times… all luggage, including your trunk, to remain in your stateroom?’
‘That’s right. I’ll unpack my valise and small suitcase myself.’
Eyes brightening at the size of his tip, Ramon turned on his heels and departed.
Von Menen waited a while, locked the door, delved into his valise, pulled out a cigarette lighter and a stick of sealing wax. Stuffing the valise and the transceiver into the trunk, he locked the three padlocks, melted a blob of wax into each keyhole, then tossed the keys through the porthole.
Heaving a huge sigh of relief, he kicked off his shoes, flopped down on the bed and smiled. He’d made it, valise, radio, money and all. Next stop, Las Palmas.
She had no floppy straw hat and her long, shimmering brown hair trailed in the wind like the tail of a pony in full flight.
‘Morning,’ he greeted her. ‘How are the books?’
The lady smiled. ‘Fine thanks, as are the instruments.’
He held out his hand. ‘I’m Carl Franz von Menen.’
‘Maria… Maria Francesca Gomez. Thank you again for your kindness yesterday.’
‘My pleasure. You’re Spanish?’
‘No, Argentinian.’
‘Really? Señorita or señora?’
‘Señorita.’
‘Travelling alone?’ he asked guardedly.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve had breakfast?’
‘Actually, no, I haven’t.’
‘In that case, if you’ll forgive my boldness, would you care to join me on the promenade deck?’ He saw the wavering look in her eyes. ‘Of course, if you’d rather not…’
‘Ten minutes?’ she said.
‘Ten minutes… And the name’s Carl,’ he reminded her.
She returned a short while later, wearing a simple shell-pink blouse and a swirling pastel-blue skirt, her hair piled up above her head, small pearl earrings the only sign of jewellery.
When they reached the promenade deck she sat down and removed her sunglasses, von Menen mesmerised by her perfect face: a soft, caramel colour, set with flashing brown eyes, an alluring smile and the longest, curling eyelashes he’d ever seen. She was beautiful, graceful and delightfully genial, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, unhurried and gently convincing. She was Doctor Maria Francesca Gomez.
‘I would never have taken you for a doctor,’ said von Menen.
‘Ah, but a very junior one,’ she smiled.
‘Hence the instruments?’
&
nbsp; ‘Quite.’
‘Did you train at the Charité?’
‘Yes, I finished my general clinical training about a month ago. Now I’m going home.’
‘Has your family been in Argentina long?’
‘On my father’s side, since the sixteenth century. We’re descended directly from a wayward Jesuit missionary, who arrived in San Juan province from Spain in 1595, kissed religious teaching goodbye and took off to the foothills of the Andes with a local Indian girl.’ Her tone implied that the legend had been the source of much amusement in the Gomez family for centuries.
‘And your mother’s side?’ asked von Menen, stifling his laughter.
‘Of Italian descent… Her great-grandparents arrived in Argentina in 1845, settled in Buenos Aires for a decade or so and then—’
‘Moved to Córdoba to open an ice-cream parlour?’
‘Now you’re teasing. Anyway, what about you?’
‘Me? Not much to tell really. Until a few days ago I was living and working in Berlin for—’
‘Let me guess… the Argentine subsidiary of IG Farben, or Siemens Schuckert? They sent you to work in Germany for a while and now you’re going home?’
He laughed. ‘Wrong. I’ve never been to Argentina in my life. I’m German.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘German? But—’
‘You thought I was Argentinian, with a name like von Menen?’
‘It’s not unusual. There are lots of vons in South America and you speak Spanish like a native.’
‘Thank you for the compliment, but there’s good reason for that. I was born in Spain, my grandmother was Spanish and I went to Madrid University. And my first name has Spanish influence. My mother, you see, was intent on calling me “Carlos”, after my great-grandfather, but my father wanted “Karl”. In the end, they compromised and settled for “Carl”, spelled with a “C”.’