Joel kept waiting for some sign of recognitiondirected at him. None came, and involuntarily hefound himself looking at the man out of the comerof his eye. The man did not respond; instead hisattention was on a bound sheaf of typewritten pages,the type larger than the print nominally associatedwith legal briefs or even summonses. Perhaps,thought Converse, the man was half blind, wearingcontact lenses to conceal his infirmity. But was theresomething else? Not an infirmity, but a connectionbeing concealed. Had he seen this man in Paris ashe had seen another wearing a light-brown
topcoat in a hotel basement corridor? Had this manbeside him also been at L’Etalon Blanc? Had hebeen part of a stationary group of ex-soldiers in thewarriors’ playroom . . . in a corner perhaps, andinconspicuous because of the numbers? Or atBertholdier’s table, his back to Joel, presumablyunseen by the American he was now following? Washe following him at this moment? wonderedConverse, gripping his attache case. He turned hishead barely inches and studied his seatmate.
Suddenly the man looked up from the boundtypewritten pages and over at Joel. His eyes werenoncommittal, expressing neither curiosity norirritation.
“Sorry,” said Converse awkwardly.
“Sure, it’s okay . . . why not?” was the strange,laconic reply, the accent American, the dialectdistinctly TexasWestern. The man returned to hispages.
“Do we know each other?” asked Joel, unable toback off from the question.
Again the man looked up. “Don’t think so,” hesaid tersely, once more going back to his report, orwhatever it was.
Converse looked out the window, at the blacksky beyond, flashes of red light illuminating thesilver metal of the wing. Absently he tried tocalculate the digital degree heading of the aircraftbut his pilot’s mind would not function. He didknow the man, and the oddly phrased “Why not?”served only to disturb him further. Was it a signal,a warning? As his words to Jacques-LouisBertholdier had been a signal, a warning that thegeneral had better contact him, recognise him.
The voice of a Lufthansa stewardess interruptedhis thoughts. “Herr Dowling, it is a pleasure, indeed,to have you on board.”
“Thank you, darlin’,” said the man, his lined facecreasing into a gentle grin. “You find me a littlebourbon over ice and I’ll return the compliment.”
“Certainly, sir. I’m sure you’ve been told sooften you must be tired of hearing it, but yourtelevision show is enormously popular in Germany.”
“Thanks again, honey, but it’s not my show.There are a lot of pretty little fillies runnin’ aroundthat screen.”
An actor. A goddamned actor! thought Joel. Noalarms, no surprises. Just intrusions, far moreimagined than real.
“You’re too modest, Herr Dowling. They’re all soalike,
so disagreeable. But you are so kind, so manly . . . sounderstanding. "
“Understandin’? Tell you somethin’. I saw anepisode in Cologne last week while on this pictureand I didn’t understand a word I was sayin’.”
The stewardess laughed. “Bourbon over ice, isthat correct, sir?’
“That’s correct, darlin’.”
The woman started down the first-class aisletoward the galley as Converse continued to look atthe actor. Haltingly he spoke. “I am sorry. I shouldhave recognised you, of course.”
Dowling turned his suntanned head, his eyesroaming Joel’s face, then dropping to thehand-tooled leather attache case. He looked up withan amused smile. “I could probably embarrass you ifI asked you where you knew me from. You don’tlook like a Santa Fe groupie.”
“A Santa Fe . . . ? Oh, sure, that’s the name ofthe show.” And it was, reflected Converse. One ofthose phenomena on television that by the sheerforce of extraordinary ratings and network profitshad been featured on the covers of Time andNewsweek. He had never seen it
“And, naturally,” continued the actor, “you followthe tribal rites and wrongs the dramaticvicissitudes of the imperious Ratchet family, ownersof the biggest spread north of Santa Fe as well as thehistoric Chimaya Flats, which they stole from theimpoverished Indians.”
“The who? What?”
Dowling’s leathery face again laminated itself intoa grin. “Only Pa Ratchet, the Indians’ friend, doesn’tknow about the last part, although he’s being blamedby his red brothers. You see, Pa’s no-good sonsheard there was oil shale beneath the Chimayas anddid their thing. Incidentally, I trust you catch theverbal associations in the name Ratchet, you can takeyour choice. There’s just plain “rats,’ or Ratchet as in”wretched,’ or Ratchet as in the tool screwingeverything in front of it by merely pressing forward.”
