Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  A while later, with the radio back beneath the floorboards, von Menen headed for the main house, a strong sun hovering in the cloudless sky. From the shady opening of its kennel, a large black dog watched him suspiciously as he approached the front door. But the Braganzas were not at home. ‘They’ve gone to their lodge in the foothills of the Andes,’ a maid told him; ‘won’t be back for at least a month.’

  Jorge Rosas, a young, reclusive gaucho, with flashing dark eyes, black wavy hair and a bashful smile, was away, too. ‘He’s twenty-two, has an unfortunate speech impediment, the mentality of a twelve-year-old and the horse skills of a Mongolian warrior…’ the camp manager had once told von Menen, ‘talks with his hands and rarely opens his mouth. When he does, his speech is almost impossible to fathom. Sad history, really. When he was eight years old, he saw his father gored to death by a Hereford bull… Very traumatic… Never got over it… Thought you should know.’ After two years, the impediment was still there, but thanks to the slavish patience of von Menen, Rosas had improved immeasurably and now he could read and write Spanish. But like the rest of the gauchos, he was twenty miles to the south, trooping 2,000 head of cattle to the nearest terminus.

  Engulfed by the heady fragrance of false acacias, Persian lilacs and white magnolias, von Menen made his way back to the cottage, reflecting on the good fortune that had come his way when he’d found the place. He’d made good friends and the owners liked him. But in the depths of the Pampa, von Menen was someone else. He was Carlos Menendez, a name that had slipped from his lips with consummate ease. ‘I’m Spanish… I teach languages, privately, in Buenos Aires. I’m looking for peace and solitude.’ That was the story he had told the Braganzas. Since then, he’d lived with the fear that one day he might bump into them in Buenos Aires, perhaps in the company of Vidal or, worse still, Maria. Yet his life of duplicity had held out and he prayed it would stay that way.

  After lunch, von Menen drove to a small fishing village twenty miles to the east, where red and yellow boats nestled along the quayside like a flock of exotic birds.

  He parked by the quay and headed straight for the nearby hotel, the centre of all life, rumour and gossip. Having stayed there on his first visit to the village, he remembered the occasion well. The advice and the grappa had flowed like a river in full flood: ‘This was once Argentina’s third largest port. Ships came here from all over Europe, collecting hides and wool. You’ve seen the length of the quay, surely? We had our own Customs House. The building’s still there, just along the road. Have another grappa, Carlos…’ He did and he suffered for it, much to the amusement of the locals.

  The bar was full, yet freakishly quiet, the dice still, the dominoes silent and the green baize of the billiards table empty; no raucous laughter, no hissing and crackling from Radio Belgrano. The wireless was switched off. All eyes and ears were on two men sitting next to the door, one about forty, the other a deal older, the barman, Luis, pretending not to notice as their voices grew louder.

  ‘Something wrong, Luis?’ von Menen asked guardedly.

  Luis flashed a discreet glance in the direction of the two men, the conversation reaching fever pitch, the young man’s fist crashing down upon the table, a glass falling to the floor, tiny fragments splintering everywhere. Everyone turned and watched. The young man scowled and a dozen pairs of eyes searched for a vacant space on the ceiling.

  ‘The older of the two is Enrique Rivera,’ whispered Luis. ‘The younger one is his son, Diego.’

  ‘Father and son? They seem more like Cain and Abel.’

  ‘They will be, before the night’s out.’

  ‘Why?’

  Luis stuffed a white cloth inside a glass tumbler, rotated it briskly and then held it to the light. ‘Family matters,’ he said quietly, ‘a fishing family, very close.’

  ‘Fishing? But... the older one looks like he must be at least seventy-five. Surely he still doesn’t go to sea, does he?’

  ‘No. That’s the problem. Diego wants to throw it in. He’s had enough. His wife is from Buenos Aires and her mother is ill. She wants to go and look after her. Sad thing is, the old man’s wife died just over a year ago, so it looks as though he’ll be left on his own.’

