The Hunt (aka 27)

by William Diehl

  He went back inside and sat down.

  "Hope the smoke doesn't bother you."

  "Not a bit, not a bit."

  "I've got a hangover, Professor. It may be terminal."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "That's okay. I don't want you to think I'm unfriendly."

  "Not at all."

  They sat in silence for a minute or two, Keegan leaning back against the wooden slats with his eyes closed, smoking, the professor sitting uncomfortably, staring at the floor.

  Now what's he going to do? Make his play or call the game? Keegan didn't have to wait long to find out.

  "I am in charge of a small bureau. It comes under the Ministry of Information, although I pretty much am left alone. To my own devices, so to speak."

  "Uh huh."

  "Mainly I keep the Führer up to date on what's happening in the world. Social notes, political notes, that sort of thing. Attitudes, he's very interested in attitudes. But . . . he is so busy . . . he doesn't have time to keep up with everything. You understand?"

  "Kind of like . . . social intelligence."

  "Ja, that's very good. Very good. For instance, we don't think the American people understand how devastating the peace treaty was to the Germans. Do you think the peace at Versailles was fair? An honorable peace?"

  What the hell does he want? Keegan was tired of playing games. He leaned forward again, staring through the steam, still smiling. An honorable peace? he thought.

  They came home on a French liner, all smelling of linoleum and brass polish, with an arrogant staff and food that was too rich and sometimes spoiled. It took too long and many of the men were sick along the way, lining up along the rail, puking away from the wind in solitary agony. Along with this sweeping sense of malaise and mal de mer was a sense of apprehension, the hangover of battle. As much as they despised the war, there was that side of it that relieved them of responsibility, that directed life for them; when they got up, what they ate, what they did, where they went, all laid out by the omnipotent "they" that ruled their being from taps to reveille. "They" are sending us to the front today; "they" are ordering us to charge; "they" are the dictators of our daily lives.

  Nobody really knew who "they" were, it was a collective noun that encompassed the nameless, faceless, voiceless architects of their victory. Soldiers had only to respond. To march, fight, die, lie wounded in hospitals or, if lucky, to emerge unscathed except for the scars that all war leaves on the mind and soul and which, for now at least, they could ignore because these were the wounds that did not bleed, did not blind or cripple or sterilize their victims. That pain would come later, in nightmares and memories.

  And so they were flush with victory and apprehensive of peace. Now they would once again assume responsibility for their own lives, to feed and clothe themselves, to find jobs, mend relationships, to look for love to replace the hate which is the driving force of all men at arms.

  In his secret heart, Keegan felt he had been seduced by the victory marches and the speeches and the posters of an angry godlike Uncle Sam pointing his finger at him and demanding, "I want you. " Keegan had surrendered his youth to the Marines and though he never doubted the urgency of the war or the need for victory, he harbored a resentment that somehow he had been betrayed, not by the politics that had drawn him to Château- Thierry and Belleau Wood as much as by the lie that all war is glory and all victory is sweet. When the horns stopped blaring, the wind swept the confetti into the sewers and the music died away, he ultimately perceived victory as a fat prize shared only by politicians and profiteers who quickly shunned those whose blood served up that gluttoned calf.

  So on a cold December morning, he and Jocko Nayles huddled against the railing of the ship, each searching for that symbol which most represented home, a skyline, a statue in the harbor, a bridge spire reaching into the fog.

  "Whatcha gonna do?" Nayles asked Keegan.

  "I don't know, I've got a piece of this bar, " Keegan answered.

  "Got it made, huh?"

  He was nineteen and did not know whether he had it made or not. He knew only that tending bar and listening to the ward heelers and muckrakers sniping at each other and listening to his uncle reading the morning headlines and waking to the smell of stale beer and rancid cigar smoke was not what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

  "I guess, " he answered. "How about you?"

  "Worked on the docks. Guess m'job'll still be there. "

  "Does it . . . seem kind of scary to you? Going home, I mean?"

