Wolf's Mouth

by John Smolens

  Again, the silence, the static.

  “I couldn’t ask you first,” I said. “There wasn’t time.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.”

  “It’ll be all right, the two of you there together?”

  Slight pause. “You did the right thing, Frank.”

  “I just didn’t know where else—”

  “It’s fine, really, Frank. You’re always . . .” Static.

  “Always what?”

  “You’ve always made quick decisions under pressure. It’s how you’ve kept us safe. It’s how we’ve gotten from there to here.”

  The buses pulled away from the curb, leaving dozens of men and women standing on the sidewalk in front of my hotel. They had luggage, they were gesturing excitedly with their hands, and they seemed in complete confusion. Conventioneers. Christ. They’ll make a racket all night in the hotel.

  “Her bus gets in at eight-thirty,” I said. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Ti amo.”

  “Ti amo.”

  A click and the line went silent. I had this hollow feeling. I suspected we had not really talked about what we should have talked about. She wasn’t telling me what was on her mind, and I hadn’t asked.

  I left the phone booth as the people who had gotten off the buses began to crowd into the lobby. Some were gathered at the front desk; others stood in small groups. I started for the elevators but stopped and looked around. There was no sound, nothing. It was like a silent movie, the way they gestured with their hands, their arms. Facial expressions seemed overly theatrical. A suitcase fell over, making a loud booming sound that reverberated off the mock-marble columns. No one noticed. Their hands and arms continued to move in the air.

  Deaf-mutes. A convention for deaf-mutes.

  I got on the elevator with several of them. They nodded and smiled at me, and I nodded and smiled back.

  The silence kept me awake. I could hear them in the hall, their footsteps, doors opening and closing, but there was no sound, just movement. The hotel seemed haunted.

  A little after midnight I gave up trying to sleep and went out, thinking I’d get a drink. But I just walked, thankful for the sound of traffic, music coming out of the open doors of bars and night clubs. Eventually, I found my way to Tony’s Grill. Ginger was alone behind the bar, cleaning up. There was one customer, sitting in a booth. She drew my beer and I took the glass to the phone booth. I wanted to make sure Braun got into Sault Ste. Marie all right, but it was too late to call. I took out my wallet and found Klaus Stemple’s number, which I dialed just out of curiosity. At the very least, he wouldn’t be anywhere near his apartment, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already left Detroit. But the phone rang twice and then someone picked up—no hello, just soft breathing coming through the line.

  “Stemple?” I said.

  No response. Just the breathing, and it went on like that for an eternity, or so it seemed. Whoever was on the other end of the line heard the sound of running water as Ginger washed glasses. When she finished, she dried her hands and put her bracelet back on, which tinkled lightly. The one customer, an old man, shuffled to the front door and disappeared into the night. Still, there was nothing but soft breathing at the other end of the line. I didn’t think it was Stemple. I wasn’t sure if it was a man. I just couldn’t tell.

  I took my hotel key from my coat pocket, looked at the number on the tag, and said, “Cedar five-five-oh-six-two, noon tomorrow,” and hung up the receiver.

  Ginger had just wiped down the bar when I sat down, careful to place my glass of beer on a coaster. She poured herself a Scotch on the rocks and said, “What’s going on with you, Frank?”

  “What do you mean?” I sipped my beer.

  “Come on,” she said. “You have these quiet meetings with this suit while his watchdog guards the door. And Claire’s suddenly out of town—”

  “Don’t let your imagination get carried away.”

  She lit a cigarette, watching me. “And this blonde kid, there’s nothing going on there?”

  “That’s right.” I studied the foam as it slid down the inside of my glass.

  “I think you got some problems you don’t want to admit to.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, Frank. You avoid talking about the war. Which is not unusual. Some men, it’s the first thing you learn about them, where they were, what outfit, what they did, the whole thing, until you want to scream stop with the war stories. Tony, he doesn’t go on and on about it too often, thank God, but sometimes, like the other day, he’s unloading meat from a delivery truck out back, and as he picks up a side of beef he says its weight reminds him of Ned Peterson, a kid from Arizona, or what was left of him after a mortar hit his foxhole on Okinawa. Tony will wear a Hawaiian shirt every day for the rest of his life because it’s something he promised himself he’d do if he made it back from the South Pacific. Fine, that’s how he deals with it. But you’re one of these guys who doesn’t like to broadcast it, doesn’t wear it on your sleeve, so to speak, if you’ll excuse me. And I’m guessing you were in Europe; I’m guessing that this guy that sits in the booth and talks with you real quiet, he’s got something to do with it. I don’t know, Frank, you were something—intelligence, or a spook, something like that. With you it’s not what you say, it’s what you don’t say. Tony wrapped a lot of wounds, saw a lot of blood, but he says sometimes the worst wounds are the ones you don’t see. He says your war’s none of our business, so I’m not asking here, just making an observation, you understand?” She picked up her drink, rattled the ice a bit. She was done.

  “Ginger, you know how many friends Claire and I have in this town? Real friends?” I asked. “Three: you, Tony, and Leon.”

