CHAPTER 20

Harry Antonelli awakens, flat on his back, on the bench. The sky’s overcast and snowflakes are falling on his face. The trainer is giving him smelling salts. It’s late in the game in Pullman, Washington against Washington State College, their hated cross-state rival.

“What’s the score?” Harry asks.

The trainer says, “It’s seven to seven. They scored on us while you were out, sleeping beauty. Your man caught a nineteen-yard pass to tie the game.”

HISTORICAL NOTE: On October 9,1937, too early for a single snowflake, Washington and Washington State did play to a 7-7 tie, despite the UW dominating in yards gained, 295 to 154. Harry Antonelli had no impact on the result. Pullman, The population of Pullman Washington, was an estimated 4,000: 14,581 attended the football game.

But Harry Antonelli is not in 1937 Pullman, he’s in 1940 Lisbon. He’s not on his back either. He’s awakening flat on his stomach in the back seat of the Buick, hands bound tightly with cord, and a PVDE heavyweight sitting on his legs.

“Sorry, mate,” Peter says, in front as the driver grinds through the gears. “It’s either you or me. Those were the choices presented to me, who, like yourself, as we have oft said, is a charter member of the Me, Myself and I Party.”

“You and your phony non-accent. I knew a guy from Deadwood, South Dakota, whose voice is a dead ringer for yours.”

“Only one time zone apart, mate. Keokuk, Iowa.”

“Corn as high as an elephant’s eye. Sunday band concerts.”

“I don’t miss it for an instant, laddie.”

“I’m sure you don’t, wherever you’re really from. Who the fuck are you, Peter?”

“I’m nobody, Harry, and everybody. I’m a chippy who drops his knickers and spreads his legs for the promise of a dollar, an escudo, a peseta, a pound, a mark, a franc or a lira. Or a train ticket out of town if circumstances dictate.”

“You and Maria Fernanda?”

“Too complicated to answer in the limited amount of time we have.”

“The demolition of your flat was staged, wasn’t it? Otherwise, I’d never’ve found the ingot.”

“Alas, my whiskey too. A sacrificial offering to you, my dearest friend.”

“You ̶ !”

“I am all those things and less, chum.”

The Buick slams to an abrupt halt. Harry’s torso twists, but his legs don’t. It does nothing for his headache.

Peter gets out. Someone else gets in and sneezes.

The door had been held open for the new passenger by bookshop Dieter who yells a shrill curse in German in Harry’s ear.

The car door slams and off they go.

“I do not swim today,” says a familiar voice in front of him. “You may later, however, in your clothes and with restraints, like Harry Houdini.”

For lack of a witty response, Harry says, “Fuck you, Herr Wessel.”

Wessel sniffles and laughs.

“You really oughta take care of that cold, Wessel. I recommend chicken soup with strychnine.”

“Allow me to sing you a lullaby. You can rest as we drive. It may make your fate easier to endure.”

“Save your voice.”

In a scratchy tenor, Horst Wessel sings the Nazi anthem, The Horst Wessel Song:

The flag on high! The ranks tightly closed!

The SA marches with quiet, steady step.

Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries

March in spirit within our ranks.

Clear the streets for the brown battalions,

Clear the streets for the storm division!

Millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope,

The day of freedom and of bread dawns!

For the last time, the call to arms is sounded!

For the fight, we all stand prepared!

Already Hitler’s banners fly over all streets.

The time of bondage will last but a little while now!

The SA march with quiet, steady step.

Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries,

March in spirit within our ranks.

Harry says, “A catchy number. I can see Hitler dancing to it in a pink tutu.”

“You may not be around to see the Führer after he has conquered Europe. You may not think that is so funny. If you are lucky enough to survive the night, rather than a moonlight swim, you may be sent to a camp to be with all your Jew friends.”

Harry says, “Hitler was gassed in the Great War. Too bad we didn’t finish the job on the maniac. A pest exterminator with rat poison is just the ticket.”

“Silence!”

“Have you made an appointment with Doctor Freud yet, Wessel? You’re nuttier than ever.”

“After the evening is through, you will be begging us to throw you into the Rio Tejo like you did me.”

“Don’t count your chickens yet, Wessel,” Harry threatens without conviction.

Harry feels a thump thump thump of a wooden pier underneath as he listens to Horst Wessel’s laughter.