XII

[ONE]
Aboard the General Belgrano
Río de la Plata
0945 13 December 1942

Shortly after they sailed from Lisbon, Captain Manuelo Schirmer, master of the General Belgrano, began to extend to Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe certain privileges. First, that of his table. At the start of the voyage, Peter was assigned to an eight-place table in the dining room. When he arrived for lunch, six other people were there, a middle-aged Argentinean couple and a somewhat younger German couple and their two children. When he politely asked about their home, they replied they were from Heidelberg, then made it quite clear they were not interested in conversation.

When he went in for dinner, the steward intercepted him and led him to the captain’s table. This was placed lengthwise across the back of the room and was set with ten places, all on one side.

“Mi Capitán,” the steward said, addressing a stocky, blond-haired man in his forties, who was wearing a uniform blouse with four gold stripes on each sleeve over a navy-blue turtleneck sweater. “El Capitán von Wachtstein.”

“I am Kapitän Schirmer, Herr Hauptmann,” Schirmer said in German, examining him carefully and unabashedly, “I thought you might be more comfortable taking your meals here.”

“That’s very kind of you, mi Capitán,” Peter replied in Spanish. “Thank you.”

“Ah, you speak Spanish. Good.”

Schirmer then introduced him to the other officers at the table. Not all the ship’s officers came to the first dinner, but eventually Peter understood that these included Schirmer, his first, second, and third mates; the chief engineer, his first, second, and third assistant engineers; and the ship’s doctor. There were no other passengers at the table; obviously he was being given a special privilege.

The next morning, at breakfast, Schirmer invited him to visit the bridge. And when Peter went up later that morning, waiting for permission to enter, Schirmer loudly and formally announced, “Hauptmann von Wachtstein has the privilege of the bridge.”

Peter knew virtually nothing about the customs and protocol of the sea. But he was a soldier, and understood that an order had been issued, and that he was being granted the privilege of permanent access to the bridge—this was not a good-for-only-one-visit invitation. Schirmer showed him around the bridge and the chart room, introduced him to his second mate (who had not been at dinner the night before), and then announced that Peter would be more comfortable in the supercargo cabin on the bridge deck, not presently in use, and that if he had no objection, he would have the steward move his things from his cabin on the passenger deck.

“Mi Capitán,” Peter replied, “I don’t know what ‘supercargo’ is. It sounds like either gold bullion, or diamonds, or something stowed outside on the deck under a tarpaulin, rather than downstairs in the hold.”

Schirmer laughed.

Below decks, Herr Hauptmann, not downstairs,” he said, and then went on to explain that there was a cabin reserved for the senior hierarchy of L.M.A.E.—a company executive, for example, or an L.M.A.E. master or chief engineer traveling as a passenger.

“In that case, mi Capitán, I accept,” Peter replied. “Thank you very much.”

Peter had a strong temptation to suspect that he was being given all of these privileges because he was such a naturally charming fellow, but he resisted it. More likely, Schirmer, whose name was obviously German in origin, was extending a sort of Germanic privilege. Or else Capitán Schirmer was possibly treating Hauptmann von Wachtstein like a fellow officer.

By the third day out of Lisbon, they were on a partial first-name basis: Schirmer started to call him “Peter.” Peter, however, decided that good manners and protocol required that he continue to call Schirmer “Capitán,” and did so.

On the fifth day out, very late at night, as they were playing chess in Capitán Schirmer’s cabin, Schirmer told him the real reason he granted Peter the privilege of the captain’s table and the supercargo cabin. Of the one hundred and five passengers aboard the General Belgrano, thirty-nine, including the couple from Heidelberg and their children, were Jewish.

“I didn’t know, Peter, whether or not you were a Jew-hating Nazi,” Schirmer said, meeting his eyes, “but it was clear to me that you were making the Steins uncomfortable. And making things worse, the Argentineans at the table are rooting for the English in this war. He was educated in England and works for our railroad, which was designed and built by the English.”

“I am not, mi Capitán, either a Nazi or a Jew-hater.”

“I didn’t think you would be, just to look at you, but I had no way of knowing.”

“I wonder how they got out of Germany,” Peter blurted, thinking aloud.

“I have no idea,” Schirmer replied. “The L.M.A.E. office in Lisbon makes sure they have an entrance visa to Argentina and a paid-for ticket, and that’s all we care about.”

“There are a number of Germans, mi Capitán, myself and my father and many of our friends included, who loathe the Nazis and are ashamed at their treatment of Jews.”

“As far as I am concerned, the subject is closed. All is well that ends well, Peter. I find you a delightful dinner companion and an even more delightful opponent at chess. You are not quite as good as I am, but you’re good enough to give me a very good game.”

 

“Our final breakfast, Peter,” el Capitán Schirmer said on the morning of December 13, as they lingered over their coffee. “I shall miss your smiling face, an island of joy in this sea of sourpusses.”

The Chief Engineer snorted. “There is something wrong with a man who leaps out of bed when he doesn’t have to,” he said.

“You Spaniards feel that way,” Schirmer said. “We of German stock regard each day as a glorious opportunity to do something constructive.”

“Carajo!”—roughly, Oh shit!

“Pay no attention to him, Peter. He has been bitter since the day he discovered he is known as ‘Tiny Prick’ among the girls under the El Puente Pueyrredón”—a railroad bridge in La Boca.

