Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  She smiled at the explanation. ‘And when you left university?’

  ‘I did some travelling, returned to Germany, enlisted in the army for three years and then I joined the German Foreign Office. Now I’m on my way to Argentina to take up the rather tedious post of Second Secretary at the German Embassy in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘You must be very relieved.’

  ‘Relieved?’

  ‘To be leaving Germany.’

  ‘Why should I be relieved?’

  ‘The war! The Nazis!’

  Her straightforward manner rocked him. The ship was only the length of the Tiergarten from the Portuguese coast and Cortes’s cautionary advice was stabbing at his mind already – ‘Most Argentines have little time for what’s happening in Germany.’

  ‘Do you not approve of what Hitler is doing?’

  ‘Do you?’ she replied pointedly.

  ‘I’m a government officer, a servant of the German Foreign Office: apolitical, neutral and without attitude. My acknowledgement is to Germany.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘Besides, if I answered “no”, you might think I was lying.’

  ‘And if you said “yes”?’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t believe me anyway… In any case, I never discuss politics with beautiful ladies.’

  She was not wont to give up easily. ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Forgive me for enquiring,’ he said, cutting her short, ‘but I assume you’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘To which extent you gave your solemn undertaking to observe certain codes?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So, if Hitler were to faint at your feet, right now, would you attend to him… treat him in your capacity as a doctor?’

  ‘Of course, it is my duty to care.’

  ‘And in so caring for him, do you think you would be helping him in his cause?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted. Nonplussed, she reeled back in her chair, saw the mischievous look on his face and laughed. ‘In the German Foreign Office,’ grinned von Menen, ‘we call it “diplomatic reasoning”. Now, shall we talk about something else?’

  ‘Okay,’ she smiled. ‘Tell me about your family, your parents. What does your father do?’

  ‘He’s a soldier, Prussian background, very military.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Half Prussian, half Spanish.’

  ‘Any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘A sister, Katrina, two years younger than me; she married a couple of months ago. Her husband’s a lieutenant in the navy, which means that she’ll be spending a lot of time with my mother, in Mecklenburg… And you?’

  ‘I did have a younger brother, but he died when I was ten.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Their conversation continued well beyond breakfast, Maria adjourning briefly to her cabin to collect a large photograph album crammed with images of her parents, relatives, friends and the family’s estancia in the Province of Córdoba.

  ‘My main comfort in Berlin,’ she said, laying the album on the table. ‘I went through the pages almost every day, imagining I was still at home, breathing the sweet smell of the Pampas and watching the sun go down beneath the Sierra Chica.’ Enthralled by the thought of it, she looked out towards the horizon, felt the tremor of the engines beneath her feet and willed the ship to go faster.

  ‘Who’s the gentleman in uniform?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘Uncle Filipe. I doubt you’d like him, though, he’s…’ She paused, a searching look in her eyes. ‘But perhaps you would, I don’t know… Anyway, your turn now.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t equal your album. I’ve only got the one photograph.’ He slipped a silver-framed photograph from its cardboard sleeve and handed it to her.

  ‘Your sister’s wedding?’

  ‘Yes, taken after the ceremony, just the seven of us.’

  ‘Your sister’s very attractive. Your mother, too… That’s her, isn’t it? The lady with the light-coloured suit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought so. And the gentleman by her side, your father?’

  Von Menen nodded.

  ‘I’d say you look more like your mother.’

  ‘So everyone says.’

  ‘And the couple on the end, standing next to your father?’

  ‘Hans and Greta; they’re old friends of my parents. They live at the house in Mecklenburg.’ A poignant lump rose in his throat, his eyes locked on the photograph.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘A sad memory, that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing I’ve said, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Anxious to learn more about Maria, von Menen shrugged away the memory. ‘What prompted you to study medicine in Germany?’

  ‘Simple; I’d always wanted to attend the Berlin Medical Academy. Daddy studied there before the Great War. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, not that Daddy was overly keen on the idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The ethics of medical science.’

  ‘You’re alluding to certain events at the Charité?’

  ‘Yes. There was a time when I very nearly gave up and went home. Daddy found the whole business appalling. I doubt he’ll ever forgive the Nazis for purging the Charité of many of its distinguished scientists, men like Selmar Aschheim, Bernard Zondek, Professor Karl—’

  ‘Bonhoeffer,’ supplied von Menen, ‘the eminent psychiatrist.’

  ‘You know of him?’

  ‘Vaguely, yes.’

  But vaguely was far from the truth. Karl Bonhoeffer was the father of Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a supporter of the Kreisau Circle and a founding member of the Confessing Church. He was something else, too – a colleague of Rudolf von Bauer’s.

  ‘Daddy really admires him, not just for his marked contemptuousness of Hitler’s Law for the Protection of Hereditary Health, but for his outstanding clinical skill. But Dr Bonhoeffer’s successor,’ Maria shuddered, ‘that cringing Doctor Maximinus de Crinis… more disposed to Hitler’s cut-price mental welfare programme: the assassination of the mentally ill! I wonder if he ever took the Hippocratic Oath.’

