by James Remmer
‘The Jews have a lot to contribute,’ he argued, ‘provided they do not impede the progress of Argentina’s destiny… On the other hand, communists, homosexuals and those of an extended liberal persuasion, well, they’re a different matter.’
Vidal’s enthusiasm chaffed at the very core of what von Menen stood for, but he listened all the same, and he listened because he had to listen. Vidal wouldn’t stop. He lauded Hitler’s achievements, vented a phobic dislike for Stalin, questioned the competence of Churchill and poured scorn upon the Americans. Yet his perception of the wider concept of things – politically, socially and economically – was well-balanced and eloquently argued, and in that sense he sounded very impressive. But so, thought von Menen, had Hitler in 1933. And Vidal wanted big strides for his country, too: military power, social and economic reform and an education system that would be the envy of the world.
‘What we have at the moment,’ he argued, ‘is an economy dictated by people who see their vast tracts of land, and the profit they derive from it, as the only commodity Argentina has to offer. We have to change that. We need to industrialise this nation, build our own cars and trucks, locomotives, ships and planes.’ All of this Vidal saw through the ideology of National Socialism, an ideology that would ignite in Buenos Aires and burn across the whole of Argentina with such intense ferocity that eventually the whole of South America would dissolve into one dominion – ‘the Argentine Empire!’ He wasn’t impatient for it, either. ‘Deliberate and cautious, Carl,’ he kept saying. ‘We have no reason to be hasty.’
‘From what you have told me this evening, Filipe, I get the distinct impression that you would wish to endear yourself to Germany in a more positive fashion?’
‘I don’t think Argentina would ever endear or attach herself to any one state, Carl, not in the complete sense. We have no intention of losing our sovereignty or our independence. Certainly not. What I have in mind at the moment is some form of unofficial liaison with Berlin. It would have to be very discreet, of course, and I would have to remain entirely anonymous, for the time being, at least. I’m sure you understand that.’ Vidal reached for another bottle of champagne, which had appeared through the curtain as if by magic. ‘What I’m trying to say, Carl, is that we, in the military, would wish your government to know just how much we admire Germany’s accomplishments; in fact, we would like to see a similar direction in Argentina. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘A change of administration?’
‘In time, yes, but as I said earlier, there’s no reason to be hasty.’
‘But you mean a form of National Socialism.’
‘Of course.’
‘Endorsed by the GOU?’ suggested von Menen, with candid perception.
Vidal smiled sardonically. ‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be that way, but if that’s what it takes. You see, it’s all a matter of conviction. If we can convince the people of Argentina that this country is capable of accomplishing great things, as it surely is, and that every Argentine will benefit from its achievement, as they surely will, then there’s no reason why democracy shouldn’t prevail.’
‘But, Filipe, you’re talking about the ascendancy of National Socialism. For that to succeed you need a significant power base. Where will you find it? Not from the landowners or the industrialists, that’s for sure.’
‘Out there, Carl,’ replied Vidal, gesturing with his glass, ‘there are millions of people who want a share of the spoils of this country. They have a vote, yes, but it’s rarely reckoned with, not in the way they would choose, anyway. That’s because there’s too much chicanery. We have to deal with that, sweep away the corruption and the dishonesty, give the people a real vote. The rest is simple. If we can win their trust, National Socialism in this country will have found its power base, the mightiest political power base Argentina has ever seen. Many think it’s just a pipe dream, including some of my colleagues, but believe me, one day it will happen.’
Staring at the ice bucket, von Menen leaned back in his chair, his face full of quandary.
‘Something worrying you, Carl?’ asked Vidal.
‘I’m just a little perplexed, that’s all.’
‘About a man’s ambition for his country?’
‘No, about your confidence in me.’
Vidal pulled himself forward, leaned across the table and laid his hand on von Menen’s arm. ‘There’s a reason for that, Carl,’ he said softly. ‘You see, I want you to be the key to the liaison I spoke about.’
‘Me!’
