Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  ‘It must be serious?’

  ‘Very serious. The Americans are claiming that they have knowledge of our attempts to obtain arms from Germany, which, given Argentina’s net proceeds from the venture, serves to heighten my own personal resentment.’

  ‘If you had stuck with me, Filipe—’

  ‘I doubt we would have got even one Luger pistol,’ interrupted Vidal.

  ‘Maybe, but the Americans wouldn’t be pawing at your back.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ retorted Vidal, fumbling for his cigarette case.

  ‘Am I to understand that you’ve brought me here to tell me that the Americans are putting pressure on you?’

  ‘To put it in its proper context, yes. They’re making threats… veiled threats, of course, but threats all the same. They insist that we renounce our position of neutrality and break off diplomatic relations with Germany.’

  ‘And has Ramírez reached a decision?’

  ‘Not yet, but the indications are that he will comply, perhaps within the next ten days.’

  Von Menen was visibly shocked. ‘You mean he’ll go against Germany?’

  ‘Most definitely… Not solely to appease the Americans, either.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Ramírez is obsessed with Perón’s growing influence.’

  ‘If you’re talking about the Perón, the man I never got the chance to meet,’ said von Menen caustically, ‘then I think Ramírez’s obsession is well-founded.’

  ‘Whatever you think, Carl,’ Vidal countered, ‘Ramírez knows that Perón is posturing for the presidency and that he has the full support of the GOU.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Ramírez would use the issue of the arms deal as an excuse to sever relations with Germany, just to spike Perón’s guns and maybe provoke some form of reaction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘I agree, but desperate men do crazy things.’

  ‘But surely, in order to subdue Perón, Ramírez would need the support of at least one faction of the military, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Remember last June, Carl, the gun battle outside the Naval College?’

  ‘The navy? Surely not… Ramírez was at Rawson’s side last June. He’s just as answerable for what happened at the Naval College as Rawson, probably more so.’

  ‘All the same, within the next ten days he will issue a decree severing diplomatic relations with the Axis powers, and in so doing, he’ll have the backing of the navy. It’s not guesswork, Carl, it’s a statement of fact.’ Vidal’s voice was full of certainty.

  ‘It takes an awful lot of believing, Filipe. I mean, the navy allied to Ramírez? It’s unthinkable.’

  Vidal grinned. ‘Carl, after two and a half years you have yet to come to terms with the fact that the political forum in Argentina is a place where the Ethiopian does change his skin and the leopard its spots.’

  ‘Your knowledge of Jeremiah does you credit, Filipe, but I’m not convinced about the navy’s support for Ramírez. It doesn’t add up. Surely the GOU would never allow it?’

  ‘You’re still missing the point.’ Vidal placed his glass on the table, beckoned von Menen’s ear and, with a smile in his eyes, whispered, ‘Ramírez will not be in office much longer.’

  ‘What!’ Von Menen’s eyes were ablaze with intrigue.

  ‘Leaving the navy out of it for a moment, the GOU will never allow the Americans to have it all their own way. There will be changes, though.’

  ‘Sorry, Filipe, you’ll have to explain.’

  Vidal hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Perón is emerging as the major player within the GOU and the GOU will have the final say.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Perón will be the next President?’

  ‘No, but that’s not to say that he won’t be instrumental in selecting the man who will be the next President.’

  ‘What you’re saying, then, is that Perón will remain a powerful figure, come what may.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that. Whatever Perón does now, he’s smiling all the way to the Casa Rosada.’ Vidal picked up his glass and studied the lost look on von Menen’s face. ‘You do realise what all this means, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. America will not only insist that you relinquish your neutrality against Germany, they’ll demand that you declare war against us, too.’

  ‘They will. They’ll make all kinds of promises and offer all sorts of assurances, but in my opinion, the only thing Argentina is likely to accomplish from it is membership of the United Nations. If that necessitates Argentina declaring war against Germany, I give you my word… it will never happen – never!’

