Probably. And this time they may succeed. Coming back here was insanity.
‘‘I don’t think so, sweetheart,’’ he said. ‘‘And Cletus can take care of himself.’’
‘‘They will, you know they will,’’ Alicia said, and he heard her voice starting to break. And then she ran into his arms again.
‘‘He’ll be all right, baby,’’ Peter said, stroking her hair, hoping he sounded far more confident than he felt.
‘‘I’ve been thinking,’’ Alicia said. ‘‘About Brazil.’’
‘‘That’s just not possible, sweetheart,’’ Peter said. ‘‘We’ve talked about that.’’
They had talked about it in her mother’s apartment immediately after the murder of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. She wept then, too. It was the second time he had seen her weep. The first time was the afternoon at Estancia Santa Catalina, when she became a woman and told him she was weeping with happiness.
In her mother’s apartment she wept with grief over the loss of el Coronel Frade. Understandably. For most of her life he had filled the role of father for her. But that wasn’t the only reason she wept. The primary cause of her misery was that Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, whom she loved, was a German, a German officer, and she could see nothing in their future but grief and misery and probably death.
She announced through her tears that the only hope they had was for him to desert, to cross the border into Brazil, and turn himself in. Brazil would treat him as a prisoner of war. Though this would separate them for now, he would live through the war; and after the war, they would be together.
He knew then that Alicia, who was as hardheaded as her mother, would not be satisfied with a ‘‘Sorry, that’s just not possible’’ answer. He had to tell her why it was not possible for him to desert. Not everything, of course, not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But some truths, and some major omissions.
He told her that he had been charged by his father with salvaging a portion of what was already becoming the ashes and rubble of Germany, so that the people who lived on the von Wachtstein estates in Pomerania would have enough to rebuild their lives once the war was over.
He told her that it was a matter of honor for his father and himself to do so; that they had an obligation, as von Wachtsteins, to do what they could for the several thousand people who depended on the von Wachtsteins to care for them, as von Wachtsteins had cared for their people for centuries.
He told her that he had brought a large amount of money with him—in U.S. dollars, Swiss francs, and English pounds—when he came to Argentina.
He told her that Cletus Frade had asked his father’s help in investing the money secretly, and that el Coronel Frade and his brother-in-law, Humberto Valdez Duarte, the banker, were helping him not only in that, but also in moving more money out of Germany through Spain and Switzerland into Argentina, and that he simply could not abandon the project.
He told her that if he deserted, his father would almost certainly be arrested and placed in a concentration camp.
He did not tell her that if it came to the attention of the Sicherheitsdienst of the SS that he and his father had been hiding money outside Germany, they would both be tried by a Nazi court, all the family lands and other property would be confiscated, and they would both be executed.
He did not tell her that Humberto Valdez Duarte had come to him as soon as he could after the murder of el Coronel Frade to tell him there was a major problem regarding the financial transactions: el Coronel Frade held all the records for these in the safe at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Unless they could get into the safe before it was opened by officials of the Argentine government, the transactions would come to light . . . and the records would be turned over to the Germans by German sympathizers.
He also did not tell her—or Humberto Valdez Duarte— that there was another document in el Coronel Frade’s safe, a letter from Generalleutnant von Wachtstein to his son. Nor did he tell them that if this letter came to light, Generalleutnant von Wachtstein would be put to death by garroting, unless he died first of torture during the SS interrogation.
Schloss Wachstein Pomern
Hansel—
I have just learned that you have reached Argentina safely, and thus it is time for this letter.
The greatest violation of the code of chivalry by which I, and you, and your brothers, and so many of the von Wachtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I decided that honor demands that I contribute what I can to such a course of action that I considered all of the ramifications, both spiritual and worldly; and that I am at peace with my decision.
A soldier’s duty is first to his God, then to his honor, and then to his country. The Allies in recent weeks have accused the German state of the commission of atrocities on such a scale as to defy description. I must tell you that information has come to me that has convinced me that the accusations are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.
The officer corps has failed its duty to Germany, not so much on the field of battle, but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. In exchange for privilege and "honors," the officer corps, myself included, has closed its eyes to the obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Honor, and indeed most of God’s Ten Commandments that have gone on. I accept my share of responsibility for this shameful behavior.
We both know the war is lost. When it is finally over, the Allies will, with right, demand a terrible retribution from Germany.
I see it as my duty as a soldier and a German to take whatever action is necessary to hasten the end of the war by the only possible means now available, eliminating the present head of the government. The soldiers who will die now, in battle, or in Russian prisoner-of-war camps will be as much victims of the officer corps’ failure to act as are the people the Nazis are slaughtering in concentration camps.
I put it to you, Hansel, that your allegiance should be no longer to the Luftwaffe, or the German State, but to Germany, and to the family, and to the people who have lived on our lands for so long.
In this connection, your first duty is to survive the war. Under no circumstances are you to return to Germany for any purpose until the war is over. Find now some place where you can hide safely if you are ordered to return.