Vidal’s face was ablaze with awareness. ‘Yes, you; it is why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘But, Filipe, I’m merely a Second Secretary. I’m not the German Ambassador.’
‘My dear Carl, you don’t paint a very flattering picture of yourself.’ Vidal sat back in his chair, folded his arms, a relishing glint in his eyes, his face full of knowing. ‘Perhaps I should remind you of who you really are… You are an agent of the German Foreign Office, an agent of von Ribbentrop’s Information Department Three. And you have been sent here specifically to assess the proactive viability of certain elements in Argentina, elements sympathetic to the Axis cause. Oh, and something else…’ Vidal paused, took stock of the disquieted look on von Menen’s face and poured another two glasses of champagne. ‘I’m also aware that you are not a member of the Nazi Party. But that doesn’t concern me. As for your father, “not so distinguished”? That is what you told my niece, isn’t it?’ Von Menen’s eyes were back on the ice bucket. ‘Your father may be modest in some directions, Carl, but come now, he’s very distinguished… a military genius. I admire him immensely. I suspect you do, too.’
Von Menen felt paralysed from the neck down, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed. Vidal knew far too much, and now, in what seemed like a state of suspended animation, he was waiting for the rest of it.
Vidal shot forward, lauding von Menen’s silence, smiling like a man who had check-mated his opponent for the tenth consecutive time. ‘Don’t look so sullen, Carl. There’s no point in denying it. Just think about it for a moment… Germany has an intelligence operation in Argentina and Argentina has something similar in Germany, although on a much smaller scale, I agree. But they both serve the same purpose – to focus on people with weaknesses. It’s an accepted fact. We know it is, so let’s be realistic… Let’s be honest with ourselves.’ Vidal jabbed his finger repeatedly at the table. ‘Listen, I know for a fact that there are certain people in Germany who doubt Hitler’s political wisdom. There are some who doubt his ability to win the war, even.’
A veiled reference to the Kreisau Circle?
A lump rose in von Menen’s throat. Suddenly, he was alive again, anxiety ripping through his body. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Filipe.’
‘Look, Carl,’ said Vidal, almost climbing over the table, ‘I have personally authorised the issue of over fifty Argentine passports to people in the German government, many of them senior Nazis, some of them members of the German Foreign Office. Perhaps you’re familiar with one of them,’ he said teasingly, ‘Doctor Alfred Wehmen?’
Shocked to the soles of his Eduard Meier shoes, von Menen’s eyes lit up like searchlights. He could scarcely believe his ears.
The conceited, double-dealing fat bastard.
‘You see, Carl, I knew all about you even before you set foot in Argentina. That you happened to meet Maria was just a coincidence, although a very welcome one. It saved me the trouble of having to look for you.’
Resigned to the inevitable, von Menen held up his hands. ‘I don’t doubt your idea would make my life a lot easier, Filipe, but I’m at a loss to understand why you have picked me, when there are others at the Embassy who are much better equipped to deal with such matters.’
‘By that, I presume you mean one of the military attachés, or perhaps one of Heydrich’s lot?’ scoffed
Vidal.
Von Menen’s neck sank into his shoulders. ‘Why not?’
‘Carl, I wouldn’t touch the Abwehr if they were the only German organisation this side of the Atlantic. I met Canaris in 1935 in Berlin. He’s as slippery as an eel. He didn’t impress me at all. As for that other lot,’ he grimaced, ‘dense isn’t the word. I don’t suppose they’ve got a single matriculation certificate between them.’ Vidal thumped the table, his features hardening. ‘No! This is a political matter. It requires someone with a real sense of diplomacy, someone with acumen, someone I can trust.’ He spoke as if it were a matter of providence, as if von Menen had no choice in the matter. ‘I cannot afford any mistakes, and more importantly, I cannot afford any leaks.’
Von Menen’s attention on the ice bucket remained absolute.