  Suddenly, Diego sprang to his feet and stormed towards the door, knocking over a stool in the process. ‘That’s the end of it, Papa. Josefina and I are leaving!’ Reaching the door, he turned sharply. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can sell the damn boat.’ The door slammed shut and Diego was gone.

  Enrique Rivera looked woefully at the ceiling and shook his head. The dice began to roll and the dominoes started clicking again.

  ‘Where does he keep the boat?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘Down at the end of the road, where the Naval Prefecture is…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Turn right and you’ll find her moored about a hundred metres up the quay. She’s called Margarita.’

  Later that evening, von Menen signalled Berlin again. The transmission was acknowledged, but without instruction.

  Low clouds scudded in from across the bay. The smell of rain was in the air and reed beds on the far side of the inlet were dancing to the tune of the wind.

  Enrique Rivera was a picture of sadness, leaning against the wheelhouse of the stationary Margarita and staring aimlessly across the quay.

  ‘Not a day for sailing?’ offered von Menen as he approached.

  Rivera looked skywards, sniffing the wind. ‘Used to be in my day,’ he replied.

  ‘Mind if I come aboard?’

  ‘Help yourself, nobody else wants to.’

  Even before he’d set foot on the deck, von Menen had reached his decision. ‘Had her long?’

  ‘About ten years.’

  ‘What is she, nine metres?’

  ‘Just over; beam is three. She’s a sturdy old girl, takes a mean sea,’ Rivera boasted, warming to his theme.

  ‘She can be rigged for sail, then?’

  ‘A single gaff… Can’t always trust an engine, you know, not even one as good as that.’ He pointed to the engine cowling.

  ‘Diesel?’

  ‘No, petrol, thirty horse… single screw.’

  ‘What does she burn, say, at seven knots?’

  ‘About two and a half gallons an hour… Range is about a hundred and thirty.’

  Von Menen made a quick mental calculation. ‘Tank holds two hundred and twenty-five litres?’

  Rivera was impressed. ‘You seem to know quite a lot about boats, Señor…?’

  Von Menen stuck out his hand, felt Rivera’s hard, knurled skin. ‘Carlos Menendez,’ he said, ‘but please, call me Carlos. And yes, I’ve done quite a bit of sailing. I’d consider it a pleasure if you would join me for a drink. That is, if you can spare the time.’

  ‘I have all the time in the world, young man.’

  A kindly, weather-beaten old soul with a blue-print of veins on his cheeks, Rivera had seldom recounted his sixty-plus years at sea with such enthusiasm. He talked for hours, von Menen on the edge of his chair, listening with boundless interest as he scrutinised a moth-eaten chart held in place by two heavy ashtrays.

  ‘The reason you need a high tide to get in and out of the port,’ explained Rivera, ‘is this sandbank. At low water it’s shallow enough to paddle in.’

  ‘And that’s the lighthouse?’ asked von Menen, pointing to a star-like symbol.

  ‘Yes, every sailor’s mother…’ Rivera’s words suddenly dried up, his eyes moistening.

  ‘Look,’ said von Menen, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘I was in here last night and couldn’t help overhearing the conversation you had with your son. I really am very sorry.’

  Rivera sighed wearily. ‘I suppose the whole damn town knows about it.’

  ‘That’s not important,’ reasoned von Menen, engaging t
he old man’s eye. ‘The fact is, I think I can help you. More importantly, I think you can help me. You see, I’d like to buy Margarita, that is, if you want to sell her.’

  ‘But why would you want to do that? You’re not a fisherman… You’re not even a local.’

  ‘True, I’m not a fisherman and I’m not a local, either. I’m Spanish. I teach languages in Buenos Aires, but I do come down here quite often. Well, what do you say? I’ll give you a fair price.’ He went on to name it.

  Rivera pondered the idea. He stared forlornly at the charts, stroking his chin as he reflected on the memories of a lifetime.

  Von Menen waited patiently. Eventually, Rivera lifted his head, jerked himself free of the past, smiled faintly and slapped his hand on the table. ‘Okay. If you want her, she’s yours. Pay me on your next visit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ beamed von Menen. ‘You’ll have the cash within the next few weeks.’