The Chief Engineer stood up and held out his hand to Peter.

“If I don’t see you again, it’s been a pleasure, Peter. I’m in the telephone book. If you have a free moment, give me a call, and I will take you to El Puente Pueyrredón and ask the girls themselves to tell you what they call el Capitán.”

Peter stood up.

“Thank you, Sir, for the privilege of your company.”

As they shook hands, there was a subtle change in the ambient vibrations of the ship. The Chief Engineer cocked his head.

“Stop engines,” he said. At the same instant, Peter reached the conclusion that the vibration was gone, and that meant the engines had stopped.

Schirmer nodded, and turned to Peter.

“They were on the radio this morning,” he said. “They are sending people to meet you aboard the pilot boat. Maybe you should get dressed.”

For the last ten days of the voyage Peter had been dressing just as the ship’s officers dressed—in white shirt and shorts loaned to him by Capitán Schirmer.

“Yes, Sir. I suppose I’d better. Con su permiso?”—With your permission? (May I leave you?)

The officer’s steward had his perfectly pressed and starched summer khaki uniform hanging on the door of his cabin.

I wonder how much I should tip him. He’s really taken good care of me. I should have asked Schirmer. I will miss him. I will miss the whole damned thing, the steward, the good food, the officers at the table, but especially Schirmer.

When he left his cabin, he saw Schirmer standing on the flying bridge, looking down at the sea. He went to him and asked about the tip. Schirmer told him, then pointed down.

Peter turned. A good-looking launch, with a good deal of varnished wood and gleaming brass, was alongside. A ladder had been put over the side, and a tall stocky man in an ornate uniform was very carefully climbing up it. Waiting to follow him was a much thinner man in a Wehrmacht colonel’s uniform. He removed his cap and dabbed at his forehead and shaved head with a handkerchief.

Those are winter uniforms. Why the hell are they wearing winter uniforms in this heat?

The Belgrano’s second mate was on deck with a couple of sailors.

Probably waiting for the clown in the ornate uniform—what the hell is that, anyway?—to fall off the ladder.

“I suppose I’d better go down there,” Peter said.

Schirmer nodded and grunted.

Peter went down the two ladders to the main deck. He reached the railing as the second mate helped the clown in the fancy uniform onto the deck.

Peter noticed for the first time that there was a brassard with a red swastika on the clown’s left sleeve.

That makes him a Nazi.

The clown looked at Peter sternly.

The sonofabitch expects me to salute him. Fuck him. That’s not a military uniform. Maybe Nazi party, probably diplomatic corps. I am a soldier; I exchange salutes with soldiers.

“Guten Morgen,” Peter said politely.

The Wehrmacht Colonel came on deck a moment later.

Peter saluted, a military salute.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Oberst.”

“Herr Hauptmann,” the Colonel replied as he returned the salute.

The clown in the fancy uniform held out his right arm stiffly in the Nazi salute. Peter glanced up at the flying bridge. Schirmer was still leaning on the rail, watching the little ceremony. He was smiling, as if amused.

“I am Anton von Gradny-Sawz, First Secretary of the Embassy of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina,” the clown announced, “and this is Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, the Military Attaché.”

“Hauptmann von Wachtstein,” Peter said, “and this is Claudio Saverno, Second Officer of the Belgrano.”

“Welcome aboard the Belgrano,” Saverno said in Spanish.

A third man, in mussed civilian clothing, stepped off the ladder onto the deck.

“Mi Capitán,” Saverno said. “El Capitán Schirmer is on the bridge. Would you care to join him?”

“Hola, Bernardo!” Schirmer called down loudly. “Come on up!”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

“Claudio, may I use the mess?” Peter asked.

“Of course, Peter. I’ll send the steward with coffee and whatever.”

“Gracias, amigo.”

Peter gestured to show the way.

“Will you follow me, please, gentlemen?”

He led them to the mess.

“I was led to believe, Herr Hauptmann,” Gradny-Sawz opened the conversation, “that you have been invested with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. May I ask why you are not wearing it?”

“I wasn’t aware this was a formal occasion.”

“It is a very formal occasion, Herr Hauptmann,” Oberst Grüner said dryly.

“And can you get into a proper uniform?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

“By proper, mein Herr, I gather you mean winter?”

“The Colonel commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón,” Colonel Grüner said, “was kind enough to advise me the uniform of the day for the ceremony on the dock will be the winter dress uniform.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”

“A squadron of the Husares, plus a military band, and a delegation of Argentine officials, military and civilian, will be on the dock,” Grüner went on, “to accept the remains of Hauptmann Duarte from your custody. We will accompany them from the dock to the late Hauptmann Duarte’s home. Here is the schedule we have been given. Do you speak Spanish?”

He handed Peter two sheets of paper stapled together.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Peter repeated.

There was a vibration as the engines engaged.

“Following which,” Gradny-Sawz said, “you will be taken to the Frade Guest House. Until the ceremonies are completed, you will reside there as the guest of Colonel Jorge Guillermo Frade, uncle of the late Hauptmann Frade, and former colonel commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón. I wish to speak to you about that.”

“Oh?”

“It is a singular courtesy on the part of the Frade family to you. Your conduct during that period is of great importance, if you take my meaning.”

