by James Remmer
‘Look, I’ll prove it!’ screamed Jost. Von Menen caught the sound of a typewriter, the click, click of keys, followed by the whine of the platen as the paper was snatched from the machine. ‘Look, it’s your damn typewriter, Müller, no mistake about it!’ Von Menen couldn’t see it, but the real fireworks began when Jost tore open the envelope and read the script.
Then came the pleading voice of Müller: ‘But…’
‘No buts!’ yelled Jost. ‘I warn you, stay clear!’
The cacophony brought down the Naval Attaché, the First Secretary and finally the Ambassador himself.
Von Menen smiled, walked nonchalantly past the mayhem and out into the street below. Thank you, Müller.
*
At the end of September, Maria arrived from Córdoba, moved into an apartment near Plaza Lavalle and settled into a regime of long hours at the Hospital de Clínicas, with few days off.
Von Menen, meanwhile, maintained his bi-weekly meetings with Schröder, made frequent trips to the safe house and developed a burgeoning rapport with Vidal.
By the end of November, Vidal had become increasingly concerned by events in the Pacific.
‘The Americans are very jittery about the threat of Japanese expansion,’ he told von Menen, during a lunch-time meeting at the Jockey Club. ‘I’m fearful that they won’t stand for it much longer.’
‘I agree, Filipe; a military conflict between Japan and the United States would have devastating repercussions.’
‘Worse than that, my friend. My sources in London say that Churchill has already given a commitment that if Japan goes to war against America, Great Britain will declare war against Japan. If that happens, Germany will inevitably declare war on America, with obvious consequences: Roosevelt will put immense pressure on Central and South America to reject the Axis coalition and break off diplomatic relations with Germany. He might even insist that they declare war against her, which would place a huge question mark over Argentina’s relationship. You might care to think about that, Carl.’
A few days later, news vendors throughout Buenos Aires were bellowing the message that neither von Menen nor Vidal wanted to hear. ‘The Japs have bombed Honolulu! The Japs have bombed Honolulu!’
The international situation quickly became a depressing, chaotic mess. Britain and the United States were at war with the Axis partners, Russia was at war with Germany, Hitler was at war with the whole damn world and Argentina was in conflict with… herself!
Vidal watched in horror as the states of Central America folded to the power of the US dollar and declared war on Germany. Much to his relief, though, South America held firm, in spite of Roosevelt’s threats. Von Menen saw an immediate change in Vidal’s thinking, his hitherto cautious approach replaced by a compelling urgency: ‘I’m going to give you the GOU’s entire agenda,’ he informed von Menen. ‘Make sure that it reaches Hitler. And do not, under any circumstances, divulge your source, otherwise our arrangement is finished.’
Vidal remained as fanatical about his own anonymity as he was about his belief in the GOU, or his unwillingness to discuss Perón. He sought no favours and demanded nothing, except trust and secrecy, and in that sense his motives remained a complete enigma to von Menen. But von Menen played along with it, if only to satisfy the appetite of von Ribbentrop, whose enthusiastic praise for his agent in Argentina had caused the Ambassador in Buenos Aires to adopt a more mellow posture.
Jost, meanwhile, remained “lost” on the north face of Ana Pradera’s bosom; Müller and Schmidt stepped back a pace and von Menen soaked up the freedom, enjoying the comfort of a small apartment near Plaza Lavalle, waiting, watching and keeping von Ribbentrop at arm’s length.
7
Thursday 4th June 1942
Reinhard Heydrich was dead, assassinated in Prague by Czech agents. Von Menen was elated, yet the black armbands worn by Jost, Müller and Schmidt sent out a sobering warning. Sensing that his period of respite was about to end, he left his office, locked the door and stayed clear of the Embassy for the next four weeks.
The soil around Heydrich’s grave had barely settled when a political earthquake thundered across the entire sub-continent of South America – Brazil declared war on Germany. Yet in spite of Berlin’s anxiety, the Argentine government held firm.
