by Sharon Potts
A couple of cold raindrops splattered on Leli’s face. She dashed across the trolley tracks, watching out for speeding bicyclists and cars.
The café was on the corner of Potsdamerstrasse and Bellevuestrasse. Once through the heavy door, she was struck by the contrast from outside. The café was overheated and the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume made her feel vaguely nauseated. The low, painted ceiling, ornate chandeliers, and reverberating noise seemed to close in on her. Leli pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat as she squeezed between tightly spaced tables filled with too many people toward the back of the room. Wulfie always sat in the shadows away from the crowd.
He was already at a table partially hidden by a column, from which he had a view of anyone entering the café. He rose to greet her. He was wearing a long, outdated coat.
“Leli, my dear.” He kissed her hand.
“Wulfie.” She sat down next to him, and rested her umbrella against the column. On the table was a bottle of white wine and two glasses.
Wulfie patted his goatee. There was perspiration on his brow.
For a moment, with his handkerchief in front of his mouth and chin, Leli experienced a disturbing recognition that she couldn’t place. But then, he wiped his brow and whatever she had imagined seeing was gone.
“I hope it’s not too uncomfortably warm in here for you,” he said.
“I’ll be fine.” She put her gloves on the table and slipped off her coat. “It’s a dreadful day, isn’t it?”
“Sorry to drag you out in such weather.”
“You know I always love to see you.”
He poured the wine into her glass. “Liebfraumilch. Very refreshing. Have a little.”
She took a sip. People at the nearby tables were laughing, having a good time. She gave Wulfie a small smile, but she was thinking about her parents. Were they able to enjoy a glass of wine at a café?
Wulfie seemed to be studying her, but a reflection in his glasses kept her from seeing his eyes.
“Is everything all right, my dear?”
“It’s just the weather. It’s made me bad tempered.” She reached into her purse for her cigarette case, then remembered Wulfie didn’t like her to smoke, so she snapped her purse closed.
“Some bad news from home?” he asked.
Had he seen the letter folded in her purse? “My mother wrote me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I’m worried. My father—” She took another sip of wine, then put the glass down.
He rested his warm hand over hers. “Tell me, my dear. Perhaps I can help.”
Tell no one your secret.
She wanted so much to trust him.
Tell no one your secret.
She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m sure it’s nothing. My father’s caught a cold, that’s all. But when I can’t see for myself how he is, I blow things up in my mind. Imagine the worst.”
“Of course. That’s natural.” He patted her hand and leaned back against his chair. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
She took another sip of wine, wishing it would quell the nausea she was feeling. Too hot. Too smoky. The air stank of frying oil and kraut.
Several Wehrmacht soldiers came into the café, strutting and blustering with their usual arrogance. A group of customers near them paid their check and quickly left.
Leli realized she was tapping her fingertips against the tabletop. She balled up her hand and put it in her lap. “Wulfie?”
“What is it, my dear?”
She had to talk to someone. Trust someone. “Doesn’t it make you angry?”
“What?”
She’d feel him out carefully. “What’s happening in Austria.”
“How do you mean?” He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.
“You’re Austrian. How can you stand what they’re doing to us?”
“They?” He raised an eyebrow as he folded his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “Us?”
“The Nazis. The Anschluss. Doesn’t it bother you to see our country taken over by them?”
“What bothers me, my dear Leli, are the French, the British, the Americans. What bothers me is what they have done to our German dignity.” He sat straighter in his chair and pushed a lock of hair away from his damp forehead. “They’ve broken us into pieces, thinking that will destroy our spirit. But if we behave like scared dogs, they’ll only keep kicking us.”
“But the Nazis are no better. Look how they’re taking away innocent people’s rights.”
“Innocent people? You mean those who try to control us through financial and media manipulation? Or the Communists who want to eradicate our culture and heritage?”
“I’m talking about innocent people, Wulfie. Ordinary people. People who have nothing to do with politics.” She heard her voice quivering. “People who just want to live their lives, but aren’t allowed to.”
Altwulf took a deep breath. His face relaxed. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Oh, my dear Leli, are there some people you’re worried about? Jews perhaps?”
Tell no one. “No,” she said.
“It’s all right. Everyone knows a Jew. A respected doctor, an inspiring teacher.”
“I said I don’t know any Jews.”
He nodded, his face thoughtful. “I suppose you’re disturbed about some of the harsh methods you’ve heard are being used to help restore our country’s dignity. I understand. I don’t blame you for being worried. But many times extreme actions are necessary in order to swing the pendulum back where it belongs. We must eradicate the corruption we’ve grown accustomed to in order to make room for the pure.”
“But it’s not just the corrupt that are targeted. Ordinary people’s lives are being ruined. Good people.”
