“Colonel Perón, may I present Brigadeführer von Neibermann, Oberst Susser, and Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein?” von Ruppersdorf said. “Gentlemen, Colonel Juan Domingo Perón, of the Argentine Embassy.”
Perón shook hands with each of them in turn. He seemed to look askance at Peter, which Peter felt was understandable.
Despite my new shoes and pressed pants, compared to these three, I look like a bum.
Von Ruppersdorf was wearing a morning coat, Brigadeführer von Neibermann was wearing an SS dress uniform, complete to dagger suspended from a silver brocade belt, and Colonel Susser was in the prescribed Luftwaffe walking-out uniform. Peter was wearing a leather uniform jacket which showed signs of having spent some time in a cockpit.
Another usher appeared, carrying five glasses of champagne on a tray. One by one the men took a glass.
“The late Captain Jorge Alejandro Duarte,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann said, raising his glass.
He mispronounced every other syllable, Peter noticed, despite the coaching he’d been given by von Ruppersdorf before they came into the reception room.
“Hear, hear,” Colonel Susser said.
“A tragic loss,” von Ruppersdorf said.
“El Capitán Duarte,” Peter said, raising his glass and then taking a sip.
Not bad, Peter thought. German Sekt, of course, not as good as French champagne, but the Foreign Ministry of the German Reich certainly could not serve French champagne in its reception room.
He was more than a little hung over and as dry as a bone, and had to resist the temptation to drain his glass and hold it up for another. He sensed Colonel Juan Domingo Perón’s eyes on him.
“I would like to apologize for my appearance, mi Coronel,” Peter said. “When I was summoned to Berlin, I had no idea it was to take lunch with a distinguished foreign statesman.”
“I’m not a ‘distinguished statesman,’ Captain,” Perón said with a smile. “Like you, I am a soldier. I am here to learn something about your social services. And if I was looking closely at you, it was to see if that is indeed the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”
“Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein received that decoration from the hands of the Führer himself,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann gushed.
“Where did you learn your Spanish, Captain?” Colonel Perón asked Peter, ignoring von Neibermann. “You speak it extraordinarily well.”
“In school, mi Coronel,” Peter replied, “and then I served in Spain.”
“With the Condor Legion,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann furnished.
“You will have no trouble making yourself understood in Argentina, Captain,” Perón said.
“You think the Freiherr would be suitable, then, for the sad duty of escorting the remains of Captain Duarte, mi Coronel?” von Ruppersdorf asked.
“I should think that Captain Duarte’s family—we are acquainted—would be honored that such a distinguished officer would be spared from his duties for the task,” Perón said.
“It is a token of the respect of the government of the German Reich for Captain Duarte,” von Ruppersdorf said. “His loss is deeply regretted.”
“We feel that Captain Duarte fell for the Fatherland,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann said solemnly. “That he was one of us.”
Perón looked at him. Peter saw the sudden hardness in his eyes.
That was going a bit too far, Herr Brigadeführer.
“Did I understand you to say that you know Captain Duarte’s family, Colonel Perón?” von Ruppersdorf asked quickly.
“I am acquainted with his parents,” Perón said. “His uncle, Colonel Jorge Guillermo Frade, is an old friend. We shared a room at the School of Cavalry as lieutenants, and we were at Command College together.”
“I see,” von Ruppersdorf said. “Then this is a personal loss for you, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Perón said simply.
“Would you like another glass of champagne, Colonel?” von Ruppersdorf asked. “Or shall we go into lunch?”
“Two glasses of champagne, except when I am in the company of a beautiful woman, gives me a headache,” Perón said.
“The same thing happens to me,” Peter was astonished to hear himself blurt, “the morning after I have been with a beautiful woman.”
Perón looked at him, astonished. And just at the point where Peter had become convinced that he had really put his foot in his mouth, Colonel Perón laughed. Heartily.
“Are you sure you have no Argentine blood, Captain von Wachtstein?” he asked.
“No, Sir,” Peter said. “I am a pure-blooded Pomeranian, two-legged variety.”
Perón laughed again, delightedly, and touched Peter’s arm.
“You will fit right in in Buenos Aires, Captain,” Perón said.
[TWO]
1420 Avenue Alvear
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1430 31 October 1942
The chauffeur of the 1941 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, a heavyset man in his forties, glanced at the man in the front seat beside him and saw that wherever his attention was, it was not on the Avenue Alvear.
“Mi Coronel,” he said, “the gates are closed.”
Jorge Guillermo Frade, who was wearing a gray linen suit and a soft straw snap-brim hat, looked out the window and saw that was indeed the case. The twenty-foot-high double cast iron gates in front of his sister’s house were unquestionably closed. He also glanced around and realized that Enrico, on seeing that the gates were closed, had elected to stop right where he was, in the middle of the Avenue Alvear, to wait until the problem was solved for him. At least four cars behind him were blowing their horns.
