Collision of Evil (10 page)

And then the plain and Salzburg slipped away and we were again moving along narrow slips of road between mountain peaks. Place names rolled by in large black, block letters on white road signs. Bischofshofen, Sankt Johann, other towns now forgotten. And then we entered Zell am See, an isolated lake resort with its high meadows, stone farmhouses, and country folk with angular Albrecht Dürer faces.

The commander led the column in his Volkswagen. He signaled for us to leave the main road and we pulled onto a lane flanked by sweeping meadows, violently green and inviting. Scattered throughout the meadows were small wooden huts used to store hay, their dark edifices like shadows against the shining land. Raising his one good arm, the commander signaled the column to pull off to the side of the road. Our commander dismounted, hopped a rail fence, strode into the meadow, and yelled for us to follow. We did, weapons slung barrel down over our shoulders.

The officer strode deep into the meadow, long, curved blades of grass extending to his waist. “All right. Gather round. I expect you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He tugged his peaked cap from his head and ran his good hand through his short-cropped blond and gray hair. We formed a circle around him and listened.

“Tonight we billet in these sheds,” he gestured vaguely at the rude structures peppered through the meadows. “Leave the vehicles where they stand. We won’t be needing them anymore. I am advised that the war is officially ending soon and not in a German victory. The Fuehrer is dead; fallen in the battle for Berlin. As far as I can figure out from the communiqués, Grand Admiral Doenitz is now
reichskanzler
. He’s with the remains of the
Kriegsmarine
in Kiel. Serious fighting seems to have stopped in the west, but there are sharp delaying actions in the east, where our troops are trying to
protect German civilians from that Mongol garbage and get them safely to the American and British areas. An official cease-fire will happen soon, but as far as I’m concerned, we have a cease-fire here and now for all of us.”

He looked from soldier to soldier now, as if seeking out a personal connection with us. “Remember,
SS-Maenner,
there is no dishonor in surrendering to overwhelmingly superior forces. We’ve done our duty for
fuehrer, volk, und vaterland.
Remain proud.”

The commander kicked at a clod of earth with a booted heel. We all remained still, mesmerized not just by what we were hearing, but by what it meant. We had come to the end of the war. Its end was here, incongruously, in this green meadow with snow-capped peaks serving as a backdrop. We who remained, who stood in this nameless farmer’s field, were the survivors. The moving hand of Providence had spared us.

The commander breathed a great sigh, like a man who has just surfaced from a long time under water. “We’ll stack our weapons here. I ask the noncommissioned officers to go to the nearest farmhouses and find sheets or white cloth to hang on the trucks and for armbands. I don’t want any mistakes when the Amis arrive. We have sufficient rations for a few days so all we have to do is sit tight and wait; it won’t be long before we are gathered up. No doubt, we’ll be in prison camps for a while, but I don’t expect it to be too bad; the entire German Army will be prisoner for God’s sake. After a while, they’ll tell us to go home and rebuild the country that they bombed all to hell. And I expect that we will.

“One final thing. This last mission that we conducted after leaving Berlin is something to forget. I appeal to your SS honor. Say nothing about the cargo, for the sake of the old Germany and the new one that will emerge. Forget about it. As far as the Amis are concerned, we’re just one more convoy that was fleeing from east to west when everything collapsed. All right. Smoke and drink if you want, but don’t get carried away. Keep discipline. When we surrender, we do so as front soldiers. Dismissed.”

And that was all. At first we just stood there, uncertain of what
to do. The commander moved first, slowly walking away from us deeper into the meadows. Our company of dirty, gray-clad men then broke up, fanning out aimlessly through the grass or back toward the vehicles. And there is, it seems to me, nothing more to say about that time long ago or about those comrades, now mostly gone down into that silent, dark place from which no word ever issues.

A cascade of foam glided down the side of Sedlmeyer’s beer glass and pooled on the cardboard coaster beneath it. The waitress had just delivered another round and swept up the four empty glasses the two had drained during the course of the old man’s monologue. Sedlmeyer raised the glass with a hand like ancient paper, nodded his head in a little salute, and took a long drink. Placing the glass back on its coaster, he muttered softly “So then, that’s it,” and settled back into his chair, looking his table companion in the eye.

Hirter had found the story engrossing but could not detect its relevance to his brother’s death. He wondered why Sedlmeyer had called him here to listen to this panegyric to long-dead Teutonic warriors. But he knew that he had to tread cautiously with the old man.

“That’s a powerful story, Herr Sedlmeyer,” he began. “I guess you should count yourself lucky to have lived through those times.”

Sedlmeyer displayed no reaction.

“What happened to your friend Uwe and the SS officer with the sling?”

The old man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Uwe and I stayed in touch for years, a letter here, a phone call there. He eventually got a job as a bartender, saved his money, and opened up his own
kneipe,
or pub, in Hamburg. A heart attack took him seven years ago. The Stuermbannfuehrer I’m less sure about; I can’t even recall his name anymore. It’s odd; he was gone by the time the Amis showed up in our Austrian meadow. Vanished during the night. I heard years later from some of the other unit veterans that he escaped on foot to northern Italy, and managed to cross into Switzerland. It was years
later before he was able to get back to Germany, with a new identity of course. It was easier to arrange those things back then. But who knows, maybe he never made it back at all.”

Hirter suspected that his host was not being transparent in every respect but judged that it didn’t matter.

“You didn’t ask, but our driver, Ruediger, got to put his skills to good use. He begged the Americans to be allowed to keep the Wehrmacht truck he had been driving. They let him. He drove it back to his home town and started the local transport service, hauling stuff back and forth in exchange for a dozen eggs or a bottle of schnapps. He eventually bought a second truck and another and today owns one of the largest transportation companies in Germany.”

