The Third Reich

SEPTEMBER 20

I left the room at seven. For hours I had been sitting on the balcony waiting for dawn. When the sun came up I shut the balcony doors, closed the curtains, and stood there in the dark desperately searching for something to do to pass the time. Taking a shower, changing clothes—these seemed like excellent morning activities, but I just stood there, frozen in place, my breathing agitated. Daylight began to filter through the blinds. I opened the balcony doors again and stared for a long time at the beach and the hazy outline of the pedal boat fortress. Happy are those who have nothing. Happy are those who by leading such a life earn themselves a rheumatic future and are lucky with the dice and resign themselves to living without women. Not a soul was out on the beach so early in the morning, but I heard voices from another balcony, an argument in French. Who but the French raise their voices before seven! I closed the curtains again and tried to undress so I could get in the shower. I couldn’t. The light in the bathroom was like the glare of a torture chamber. With an effort I turned on the water and washed my hands. When I tried to splash my face I realized that my arms were stiffand I decided it would be best to leave it until later. I turned off the lights and went out. The hallway was deserted and lit only at each end by half-hidden bulbs that gave offa faint ocher glow. Without making any noise, I went down the stairs until I reached the first-floor landing. From there, reflected in the huge hallway mirror, I could see the the night watchman’s head resting on the edge of the counter. He had to be asleep. I retraced my steps to the second floor, where I turned toward the back (northeast) with my ears pricked for the familiar sounds of the kitchen in case the cooks had arrived, which was highly unlikely. At the beginning of my journey down the hallway, the silence was complete, but as I walked along I was able to make out an asthmatic snore that, at brief intervals, interrupted the monotony of doors and walls. When I came to the end I stopped. Before me was a wooden door with a marble plaque in the middle, with a four-line poem (or so I imagined) inscribed on it in black, written in Catalan. Exhausted, I set my hand on the jamb and pushed. The door opened without the slightest impediment. There was the room, big and dark, as Clarita had described it. All I could see was the outline of a window, and the air was thick, though there was no smell of medicine. I was about to close the door that I had so boldly opened when I heard a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. A voice of contradictory qualities: icy and warm, threatening and friendly:

“Come in.” The voice spoke in German.

I took a few steps blindly, feeling my way along the wallpaper, after overcoming an instant of hesitation in which I was tempted to slam the door and flee.

“Who’s there? Come in. Are you all right?” The voice seemed to issue from a tape recorder, though I knew that it was Frau Else’s husband who was speaking, enthroned on his giant hidden bed.

“It’s Udo Berger,” I said, standing there in the dark. I was afraid that if I kept moving I would run into the bed or some other piece of furniture.

“Ah, the young German, Udo Berger, Udo Berger, are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

From an unfathomable corner of the room, some murmurs of assent. And then:

“Can you see me? What can I do for you? To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I thought we should talk. Get to know each other, at least, exchange ideas in a civilized way,” I said in a whisper.

“Excellent idea!”

“But I can’t see you. I can’t see anything… and it’s hard to carry on a conversation like this…”

Then I heard the sound of a body sliding between starched sheets, followed by a groan and a curse, and finally, some ten feet from where I stood, the lamp on a night table came on. Lying on his side, in navy blue pajamas buttoned up to the neck, Frau Else’s husband smiled: Are you an early riser or haven’t you been to bed yet? I slept a few hours, I said. Nothing in that face matched my memories from ten years ago. He had aged rapidly and poorly.

“Did you want to talk to me about the game?”

“No, about your wife.”

“My wife… My wife, as you can see, isn’t here.”

Suddenly I realized that Frau Else was, in fact, missing. Her husband pulled the sheets up to his chin while I scanned the rest of the room reflexively, fearing a practical joke or a trap.

“Where is she?”

“That, my dear young man, is something that neither you nor I needs concern himself about. What my wife does or doesn’t do is nobody’s business but her own.”

