Liberated

by Steve Anderson

  “What is it?”

  “Stupid! I am stupid. I tell myself, I only smoke half yet I almost smoke it all! So stupid. My wife, she gets so angry for such things.” The Czech stood on one leg and pressed the cigarette’s lit end to the sole of his boot. “She is all I have, my Hana, she is all I have now.”

  I held out two Lucky Strikes. “Here, that’ll make your gal happy.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you can. Tell you what, you heading down the hill? I’m going that way. You could tell me about your work, how you find things here in Heimgau, all of it.” I patted my front pocket. “I have whiskey to keep us warm.”

  “Whiskey?” The Czech placed a hand at his heart. “Ah, I couldn’t.”

  We began our stroll down the hill, a full moon following us up above the branches.

  The Czech walked fast to keep up. “I am a Czech-German refugee, from near Pilsen. You know Pilsen?” I nodded. “I’m just lucky they found me.”

  That made me slow a few paces. Don’t rush this, Harry. “So it worked out nicely for you.”

  “Oh, yes. The Americans’ Military Government is very thorough, even more than the Germans. All refugees must register a domicile, along with a profession. But you know all that. That’s probably how they found you, too.”

  “Sure is.” I handed the Czech the flask. He walked along with it.

  “The baron mayor gave me the tryout,” the Czech said. “He was very precise. He told me, build a little statue of the Virgin Mary from scratch, but make it look very old, and of gold, and slightly smoke-damaged. I got right to it. Carved the mold myself, poured the plaster, painted with faded tones. Much effort. Then I weathered her: I sanded the sharpest edges, applied a special wash and—this is key—I put her in a smoker for a whole day, so the finish cracks just so.” He smiled.

  “Nice touch. Got you the job?”

  “Oh, yes. I was told their major kept my Maria himself.”

  “That’s quite a compliment.”

  We strode step in step as if promenading, sipping the whiskey.

  “I’m amazed at the mock artifacts we produce,” the Czech said. “Though I must admit, I’ve never witnessed a twenty-four-hour operation. The skill level of our artisans is quite admirable.”

  “Yes. They all deserve a drink. Here’s to ‘em.”

  “Here is to them, sir.” The Czech drank, wiped his mouth. “There’s this one old Heimgau craftsman, fills furniture orders. Copies antique chairs, buffets, saw him do an Empire desk styled after Napoleon’s own. Another Heimgauer, he specializes in porcelains.”

  I halted, the moon hiding behind a tree trunk. “Figurines?”

  “Right,” the Czech said, waiting for me and my flask to catch up. “In the Meissen fashion. Courtiers, nymphs, harlequins, valuable pieces, surely, though not my favorite.” I let the Czech hold the flask again. “We’re from all over, aren’t we?” he went on. “There’s that Pole who tarnishes silver and another replicates weapons, and this man-and-wife team from Danzig who do obscure paintings. Know them?” I nodded. “Monk from Austria reproduces medieval texts, aye, and he’s a master, that one.” Another nod.

  I was almost feeling sorry for the little guy. If I was Major Membre or the baron in disguise, my talkative Czech would already be sent packing if not digging his own grave right now. And if his Hana could hear him? I shuddered to think it.

  “So, you feel you’re rewarded well enough?” I said.

  The Czech eyed me. “You’re not a Socialist, are you? A labor man? We’re told to stay away from the likes of you.”

  I eyed him back. “You’re not, are you?”

  The Czech looked away. “How could I admit something like that? The baron and the major are paying so well.”

  “Indeed. So? You’re getting by.”

  “I’m rewarded. We craftsmen get something, no matter the product. But we’re told it will get better for us. Some who’ve been here from the start have been promised confiscated houses. You have a house, I bet.” I nodded, sure. “I look forward to one of those. Hana and I, we share a musty cellar, with three other families.”

  “See anything else? Jobs, say, of a different nature?”

  “Some claim Fragebogen and other documents are falsified. I don’t want to know of it.”

  “Of course not. Me, I always wondered what all the others do, all those less-skilled workers around.”