  “You’re a strange guy, Frank. Lots of people wouldn’t count Leon as a friend. But that’s the thing about you I’ve noticed: you’re like us, but somehow you’re not one of us.”

  “I’m not sure I know what that means.”

  “Come on, you understand English, Frank. It means what it means.”

  For a moment I wanted to tell her just how strange I was, how strange it all was—how being an American, being like them, didn’t come naturally for me. I wanted to tell her that I was a distant relative of the great Giuseppe Verdi, the streets of Detroit were a long way from the hills of Le Marche, and for years I’d been living a life that wasn’t my own life. “We all got problems, Ginger.” I finished my beer and stood up, placing a dollar on the bar. “And it’s late. See you tomorrow.”

  The deaf-mutes proved to be a blessing. The hotel was quiet and I slept soundly until almost eleven o’clock. When I got up, I showered and then went down to the phone booth in the lobby and called Claire.

  “Did she get in all right?”

  “Yes,” Claire whispered. “We were up late talking and she’s still asleep.”

  “Okay, I’ll make this quick. Is it all right?”

  “It’s fine. It’s nice having her here.”

  “It won’t be forever.”

  “How are things there?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “So everybody’s fine, only everybody’s in hiding and we’re hundreds of miles apart.”

  “As I said, it’s only temporary.” I looked at the clock above the hotel’s front desk. “Listen, I’ve got to get off—I’m expecting a call at noon. I’ll call again later.”

  “All right. It’s fine—she’s fine, really.”

  “Good.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  It was a few minutes before noon when I hung up. I remained in the booth with the receiver wedged between my ear and shoulder and one hand holding down the hook, waiting for the phone to ring. Through the folding glass door I looked across the lobby toward the coffee shop. People eating, people working. A weekday morning—everything was business as usual, but something about it reminded
me of the deaf-mutes. Body language spoke volumes. Nobody quite looked at anybody else. Ginger said I was strange. She was right. But we are all strange. No matter what life—or lives—we lead, we’re all strangers.

  The phone rang, and on the third ring I released the hook but didn’t speak.

  “Captain Verdi.”

  Despite all the years, I knew it was Vogel. I wanted to hang up but didn’t. I just held the receiver to my ear and listened to the silence. Finally, I said, “Where’s Stemple, Kommandant Vogel?”

  “How good of you to call last night.” His German accent seemed as strong and angular as I remembered it, but there was something oddly pleasant to it. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “No one can hide forever.”

  “True. Neither can you.”

  “Obviously you have been in communication with Herr Stemple. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Guess you’ve missed him.”

  “You know where he’s gone?”

  “No idea. What do you expect? I’m sure he’s a long ways away by now.”

  “No one can avoid justice forever.”

  “I hope that’s true, Vogel.”

  “Well, you are still in Detroit. I must commend your ability to remain . . . I believe the term is ‘at large.’”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s an amusing phrase.”

  “And I admit that I have come to admire your courage. This is something you displayed when we were in the camp in Au Train, but unfortunately yours was grossly misguided. You insisted on working at cross-purposes at a time when it was essential that we remain unified in our resolve.”

  “I remember this speech, Kommandant. You used to give it several times a week.”

  “You raised too many questions then. And now it appears everyone has disappeared—Stemple, Elena, her daughter. Everyone except you.”

  “Perhaps you should give up. It’s pointless.”

  “That is not possible,” he said. “Justice is not pointless, and it is timeless.”

  “Then we should meet. Sooner than later.”

  “You always struck me as a realist. What do you propose we do at this meeting?”

  “Talk.”

  “Perhaps you wish to beg for mercy?” When I didn’t answer, he asked, “And where do you propose we meet?”

  “Someplace public.”

  “But of course.”

  There was a poster on the easel across the hotel lobby, which listed various group events for the deaf-mutes’ convention. One included a trip to Belle Isle in the Detroit River before dinner that evening. “Belle Isle,” I said. “There’s a fountain. Let’s say five this afternoon.”

  “Very well, Captain Verdi. Va bene.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in my hotel room. Once I went back down to the lobby and called Giannopoulos, but he wasn’t in, and when his secretary asked if I would leave a number, I hung up. Back in my room, I considered packing up and walking to the bus station. But eventually one of them—Vogel or Giannopoulos—would catch up with me. Giannopoulos had given me an out: do his dirty work. Alone. It was the only option. You’re a soldier until you do, then a soldier no more.

  At four o’clock, I went downstairs to get a cab, but there were about two dozen deaf-mutes lined up to board a bus parked at the curb. A woman in her forties, wearing a yellow dress with a lace collar, smiled at me and made a series of signs.

  “I am not with the convention,” I said slowly.

  The man standing in front of her in line turned and she exchanged signs with him, and then they both looked at me and made motions toward the bus.

  “I do not want to intrude,” I said.

  They waved this off vigorously.

  “According to the schedule in the lobby, you’re going to Belle Isle, right?”

  The woman nodded as she took me by the arm and walked me toward the open door of the bus. So I got on board. There was a great deal of signing between the woman and the others who were already seated. They nodded and smiled: I was more than welcome to join them. The woman guided me to an empty bench and we sat down together. I looked about the bus; there was something odd about it that I couldn’t put my finger on—not that all the passengers were deaf-mutes, but something else, something about the way they were together. She dug into her purse and produced a small notepad and pen; flipping the pad open, she wrote: Audrey Vickers. Librarian. Bettendorf, Iowa.