Was Frau Else in someone else’s arms? Did she have a secret lover about whom she’d said nothing? Probably someone from the town, another hotelier, the owner of a seafood restaurant? Someone younger than her husband but older than me? Or was it possible that at this time of night Frau Else was taking a therapeutic drive on the back roads, trying to forget her troubles?

“You’ve made a number of mistakes,” said Frau Else’s husband. “The main one was attacking the Soviet Union so soon.”

My baleful stare seemed to disconcert him for a moment, but he recovered immediately.

“If one could avoid war against the USSR in this game,” he continued, “I’d never attack; I’m speaking, of course, from the German perspective. Your other big mistake was to underestimate the resistance that England could put up; you lost time and money there. It would have been worth it to stake at least fifty percent of your forces in the attempt, but you couldn’t because you were bogged down in the East.”

“How many times have you been in my room without my knowledge?”

“Not many…”

“And aren’t you ashamed to admit it? Do you think it’s ethical for the owner of a hotel to snoop around in his guests’ rooms?”

“It depends. Everything is relative. Do you think it’s ethical to try to get my wife to sleep with you?” A smile, wicked and knowing, rose from under the sheets and settled on his cheeks. “More than once too, and with no success.”

“That’s different. I don’t pretend to hide anything. I’m worried about your wife. Her health concerns me. I love her. I’m prepared to overcome any obstacles…” I saw that he had flushed red.

“Enough talk. I have my worries too. About the boy you’re playing with.”

“El Quemado?”

“Yes, El Quemado, El Quemado, El Quemado. You have no idea of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He’s a viper!”

“El Quemado? Do you mean because of the Soviet offensives? I think much of the credit has to go to you. Really, who devised his strategy? Who advised him where to stand his ground and where to attack?”

“Me, me, me—but it wasn’t all me. He’s a sharp boy. Watch yourself! Keep an eye on Turkey! Retreat from Africa! Tighten your fronts, man!”

“That’s what I’m doing. Do you think he plans to invade Turkey?”

“The Soviet Army tends only to grow in strength, and he can permit himself that luxury. Diversify operations! Personally I don’t think it’s necessary, but the advantage of holding Turkey is obvious: the control of the straits and the free movement of the Black Sea fleet into the Mediterranean. A Soviet landing in Greece followed by Anglo-American landings in Italy and Spain and you’ll be forced to retreat behind your borders. Capitulation.” From the bedside table he picked up the photocopies that Frau Else had taken from my room and waved them in the air. Two red spots appeared on his cheeks. I got the sense that he was threatening me.

“You’ve forgotten that I can take the offensive too.”

“You’re a man after my own heart! You never give up, do you?”

“Never.”

“I suspected as much. That is, because of the way you’ve kept after my wife. In my day, if a woman gave me the brush-off, I would have nothing else to do with her, even if she was Rita Hayworth. Do you know what these papers mean? Yes, they’re copied from war books, more or less, but I didn’t suggest any of this to El Quemado. (I would have recommended Liddell Hart’s History of the Second World War, a fair-minded and straightforward book, or Alexander Werth’s Russia at War.) But this was on his own initiative. And the meaning of it is clear, I think, as my wife and I realized at once. Didn’t you? I guessed as much. Well, I can tell you that young people have always sought my advice. And El Quemado has a special place among them, which is why my wife is holding me somewhat responsible—me, a sick man!—for what might happen to you.”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying. If we’re talking about Third Reich, I must inform you that in Germany I’m the national champion of the sport.”

“Sport! These days anything can be called a sport. That’s no sport. And I can promise you that I’m not talking about Third Reich but about the plans that poor boy has in store for you. Not as part of the game (because that’s what it is, that’s all it is), but in real life!”

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to argue with a sick man. I expressed my skepticism with a friendly laugh; after that I felt better.

“Of course I told my wife that there wasn’t much I could do. At this point that boy only hears what he wants to hear, he’s in this up to his neck and I don’t think he’ll back down.”

“Frau Else worries too much about me. Though of course it’s very kind of her.”