Your second duty is to transfer the family funds from Switzerland to Argentina as quickly as possible. You have by now made contact with our friend in Argentina, and he will probably be able to be of help. In any event, make sure the funds are in some safe place. It would be better if they could be wisely invested, but the primary concern is to have them someplace where they will be safe from the Sicherheitsdienst until the war is over.
In the chaos which will occur in Germany when the war is finally over, the only hope our people will have, to keep them in their homes, indeed to keep them from starvation, and the only hope there will be for the future of the von Wachtstein family, and the estates, will be access to the money that I have placed in your care.
I hope, one day, to be able to go with you again to the village for a beer and a sausage. If that is not to be, I have confidence that God in his mercy will allow us one day to be all together again, your mother and your brothers, and you and I, in a better place.
I have taken great pride in you, Hansel.
Poppa
Keeping the letter had been insanity. Simple common sense dictated that he should have burned it immediately after reading it. But he was reluctant to do so, feeling that it was likely to be the last word he would ever have from his father. And further, el Coronel Frade encouraged him to keep it.
‘‘It will be important, Peter, after the war,’’ el Coronel said to him. ‘‘Not only personally for you, but to counter the argument that every German, every German officer, supported Hitler and the Nazis.’’
El Coronel Frade offered to keep the letter for him, and Peter gave it to him. And now there seemed to be a very goo
d chance that it would wind up in the wrong hands.
Peter was stroking Alicia’s hair with his left hand, while his right hand held her back. As he did this, he became aware of the warmth of her back, and then the pressure of her breasts against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, tenderly.
Christ, I love her. Which, under the circumstances, is probably the worst thing I have ever done to a woman.
He became aware of the warmth of her breath against his chest, and her fingers on his naked back, holding him close to her. And then that her breath had become uneven, shuddering, and that the muscles of her back were tensing.
He pushed his body away from hers as he felt the warmth of her belly through the towel.
She took her left hand from his back and raised it to his face. He looked down at her.
‘‘Christ!’’ he said.
She raised her face to his and kissed him hungrily. Her hand slipped off his face, down his chest, and there was a sudden violent movement as she jerked the towel off his body.
It was only when he heard the knock at the door, and Dora’s voice calling, ‘‘Señor! Señor!’’ that he vaguely remembered hearing the telephone ring.
‘‘What is it?’’ he called.
‘‘El teléfono, Señor. El Coronel Grüner, Señor.’’
Alicia was lying on him. He felt her breasts rubbing against his chest as he reached for the bedside telephone.
‘‘Guten Morgen, Herr Oberst.’’
‘‘I had the odd thought, von Wachtstein, that if you had nothing better to do today, you might wish to come to work. Loche will be there shortly.’’
The line went dead.
Peter looked at his watch. It was twenty past nine.
‘‘What is it?’’ Alicia asked.
‘‘Grüner. He’s sending his car for me.’’
‘‘What time is it?’’
‘‘Nine-twenty.’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘You must think . . .’’
‘‘I think I love you, is what I think,’’ he said, and squirmed out from under her and got out of bed.
The clothing he had so carefully laid out on the bed—a tweed jacket, gray flannel trousers, a stiffly starched white shirt, and a finely figured silk necktie—was in a heap on the floor, mixed with Alicia’s dress and lingerie.
He dressed quickly and sat on the edge of the bed to slip his feet into tan jodhpurs. Alicia moved on the bed. He felt her arms around him, and then she moved farther and he found her breast in front of his face. He kissed her nipple.
‘‘I want to wake up every morning for the rest of my life like this,’’ she said.
‘‘Liebchen!’’
‘‘God, I love you so much!’’
He disentangled himself and stood up.
‘‘I’ll call you later,’’ he said, and headed for the door. Then he stopped and went back to the bed, sat down, and put on the other jodhpur. As he did so, Alicia kissed the back of his neck.
There had always been a fantasy in Russia. Going back to civilization. Being warm. Bathing in unlimited hot water. Having all you wanted to eat, especially beef and fresh vegetables. Having a young beautiful naked sweet-smelling woman in your bed. Even more fantastic than that. Having a young beautiful naked sweet-smelling woman in your bed because she was in love with you, not because it was a feather in her hat to wave in the faces of her peers around the Hotel am Zoo, or the Adlon, for having bedded a wearer of the Knight’s Cross.
Well, you’ve had it all, Peter. The fantasy come true. But it’s not what you thought it would be like, is it?
Günther Loche was sitting in the living room
‘‘Guten Morgen, Herr Freiherr Major,’’ Loche said, standing up and coming almost to attention. He was a muscular, crew-cutted, blond twenty-two-year-old who was wearing a suit that seemed two sizes too small for him. An Ethnic German—he had been born in Argentina to German immigrant parents and was an Argentine citizen—he was employed by the German embassy as driver to the Military Attaché, Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner. Loche considered it a great honor to be of service to von Wachtstein, for Major von Wachtstein was everything he wanted to be. A very young major, a Luftwaffe fighter pilot, the recipient of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, and, from what he’d seen, a smashing success with the ladies.
‘‘Good morning, Loche,’’ Peter said.
