[End of interview]
Francine put down the paper with a shaking hand, thinking she might throw up.
Bruno stopped fiddling with the receiver and pulled off his headphones.
“Are you okay?”
“I knew it was bad, but re-reading it…It’s always worse than you remember,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m going to have a heart attack on Roland’s welcome mat.”
“We can call this off.”
Francine took a few deep breaths. “It’s okay. I was just…overwhelmed. How did Ida escape?”
“She and her mother ran off into the woods a day before the rest of the town was sent to the camps. Her mother died from exposure. Ida survived by herself for two weeks before she was taken in by farmers in a neighboring village. She hid there for the rest of the war. Then she came to New York.”
“She’s not just some random client, is she?”
“We’re neighbors,” Bruno admitted after a pause. “She helped me while I was going through bad times myself. She’d leave casseroles by my door, or stick a knuckle under my face and say, ‘Chin up!’ whenever she saw me in the lobby of our apartment building. Small kindnesses. Once I heard her story, I knew I had to try and help. I cared about my other cases, but they’ve all been building to this one. When I solved the last case, I thought I was finally ready to bring Ida the justice she deserves.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want you to think I was too biased.”
Francine looked at the glossy black-and-whites of posing Nazi battalions and officer enlistment portraits, all bizarrely held on the refrigerator door with teddy bear magnets. One of the largest photos showed a slender, bespectacled man in his late thirties wearing a high-necked uniform pinned with twin SS Bolts, a skull and crossbones on his cap. ‘Oskar Lischka—Brigadeführer. Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, Berlin, 1942.’ The slightly out of focus officer wore a mirthless expression that sent a chill down Francine’s spine. Here was a man she hoped never to meet. Assuming, of course, that she hadn’t already.
Could it really be Roland, forty-five years younger?
Francine mentally swapped her friend’s soft blue blazer for a black leather jacket, the docile white husky for a snarling German Shepherd, the patience and kindness for thoughts and actions so reprehensible they were difficult to comprehend.
“On the run for almost fifty years,” she tried the idea out loud.
“No. Not on the run.” Bruno joined her at the fridge. “Gerber has a comfortable home and a good reputation. He has a hammock in his backyard. He hasn’t been running, he’s been living.”
“If Roland is guilty and we turn him in, will he be executed?”
“It’s possible. Depends on what country he ends up in and how the trial goes. Given his age, it’s more likely he’d die in custody, awaiting trial.”
The thought of Roland Gerber being hanged upset Francine’s stomach all over again.
“Francine, I’ll only say it one more time, but I have to say it. I owe this to Ida. You don’t owe it to anybody. If Gerber is Lischka…I don’t know what a mass murderer would do to keep someone from threatening the life he’s built.”
She looked at another picture on the fridge. A pretty young brunette with dark curls, sparkling eyes, and full, apple cheeks. Ida Nussbaum in her twenties, somewhere in New York, escaped from unthinkable oblivion and still smiling with resolve.
The least Francine could do was have dinner with her neighbor to try and shake something loose.
“Let’s get that receiver working,” she said.
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
“It goes, uh, right here.” Bruno handed Francine the tiny microphone and gestured to a button halfway up his shirt. “In the…breastorial region…”
“Between my boobs,” she helped, enjoying his embarrassment.
“Yep.” Bruno nodded. “Why don’t you go ahead and do that?”
Francine clipped the microphone to her bra and ran the cord down the inside of the ghost-and-pumpkin blouse she’d borrowed from Ellie. The shirt was seasonally inappropriate and a size too small, but its busy pattern and layered folds hid the mic and wire perfectly.
Bruno began to tape the wire to her lower back.
“I got this tape from a theater place. It’s the kind actors use for plays, so it won’t hurt when you take it off.”
Francine smiled, appreciating a little sweet in so much sour.
He clipped the transmitter to the back of Francine’s jeans. The rectangle of metal and plastic was bigger than she liked and had a cord that snaked above her right love handle (also bigger than she liked), but Ellie’s Halloween blouse reliably covered all.
“The guy at the spy shop asked me if we were spying on the Russians,” Bruno said.
“If Magdalena keeps acting like an ass, we just might.”
He sat at the receiver and slotted on his headphones. “Go ahead.”
“You’re listening to Francine Haddix and the Case of the Fugitive Nazi,” she said to her cleavage.
Bruno nodded and slipped off the headphones. “I gotcha.”
Francine gave a thumbs up, then shook out her arms, trying to scatter her gathering nerves. “Sorry. I’m just freaking out a little.”
The teddy bear radio finished some terrible harpsichord sonata and transitioned to Debussy’s overplayed but undeniably dreamy piano piece, Clair de Lune.
Bruno’s face reddened a little. “Considering we’re professionals, I don’t know if dancing is appropriate, but I’m happy to do it if it helps.”
“I think it might.”
Their hands met easily and they began an improvised waltz on the empty patch of kitchen floor. Francine’s free hand naturally found Bruno’s shoulder, and his found her back.
