The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  But that was how it all began, what was to become the story of a lifetime in no time at all, the greatest story I had ever written: about a morass of lies and deceit, down to the last determined criminal and betrayer, about idealists, liars, bums, and ordinary murderers, about complacent administrators and false witnesses; a morass of immeasurable injustice and brutal murder, of thievery—spiritual and material—of mass brainwashing, perpetrated with incredible finesse; of mass betrayal and blackmail and of plans that exploded mercilessly and disastrously over the heads of their devisers. This is where it all began, in front of a cheap plywood wardrobe that wasn't even varnished.

  In her office, as water heated on a hot plate, Fraulein Louise told us Karel's story. When she was done, the loudspeakers were still playing music outside and the afternoon sun was slanting brightly into the dusty room. Fraulein Louise's hair was pure, finely spun silver now. We could hear the voices of children playing and young people arguing in many languages. Something occurred to me. "Fraulein Gottschalk—"

  "Louise, please," she said. "Fr&ulein Louise. Everybody calls me that."

  "Fraulein Louise— All the other social workers live in those two white barracks over there, don't they?"

  Bertie sat down beside me and listened. He had finished taking pictures, or so he thought.... And so did I!

  "That's right," said Fr&ulein Louise, "and it's because the other social workers here don't like me. A lot of people here don't like me." She added defiantly, "I don't like them, eitherl"

  "None of them?" 34

  "Most of them. There are a few I'm fond of. Good people. Herr Kuschke, for instance. He drives the camp bus. And Dr. Schiemann. He's our doctor here. And Pastor Demel. He's the Protestant pastor. And Reverend Father Hinkel. He's the Catholic priest. So them I like. Especially Pastor Demel. Perhaps because I'm Protestant, too. No," she said quickly, "not because of that but because he's an exceptionally good man. Reverend Father is a good man, too, but I just happen to have a better relationship with the Pastor."

  "But those are Christian ministers," I said. "There must be children here who are not Christian."

  "Of course there are. It's very confusing. The Turkish children are Muhammadans, the Greeks are Orthodox, and so on. And then those little Vietnamese children. But the holy gentlemen are so kind. They know there's only one God in heaven, so they are good to all the children and look after them, regardless of their religion. That's why I like them."

  "And the children like you?" asked Bertie.

  Fraulein Louise smiled happily. "Of course they do!_They are the joy of my Uf el Children haven't learned to be wicked yet, like their elders."

  "Have you always lived alone here because you don't get along with the other social workers?"

  Fraulein Louise looked upset. "No," she said. "At first I lived over there with them. I had my own room and didn't pay much attention to the other women. I lived there for twenty years, until five weeks ago."

  "Five weeks?"

  "Yes. Until Karel came. That was the day I moved over here."

  "But why?"

  "Because—" Fraulein Louise hesitated. "Oh, there was all sorts of gossip and a big quarrel... but that wouldn't interest you."

  "But it does," I said.

  "All right, then," Fraulein Louise said reluctandy. "The other social workers complained about me."

  "What could they possibly have—"

  "They—they said I behaved funnily."

  "Funnily?"

  "Not funnily like fun. Oddly. That's what they said. Especially the Hitzinger woman. She can't stand me. Now, she's a bad person. She often gets angry with the children. You can't

  imagine how upset I get about it. A woman like that shouldn't be working with children. But she was at the bottom of it all!" Now she was talking fast. "She got the others all stirred up about me and now nobody likes me." She leaned across the desk, her voice low and confidential. "Believe it or not, there's a conspiracy against me."

  "No!" I said.

  "About what?" asked Bertie.

  "They want to get rid of me." Fraulein Louise's voice was soft and troubled. "They want me to go away, away from my children. Can you imagine that? What would I do without my children?"

  "What sort of a conspiracy?" I asked. "After all, it must be based on something."

  "Well, yes, I suppose it is. The Hitzinger woman and the lies she tells about me. Dreadful things. Things her friend Reiter told her. She isn't here anymore, but Hitzinger is. And now they want to get rid of me, all of them. Even Dr. Schall. He's the director. They want to retire me. And I'm only sixty-two!"