In other words, I am not to get drunk and piss all over the carpet, right?

“I understand.”

“Though it is his custom to have newly assigned members of the embassy staff as guests in his home, under these circumstances, Ambassador Graf von Lutzenberger will not be able to share his home with you. He has asked me to express his regret.”

“That is very gracious of the Ambassador,” Peter said.

“In other words, you will be at the service of the Frade family tonight and tomorrow,” Oberst Grüner said. “We don’t know what plans, if any, they have for you. But if they have made plans, and you were not available, there is a question of bad manners.”

“I understand, Herr Oberst.”

“And what plans have you made for the removal of the late Hauptmann Duarte’s remains from this ship?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

“I believe el Capitán Schirmer will remove them from the hold with a crane and lower them onto the dock,” Peter said, with a straight face.

He thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in Colonel Grüner’s eyes.

“I don’t know how long it will take us to reach the dock,” Gradny-Sawz said, Peter’s subtle sarcasm having escaped him, “but may I suggest that you change into a proper uniform, including the Knight’s Cross, Herr Hauptmann?”

 

The Husares de Pueyrredón were mounted on absolutely beautiful horses and looked as if they were about to charge into Bosnia-Herzegovina and lop off rebellious heads with their sabers, or impale rebellious bodies on their lances, thus keeping peace in Emperor Franz-Josef’s domain.

The Army band, not nearly so ornately uniformed as the Husares, played “Oid, mortales” (“Hear, O Mortals”—the Argentinean national anthem) as the casket was lowered off the Belgrano onto a horse-drawn artillery caisson. Salutes were exchanged between German and Argentinean officers, and then the official party formed up behind the caisson.

With the drums of the band beating out the Argentinean equivalent of “slow march,” the procession marched off the dock and into the streets of Buenos Aires, with the cavalry bringing up the rear. Policemen halted traffic. Pedestrians stopped and faced the street as the procession marched by—some of them respectfully removing their hats, and most of them crossing themselves.

It was a long walk to the Avenida Alvear, and it was almost brutally hot. First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, Peter noticed with some pleasure, was not only sweat-soaked, but had not managed to avoid stepping into the horse dung left by the six animals drawing the caisson.

They had some trouble passing the caisson through the gate at the Duarte mansion—the lead horse tried several times to rear. But finally the caisson was in place, and eight Husares—almost certainly officers, Peter decided, although he could not read Argentinean insignia—unstrapped the casket, and struggling under its weight, carried it into the foyer of the mansion.

The official delegation followed. A man and a woman stood just inside the door, with a rank of servants behind them. The woman was in mourning black, broken only with a strand of very large pearls, her face concealed behind a veil.

A short fat officer who looked almost ludicrous in his Husares uniform was ahead of Peter in the line. When he reached the couple, he said, “Señor Duarte, Señora de Duarte, I have the honor to present Capitán Freiherr von Wachtstein of the German Air Force, who had the sad duty of bringing Capitán Duarte from Germany.”

Duarte’s father shook his hand limply and said, “How do you do?”

“May I extend the condolences of the Luftwaffe and the German people on your loss?” Peter said.

“Thank you,” the father said.

“My son is now home, thanks to you. Captain,” the mother said. “And with the Blessed Jesus and all the angels in his heavenly home.”

Peter felt like crying.

You dumb shit, he thought angrily, you left this to go fly a Storch and be a hero at Stalingrad? It wasn’t even your goddamned war!

The short fat man tugged at his arm and led him away.

“I am Coronel Alejandro Sahovaler,” he said. “I have the honor of commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón.”

“A sus órdenes, mi Coronel.”

“El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, uncle to the late Capitán Duarte, has arranged for you to be put up at the Frade family guest house. Unfortunately he had pressing business at his estancia, and could not be here today. Señora de Duarte telephoned me this morning to ask me to take you to the guest house. I was of course honored to be of service. May I do that now?”

“You’re very gracious, mi Coronel,” Peter said, and then spoke what came into his mind: “My luggage? It’s still aboard the ship.”

“It has been taken to the Avenida Libertador house,” Sahovaler said. “It is no problem.”

Well, in that case, I suppose that nobody closely examined my luggage and found the money.

“May I have a minute to speak with el Coronel Grüner, mi Coronel?”

“Of course.”

Grüner was standing with Gradny-Sawz. Grüner and Sahovaler knew each other, while Gradny-Sawz had to be introduced. Peter explained that Sahovaler had offered to drive him to the guest house. The announcement visibly pleased Gradny-Sawz.

“I will be in touch, Hauptmann von Wachtstein,” Gradny-Sawz said. “If not sooner, within a day or two.”

“Thank you,” Peter replied.

Sahovaler had an open Mercedes sedan—an Army car—waiting outside. The driver was wearing a Husares uniform, complete to bearskin hat. They rode regally from Avenida Alvear to Avenida Libertador. On the way, Coronel Sahovaler told Hauptmann von Wachtstein that he was sure el Coronel Frade would be in touch with him very shortly to make sure he was not left alone in the Guest House.