  They shook hands and the deal was sealed.

  ‘There’s just one other thing,’ said von Menen. ‘I’ll still be spending most of my time in Buenos Aires. What say you keep an eye on her for me, maybe spruce her up a bit, give her a lick of paint, if you like? I’d be more than happy to pay you for your trouble.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to,’ smiled Rivera. ‘It’ll keep me occupied. And since you’ve been so generous with your offer, you’re welcome to have the old hut by the quay.’

  Von Menen remained at the safe house for the next two nights, waiting for the signal from Werner he knew would never arrive. On Monday morning, he drove back to Buenos Aires, another element added to his life of duplicity.

  9

  Wednesday 27th October 1943

  Von Menen hastened into the drawing room, turned up the radio and caught the latest bulletin on Radio Belgrano:

  One of the government’s new measures is the appointment of forty-eight-year-old Colonel Juan Domingo Perón as head of the National Labour Department. It is hoped that Colonel Perón, who is currently serving as an under-secretary at the War Department, will bring…

  It was no surprise to von Menen. Perón’s political aspirations had been an open secret for months, just like his unquestionable authority within the GOU.

  What did surprise him was Vidal’s mystifying reluctance ever to discuss the man, even in the vaguest sense. Whenever von Menen enquired about the prospect of meeting Perón, secretly, Vidal routinely dismissed the idea – ‘Wholly inadvisable, Carl. He’s merely a colleague, that’s all.’ It was the greatest understatement ever: Perón and Vidal were as parallel as the railway lines between Buenos Aires and Córdoba.

  Von Menen hadn’t heard the phone ring, but when he returned to the bedroom he saw the distraught look on Maria’s face, the receiver pressed against her ear.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered.

  Maria waved the question away. ‘But he’s all right, isn’t he?’ she said, speaking into the phone. The creases below her eyes smoothed out. Relief washed over her face. ‘Thank God for that. For a moment, I thought… Yes, I will, Mummy, I promise. I’ll phone the Clínicas and explain… Yes, I’ll be there as soon as possible… No, I don’t know what Carl’s doing…’ Shameful of the lie, she stared helplessly at von Menen and shrugged. ‘Yes, I’ll try and get a message to him. Give Daddy my love and try not to worry… Love you, too. Bye.’

  Von Menen watched anxiously as she replaced the receiver. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Daddy, he’s had a heart attack. Thankfully, a minor one, so Mummy says. He’s at the Urgencias Hospital in Córdoba… They’re doing the usual tests. I’ve told Mummy I’ll be there tomorrow morning.’

  Von Menen placed his arm around her shoulder and kissed her. ‘I’ll go with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll get tickets for the night train.’

  They soon found out that Maria’s father’s condition had done little to suppress his increasing worries about the ruling junta. Mention of the name “Perón” caused him great anxiety. When the family gathered on the terrace for a cooling drink on the very afternoon of his release from hospital, Javier Gomez unleashed another tirade of scorn.

  ‘The man’s a damn fraud!’ he said, throwing down his copy of La Prensa. ‘He may be a colonel and he may have read a few books, but for him to suggest that he has the answer to the ills of this country is, frankly… Ah, the man’s an imbecile.’

  ‘Javier!’ exclaimed his wife.

  ‘Well, he should stick to soldiering – as should your brother.’ Señor Gomez wormed deeper into his cushioned wicker chair.

  ‘He’s ended the strikes,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh, he’s done that all right… Locked up a few people in the process, too. Trade unionists, the lot… In fact, he’s locked up most of those he disagrees with.’

  ‘I’m not agreeing with him, darling. I’m merely saying that he’s succeeded where others have failed… He’s ended the strikes and got the meat-packing industry back to work again.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Yes, I know what you’re going to say, Javier… He’s given the workers more money, promised them improved living standards, better working conditions and a greater political say. Whether he has a motive for that, I don’t know, but he has got them back to work. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Speaking as an outsider, he seems very ambitious to me,’ said von Menen, not wanting to join the conversation, yet not wishing to be seen as having no opinion of his own.