  Fraulein Louise passed a hand across her eyes and swallowed hard. "I can't sleep anymore. I'm so scared. Every morning I feel sick. I tremble because I'm afraid I'll get the letter, the blue one,

  and nobody helps me! I'm all alone, and all of them are against

  !»»

  Softly at first, then louder, I could hear the shrill whine of another jet squadron. The whine changed to a thunderous roar, the windows rattled. I thought the planes would pass directly over the barracks, and they did. I could see them through the windows—three Starfighters flying low, then banking to the right and up into the clear sky again.

  I cursed loudly, none of which could be heard above the roar of the planes. Now I said nervously to Fraulein Louise, "I don't see how you can stand it."

  "I don't hear it anymore," she said. "On the other side of the moor there's an air base. They always fly a lot when the weather's good." She was looking at me seriously. "As I just said, nobody helps me."

  "I heard you."

  "Not a soul." Suddenly she seemed to have an idea. "A man like you, Herr Roland, must have a lot of influence."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, you work for an important magazine. You've written 36

  books. Pastor Demel told me all about it when you called and said you were coming to see us."

  "I wrote them ten years ago. Trash. Both of them."

  "Pastor Demel liked them." Fraulein Louise was persistent. "I can't read very much. It makes my eyes smart. But Pastor Demel said—"

  "Please stop!" I said, sounding more vehement than I intended, and there he was again, though still far away—the jackal. "I don't want to know what the pastor said. They were garbage, one worse than the other!"

  "Why are you suddenly so angry?" Fraulein Louise looked startled.

  I pulled myself together. Mention of the two books I had written before joining Blitz had reminded me of that time, and of everything that had happened since. Bertie knew what was going on inside me. He looked worried. He wasn't smiling now.

  My smile, I was sure, was a grimace. "I'm sorry, Fraulein Louise. It wasn't directed against you. It's just that—right now—" But it was stronger than I. "... Not good—sorry," I stammered, drew my flask out of my pocket, unscrewed the top, grinning feebly at Fraulein Louise, who still looked startled. I didn't care. The jackal. Mention of the two books I'd written had done it. The years... all those wasted years...

  I drank. "My stomach's easily upset," I explained.

  But Fraulein Louise was not to be deflected from what was on her mind. "Well, then, that's all right, if you didn't mean it, Hen-Roland," she said. "And you, too, Herr Engelhardt—you must know a lot of people. Important people! Rich people! Rich people are so powerful. Perhaps one of them could help me. J must stay with my children!"

  Bertie looked embarrassed. He shook his head, his light hair flopping over his bandage. I said, "Fraulein Louise, we're only reporters."

  "Famous reporters!"

  "We go where we're sent," I went on, ignoring her interruption. "We take pictures and write what's expected of us. We do know a lot of people, and some are famous and rich, but they wouldn't do anything for you, Fr&ulein Louise. We're there for them, not they for us. We drive or fly wherever we're told. We drove to this camp on assignment. But I'm afraid we can't do a thing for you." I noticed that I was still holding the flask in my hand
and that Fraulein Louise was looking at it, and I finished

  rather lamely, "Would you like some?" I held it out to her. "In your coffee?"

  "Is it cognac?"

  "No. Whiskey."

  "Ugh! I drank whiskey once, by mistake. Tastes like medicine." She shook herself. "No, thank you, Herr Roland. The coffee—oh dear! The water must be boiling!"

  She got up and walked over to the hot plate, frowned, stuck her finger in the water and cried, "It's cold! Ice cold!" She lifted the pot and passed her hand over the plate. "It's cold, too!"

  Bertie had picked up his Nikon-F again. She didn't notice. She was too preoccupied with the malfunctioning hot plate. "Look at that! No wonder the water doesn't get hot! The coil's broken. One of them must have borrowed it again! What nerve! When they know I'm so dependent on my coffee. They don't want to live with me, but they'll borrow my hot plate! No, by God, I'm not going to put up with it! It's a crying shame! I'm going to report it to the director."