  “The scrubs and drunks? The apprentices? What else? They hammer together the wooden crates, the palettes. Gigantic things, those. But then the Americans have such grand trucks and trains and airplanes. Now that’s the way to haul the stuff out, I say.”

  “It sure is. It’s impressive.”

  We strode on, arms swinging. I shook the flask—our whiskey was running low. The Czech grew quiet as we walked on. At the bottom of the hill, we entered the yellow cast of a streetlight.

  The Czech halted, flat-footed. He peered at me in the light. Looking down, he had seen my American brogues and olive-drab Army trousers.

  “What’s the matter, friend?” I said.

  “You’re not an artist? What are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  The Czech was shaking his head like he had ants in his hair. He started to run.

  “My friend, listen, that’s really not a good idea.”

  The Czech stopped. Turned. He made his way back, his head low and his face ashen.

  I offered a handshake, in which I left two more Luckies. I added a smile. “I thank you for our little talk. I really do. And you shouldn’t worry yourself over it.”

  “I shouldn’t?” The Czech spoke to the ground, fidgeting with his fingers.

  “No. You’re new. You didn’t know. Here’s the thing you should know: You might see me around. And when you do, remember that you never saw me up here. And I never saw you.” The Czech nodded as I spoke. I handed him the flask. He drank with both hands. Handed back the flask, empty. “All right? Good man. Look, there will be no interrogation later. That’s what I want you to know. Just as long as you never, ever, never, tell anyone what you told me, and that means even your dear Hana.”

  “No. Never, ever. Not even my dear Hana.”

  “Good. And remember, if you see me on the street? Never saw me. All right? Now go.”

  The Czech nodded again. “Never saw you,” he said and bolted into the darkness.

  I slogged my way back across Old Town, my hands deep in my pockets. I recalled what my father, adapting General Clausewitz’s famous axiom, had said about crooked businessmen: “Fraud is simply a continuation of trade by other means.”

  Everyone was a crook or a lug or a fool. My fine billet house, I had learned, had last belonged to our absconded brown priest’s dead Nazi brother, sent to fight on the crumbling East Prussian Front in the final months. Good riddance. All the more reason I should take over the place. I marched inside and upstairs to the study. I grabbed the baron’s Meissen jester and was about to heave it against a wall. Instead, I took a careful look at the thing. The porcelain shone and glistened like the deepest pearl. Those tiny buttons forming perfect little orbs. Such elegant detail. No, this one was no fake. This one had come from before, I told myself. I set my jester back on its shelf.

  It seemed the major just couldn’t get enough of a good thing, so much so that he was willing to risk it all just to keep on getting it. It sounded like his style. The only thing I didn’t understand was, what exactly did any of this have to do with those torture-murders?

  I had to be patient, and trust that it was all coming together. Major Membre was the one digging himself the hole now, and I wouldn’t be the sorry shamus much longer.

  And with that thought I went to bed, sleeping better than I had in weeks.

  Sixteen

  FOUR DAYS LATER I WAS HUNKERED down at my villa, waiting and pining and starting to wonder just how patient I would have to be. It was a Saturday afternoon. June had brought perfect summer days. I lay slung in a hammock
I’d made from camouflage netting. I swung in the hammock hoping, once again, to stave off the doubt plaguing me. It had been days since I sent that letter to Colonel Spanner, but I’d heard nothing from him. It would’ve taken no time for the colonel to dash off a telegraph, memo, letter or even a runner with a note, even if only to say he appreciated my concern and would get back to me at the earliest. And yet, nothing? What could it mean? In my darkest moments, I wondered if Major Membre’s growing influence had reached even Colonel Spanner.

