Child of the Journey (30 page)

"Can you tell me...?" She glanced at Bruqah.

Perón did not miss the implication. "He is part of the plan. Like Konrad, he is that rare creature--a trustworthy ally. Must be the Christian influence."

"I am Malagasy," Bruqah said, bristling. "We know of honor."

"The plan?" Miriam urged, determining that she would not let him know quite yet that she had already been informed about Sol's transfer to the farmhouse. "Tell me you have arranged everything, that Sol and the child and I are going to live happily ever after."

"Now you are asking me to play God," Perón said. "I have power, yes, but it is not absolute." He looked at her and smiled. "All right, my lovely and persistent Miriam. Let me tell you what I
have
been able to achieve. I spoke to Hitler and his cronies and planted my ideas...our ideas. They listened, closely if I may say so."

"And?"

"And, sweet Miriam--" He laughed at her impatience. "And my words have taken root. Solomon has been moved to a holding area--"

"I know. Werner told me."

He looked disappointed, like a child whose surprise had been spoiled.

"What else?" she asked insistently.

"I will tell you that my destination is Lüderitz. Yours is Nosy Mangabéy, a tiny island at the mouth of a bay on Madagascar's northeast coast. The roll of paper Bruqah is holding is a series of topographical maps. I used your rationale to manipulate Solomon into the advance party. In fact, the others call him the Professor. Bruqah has been going to the farmhouse to teach him about Madagascar, and Solomon, in turn, teaches the others--"

"You saw Solomon?" They were approaching the area of the Reichschancellery, and there were so many questions she wanted to ask.

"There is no time left for conversation," Perón said. "I have not seen Solomon yet. I must not seem to be too enthusiastic. However, Bruqah tells me Solomon, like all of the others, is thin, sad, but alive and functioning. Tonight Bruqah and I will show the maps to everyone concerned with this plan, including Erich and the Führer. Your Erich will be bringing home the details to you tonight--that is, provided the great German bureaucracy has not already changed its mind."

"But Juan--"

"Enough! You will have to wait for the rest...unless you wish to go to your other sources."
 

His voice reflected mild annoyance with her for having spoiled his dénouement, and much irritation with Hitler, whom he found to be a distasteful, officious little man invested with too much power. In Miriam's judgment, the Argentinean appreciated the Nazi Party but was not enamored with it; he did what he felt was right for Argentina and for himself. Clearly, he had political aspirations. Clearly, too, she would hear no more today until she heard it from Erich later tonight.

Not by any means for the first time in her life, she wondered why she attracted men with such volatile personalities. Javelin Men, as Erich called them, whose need for prowess outweighed their sensitivities no matter how hard they tried. Erich and Perón had that in common. They were the Magellans, the Vasco De Gamas and Columbuses, explorers because of a need to prove themselves to the world rather than simply because they were internally driven.

Sol's explorations were metaphysical and philosophical, though in their own way just as demanding. With him, however,
she
could be the volatile one, the balance between other-worldliness and pragmatism. She could hardly wait, she thought, to be that for him again, and for herself. Playing a part on the stage was one thing; playing it day and night, around the clock, was another.

M
oonlight drenched the renovated Reichschancellery's marble steps. Ascending them, Erich felt blessed by the light and wonderfully dwarfed by the building, its Doric columns lifting into shadows like sentries. He was Alexander, claiming his territory.

When he entered, a corporal took his hat, cloak, and gloves, bowed stiffly, and escorted him through huge doors into a hall tiled in aquamarine mosaic. In the next room, round and domed, stood other officers, clustered in groups. Most were SS, with whom he had little in common, among them Otto Hempel--who had dallied briefly at the Oranienburg labor camp in preparation for his present assignment at Sachsenhausen.

A demotion would have been more satisfying, he thought, acknowledging Hempel's greeting with a cursory nod. The man inevitably threatened his good spirits. But not tonight. Not when he expected to be the only one being honored with a double-promotion. He must create an impression of strength and imperturbability.

