The Mastermind

by David Unger

  “Your dinner is on the stove—corned beef and cabbage. If you don’t eat it by eight o’clock, it will be a soggy mess.”

  “Thank you,” Jacob said, tapping her hand and putting the tray on the butler’s table. “I will see you tomorrow at nine, as usual.”

  “As usual,” she echoed, taking the cover off the pot and pouring the tea into their cups—it was mint tea, the family tradition.

  The sweet aroma comforted Samuel.

  As soon as the maid was out of earshot, his uncle said: “I’ve paid a lot to get you visas for Panama and Guatemala. At another time, this would be called a bribe. It may take a month, maybe more, to get them.”

  Samuel didn’t know what to say. He had just witnessed murder. He had not foreseen the threat to the Jews of Germany till Kristallnacht. There had always been anti-Semitism—odd remarks, strange insinuations, even direct declarations—but the idea that hating or killing Jews could become state policy he could have not imagined. And there were rumors of camps where Jews were both starved and forced to work at hard labor. But he still didn’t want to believe it—not in the Germany he had fought for, nearly died for, during the Great War.

  “Himmler is just trying to impress Hitler.”

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Samuel, you yourself saw the bricks and crates being thrown through the windows of our Berlin store. The wives of our customers were there with their poodles, cheering and applauding … Himmler is the head of the S.S. He’s the man behind it all. The architect of the Final Solution. Listen to me: you have to wake up, son.”

  “I am awake, Uncle,” Samuel said, bristling. He had half a mind to explain what he had just seen on the docks to both gauge his reaction and to convey that he knew exactly what was going on.

  “I appreciate that you had a hard time of it during the war, your incarceration. Then the situation with Lena must have been very painful. May I be blunt?”

  Samuel shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re thirty-seven years old. When I was your age, I was already married with children. You walk around as if waiting for something to change your life and fill the big hole inside of you. We all love you, but this love will turn to pity unless you do something with your life. I know what I am telling you. You think your story is written, but it isn’t. You’d be surprised at what you’re capable of doing, if only you would stop being so cautious. I don’t know, maybe those six months in the sanatorium after the war took the life out of you.”

  Samuel walked over to the window and looked out. The streetlights had been lit and he could see the tram stopping at the intersection of Lutterothstrasse and Hagenbeckstrasse. A few people clambered up the tram to head downtown. He had seen quite a bit—as a soldier, as a wounded veteran, as a buyer for his father’s store after Hitler became president and chancellor. What his uncle said about him was true. He had seen too much unexpected suffering. What would another departure mean? If he left now, he would never return to Germany.

  “I know your mother’s angry your father left me the store, but after all, I was his partner. Your father knew I would look after you. Berta would give all the money to your sister or some stupid cause to save dachshunds or poodles.”

  “I’ve never understood my mother.” Samuel knew this was a strange thing for a son to say, but his mother only showed emotion when she played Beethoven’s Appassionata over and over again on the piano. She never touched human hands with as much feeling as she touched the piano keys. She was incapable of expressing affection, much less love. His father had deserved a hundred medals for putting up with her all those years.

  Samuel sat back down and watched his uncle reach for the teapot. He missed the handle. Samuel had observed this at the store. His uncle’s eyes were failing.

  “Can I serve you more tea?”

  His uncle waved him away. “I can take care of myself.” He grabbed the teapot and poured the tea, hand shaking but hitting the target.

  “Samuel, you should’ve been born with more guile.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle?”

  Jacob smiled. “You’re too trusting. You’ve always been. You’re a goodhearted person, someone who believes there’s a correct way to behave. You’re what some people would call a straight arrow.”

  Samuel sipped the hot tea, then took a cookie and dipped it in the cup. His hand was shaking too, his scalp felt hot, but he would not contradict his uncle. “I will take that as a compliment.”

  Jacob smiled again. “Of course it is. Now take my son Heinrich. He’s nothing like you—all guile and no heart.”

  “That’s not fair, Uncle.”

  “Now, now, Samuel. I think I know my own son.”