  I swung some more, and forced out a sigh. No wonder I was so worked up. This was not just about my investigation. This would gain me my CO spot back if I played it right. Was it too conniving of me? Sure, I could admit it. The urge to solve those torture-murders shared the same drivetrain with my need to prove myself as the American. This was about success. So perhaps the colonel had seen right through my motives, didn’t want to reward some inter-detachment dispute, and this was my punishment. This waiting. I sighed again, stuck here in this damn hanging net, thinking of heading back into town with more questions for the baron’s new ex-Nazi cronies. Over the last few days I’d taken each aside and interrogated all, but I’d done it by plying them with Luckies and whiskey and slavish manners. Sticking to a game they knew. None of the four had been anywhere near Heimgau during the torture-murders, I learned. And my cross-questioning of locals backed it up. But they had to know something. So what if I now leaned on those cronies a little? Wave some Denazification papers in their face, or even my Colt? I had never played it that way, but maybe it was the only way to force a break …

  I heard someone over on my villa patio. I turned in the hammock.

  Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Spanner of the CIC filled the patio doorway with his angular posture. He strode straight out across the yard to me, ignoring the paths and making those seventy yards more like forty. He was wearing his simple khaki tie, shirt, and trousers and only the silver oak leaves for insignia, just as I remembered him.

  I hadn’t expected to be found curled up in a hammock. I moved to dismount and salute and almost toppled out.

  “As you were. You’re fine up there.” Spanner held out a hand.

  I shook the hand, still swaying. “Afternoon, sir.”

  “No ‘sirs’ today, Kaspar.” Spanner winked at me, his eyes that same wet and rich leaden color. Summer had given him flushed cheeks and dry, cracking lips. He sat in the wooden chair below the hammock, the chair I needed to climb in and out of my berth.

  I sat up, slowly so that I didn’t roll right out and into the colonel’s lap. “Still working out the kinks,” I mumbled.

  Spanner smiled. He leaned back, which pressed the rear chair legs into the soft grass. “Say we talk a little? Talk about that letter you sent me.”

  I decided to play it safe. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sent you that. I mean, with all due respect to the major, who is my commander—”

  “Bullshit due respect.” Spanner glared. “Know what a sphincter is, Kaspar? A sphincter is an asshole. I submit to you, here and now, that Major Robertson Membre is a bloated sphincter spewing conceit, avarice, and hate. You see? Your CO shoots it out without end.”

  I showed him a smirk.

  “I pity every German, Yankee, refugee or otherwise who’s had to tolerate the major. And this isn’t just about Heimgau. It’s about your Fräulein. Katherine, that her name?”

  “Katarina. How did you know about her?”

  “She delivered your letter to the front desk, did she not?”

  She had. I had asked her to. It was the quickest way.

  “I happened to be in the lobby,” Spanner added.

  “Did you meet her? She see you?”

  “No. I just observed. Lovely. Bet she’s a tough gal, too. Good head on her.” Spanner’s face went blank a moment, then hardened. “So. You and our major do not get along. You are like oil and water. And why do you think that is? Because you stand so far above that man it hurts to have to serve him. You don’t stand for the bullshit, do you?”

  I sat steady in the hammock, perfectly balanced. “No.”

  “You ain’t lazy, stubborn.”

  “No.”

  “Hell, you’re more American than most Americans I’ve seen around here.”

  I nodded. Call it what you will, Colonel.

  “Damn straight, Captain. But Major Membre came and screwed the pooch, didn’t he?”

  “I told you. He hasn’t made anyone’s life easier. Only his own.”

  Spanner reached and grasped the hammock, pulling me to him. If he wanted he could have rolled me on out. “Son, you are not willing to give in to the Major Membres of this world. There’s damn few of your breed. You do things your way, regardless of consequences. I respect that. That’s why you’re perfect for what I want to propose. And if you accept it—if you act on this—you will have realized what it means to act.”

  “Propose? I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

  “Forget the ‘sir.’ I know you. Know what’s like to be the outsider. The alien who’s never good enough. Whose motives are always questioned by little men thinking they’re better. I told you that.”

  “You did. I respect it.”