[TWO]

Coronel Sahovaler was wrong. Since el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade had no intention whatever of participating in the nonsense on the pier, or to put on a hot dress uniform to march through horse droppings on the streets of Buenos Aires in the heat of summer, and since Cletus had “business” in Punta del Este—Frade hoped this was nothing more dangerous than meeting young women in brief bathing costumes—he had indeed found pressing business at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

It happened to be legitimate. He was entertaining overnight el Coronel Ricardo López, commander of the 2nd Regiment of Infantry. Wattersly had informed Frade that when he and Kleber talked with him, they were unable to move him off the fence. Wattersly suggested that Frade talk to him himself. Under the circumstances, he had had no choice but to go along.

He would entertain López royally. And if there seemed to be an opportunity, he would reason with him himself. If that failed, the 2nd Regiment of Infantry would have to be placed in the Against column. There were only two columns, For and Against. If the 2nd Infantry went in the Against column, it would have to be neutralized.

He also completely forgot that he had promised his sister to arrange to put up the German officer at the Guest House. Knowing her brother’s tendency to let promises slip his mind, Señora Beatrice de Duarte had called the Guest House and checked. When it turned out he had indeed forgotten, she asked Señora Pellano to take very good care of the young German officer who brought Dear Jorge back to Argentina. Then she called el Coronel Sahovaler to make sure he had a ride.

[THREE]
Customs Shed
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2135 13 December 1942

The plan to smuggle the walkie-talkies past customs was Tony’s. It was novel, simple, and it worked:

“If you never saw one of these before,” Tony said, “the odds are that nobody here has.”

“So?”

“We’ll tell them they are portable radios that don’t work.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“We don’t try to hide them. We make believe we took them over there to listen to music on the beach.”

Clete could think of no better way to bring the radios into Argentina. Besides, even if the ruse didn’t work and they confiscated the radios, it would divert attention from the “wooden” boxes loaded with straw chickens, ducks, and fish.

They pried the AN/PRC-6 MOTOROLA CORP. CHICAGO, ILL. labels from the walkie-talkies; then they each put one of them on clear display in their luggage.

The customs officer was fascinated with the radios, and very sympathetic. After he put a radio to his ear and heard only a hiss, he offered the professional opinion that they probably dropped them, or else got them wet on the beach.

He pawed perfunctorily through the chickens, ducks, and fishes in the “wooden” boxes, smiled, and waved them through.

“Buenas noches, Señores.”

“Buenas noches,” Clete replied, and motioned for a porter to carry their luggage toward the taxi line. He carried one of the “wooden” boxes and Tony carried the other.

As they walked toward the line, he asked Tony if he wanted to have dinner at the guest house, or else go out somewhere.

“Thanks, no, Clete,” Tony replied. “What are we going to do with this stuff, now that we’ve got it?”

“I’ll keep it,” Clete said. “That would probably be the safest thing.”

“I was thinking that maybe you could give the radios to Ettinger. Maybe he can figure out what to do when the batteries go dead.”

“Right.”

“And I’d like to take the detonators. I want to take a good look at them, to make sure how much dry-cell juice I’m going to need.”

“Good thinking. But we can drop the radios off at Ettinger’s apartment on the way to yours. And then we’ll drop the detonators at yours, and get some dinner.”

“I think I’ll pass, Clete,” Tony said. “Unless you really want some company.”

“Just an idea. I’ll bring the radios to David tomorrow.”

“What I’m going to do, Clete,” Tony said, as if worried that he’d hurt Frade’s feelings, “is go find a church. Light a candle. Say ‘thank you.’ You want to come along?”

“I think I’ll pass on that, Tony,” Clete said. “If I went to church, the steeple would fall off. But say ‘thank you’ for me, too, will you?”

“I will,” Tony said, wondering if it was a sin for him to be glad Clete didn’t want to go to church with him. The church he had in mind was near the Ristorante Napoli. Afterward, he would drop in to the Ristorante Napoli for his dinner. She just might be there.

Hell, she might even be in the church. Odds are that she’s Catholic, and nice Catholic girls go to church.

They took their turn in the taxi line, and finally climbed into one. Clete told the driver to take them to Tony’s apartment on Avenida Corrientes.

 

It was quarter past ten when the driver pulled up before the gate at 4730 Avenida Libertador. There were lights on over the drive and above the door, but the gates were closed, and the smaller pedestrian gate beside the vehicular gate was locked; he could see no light coming from the servants’ quarters. Since Señora Pellano had not known when to expect him, he presumed she had simply gone to bed.

Finding the keys he needed, then wrestling with the ancient lock on the gate, and then carrying his luggage and—carefully—both “wooden” boxes from the cab to the front door took another five minutes.

He paid the cabdriver, then moved everything inside the house.

I’ll bring these boxes upstairs—duty first. I’ll take them apart, put the pieces on a shelf in one of my closets, and then I’ll come down here and have a very stiff drink. I was more afraid smuggling this stuff past customs than I let on.

He was almost to the elevator when he heard, faintly, Beethoven’s Third Symphony on the radio or the phonograph. Then he saw a crack of light under the double doors to the library.

Who the hell can that be? My father?

He walked to it and pushed it open with his foot.

A young man in a quilted, dark-red dressing gown was slumped in one of the armchairs, a cognac snifter resting on his chest. A cigar lay in the ashtray on the table beside him.

Who the hell is this?

“Buenas noches, Señor.”

The young man was startled. He quickly put the cognac snifter on the table, rose, and smiled.