The other officers were smoking nervously or sipping cognac brought by a woman whose hourglass shape drew many second glances. One golden cordial, in a thin-stemmed, tulip-shaped liqueur glass, remained on her tray. Erich took it. In the doorway of the great gallery, said to be twice the length of Versailles' Hall of Mirrors, after which it was modeled, he toasted himself.
 

The corporal opened the gallery doors to Adolf Hitler and a phalanx of functionaries. The Führer stood with Goebbels, Bormann, Hess and Eichmann, the four framed in moonlight muted by the windows' deep niches. Standing slightly apart was Colonel Perón.

The assembly snapped to attention with an echoing clack of boot heels. Arms sprang to salutes. Feet squarely planted, eyes keened as though he were reviewing a parade, Erich joined them.

"Heil Hitler!"

At once he felt uncomfortable, as if he did not quite fit into his own skin. Just words, he reassured himself.

The Führer and his entourage returned the salute. His soldiers waited for a signal that would indicate his mood of the moment.

Eyes gleaming, cheeks puffed, Hitler gave them their cue.

"Glory to the Fatherland! We must promise obedience, industry, honesty, order, truthfulness...sacrifice!" Jerking his arm to his side, he clenched his hand into a tight fist and opened it, slowly, reluctantly, as though by doing so he relinquished some of his power over the gathering. "Gentlemen, let us dine."

He wheeled and walked up the hall; the order of functionaries reversed, the rest of the assembly following like migratory birds. Erich could detect a communal nervousness as they entered Hitler's living quarters which, to Erich's surprise, proved warm and inviting. The architect obviously had respected the apartment's Bismarkian past; he had kept the beamed ceiling and wainscoting. In contrast to the cold ostentation of the receiving areas, a fire burned in a fireplace graced with a Florentine Renaissance coat-of-arms, and leather-upholstered chairs the color of bittersweet chocolate completed a look of male domesticity.

Entering the dining room, Erich thought fleetingly, and not without regret, of his bachelor quarters above the Landswehr. He had given them up as a gesture to Miriam, though not at her request.

Civil servants and soldiers mingled without regard to rank, a violation of protocol Erich found distasteful. He watched the surge toward the food, laid out on a sideboard of palisander wood against the far wall. Oxtail soup--rich, brown, and gelatinous. Silesian Heaven casserole of dried fruit, pickled pork, and dumplings. A peach tart accompanied by Pilsner, and a Rhenish wine.

Past three glass doors that formed the opposite wall lay a garden with a startling profusion of roses.

"Beautiful roses, mein Führer," he heard someone say. "The new hybrid from Sachsenhausen?"

"Centurions," Hitler said. "Remarkable species."

As was his custom, Hitler waited until the company had almost finished the meal before he ate--his fear of being poisoned was well-known. After picking at his meal, vegetables garnished with minced white radishes, he remonstrated about the decadent French infatuation with hors d'oeuvres, sauces, and pastries, and boasted how fasting, combined with a vegetarian diet, gave him strength.

Now he rose from his chair, glass lifted. "Power for the Fatherland! We must be rid of the flab that cost us the Great War."

"The flab and the Jews!" Bormann shouted as everyone rose.

"They are one and the same!" Hitler said. "The Jews are a people of excess, whose ideal is to gorge their bellies and wallets at the expense of good Germans." He tapped his glass of mineral water.
"This
represents what I seek for Germany. Purity!"

"Prosit!"

The doubt and horror that had lingered with him since his visit to Oranienburg settled on Erich's shoulders. Hitler demanded absolute commitment. Absolute purity. If he and his cronies decided the baby was, after all, half-Jewish...the order to kill Achilles might be repeated--with a child.
His
child.

Erich refilled his glass, keeping his hand steady. The Führer was the essence of the nation; he could have Erich assigned to guard Sachsenhausen convoys. After what he saw in Oranienburg, all else--even losing his dogs--would be a benediction in comparison. He had to believe the worst of what he'd heard about the camp, that it was a pesthole of disease, a place where human suffering was considered necessary for the larger scheme of the Reich.