Her husband’s face took on a dreamy and absent expression.

“She’s a good woman, yes sir, very good. Too good… My only regret is not having given her a couple of children.”

The remark struck me as being in poor taste. I thanked the heavens for the probable sterility of that poor man. A pregnancy might have disturbed the classical harmony of Frau Else’s body, the way she commanded a room even from a distance.

“And deep down, like any woman, she wants to be a mother. Well, I hope she’ll have more luck with the next man.” He winked at me and I could swear that beneath the sheets he made an obscene gesture. “Don’t fool yourself, it won’t be you. And the sooner you realize it the better, that way you won’t suffer or make her suffer. Though she holds you in great esteem, there’s no denying that. She told me that years ago you used to come to the Del Mar with your parents. What’s your father’s name?”

“Heinz Berger. I came with my parents and my older brother. Every summer.”

“I don’t remember.”

I said it didn’t matter. Frau Else’s husband seemed to focus all his energies on the past. He looked unwell. I was alarmed.

“And you, do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“What was I like? What image do you have of me?”

“You were tall and very thin. You wore white shirts and Frau Else looked happy to be with you. Nothing much.”

“Enough.”

He sighed and his face relaxed. My legs were beginning to ache from standing for so long. I thought I’d better leave, sleep a little, or get in the car and go in search of a deserted cove where I could take a dip and then get some rest on the clean sand.

“Wait, I still have a warning to give you. Stay away from El Quemado. Starting now!”

“I will,” I said wearily, “when I leave town.”

“So what are you waiting for to go home? Don’t you realize that… unhappiness and misfortune haunt this hotel?”

By this he meant Charly’s death, I guessed. And yet, if trouble loomed over a hotel, it should be the Costa Brava, where Charly had stayed, not the Del Mar. My smile of understanding bothered Frau Else’s husband.

“Do you have any idea what will happen the night that Berlin falls?”

Suddenly I realized that the misfortune to which he was alluding was the war.

“Don’t underestimate me,” I said, trying to get a glimpse of the inner courtyards that were surely visible through the curtains. Why hadn’t they chosen a room with sea views?

Frau Else’s husband telescoped his neck like a worm. He was pale and his skin was slick with fever.

“You fool, do you still think you can win?”

“I can try. I’m good at comebacks. I can mount offensives that keep the Russians at bay. I still have great strike potential…” I talked and talked, about Italy, Romania, my armored forces, the reorganization of my air force, my plans for wiping out the beachheads in France, even for the defense of Spain, and gradually I felt that the inside of my head was turning to ice and that the cold was trickling down into my mouth, my tongue, my throat, so that even the words that came out of my mouth grew foggy on their way toward the sick man’s bed. I heard him say: Give up, pack your things, pay your bill—and go. I understood with horror that all he wanted was to help me. That in his own way—and because he’d been asked to do so—he was watching out for me.

“What time is your wife coming back?” Despite myself, my voice sounded desperate. From outside came birdsong and the muted sound of motors and doors. Frau Else’s husband pretended not to hear me and said he was tired. As if to confirm this, his eyelids drooped.

I was afraid he really would fall asleep.

“What will happen after the fall of Berlin?”

“As I see it,” he said in a drawl without opening his eyes, “he won’t be satisfied with a handshake.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“The logical thing, Herr Udo Berger, the logical thing. Think, what does the winner do? What traits does he possess?” I confessed my ignorance. Frau Else’s husband turned on his side so that all I could see was his profile, haggard and angular. This was how I discovered that he looked like Don Quixote. A weakened Quixote, ordinary and terrible as Fate. The discovery disturbed me. Maybe that was what had attracted Frau Else.

“It’s in all the history books”—his voice sounded weak and tired—“even the German ones. Let the trial of the war criminals begin.”

I laughed in his face:

“The game ends with Decisive Victory, Tactical Victory, Marginal Victory, or Stalemate, not with trials or stupid things like that,” I intoned.