“You’re actually a good dancer,” she observed, her nerves calming with each step they took.
“Why’d you say actually?”
“Sorry. You’re just normally so…passionate in a staccato kind of way.”
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever called me awkward.”
“That’s not what I meant!” She laughed. “It makes you more genuine. You don’t sand down the corners like everyone else. I like that. I just expected the trait to come with two left feet.”
Their footsteps fell into perfect sync, tracing slow circles around the kitchen as the pensive melody grew sadder and more beautiful.
“Can I admit something terrible?” she said. “History was sort of my nap period in high school.”
“You’ll be happy to know some of my students are keeping the tradition alive.”
“What do you like about it?”
Bruno thought for a moment. “Usually, people make the same mistakes over and over again. But there are certain times when you can see the world’s ready to move on. Someone does something different, something new…and everything moves forward.”
Their eyes met and Francine felt the sudden urge to close the gap between them. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. There was no way she was going to screw over whatever third party might be involved.
Colleagues. They were work colleagues, she told herself.
Sure. Work colleagues who slow-danced to classical music, becoming ever more vulnerable as their time together grew shorter.
“I should go,” she said. “I need to make dinner for Charlie, then get him washed up and tucked in before I go to Roland’s.”
She noticed Bruno nervously biting his lip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just wondering if this is the smartest idea.”
“Seriously? I was hoping for a pep talk!”
“Sorry, it’s just that I should be the one going in. What if I come with you? We can say I’m your cousin in town, or something. Wait, no. He already met me.”
“Yes, thank you for illustrating why you won’t be going in with me. You’re the bumbling intelligence nerd, I’m the silky-smooth field agent.” She held out her
hands. “Check it out. No shake. Chalk it up to years of snipping hair around ears.”
“Okay, okay. You’re the woman for the job.”
“I’m glad you agree. And, listen…I know it would be good for you and Ida if Roland turns out to be Lischka, but I still kinda hope it’s not him. Is that shitty?”
“I know you like him, Francine. It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend you’re emotionless.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For that. And for letting me join the club, however this all turns out.”
“You joining made it a club.” Bruno tapped the top of the receiver lightly. “I’ll be with you the whole time. You’ll do great.”
The hug she gave him didn’t linger, but it wasn’t an immediate squeeze and release either. In the flush of the moment, Francine could finally admit it to herself: Regardless of his relationship status, she had real feelings for Bruno. It felt good to acknowledge her growing affection, but she had to wonder why, yet again, she was gathering an abundance of warm feelings for someone who didn’t want her back.
Chapter 25
It makes me nervous when people ask me personal questions.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
With Charlie fed and in bed, Francine made the walk to Roland’s a slow one to give herself time to think.
She was about to do one of two things: project someone’s fantasy of justice onto a nice old man guilty of nothing more than good manners and a foreign birth, or give a sadistic war criminal an extended chance to catch her snooping. She’d worn extra deodorant in preparation for either outcome.
This turned out to be a good thing, because the moment she knocked on Roland’s front door her fight or flight reflex peaked, threatening to send her on a hundred-yard dash in any direction away from the welcome mat under her feet. But when the door opened a moment later, social manners overruled survival instinct and she held out the dessert she’d brought instead.
“Puppy Chow. It’s cereal, sugar, chocolate, and peanut butter.”
Roland, wearing a white apron tied tightly around his navy blue sport coat, accepted the bowl and inhaled through a gap in the Saran Wrap. “Cooking skills as peerless as her charm.”
“That could be a compliment or an insult.”
“All plausible insults evaporate in your presence.” He studied her Halloween blouse. “The outfit, however, is…a bold choice.”
“It’s Ellie’s. My one dress is in the washing machine, and I didn’t want to show up in a t-shirt, so this is what you get.”
“I think it’s splendid.” He led the way to the kitchen. “I’m making Thurgauer Käseschnitten.”
She followed him through the living room she’d been in the day before.
“I had thurger…whatever it is for lunch, but I can have it again.”
Roland laughed and set the bowl of Puppy Chow on the counter. “Thurgauer Käseschnitten. A fancy Swiss way of saying apples on bread. But do not despair, there is cheese as well.”
Ajax nudged one of Francine’s hands, which was shaking slightly, despite her earlier bragging at Bruno’s.
“You hungry, too, buddy? How ’bout a treat?” She opened a cabinet door and pulled out the tin of dog treats.
“Goodness! How did you know those were there?” Roland marveled as he pulled apples from a fruit basket.
Jesus Christ, Francine.
“My mom kept our dog’s treats in a similar spot when we were kids. It was either that or canine telepathy.” She tried to laugh, sweating like an opium mule at baggage claim as she tossed Ajax a biscuit.
Roland washed the apples in the sink. “I wonder if I might start our evening with a confession?”
No way. No fucking way it was going to be this easy.