  Though Samuel defended his cousin, Jacob was right. He was thinking now how he had contributed to Heinrich’s suspicious nature. He had once left his cousin in the lurch, yet he had never owned up to it. In truth, Samuel had betrayed his cousin, and he knew that before Heinrich would lift a finger for him he would have to make amends for his betrayal—he would do it when they came together in Guatemala.

  This is how it would have to be.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When the motorboat was flush against the tramp steamer’s side, two darkskinned deckhands dressed in filthy rags appeared. They held Samuel Berkow’s leather suitcase, gray homburg, and umbrella as he climbed up the metal ladder to the top deck of the Chicacao.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” he said to them nervously in English.

  When Samuel extended his right hand, they stared at it floating in the air, bowed awkwardly, and moved off. When he called after them, they were already climbing down another ladder to still another lower level.

  It was nighttime and Samuel was unsure of his next step. He placed his umbrella and hat on the suitcase and waited for the ship captain to greet him. Loose ropes, chains, spools of wire, rusting sprockets, wrenches, and half a dozen yellowing life preservers were piled around the central smokestack on the deck. It wasn’t an old steamer, simply unkempt. It needed a good scrubbing, a new paint job, nothing like the ocean liner he had just left. Still, it was going to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala.

  The 8,000-mile trip to the Panama coast on Das Bauernbrot, with its crystal chandeliers, Schubert waltzes, plush carpeted dining rooms, and stylish berths, had taken ten days, not enough time to leave Europe behind. The liner had allowed Samuel to continue remembering Hamburg at its best: its broad avenues; the Alster Pavilion teahouse where linzer torte and rote grütze were served on hand-painted china in the late afternoons; a boat trip on the Elbe; the Hagenbeck Zoo.

  His wool suit was stifling. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his coat and folded it across his forearm. He used the handkerchief he kept in his coat pocket to mop his forehead and the sweat pouring down his face.

  Where the hell was he?

  Suddenly, a short, greasy man appeared.

  “I wasn’t expecting any company on this trip,” he began, grinning broadly, “but when my navigator mentioned on the radio broadcast that one of the passengers on the liner was in a rush to get to Guatemala, I said to myself, Why not? I’m headed up the coast. We’ll anchor a bit north of here for the night. Say, you speak English?”

  From the way the man talked, Samuel guessed he was from the United States. “I learned English when I was a prisoner of war in England—the Great War,” Samuel said, raising a finger in the air. He wondered how this man would react if he picked up on the fact that he had fought on the German side against America.

  “Before my time, I’m sure,” the man chuckled. He had small, wet eyes and his cheeks hung from his face like little udders. The short sleeves of his shirt squeezed his upper arms. He looked like one of the typical brownshirts that shuffled drunk around the piers of Hamburg, sniffing the air for trouble, ready to brawl.

  “The name’s Alfred Lewis, but my friends call me Alf. That’s quite an outfit you have on there, mister—were you on your way to the opera?” He let out another string of chuckles and stuck out his arm
.

  “Samuel Berkow. Pleased to meet you.” Samuel shook his hand. Normally he would’ve had no business even talking to someone like Lewis—they clearly had nothing in common. “I should thank you for taking me on. I don’t know what I would’ve done in Panama.”

  Lewis scrunched his face. “What everyone else does …”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Get fucked and get the fuck out of there!” he said laughing. “What the hell can you do in a place full of niggers and heat? Yeah, very well if you’ve got a plum job with the Canal Company, but shit, even the damn mosquitoes flee the place. Say, where you from? You have that funny kind of European accent.”

  “I’m from Germany.”

  “Not a yid, eh?”

  “Yes,” Samuel admitted. The last few years, with Hitler as chancellor, had conditioned him to hide the truth until there was no point in lying. But here in the New World he felt differently.

  “Well, your people are all shipping out from Germany, Poland, and Russia. Guess they don’t like the party in Europe—”

  “I’d hardly call it a party,” Samuel said.

  “Ah, it won’t come to nothing. I can’t imagine that all that goose-step marching around and saluting will add up to much. Wait till we enter the war!”

  “I hope you are right.”