Vidal stayed true to his word and his information kept flowing, without even a hint of an appeal for anything in return. Von Menen could not fathom it. ‘Constructive ingenuity. Silent cunning. The composure of a stalking lion.’ Schröder’s words kept ringing in his mind.
Some months later, Hitler’s luck finally ran out – the German 6th Army collapsed before Stalingrad. The beginning of the end. A mood of defeat and bitterness swept across Germany and Hitler did not like it. Ernst Kaltenbrunner, appointed by Himmler to fill the vacant role of leader of the Reich Security Administration, soon got to work.
Von Menen’s dormant anxieties about the Kreisau Circle were back with a vengeance. They deepened when news arrived from Berlin that Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer had been detained by the Gestapo, and General Hans Oster, deputy head of the Abwehr and a confidant of Rudolph von Bauer, had been dismissed. At a hastily arranged meeting at Il Pellicano, he urged Schröder to be doubly vigilant.
A few weeks later, an urgent message was waiting for von Menen at the Banco de la Nación.
‘Vital that we meet tonight, ten o’clock. PLEASE, make sure that you’re not followed.’
Schröder had changed the venue to a bar two blocks up from Il Pellicano. Von Menen followed his usual, circuitous route: he changed cabs twice as far as Plaza Dorrego and completed the rest of his journey on foot.
Tailed by the murky shadows of night, he passed Il Pellicano on the far side of the road. The restaurant was closed, a black curtain draped inside the window, the backcloth to a framed picture, a crucifix and two flickering candles. A confusing scene of serenity and gloom. Von Menen slowed, checked his urge and flitted past like a moth in the night.
Schröder was sitting at a table in the far corner, his face like a weathered tombstone, solemn and expressionless.
‘Franz?’ enquired von Menen, stretching out the word. ‘I’ve just passed Il Pellicano. What…?’
Schröder palmed away the question, opened up the late edition of La Razón and pushed it across the table.
Von Menen’s eyes settled on the headlines, his face paling. ‘Good God… When?’
‘Six o’clock this morning. His father found him in the alley at the back of the restaurant.’ Schröder heaved a deep sigh. ‘He sent someone to the university to tell me early this morning.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said von Menen. ‘Why?’
‘The politics of youth,’ replied Schröder. ‘He’d become more and more reactionary and, like many a decent Italian living in Argentina, he sensed that Germany and Italy were all but finished in North Africa and they might soon be done in Sicily. Giancarlo saw that as a new beginning for Italy and he made no secret of his views.’ Schröder sighed again. ‘He’d received several warnings. Anonymous, of course, though I suspect they came from the Italian Embassy.’
‘But killing him. I—’
‘The Italians have got their own answer to the Gestapo, Carl.’ Schröder dipped into his pocket, pulled out a spent cartridge case and passed it to von Menen. ‘Take a look.’
Von Menen studied the embossing around the base of the casing. ‘Nine-millimetre… Definitely Italian.’
‘Franco found it by the side of the boy’s body.’
‘Why didn’t he hand it to the police?’
Schröder shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be interested. They’ll be happy enough that they’ve got one less radical to keep an eye on.’
Von Menen read the newspaper article again, a thought piercing his mind. He leaned forward, grabbed at Schröder’s arm and shook it. ‘F
ranz,’ he said earnestly, ‘I don’t figure the Italians for that kind of thing, not in Argentina, anyway. But Jost, the man I warned you about, I haven’t seen him in ages.’
‘Meaning?’
Von Menen looked earnestly at Schröder. ‘He’s got every excuse, Franz. The Gestapo’s tearing Germany apart at the moment. Remember Rudolph’s friend, Oster? He’s been dismissed. You’ve got to be careful. Believe me, Jost would have no scruples about killing you… Me, too, if he knew I’d been seeing you.’
‘I was coming to that, Carl. I’ve been taking risks ever since Hitler came to power and I won’t change. I won’t be silenced, not now, not ever. But it’s different for you. You have to keep your views secret. I don’t like it, but I think we should stop meeting like this, at least until things improve.’ A thin smile brushed across his face. ‘That is, if ever they do improve.’