There was something different about the actornow thoughtJoel, bewildered. Was it his words? No,not the words his voice. The Western inflections weregreatly diminished “I don’t know what you’re talkingabout, but you sound differ ens.”
“War, Ah’ll jes’ be hornswaggled i” said Dowling,laugh
ing. Then he returned to the unaccented tones hehad begun to display. “You’re looking at a renegadeteacher of English and college dramatics who saida dozen years ago to hell with old-age tenure, let’sgo after a very impractical dream. It led to a lot offunny and not very dignified jobs, but the spirit ofThespis moves in mysterious ways. An old studentof mine, in one of those indefinable jobs like“production-coordinator,’ spotted me in a crowdscene; it embarrassed the hell out of him.Nevertheless, he put my name in for several smallparts. A few panned out, and a couple of years lateran accident called Santa Fe came along. That’swhen my perfectly respectable name of Calvin waschanged to Caleb. ”Fits the image belter,’ said a pairof Gucci loafers who never got closer to a horsethan a box at Santa Anita…. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
"Crazy,” agreed Converse, as the stewardesswalked back up the aisle toward them.
“Crazy or not,” added Dowling under his breath,” this good old rancher isn t going to offend anyone.They want Pa Ratchet, they’ve got him.”
“Your bourbon, sir,” said the woman, handingthe actor a glass.
“Why, thank you, li’l darlin’! My oh my, you’repurber than any filly on the showI”
“You are too kind, sir.”
“May I have a Scotch, please,” said Joel.
“That’s better, son,” said Dowling, grinningagain as the stewardess left. “And now that youknow my crime, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an attorney.”
“At least you’ve got something legitimate toread. This screenplay sure as hell isn’t.”
Although considered by most of Munich’s re
spectable citizens to be a collection of misfits andthugs, the National Socialist German Workers’Party,with its headquarters in Munich, was making itselffelt throughout Germany. The radical-populistmovement was taking hold by basing its inflamma-tory message on the evil un-German “them.” Itblamed the ills of the nation on a spectrum oftargetsranging from the Bolsheviks to the ingrate Jewishbankers; from the foreign plunderers who hadrapedan Aryan land to, finally, all things not “Aryan,”
namely and especially the Jews and theirill-gotten wealth.
Cosmopolitan Munich and itsJewishcommunity laughed at the absurdities; they werenot listening. The rest of Cermany was; it washearing what it wanted to hear. And ErichStoessel-Leifhelm heard it too. It was his passportto recognition and opportunity.
In a matter of weeks, the young man literallywhipped his father into shape. In later years hewould tell the story with heavy doses of cruelhumor. Over the dissolute physician’s hystericalobjections the son removed all alcohol andsmoking materials from the premises, neverletting his father out of his sight. A harshregimen of exercise and diet was enforced. Withthe zeal of a puritanical athletic trainerStoessel-Leifhelm started taking his father out tothe countryside for Gewaltmarschen forcedmarches gradually working up to all-day hikeson the exhausting trails of the Bavarianmountains, continually shouting at the older manto keep moving, to rest only at his son’scommands, to drink water only with permission.
So successful was
the rehabilitation that thedoctor’s clothes began to hang on him like seedy,old-fashioned garments purchased for a muchfatter man. A new wardrobe was called for, butgood clothing in Munich in those days wasbeyond the means of all but the wealthy, andStoessel-Leifhelm had only the best in mind forhis father not out of filial devotion but, as weshall see, for a quite different purpose.
Money had to be found, which meant it hadto be stolen. He interrogated his father at lengthabout the house the doctor had been forced toleave, learning everything there was to learn.Several weeks later Stoessel-Leifhelm broke intothe house on the Luisenstrasse at three o’clockone morning, stripping it of everything of value,including silver, crystal, oil paintings, gold placesettings, and the entire contents of a wall safe.Sales to fences were not difficult in Munich of 1930, and when everything was disposed of fatherand son had the equivalent of nearly eight
thousand American dollars, virtually a fortunein those times.
