Half-Blood Blues (21 page)

I nodded uneasily, turned the glass in my hands.

‘My father is a great patron of the arts,’ said Ernst. ‘Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

The old man sat again with a groan. ‘Not so great, I’m afraid. My work keeps me busy. But it would be a poorer world without them. And I have no illusions, Mr Griffiths. I am an old man, my sense of art is old, but I know that what I love was once rather shocking to the old men then. Mozart, Schiller, Goethe. Paul Hindemith, even.’

‘Oh? Hindemith? Early or later work, Father? I always supposed you to prefer Kurt Eggers or Arno Breker. Hans Pfitzner. Richard
Wagner
. I underestimated your catholic tastes.’

‘Wagner,’ von Haselberg said, shaking his grey head like he filled with regret. ‘He’s awfully dramatic, isn’t he.’

‘You like Wagner?’ I said politely.

‘Good lord, no. Only according to my unhappy son.’

Ernst scowled. ‘You thought we’d wait around in Berlin like goddamn
children
.’

Now his father shifted in his chair, and there was something hardening in him, finally. I swallowed hard. His eyes was darkening. He said crisply, ‘I didn’t care in what manner you chose to wait. But yes, you were to wait in Berlin until I telephoned you.’

Ernst sort of lift up his face. ‘You mean until the papers were cleared.’

His father rolled the blue cigar smoke over his tongue, breathed it out in a long ribbon. The ash from the cigar dropped on the carpet again.
Oh, hell
, I thought.
Don’t you damn well get up for it, Ernst. Jesus
.

But Ernst sat fast, just flexing his jaw.

With a strange look on his face, almost an ironic smile, von Haselberg got to his feet. He slipped back behind the desk, withdrew a thick manila envelope from the top drawer. ‘All they need are your signatures,’ he said to me. ‘We took care of everything: photographs, documents, “sponsors”. In the case of the Germans, we even paid the Reich tax. You’re free to go to France.’ He fingered a monogrammed pen from his breast pocket, glanced across at his son. ‘I’ll even donate the pen, Mr Griffiths. As a patron.’

He come back across to me, handed me the envelope and the pen with a smile.

I held my breath. Holy hell. Just like that, here they was. Our lives in a unmarked envelope. I slipped the papers out, begun thumbing through them. There like to be thirty pages at least, all covered with tiny typed print. I ain’t sure what I looking for.

‘Mr Falk,’ von Haselberg said. ‘He’s got a brand new German passport.’

I glanced up, nodded.

‘Let me see them,’ said Ernst. He flipped through the several packets. He withdrew Fritz Bayer’s papers, withdrew Paul Ludwig Karl-Heinz Butterstein. ‘These two won’t be needed,’ he muttered.

‘Ah. Yes. Your Jewish pianist. I suppose events caught up with him.’

‘
Events
.’ Ernst stared a long time at his father. ‘If you’d cleared these sooner, he’d still be alive.’

His father nodded. ‘Was he very talented?’

‘He was a
person
, Father. What does it matter?’

‘He was brilliant,’ I said angrily. ‘And he’s not dead.’

Ernst glanced at me. He passed the papers back. I counted out the three packets remaining, slid them into the envelope. Ernst was staring at his father, a tight, unreadable expression on his face.

‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I know this isn’t easy for you.’

Von Haselberg laughed dryly, as if to brush the words under the rug. ‘Mr Griffiths,’ he said, standing. ‘A pleasure to meet you. I wish you great success in your music.’

‘Thank you.’

‘One more thing.’ He give me a careful look. ‘You’ll want to leave immediately. Do you understand?’

‘Okay. Sure.’

‘Ernst. Will you send in Rummel on your way out, please.’

The old man was already turning from us, sliding back behind his desk, taking out the sheets he’d locked away earlier. I glanced back, then left the room.

Ernst shut the door with a soft click.

In the hallway I turned, give him a fierce look. ‘Where the hell you goddamn papers?’ I hissed. ‘There ain’t nothin here for you.’

He exhaled softly, his shoulders buckling a little under his jacket. Then he caught his breath, a near noiseless sound, like he clearing his lungs.

‘Ernst?’

