Chapter 2

He left the ship at Santos early the following morning. His bags, neatly labeled and stacked outside his stateroom door, were marked for storage at the residence of the German consul in Sao Paulo. He carried with him only a small bag with a change of clothing, and a briefcase with his diary and his papers. His passage through customs was accelerated by the presence of a rigid young man who presented himself on board with a note from the consulate, and who returned immediately aboard ship to handle the transfer of the other luggage.

A car was waiting outside the customs shed, and a chauffeur sprang down to take the bags and open the rear door. Von Roesler nodded to the silent figure within and, closing the door, leaned forward to slide shut the glass partition behind the driver’s seat. They pulled away from the docks, bumping over the rough pavement. It was not until they were through the city and speeding past the banana plantations at the foot of the mountains that von Roesler turned to the silent figure at his side.

“Well?” he asked coldly.

The elderly man beside him, muffled in an overcoat despite the growing heat of the day, smiled wryly. “Not even a ‘hello’ first, Erick?” he asked gently.

Von Roesler clamped his jaws on the first words that rose to his lips; this was no time for temper. To cover the silence that had fallen, he reached over and opened the window a crack. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, forcing humiliation into his voice. “But you know the situation, Uncle Ernst. Or you should. Time is running out, and I have a job to do.” He paused and stared out of the car window. They were climbing the winding road of the mountain, and the ocean was spread below them, a scene of incredible beauty, but he saw none of this. He tried to smile casually, hating the feeling of inferiority, of callowness, that he had always suffered as a child with his father’s brother. He’s a senile old fool, he thought, and I am Erick von Roesler of the SD. “How have you been, Uncle Ernst?”

The old man looked at him sideways, crouching in his overcoat. “Cold,” he answered grimly, honestly.

Von Roesler laughed. “After fifteen years in the tropics? In Brazil? Uncle, Uncle! You were born cold!”

There was a sudden rustling from the other, as if he were attempting to burrow deeper into his overcoat. “Yes,” said his uncle slowly. “You and I. We were both born cold.” He hastened his next words, as if to pass an unpleasant moment. “And how is your mother?”

“Fine. She is in Berlin, you know, visiting with Monica. You saw Monica’s last picture? No, I suppose not; not out here. But you knew that she had become an actress? Quite a good one, as a matter of fact, or at least so they say. She goes by another name, of course. Oh, things are going quite well, Uncle!”

“Are they?” The tone was querying, impersonal.

“Yes, they are.” Enough of this, von Roesler thought. “At home things are fine. How are they here?”

The old man thought before answering. They were high up on the serra by this time, and the scene below was one that he well remembered and had always loved. The island port of Santos hemmed in by rivers glistening in the sun, the lacelike beaches of Sao Vicente and Pria Grande to the right, the breakers visible as dancing white lines on deserted Guarujá to the left. Fifteen years in Brazil, and now what?

“What is going to happen, Erick?” The old man held his breath a moment, expelling it in his next question, as if it were forced from him. “Will there be a war?”

Erick shrugged. “You overestimate my place in the councils of the Reich, Uncle. But I should say, not necessarily. Only if it is forced upon us.” He looked over at his uncle. “Have you arranged the meeting?”

The old man shrank back into his corner, pulling the heavy coat about him. “At my chacara. Tomorrow.”

“Chacara?”

“My fazenda. The farm, Hartzlandia, you know. We should be there by evening.”

“By evening?” Almost instinctively, von Roesler glanced at his wrist watch. “My God! How far is it?”

The old man smiled. “Two hundred kilometers from here, and very close as they measure distances in Brazil. This is a big country, you know, Erick, and our roads aren’t the autobahns of Germany.”

Erick frowned. “Who will be at the meeting?”

“Everyone that I could think of. Or rather, that I could get. It was not easy, believe me,” the old man continued calmly. “There have been some bad frosts these past two weeks, and many of them did not want to leave their farms. But the majority finally agreed to come.”

“And they represent…?”

“The most influential of the German settlers here. You said not to bother with official representatives here…?” There was a question in his voice but the younger man disregarded it.

“Good.” They had passed the lip of the serra and the ocean was now hidden. The car had left the paved Sao Paulo highway and was following a winding dirt road; clouds of dust swirled behind them. There was a new sharpness in the air, and Erick rolled the window closed and leaned back. now exactly, who are they?”

The old man thought. “Well, first, there is Goetz. He comes from Blumenau. He makes wines; I came to Brazil with him fifteen years ago. And then there is Gunther, from Florianopolis. A schoolteacher, but quite influential. Head of the Turnverein, and the German club. Lange has a cattle ranch in Rio Grande do Sul, I don’t know how many head, but it’s a big one. Then there is Riepert from Paraná; he has a lumber business there, sawmill and cutting rights for large pine stands near his mill.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Strauss comes from Sao Paulo, from the city, that is. He imports and exports, and is mixed up in local politics to some extent. And Gehrmann from the fazenda next to mine, also coffee. And a little sugar, but not much.” He paused, counting. “That’s the lot.”

“They are all rich?”

The old man smiled, “Rich? There are no rich men in Brazil today. You have to remember, we burned our coffee only three years ago. Land-rich, if you will; or better say landpoor.” He looked at the other sardonically. “Why? Did you come to ask them for contributions to the Winterhelf’?”

The younger man disregarded this. “You told them the reason for the meeting?”

The old man shrugged. “How could I tell them what I don’t know? I simply wrote that you were coming on an official visit, and wanted to speak with them all together. I think they’ll come; I seldom ask favors.”

“Very good. Uncle Ernst.” Unconsciously the condescension had crept back into his voice. Erick leaned back, smiling at the older man, satisfied. “I think I’ll take a brief nap, if you don’t mind.”

He settled himself in one corner, closing his eyes. The old man sighed and stared broodingly out of the window. The scrubby bushes at the side of the road bowed beneath the heavy dust, shaking themselves slightly as the car swayed past. He pulled his overcoat tighter about him; even in the sun it seemed desperately cold.