  ‘You’re right about that, Carl,’ agreed Señor Gomez. ‘He is ambitious, beating his own self-seeking path to the Casa Rosada, I shouldn’t wonder. As for the workers,’ he said, jabbing his chin at his wife, ‘he’s bribed them!’ Señor Gomez forced himself to his feet and walked slowly up and down the terrace like a fox stalking a hen house, stopping only to thrust home his point. ‘Don’t you see he’s merely using them?’

  ‘Using them?’ echoed Señora Gomez. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Because he has to. He’s been spurned by the leading industrialists and he’s been spurned by the traditional overlords. He’s simply made a 180-degree turn and targeted the under-classes, the poor and the disadvantaged. He’s shrewd, I’ll give you that. He’s not only won their hearts and minds, he’s gained—’

  ‘A power base?’ supplied von Menen.

  ‘Exactly, Carl, a power base, built on impassioned allegiance. The best power base a dictator can have.’ He shook his head and added, apologetically, ‘Sorry, Carl, but Hitler is proof of that.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘But he is, Carl,’ hastened Señor Gomez, freeing von Menen from his moment of awkwardness. ‘So is Franco and so was Mussolini…’ He bent down, picked up his discarded La Prensa and slapped his hand across the front page. ‘Look what we have now. Our own brown shirts, a bunch of thugs hell-bent on taking to the streets and fighting Perón’s cause for him. The only difference is, Perón’s brown shirts have no shirts at all…’

  ‘The descamisados,’ muttered Maria.

  ‘Yes, the descamisados,’ agreed her father, his face reddening with rage. ‘The shirtless ones. If you listened hard enough, you could hear them chanting from the summit of Mount Aconcagua – “PER-ÓN! PER-ÓN! PER-ÓN!”.’

  ‘Darling, I think that’s enough,’ said Ana Gomez. ‘You’re getting too emotional. It’s not good for you.’

  ‘Mummy’s right, Daddy. It isn’t good for your blood pressure.’

  Defeated by his wife and daughter, he sighed, tucked his newspaper under his arm and headed back to the house.

  Von Menen had said little, but he knew Javier Gomez was right. Peronism had arrived.

  *

  Argentina tipped into 1944 with the new year almost unnoticed. Perón’s burgeoning army of supporters had gained some benefits, but across the wider domestic spectrum, the political situation was worsening. Imported good
s were difficult to find, fuel was getting scarcer and what remained of democracy was fast disappearing down the plughole of inequity.

  Resolved to create one mass labour movement, Perón continued to crack down heavily on the few remaining non-conformist elements within the various unions. The junta’s hand of contempt swept over every aspect of Argentine life.

  For the impotent Ramírez, a threatening realisation hovered above the rooftops of the Presidential Palace. The real purpose behind Perón’s snug relationship with the labour masses was shining like a beacon all the way from his Labour headquarters straight through the windows of the Casa Rosada. Ramírez had lost his way, his political stature was weakening and Perón’s charisma was growing. Soon, someone would have to give way.

  Von Menen, meanwhile, had seen nothing of Vidal for almost five weeks. Their next meeting – arranged in haste by Vidal – did not come until the third week of the year.

  Saturday 15th January 1944

  Austerity had not yet reached the Alvear Palace Hotel, where steamy government scandal was traded for the latest rumours to emerge from the Jockey Club. But Vidal was given to unmitigated discretion, and von Menen knew where to find him – in a small, private dining room on the second floor, Dom Pérignon at the ready.

  ‘Given the worsening political situation, Filipe, you look, dare I say, like a man without a worry in the world.’

  ‘Oh, I have plenty to worry about, Carl, but as I’ve told you before, politics is like a game of poker. Some would like to win every hand, but in reality they know they can’t. As for me, I only ever play what the British call “patience” – I keep the whole pack to myself. But I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked to see you.’

  ‘More guns, more tanks?’ replied von Menen, with daring impudence.

  ‘Your witticism does you credit, Carl, but I doubt you’ll have time for wit when you hear what I have to say.’