The Third Reich

SEPTEMBER 14

It was two in the afternoon when I got up. My body ached and an inner voice told me that I should try to spend as little time as possible at the hotel. I went out without even showering. After coffee at a nearby bar and a glance at some of the German papers, I returned to the Del Mar and inquired after Frau Else. Not back yet from Barcelona. Nor is her husband, obviously. The atmosphere at the reception desk is hostile. Same at the bar. Dirty looks from the waiters, that kind of thing. Nothing serious. The sun was shining, though there were still some black clouds on the horizon, heavy with rain, so I put on my bathing trunks and went to keep El Quemado company. The pedal boats were unstacked, but El Quemado was nowhere to be seen. I decided to wait for him and I lay down in the sand. I hadn’t brought a book, so the only thing I could do was stare at the sky, which was a deep blue, and remember happy things to pass the time. At some point, of course, I fell asleep; the beach—warm and nearly empty, the clamor of August now remote—was conducive to sleep. I dreamed then about Florian Linden. Ingeborg and I were at the hotel in a room like ours, and someone was knocking at the door. Ingeborg didn’t want me to see who it was. Don’t, she said, if you love me, don’t do it. As she spoke, her lips trembled. It might be something urgent, I said resolutely, but when I tried to move toward the door Ingeborg clung to me with both hands so that I couldn’t move at all. Let me go, I shouted, let me go, as the pounding grew louder and louder, until I thought that maybe Ingeborg was right and it was best to stay where we were. In the struggle, Ingeborg fell to the floor. I gazed down at her from far above. She was in some kind of swoon, with her legs flung wide. Anyone could rape you now, I said, and then she opened one eye, just one, the left one, I think, huge and ultrablue, and didn’t take it offme; wherever I moved it followed me. Its expression, I’d say, though I can’t be sure, wasn’t vigilant or accusatory but curious, attentive to something new, and terrified. Then I couldn’t stand it any longer and I pressed my ear to the door. The person outside wasn’t knocking, he was scratching at the door from the other side! Who is it? I asked. Florian Linden, private detective, answered a tiny voice. Do you want to come in? No, for the love of God, don’t open the door! Florian Linden’s voice insisted, more vigorously, though not much. It was clear that he was hurt. For a while we were both silent, trying to listen, but the truth is that there was nothing to be heard. It was as if the hotel were underwater. Even the temperature was different. It was colder now, and since we were wearing summer clothes, that made it worse. Soon it became unbearable and I had to get up and get blankets out of the closet to wrap around Ingeborg and me. But it was no good. Ingeborg began to sob: she said she couldn’t feel her legs anymore and we were going to freeze to death. You’ll die only if you fall asleep, I promised, trying not to look at her. On the other side of the door sound could be heard at last. Steps: someone was approaching, as if on tiptoe, and then retreating. The same progression three times. Is that you, Florian? Yes, it’s me, but now I have to leave, answered Florian Linden. What’s going on? Shady business, I don’t have time to explain. You’re safe for now, though you’d better go home tomorrow morning. Home? The detective’s voice creaked and crackled as he spoke. They’re vaporizing him! I thought. Then I tried to go open the door and I couldn’t get up. I had no feeling in my feet or hands. I was frozen. In terror, I realized that there was no way out and we were going to die at the hotel. Ingeborg had stopped moving; she was sprawled at my feet, and all that could be seen of her under the blanket was her long blond hair on the black tile floor. I would have liked to hug her and weep, I felt so forlorn; but just then, without any help from me, the door opened. Where Florian Linden should have been there was no one, but there was a huge shadow at the end of the corridor. Then I opened my eyes, trembling, and I saw the cloud, giant and dark, looming over the town and lumbering like an aircraft carrier toward the hills. I was cold. Everyone had left the beach and El Quemado wasn’t going to come. I don’t know how long I lay there on the sand, looking up at the sky. I was in no hurry. I might have been there for hours and hours. When at last I decided to get up, instead of returning to the hotel I headed for the sea. The water was warm and dirty. I swam for a bit. The dark cloud kept moving overhead. Then I stopped stroking and sank down until I touched the bottom. I’m not sure whether I made it; while I was underwater I think I kept my eyes wide open, but I didn’t see anything. I was being swept out to sea. When I emerged I saw that I hadn’t drifted as far from the shore as I thought. I returned to the pedal boats, picked up my towel, and dried myself carefully. It was the first time that El Quemado hadn’t shown up for work. Suddenly shivers ran through me. I did some exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, a brief jog. When I was dry I tied the towel around my waist and walked off to the Andalusia Lodge. There I asked for a cognac and told the owner that I would come by later to pay. Then I asked after El Quemado. No one had seen him.

