“You have to understand,” Glen said, “the four of us have been together for three weeks. We’re sick of talking to each other. She’s my sister, so I know her story. And Charlie never shuts up.”
“If you bastards had anything interesting to say, I wouldn’t have to carry the bloody conversation,” Charlie said, punching Glen in the arm. “So, Florida, Paris, Patagonia, why? You some sort of rich kid?”
“No, nothing like that, unfortunately. It’s a long story,” I said, hoping to be let off the hook. They all just stared at me. “I’ve been working for a museum outside of Paris, in a home once owned by Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“No way!” Charlie interrupted. “Jill works at museum in Cambridge.”
“Have you always worked in the field?” Jill asked.
“No,” I said. “This is my first foray.”
“Wow,” she said. “How’d you land that one? I’d die to take my talents to Paris.”
“I fell into it,” I said, realizing there was no advantage to keeping the gun’s story a secret. “To put it plainly, my grandfather somehow came into possession of a gun that once belonged to Napoleon.”
“Amazing!” Charlie exclaimed.
“It gets better,” I said as another round of beers arrived. “During World War II it was taken by the Nazis and Hitler himself had it. Somewhere along the way it was recovered and fell into my grandfather’s hands, probably from his uncle.”
“Jesus!” Charlie continued to verbalize the reactions of the group.
“That doesn’t explain why you are here,” Glen said.
“Yeah, this is where my whole story goes off the rails. I’ve been living with the director of the museum. The damned gun was stolen by her daughter’s jilted boyfriend. And he,” I paused for effect, “is a lousy Argentine soccer player with a tryout here in Bariloche.”
“Boom!” Charlie slammed both of his hands on the table. “And you are here to take back what is rightfully yours!”
I shook my head. “If only it were that easy. I have no idea how to go about this.”
“What’s he gonna do? Sell it?” Glen deadpanned.
“Apparently he lucked out. Legend has it, these hills are full of Nazis with money.”
“They’re mostly dead,” Andrea spoke for the first time. “But there are a lot of Germans here. The schools teach German.”
“There’s a wild story out there that Hitler didn’t die in Berlin,” I said. “They say he died here.”
“Rubbish,” Glen said.
“Obviously,” Jill seconded.
“Oh,” Charlie jumped back in, “and you know. You were there. Whatever! Who is to say that Hitler didn’t escape?”
“I doesn’t really matter if he did or didn’t,” I said. “A lot of other Nazi officers did settle here.”
“So why are you sitting here?” Glen asked.
“Trying to muster up the courage, I guess.”
“Charlie lifted his glass as if to offer a toast. “If you need us, you know, for a little ‘backup,’ we’re in.”
“Speak for yourself, Charlie!” Andrea said. “I’d be less worried about Nazis and more worried about the football team.”
I appreciated Charlie’s eagerness to join me in trekking to the address that Jorge had given me for Marco’s father. We set out shortly after daybreak. It was a three-mile hike down a two-lane road leading out of town and up into the hills. The truth was, without Charlie, I might not have gone so boldly. I certainly wouldn’t have headed out on foot so eagerly. Charlie was oblivious, going on and on about English Premier League Soccer. I repeatedly tried to focus him by telling him to follow my lead and that I hoped that Marco would listen and be reasonable.
“So, one thing I don’t get,” he said. “If she broke up with him, why did he steal your shit?”
“Well,” I gulped. “I did sleep with his girlfriend. Big mistake.”
“Wait, I thought you were dating her friend. Klara was it?”
“Yes. It was a big mistake.”
“So this guy is not just mad at his girl. You slept with her? Does this gun work?”
“No, no, it’s two hundred years old.”
“And you just let me follow you up here. You know, that’s a pretty big detail you left out.”
“Hey, we had a lot to drink. I forget what I did and didn’t tell you.”
Charlie never broke stride. “Well this ought to be fun.”
The small home was built into the side of a wooded hill, a combination of stone and wood. It was worn, but cared for. A light rain began to fall. We stood at the end of the drive, checking for an address. The GPS on my phone said it was the place. Charlie looked apprehensive. We’d come that far. I wasn’t turning back now, so I walked up the path hoping Charlie would follow.
I knocked on the heavy door. I couldn’t see in any of the windows. A beat-up Fiat sat alongside the house. The door opened wide and I was faced with a small, shirtless man in his forties. He bore no apprehension about the visitors at his door. I couldn’t draw a resemblance to Marco, but I couldn’t deny it either.
“Hola,” I said. “Habla Inglés?”
“No.”
I looked at Charlie, who looked at me expectantly. I wished I had gotten Andrea to warm up to me a little more. She and Jill were getting massages instead.
“Um. Marco? Rios? Aquí?”
And the door slammed.
I knocked again hesitantly. A short burst of Spanish came through the door. It sounded final.
Charlie shrugged and smiled.
We turned back and headed down the road toward town. That was probably Marco’s father and now Marco would know I had come to find him. Wishful thinking hoped that wasn’t true, but deep down, I had a feeling I was right. Then the blue Fiat came rumbling down the road. I didn’t realize who it was it until it stopped next to us. The man, now wearing a shirt, reached over and pushed open the front passenger door.