*
Thursday 6th May 1943
Maria took the early morning train to Córdoba, the arrangement being that von Menen would join her on the following Monday and they would return to Buenos Aires the next weekend. ‘If anything changes, I’ll leave a message for your father at the Hospital de Urgencias,’ he told her.
Von Menen saw the headline as he walked into the daylight from Retiro Station: ANTI-NAZI FOUND DEAD. La Nación had the whole story:
Last night, Professor Franz Schröder, an outspoken critic of Hitler’s regime, was found dead outside the door to his apartment in central Buenos Aires. Police say he was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head…
The colour drained from von Menen’s cheeks, beads of sweat peppering his forehead, a knot of suspicion tightening in his stomach, Schröder’s image running wild in his mind.
Jost, it can only be Jost.
Suddenly, Jost’s face held a constant presence in his mind, a torturous core of terror. The guessing was over. Von Menen knew that the next bullet was heading for him.
He hastened across Avenida del Libertador, heart thumping, stride quickening, Schröder’s face staring at him from every newspaper vendor’s billboard. He felt like a man on a fast train; the brakes had failed and the end of the line was looming up fast. What to do? Where to hide? He needed an answer and he needed it fast.
It came to him as he crossed into Maipu: he would go to Córdoba.
He turned on his heels, headed straight back to Retiro and booked an entire compartment on the night sleeper, leaving for Córdoba at five o’clock that evening.
Back at his apartment, he washed, changed, packed an overnight bag and spent the rest of the day by the drawing room window, eyes peeled for the faintest sign of the blond malevolent. He saw nothing.
At four o’clock, he departed the building by his usual route and headed straight for Retiro Station.
The knock on his compartment door grew steadily louder until the noise eventually woke him.
‘Yes?’ called von Menen.
A muffled voice.
Von Menen eased up the blind and peered through the window. A tall man, dark hair, a clipboard under his arm, his back to the door.
Von Menen pulled back the privacy catch. The figure spun round and the door flew open, a silenced pistol leading the way. Jost leapt down from the suitcase he’d used as a stool, booted it inside the compartment and threw the clipboard down on top of it.
‘Quick, inside!’ he ordered.
Not wont to argue with a gun, von Menen backed inside, heart beating at the cyclic rate of a machine gun.
‘Stop!’ barked Jost, footing the case to one side. ‘Sit down.’ Feeling behind his back, he slid the door shut and reset the catch. ‘Swing your feet up, put your arms beneath your back and lie still.’
Von Menen did as ordered.
‘Like it?’ sneered Jost, his free hand tugging at the black hair piece.
‘It’s hideous… Black hair and blonde eyebrows? You look like a Friesian heifer.’
Jost struck von Menen’s face with his left fist, a throbbing red patch rising on his cheek. ‘You’re in no position to joke, von Menen. Besides, whatever I look like, it got me this far.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ said von Menen, wanting desperately to soothe his cheek, ‘but the question is, why are you here?’
‘I’m here because I can smell your kind a mile away. You’re a resister, an anti-Nazi,’ replied Jost, spite burning in his eyes, his face twisted with hate and malice. ‘I’m here to commend you to that big von la-di-da estate in the sky. But before I send you on your way, I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘About what?’
‘The Kreisau Circle.’
‘The what?’
Jost wasn’t fooled by feigned innocence. He brought the gun down and struck von Menen on the side of the face. ‘The Kreisau Circle,’ he repeated. ‘I searched the apartment of that friend of yours, Schröder, found something very interesting… a letter, sent to him in 1941.’ Jost pulled out the letter and shoved it in von Menen’s face. ‘It refers to the impending arrival in Buenos Aires of one Nils Bildt, and I believe you and Bildt are one and the same. Your arrival in Buenos Aires corresponds exactly with that of Bildt’s. Why don’t you make it easy for yourself and tell me who the hell Olof Carlsson is?’