  “I know from here,” Spanner said, pressing a hand to his chest. “This here simple exterior, it disguises a noble upbringing. A Southern gentleman of long lineage, I am the closest thing to an aristocrat as can be found in our young nation. Was a day when noblemen were knights, the cavalry. Now they ride polished desks instead of proud horses. Now they’re pussyfooters like the major’s baron. I never stood for fighting this war from a desk. You must understand why. I was a sickly, shy boy, Captain, the youngest of four competing Georgia squires. I overcame my weakness by competing, always slugging back, and discovering thereby that anything is possible if you’re willing to do what others will not dare, simply will not dare.” He chuckled, his head rearing back. “The hard charger, if you will. I got myself sent over here as fast as I could. North Africa, Sicily, Italy and onward, up Southern France, the holy shit I’ve seen and done and they made me do, you do not even want to hear. It would give you nightmares that shiver your heart. And this was only the start.” The colonel pressed hand to chest again. “You are much like me, like this, here. Truly. You just haven’t had the chance to discover how much so.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I knew you would, son. Knew you would.” Spanner yanked on the hammock, forcing me out with a great leap. I landed on both feet. “Nice landing,” he said. “Look at you. You got more of an edge to you now, I can see it. Sharpened up. Good and ready to do this.”

  I wanted to smile, but held off. “I feel it. I’m always watching my back, day and night. Sometimes I think I get a feel for how a GI must have felt like up on the line.”

  Spanner’s face opened up, flat and slow, his eyes dull stones. “You have no goddamn earthly idea what it feels like up on the line. Do not ever say that you do. Ever.”

  His glare made me lower my head. “Understood.”

  “Yes? So? Let’s get to it, then.”

  Parked in front of my villa was that cigar-shaped and unmarked US Army sedan, a smooth Detroit cruiser under all that matte green paint with a polished chromium dashboard and curtains for the rear windows. The colonel drove me through Old Town, me in the back seat.

  “You might not like where we’re headed, but just let things play out.”

  “All right.” I stretched out. The leather seat was a sofa. I felt the soft curtains and the sparkling knobs and handles, more chrome than I’d seen in a long time. If Membre had been driving me, I would’ve been sickened. Yet, like this? After the colonel had confided in me so? Spanner hummed. The engine thrummed. We swallowed streets whole, forcing Heimgauers onto sidewalks and around streetlights. Spanner slowed. I slid open the curtains. A group of refugees was crossing our way, workers and artisans just down from the castle. My little Czech friend skipped by, passing the fender.

  The Czech froze. He’d seen me in bac
k. He scampered off, pushing through the crowd.

  Spanner drove on, unaware. I said nothing about the bogus goods. Let things play out, the colonel had said, and so I did. We rode in silence a while. I told Spanner about the major’s portrait and blessed Bismarck costume. Spanner shook his head, sickened. “Not surprised. I found out a thing or two about your major. If he ain’t the scion of the Membre Home Furnishings empire. Joined every fraternal organization known to American Civilization. By the time the war was won, he makes himself an Army Reserve mucky-muck, with some amount of pull, no doubt. And well before that? He was in a Catholic seminary. Didn’t make the grade, it seems.”

  I snorted, disgusted. Spanner was eyeing me in the rearview mirror. We had cleared town, out among the green hills and open valleys and the cab filled with a calming light. It made me think of the first day I met him, with those train cars. “I went back to Dollendorf once, to that old tractor factory,” I said. “It’s been pretty quiet up there. I checked it all out.”

  “You did, did you?” Spanner smiled. He sped up for the next turn, pressing me to the door.

  I saw the overblown gate, the plaque reading, “Maulendorff Palace,” and above it the sign: “Off Limits.” That modest box of a mansion with its two stories and mock-tower keep filled my window as Spanner wheeled into the courtyard, our thick tires crunching gravel. In the full sunlight I could make out all the cracks in the building, the flaking stucco and fallen stones. It went well with the boarded-up windows and overgrown greenery, like some Austro-Hungarian outpost in Transylvania. It might as well have been the year 1645 here.

  The colonel was eyeing me in the mirror again.

  I held up a hand. “I’m holding my tongue.”

  “Good man.” The colonel jerked the parking brake, sprang from the sedan, and bounded up the front steps. I followed. The front door cracked open and the Baron Mayor von Maulendorff peeked out, his green velvet smoking jacket buttoned to the neck. One eye was puffy and bruising, all yellowed and purpled, and a cheek showed fresh scrapes. The baron lifted a water bottle to the eye. I looked to Spanner.