Fatherland (23 page)

March shook his head, smiling. "Do you feel like a beer?"

"Do I feel like a beer?" Jaeger had danced out of the door before March could turn around.

The little bar in Oberwall-Strasse was run by a retired Orpo man called Fischer. It smelled of smoke and sweat, stale beer and fried onions. Most of its clientele were policemen. Green and black uniforms clustered around the bar or lurked in the dimness of the wood-paneled booths.

The Fox and the Bear were greeted warmly.

"Taking a vacation, March?"

"Hey, Jaeger! Stand a little closer to the razor next time!"

Jaeger insisted on buying the drinks. March took a booth in the corner, stowed his suitcase under the table, lit a cigarette. There were men here he had known for a decade. The drivers from Rahnsdorf with their poker schools and dirty stories. The heavy drinkers from Serious Crimes in Worth-Strasse. He would not miss them. Walther Fiebes sat alone at the bar, moping over a bottle of schnapps.

Jaeger returned and raised his glass.
"Prost!"

"Prost."

Max wiped the foam from his lips. "Good sausages, good engines, good beer—Germany's three gifts to the world." He always said this when they had a drink, and March always lacked the heart to point it out. "So. What's this about a
plane
?" For Jaeger, the word seemed to conjure images of all that was exotic in the world. The farthest he had ever traveled from Berlin was to a family camp on the Black Sea—a holiday last summer near Gotenburg organized by Strength-Through-Joy.

March turned his head slightly, glanced from side to side. The German look. The booths on either side were unoccupied. Shouts of laughter came from the bar.

"I have to go to Switzerland. Nebe's given me a twenty- four-hour visa. That key you saw just now in the office—I took it from Stuckart's safe last night. It opens a safety deposit box in Zürich."

Jaeger's eyes opened wide. "That must be where they keep the art stuff. Remember what Globus said this morning: they smuggled it out and sold it in Switzerland."

"There's more to it than that. I've been speaking to the American girl again. It seems Stuckart called her at home on Saturday night, wanting to defect."

Defect.
The unmentionable act. It hung in the air between them.

Jaeger said, "But the Gestapo must know that already, Zavi. Surely her phone is tapped?"

March shook his head. "Stuckart was too clever for that. He used the phone booth opposite her apartment." He sipped his beer. "You see how it goes, Max? I feel like a man descending stairs in the dark. First the body in the lake turns out to be an alter Kämpfer. Then his death is linked to Stuckart's. Last night, my one witness to Globus's involvement—the cadet, Jost—was taken away by the SS, on Globus's orders. Now it turns out that Stuckart wanted to defect. What comes next?"

"You'll fall down those stairs and break your neck, my friend. That's what comes next."

"A fair prediction. And you don't know the worst of it."

March told him about the Gestapo dossier. Jaeger looked stricken. "Jesus Christ. What are you going to do?"

"I thought of trying to stay out of the Reich. I even withdrew all my money from the bank. But Nebe's right: no other country would touch me." March finished his drink. "Would you do something for me?"

"Name it."

"The American woman's apartment was broken into this morning. Could you ask the Orpo in Schöneberg to take a look occasionally—I've left the address on my desk. Also, I've given her your telephone number in case of trouble."

"No problem."

"And can you look after this for Pili?" He handed Jaeger an envelope containing half the cash he had withdrawn from the bank. "It's not much, but I may need the rest. Hang on to it until he's old enough to know what to do with it."

"Oh, come on, man!" Max leaned across and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's not as bad as that? Is it? Surely?"

March stared at him. After a second or two, Jaeger
grunted and looked away. "Yes. Well..." He tucked the envelope into his pocket. "My God," he said with sudden vehemence, "if a lad of mine denounced me to the Gestapo, I'd be giving him something, all right—and it wouldn't be money."

"It's not the boy's fault, Max."

Fault, thought March. How could you fault a ten-year- old? The boy needed a father figure. That was what the Party provided—stability, companionship, something to believe in—all the things March should have given him and hadn't. Besides, the Pimpf
expected
the young to transfer their allegiance from their family to the state. No, he would not—could not—blame his son.

Gloom had settled over Jaeger. "Another beer?"

"Sorry." March stood. "I have to go. I owe you."

Jaeger lurched to his feet as well. "When you get back, Zavi, come and stay with us for a couple of days. The younger girls are at a Bund deutscher M
ä
del camp for the week—you can have their room. We can work something out for the court-martial."

"Harboring an asocial—that won't go down well with your local Party."

"Fuck my local Party."

This was said with feeling. Jaeger stuck out his hand, and March shook it—a great, callused paw.

"Look after yourself, Zavi."

"Look after yourself, Max."

Drawn up on the runways of the Flughafen Hermann Göring, shimmering through the haze of fuel, was the new generation of passenger jets: the blue-and-white Boeings of Pan American, the red-white-and-black swastika-decked Junkers of Lufthansa.

Berlin has two airports. The old Tempelhof aerodrome near the city center handles short-haul, internal flights. International traffic passes through Hermann Göring in the northwestern suburbs. The new terminal buildings are long, tow edifices of marble and glass, designed—of course—by Speer. Outside the arrivals hall stands a statue of Hanna Reitsch, Germany's leading aviatrix, made of melted-down Spitfires and Lancasters. She scans the sky for intruders. A sign behind her says WELCOME TO BERLIN, CAPITAL OF THE GREATER GERMAN REICH, in five languages.

March paid the taxi driver, tipped him and walked up the ramp toward the automatic doors. The air here was cold and man-made: drenched with aviation fuel, torn by the screams of throttling engines. Then the doors opened and hissed shut behind him, and suddenly he was in the soundproofed bubble of the departure terminal.

"Lufthansa flight 401 to New York. Passengers are requested to make their way to gate number eight for boarding. . ."