  Von Menen turned and closed his eyes. He wanted desperately to agree with her, but the words of von Bauer and Cortes held him back. He’d forced himself into a corner and somehow he had to get out of it. ‘Many countries do have scandalous practices,’ he said remorsefully. ‘I suppose Germany is no exception.’

  It was a faint-hearted riposte, yet somehow the pained look in his eyes and the shameful tone in his voice worked. Her hand slipped slowly across the table, her slender fingers reaching for his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t being personal. And you’re right, of course, many countries do have scandalous practices, Argentina included.’

  That was the end of it. There was no further mention of Hitler or the Nazis.

  Von Menen wooed her ceaselessly. As the days and weeks marched on, he sensed he had found the kind of woman he had always dreamed of and she felt the same about him, a man who respected her and valued her opinions, not some polo-playing, pleasure-seeking machismo searching for a marriage chattel.

  In a strange kind of way they felt as though they had known each other for years; that they’d laughed together, cried together and, perhaps, even… But Buenos Aires was less than two days away and time was running out.

  After dinner, they adjourned to the promenade deck. Von Menen ordered a bottle of champagne and they spent the evening gazing at a sky teeming with the jewel-like constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. Yet the stars were about as near to von Menen’s thoughts as the distant galaxies themselves. Maria had captured his mind, his soul and his heart. All else seemed hopelessly
irrelevant. Even the problems awaiting him in Buenos seemed light years away.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Only that we’ll be arriving at Buenos Aires soon and…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, the last few weeks have been very special for me,’ he said quickly.

  Maria was toying with the clasp on her evening purse. She turned away and looked out across the vast, empty ocean.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just…’

  She turned back and pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Shush. I’m not embarrassed. It’s been the same for me, but it’s getting late and I’m feeling a little chilly.’

  He walked her to the door of her cabin and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Her face held an expression he had never seen before, her eyes doing all the talking. Make me feel I’m wanted. I need to know. He drew her towards him, cradling her head against his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart against her face, a powerful, eager, inexorable feeling rushing through her body, her soul awakening to an emotion she’d never experienced before. Her mind made up, she pulled away. ‘It’s a long night, Carl,’ she whispered. ‘I’d rather not be alone.’

  He lifted her head. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘I mean I’d like you to stay for a while – that is, if you want to.’

  ‘If I want to? Of course I do, but are you—’

  ‘Sure? I’m as sure as I ever will be.’

  Von Menen lay there, mesmerised by the languid pace of the fan droning above the bed, moonlight splashing through the porthole.

  The bathroom light dimmed, the door pushed open and Maria stepped out, a life-size Lalique figurine: lithesome, sensuous and oozing allure. She slipped in beside him, wrapped herself in his arms and fell madly in love.

  They woke at six the next morning, happy, content and relaxed; he, not wanting to leave; she, not wanting him to go. ‘Tonight’s our last night,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll be in Buenos Aires… and you still haven’t given me your telephone number?’

  ‘I told you,’ she giggled, ‘we don’t have a telephone, only a radio link with the next estancia.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll write to you.’

  She yawned, nuzzled up against his shoulder and murmured, ‘My address is on the dressing table. You’d best give me yours, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Er… I’ve no idea where I’ll be staying.’ When he thought about it, he realised he didn’t have any idea where he’d be staying, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure that he should tell her, not with Werner’s cautionary advice ringing in his ears. Then, suddenly, he remembered. ‘I’ve an account at the Banco de la Nación in Buenos Aires. You can write to me there.’

  The next morning, von Menen called for the sealed cardboard box, which had been lodged in the ship’s strong room since his embarkation at Lisbon. Inside was a set of bolt cutters – the “key” to the three padlocks he’d used to secure his cabin trunk. Soon, the radio was “free”, and the trunk was packed and secured with three new padlocks, ready to go ashore.

  He stood by the porthole, eyes glued to the quay, eager to catch a glimpse of Maria as she emerged at the foot of the gangway. Eventually, she did, arm-in-arm with her parents, a joyous event which von Menen had graciously declined. ‘Sorry, but I have some urgent work to attend to before I leave the ship.’ It was a lie, of course, based on his awareness that Maria’s father was a man of high moral principles, who despised Hitler’s regime and quite conceivably saw every German as a heartless Nazi.

  Maria slipped into the back of a waiting car, and without a hint of a searching glance for the man whose heart she had captured, she was gone.

  It was over, but something else was about to begin. ‘Whatever his height, if ever he found out about your real sympathies, believe me, he’d have no qualms about killing you.’

  The menacing thought of Erhardt Jost was back.

  4

  A tall man, about thirty, with short, spiky brown hair, dull grey eyes and a long pointed nose swaggered across the lobby.

  ‘Herr von Menen?’ he enquired, in a clipped Swabian accent. ‘I’m Heinz Neumann, from the Embassy. Heil Hitler.’

  Ignoring the gesture of the raised right arm, von Menen nodded cautiously.

  ‘I’ve a car down on the quay. You’re ready?’ he pointed.