  She had a weak chin, enormous teeth, and very pink gums. When I reached for the notepad, she shook her head and gestured toward her mouth.

  “Frank Green, Detroit,” I said.

  Suddenly arms were extended toward me and I shook hands with people seated behind us, in front, across the aisle. And then I realized that there were whites and blacks on the bus—that was not unusual. But in Detroit, in 1956, a bus was a segregated public space; whereas here, these deaf-mutes were sitting on this bus together. Some whites and blacks, in fact, shared the same seat bench, and they signed to each other enthusiastically. It was quite a remarkable thing, really, though to them it seemed the most natural thing in the world. I imagined asking Leon—who had tried to take a seat in the front of the bus to St. Louis—if he thought this was ever possible, and could see him push his glasses up his nose as he let out a laugh. Frank, you are some kinda fool. I suspected he believed, or hoped, it was possible, but he’d never let his cynical humor down enough to admit it. When the air brakes sighed, the bus lurched forward, causing applause to break out among the passengers.

  There was rush-hour traffic and the bus made slow progress toward the river. I learned from Audrey that this was her first visit to Detroit. She was one of the organizers of the convention, which attracted people from all over the Midwest. There was no wedding ring on her left hand, and something about the way she sat next to me suggested that she had already established possession—I might have been a stray dog she’d found on the street and decided to take home and feed. Everyone on the bus gestured constantly—talking—often pointing to something on the streets or sidewalks. At one point, the man who had helped me aboard stood up and made a series of gestures, which concluded with his dropping his suspenders off his shoulders, which must have been a punch line to some joke because some laughed aloud (to my surprise), while others nodded their heads, grinning broadly. Audrey wrote on her pad: Neil loves randy jokes.

  I nodded, but when I looked up from her notebook, she had a genuine look of concern in her eyes. For years I had been living a lie. I’d altered my habits, my speech. I’d even once pretended to be a mute. All was deception. And here, this deaf-mute woman from Iowa was able to see right through it.

  The bus crossed the General MacArthur Bridge, and when we reached Belle Isle the group was met by a guide, a tall, elderly woman who was also a deaf-mute. She had the bearing of a schoolmarm, and after a few curt signs, the group obediently followed her down the path into the park. When I lingered behind, Audrey took me by the arm, but I withdrew it.

  “Thank you, Audrey, but you go on with the others.” She looked doubtful, so I pointed at my wristwatch. “I must meet someone here. I hope you enjoy your visit to Detroit.”

  I began to back away. She appeared distressed, perhaps even heartbroken, but then reluctantly she started up the gravel path after her group. When she glanced over her shoulder, I smiled and waved. Still she didn’t seem convinced.

  I went in the other direction, toward the Scott Fountain. A warm breeze was coming off the river, and there was the pleasant smell of freshly cut grass. Couples lay on blankets, dozing, reading, some cuddling, while families occupied picnic tables, eating. I climbed a wide set of stairs and entered the open area that surrounded the large fountain, which was brilliant white in the late afternoon sun. Park benches encircled the fountain, and the sound of the water slapping and splashing had an odd effect: it was so loud that people seemed to be performing mime. Old men and women sat on the benches, gesturing, while young childre
n ran about in defiance of their parents’ warnings.

  I walked around the fountain, but stopped when a man got up off a bench and came toward me. He had to be Vogel’s son. Certain features—the set of his mouth and the unflinching stare—were reminiscent of the Kommandant I had known a dozen years earlier, but there were other aspects of this man that were different, utterly unknowable. With the Kommandant you knew where he was coming from, as Americans like to say. He possessed a consistency that made him transparent and therefore quite predictable. Nazis were nothing if not predictable. But I immediately realized there was something incomprehensible, something perplexing and unfathomable about his son. He was not just unpredictable, he was completely opaque. He might have been another species, one that I had never encountered before, and as I thought of the things he’d done to Mile Ionescu and Hans Krantz, I had no doubt that this man was capable of such horrors. Yet he didn’t give me the impression that he was some insensitive, unfeeling being. Nor was he some twisted monster who took perverse satisfaction in administering pain and suffering. He was not a man who performed such acts without the slightest concern or doubt. On the contrary, his eyes carried it all. The knife wounds, the flayed skin, the blood—he bore it all and it had taken its toll.

  “Captain Verdi?” His voice was uncertain, burdened with complexity. “My father will grant you a brief interview.” Past him, I could see Kommandant Vogel sitting on a park bench, an old man in an overcoat and gray fedora, wearing sunglasses, his face turned toward the sound of the fountain. “You will make no attempt to touch him. Keep your hands in sight at all times.”

  I took in the rest of this young man—he was taller, more muscular than his father had ever been; to me, someone who had spent years trying to blend in, it seemed admirable yet bizarre that he was so effortlessly dressed like an American, a nondescript tan jacket and dark slacks. His haircut, too, was perfect in its innocuous precision. “What’s your name?”