“Herr Sedlmeyer, don’t get me wrong or think me ungrateful but —”

The white-maned man stopped him with the curt wave of a hand.

“Herr Hirter, you’re wondering what my story could possibly have to do with your brother’s death,
nicht wahr?
As I said earlier, I have only history to offer you; I don’t know about the murder. I understand that you want facts; what I offer you is just background.”

“I understand,” Robert intoned, careful to keep annoyance from his voice, “but I don’t see how anything you’ve told me has the slightest connection to my brother’s death.”

Sedlmeyer leaned forward on his elbows, clasped hands forming an arch above his beer glass, perching like an old bird of prey. “Just this. The place where Fehlmann was killed is close to where your brother was found. Our convoy drove right through the high meadow where your brother died. So, two acts of violence in nearly the same location over the course of half a century. Coincidence? Maybe. But I wonder. Our mysterious cargo is probably still up there somewhere, forgotten. Or maybe someone spirited it off after we left. But for what it’s worth, I have a feeling it’s still hidden up there. Ruined by the years and the elements perhaps, but up there still.”

Robert Hirter nodded slowly. “You’re saying that my brother’s death could be connected to that Nazi gold or whatever it was. You think that maybe he found it?”

Sedlmeyer shook his head. “I did not say that. I have no idea what your brother did or didn’t do, what he did or did not find. I only provide you something to consider. Maybe it means nothing, maybe it means everything. That is for you to explore, not me. But I wonder why some tourist would be murdered up there for no apparent reason.”

“Herr Sedlmeyer, why are you telling me this? You might be right; this history could be relevant to Charles’s murder. But why did you seek me out? And why haven’t you gone to the police?”

The veteran’s eyes narrowed, which gave him an almost reptilian appearance. “The police? No. It’s unwise for a former SS man to go to the police and relate tales of violence, no matter how ancient. You say in English ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ That is a sensible phrase. Why did I relate my story to you? For closure, I suppose. I read about the murder, and it got me wondering about those events from long ago. It was an impulse. I feel now that I have settled an account. If I had said nothing to you, it would have seemed like unfinished business. At my age, I don’t much care for unfinished business; I want to wrap up loose ends. The violence from the war was sufficient for a lifetime. But I sometimes think that Fehlmann’s ghost wanders around up there. For a soldier to die just before a war ends is a wretched fate. Does your brother’s spirit now roam those meadows and woods as well? You decide.” The old man paused and lowered his voice to a sibilant whisper. “There is one other reason that I’m here.”

“Which is?”

“Because you, Herr Hirter, are buying the beer.
Auf wiedersehen.”
And with that he rose and slipped away, moving with the careful grace of a hunter and so silently that Hirter wondered for a moment whether the old man had really been there at all.

Hirter departed the Alte Post without ever having noted that Waldbaer had been sitting in the establishment the entire time, obscured from view by a broad stone column. Waldbaer, sitting with his usual cluster of companions, had been surprised to see the American enter the place. He had been more surprised to watch him share a table with old Sedlmeyer and engage in a long conversation with the octogenarian. On the surface of it, the convergence of these two very different men made little sense. Was this incident relevant to the murder of Hirter’s brother?

Waldbaer could not imagine how Sedlmeyer, a long-retired villager, could have any connection to the murder. But if not, why was Hirter so earnestly conversing with him?

“Franz, what’s on your mind? Not drifting back to police work tonight are we?” It was the voice of Markus, once a school chum of the Kommissar and, for the last twenty years, a teacher at the local high school. Markus had his usual cynical smile affixed to his features, small, dark eyes rendered obscure behind thick granny glasses. His gray hair was long in the back, touching the collar of a worn, burgundy wool sweater.

“Not police work exactly. Just connecting some thoughts.”

Markus feigned a grimace. “Sounds like we’re getting very close to breaking the rules, Franz. You need to guard against that tendency, you know.”

The third party at the table snickered into a half-full glass of Spaten. Hans Lechner, who had just eased into his seventies, was a
retired general practitioner who now spent his leisure time painting alpine landscapes.

As a riposte to the older man’s snicker and the teacher’s chastisement, Waldbaer raised both hands as if to ward off a blow. “I know the rules. I won’t violate them. Not tonight anyway.”

The Kommissar’s reference was to the rules governing the
stammtisch
, the little social circle that met with weekly regularity at the same table at Zum Alte Post. When the group of friends had decided to form a stammtisch a decade ago, it had been made a condition that members would not carry their work into the establishment, but would pursue enlightenment through exploring other themes. Politics, economics, the arts, all were accepted fare. But the details of daily employ were to be left at the door.

“I pose a question,” Waldbaer said portentously.

His two companions nodded acceptance.

“It is in the way of a puzzle. We live in a small, self-contained village.”

More nods.

“Sometimes there are visitors. Usually friends or relatives of someone who lives here. But sometimes there are other visitors—tourists or foreigners who don’t have connections here, who don’t know anyone locally. Maybe they’re here for the scenery and the isolation. Bearing that in mind, here’s the question: Why would a visitor with no ties here hold a long conversation with a villager? What would be the purpose? Responses from this august audience are eagerly awaited.”

Markus, the teacher, rubbed his chin, as if to determine whether there was any stubble there. “This has to do with something real, doesn’t it, not something theoretical?”

Hans, the doctor, raised a finger in the air as if to test wind direction inside the room. “Not just that, Markus. Our detective friend is trying to move us into his professional domain through the back door. Not as cleverly as he thinks. This question is connected to vile police affairs, rely on it. But let’s permit him his conceit. What we need are more details. For example, are we talking about a brief
conversation between two people, a few minutes? Are they male and female, same age? A few more scraps of information, please, Herr Kommissar.”