Vidal rocked back in his chair and fixed him with a long, hard gaze. ‘I’m giving you what von Ribbentrop wants, aren’t I? The fact that I know who you are and why you’re here doesn’t concern me.’ He held out his hands in treaty. ‘There’s no catch. I’m not asking your government for anything – other than, perhaps, some kind of sympathetic, moral support. Think of it as a matter of…’ the word was dancing on the tip of his tongue, evading him, almost irritating him.
‘Expedience?’
‘Yes, expedience. It’s appropriate, an arrangement that fits our individual circumstances, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, another glass of champagne… Salud!’
The chink of glass resounded in von Menen’s ears like the cry of Jonah.
*
‘You didn’t give me much time, Carl,’ said Schröder, pulling a notebook from his jacket pocket. Von Menen wondered if it was the same biscuit-coloured jacket he’d worn at Il Pellicano, or whether he had a wardrobe full of them.
‘Yes, sorry about that, Franz, but I drew a blank at the National Library and since it’s rather urgent…’
‘Mine is not to reason why, Carl. You don’t have to tell me anything. In truth, I’d rather not know. It’s best that way. Anyway, the profile you asked me for: Filipe Hernando Vidal, a colonel in the Argentine army, born 1887 in Buenos Aires, son of an army general who died about twenty years ago. His mother, of French extraction, died last year.’ Squinting at his near-illegible handwriting, Schröder peeled back the next page of his notebook. ‘Seems he’s a very bright man… Graduated from the University of Buenos Aires in 1912, double-first in economics and law… Enlisted in the army six months later. The following year he was wedded to Isobella Stern.’
‘Stern? Jewish?’ queried von Menen.
‘Yes, a very prominent family in Buenos Aires.’
Interesting. ‘The Jews have a lot to contribute…’
‘Is it relevant?’ asked Schröder.
‘In the sense that it explains a somewhat puzzling line of thinking, yes.’
‘Anyway, her father, Joshua Stern, is still alive, heads the family business, a merchant bank in Buenos Aires.’
‘Children? Vidal, I mean?’
‘One, a son; he works for his grandfather. Family-wise, there’s not much more I can tell you, other than the fact that Vidal’s sister is married to Professor Javier Gomez, an eminent surgeon. He lectures at the Faculty of Medicine in Buenos Aires. As for Vidal himself, well, seems to be a scholarly individual, astute and very shrewd… Something of a radical during his university days, so one of my colleagues told me, and he should know – he and Vidal studied economics together.’ Schröder scrolled further down his notepad, a glint in his eye.
‘There’s more,’ intuited von Menen.
‘Yes… the GOU, the organisation we spoke about previously?
‘Go on.’
‘My colleague says it’s got Vidal’s thinking stamped all over it; that is, the thinking of the Vidal he knew over thirty years ago. While others might be driving it forward, he wouldn’t be surprised if Vidal was giving the directions.’
‘And at fifty-four he’s still only a colonel. Why?’
‘Given his intellect, I suppose the logical answer to that question is that he’s too clever by far; probably frightens the likes of General Justo to death. Anyway, where politics are concerned, particularly of the extreme kind, there’s invariably a significant, sometimes anonymous, figure behind the scenes. In the GOU, perhaps that figure is Vidal.’
‘I wonder just how radical is he?’ mused von Menen.
‘There’s certainly no evidence of extremism,’ said Schröder. ‘He seems happily married, leads a very sedate life and keeps himself to himself.’
‘That’s not to say that there isn’t a more sinister element to his character.’
‘Absolutely. You only need look at some elements of the Nazi Party for proof of that – von Ribbentrop, to name but one.’
‘So, he’s an intellect, he’s inventive, he’s wealthy and he’s happily married; there’s no sign of impropriety, no evidence of extreme radicalism and he prefers to take a back seat.’
‘I’d say that’s a fair appraisal,’ agreed Schröder.
‘Meaning his attributes don’t mark him out as a fast-track political reformer?’
‘Either that or he’s got the constructive ingenuity of a beaver, the silent cunning of a fox and the composure of a stalking lion, patiently—’
‘Biding his time for the right moment?’
‘Or living a life of misplaced optimism.’
‘Perhaps, but whichever way you look at it, he’s obviously nobody’s fool.’
