Emerald (3 page)

As he left the chalet he turned on the burglar alarm.
Isn’t that ironic
, he laughed to himself as the alarm turned red and he was on his way to Berne.

Hans opened the garage doors and standing the doorway admired the shiny green Mercedes 250 SE that glistened in the shadowed light. He loved the lines of this automobile and he felt special when he drove it. It was one of several cars he owned in Argentina and he was pleased he had also found one for sale in Geneva. As he settled in the soft tan leather seats he got out the small piece of lambs wool from the glove box and wiped any bits of lint or dust from the dash, as he had done so many times before. He drove carefully out of the garage, stopped, got out and locked the doors behind him.

The six cylinders purred as he drove through the villages on the north side of the lake. Most of the traffic there was flowing the other way toward the city center.
These Swiss
, he thought,
so punctual, so precise, like a watch, yet always getting in his way
. Staying just below the 120 kilometer limit on the Motorway and obeying every road law, he again marveled at the German efficiency of this machine. He felt a temptation to mash on the gas pedal and turn the power loose under the hood as he entered the autobahn heading for Lausanne.

The highway cut through terraced vineyards high on the slopes of Lake Geneva. The lake’s wide blue canvas filled his vision on the right. Beyond it, wreathed in cloud, rose the snow-covered tips of the Junta Mountains. As he neared Nyon, on the outskirts of Geneva, he almost fell into a state of picturesque tranquility. Yet he had to keep his guard up. Any accident, any minor mishap, might tie him into the police investigation of the murders and burglaries around Geneva.

The miles flew by. He entered the outskirts of Lausanne and looked for the turn that led to Berne. A semi-truck in front of him was well below the speed limit. Hans leaned on his horn. The road ahead cleared enough to pass. He maneuvered around the truck. Its driver jabbed his middle finger at Hans and pulled his air horn in a loud blast. Hans saluted him back the same way and pulled in front of the truck.

“Asshole, why don’t you get that frikin truck off the highway or at least respect for other drivers.”

The highway to Berne came up. Hans negotiated the turn at a high rate of speed, just to feel the camber of the road, then slowing to within the limit again; he watched the road and thought about what might lay ahead for him in Munich.

Upon his return to Europe from Argentina, he had settled in Switzerland, well really in France because he felt the French laws would allow him to roam more freely throughout Europe in his search for his emerald. For months he tried to track down his grandparents’ servants and friends to see if they knew anything about the emerald without luck.

Humming a Spanish love song he learned in Argentina, he noticed the lush landscape around him fly past. He was driving through a wide valley where nestled farm after farm. Beyond the farms were large stands of evergreen trees. Not a bad place to settle down, he thought.

After entering the outskirts of Berne he stopped at a small café and telephoned his friend again. He learned the only person still alive who might know of the emerald might be Fritz, his grandfather’s chauffer. However, Fritz was in poor health, in fact he wasn’t sure if Fritz was even alive. The only address, and this was several years old, was a rest home near Starnberger Lake, a few miles southwest of Munich - - - no street address, just the name. After writing down the address, Hans said Heil Hitler out of habit, and said he’d send him a reward and hung up.

Hans checked his petrol gage, saw it contained plenty, and drove back onto the highway north of Berne toward Zurich. A large sign announced the Emmental section of Switzerland. His mouth watered for Emmental Cheese, particularly his favorite, aged Premier Cru, a passion he inherited from his father back home.

Pulling off the highway at the first Emmental cheese farm he saw, he parked beside the brightly painted chalet. Getting out, he stretched, allowing the scent of the wondrous cheese to fill the air and his memories.

Inside the dark wood shop a vivacious young woman dressed in a lace-up red, corset dress, blue skirt, white poplin apron and white stockings greeted him. She held a wooden tray of cheese samples. Hans ignored her, walked to the counter where several customers waited. He nudged his way closer to the counter and in a rather loud voice asked for some Emmentaler Premier Cru.

“Just a minute, sir,” The woman behind the counter responded.

Angrily Hans glared, and said “I’m not a tourist and I’m in a hurry”.

A big, florid man came out of the back of the shop and walked toward Hans.

“Did I hear you say you wanted Premier Cur, sir?”

“You heard right, and I don’t have time to wait.”

“If you would follow me, I will see what I can do. We don’t get that request every day.”

Hans left the cheese shop through a side door and walked back to his car with a large wedge wrapped in brown paper. In the car, he unwrapped the pungent cheese, removed his dagger from the sheath behind his neck, and cut several slices from the wedge. He ate quickly and drove back onto the highway, savoring the remembered flavor of his favorite cheese, and his father.

An hour later, Hans circled Zurich on the by-pass and headed toward Lake Constance. On the other side of St. Gallen, he crossed the border into Austria and marveled at the blueness of the Lake as he finished the last of the Emmental.

Ahead lay the border crossing between Austria and Germany. Knowing there had been no pictures of him, or even a description in the news accounts of the Swiss killings, yet somewhat nervous, Hans took a deep breath as they waved him to stop at the border. The guard, a big, florid man, walked to the car, whistled at it, and said. “Great car”

“Thank you,” Hans replied, smiling.

Looking closely at Hans’ passport, the guard asked Hans to wait there a minute, turned and walked into the guard house.