“Make the turn, Enrico,” Frade said softly. “Pull as far onto the sidewalk as you can, so as not to block traffic, and then leave the car, enter through the small gate, and either open the driveway gates or have someone open them for you.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
Enrico is not stupid, Frade thought. It is simply that he has not mastered—never will be able to master—Buenos Aires traffic. He can alone and without difficulty maneuver a troop, a squadron, the entire regiment of the Husare di Pueyrredón at the gallop in a thunderstorm, but a closed gate, one that he cannot leap over or go around, is simply beyond his understanding. As is the notion that it is not acceptable behavior to simply stop in the middle of a busy street because you don’t know what to do next.
Enrico made the turn, sounded the horn to warn pedestrians on the sidewalk, and stopped the Buick with its nose no more than six inches from the massive gate. He applied the parking brake, turned off the engine, and stepped out of the car.
As soon as he was out, Frade slid across the seat, turned on the ignition, and started the engine. He saw Enrico enter the courtyard inside the fence and move immediately to the gate. There was an enormous brass padlock and a chain holding the gate closed. Enrico threw up his hands in disgust, then trotted toward the twenty-foot-high double doors of the mansion.
Maybe they’re not here? Is it possible they would have gone off to their estancia without telling anyone? After Jorge was killed, anything is possible. So what will I do? It’s three hundred kilometers out there!
He saw Enrico banging the cast iron clapper on the door.
If there is a clapper, use that. Doorbells sometimes do not work.
The door was opened by Alberto, Beatrice and Homer’s butler. Enrico pointed indignantly toward the closed gates and the Buick sitting outside them. Alberto looked stricken, then disappeared into the house, leaving the door open.
A moment later, one of the other servants appeared, this one in an apron. He was armed with an enormous key for the enormous padlock.
His name is Roberto…Ricardo…and he is Alberto’s nephew, Frade remembered. Or a second cousin, something like that.
Between the two of them, they got the gates open, and Frade drove inside.
When he left the car, Alberto was standing there.
“My apologies, mi Coronel,” he said. “We did not know you were coming, and we are not receiving.”
“It’s all right,” Frade said. “My sister is at home?”
“I have told the Señora you are here. You will be received in the library, mi Coronel.”
Frade walked into the house. There was a huge foyer, furnished with heavy, leather-upholstered furniture, tables along the walls, and a fountain, not presently in use, in the center. The floor was marble.
He walked into the library, which was carpeted and quite dark. Alberto followed him in, turning on lights and opening the curtains on two windows which looked out onto the garden.
“May I take your hat, mi Coronel?” Alberto asked. “And may I bring you something?”
Frade handed him the hat.
“I would like a drink,” he said. “I know where it is. Would you get me some ice? And some agua mineral con gas?”
While Alberto left to fetch ice and soda water, Frade went to what appeared to be—and had once been—an ancient chest of drawers and tugged on one of the pulls. The entire front opened to him, after which he slid out a tray that held half a dozen bottles of spirits and as many large, squat crystal glasses. He took a bottle of Dewar’s scotch and poured three fingers’ worth in a glass.
He looked at it a moment, then took a healthy swallow, grimacing slightly as the whiskey passed down his throat. Then he refilled the glass to a depth of two fingers and waited for Alberto to bring the ice and soda.
When his sister and her husband walked into the library, he was sitting in a chair apparently taking his first sip of a drink. No one spoke. He rose as Beatrice came toward him, took two steps toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. A real kiss—he could taste her face powder.
Beatrice is still a handsome woman, Frade thought. She looks ghastly right now, but even so, she seems much younger than Humberto…and they are what? Forty-six. Beatrice is actually six months older than Humberto, now that I think about it.
“People mean well,” Humberto Valdez Duarte, his brother-in-law, a tall, slender man, said as he put out his hand. “But they—we closed the gate, hoping they would think we were gone away, or take the suggestion that we are not receiving.”
“I understand,” Frade said.
“What is that you’re drinking, Jorge?” Beatrice asked, then went on without giving him a chance to reply. “Will you have something to eat?”
“The scotch is fine, thank you,” he said.
“We went to eight o’clock mass,” Beatrice said.
“Did you?”
“At Our Lady of Pilar,”* Humberto said, evenly, but looking at Frade.
Christ, I know what’s coming.
“And then afterward, we went to Recoleta,” Beatrice went on.
There is a dreamy quality to her voice, and to the way she behaves. I hope to God she doesn’t become addicted to whatever she’s taking.
“We visited the Duarte tomb,” Beatrice went on, “and of course ours. I left flowers on Mommy’s casket and Daddy’s.”
“I haven’t been there in almost a year,” Frade said, thinking aloud.
“Humberto said I shouldn’t ask you, because you wouldn’t know,” Beatrice said, “but I have been wondering, Jorge, do you think there was a mass when they buried our Jorge?”
“I don’t know about a mass, Beatrice, but I’m sure there was a priest. They have chaplains in the German Army, as we do. Beatrice…”
“And I would really like to know, Jorge,” Beatrice said, looking at him, “whether you think—after this horrible war, of course—there are chances of our bringing him home, to put him to rest in Recoleta, with the Duartes?”
“Actually, Beatrice, that’s why I’m here,” Frade said.
“Excuse me?”
I don’t think she will understand what I have to tell her. Thank God Humberto is here.