  Von Menen’s anxieties were piling up, his mind a torrent of emotions. The idea of leaving Argentina was bad enough; the idea of leaving Maria, too difficult to contemplate. ‘Whatever happens now,’ he said, after a lengthy silence, ‘the future doesn’t augur well for a German diplomat in Argentina.’

  ‘Sadly, that’s true. Your Ambassador and his underlings will soon be on their way home.’

  ‘Me included,’ added von Menen, blandly.

  ‘Are you saying you don’t like it here?’

  ‘Of course I like it here, but—’ Marrying the tone in Vidal’s voice to the mischievous look in his eyes, von Menen stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ said Vidal, now at full stretch across the table, ‘because you won’t be going anywhere. You’re staying here. Call it an invitation, if you like.’

  ‘An invitation? You do realise what you’re saying, Filipe. When Argentina severs relations with Germany, my status here will change immediately. I’ll have no diplomatic protection whatsoever. I’d be seen as an enemy of the State.’ He shuddered at the very thought. ‘And what if Argentina does declare war against Germany? Hell, Filipe, given the volatile situation here, even you could find yourself in a difficult situation.’

  ‘With respect, Carl, I think you’re over-reacting. Neither of us has anything to fear in that direction. The fact is, I must maintain some form of contact with Germany and my best hope of achieving that is through you.’

  ‘Of achieving… contact with Germany?’

  ‘Carl, don’t give me that innocent look. I’ve heard all the excuses from Maria and her parents. They may have been, shall we say, taken in by your seemingly innocent activities, but not me.’ Vidal placed his elbows on the table, cupped his face in his hands and fixed von Menen with a rigid stare. ‘I know you have a radio,’ he said, sounding almost apathetic. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t care less if you’ve got ten. I couldn’t care less where you keep it, either.’

  Bells were pealing in von Menen’s head. Vidal had always been an eager, predisposed source, discreetly, albeit officially, as it were, conveying the notions of a powerful clique of idealists, of which he was undeniably one – and in all probability, still was. But von Menen had sensed a shift in Vidal’s thinking. He seemed to have divested himself of collective representation and was now appealing for himself – not we, but I.

  Vidal tapped out a slow, relentless tempo on the lid of his cigarette case, watching the dying end of a crumpled, half-smoked cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. He waited for von Menen’s response.

  But von Menen would not be rushed. Vidal’s proposal had all the hallmarks of doubt and uncertainty. He needed only to think of the weakening Presidency to realise that: first it had been Castillo, then Rawson and now Ramírez. If there was no security of tenure for the President, what hope was there for a defunct German diplomat, illegally at large in a country that might yet declare war against Germany?

  ‘I appreciate that you can’t give me any written assurances,’ said von Menen, ‘but how do I know that I won’t end up languishing in Villa Devoto Prison?’

  Vidal’s fa
ce wrinkled like an old newspaper. ‘The only assurance I can give you, Carl, is based on the conclusion you came to earlier.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘If you end up languishing in jail, it follows that I will be in the next cell.’

  Von Menen fetched him a look that nigh on drilled a hole straight through his skull. ‘Filipe, I’ll consider what you’ve had to say. But whatever my decision, you will receive neither a negative nor an affirmative response from me. To put it succinctly, you will not know if I’ve agreed to your request or not; that is, until you try to contact me. It’s a gamble you’ll have to take.’

  ‘You mean, if Berlin agrees to it,’ smiled Vidal.

  ‘Whoever, whatever, you’ll still be faced with a gamble.’

  ‘It’s a bit loose, Carl, but… I accept.’

  ‘What now?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘Well, assuming that you do stay, when I need to contact you I’ll place an announcement in the obituary column of Wednesday’s edition of La Nación. To avoid any misunderstanding, I’ll repeat the announcement the very next day.’

  ‘And if, by then, the newspapers have been so heavily censored that La Nación doesn’t appear, or even exist, then what?’