‘‘I have taken the liberty of ordering coffee for the Herr Freiherr Major,’’ Günther said, pointing to a cup and saucer.
‘‘Thank you very much,’’ Peter said.
If you weren’t so stupid, Günther, I think I would loathe rather than pity you.
When Peter arrived at the Embassy, both Grüner and First Secretary Gradny-Sawz were waiting for him. Three days before, Grüner told him, a radio message from Berlin had alerted them that ‘‘a distinguished personage,’’ not further identified, had departed Berlin aboard a Condor aircraft of Lufthansa, the German national airline, for Buenos Aires, ‘‘for liaison with the Ambassador.’’ That morning there had been a second message, this one from the German Consulate in Cayenne in French Guiana, informing the Embassy that the Condor had departed Cayenne and could be expected to land in Buenos Aires at approximately 1500 hours.
‘‘Which causes all sorts of problems for me, of course,’’ Gradny-Sawz, who was in charge of protocol, said importantly. ‘‘Whoever our distinguished visitor is, he’s arriving in the midst of all the folderol the natives have laid on to bury Oberst Frade.’’
Gradny-Sawz was a tall, mildly handsome forty-five-year-old with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair. The hair, he believed, was his Hungarian heritage. As he frequently told people, flashing one of his charming smiles, he was a German with roots in Hungary who happened to be born in Ostmark. (When Austria was absorbed into Germany in the Anschluss of 1938, it officially became Ostmark.) He would usually manage to add that a Gradny-Sawz had been treading the marble-floored corridors of one embassy or another for almost two hundred years, first for the Austro-Hungarian Empire and now for the Thousand Year Reich.
‘‘Yes,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I can understand that.’’
‘‘So, Peter,’’ Gradny-Sawz said, ‘‘we’ve decided that you will meet the distinguished personage at the airfield. Using Oberst Grüner’s car and driver.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘In uniform, Peter,’’ Grüner said.
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘A complete uniform, meine lieber Hans,’’ Gradny-Sawz added. ‘‘Modesty is a fine thing, but distinguished personages should be reminded that some of us who are waging war on the diplomatic front have also seen combat service.’’
That was a reference to von Wachtstein’s Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, which he had received from the hands of the Führer himself, and Gradny-Sawz’s own Iron Cross First Class from service in the First World War.
Luftwaffe pilots and Wehrmacht infantry and panzer of ficers joked that the award of the Iron Cross First Class to well-born junior officers attached to the General Staff Corps was usually automatic if they had gone three months without contracting a social disease or making off with the mess funds.
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘Oberst Grüner will arrange suitable accommodations for Herr Distinguished Personage at the Alvear Plaza, to which you will carry him from the airport. I will suggest to the Ambassador that he entertain Herr Distinguished Personage at dinner, at which time it will be decided whether or not Herr Distinguished Personage will accompany us to the Edificio Libertador for the official visit. You, my lieber Hans, are invited to the latter. Wearing your Knight’s Cross. You are not invited to dine with the Ambassador.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘And I will stay here and try to coordinate everyone’s schedule with the natives.’’
‘‘Will you want me to send someone with you to handle the diplomatic pouches?
’’ Grüner asked. ‘‘Or can you handle both?’’
‘‘I can handle both, Sir.’’
‘‘You’d better be going then,’’ Grüner said. ‘‘I told Loche to bring my car around and wait for you.’’
‘‘Jawohl, Herr Oberst.’’
[TWO] Aboard Pan American-Grace Airlines Flight 171 The Ciudad de Natal Above Montevideo, Uruguay 1505 9 April 1943
There was a break in the cloud cover. Through it, 11,000 feet below, they could see Montevideo. But when they moved out over the River Plate toward Buenos Aires, the cloud cover closed in again, and there was nothing beneath them but what looked like an enormous mass of pure white cotton batting.
Buenos Aires was 105 miles away. At 165 miles indicated, call it forty minutes. Ten minutes out over the 125-mile -wide mouth of the River Plate, the First Officer looked at the Captain, and the Captain nodded.
They were flying a Martin 156, a forty-two-passenger flying boat powered by four 1,000-horsepower Wright Cyclone engines. The First Officer took the plane off autopilot, made the course correction, then retarded the throttles just a tad, worked the trim control, and then put it back on autopilot.
They would make a long, slow descent for the next twenty-five minutes, and with a little luck, break out of the cloud cover at, say, 4,000 feet, with Buenos Aires in sight.
Two minutes later, the Ciudad de Natal slipped into the clouds, and there was nothing to be seen through the windshield but an impenetrable gray mass.
Ten minutes after that, with the altimeter indicating 8,500 feet, they broke out of the cloud cover. Now they could see the River Plate beneath them, and here and there a dozen assorted vessels, small and large, some under sail, and some moving ahead of the lines of their wakes. Neither the Captain nor the First Officer could see whitecaps; their landing therefore would probably be smooth.
‘‘Tell the steward to pass the word we’ll land in twenty minutes,’’ the Captain ordered. Then he added, ‘‘I’ll be damned, look at that.’’
The First Officer looked where the Captain was pointing, out the window beside his head.
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