  And then it happened again, without warning. From one moment to the next. She stopped her tirade in the middle of a sentence and stood still, head cocked to one side, looking across my shoulder, her eyes far away, her lips parted, listening, obviously listening, three seconds, four... and Bertie photographed her. She didn't notice it any more than Karel had noticed it a short while before. She stood there, frozen to the spot, listening to a voice—or voices—we couldn't hear. I turned around. Not a living soul.

  I turned around again. Now Fr&ulein Louise was speaking, softly and not very clearly: "Humbly—yes.. And peacefully. Very well. Your people gave us bread and schmalz, I know. And they gave us the good army rations. You were such a rich army, and the Russians were so poor. They didn't have enough to eat, and yet—and the blankets. Although it was so cold. That was during the big storm. I remember it so well "

  This time it hit Bertie, too. He went on photographing, but he had stopped smiling. I got up. I realized it wasn't the right thing to do, but I acted instinctively. I put out my cigarette and said in a loud voice, "Fraulein Louise!"

  Her eyes fluttered. She noticed that Bertie was taking pictures and sank down in her chair. "You have no right to do that, sir. Give me the film."

  "Sorry, but—"

  "Please!"

  "No," I said angrily. "Not until you tell us to whom you were talking and what it all means."

  Fraulein Louise buried her face in her hands. Bertie went on shooting. She didn't move. After a while she said, "And now... if you publish pictures of me, then—then it's all over." At that moment there was a scream from the next room, a horrible, long drawn-out, tortured scream. It wasn't human. It sounded like an animal wounded and dying.

  Fraulein Louise forgot about what had just been troubling her, forgot her swollen legs, and ran into the living room next door, Bertie and I close behind her. Karel was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes open wide, his face distorted and white. Saliva was running out of his mouth and he was screaming like an animal. It was a horrible sight. Only Bertie seemed delighted. "Great stuff!" He was smiling again, and taking pictures, and Karel never stopped screaming.

  Fraulein Louise ran up to him and yelled at him in Czech. He yelled back at her, broken sentences, broken words, also in Czech. The trumpet had fallen on the floor. Then he clutched his throat, his voice rattled, and he fell like a stone. There he lay, his limbs twisted, motionless.

  "The song!" cried Fraulein Louise, and Bertie and I understood. We could hear it, too. "Strangers in the Night" on the loudspeaker outside. Slowly the trumpet solo began.

  "He heard his song." Fraulein's voice was a whisper. "He thought his father had come and they were going to kill him. Is he—what's happened to him?"

  I hurried over to the boy and knelt down beside him. "He's fainted," I said.

  "We must get him to bed," cried Fraulein Louise. "Can one of you put him on my bed? I'll call Dr. Schiemann."

  She hurried back into her office. I was about to lift the boy when Bertie stopped me. "Just a minute." He was still smiling. "Step aside. I want a few shots of him lying there. I'll do it in color. Make a good full page. A real tearjerker." He put a film in the Hasselblad.

  We could hear Fraulein Louise telephoning. She was screaming, "Turn off the music! I'm telling you... turn off the music!... Because I'm telling you to. I'll explain why later. No! It must be turned off! Thank you." And the music stopped abruptly.

  There was an eerie silence, then children's voices outside again, and Fraulein Louise in her office, dialing another number. "Hello? This is Fr&ulein Louise. I have to speak to the doctor. Who is this? Oh... Sister Rita— Not already? Jesus, Maria, and Joseph! No, no. I understand." And Bertie was taking pictures.

  He was quite right. It was a tearjerker. People are moved to tears when they see a picture like that. Manna from heaven for the masses! Especially women.

  And from the next room, "Yes, yes, I understand. Ask him to call the minute he can. Please!"

  "That's it," said Bertie. "I'll put the boy on the bed and open the window. Hell come to in no time."

  He was the gentlest person in the world, but when it was a question of work, he lost all sensitivity. "Give me a hand," he said.

  I did.