The restoration continued; clothes weretailored in the Maximilianstrasse, the bestfootwear purchased at bootsmiths on theOdeonsplatz, and, finally, cosmetic changeswere effected. The doctor’s unkempt hair wastrimmed and heightened by coloring into amasculine Nordic blond, and his shabbyinch-long beard shaved off, leaving only a small,unbroken, well-trimmed moustache above hisupper lip. The transformation was complete;what remained was the introduction
Every night during the long weeks ofrehabilitation, Stoessel-Leifhelm had read aloudto his father whatever he could get his hands onfrom the National Socialists’ headquarters, andthere was no lack of material. There were thestandard inflammatory pamphlets, pages ofersatz biological theory purportedly proving thegenetic superiority of Aryan purity and,conversely, the racial decline resulting from in-discriminate breeding all the usual Nazi dia-tribes plus generous excerpts from Hitler’sMein Kampf. The son read incessantly until thedoctor could recite by rote the salient outragesof the National Socialists’ message. Throughoutit all, the seventeen-year-old kept telling hisfather that following the party’s program wasthe way to get back everything that had beenstolen from him, to avenge the years ofhumiliation and ridicule. As Germany itself hadbeen humiliated by the rest of the world, theNazi party would be the avenger, the restorer ofall things truly German. It was, indeed, the NewOrder for the Fatherland, and it was waiting formen of stature to recognize the fact.
The day came, a day when Stoessel-Leifhelmhad learned that two high-ranking party officialswould be in Munich. They were the crippledpropagandist Joseph Goebbels and thewould-be aristocrat Rudolf Hess. The sonaccompanied the father to the NationalSocialists’ headquarters where the well-tailored,imposing, obviously rich and Aryan Doktorrequested an audience with the two Nazileaders on an urgent and confidential matter. It was granted, and according to early party historical ar-chives, his first words to Hess and Goebbels werethe
following.
“Gentlemen, I am a physician of impeccable
credentials, formerly head surgeon at the
Karlstor Hos,pital and for years I enjoyed one of the mostsuccessful practices in Munich. That was in thepast. I wasdestroyed by Jews who stole everything from me. I
am back, I am well, and I am at your service.”
The Lufthansa plane began its descent intoHamburg and Joel, feeling the drag, dog-eared thepage of Leifhelm’s dossier and reached down for hisattache case. Beside him, the actor Caleb Dowlingstretched, script in hand, then jammed his screenplayinto an open flight bag at his feet.
“The only thing sillier than this movie,” he said,“is the amount of money they’re paying me to be init.”
“Are you filming tomorrow?” asked Converse.
".Today,” corrected Dowling, looking at his watch.“It’s an early shoot, too. Have to be on location byfive-thirty dawn over the Rhine, or somethingequally inspiring. Now if they’d just turn the damnthing into a travelogue, we’d all be better off. Nicescenery.”
“But you were in Copenhagen.”
“Yep.”
“You’re not going to get much sleep.”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
The actor looked atJoel, the crow’s-feet aroundhis generous eyes creasing deeper with his smile. “Mywife’s in Copenhagen and I had two days off. Thiswas the last plane I could get.”
“Oh? You’re married?” Converse immediatelyregretted the remark; he was not sure why, but itsounded foolish.
“Twenty-six years, young fella. How do you thinkI was able to go after that impractical dream? She’sa whiz of a secretary; when I was teaching, she’dalways be this or that dean’s gal Friday.”
“Any children?”
“Can’t have everything. Nope.”
“Why is she in Copenhagen? I mean, why isn’tshe staying with you on location?”
The grin faded from Dowling’s suntanned face; thelines
were less apparent, yet somehow deeper. “That’s anobvious question, isn’t it? That is, you being alawyer would pick it up quickly.”
“It’s none of my business, of course. Forget I askedit.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t like to talk aboutit rarely do but friendly seatmates on airplanesare for telling things. You’ll never see them again,so why not slice off a bit and feel better.” The actortried haltingly to smile; he failed. “My wife’s namewas Oppenfeld. She’s Jewish. Her story’s not muchdifferent from a few million others, but for her it’s. . . well, it’s hers. She was separated from herparents and her three younger brothers inAuschwitz. She watched them being takenaway away from her while she screamed, notunderstanding. She was lucky; they put her in abarracks, a fourteen-year-old sewing uniforms untilshe showed other endowments that could lead toother work. A couple of days later, hearing therumors, she got hysterical and broke out racing allover the place trying to find her family. She ran intoa section of the camp they called the A/ofall, thegarbage, corpses hauled out of the gas chambers.And there they were, the bodies of her mother andher father and her three brothers, the sight and thestench so sickening it’s never left her. It never will.She won’t set foot in Germany and I wouldn’t askher to.”