  "Yeah. You too, huh?"

  "Yeah. "

  "Well, it'll all come out in the wash. We oughta keep in touch . . . y'know, after all this. "

  "Sure. "

  But after that morning and the parade down Fifth Avenue in their pegged breeches, puttees and campaign hats and carrying empty guns through the ribbons of paper and confetti and the ardent joy of the crowd, they had been separated in the crowd and Keegan would not see Jocko Nayles again for two years.

  "There's nothing honorable about war or peace," Keegan told the professor bluntly.

  "Rather cynical, isn't it?" Vierhaus answered.

  "Oh I don't think cynical nearly covers it. They haven't invented a word that describes my feelings on the subject."

  Keegan poured another bucket of water over the rocks and another cloud of steam hissed into the room.

  "Butchery and boundaries, that's what war's about," he said quietly, without passion, anger or malice, still smiling. "There's nothing good or decent or honorable about it. Nothing to be proud of. Nothing heroic or proper. War is the religion of rich men and politicians. It's their church. What it is, Professor, is a disgusting enterprise dedicated to the destruction of the young by a bunch of vindictive, impotent, scabby old men who envy youth."

  He stopped for a moment to take a drag on his cigarette. Then still smiling, he went on:

  "When a war ends, what we ought to do, we ought to turn the bastards on both sides over to all the blind, legless, armless, insane leftovers they created. They ought to be flayed, skinned alive and burned on the steps of the banks where their profits are stored."

  He stopped, took another drag and carefully ground the cigarette out on the hot coals.

  "Then we should bury them together in common lye pits, strike their names from all human records and monuments and obliterate the sons of bitches from history. And that's better than they deserve."

  Vierhaus was somewhat stunned by Keegan's response, not so much by the severity of his opinion as his nonchalance.

  "Well," the professor stammered, "you certainly seem to have given it some thought. That's an impassioned viewpoint."

  "Nothing passionate about it, Herr Professor, they don't make soap strong enough to wash away the stink of death or whiskey strong enough to wash out the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth. It's a foul, stinking, disgusting business. Now if you'll excuse me, this hangover's so bad I may be hospitalized before the day is out."

  "My sympathies."

  "Danke."

  "And my sincerest apologies."

  "No apologies necessary. Anyway, it's all politics."

  "I see. Am I to assume you have the same dire attitude about politics as you do about warfare, then?"

  "I have no attitude at all about it."

  "But the Jew, Roosenfeldt, seems to be doing a respectable job on your home front."

  Keegan laughed, although even a chuckle was painful to his throbbing head. "It's Roosevelt. And he isn't Jewish."

  "Really? I had heard otherwise."

  "Well, either you heard wrong or somebody's pulling your leg."

  "Pulling my leg?"

  "An American expression. It means they are making a joke at your expense. Personally I don't give a damn what anybody says about him, but I hate to hear a silly lie like that perpetuated by an intelligent person like yourself."

  "Danke. I guess I should take that as a compliment."

  "It was meant as one.
"

  "I'm sorry you are indisposed. I love to discuss issues with Americans. Perhaps when you are feeling better we could have lunch."

  "I'd love to have lunch with you someday but you've probably heard the extent of my opinion about everything," Keegan answered.

  "Oh, I doubt it, a man with your education and experience."

  "What do you know about my education and experience, Professor? We just met five minutes ago."

  "Uh, yes, that's true. Uh, may I be . . . honest with you, Herr Keegan?"

  "That would be refreshing."

  "I know about you. Your war record, your success in business. I did seek you out. Nothing mysterious about it, really. I thought perhaps we might talk about something which could be mutually beneficial."

  "That's what I like, Professor. In my country we have a saying, One hand washes the other.' "

  "That's very good. That says it precisely. I will be out of the city for a few days. Perhaps when I come back I can, how do you Americans say it? Give you a ring?"

  Keegan stared at the professor for a moment, a hard stare, then he nodded slowly. "Why don't you do that. When you get back, give me a ring."