Hans breathed deeply. With a carefully forged French passport, a slick German car, and killer instinct, he knew he wasn’t any match for these border police, or Interpol either, for that matter, but why the delay? He could see the guard who had taken his passport talking to someone inside and pointing to him. Both border guards walked toward the car and Hans thought about the Luger resting in the car’s glove box, wondering if he could get it out in time should he need it.

The guard handed back the passport. “Sorry to delay you, but Fredrick there has always wanted an auto like this. He even has a picture of one just like it in our guard house there.

The other guard continued walking around the car, then with a loud thank you sorry for the delay and a sweeping gesture with his hat bid Hans to drive on.

Just after the Starnberg exit to Munich he slowed and drove into a gas station. The young attendant ran out.

“Fill it up?”

“Yes, and hurry. Say, Have you ever heard of a nursing home called St. Joseph’s in Munich? The gangly youth with a blotchy face nodded and replied, “Sure, an uncle of mine lives there. It’s on Theresienstrase, across from St Joseph’s Church, just about three miles ahead. You can’t miss it.”

Leaving the gas station, Hans He drove on, humming with the music of
Siegfried
and drumming the beat on the steering wheel.
I am Siegfried, and the emerald is my Brunnhilde
, he thought, as the street signs flashed by.

Suddenly he saw in the rear view mirror the flashing red lights of a police car. Adrenaline pumping he pulled to the side of the road. “Shit, what have I done now?”

The oak of a patrolman walked up to the Mercedes and said. “You missed a stop sign back there sir. Let me see your driver’s license.” Hans pulled out his international drivers’ license and passport from the glove box, being careful to shield the Luger from view. “I’m so sorry, officer. I’m on my way to see my uncle in the St Joseph Nursing Home. They called me and said that he’s dying. I guess I just didn’t see that stop sign. I’m very sorry.”

“Well, since you’re on an errand of mercy, I won’t give you a ticket this time, but slow down or you’ll be going to heaven with your uncle. Have a nice day.”

Hans took a deep breath and thought,
errand of mercy, my foot
and slowly continued along the city streets until he found Theresienstrase. Turning onto this residential street, he drove until he saw the church steeple a block ahead. Across from the church stood a large, grey house with a sign in peeling paint.

A shabby place for the servant of a wealthy industrialist
, he thought with a sneer.

He parked, walked up the steps, and entered the building. Strong odors of disinfectant accosted his nostrils. A gray haired nurse in a soiled uniform looked up and asked in a tired voice, “What do you want?”

“I want to see Herr Fritz Getman,” Hans replied. “Can you help me?”

Returning to her paper work the nurse asked, “Are you a relative?”

“No, I am a close friend who has come a long distance to see Herr Fritz.”

Without looking up, the nurse pointed down the hall and said, “116.”

The interior was cut down the center by a single corridor. Hans walked past several old men in wheelchairs sleeping in the hallway, the nursing home disinfectant smell almost stifling his breath. 112, 114, 116. Hans paused and looked inside. An obese, balding, sloppy old man sat in the shabby room, his back to the door looking out of the dirty window, bordered by anemic pink, sun-bombarded curtains. The reflection in the dirty window showed a face shriveled and deeply lined as a relief map.

“Herr Fritz?”

In a raspy voice, without turning the old man said, “I knew you’d get to me sooner or later.”

“How did you know I would find you, old man?”

“Because of all those murders I’ve been reading about, with the SS slash marks, just like your father.”

The old man wiped his nose with his sleeve, looked at Hans, “And I’ve heard that you are looking for your grandfather’s emerald. Why should I help you?”

“For old times, Fritz.”

“Old times aren’t worth shit - - - look at me in this hell hole. But I’ll tell you what you want to know just so the police will have more to pin on you.”

“
So, where is my emerald? Tell me and I’ll give you a reward”.

“Why don’t you ask the Klein’s? You drove near their farm on your way here”.

“You mean those fucking Jews have my emerald? Tell me where they are, Fritz.”

“They live in Rorschach, Switzerland”.

“Are you sure, old man?”

“I’m sure, now leave me alone and get out of my sight, you bastard.”

“And, now for your reward, my old friend.”

Hans stood behind the old man still looking out the window, and smiled. He drew his stiletto from his neck sheath, and drew the razor sharp blade across the wrinkled neck, being careful not to get caught in the blood spray from the carotid arteries.

“Thank you, for the information old man, may you rest in hell with the rest of my family!”

A
fter enquiring at the newspaper office in Rorschach where he could find his “aunt and uncle’s” farm, Hans turned into their driveway and drove past the wrought iron gates rusted with neglect. He drove down the rutted, asphalt drive. Bushes and trees needed pruning. Flowerbeds were overgrown. Crabgrass and dandelions captured the lawn. A pity, he thought. This might be a nice place to live, isolated and in safe territory. He would like to take care of grounds like these- - -work in the garden again, manicure the lawn, edge the flowerbeds and fill them with flowers.

He remembered when he was a boy; his father gave him a small plot of ground. He had turned the soil, and carefully worked in the manure he had gotten from a friend’s farm. After he planted the bulbs and seeds, he waited and carefully watered the rich brown earth. He still remembered the day he visited his garden after school and noticed small, green shoots breaking through the tilled surface. He lay on his stomach in his school clothes and watched, hoping to see the shoots actually grow.