“Buenas noches,” he said.

“Yo soy Cletus Frade.”

“El Coronel Frade?” the young man asked incredulously.

“No,” Clete chuckled, “el Teniente Frade. El Coronel is my father.”

The young man bowed and clicked his heels.

“Mucho gusto, Teniente. Yo soy el Capitán Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein, de la Luftwaffe.”

Holy shit! This must be the guy who brought the body from Germany. And you told him you were a lieutenant. Brilliant, Frade, fucking brilliant! He speaks Spanish perfectly.

“Señor, please, Capitán. I am no longer a lieutenant. Better yet, please call me Clete.”

“I’m called Peter,” von Wachtstein said, offering his hand. “Am I in your chair?”

“Sit down,” Clete said.

“The lady who runs this place told me to make myself at home. So she asked if it would be all right if she went to evening mass,” Peter said. “I took the liberty of coming down here and playing the phonograph, and helping myself to the cognac. Was that all right?”

“The cognac is a fine idea. Give me a minute to take my things to my room, and I’ll join you.”

“Let me help you.”

“Not necessary.”

“I would like to.”

“Thank you.”

Peter followed Clete back into the reception foyer and picked up the second “wooden” box.

“Delightful,” he said, admiring the straw chickens, ducks, and fishes. “For your children?”

“I have no children that I know of,” Clete said as they stepped into the elevator.

“I have none that I acknowledge,” Peter replied.

They smiled at each other.

“I was drinking when I bought these,” Clete said. “At the time it seemed like a splendid idea.”

Peter chuckled.

“Señora Pellano has a herd of grandchildren,” Clete said. “They will not go to waste.”

“How nice for the grandchildren.”

They put the “wooden” boxes inside the door to Clete’s apartment, then made a second trip with his luggage, and finally returned to the library.

“It’s a beautiful and unusual, house,” Peter observed as Clete helped himself to the cognac.

“To your health, Peter,” Clete said, raising his glass.

“And yours, Clete,” Peter replied in English.

“The house was built by my granduncle Guillermo,” Clete said, and went on to relate the history of Uncle Bill and the house.

It’ll give me a chance to decide how to handle this, he thought. I am obviously in the presence of mine enemy.

Capitán von Wachtstein was properly appreciative of the story of Granduncle Guillermo, chuckled a final time, and then met Clete’s eyes.

“You said you were formerly a lieutenant,” he asked amiably. “In the Argentine Army?”

“No,” Clete said.

“I could not help but observe your watch,” von Wachtstein said in a polite challenge. “I have seen such watches before.”

“Have you?”

“On the wrists of American aviators shot down over France and Germany. They are very good watches.”

“You are a very perceptive man, mi Capitán.”

“Possibly. And you have a very interesting Spanish accent. Why do I think that my being here may be very awkward for both of us?”

“I am not a professional officer, mi Capitán,” Clete said. “I have no idea what conduct is expected of an officer, even a former officer, when he meets an enemy officer in a neutral country.”

“And in his father’s house,” Peter replied. “I, on the other hand, am a professional officer, and I haven’t the faintest idea either. My father, however—my father is a Generalmajor, and presumably should know about these things—served in France in the First World War and often told me about the armistice, the unofficial armistice, declared between the English and the Germans on Christmas Eve. Do you suppose, as officers and gentlemen, that we might pretend it’s Christmas Eve? We’d only be off by a couple of weeks. Less.”

“I think that would be a splendid solution,” Clete said. “Merry Christmas, Captain. Peter.”

They shook hands.

“Fröhliche Weihnachten, Clete,” Peter said. “You were a pilot, right?”

Clete nodded.

“I could tell,” Peter said. “Not only by the watch. Pilots are better-looking, more charming, and far more intelligent than other officers.”

“More modest, too,” Clete said.

“Absolutely. What did you fly?”

“Wildcats, Grumman Wildcats.”

“You’re a fighter pilot. So am I. Most recently Focke-Wulf 190s. I had a Jaeger squadron near Berlin.”

“I was in the Pacific. Midway and Guadalcanal.”

Their eyes met and locked for a moment.

“We heard about Guadalcanal,” Peter said. “My father told me that the Japanese military attaché assured him that the Americans would be forced into the sea within weeks. My father said he did not think so.”

“We were hanging on by our teeth for a while,” Clete said. “But we’re there for good now, I think.”

“Are the Japanese pilots competent? And their aircraft?”

“The Zero is a first-class fighter,” Clete said. “And some of the Japanese pilots, two in particular, were very good.”

Peter chuckled in understanding.

“You were shot down twice?”

“Shot down twice, disabled once. I was able to bring it in dead-stick.”

“Over Russia, especially in the Steppes, losing an engine is not much of a problem. You can sit down almost anywhere. Over Western Europe, it is a problem. The farms are smaller, and in France, in Normandy in particular, the edges of the fields are fenced with rock.”

“I guess you know from experience?”

“Yes. Your Flying Fortress—B-17?”

Clete nodded.

“…is formidable.”

“We have a saying—about pilots and watches—that you can always tell a B-17 pilot in the shower. He’s the one with the big watch and the small prick.”

He had to explain “prick” to Peter, the Mexican-Spanish vulgarism not being the same as the Spanish-Spanish; but eventually Peter laughed appreciatively.