No alarms, just surprises . . . and another IronCross for the Erich Leilhelms of the past, retroactivelypresented.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” murmured Converse. “Ididn’t mean to ,,
“You didn’t. I did…. You see, she knows itdoesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t make sense? Maybe you didn’t hearwhat you just described.”
“I heard, I know, but I didn’t finish. When shewas sixteen, she was loaded into a truck with fiveother girls, all on their way to that different type ofwork, when they did it. Those kids took their lastchance and beat the hell out of a Wehrmachtcorporal who was guarding them in the van. Thenwith his gun they got control of the truck from thedriver and escaped.” Dowling stopped, his eyes onJoel.
Converse, silent, returned the look, unsure of itsmeaning, but moved by what he had heard. “That’sa marvelous story ” he said quietly “It really is.”
"And,” continued the actor, “for the next two yearsthey
were hidden by a succession of German families, whosurely knew what they were doing and what wouldhappen to them if they got caught. There was apretty frantic search for those girls a lot of threatsmade, more because of what they could tell thananything else. Still, those Germans kept moving themaround, hiding them, until one by one they weretaken across the border into occupied France, wherethings were easier. They were smuggled across by theunderground, the German underground. “Dowlingpaused, then added. “As Pa Ratchet would say, ”Doyou get my drift, son?’ "
“I’d have to say it’s obvious.”
“There’s a lot of pain and a lot of hate in her andGod knows I understand it. But there should besome gratitude, too. Couple of times clothing wasfound, and some of those people those Germanpeople were tortured, a few shot for what they did.I don’t push it, but she could level off with a littlegratitude. It might give her a bit more perspective.”The actor snapped
on his seat belt.
Joel pressed the locks on his attache case,wondering if he should reply. Valerie’s mother hadbeen part of the German underground. His ex-wifewould tell him amusing stories her mother had toldher about a stern, inhibited French intelligenceofficer forced to work with a high-spirited, opinion-ated German girl, a member of the Untergmud Howthe more they disagreed, and the more they railedagainst each other’s nationality, the more theynoticed each other. The Frenchman was Val’s father;she was proud of him, but in some ways prouder ofher mother. There had been pain in that woman,too. And hate. But there had been a reason, and itwas unequivocal. As there had been for one JoelConverse years later.
“I said it before and J mean it,” began Joelslowly, not sure he should say anything at all. “It’snone of my business, but I wouldn’t ever push it, ifI were you.”
“Is this a lawyer talkin’to ole Pa?” asked Dowlingin his television dialect, his smile false, his eyes faraway. “Do I pay a fee?”
“Sorry, I'll shut up.” Converse adjusted his seatbelt and pushed the buckle in place.
“No, I’m sorry. I laid it on you. Say it. Please.”
“All right. The horror came first, then the hate.In sidewinder language that’s called prima facie theobvious, the first sighting . . . the real, if you like.Without these, there’d
be no reason for the gratitude, no call for it. So, ina way, the gratitude is just as painful because itnever should have been necessary. “
The actor once again studied Joel’s face, as hehad done before their first exchange of words.“You’re a smart son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Professionally adequate. But I’ve been there . .. that is, I know people who’ve been where your wifehas been. It starts with the horror.”
Dowling looked up at the ceiling light, andwhen. he spoke his words floated in the air, hisharsh voice quietly strained. “If we go to the movies,I have to check them out; if we’re watchingtelevision together, I read the TV section . . .sometimes on the news with some of those tuckingnuts I tense up, wondering what she’s going to do.She can’t see a swastika’ or hear someone screamingin German, or watch soldiers marching in a goosestep; she can’t stand it. She runs and throws up andshakes all over . . . and I try to hold her . . . andsometimes she thinks I’m one of them and shescreams. After all these years . . . Chnst!”
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