  Lewis nodded. “Well, welcome aboard, Sammy. I’m from Pittsburgh, or was so originally, and now I’m a kind of glorified errand boy, if you will. For the last ten years I’ve been skirting up and down this coast, doing odd jobs for the Fruit Company.” He stopped talking and wrapped his left arm around Samuel’s waist. “Well, we can gab downstairs. I’ll bet you’re starved.”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Well, you’re just in time for chow. Come on down to the dining room. If you’re not hungry, you can watch me eat!”

  “What about my valise?” Samuel asked.

  Lewis glanced down at the scuffed leather bag. “That’s a what? A valise? Just leave it here. One of my boys’ll bring it down.”

  “But—”

  “Relax, Berkow,” Lewis said, giving him a light tug. “I told you my boys will handle it. They have their instructions.” He dropped his hand, waddled over toward the center of the deck, and hopped down the mid-ship stairs.

  Eight steps down they entered a mahogany-paneled dining room lined with all kinds of navigational objects, brass gadgets, and several rows of trophies wired against the recently varnished walls. The room smelled of jasmine polish.

  “A beautiful room,” Samuel said, feeling uneasy, like an interloper at a private party.

  “Yes, it’s my pride. Some of these doodads go back three, four hundred years. Like this spyglass and compass, Bluebeard and Francis Drake stuff. I’m especially proud of these trophies. When you see my fat ass I bet you don’t think of me as a great bowler, but back home I was the ‘Sparemaker’ because there weren’t no split I couldn’t make. I’ll show you my technique later.”

  A sudden swell hit the boat, slamming Samuel into the wall.

  Lewis shook his head. “You’ve got to roll with them, kind of sense when they’re coming.”

  Almost immediately, another wave hit the boat—this time Samuel shifted a few steps, but didn’t lose his footing.

  “That’s better, Mr. Sammy. Go on, sit down,” Lewis said, taking the bench anchored to the wall. He craned his neck toward an opening on the right-hand side. “Lincoln, where’s the grub? I’m hungry. And bring in another set of crockery and silverware for our guest!” Turning to Samuel, he added, “It ain’t silver, but what the hell. It holds the food,” and chuckled.

  A barefoot boy, no more than fourteen, came out of the kitchen with a casserole which he placed on a metal plate in the center of the table. The smell of cooked fish and onions wafted into the air. He then placed a silver bell on the table and disappeared.

  “So what brings you to Central America, Sammy boy?” Lewis asked, snagging a piece of fish from the casserole. “Love or fortune?”

  “Neither, really. I’m looking to get a decent job—”

  “I hope you’re not planning to stay in Puerto Barrios—don’t think I wouldn’t mind the company of someone like you—but if you’ll pardon my French, the town’s a shithole.”

  “No—I’m going to Guatemala City. My cousin Heinrich lives there. I’m hoping he can help me get settled.”

  “Is that so,” Lewis said, somewhat disinterestedly, ladling stew onto each of the plates.

  Samuel picked up his fork, worked it into the sauce, and stabbed a chunk of fish. As he was about to stick the fork in his mouth, he glanced at Lewis wiping white sauce on his chin with a slice of bread and nearly gagged.

  “Your cousin one of these coffee barons? I hear the Krauts own all the plantations in Guatemala.”

  “No, Heinrich runs a clothing store.”

  “Ah, I see, this fancy stuff runs in the family! I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Berkow, but you Yids sure like to wear fine threads …”

  “Yes,” he replied, face flushing.

  “I’m glad you told me. I really don’t care if you’re a Jew. Anyway, I’m pretty good at sniffin’ these things out.” He put more stew on his plate though he hadn’t finished his original serving. “To my mind, Jews are people, that’s what I always say. Zemurray, the Company boss up in Boston, is a Jew from Ruuumania! Sam the Banana Man. Now I know some people say he’s uppity, but I don’t think he’s got a lease on that … Damn this fish—it’s deee-licious. Snapper. That Lincoln Douglas is finally learning something.”

  Samuel said nothing.