  Vanessa almost missed her train.

  "One more time," she suggested when he returned from the steam room. "It may be years before we see each other again."

  They had lost track of the time.

  She pulled down the window of her compartment and kissed him.

  "You may be the Bootlegger to the Kings to them," she said with a laugh, "but you're my white knight."

  As the train started to roll out she reached up suddenly, whipped off her hat and threw it to him.

  "My favor," she said brightly. "Wear it proudly in battle."

  He watched as the big steam engine lumbered out of the great domed train station, then he walked the several blocks back to the hotel. He was surprised to realize he was going to miss her. Not exactly for her company, more for her potential. It was a waste, he thought. Vanessa would go home, finish college, get married by arrangement, have two-and-two-thirds children and be dead of boredom by the time she was fifty.

  When he got back to the hotel he suddenly changed his mind and took a cab to Der Schwarze Stier Verein.

  The club was virtually empty except for the cleanup people. It smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. He went to the back and took the stairs to the second floor. Conrad Weil lived in an apartment that occupied the front side of the building, adjacent to the windowless Gold Gate club. His knock on the door was answered by Weil's valet, an elderly man who regarded everyone and everything with dour suspicion.

  "I'll see if Herr Weil is in," he consented grudgingly.

  The apartment was a model of art deco, done in shades of blue and green. There was not a sharp corner on a table or chair in the living room. Fluted lamps cast spots of light on the ceiling, bathing the entire room in indirect light; the bar in one corner was smoked glass and lit from below. A large picture window overlooked downtown Berlin.

  In a few moments Weil entered the room dressed in dark pants and a red silk smoking jacket. Weil would be elegant in the shower, thought Keegan.

  "Well, well, so you finally came by for a visit," Weil said with a smile.

  "Sorry I didn't call first," Keegan said. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing."

  "Whatever reason, I'm delighted. How about a brandy? It's Napoleon, the dust is still on the bottle."

  "Why not?"

  "So, is this a social call or business?" Weil asked as he poured them each a generous snifter. His hawklike features seemed ominous in the reflection of the lights from the bar.

  "I need the address of the singer, Jenny Gould."

  "What for?"

  "What do you think for? I'm going to sue her for not taking requests."

  Weil clicked his tongue. "I never get used to your American sarcasm," he said. "Are you smitten with her, Francis?"

  "I don't know, Conrad, that's what I expect to find out. I thought maybe she'd be here rehearsing."

  "She does not work here anymore."

  "What!"

  "My customers were complaining."

  "About what?"

  "They did not like her singing. Or more precisely, they did not like the songs she was singing."

  "You mean the brownshirt assholes with the crooked crosses on their sleeves?"

  "Unfortunately, the SA thugs are my customers. We had a scene here last night. She was singing a song, an American Depression song, ‘Brother Can You Spare a Dime,' I believe it is called. There was a lot of restlessness in the crowd, then they started yelling at her to sing a German song. She kept going. Then from the crowd someone yelled, Jude! And somebody else joined in. Then one of the brownshirts stood up and screamed Heil Hitler and another joined and another until the whole room was on its feet. I dimmed the lights and got her offstage. Then the mob began singing ‘Horst Wessel' and suddenly my beer hall became a Nazi rally. The point is, my friend, Jenny Gould is not even Jewish."

  "And you fired her anyway, as good as she is?"

  "Good has nothing to do with it. You think that bunch knows what good is?"

  "Why the hell did you hire her in the first place?"

  "An error in judgment. I thought she might give the place some class. But if she had continued here I would have had a riot on my hands every night. All someone in the crowd has to do is yell ‘Jude' to create a riot."

  "Whether it's true or not?"

  "Truth is immaterial, dear Francis. In Germany, it has become the ultimate insult. And before you get too hot under the collar, Ire, I found her another job making the same money."

  "Where?"

  "A few blocks away, at the Kit Kat Club. It is more suited to her singing anyway. A very sophisticated audience goes there to hear American jazz. There are a lot of American tourists. At the Kit Kat there will be no trouble. Brownshirts do not frequent it."