The afternoon dragged on. Frau Else never turned up at the hotel, nor did El Quemado appear on the beach, though at six the sun came out, and near the point by the campgrounds I spotted a pedal boat, beach umbrellas, and people playing in the waves. My stretch of beach wasn’t as lively. The hotel guests had signed up en masse for an excursion—to a vineyard or a famous monastery, I seem to remember—and the only people left on the terrace were a few old men and the waiters. By the time it started to get dark I knew what I wanted to do, and soon afterward I asked the reception desk to put through a call to Germany. Before the call went through I had reviewed the state of my finances and discovered that I had only enough to pay the bill, spend one more night at the Del Mar, and put a little gasoline in the car. On the fifth or sixth attempt I managed to reach Conrad. His voice sounded sleepy. And there were other voices in the background. I got straight to the point. I said I needed money. I said I planned to stay a few more days.

“How many days?”

“I don’t know, it depends.”

“Why are you staying?”

“That’s my business. I’ll return the money as soon as I get back.”

“The way you’re acting, a person might think you plan never to come back.”

“What an absurd idea. What could I do here for the rest of my life?”

“Nothing, I know. But do you know it?”

“Actually, there are things I could do here: I could work as a tour guide, start my own business. This place is full of tourists, and a person who can speak three languages will always be able to find work.”

“Your place is here. Your career is here.”

“What career are you talking about? The office?”

“I’m talking about writing, Udo, the articles for Rex Douglas, the novels, yes, listen to me, the novels you could write if you weren’t such a mess. I’m talking about the plans we’ve made together… The cathedrals… do you remember?”

“Thank you, Conrad, yes, you’re probably right…”

“Come back as soon as you can. I’ll send the money tomorrow. Your friend’s body must already be in Germany. End of story. What more is there for you to do there?”

“Who told you that they’d found Charly?… Ingeborg?”

“Of course. She’s worried about you. We see each other almost every day. And we talk. I tell her things about you. From before you met. The day before yesterday I took her to your apartment. She wanted to see it.”

“My apartment? Shit! And did she go in?”

“Obviously. She had her key but she didn’t want to go alone. Between the two of us we cleaned it up. The floor needed sweeping. And she took some things of hers, a sweater, some records… I don’t think she’ll be happy to hear that you’ve borrowed money in order to stay longer. She’s a good girl, but there’s a limit to her patience.”

“What else did she do there?”

“Nothing. I told you: she swept, threw out the spoiled things in the refrigerator…”

“She didn’t go through my files?”

“Of course not.”

“What about you? What did you do?”

“For God’s sake, Udo, the same things.”

“All right… Thanks… So you see each other often?”

“Every day. I think it’s because she doesn’t have anyone to talk to about you. She wanted to call your parents, but I convinced her not to. I don’t think it’s a good idea to worry them.”

“My parents wouldn’t worry. They know the town… and the hotel.”

“I don’t know. I hardly know your parents, I don’t know how they’d react.”

“You hardly know Ingeborg either.”

“True. You’re our connection. Though it seems to me that we’ve gotten to be friends, in a way. These last few days I’ve gotten to know her better and I really like her. She’s not just beautiful, she’s smart and practical too.”

“I know. The same thing always happens. She’s…”

“What, she’s seduced me?”

“No, ‘seduced’ isn’t the right word; she’s like ice. She has a calming effect on you. On you and everybody else. Being with her is like being alone, focused exclusively on your own pursuits, in a state of total relaxation.”