He shook his head. “You’re naïve, Leli. Look how our society has deteriorated—how our cultural life has retrogressed over the last twenty years. Everywhere we find the presence of germs, which give rise to protuberant growths that must sooner or later bring about the ruin of our culture.” His hand tightened around the grip of his walking stick. “We must find a way to bring that morbid process to a halt.”
What germs? What protuberant growths? He was talking abstractions while her parents were hurting, while her brother was missing. The heat made her dizzy. She wanted to go home. Rest her head on the embroidered pillow her mother had given her, kiss the lace doilies. She missed her parents more than she ever would have believed possible.
“My dear Leli. It was a bad idea coming here on such an unpleasant day. Graeber has the car nearby. We’ll give you a lift home.”
“Thank you. I think that would be best.” She put on her coat and gloves while Wulfie paid the check. He took her arm, guiding her between the tables of noisy, gesturing people and out of the café.
It was raining large cold drops when they got outside, but she was too dazed to open her umbrella. As much as she cared for Wulfie, his outburst frightened her. She would never be able to risk opening her heart to him and telling him the truth.
The raindrops hit her cheeks. They reminded her of her mother’s tears when she kissed her goodbye.
40
Javier sat at the desk in the dim office, the blinds closed behind him. He could hear street traffic from his rented third-floor space—the air brakes of a truck, honking, the siren of an emergency vehicle. He never played his beautiful Beethoven in this office he’d established as a front, not allowing anything personal about himself to be observed by clients who came by.
He wondered when the granddaughter would call. The old woman should have opened the package by now. Would she react? He was almost certain she would. And then, he’d be able to take things up to the next level.
He had spent the last couple of hours learning what he could about the granddaughter. Kali Sullivan had graduated from Vassar College with a degree in art history and currently worked as a freelance illustrator of children’s books. She married a Jew named Seth
Miller a little over a year ago. But how involved was this husband with his wife and her grandmother? Javier didn’t relish the prospect of a layer of interference with his plans, but Kali had made no mention of him earlier and didn’t wear a wedding ring.
Javier took a puff on his cigarette as he thought about her full lips, the way her breasts rose and fell.
He checked his phone to be sure the ringtone was turned up. Not much more to do but wait.
He had dropped off the package a short while ago and had watched from the bushes as the young woman stooped over, picked up the box with the doilies, then took it inside. He’d lingered, hoping that she would reappear. But she hadn’t.
He was desperate to see her again. To study her mannerisms and look for other similarities to her grandfather.
A granddaughter. Out of the blue, Javier’s mission had the potential to move into an entirely new dimension. Of course, the painting would still be a symbol and an inspiration, but as an irrefutable link between generations, it would bring hope and vitality to the Movement.
Yes. The potential was truly mind-boggling.
His hand rested on the mouse and with his forefinger, he clicked on the website where at one time he’d been practically a god, until his views had been declared “too extreme,” according to the milquetoast administrator who had taken away Javier’s power in the online organization. At first, Javier had been incensed. Too extreme? How dare these false prophets fling accusations at him? They were the ones who had kidnapped and corrupted the original manifesto.
But he—he was Javier Guzman, the visionary who had been instrumental in bringing the historic organization’s website into cutting-edge readiness, expanding its reach to almost a million devoted acolytes around the world. It was Javier who had redesigned the site to consolidate and administer the activity of dozens of forums, placing cookies and beacons with which to track participants and amass a database for future use.
But Javier had become persona non grata and only had access to view the website like any of the other plebeians.
Now, as he scanned the latest posts, he felt sadness rather than the fury he’d experienced when he was first excommunicated. Posts about Jennifer Lopez, dumb fashion trends, what’s the best wireless router. Was this what the organization had come to? A shopping club? A fan magazine? No wonder the Movement was viewed with disgust and disdain.
Fortunately, Javier had the wherewithal and technical savvy to create his own website, Hailstorm, which was still covered by an “Under Construction” screen but ready to go live. He went to it now. Javier had retained for himself the database of hundreds of thousands of present-day followers of the corrupted neo-Nazism. But soon Javier would return them to the core values that had been behind one of the greatest crusades of all times. He would show them the goodness and purity of National Socialism and the German people so they could be proud and hold their heads high, just as his father should have been able to do.
Just as he hoped his own son would once he understood the truth.
Javier was startled by the ring of his cell phone.
He picked up in the midst of the first ring. “Javier Guzman.”
“Dr. Guzman,” a clear, youngish female voice said. “This is Lillian Campbell’s granddaughter. You were at my grandmother’s house earlier today.”
Javier tried to keep his voice neutral, though his heart was beating wildly. “Of course. How can I help you?”
“You mentioned that you have some programs that might benefit stroke victims and I wanted to learn more about them.”
“I see. Have you discussed my services with your grandmother?”
“No. Actually, she’s doing rather poorly. Sleeping a lot, behaving oddly.”
“Oddly how?”
“I’d have to say she’s being a bit paranoid.”
“Not unusual.”