The larger scheme!
That was why he loved his dogs so much. They lacked understanding of man-made complexities--understood only generalized goodness and suffering.

Whatever his double promotion entailed, he vowed, fiddling with his linen serviette, he would refuse to be involved with hurting the Jews. He would not do anything that resembled his father's treachery toward Jacob Freund. Perhaps the past was not sacred; perhaps, as Hitler claimed, only the present counted. Nevertheless, he was not going to repeat his and his father's mistakes.

The small-talk became less reserved than before dinner, but he spoke only when spoken to. When Leni arrived to film the official events, he felt relieved that the evening was almost over.

Hitler clinked a knife against a glass. "Our army, the one the imperialist powers did not allow," he waited for the muffled laughter to cease, "continues to strengthen into the world's finest peace-keeping force. I have personally encouraged many promotions due to excellence. Some of those who have been promoted were invited tonight to sup at the table they serve." He paused again for polite applause. "Would those being honored step forward."

The promotees formed a line, Erich among them. He felt as impatient and self-conscious as a boy awaiting Eucharist during Mass. When his turn came, Hitler shook his hand, took hold of his shoulders, and turned him toward the audience.

"The imperialists," Hitler said, "are afraid of shadows and of Germany's clear vision. They fear we wish to renew hostilities with France over Alsace-Lorraine, as if we would shed a single drop of German blood to gain control of the Alsatians who have switched sides so often they no longer know where their loyalties lie!"

Laughter followed. Glasses were lifted. "The only Alsatians the Fatherland wants are the shepherds raised by this young genius with canines. His army of dogs lives up to the heart and wisdom of our highest Aryan aspirations. For that, and for future services--the details of which not even he, as yet, knows--Alois has been accorded the rare honor of a double promotion, to full colonel."

The Führer applauded as the assembly rose to its feet. Swept up by the Hitler's impassioned speaking, Erich felt excited. Yes! He could have it all! Miriam, his dogs, the glory that was due him!
 

As the applause died, however, a shroud fell into place. His doubts about the Party had been eroded too easily by the Führer's speech. His weakness embarrassed him.

After dinner, while officers formed amiable groups or stepped into the garden for a smoke, Erich sat where he was, watching Hitler with Bormann, Hess, and Eichmann. Bormann was speaking earnestly, as if to counter the rumor that he took just a little too much pleasure in "arranging" the Führer's finances.

Perón joined them for a moment, then walked over toward Erich as Hitler and the other notables filed through a side door.

"The Führer wishes you to remain after the others leave," Perón said. "There's to be a meeting. You, Eichmann, Hempel, Riefenstahl." He ticked them off on his fingers.

"What is it all about, Juan--if I may call you Juan?"

Perón smiled. "You may call me anything you like." He left as abruptly as he had approached.

Trying not to dwell on the possibilities, Erich watched the diners disperse. Some congratulated him, offering platitudes about how a man's worth eventually surfaced and was recognized. Ultimately he found himself alone except for the steward's helpers clearing the tables. He ordered coffee from a waiter he knew to be a member of the SS and, forced to wait, allowed himself to dream.

Since his rank now equaled Perón's, the South American had to be part of Hitler's plan for Colonel Erich Weisser Alois. That could only mean one thing: Erich and his canine corps would help lead the Fascist revolution in South America. That would explain the double promotion. Any rank below Perón's would diminish the Germanic presence; any above would hint of imperialism, like Bismarck's error when, during the Great War, his envoys had tried to persuade Mexico to attack the United States.

Alois and Perón.

Everything fit, as if his life were part of a grand design shaped for this moment; his role in military intelligence, his guerilla training under Otto Braun, his knowledge of Catholicism...all were essential for a German-Argentinean thrust through South America. He tried to recall which cities were where, and what strategy the South American generals, San Martín and Bolívar, had used. If only he'd studied harder at the
Gymnasium!
Too late to worry about that. He would act informed and responsive toward Hitler's and Perón's proposals tonight, then plunder the university's library in the morning and seek out the best Spanish tutor in Berlin. With the right incentive, he could learn--and face--anything.