“Don’t talk like that. Ingeborg loves you. Tomorrow I promise I’ll send you the money. Are you coming back?”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t understand what’s keeping you there. Is there something you haven’t told me? I’m your best friend…”

“I want to stay a few days longer, that’s all. There’s no mystery. I want to think, write, enjoy the place, now that there’s hardly anybody here.”

“That’s it? Nothing to do with Ingeborg?”

“Don’t be silly, of course not.”

“I’m happy to hear it. How is your match going?”

“Summer of ’42. I’m winning.”

“I figured as much. Do you remember that match against Mathias Müller? The one we played a year ago at the Chess Club?”

“Which match?”

“A Third Reich. Franz, you, and me against the group from Forced Marches.”

“Yes, and what happened?”

“Don’t you remember? We won and Mathias was so angry— he’s a bad loser, you know—that he swung a chair at little Bernd Rahn and broke it.”

“The chair?”

“That’s right. The members of the Chess Club kicked him out and he hasn’t shown his face there since. Remember how we laughed that night?”

“Sure, of course, my memory is still good. It’s just that some things don’t seem so funny to me anymore. But I remember everything.”

“Of course.”

“Ask me a question, anything, and you’ll see…”

“I believe you, I do…”

“Ask me. Ask if I remember which parachute divisions were at Anzio.”

“I’m sure you do…”

“Ask me…”

“All right, which…”

“The First Division: First, Third, and Fourth Regiments; the Second Division: Second, Fifth, and Sixth Regiments; and the Fourth Division: Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Regiments.”

“Very good…”

“Now ask me about the SS Panzer Divisions in Fortress Europa.”

“All right, what are they?”

“The First Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, the Second Das Reich, the Ninth Hohenstaufen, the Tenth Frundsberg, and the Twelfth Hitlerjugend.”

“Perfect. Your memory is in perfect working order.”

“What about yours? Do you remember who led the 352nd, Heimito Gerhardt’s Infantry Division?”

“All right, that’s enough.”

“Tell me, do you remember or not?”

“No…”

“It’s very simple, you can check it tonight in Omaha Beachhead or in any book of military history. General Dietrich Kraiss was the division commander and Colonel Meyer was the head of Heimito’s regiment, the 915th.”

“All right, I’ll look it up. Is that all?”

“I’ve been thinking about Heimito. He really knows everything. He can recite from memory the complete setup for The Longest Day, down to battalion level.”

“Of course, since that’s when he was taken prisoner.”

“Don’t mock him, Heimito is one of a kind. I wonder how he’s doing now?”

“Fine, why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because he’s old and everything changes; because people abandon you, Conrad. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

“He’s a tough, happy old man. And he isn’t alone. He went to Spain in July with his wife on vacation. He sent me a postcard from Seville.”

“Yes, I got one too. The truth is I couldn’t read his handwriting. I should have asked to take my vacation in July.”

“So you could travel with Heimito?”

“Maybe.”

“We can still do it in December. For the Paris convention. I got the program a little while ago, it’ll be quite the affair.”

“It’s not the same. I wasn’t talking about that.”

“We’ll be able to present our paper. You’ll get to meet Rex Douglas in person. We’ll play World in Flames with real natives. Try to muster a little enthusiasm. It will be fantastic…”

“What do you mean, ‘World in Flames with real natives’?”

“A team of Germans will play Germany, a team of Brits will play Great Britain, a team of Frenchmen will play France, each group under its own flag.”

“I had no idea. Who will play the Soviet Union?”

“That’s a good question. The French, I think, though you never know, there might be some surprises.”

“And Japan? Will the Japanese come?”

“I don’t know, maybe. If Rex Douglas comes, why not the Japanese… Though maybe we’ll have to play Japan ourselves, or the Belgian delegation can. I’m sure the French organizers have it all worked out.”

“The Belgians will be ridiculous as the Japanese.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“This all sounds ridiculous. I can’t believe it’s true. So the main event of the convention will be World in Flames? Whose idea was that?”