  If outward appearance determined character, then it seemed that Alfred Lewis had none. The clothiers in Germany taught their salesmen that people judged you by what you wore. All the same, Samuel was stuck with this man, for better or worse, for hours to come.

  “I’d eat something if I were you.”

  “Actually, I had a late lunch on the ship before we reached Colón …” Samuel felt a bit deflated—why should he speak? Couldn’t he just say he was exhausted, excuse himself, and go to his berth?

  “Suit yourself. This could be your last good meal.”

  “That’s what they said on Das Baurenbrot.”

  “Was that the ship that brought you to Panama? Bet you ate well there. Four square meals a day. Must be something to travel in style, have all those penguins waiting hand and foot on you … Yeah, but that stuff isn’t for me. I’m no good playing the fancy man, never was.”

  It wasn’t just Lewis’s crudeness but also those black rings on his neck. Samuel suspected the man wore dirt as he himself might wear a silk tie or a woolen scarf. Maybe Lewis believed that dirt was emblematic of his openness—he certainly flaunted it like someone would a diamond necklace.

  Suddenly he stretched his arms and burped aloud. “Ah, nothing like bountiful chow to keep a man happy.” Lewis looked at Samuel as if waiting for him to rekindle the conversation.

  “What exactly is your line of work, Mr. Lewis?”

  “Alf, Alf.”

  “Yes, Alf.”

  Lewis licked his lips. “You’ve of course heard of the United Fruit Company?”

  “No, not until now.”

  “Them’s my bosses. Puerto Barrios is home base, but I spend my time scooting along the ports of Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Panama. I tell the home office what we need in terms of machinery and stuff like that—which one day I might explain to you. But mainly I oversee the shipment of bananas.”

  “And where are they shipped?”

  “Well, they mostly go to New Orleans where they’re weighed, packaged, and shipped to points north. But I do more than write numbers in a book. You see, the Company’s a pretty complicated network—we operate railroads, steamship lines, plantations, commissaries—really whole towns, thousands of people. I make sure things go smoothly at port. If there’s any trouble, I’m authorized to step in. Got my own telegraph system hooked up to this boat. Now I�
��m going to tell you something, Sammy. Nothing’s off the table for me—strike busting, bribery, paying someone off to quell an insurrection.” Lewis smacked his lips. “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do to keep the business operating … And you know, those kinds of things happen often …”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You better imagine. Let me tell you another little secret. Why just last year we—that is, the Company—paid the president of the Guatemalan Congress eighty thousand smackeroos to swing votes our way on a bill that gave us exclusive leasing rights on fifty miles of land along the Motagua River. Fifty miles! You can grow quite a few bananas there, let me tell you. Enough to feed the whole United States. It was some stunt. The home office is still buzzing about it. Eighty thousand smackers.”

  “And you had something to do with that?”

  “Ah, I can’t take all the credit, but I played my role. Old Sam the Banana Man sent me a special commendation for my help and a bonus to boot.”

  “But aren’t you afraid someone might try to blackmail you later?”

  Lewis slid his plate under Samuel’s untouched one. He stretched back, his black necklace glistening. “Afraid, Sammy? Why would I be afraid?” He exploded in laughter.

  “In Germany those things aren’t done. And if they are, well, no one would talk about them—certainly not to someone you just met.”

  “Hold your horses, Sammy boy. I’ve told you—you’re not in Germany anymore, not for one minute. Why, you aren’t even in the U.S. of A. This is a different world. Here, you grease a few palms—and I don’t mean trees! A few dollars here and there and all of sudden, things that couldn’t be done are done. Weakness gives the locals an excuse to walk all over you, and they will.” Lewis’s pupils contracted. “Let me tell you something: here you’ve got to be a fox, quick and sly! The natives are snappy, always looking for a way to get something from you. You’ve got to stay a step ahead of them. And then you have these busybody unionists—Communists by any other name—sneaking around, stirring up the locals. We’re always on our toes. If they plan a field meeting, we invite the pickers to a barbecue, stuff like that. Why, you’re a German! I’m sure you’ve had the same kind of problems back home. That Hitler guy, he knows how to deal with it.”