Charlie’s enthusiasm for the mission was completely gone. “You better get in,” he said. “I’ve got to go see what Glen’s doing.”
I looked at the man. Surely, if he meant us harm, he wouldn’t invite two men, both larger than he, into his car. “See you back at the hostel,” I said.
We rode in silence into Bariloche. My knees banged against the dashboard and my arm extended out the passenger window. It was still a struggle to for the man to work the gear shifter with my left leg in the way. The cup holder held what looked like a dirty gourd with day-old tea leaves in the bottom. The radio was tuned to news. I began to relax a little.
“This is a beautiful town,” I said, in English, slowly, as if that would help him understand. Then I began to gesture broadly out the window, which startled him, causing the wheel to shake. I put my hands in my lap. He was definitely jumpy.
“American?” he asked.
“Yes. Um, sí,” I replied.
His face was serious. After another minute he spoke again, this time forcefully. I didn’t catch a single word except perhaps “Marco.”
I looked at him wide-eyed. “I don’t understand.”
He growled, annoyed.
“Celeste,” he blurted.
I nodded, to show I recognized the name.
He shook his head and mumbled. Did he know what this was about?
He continued talking, but now it was almost to himself. It sounded like a father’s typical complaints about a young son. I stared straight forward.
We turned north into the heart of the town. Things were a little more run down than the tourist section along Nahuel Huapi Lake. We stopped in front of a dull two-story concrete apartment building. If the main part of town had German influence, this building was the East German representation. My heart was pounding, and I hoped it didn’t show. We got out of the car and the man lead me up a set of stairs to door on the second floor. A little girl, no more than five, answered.
“Lito!” she screamed, jumping into the man’s arms. He picked her up and put one foot in the doorway. A woman em
erged from the kitchen where water was running. She looked at me without surprise. Perhaps he had called her before leaving his house.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” she said, to my surprise.
“Um, no,” I said. “English or French. En francaise?”
“No,” she said. “Okay a little English. Is not very good.”
“Okay. I understand,” I said slowly. “Are you Marco’s sister? Um, hermana de Marco?”
“Yes.”
The woman was young. Mid-twenties. I thought she might be a year or two older than Marco.
“What do you come here for?” she asked.
“Ah, I knew Marco in Paris. His girlfriend, Celeste. You know Celeste?” She nodded and uttered something Spanish to her father. “I know Celeste. When Marco left to come here, he took something from me.” I paused trying to make sure I was clear. “He took something that belonged to me. Do you know about this?” I gestured at her and her father.
She looked at him and back at me.
“Thief?” she blurted. “No. Not what he say. Job. He do job to sell.”
“Oh, no,” I said. I rummaged through my backpack and pulled out my iPhone from France. I pulled up a picture of the blunderbuss. “Have you seen this? This is mine.”
She only glanced at it for a moment, a sign that she did recognize it. Her father nodded slightly and said something.
“He sell it,” she said.
“What? He already sold it?” I looked to her father.
“No,” the woman said. “You buy. You help.”
“Me buy?” I shook my head. “It’s mine. Mine. It belongs to me.”
“How do you know?”
Clearly Marco had lied about the gun.
“Where is Marco? Where is the gun?” I asked holding up the picture on the phone.
“I do not know,” she said. “He meet with man. Old man.”
“What? Who? Now?” I was confused because everything she said was present tense. “The gun belongs in a museum. Do you understand ‘museum’?”
“Yes, museum,” she said. She went to a table by the door and retrieved a piece of paper. “Your phone number.” I wrote down the number. “Marco speak to a woman I know. Your name?”
“Michael. And yours?
“Eva.”
“Where is Marco?”
“Football.”
“Tell him I’m here. Michael. I want to talk to him.”
“He’s not bad,” she said. “No trouble. They will not hurt him?”
“They who?” I asked.
She looked at her father and said something in Spanish.
“What?” I asked.
“You go,” she said opening the door. “Thank you.” She forced half of a smile.
I walked out into the drizzle and followed the street down a slope toward the waterfront. I called Vince.
“Hello?” came his confused response to the unknown number on his phone.
“Good morning, Vince. Did I wake you?”
“No, it’s Friday. I’m just getting to a job site. Good morning, or I guess good afternoon to you.”
“Actually, it’s morning where I am still. Just barely.”
“I thought you left New Orleans.”
“You will never believe what is happening. I’m in Patagonia.”
“Patagonia? Like, South America, Patagonia?”
“The only one,” I said, and launched into a recap of the past week.
“Listen, I need you to talk to mom. Don’t alarm her. But just see if you can find any clue as to what Grandpa was doing with the gun. Maybe she has a box of old letters sitting around. Maybe she was just holding back. She said she doesn’t know anything, but she’s got to dig deep.”
“Michael, are you safe?”
“I think so.”
I was starving when I got to the hostel. I ducked into a cafe and ordered a bratwurst and a bowl of stew. I stared in a daze out at a street that could have easily been in Munich. I was waiting for a phone call that may never come. Then I saw Jill and Andrea.