“Not exactly the main event. It’s just in the program and people are excited about it.”

“I thought Third Reich would be given a place of honor.”

“And it will, Udo, during the presentation of papers.”

“Right, while I’m droning on about multiple strategies everyone will be watching World in Flames.”

“Not true. Our talk is on the 21st in the afternoon and the match takes place after the lectures each day, from the 20th to the 23rd. And the game was chosen because several teams could play, not for any other reason.”

“Now I don’t feel like going… Of course the French want to play the Soviet Union because they know we’ll wipe them out on the first afternoon… Why don’t they play Japan?… Out of loyalty to the old alliances, of course… They’ll probably monopolize Rex Douglas the minute he lands…”

“You shouldn’t speculate like this, it’s pointless.”

“And the Cologne gang will be there, of course…”

“That’s right.”

“All right. Enough. Say hello to Ingeborg.”

“Come back soon.”

“I will.”

“Don’t be depressed.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m fine here. Happy.”

“Call me. Remember that Conrad is your best friend.”

“I know. Conrad is my best friend. Good-bye…”

Summer 1942. El Quemado shows up at eleven. I hear his shouts as I’m lying in bed reading the Florian Linden novel. Udo, Udo Berger, his voice echoes on the empty Paseo Marítimo. My first impulse is to lie still and wait. El Quemado’s call is hoarse and raw as if fire had also scorched his throat. When I open the balcony doors I see him on the sidewalk across the street, sitting on the seawall of the Paseo, waiting for me as if he has all the time in the world, with a big plastic bag at his feet. There’s a familiar air of terror to our greeting, to the way we acknowledge each other, essentially encapsulated in the abruptly silent and absolute manner in which we raise our arms. Between the two of us a stern and mute awareness is established, to galvanizing effect. But this state is brief and lasts only until El Quemado, in the room now, opens the bag to reveal an abundance of beers and sandwiches. Pathetic but sincere cornucopia! (Earlier, when I passed the reception desk, I asked for Frau Else again. She isn’t back yet, said the watchman, avoiding my gaze. Next to him, sitting in a huge white armchair, an old man with a German paper on his knees watches me with a scarcely concealed smile on his fleshless lips. Judging by his appearance one would say he has no more than a year left to live. And yet from beneath that extreme thinness, the cheekbones and temples especially prominent, the old man stares at me with a strange intensity, as if he knows me. How goes the war? asks the watchman, and then the old man’s smile grows more marked. If only I could stretch over the counter and grab the watchman by the shirt and shake him, but the watchman senses something and backs a little farther away. I’m an admirer of Rommel, he explains. The old man nods in agreement. No, you’re a miserable loser, I shoot back. The old man forms a tiny o with his lips and nods again. Maybe, says the watchman. The looks of hatred that we shoot each other are naked and full of real aggression. And you’re scum, I add, wanting to put him over the edge or at least get him to come a few inches closer to the counter. Well, that’s that, then, murmurs the old man in German, and he gets up. He’s very tall, and his arms, like a caveman’s, dangle down almost to his knees. Actually, that’s a false impression, caused by the old man’s stoop. Still, his height is notable: standing upright he must be (or must once have been) well over six feet tall. But it’s in his voice, the voice of a stubborn dying man, that his authority lies. Almost immediately, as if all he’d intended was for me to see him in his full grandeur, he drops back into the armchair and asks: Any further difficulties? No, of course not, the watchman hastens to say. No, none, I say. Perfect, says the old man, infusing the word with malice and virulence—per-fect—and he closes his eyes.

El Quemado and I eat sitting on the bed, staring at the wall where I’ve pinned up the photocopies. Without needing to put it into words, he understands the degree of defiance in me. The degree of acceptance. Regardless, we eat wrapped in a silence interrupted only by banal observations that are really silences, added by us to the great silence that for something like an hour has fallen over the hotel and the town.

Finally we wash our hands so that we don’t stain the tokens with oil, and we start to play.

Later I’ll take London and lose it immediately. I’ll counterattack in the East and be forced to retreat.