“Ah, my friend, in that poor boy’s nightmares the trial may be the most important part of the game, the only thing that makes it worthwhile to spend so many hours playing. A chance to hang the Nazis!”

I stretched the fingers of my right hand, waiting to hear each bone crack.

“It’s a game of strategy,” I whispered, “of high strategy. What kind of insanity is this?”

“I’m simply advising you to pack your suitcases and go. After all, Berlin—the one true Berlin—fell some time ago, didn’t it?”

We both nodded our heads sadly. The sense that we were talking about different and even categorically opposed things was increasingly obvious.

“Who does he plan to put on trial? The little counters for the SS corps?” Frau Else’s husband seemed amused by my outburst and he smiled in a nasty way, half sitting up in bed.

“I’m afraid you’re the one who inspires his hatred.” The sick man’s body suddenly became a single throb, irregular, big, clear.

“Am I the one he’s going to sit in the dock?” Though I was trying to keep my composure, my voice shook with indignation.

“Yes.”

“And how does he plan to do that?”

“On the beach, like a man—like a man with balls.” The nasty smile broadened and at the same time grew more pronounced.

“Will he rape me?”

“Don’t be an idiot. If that’s what you’re expecting, you’ve got the wrong movie.”

I admit that I was confused.

“What will he do to me, then?”

“What people usually do to Nazi pigs: beat their brains out.

Bleed them to death in the sea! Send you to Valhalla with your friend, the windsurfer!”

“Charly wasn’t a Nazi, as far as I know.”

“And neither are you, but at this point in the war, El Quemado doesn’t care. You’ve laid waste to the En glish Riviera and the wheat fields of the Ukraine, poetically speaking. You can’t expect that now he’ll handle you with kid gloves.”

“Are you the one who came up with this diabolical plan?”

“No, certainly not. But it sounds like fun!”

“It’s partly your fault; without your advice El Quemado would’ve had no chance.”

“You’re wrong! El Quemado has gone beyond my advice. In a way he reminds me of Atahualpa, the Inca prisoner of the Spaniards who learned to play chess in a single afternoon by watching how his captors moved the pieces.”

“Is El Quemado from South America?”

“Warm, warm…”

“And the burns on his body… ?

“Jackpot!”

Giant drops of sweat bathed the sick man’s face when I said good-bye. I would have liked to throw myself into Frau Else’s arms and hear only words of reassurance for the rest of the day. Instead, when I found her, much later and with my spirits considerably lower, all I did was whisper abuse and recriminations. Where did you spend the night? Who were you with? Etc. Frau Else gave me a withering look (at the same time, she didn’t seem surprised at all that I had talked to her husband), but I was numb to everything.

Fall 1943 and a new offensive for El Quemado. I lose Warsaw and Bessarabia. The west and the south of France fall to the Anglo-Americans. It’s possible it’s exhaustion that’s impairing my ability to respond.

“You’re going to win, Quemado,” I say in a low voice.

“Yes, that’s how it looks.”

“And what will we do then?” But fear made me elaborate on the question in order to avoid a concrete response. “Where will we celebrate your initiation as a war games player? I’ll be getting money soon from Germany and we can have a night out on the town, at a club, with girls, champagne, that kind of thing.”

El Quemado, removed from anything but the progress of his two huge steamrollers, answered with a remark to which I later ascribed symbolic meaning: “Keep watch over what you’ve got in Spain.”

Did he mean the three German infantry corps and the one Italian infantry corps that appear to be stranded in Spain and Portugal now that the Allies control the south of France? The truth is that if I wanted to I could evacuate them from the Mediterranean ports during the Strategic Redeployment phase, but I won’t. In fact, maybe I’ll bring in reinforcements to create a threat or a diversion on the enemy’s flank; at least that will slow the Anglo-American march toward the Rhine. This is a strategic possibility that El Quemado must be aware of, if it’s as good as it seems. Or did he mean something else? Something personal? What have I got in Spain? Myself!