I beckoned them into the cafe. Jill looked at me wide eyed. “What happened this morning? Where’s Charlie?”
“Charlie bailed on me the minute he got nervous,” I said. “I met Marco’s father and sister. They don’t speak much English. They were wary of me, but also seemed concerned for Marco. I think I’m waiting for a call from a woman Marco was meeting with. I’m not really sure.”
Andrea continued to display little interest in the topic.
I continued. “If I don’t get a call, I’m going to have to go back to the sister.”
“What a little wanker Charlie is,” Jill laughed. Her interest only went as far as Charlie.
“Michael,” Andrea said in serious tone, “I don’t know much about what you are dealing with. But this isn’t America. It isn’t France, or even Germany. The stories of Nazis hiding here after the war aren’t just stories. They were here before the war, after the war. They had kids and grandkids. It’s unspoken. This is Argentina. What do we care of ex-Nazis? We have our own history that we don’t speak of.”
“Well, I’m not just going to let it go. What do you suggest? Should I go to the police?”
She burst out laughing. “Yeah. Pretty sure they aren’t going care about your precious gun. Just don’t be surprised if people aren’t exactly forthcoming when an American starts asking questions about Nazis and accusing a local footballer of stealing.”
I could see her point. In that light, the cooperation I got from Eva was surely out of concern that Marco was in over his head. The type of person who would buy a stolen item like the Tromblon de Napoleon was worthy of suspicion.
Jill and Andrea retreated to the hostel. It was early afternoon and I was tired. There was no sign of Charlie or Glen in the room and I collapsed on my bed, starting at a phone that refused to ring. I began searching the Internet for stories of Nazis in Patagonia. It was then that I ran across the word “Inalco.” It was the name of the estate where Hitler supposedly lived until he died two decades after the war. I fell asleep reading on my phone the myths of Hitler living his last days on the shores the lake outside my window.
I woke to the unfamiliar ring of my phone. Foggy-headed, I answered, trying to snap myself out of my sleep and struggling to recognize the time of day.
“Hello? Um, hola?” I said.
“This is Michael, the American?” It was a woman’s voice with a hint of an accent that I couldn’t put my finger on.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Freda. Where are you staying?”
“The hostel,” I said.
“Let’s meet.”
I waited on the steps of the hostel. About thirty minutes after Freda’s call, a woman in her fifties pedaled up on a bike. She was short, a little heavy, with blond hair cut like John Denver. Her cheeks were red from her ride. She introduced herself and I lead her up to the empty terrace on the top floor.
“Oh, such a nice view of the town,” she said. I waited. Finally she asked, “Well, so what brings me here?”
“Eva thinks you can help me,” I said, half statement, half question.
“Oh, well. I grew up with Eva’s mother. She used to help me in my flower shop until she moved to Buenos Aires to be near one of her sons. Eva was always a wonderful girl, haven’t seen her much lately, lovely little daughter she has.”
“Do you know why she had you call me?”
She smiled. “Well, I received a call from her brother. Just two days ago. He wanted to know if I could help him reach someone who was interested in what he called ‘German memorabilia.’”
“Did he say what it was?”
“Not right away. He was a little vague, which was fine. I understand how these things are.”
“Why did he think you could help? What do you mean ‘how things are’?”
“Michael, what was your last name?”
“Chance.”
“Michael, the Germans in this area go back for generati
ons. We’re proud. We were here before there was ever a Nazi. My father was born here. 1913. He went to school in Frankfurt and then the war. He came back after the war and took care of his mother until she died. It was only the 1980s that investigators and journalists started coming here. His name was on a list of suspected Nazi war criminals. Well, he wasn’t hiding. He had no secrets.”
She took a deep breath and looked out at the lake.
“His health problems started then. He lived his final days under a cloud. Threats to bring him to trial. It was all lies. The real war criminals ... some did come here, but they were old men. Dead and gone. The threat of arrest followed him until his death in 1989. And then even after. For ten years people spread lies that he was still alive. Monsters.”
“So Eva put Marco in touch with you because of rumored Nazi affiliation?”
“Oh, no. At least I don’t think so. No, she thought of me because my father never hid, and I will never hide. Maybe she thinks I’m a sort of German ambassador in the community. I was young then and very vocal in clearing my father’s name. He fought for his homeland. He was injured and finished the war in a desk job. But he was no criminal.”
“So what did you tell Marco?”
“I told him what he wanted to know.”
“What was that?”
She stepped away and looked down. “He wanted to know how to contact my son.”
“Your son.”
“Yes. He’s your age. How should I describe him? As a teenager he became interested in our family history. My father. My father’s friends. The sons and grandsons. They all live here. He and Marco played football from a very young age.”
“He thought your son could help him sell the gun.”
“I didn’t know about the gun until Eva called. You see, Oskar and I don’t always see eye to eye. I’m afraid he might use the gun to impress some of the people who are more – how should I say this? – deeply involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Stories. Conspiracies.”
“Oh, the stories about Hitler, living here.”
“Lies.”
“But people believe it.”
The Grandfather Clock Page 16