  ‘It will appear, I promise you.’ Vidal dipped into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and slid it across the table. ‘You’ll find the precise text of the message in there. When the announcement appears, we’ll meet at Café Tortoni at nine o’clock on the following Monday. There’s something else in there, too,’ he continued, gesturing at the envelope, ‘something to help you with your transport needs. Petrol coupons. Any points you wish to make?’

  ‘Two… First, you must give me your word that you will afford full protection to Maria and her family, that there will be no harassment by the Federal Police and—’

  ‘Maria and her father hold strong views, Carl,’ interrupted Vidal. ‘As I’ve told you before, I can’t go on protecting them forever. But I will try, I promise.’

  ‘I have your word on that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope so… Secondly, it beholds you to ensure that no attempt will be made to find me. If I have the slightest inclination that my presence here is the subject of any attention by the Federal Police, I’ll be out of this country quicker than you can blink.’

  Von Menen left the Alvear Palace at eleven-thirty, the night air as still as the inhabitants of Recoleta Cemetery, the humidity unbearable.

  Harbouring a condemned man’s share of anxiety and oozing sweat like water from a burst pipe, he set off towards Plaza San Martin, his shirt clinging irritatingly to his back, his trousers sticking to his clammy legs.

  ‘Just act out the part.’

  Von Bauer’s words still haunted him, but it was too late to judge the morality of it now. Too much had happened, the whole dubious venture a non-stop roller coaster of deceit, intrigue and machination, his conscience weighing him down like a blacksmith’s anvil: failed allegiance, questionable integrity. Who was he working for? Who did he really personify – the Kreisau Circle, von Ribbentrop or Vidal?

  As he approached his apartment, one thought was uppermost in his mind – his love for Maria. The question of what he would tell her was tugging at his heart like a drag anchor.

  The following morning brought clear blue skies. In the east, where the chocolate-brown waters of the River Plate dispersed into the marshlands of Magdalena, a shimmering haze peeled over the horizon. Another stiflingly hot day was brewing.

  Von Menen cracked on at a storming pace, the dirt road as dry as a tinderbox, the shooting brake trailing a huge ball of dust as it thundered east.

  He arrived at the cottage at nine-thirty, his eagerness to visit Margarita and check the progress made by Rivera outweighed by his pressing need to contact Germany. If Vidal’s scheme met with von Ribbentrop’s disapproval, he would have to move quickly, retrieve the transceiver, destroy all evidence of his presence at the cottage and return immediately to Buenos Aires. Margarita would be written off and Rivera’s work would have been in vain.

  Von Menen parked at the rear of the cottage, rushed upstairs to draw the curtains and fetched up the radio. The text of the signal would be crucial — no suppositions, no buts, no maybes; a message that would incite an explicit, unambiguous answer – stay or leave.

  He encoded the message, checked it carefully and changed the lead heading from URGENT to MOST URGENT.

  Meanwhile, Germany was shivering in temperatures below freezing, coal was scarce and heating was a luxury. Walther Richter, a bespectacled sixty-one-year-old telegraphist, wearing two layers of clothing and a pair of fingerless woollen gloves, had just poured a steaming hot drink from his thermos flask when he picked up von Menen’s signal from the Madrid relay station:

  MOST URGENT

  GERMANY/ARGENTINA. RELIABLE SOURCE INDICATES DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS WILL CEASE IMMINENTLY. SOURCE REQUESTS CONTINUED LIAISON. DEEP COVER ESSENTIAL. HIGH REWARDS. LOW RISK. ADVISE.

  AKROBAT

  Richter dismissed all thoughts of the biting cold and set to work. He sent von Menen an acknowledgement, then set the encoded message on its long and complex route through the channels of Nazi bureaucracy. It would reach von Ribbentrop by late afternoon.

  Von Menen burned the paperwork, flushed the charred remains down the toilet and stashed away the equipment until evening.

  It was a long, tense and lonely wait, but at eleven-thirty that evening, von Menen received the briefest of signals from Germany.

  ENJOY THE SUNNY ARGENTINE WINTER.

  GOOD HUNTING. W.