“Right. That’s what you said earlier. Anyway, I wanted to see if there was some kind of therapy or program you’d recommend.”
Stay cool, he told himself. Just stay cool. He checked his watch. It was a little after three. “I suggest you and I meet, Miss Campbell.”
“That’s fine. It’s Kali.”
“Given your grandmother’s paranoia, Kali, I don’t think I should come to her house. Perhaps it would be best for us to meet at my office.”
“Okay, but I’ll have to make arrangements for someone to watch her while I’m gone. When is it convenient for you?”
“I should be able to fit you in later this afternoon, perhaps around five.”
“That would be great.” She sounded relieved. “I just need to see if a neighbor can come by. Can I call you back?”
“Certainly.”
He closed his phone. His heart was still pounding. Soon she’d be here. He’d have to play this carefully. There was still the painting to be located and the grandmother to be dealt with.
He thought about Vati sniffing the inner band of her hat, running his finger over the felt brim.
When I find her, I will kill her.
But Javier had very different plans for the granddaughter.
41
Kali found a parking spot in the municipal lot near the address Javier Guzman had given her. His office was in a low-rise office building between Lincoln Road and the new City Hall. She stepped into the cobalt-blue, mosaic-tiled lobby with curved glass-block walls. On another day, she might have stopped to admire the art deco style, but such things had lost importance for her.
It was just before five and people were coming out of the elevator. A well-dressed woman glanced at Kali’s paint-spattered sneakers, faded denim leggings, and cotton blouse, puckered from last night’s rainstorm. Kali looked a mess, but other than old sweat clothes, this was the only outfit she had at her grandmother’s.
The elevator emptied out and Kali stepped in. She had told her grandmother she needed to go home to pick up some things and asked if it would be okay if Neil stayed with her. Kali was surprised when her grandmother readily agreed.
The elevator seemed to take forever to get to the third floor. It finally stopped and Kali got out and went down the musty-smelling hallway to the office number on Guzman’s business card. The plaque beside the door said GOLDEN YEARS ENHANCEMENT, PC. SPECIALIZING IN THE SOCIAL, PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELL-BEING OF THE SENIOR COMMUNITY. Javier Guzman’s name was beneath, complete with its long tail of certifications. Kali tried the doorknob. Locked. They’d agreed to meet at around five; was he not here?
She knocked on the frosted-glass window on the upper half of the door and saw a shadow moving toward her from inside.
The door opened. Kali started at the sight of the large, bald man with pale green eyes. He had a teardrop-shaped discoloration in the iris of his right eye. Without his dark sunglasses, it took her a second to realize this was the man who’d been at her grandmother’s house earlier.
“Please come in,” Javier Guzman said. He wore a pressed long-sleeved cornflower-blue shirt tucked into white linen slacks and his shiny scalp gleamed as though freshly polished.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Guzman.”
“My pleasure.”
Kali stepped inside, reassured by the orderly arrangement of Danish-modern furniture in the reception area. Magazines were all put away on a wall rack and the glass coffee table had a small dish of hard candies and no fingerprints. She caught a few magazine titles— AARP, Retirement Living, Golden Years Travel. She liked the no-nonsense feel of the office and the considerate touches. She’d made the right decision to come here. Guzman seemed like the kind of person who could provide order to her grandmother.
“May I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Water? A soda?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Kali followed Javier into a small, poorly lighted office and noticed the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. She controlled the impulse to gag. Secondhand smoke was almost as bad as smoking. She hoped Guzman wouldn’t light up while she was here.
Kali sat down and glanced up. There were overhead fluorescent fixtures set in old-fashioned acoustic tiles. Why didn’t Guzman turn them on? Maybe he had some kind of eye condition. That would explain the sunglasses earlier.
Guzman leaned back in his chair. “I know you’re eager to get back to your grandmother, so why don’t you bring me up to speed?”
She was almost certain that he’d had a Spanish accent earlier, but now his deep voice sounded like a radio announcer’s, devoid of any accent.
Where to begin? Kali rubbed one of her fingernails. “Well, as you know, my grandmother had a small stroke last Monday. She has some weakness on her left side, so she’s limited in getting around and has been staying upstairs in her room. I think she’s a bit frustrated.”
“You mentioned you’re her primary caregiver; who else is helping out?”
“There’s just me.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re both dead.”
His forehead went up, the creases converging with his bald scalp like a walrus. “Brothers or sisters?”
“I’m an only child.”
“I see.” He sat forward in his chair and rested his folded hands on his desk. There was a yellow stain on the top digit of his middle finger. “That’s quite a burden on your shoulders. Isn’t there anyone who can provide a little relief? An aunt? An uncle?”
“No. There’s no one. But that’s not why I’m here, Dr. Guzman. I can manage. I’m worried about my grandmother.”
“Yes. You said that on the phone. Tell me what’s happening. You mentioned she’s sleeping a great deal and exhibiting paranoia.”