Like the last of the winter snow in a warm Alpine meadow, von Menen’s doubts were dispersing fast. If Vidal’s ideology were a true reflection of what was really fermenting within the ranks of the GOU, then the dark clouds of revolution were gathering above Argentina again.
The question was: when would the storm clouds break? Two years at most, thought von Menen, which is precisely what he committed to paper.
*
‘So, von Menen, you have been here barely two months and in that short space of time you think you have acquired sufficient knowledge to envision the destiny of Argentina?’ sneered the Ambassador. ‘I hope you have not based this…’ – he paused, nodded at von Menen’s report – ‘ridiculous judgement of yours solely on the whims and aspirations of this GOU organisation. You’ll need more evidence than that.’
Von Menen gestured towards the window. ‘The evidence is out there, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s all around us.’
‘You might believe that, but what you’re suggesting is damn preposterous. This man, Perón, for example, he’s only been back in the country a short while… I mean, what credentials does he have?’ He frowned at von Menen’s report. ‘A revolution? Within two years? Give the country to the proletariat? Share the wealth? Good God, man, it’s impossible.’
Von Menen’s eyes fell on a small bronze casting of a pedigree Friesian bull standing proudly in the middle of the Ambassador’s desk. A gift from some German ex-patriot, no doubt.
‘This country is owned by a select few,’ the Ambassador continued, ‘and that select few will never allow this to happen.’ His hand fell sharply upon von Menen’s report.
‘I appreciate what you are saying, sir, but it is my opinion and I’m standing by it.’
The Ambassador picked up his pen, wavered a second and finally added his signature. ‘Know this, von Menen. Having read your report, I have no option other than to sign it, but I do so with grave misgivings. You are ploughing a very lonely furrow. In two years’ time I don’t doubt that you will be standing before me receiving another well-deserved admonishment – before being shipped back to Germany. Good day to you.’
*
With Maria still in Córdoba, von Menen was fated to endure another lonely Sunday lunch in downtown Buenos Aires – two hours spent gazing through the window of a tiny café on Florida, listening to the gurgling “mus
ic” of a Gaggia coffee machine and the background lyrics of Bing Crosby’s “Only Forever”.
At first, he could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned, shook his head, waited a second, and then looked again. But it was no apparition. Jost was sitting in the window of the restaurant opposite, his companion large and affectionate, mountainous bosoms almost halfway across the table, challenging the salt cellar, a picture of sweet perfection.
Von Menen choked on his espresso. At one metre seventy and barely ten stone, the wiry Jost would need scaffolding, ropes, pulleys and another serving of grilled beef to meet the challenge of the woman sitting opposite him, about whom there was a certain familiarity.
Suddenly, it dawned – a crocodile skin wallet, a matching hip flask and a chest the size of the Matterhorn. Ana Pradera had found her next eager man.
Von Menen finished his coffee, put on his hat, pulled down the brim and sneaked out onto Florida, a plan fermenting in his mind.
Apart from the doorman snoring heavily beneath a sheet of newsprint, the Embassy was empty. Upstairs, the door to the shared Gestapo/SD office was unlocked.
Von Menen crept inside, sat down before Müller’s Adler and allowed his imagination to run wild:
Dear Señora Pradera,
Saw you in Harrods the other day… Noted the name on your blouse… Thought perhaps you might like to join me for dinner, take in a show. Please give me a call on…
Yours, Heinz Müller
Next, he typed out the envelope – Private and Personal: For the attention of Ana Pradera, c/o Harrods Department Store, Calle Florida, Buenos Aires. Sealing the envelope, he placed it in the Gestapo out tray, knowing that Jost, by habit, would beat Müller to the Embassy on Monday morning.
Von Menen arrived at the Embassy at seven-thirty, Jost a half-hour later. Müller followed at nine. Within minutes, the row of all rows erupted along the corridor; two raging stags locked in a cage with a doe on heat, spit, accusations and denials flying in all directions, the maelstrom carrying through the entire building.