  "It's a dive!" Keegan said sourly.

  "Ja, but a very nice dive. You think the Stier is a symphony hall?"

  "All this because they accuse her of being Jewish," Keegan said, shaking his head.

  "Come, come, Francis, you know it is a sin to be a Jew in Germany nowadays. Or a Communist, a Social Democrat, a Gypsy or an artist. Any minority, anyone who disagrees. There is no such thing as dissent. I could be arrested for even talking about this. How have you managed to ignore it?"

  "I didn't ignore it, it wasn't any of my business before."

  "Ah, and now suddenly you make it your business, ja?"

  "I'm only interested in the girl."

  Conrad shook his head. He sat beside Keegan on the sofa, legs crossed and his snifter poised on one knee. He leaned close to Keegan, speaking almost in a whisper.

  "You are a charming rascal, Francis. Here suddenly you are having an attack of conscience over this young woman. Suddenly you are outraged, ja?

  "That's right, suddenly I'm outraged."

  "Don't you understand, my friend, their outrage is far greater than yours. Theirs is inspired hate. Acceptable hate. Racism is the accepted order of things here. In Germany it is unpopular not to hate. Not to hate is nonconformity. We are a closed society and conformity is required. Our leaders repeat the same lies over and over and over until they become a kind of national truth."

  Conrad stood up, wandering around the room as he spoke.

  "You know what I did before I became a . . ." he waved his hand around the room, "saloon keeper? Hmm? I was a schoolteacher. Ja, a teacher of history at the University in Heidelberg. I quit because a teacher by nature is a nonconformist, a rebellious creature, likely to disagree simply to stimulate an argument. The war made that impossible."

  "What did the war have to do with it?"

  " ‘I fear the real danger in war is that conformity becomes the only virtue and those who refuse to conform will pay the penalty.' Do you know who said that?"

  "Nope."

  "Your own Woodrow Wilson, on the same day he urged your Reichst
ag to declare war on Germany. He understood that conformity is essential during a war because patriotism demands conformity and since conservatives are usually conformists, it follows that you must be conservative to be patriotic. Say it enough, it becomes the truth."

  "I can't believe the whole country buys that. Hitler won't last."

  "You are wrong, Francis, Hitler will last because he is at war already." Conrad tapped his head as he said it. "He burns books if the ideas do not conform to his, closes newspapers down if they disagree with him, attacks artists because they are unreliable, because they think. And the irony is that it is all done in the name of freedom and patriotism. Understand this, to be a German today, you must be a fascist, otherwise you are a traitor. To be a fascist you must hate Jews. What do you do when you hate something? Eh? You get rid of it."

  "And you support this?" Keegan said.

  "Come, come, my friend, why so surprised?" Weil held his hands out at his sides. "Have I ever in the year or so we have been friends, have I ever shown you any pretenses? I am not a hero or a revolutionary. I am a devout coward. I run the most degenerate saloon in Europe. I have become rich pandering to the basest of human frailties. Do I think it is right, what Hitler is doing? Nein. Do I oppose it? Nein. Do I support this Nazi party?" He shrugged. "I am like a blade of grass, I sway with the winds of the times. For that reason, I say save yourself a lot of grief, forget this girl. Sooner or later she will have trouble again. It is the way of things."

  "I don't think I want to do that."

  "You have heard her sing once, met her for thirty seconds, you do not even know where she lives. And already you cannot tear yourself away from her."

  "Very funny."

  "But true."

  "I don't want anybody telling me what I can and can't do."

  Conrad shrugged. "Very altruistic. Unfortunately, not very practical in Germany these days."

  "What's her address, Conrad?"

  Weil heaved a sigh. "She lives at 236 Albertstrasse and she starts tonight at the Kit Kat. Two shows, nine and eleven."

  "Thanks," Keegan said and, polishing off the brandy in the snifter, stood up.