Face throbbing like bubbling lava, von Menen shook his head, as much as the gun would allow. ‘Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Never heard of the Kreisau Circle, never heard of Nils Bildt, never heard of Olof Carlsson.’
Jost jabbed the pistol hard against von Menen’s neck. ‘I can almost feel the beat of your carotid artery through the barrel,’ he sniggered. ‘I’ll ask you again. What do you know about the Kreisau Circle? Who is Olof Carlsson? I haven’t got all night. I want names, contacts in Germany, everything.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then why have you been meeting with Franz Schröder?’
‘Franz who?’
Jost’s face filled with a sickly grin. ‘Schröder, the man you’ve been meeting at a small Italian restaurant in San Telmo, Il Pellicano, I believe it’s called; the man who would have our Führer “committed to a lunatic asylum”, as he was quoted as saying in La Prensa. I still can’t believe my luck,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The irony of it is, I did that young Saccani lad as a favour. He squealed like a stuck pig in that alley. Before I finished him off, he was singing like a canary. “Señor Schröder and the man with the broken nose,” Jost mimicked. “Very well-dressed, very refined.” He meant you, von Menen, didn’t he?’ He pushed the pistol harder into von Menen’s neck. ‘Let’s try again: What do you know about the Kreisau Circle? Who is Olof Carlsson?’
‘Even if I knew, there’d be no point in my telling you, because you’d kill me anyway.’
‘Yes, but as a reward, I’d make it quick.’
‘And…?’
‘If you don’t tell me, it’ll be slow and very painful.’
Seeing his life streak by at the speed of a Katyusha rocket, von Menen had all but surrendered himself to the inevitable. All he could think of now was Maria, his parents and the rest of his family. He thought about death, too, about the family tomb at the local church in Mecklenburg, the final resting-place he was about to be denied. What would death be like? Should I pray? he wondered. Our Father…
And then he thought about the pain and how long it would take him to die with a round of hot, nine-millimetre lead flying through his neck, severing his carotid artery and zipping through the other side. Seconds, a minute, five minutes? No, Jost wouldn’t wait that long. It would be straight through the head and he’d be out of the door in a flash.
‘So, you killed Giancarlo and Franz Schröder,’ he said, after some hesitation.
‘You get no prizes for guessing right, von Menen.’
‘With a silence
d nine-millimetre Italian Beretta. Using Italian ammunition?’
Jost grinned. ‘You don’t think I’d be so stupid as to use “Made in Germany” stuff, do you? As for the Beretta… It was a present from a friend of mine in the OVRA.’
‘Ah, the Organizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Repressione dell’Antifascismo – Mussolini’s answer to your lot.’
Jost was losing patience, his eyes smouldering like the Devil’s own. The end seemed near. And then, as if an angel had carried it mercifully through the carriage window, fortune dawned. Von Menen’s eyes strained down at the small Italian pistol. The safety catch was on! If he could free his left arm before Jost’s thumb could reach past the trigger guard, he might have a chance. ‘What is this Kreisau Circle, anyway?’ he asked, playing for time.
The question had barely left his lips when the engine’s whistle emitted a piercing shrill. The noise startled Jost, his eyes darting sideways for a second. But a second was all von Menen needed, his left arm arcing beneath the top bunk, his huge fist smashing against the side of Jost’s face. Jost stumbled, the Beretta skimming across the floor.
The wiry Jost stretched out for the gun, but before he could reach it, the heel of a size-ten shoe swung down from the bunk and crushed his hand. Von Menen dived for the pistol and tossed it onto the upper bunk. Grimacing in pain, Jost scrambled to his feet and leapt into the air, his head striking the roof of the carriage as he groped blindly for the weapon.
But the athletic von Menen was too quick and too strong for him. He grabbed Jost’s arm, locked it hard behind his back and pinned him by the neck to the carriage window. Jost’s damaged hand was useless, the veins in his neck enlarging, his face turning a livid pink. He wanted to kick out, but he couldn’t. Von Menen had got him rigid; his grip tightened.