I’m running off at the mouth, Clete thought, somewhat alarmed, which means I’m getting drunk. Why? I’ve only had three of these. What I should do, obviously, is politely tell mine enemy “good night,” go to bed, and sort this all out in the morning. To hell with it. We have a gentleman’s agreement that it’s Christmas Eve, and I like this guy.

He picked up the cognac bottle, poured some in Peter’s glass, and then refilled his own.

“I will not ask what an American Air Force officer is doing in Argentina,” Peter said.

“Thank you,” Clete said quickly. “An ex-officer. And I was a Marine, not in the Air Corps.”

“A Marine? What is a Marine?”

“Soldiers of the sea,” Clete said.

“Ah, yes. I have heard of the Marines. An elite force. They are like our SS.”

“An elite force,” Clete said coldly. “But not at goddamn all like your SS.”

Their eyes locked again.

“There is propaganda on both sides in a war,” Peter said. “Some of the SS—perhaps most—are fine soldiers.”

“I think we better change the subject, Peter.”

“And some are despicable scum,” Peter went on.

“I know why you’re here,” Clete said. “You escorted Jorge Duarte’s body, right?”

Peter nodded, then said, “My father arranged it. He wanted me out of the war, out of Germany.”

Gott, I must be drunk! Peter thought. Why did I tell him that?

“I don’t understand.”

“I lost my two brothers, and my mother, in this war,” Peter said. “My father wanted to preserve the family.”

“I’m sorry,” Clete said.

That was sincere, Peter thought. He meant that.

“Just before you came in here, I was wondering, with the assistance of Herr Martel”—he held up his brandy snifter—“if I have done the honorable thing.”

“You said your father arranged it. Could you have stopped him?”

“I was wondering about that too. I didn’t try.”

“I was glad to get off of Guadalcanal,” Clete said. “I figured I was running out of percentages.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can only go up and come down in one piece so many times,” Clete said. “Eventually, you don’t come back. We call it the percentage.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “But you felt no…obligation of honor…to remain?”

“I did not ask to be relieved, but I was glad when I was.”

“I got drunk when I was relieved,” Peter said. “I told myself I did it because I did not wish to be relieved. Now I am wondering if I really wasn’t…glad.”

“I thought maybe you were with Duarte when he was killed,” Clete said.

“Never met him. I was told he was killed at Stalingrad flying a Storch, a little high-wing monoplane used for artillery spotting, carrying people around, that sort of thing.”

“That he wasn’t supposed to be flying in the first place. My father told me that if he had any idea he was putting him in the line of fire, he never would have let him go over there.”

“What sort of a fellow was he?”

“I never met him,” Clete said.

“Really? I thought he was your cousin.”

“He was. But I never met him. Or his parents. Or, for that matter, my father, until a couple of days ago.”

“I met them this afternoon. That was very difficult. I had the feeling they were asking, ‘What are you doing alive when our son is dead?’”

“I had exactly the same feeling when I met them,” Clete said.

“How is it you never met them?”

Clete told the story, including the cover story of his heart murmur and his job down here making sure the Argentines weren’t diverting American oil products to the Germans. The lies made him uncomfortable, especially after “mine enemy” had been so openly sincere.

“Does that mean you can’t fly anymore?”

“No. It just means I can’t fly for the Marines.”

“I miss flying,” Peter said. “And I don’t think I’ll be doing much, if any, flying here.”

“My father has a light airplane. If I can persuade him to let me use it, I’ll take you for a ride.”

“I would like that,” Peter said seriously. “Thank you very much.”

 

Señora Pellano came into the library a few minutes after one to find Señor Cletus and the young German officer standing by the fireplace making strange movements with their hands, like little boys pretending their hands were aeroplanes.

They seemed embarrassed that they had been drinking. There was no reason for that.

She told them she had gone to midnight mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, which was why she was so late, and asked them if they would like anything to eat.

But they thanked her and said they were about to go to bed.

For about half an hour she sat on a little stool behind the door of the corridor that led from the foyer to the kitchen, until she heard them—sounding very happy if perhaps a little drunk—tell each other goodnight.

[FOUR]
Calle Olavarría
La Boca, Buenos Aires
1135 13 December 1942

As he prepared to enter the Church of San Juan Evangelista, Tony was telling himself for the tenth or twelfth time that he was making a fool of himself, a church seemed to be on every other corner, and the odds of her showing up at this one were one in nine zillion. That was when he saw her coming around the corner from the direction of Ristorante Napoli.

She wasn’t as well-dressed as the last time he saw her. She was wearing a simple cotton dress and sandals, with a shawl around her shoulders and over her head. But she was even more beautiful than he remembered, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary in St. Rose of Lima’s, back in Cicero.

Seeing him standing by the church door seemed to surprise her, even to frighten her, as if he might do something bad to her, and she quickly averted her eyes.

Tony had gathered his courage. “Buenas noches, Señorita,” he said, smiling. It wasn’t all that much different from Italian.

She looked at him and just perceptibly smiled, but did not speak.

He waited a good three minutes before following her inside the church, among other things debating the Christian morality of trying to pick up a girl there. He finally decided it was all right, he wasn’t trying to fuck her or anything.

He had a little trouble finding her in the church; it was dark inside. And when he did find her, he had trouble finding a seat that would give him a view of something besides the back of her head.