  ‘Just waiting on my cabin trunk,’ replied von Menen.

  ‘No need,’ hastened Neumann, ‘I’ve arranged for it to be delivered this afternoon. Shall we go?’

  Von Menen lodged the disguised radio in the boot and climbed into the front passenger seat, resting his valise on his knees.

  The car thundered along San Martin, horn blaring, Neumann yielding to no one. ‘A present from the English,’ he said, as the car sped past the English Clock Tower. ‘On the right is Retiro Train Station.’

  Slowing a pace, Neumann made a right beyond the Hotel Plaza, the horn silent for a moment. ‘See that lot?’ he said, flicking a glance to the left.

  ‘Soldiers?’

  ‘Yes, the Argentine army in all its fancy get-up. It’s their Officers’ Club. The jokers call it the National Congress!’

  The Mercedes coasted to a halt outside a smart, honey-stone building on Esmeralda.

  ‘This is it,’ said Neumann. ‘Your new home.’

  Von Menen stepped from the car, collected the transceiver and walked into the lobby.

  A man wearing a green satin waistcoat, shiny black trousers and an amber bow tie made to greet him, his oiled black hair glistening like newly-set tar, a wide, gap-toothed smile providing the comedy. ‘Morning, señor, I’m Jose Fernandez, the janitor. Welcome to Buenos Aires.’

  Von Menen stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Neumann, not wont for formality, tossed his head in the air and walked past in contemptuous silence.

  The apartment was on the seventh floor, overlooking the gardens of Plaza San Martin, late-flowering acacias adding a touch of cheerfulness to the greyness of winter. In the distance stood the sumptuous Hotel Plaza and to the left, the towering Kavanagh Building.

  Von Menen looked around the sitting room, a mirror image of the pictures he’d seen in the glossy magazines Gustav Helldorf had “borrowed” from the United States Embassy in Berlin: soft, neutral colours, polished wooden floors and a scattering of soft pile rugs. Amidst the stylised shapes of art deco furniture, a pre-war import from Germany stood on the sideboard – a neat Graetz radio.

  In the kitchen, he found a plentiful supply of groceries – eggs, butter, milk, cheese, fresh fruit and preserves. Not a hint of austerity.

  Neumann turned on the heating, gave a brisk guided tour, handed over the keys and headed for the door. ‘The Ambassador is expecting you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, if you want somewhere to eat, I’d suggest La Cabaña, at 436 Entre Rios, up by the Congress Building. They do the best steaks in town.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll stay in tonight. Maybe tomorrow,’ replied von Menen, laying a discreet eye on the transceiver.

  Von Menen rose early the next morning, a weak sun peeking through the curtains. After breakfast, he checked the contents of his valise, secured the transceiver and made ready to leave for the Embassy.

  Downstairs, Jose Fernandez was immersed in the sporting pages of the tabloid daily, El Mundo. Von Menen cleared his throat and Jose slipped the newspaper discreetly into the drawer, uncoiled his wiry green torso and fetched himself up to his entire one and a half metres.

  ‘The lock on my apartment door, Jose…’

  ‘Yes, señor?’

  ‘I’d like it changed, please. Can you arrange it?’

  ‘Of course, señor.’

  ‘No need to bill the Embassy,
I’ll settle the account myself.’

  Jose skimmed through his diary. ‘Tomorrow morning, señor, ten o’clock?’

  ‘That’ll be fine. I’ll make sure to be around.’

  Von Menen stood patiently in front of the desk, the sway of Cabo de Hornos still under his feet, an unwelcome atmosphere crackling around him – disquieted mutterings, deep sighs and the drumming of fingers on polished mahogany.

  Perhaps I should have brought him an offering; a case of Deidesheim, maybe, or a string of Bavarian Milzwurst.

  Toying with the starched winged collar of his shirt, the Ambassador finally looked up, the veins at the side of his face pulsing wildly.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, with no hint of a welcome. ‘I’m not given to mincing my words, so I’ll tell it to you straight… I and the Chargè, d’ Affaires are the only two people at this legation who know the real reason why you’ve been sent here and the real reason irritates me a great deal. In my view, this new information department is an unwelcome departure from the more conventional role of the Foreign Office. I caution you, von Menen, that I will not be placed in the invidious position of having to explain the use of any unorthodox activity to a certain department of the Argentine Military.’

  ‘The Army Intelligence Service, Ambassador?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said von Menen, with studied dignity, ‘and you have my word that I shall do my utmost to uphold the best traditions of the German Diplomatic Corps at all times and under all circumstances.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, von Menen, I’m sure you will. Given your background I wouldn’t expect anything less, but the fact remains, anyone with a nuance of sense knows that you’re surplus to our legitimate requirements, including, I suspect, the Argentine authorities. Be under no illusion, I will not countenance any form of criminal or reckless activity. If you engage in anything akin to that kind of behaviour, you’ll find yourself persona non grata, shamed, unwelcome and with a big Argentine boot up your posterior.’ The Ambassador moved from behind his desk, walked over to the window and stood, arms folded, his back to the room. ‘Nevertheless…’