“There has been a radio message, Beatrice. Do you remember Juan Domingo Perón? El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón?”
She considered that a full fifteen seconds before shaking her head no. There was confusion all over her face.
“He and I were lieutenants together. And then we were at the Command College. He’s in Germany, studying welfare and retirement, and social services for the poor.”
Beatrice laughed brightly.
“Whatever are you talking about, Jorge?”
“It appears that the Germans are arranging to send Jorge home, Beatrice,” Frade said. “Perón was called to the Foreign Ministry and introduced to—actually, he was asked to approve of—the German officer who will escort the remains.”
“The Germans are sending Jorge home?” Beatrice asked.
“Odd, that you were told and not me,” Humberto said.
Frade was genuinely fond of his brother-in-law—despite his penchant for taking offense when none was intended. He was annoyed with him now, but kept that from his voice when he replied.
“I’m sure there will be a formal notification. Probably by the German ambassador. But Perón knew Jorge was my nephew, and he sent unofficial word to me through our military attaché. By radio. The mail service is nonexistent these days. Rather than telephoning, someone from the Defense Ministry took it all the way out to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. As soon as I received it, I brought it here.”
“When are they sending Jorge home?” Beatrice asked.
“I don’t know that yet, Bea,” Frade said gently. “I’m sure as soon as the details are known, you will be informed.”
“We can have a mass, a high requiem mass, at Our Lady of Pilar,” Beatrice said. “I’ll have to tell the Bishop.”
“There will be time for that, mi amor,” Humberto said.
“And Jorge, there are still those lovely cedar caskets at San Pedro y San Pablo? Aren’t there?”
Years and years before, their father somehow came onto a stock of cedar. He had a cabinet maker at the estancia turn it into caskets. It was not, Frade thought, the only odd thing the old man did after he turned sixty. But at least half a dozen cedar caskets remained stored in the rafters of the old carriage house. All that had to be done to them was to outfit the interior.
“Yes, there are,” Frade said.
“That will make it nice,” Beatrice said. “We will put Jorge in with the Duartes, but in a casket from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”
God, she’s out of her mind. If she had had more than the one child, she would be far better off.
“Yes,” Frade agreed, “that would be nice.”
“I must talk to the Bishop and see what is involved,” Beatrice said.
“Beatrice, it’ll wait until tomorrow,” Humberto said.
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ve known him since he went into the seminary. He’ll have time for me.”
She walked out of the room.
When he was sure she was out of earshot, Frade asked, “What is she taking?”
Humberto shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know. Something the doctor gives her.”
“She is not herself,” Frade said.
“Of course she’s not herself,” Humberto snapped. “She’s lost her only child in a war he had no business being involved in.”
“That’s not what I mean, Humberto,” Frade said.
“When she doesn’t take her pills, she weeps. For hours, she weeps,” Humberto said.
“She is your wife,” Frade said.
“Meaning what?” Humberto snapped.
“Meaning that while I am concerned to see her drugged that way, it is not really any of my business.”
“The doctor comes every day,” Humberto said. “I can only presume he knows what he is doing. And of course it’s your business. She’s your sister. You love her.”
“I wept when I heard what happened to Jorge,” Frade said. “I have some small idea of what you are going through.”
Tears welled in Humberto’s eyes.
“Why don’t you make yourself a drink?” Frade asked.
Frade shook his head no, and murmured, “No, gracias.”
When Duarte was at the chest-of-drawers bar, with his back to Frade, he said, “Jorge, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you have done. I don’t know how we would have managed without you.”
“I have done nothing,” Frade said.
“But you have, dear Jorge,” Humberto said, turning and walking to Frade and handing him a drink. “And we both know it.”
Frade put his arm around Humberto’s shoulders and hugged him.
“And what of your boy?” Humberto asked. “I realize I do not have the right to ask, but…”
“My latest information is that he has entered the Marine Corps…”
“The what?”
“The Marine Corps. They are soldiers, an elite force. He will be trained as a pilot. Presumably, he will soon go to the war. As I understand it, the Marine Corps is fighting the Japanese in the Pacific.”
“I will pray for him,” Humberto said. “Now, after what has happened to my Jorge, I will pray very hard for your boy.”
With a masterful effort, Colonel Jorge Guillermo Frade controlled his voice and replied, “Thank you, dear Humberto.”
[THREE]
3470 St. Charles Avenue
New Orleans, Louisiana
1615 1 November 1942
It was growing dark enough for people to turn their headlights on, and it was raining hard, the drops drumming on the convertible’s roof. It hadn’t been raining long enough, though, for the rain to clean the road grime from the windshield, and it was streaked.
As he drove down St. Charles Avenue past the Tulane University campus, Clete noticed a couple walking slowly through the rain, sharing the man’s raincoat. He had done that himself, more than a few times, when he was at Tulane.
They’re in love, he thought, or at least in lust.
He’d noticed similar couples on the Rice University campus in Houston. And he’d admired a spectacular brunette in Beth’s sorority house, when he was taking tea with the house mother—a “ceremony” that gave Beth and Marjorie the chance to show off their brother, the Marine Aviator Hero fresh home from Guadalcanal.
Honor Bound Page 10