But even that wasn’t so bad. He stepped on some old lady’s foot and she yelped, and he said without thinking, “Scusi,” in Italian, and the old lady answered him in Italian. She said he was a clumsy jackass, but she said it in Italian, and that made him think that maybe the girl also spoke Italian—why not? She had gone into the Ristorante Napoli, and this was an Italian neighborhood. Maybe if he had a chance to say hello to her again, he could try it in Italian and wouldn’t sound like the neighborhood idiot trying to talk to her in Spanish.

He said a prayer for his family, and thanked God for not getting caught in Uruguay. And he asked God’s protection when they tried to blow a hole in the ship. And then he asked God, “Please let me meet her.” And for a moment he wondered if he should have done that, but decided there was nothing wrong with it, he had no carnal lusts for her or anything like that.

Once she turned around and saw him. And even in the dim light—he didn’t think there was a bulb bigger than forty watts in all of Argentina, and the ones in here looked like refrigerator bulbs—he thought he saw her blush.

When she stood up and left, walking past him out of the church, she didn’t look at him, although he knew damned well she had seen him. He hurried after her, and saw her heading toward the Ristorante Napoli. He waited until she disappeared around the corner and then walked quickly after her.

What the hell, it was three blocks to the ristorante, maybe I can catch up with her.

She turned another corner, a block away from the Ristorante Napoli, and he walked faster so he wouldn’t lose her. And in case she went in some house or something, he would know where she lived.

When he turned the corner, she was waiting for him.

“If my father sees you following me, he will cut out your heart with a knife,” she said. In Italian!

His mouth went on automatic. He was startled to hear himself say, “Oh, please don’t tell your father. I am just a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone.”

Boy, did I put my foot in my mouth with that stupid line.

But she smiled.

“You’re telling the truth?”

Tony held up his right hand.

“I swear to God!” he declared passionately.

“Where are you from? The North?”

“Cicero.”

“Where?”

“Cicero, Illinois. Outside Chicago. In the United States of America.”

“You’re telling the truth?”

“I swear to God, on my mother’s honor.”

“I have never heard of Cicero, Illinois,” she said.

“It’s a nice place. You would like it. You ought to visit there sometime.”

There you go again, asshole! Think before you open your goddamned mouth!

“You are an American?” she asked in disbelief.

“I am an American.”

“If you are an American, you must speak English.”

“I do.”

“Say something in English.”

“What do you want me to say?” Tony asked in English.

“Say you are a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone.”

“I really am,” Tony said in English.

“You can’t speak English!”

“I am a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone,” Tony quickly said in English.

Her eyes widened.

“I think I maybe believe you,” the girl said.

“I swear to God.”

She smiled and took his arm.

“It is not right to be alone and far from home,” she said. “Come, I will take you home with me and we will have a glass of wine for you, and a cake.”

I don’t believe this! Thank you, God!

She took him to the Ristorante Napoli, which was closed, and through a door that opened on a stairway that led to a little apartment over the restaurant.

Her father—Tony recognized him as the guy who gave him the good meal the first time he went to the restaurant—and her mother and some younger brothers and sisters were there.

Her father didn’t recognize him.

Thank God, after that bullshit story I handed him about being from some village near the Austrian border!

The girl told her family they had met in the church and that he had told her he was alone, and she had brought him home for a glass of wine and a cake. Her mother raised her eyebrows the way Tony’s grandmother used to raise hers; but her father gave him a glass of wine, and then another, and some kind of pastry her mother said she made special for the family and not for the restaurant. And then everybody just sat there sort of uncomfortable, so Tony took the hint and decided he better get the hell out of there before he made a pest of himself, and started to go.

He shook hands with everybody and then the girl went down the stairs with him to the street, and he gathered his courage and blurted, “I’d really like to see you again.”

“Impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? We could have a cup of coffee or something. Dinner.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“I have a job. I work all week.”

“You have to have some time off.”

“Very little.”

“You have to have some,” Tony argued. “You’re off now, for example. Are you working tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Sunday!”

She hesitated before replying, “No. But my family will be visiting relatives.”

“All day?”

“From five.”

“What about between now and five?”

“It’s not a very good idea.”

“Please!”

“It’s crazy.”

“Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I should not do this, but…”

“But what?”

“You come here at nine-thirty tomorrow. We take the train to El Tigre. We have a cup of coffee, maybe a little sandwich, and then we come back. OK.”

What the hell is El Tigre? Tony wondered. “The Tiger”? What the hell does that mean? Who the hell cares?

“Nine-thirty,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

“It’s crazy,” she said one last time, and then turned and went up the stairs.

[FIVE]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
0925 14 December 1942

First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, opened his eyes and found himself staring at Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe, who was in a khaki uniform. Clete noticed the swastika on his pilot’s wings. It made him uncomfortable.

“What the hell do you want?” he inquired, somewhat less than graciously.

“It is almost half past nine,” von Wachtstein said.

“What the hell are you, a talking clock? Get the hell out of here!”

“There is an officer here to move me to a hotel,” Peter said.

Clete sat up. His brain banged against the interior of his cranium. His dry tongue scraped against the cobblestones on his teeth. His stomach groaned. His eyes hurt.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Behind Peter, he saw Señora Pellano carrying a tray on which was a coffeepot, a large glass of orange juice, and a rose in a small crystal vase. She was smiling at him maternally.