  A small table stood beside the bed, on it a lamp, an alarm clock, a vial of sleeping pills, and an open book. As we laid Karel on his side (so that he wouldn't swallow his tongue), I glanced at the book. There were passages underlined in red. I closed the book, keeping a finger between the open pages. Shakespeare, Collected Works, Volume III. So she did read. In spite of her eyes which smarted when she read. I opened the book again. The Tempest , Act IV, Scene 1. Prospero: "Our revels now are ended. These, our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air "

  I didn't get any farther because Fraulein Louise was standing behind us. "How is he?"

  I put the book on the table as surreptitiously as possible. "He's all right. He'll come to in a minute." I opened the window. Bertie picked up a blanket that lay folded at the end of the bed and covered the boy with it. "Where's the doctor?"

  "With Panagiotopulos, the Greek girl."

  "What's the matter with her?"

  "She's in labor. But much too early. I'm worried about her."

  Karel moved a little and groaned. Fr&ulein Louise sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his thin face and spoke to him tenderly in Czech. He nodded weakly, then closed his eyes again.

  "It's really helping him—the fresh air," said Fr&ulein Louise. "He's better."

  The phone rang. Fraulein Louise hurried into her office. I followed her. Bertie stayed with Karel, whose eyes were open again, wide. The boy was trembling. Bertie still had work to do.... 40

  When I got back into the office, Fr&ulein Louise was already on the phone. "Central? Yes? What is it?.. .Oh, I see. A telegram for Hromatka." I listened, feeling more strongly all the time that I had entered another world. "How did it come this time?" Fr&ulein Louise was asking, her tone grim. "Pilsen via Leipzig. All right, all right. But who's died this time? Her mother? Is that so. Well, she's not to be told a word about it. Do the Catholics know already?.. .Good. They'll take care of it. Thank you," and she hung up.

  I asked, "Whose mother is dying?"

  "In all probability, nobody's," said Fraulein Louise.

  "But you just said—"

  "Our young people here get phony telegrams all the time," she explained. "East Germany started it; now they're all doing it."

  "Why?"

  "To get the children back. An emergency. Somebody's dying—a mother, an aunt, an older sister, a brother—"

  "Or a father?"

  "No. Never a father," Fraulein Louise explained. "He's the one they really want."

  "I don't understand."

  "It's quite simple. The father is usually the first one to escape, then the children, then the mother. If it's a big family, they can't all escape at once. The children of doctors or scientists or men who were politica
lly involved are mostly the ones who get the telegrams. We used to give the children the telegrams right away, and that was a mistake. It resulted in a lot of disasters. Now we always check first to see if the message is true."

  "How do you do that?"

  "Oh, the churches hold together. Everywhere. They have their people and means of communication and they can check the message fast. But the children, once they knew, were impatient. They couldn't wait and ran away. Hop, hop, back to their native land. And ended in jail. So then what did the father do? He went back, tool"

  "Some system I"

  "Well, yes," said Fraulein Louise. "On the other hand, take East Germany. So many doctors have left the DDR the results have been catastrophic. Do you think it's right for a doctor to abandon his patients? The people are poor—they talk about justice and injustice and don't know what they're talking about. Everything is worldly, nothing is important. But the living can't grasp that. Those who suffer will be heard, but those who are

  satiated will never see God. You know, I haven't tried to pass judgment for a long time, but I must protect the children. The children are innocent. Whatever man does, the children must not be allowed to suffer!" Her last words were interrupted by a loud noise outside. "Now what's happened?"

  We hurried to the window. At the entrance to the camp, quite some distance away, I could see a crowd milling around in the light of the setting sun. Several camp guards—older men in plain, drab uniforms—and more conspicuously, a beefy-looking fellow in overalls, a very fat man in a gray coat, and a girl with black hair. Children were shouting, men were cursing; the beefy fellow in overalls tore the club out of the hand of one of the guards, who stood by helplessly as the beefy fellow beat the fat man in the gray coat to the ground. The girl was screaming hysterically, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying. Bertie limped to the door as fast as he could. "It's a madhouse!" he cried delightedly, then he went outside, running across the cement walk and the brown weed-strewn ground, one of his cameras in his hand. Fr&ulein Louise's voice broke as she screamed, "Indigo! Indigo! Irina Indigo!"