  *

  Thursday 20th January 1944

  Back in Buenos Aires, von Menen found the German Embassy sizzling with rumours. Reports were still unconfirmed, but the question on everyone’s lips was: When will the Argentine government shut us down? Neumann, already feeling the discomfort of a standard-issue Wehrmacht helmet on his head, complained bitterly.

  Later that morning, von Menen submitted his four-page assessment on the latest political situation in Argentina, asserting that there would soon be a cessation of diplomatic relations with Germany and a change in the Argentine leadership.

  An hour later, the report was in front of the Chargé d’Affaires. So, too, was von Menen.

  The Chargé d’Affaires sighed wearily. ‘I’ve read your report,’ he said, ‘and I agree with your assessment. Inside a week, I suspect that we’ll all be on our way home – that is, if we can get home.’ He peered over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘I have not been specific about the date, sir, but my instinct tells me that Ramírez will make the announcement within the next few days.’

  ‘I’d sensed that. I’m still not entirely convinced that Ramírez will be replaced, but as your friends in Germany are always wont to remind me, you’re probably right.’ A submissive smile flickered in his eyes, a hint of repentance in his voice. ‘You know, von Menen, when you first arrived here, I think, perhaps, the Ambassador misjudged you. If it’s any consolation, I’m happy to put that right.’

  The Chargé d’Affaires leaned over his desk and passed von Menen a memorandum, marked MOST SECRET. ‘This arrived by wire less than an hour ago. It suggests you’ll be leaving ahead of the rest of us.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I—’

  ‘Please, no need to explain. Your work here has been exemplary. Is there anything else I should know before you leave?’

  Von Menen indicated his bulging briefcase. ‘Only that I’ve cleared my desk, sir. The safe and cupboards in my office are empty and all classified material has been destroyed. There’s just the matter of the keys to my apartment – in particular, the safe. If you agree, I’ll package them securely and leave them with the janitor. When I’m about to leave, I’ll phone your secretary, Fräulein Hein, and inform her that they’re ready for collection.’
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br />   They shook hands. Von Menen picked up his briefcase and bag, and made towards the door.

  ‘Oh, I very nearly forgot,’ called the Chargé d’Affaires. ‘A moment, if you please.’ Von Menen turned and placed his luggage on the floor. ‘Do you…’ The Chargé d’Affaires paused, reached for a sheet of paper lying on top of his desk and looked at it before trying again. ‘Do you know of a Count von Moltke?’ he said quietly.

  A lump rose in von Menen’s throat, his heart palpitating wildly. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. ‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ he said, in a cracked voice.

  ‘Von Moltke… Count Helmuth-James Graf von Moltke, to give him his full title.’

  Von Menen spawned a phoney look of calm, all too aware that beads of sweat were peppering his neck. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Well, er… obviously, I’m familiar with the name. They’re descendants of Field Marshal von Moltke, I believe. If my memory serves me right, they have an estate somewhere in Silesia.’

  ‘At Kreisau, I believe.’

  The word Kreisau clanged in von Menen’s head like a church bell. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, I can’t say that I’ve ever met any of the family; at least, not to my knowledge.’

  ‘So, I can safely say that you’re not acquainted with them?’

  ‘Definitely not, sir. Might I ask the reason for your interest?’

  ‘He was arrested by the Gestapo yesterday.’

  ‘Arrested? What for, sir?’

  ‘Subversive activities, I believe, the suggestion being that he’d been associating with a number of like-minded individuals; people who, for want of a better expression, are well connected.’

  ‘Well connected?’

  ‘Yes, families of standing… you know, people in government, including the Foreign Office.’

  ‘And I suppose you thought…’ Von Menen pointed a finger at himself.

  ‘I didn’t suppose anything. I’m merely doing as I’ve been asked to do… speak to those individuals at the Embassy who were at Wilhelmstrasse in…’ – he paused, raised his spectacles and glanced at the sheet of paper again – ’40, ’41; people who, it can be said, are from… well… distinguished backgrounds. You were at the Foreign Office during that period and it could hardly be said that your family is not distinguished.’