“Sure.” Francine gave herself the Academy Award for Most Casual Response.
“I must admit a curiosity about your status with Mr. Bruno.”
Francine’s heart rabbit-twitched. He knew they were working together.
Then she remembered she’d previously mentioned an interest in Bruno. While it seemed absurd to talk about a crush, considering the task at hand, everything had to be on the level or there would be too many spinning plates. Honesty would grease the conversation.
“You were right. I got upset over what was really a misunderstanding. We didn’t go the raw-advice route you and I discussed,” she said tactically, knowing Bruno was hearing every word. “But we’re friends.”
“He’s fortunate to receive whatever you deign to give, I’m sure.”
“Ooh, I’ll have to remember that one. I probably wouldn’t have even tried to talk to him if you hadn’t pushed me, so thanks for that. And for agreeing to hang out tonight.”
“Please. I’m delighted. Your consideration for an old man knows no respite. You’ve a good heart, Francine, one that deserves to be whole, whatever efforts required of us to make it so.”
“Thanks, Roland,” she said, feeling a slap of guilt from his genuine concern. “Let me help you with your Thurger-whatever. And don’t give me any of that crap about not wanting women to help with your labors.”
Labor.
The word pinged Francine’s mind back to Bruno’s kitchen, to books with countless photos of ragged human beings crowded into trains or peeking out of bunkbeds stacked ten high. Barbed wire. Snarling dogs. Buildings with no exit but a chimney.
Wait. Had Roland said something to her?
“Sorry, I got distracted for a second,” she said. “Heat’s getting to me, I guess.”
“It’s been especially relentless this summer,” Roland agreed. “I just said that your assistance would be welcome and appreciated. You’ll find apple juice in the refrigerator and bread on the counter there. If you’d be so kind as to soak the bread in the juice.”
We made incredible bread in those days. I can still smell it.
Ida’s words echoed in Francine’s head, summoning visions of a Polish bread factory, a deep ditch outside, a smiling SS officer beside it…
Slow your damn heartbeat, girl.
Francine grabbed the apple juice and turned to find Roland holding a long knife. She’d brought Puppy Chow to a knife fight and now she was going to die.
No. Only if Roland was Lischka, and only if she gave herself away.
So she didn’t drop the apple juice, and she didn’t scream. She just breezed past the blade and gave herself another Academy Award for Best Performance by an Actress at Knifepoint.
Soaking the bread while Roland cored the apples, she forced herself to relax, and her heart gradually found a more sustainable rhythm.
She stayed calm while they ate together at the little dinette, talking about innocuous, pleasant topics. Roland’s apple and cheese dish was delicious and the Puppy Chow was a tasty, if unsophisticated, finish to the meal. At that point, she decided it would be weird not to mention a certain, recent event.
“Pretty wild, everything with that flag yesterday.”
Roland didn’t nervously pull at his collar or spit out his Puppy Chow. He just nodded, slowly. “Terrible thing. Certainly returned unwelcome memories for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I lived through the Second World War.”
“Switzerland was neutral, right?” she baited.
“Of course. But some of us did what we could for the Allies, unofficially running supplies to the Belgians, and so forth.”
“You did that?”
Roland nodded.
“Like a freedom fighter? That’s amazing! Does anyone here know that?”
“Wartime stories don’t often translate to peacetime, no matter their content.”
“Do people ever ask you about the war?”
“Certainly. I came from Europe after the forties. I speak German. On occasion, those who don’t know me well have wondered if I harbor Nazi sympathies.”
Francine’s heart iced. He’d said the word. She extended all sensory antennae to try and pick up on
any change in posture or breathing. Maybe a spontaneous Sieg Heil.
Nothing.
“Do you ever go back to Europe?” she asked.
“I’ve never been back.”
“Ever?”
“I love this country.” Roland thumped his slipper on the floor. “A home by choice is no less a home.”
Francine saw an opening for a natural conversation avenue and took it. “I’m gonna need a quick Roland Gerber biography.”
“A rather dull story, I’m afraid,” he said.
“All we do is talk about me. It’s gonna give me an ego. Please?”
“Very well.” He sighed.
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Francine pulled out her pack of cigarettes. Roland was quick with the lighter, then leaned back in his chair.
“I expatriated from a region called Engadin. Not as popular as Zürich, but our mountain profile is featured on more chocolate wrappers. That counts for a lot in Switzerland. In any case, I found my way to America, and Illinois. With the little money I had, I bought into the barn at the front of the neighborhood, which was a dairy farm in those days. I helped build out the neighborhood, and I’ve never felt the need to leave since.”
“Yeah, I get the feeling you kinda like it here.” Francine directed her exhale of smoke up into the lazily oscillating ceiling fan.
“What is there to dislike? This is a place of spring rains and fresh-cut grass. Leaves burning in the autumn and fresh snows in winter. So many reliable treasures year after year. And yet,” he dipped his head cordially toward Francine, “new wonders never cease to amaze.”
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