“Buenos días, Señor Cletus,” she said.

Christ, that’s all I need. A smiling face and a goddamned rose!

“Buenos días, Señora Pellano,” he said, and smiled. It hurt to smile.

“There is an officer here, a Coronel Kleber. He is to move me to a hotel,” Peter said. “He claims it is to make me more convenient to your uncle’s house. But I think someone finally remembered that you are living here.”

“Oh, Christ,” Clete said.

“Our armistice is over, I am afraid,” Peter said.

“Looks that way.”

“I would suggest, Clete, that our armistice be a secret between us; that we both say we were unaware the other was in the house. There are those, I am afraid, who would not understand how it was between us.”

“Oh, shit!” Clete said.

“You agree?”

“Oh, hell. Yeah, sure. You’re right.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Clete,” Peter said, and put out his hand. Clete shook it.

Peter took his hand back, came to attention with a click of his heels, and saluted.

With a vague movement of his arm, Clete touched his hand to his right eyebrow, returning the salute.

Von Wachtstein did an about-face and marched out of the room.

I shouldn’t have been so fucking casual with that salute. He meant his. I’ll be damned if that bullshit they gave us at Quantico isn’t true—that a salute is a gesture of greeting that is the privilege of warriors. The least I could have done was return it, not wave at him. Nice guy. Damned nice guy.

“Señora, I very much appreciate the breakfast, but could you come back in a couple of hours?”

“Señor Clete,” Señora Pellano said, setting the tray on the bed and fluffing his pillows, “it would be better if you had the coffee. Señor Nestor will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Señor Nestor?”

“I told him you were not feeling well, and he said it was very important.”

“Thank you, Señora,” Clete said, and reached for the orange juice. “I will receive him.”

“Sí,” she said, and then, “And you may have your car at any hour between twelve and three.”

“What car?”

“There was a call from Señor Mallín’s secretary yesterday. Your car has arrived. The necessary papers have been accomplished, and you may go to the customs at any hour between twelve and three to take it from them.”

“On Sunday?”

“It is a courtesy to Señor Mallín,” Señora Pellano said. “Or perhaps to your father.”

“Won’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“The officials will be there waiting for you, Señor,” she said.

In other words, you ungrateful bastard, go pick up the goddamn car.

“Thank you,” Clete said. “Señora, would a little present for the man who has my car be in order?”

“A small gift of money would be nice. Or perhaps a few bottles of wine.”

“Is there any here?”

“But of course. I will pack something appropriate for a small gift.”

 

Sixty seconds after he stepped under the shower, there was a telephone call for him, surprising him not at all.

“Have them call back!” he ordered.

“It is your father, Señor Cletus.”

“Good morning, Cletus. It is your father calling.”

“Good morning.”

“I only a few hours ago learned—I am at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo—that you have returned from Uruguay.”

“I got in late last night.”

“And was an angry man with a pistol chasing you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I thought perhaps that a jealous husband had cut short your stay.”

“No. Nothing like that. I just had enough.”

“When I was your age, I never had enough. Did you meet the other guest at the house?”

Clete hesitated just perceptibly before replying.

“Just to say hello, to wish him a Merry Christmas. Señora Pellano tells me that he has left.”

“It is of no importance. The people who arranged for him to stay there were not aware that it is now your residence,” Frade said. “Tell me, have you plans for the day?”

“No, Sir.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Certainly.”

“I will send Enrico in the station wagon to you. He will bring you to the estancia, and you and I will have an American dinner. A rib of beef, with Worcestershire pudding. And perhaps a ride afterward. How does that sound to you?”

He means Yorkshire, Clete thought, smiling, and then: Is he alone out there? Lonely?

“I have someone coming to see me now; and, between twelve and three, I have to pick up my car at the port.”

“Excuse me?”

“My car has arrived from New Orleans. Señor Mallín has arranged for me to pick it up today between twelve and three.”

“Then you do not wish to come?” His disappointment was evident.

“No, Sir. I’m just telling you what I have to do before I can come.”

“I will call a friend in the Ministry of Customs,” Frade said. “When you arrive at the port, there will be no problems.”

“I think Señor Mallín has already arranged that.”

“I will call my friend. There will be no problems with Customs. And then Enrico, in the station wagon, will come from here to there and lead you back to the estancia.”

“I can read a map. Is there someplace I can get a map?”

“Yes, of course you can read a map. Ask Señora Pellano to prepare one for you.”

“Well, then, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I will be waiting with great expectations,” el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said, and the phone went dead.

Señora Pellano was standing there during the conversation, making Clete a little uncomfortable—he was wearing only a towel around his waist.

“Señora, could you make a map showing me how to drive to my father’s estancia? I am going to have dinner with him.”

“Marvelous,” she said. “He will be pleased. I will draw you a map.”

“I have a better idea,” Clete said impulsively. “Why don’t you ride down there with me? And show me the way?”

“I am not sure el Coronel would be pleased.”

“You don’t work for him, you work for me,” Clete argued. She considered that a moment.

“Yes, that is true,” she said. “And I could see my family, my sisters, my brother, my aunts.”

“Then you’re coming,” Clete said.

“If you wish, Señor Cletus,” she said.