Greeks Bearing Gifts

FIVE

A pewter-colored sky compressed the cold, even landscape; for a Bavarian town Munich is as flat as a mattress and just as comfortable, and there’s no part of Munich more comfortable than Bogenhausen, on the east bank of the Isar River. General Heinkel’s house was a white three-story villa with louvered green shutters, about thirty windows, and a vaguely fairy-tale stillness. You could hear the river in the drains and, in the little church that was opposite where Schramma had parked the BMW, the sound of an organist practicing a Bach cantata that might have been O lovely day, o hoped-for time, only that wasn’t how I regarded it. A green picket fence sloped gently down to an untidy line of deciduous trees that bordered the Isar. On the other side of the empty cobbled street was a small military hospital for soldiers whom the war had left maimed or horribly disfigured. I knew this because while we were sitting in the car we watched in uncomfortable silence as a group of maybe ten or fifteen of them trooped out the gate to take their afternoon constitutional around Bogenhausen. One man glanced in our window as he passed by although, in truth, it was hard to believe that this had been his intention as a large part of his face was pointed in completely the opposite direction. The man behind him seemed to be wearing a pair of thick goggles or spectacles made of pink flesh that were the result, perhaps, of some plastic surgery that was intended to remedy extensive facial burns. A third man with one eye and one leg and one arm and two crutches appeared to be in charge, and I thought of Pieter Brueghel’s famous painting—The Blind Leading the Blind—and shuddered as I considered my own comparatively good fortune. It’s true what Homer says that sometimes it’s the dead who are the mighty lucky ones.

“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Schramma, relighting his cigar. “Will you look at that goddamn hink? And I thought you were ugly, Gunther.” He took out a silver hip flask and bit off a large piece of the contents.

“Show a little respect,” I said.

“For what? That little hit parade? Better those limping hinks than me, that’s what I say.”

“In this particular case I’m forced to agree with you. They are better than you, Schramma. And always will be.” I shook my head. His company was beginning to become tiresome. “What are we waiting for anyway? You still haven’t said.”

“We’re waiting for the money to turn up, that’s what. As soon as it does we’re in business, but not until. So stop flapping your tongue and take a bite of this.”

He handed me the flask, on which were engraved the words Thank You, Christian Schramma, for being our Wedding Witness, 25.11.1947. Pieter and Johanna. I almost laughed at the idea of a snake like Schramma being the best man at anyone’s wedding; then again, it wasn’t just the German police who were short of good men, it was everyone these days. Pieter and Johanna included. I took a swig from the flask; it was cheap schnapps but nonetheless welcome. Alcohol is the best accomplice for almost any crime you care to mention.

“I’m just saying,” he said. “It’s a bit of a shock, that’s all. To see men like that walking around the streets, scaring the horses. They should wave a red flag or something, like they used to do when a train was coming.”

“The sea always looks nice until the tide goes out,” I said, “and then you see all the ugly things it hides. Germany’s a bit like that, I think. I mean, we’ve got more of that kind of thing than most. It’s to be expected and we shouldn’t be surprised when we find what’s really there. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Me, I’m more of a Darwinist, I guess. I tend to believe in a Germany in which only the strong will survive.”

“That’s a new idea.”

“Oh, I don’t mean politically. Politics are finished in this country. I mean survival not just of the fittest, but of the best, too. The best people to make the best cars and the best washing machines and the best vacuum cleaners. It seems so obvious that I wonder why Hitler didn’t think of it himself. Germany, the manufacturing powerhouse and the economic master of Europe. And with that, a new realism. Sure, human values will have importance but for a long while yet the cold numbers will have to take precedence if we’re going to be back on top where we belong.”

I took a second swig and handed back the flask. “Is this the speech you gave at the wedding or at Bretton Woods?”

“Fuck you, Gunther.” Schramma took a swig from the flask and swished it around like a mouthwash. He needed it with the cigar he was smoking. “As soon as I get enough money from this whole deal I’m going to buy myself a share of the economic miracle. I’m going to go into business for myself.”

“And this little caper is what? Pro bono publico?”

“I mean I’m going to become a manufacturer. I’m going to buy myself this nice little factory I know that makes cutlery.”

“What do you know about manufacturing?”

“Nothing. But I know how to use a knife and fork.”

“Now that is a surprise.”

“Seriously, though. This is what’s going to give Germany an advantage over England, for example. That bottom line on the balance sheet. The Tommies mistakenly believe that their victory has earned them the right to those human values first. That’s why they created their welfare state but history will prove they can’t afford it. You see if I’m wrong.”

There was more of this; maybe Schramma saw himself as the new Paul Samuelson, not that it mattered because after a few minutes I stopped listening. That’s probably good advice with all economists. After a few more minutes a man wearing a Gannex coat and a Karakul hat came up the slope from the river end and went through the gate of the white house.

“Here we go,” said Schramma.

He’d already given me a scarf with which to cover my face but now he took out a Walther PPK, worked the slide, thumbed the hammer down to make it safe, and handed it to me, but then held on to the pistol for a moment so that he could deliver a short lecture.

“Just so you know, I have to pay someone out of my share, and this person knows who you are.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“All you need to know is that if you double-cross me then you’ll be double-crossing him, too. So don’t go getting any bright ideas, Gunther. I want you watching my back, not putting a hole in it. Clear?”

“Clear.” But of course it wasn’t, not by a long chalk. I knew there was now a round in the chamber—it was impossible to work the slide on an automatic without putting some brass in there—but I had no idea if that round was live or blank. The way I saw things it was taking a risk, him giving me a loaded gun, so why would he? What was to stop me from robbing him of the ten thousand when he’d finished robbing the general?

I figured a blank would serve his purpose just as well as a live round; no one was going to argue with a pistol, and if I had to shoot, my making a loud noise would be almost as effective as putting a bullet in someone; safer for him that way, too. Of course, I might have worked the slide myself and dropped the round into the palm of my hand and found out one way or the other but, in a strange way, it suited us both for me to act as if the gun was loaded, even if it wasn’t. Naturally it had crossed my mind that the real purpose of his asking me along was not to watch his back but to see if he could really trust me or even to be the fall guy. I figured I had a better chance of coming through it all unscathed if I actively allowed Schramma to believe that I believed I was properly heeled.

He let the gun go and I thrust it quickly into my coat pocket.

We got out of the car and I followed him through the picket gate. We walked around to the side of the house and the back door. The organist had started playing another cantata, which the rooks and crows seemed to enjoy more than I did, the way they were joining in on the chorus. By now there were a few lights on in the house but only on the second floor.

Schramma stopped by a wheelbarrow that was leaning against the wall and glanced in the window through the back door, which wasn’t locked. A few moments later we were in the house. There was a strong smell of apples and cinnamon in the air as if someone had been baking strudel but it didn’t make me feel hungry. In fact, I felt a little sick; I couldn’t help but notice that the grip on the .38 in Schramma’s hand was Dekka-taped as if he planned on leaving it at the scene, which didn’t augur well for anyone, me least of all. You don’t plan to leave a gun behind unless you’ve used it. So I was feeling scared about what I’d let myself in for. But what choice did I have? Christof Ganz was just getting started in life and it wasn’t like there were any other new identities available to me. Not even in Germany. For the moment, at least, my foot was well and truly caught between the serrated steel jaws of Schramma’s mantrap.

Schramma balanced his half-chewed cigar on the side of the kitchen table, pulled the scarf over his nose and mouth, outlaw-style, and then nodded at me to do the same. We walked quietly along a dimly lit corridor toward a room with voices at the front of the house.