"Final call for Lufthansa flight 014 to Theoderichshafen. Passengers..."

March went first to the Lufthansa sales desk to pick up his ticket, then to the check-in, where his passport was scrutinized carefully by a blonde with "Gina" pinned to her left breast, a swastika badge on her lapel.

"Does the Herr Sturmbannführer wish to check in any luggage?"

"No, thank you. I have only this." He patted his small suitcase.

She returned his passport with his boarding card folded inside it. Accompanying this act was a smile as bright and cheerless as neon.

"Boarding in thirty minutes. Have a good flight, Herr Sturmbannführer."

"Thank you, Gina."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you."

They were bowing like a pair of Japanese businessmen. Air travel was a new world to March, a strange land with its own impenetrable rituals.

He followed the signs to the lavatory, selected the cubicle farthest from the washbasins, locked the door, opened the suitcase, took out the leather holdall. Then he sat down and tugged off his boots. White light gleamed on chrome and tile.

When he had stripped to his shorts, he put the boots and his uniform into the holdall, stuffed his Luger into the middle of the bag, zipped it up and locked it.

Five minutes later he emerged from the cubicle transformed. In a light gray suit, white shirt, pale blue tie and soft brown shoes, the Aryan Superman had turned back into a normal citizen. He could see the transformation reflected in people's eyes. No more frightened glances.

The attendant at the left-luggage area where he deposited the holdall was surly. He handed March the ticket.

"Don't lose it. If you do, don't bother coming back." He jerked his head to the sign behind him: WARNING! ITEMS RETURNED ON PRODUCTION OF TICKET ONLY!

At the passport control zone March lingered, noting the security. Barrier one: checking of boarding cards, unobtainable without the proper visa. Barrier two: rechecking of the visas themselves. Three members of the
Zollgrenzschutz
, the border protection police, were stationed on either side of the entrance, carrying submachine guns. The elderly man in front of March was scrutinized with particular care, the customs officer speaking to someone on the telephone before waving him through. They were still looking for Luther.

When March's turn came, he saw how his passport baffled the customs man. An SS-Sturmbannführer with only a twenty-four-hour visa? The normal signals of rank and privilege, usually so clear, were too confused to read. Curiosity and servility warred in the customs man's face. Servility, as usual, won.

"Enjoy your journey, Herr Sturmbannführer."

On the other side of the barrier, March resumed his study of airport security. All luggage was scanned by X ray. He was frisked, then asked to open his case. Each item was inspected—the sponge bag unzipped, the shaving foam uncapped and sniffed. The guards worked with the care of men who knew that if an aircraft were lost to hijackers or a terrorist bomb during their watch, they would spend the next five years in a KZ.

Finally he was clear of the checks. He patted his inside pocket to make sure Stuckart's letter was still there, turned the little brass key over in his other hand. Then he went to the bar and had a large whisky and a cigarette.

He boarded the Junkers ten minutes before takeoff. It was the day's last flight from Berlin to Zürich and the

cabin was full of businessmen and bankers in dark three-piece suits, reading pink financial newspapers. March had a seat next to the window. The place beside his was empty. He stowed his suitcase in a compartment above his head, settled back and closed his eyes. Inside the plane, a Bach cantata was playing. Outside, the engines started. They climbed the scale from hum to brittle whine, one coming in after another like a chorus. The aircraft jolted slightly and began to move.

For thirty-three hours out of the past thirty-six March had been awake. Now the music bathed him, the vibrations lulled him. He slept.

He missed the safety demonstration. The takeoff barely penetrated his dreams. Nor did he notice a person slip into the seat beside him.

Not until they were cruising at ten thousand meters and the pilot was informing them that they were passing over Leipzig did he open his eyes. The stewardess was leaning toward him, asking him if he wanted a drink. He started to say "a whisky" but was too distracted to finish his reply. Sitting next to him, pretending to read a magazine, was Charlotte Maguire.

The Rhine slid by beneath them, a wide curve of molten metal in the dying sun. March had never seen it from the air. "Dear Fatherland, no danger thine: / Firm stands thy watch along the Rhine." Lines from his childhood, hammered out on an untuned piano in a drafty gymnasium. Who had written them? He could not remember.

Crossing the river was a signal that they had passed out of the Reich and into Switzerland. In the distance: mountains, gray-blue and misty; below: neat rectangular fields and dark clumps of pine forests, steep red roofs and little white churches.

When he had awakened she had laughed at the surprise on his face. You may be used to dealing with hardened criminals, she had said, and with the Gestapo and the SS.

But you've never come up against the good old American press.

He had sworn, to which she had responded with a wide-eyed look, mock innocent, like one of Max Jaeger's daughters. An act, deliberately done badly, which made it naturally an even better act, turning his anger against him, making him part of the play.

She had then insisted on explaining everything, whether he wanted to listen or not, gesturing with a plastic tumbler of whisky. It had been easy, she said. He had told her he was flying to Zürich that night. There was only one flight. At the airport she had informed the Lufthansa desk that she was supposed to be with Sturmbannführer March. She was late: could she please have the seat next to him? When they agreed, she knew he must be on board.

"And there you were, asleep," she concluded. "Like a babe."

"And if they had said they had no passenger called March?"

"I would have come anyway." She was impatient with his anger. "Listen, I already have most of the story. An art fraud. Two senior officials dead. A third on the run. An attempted defection. A secret Swiss bank account. At worst, alone, I'd have picked up some extra color in Zürich. At best I might have charmed Herr Zaugg into giving me an interview."

"I don't doubt it."

"Don't look so worried, Sturmbannführer—I'll keep your name out of it."

Zürich is only twenty kilometers south of the Rhine. They were descending quickly. March finished his Scotch and set the empty container on the stewardess's outstretched tray.