But I couldn’t barely look at him. In a delicate gesture, he buttoned his suit jacket, smoothed out his tie, like he packing everything in tight. His face went still as a cup of water.

‘I won’t be going with you,’ he said quietly.

‘What you sayin?’

‘I won’t be going with you,’ he said again, in the exact same tone.

I swallowed. My old brain was working slow. ‘What you mean? It Armstrong, buck. It Louis
Armstrong
.’

He just sort of wrinkled his brow, glanced away out the window. It was the closest I ever seen him to showing any strong emotion. And then I understood.

‘Shit. You
known
bout this. This how you got him to help. You agreed to stay so we could get out.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

But it was like he wasn’t able to think up any alternative lie. He just stood there with his head down, his long pale fingers hanging empty. At last he give me a dim smile. ‘Look at who I am, Sid. I’ll be fine here. I will.’

‘Fine, hell.’ I felt this damn lump in my throat.

‘There are maps under the front seat of the Horch, as well as an envelope full of francs – enough to last a long time if you’re wise with it. Also all the details about how to reach Armstrong in Montmartre.’

‘We ain’t goin without you. Jesus, Ernst.’

‘Stick to the back roads. You’ll see on the map where to cross. Be careful.’

I shook my head. ‘There won’t be none of us left.’ I thought maybe I going to start crying right there. I bit my tongue hard.

And so we left him.

Pulled the long, ghostly nose of the Horch round on the paving stones, needled out through the gates, turned into the oncoming darkness. The headlights cut through the dusk. We drove west in silence with a weight in our chests, all of us brooding, mute with our own denials. Deep into the night. We ain’t hardly stopped, except to refuel from the extra gas tanks we packed in with us, to slip away into the grasses to relieve ourselves.

The sun was still low on the horizon, the early shadows long over the uneven asphalt, when we seen the border crossing a couple miles ahead.

I thought Chip and the kid was still asleep, when all a sudden the kid cleared his throat and said, ‘He ain’t comin. For real he ain’t comin.’

Chip turned round, studied the kid, but ain’t said nothing.

The yellow countryside was unravelling, and far ahead in the cool morning light we seen the dark forests of France. We was passing the tall signs printed in black paint, the Achtung and Achtung and Achtung, each underwritten with instructions I ain’t read. Then I seen them sawhorses strung with barbed wire, and I kicked at the brake. The car jolted and lurched, slowing down.

‘Shit, buck,’ muttered Chip. He run his hands over his face, yawned.

I tapped the gas again, and with the smoothness of a thoroughbred, the Horch passed between the sawhorses, winding slowly. Through the dusty windscreen I seen two armed Boots standing in a guard hut off to the left, their machine guns trained on us. Their murky green uniforms clean-collared and pressed, like they just come on duty.

‘Shit,’ Hiero whispered. His eyes was real small.

‘Don’t you say nothin,’ said Chip. ‘You hear me? Nothin.’

My eyes was fixed on a armed Boot who come out from a sheltered alcove with his palm up. A rifle was looped over his shoulder. I tried to make my damn face neutral, unassuming, but my heart was clattering away in my chest. I come to a careful stop.

That Boot was standing between two sawhorses, and he stepped forward then, approaching the auto with a frown.

My knuckles was going white on the wheel. I was afraid to let go, afraid my hands just start trembling away. I cleared my throat. ‘Give me you papers,’ I whispered, my voice all high and crackling like a fire.

I leaned forward, rolled down the window. The late summer air smelled of dirt and smoke.

The Boot’s green fatigues was reflected in the Horch’s chrome. I sort of squinted up at him, nodding. He was young, brown-haired, tanned, his raw lips chapped from too much sun. There was a hooded look to his eyes.

‘Papers,’ he said brusquely.

I passed them out to him. My hands was shaking like a pensioner’s, like I eighty-two damn years old.

He grunted, begun thumbing through them. His eyes was very black, like Ernst’s. He walk slowly round to the front of the Horch, studying the grill and silver headlights there like he ain’t never seen nothing like it. Then he come back.

‘What is your destination?’ he said flatly, still flipping through the papers.

‘Paris,’ I said, and coughed. I cleared my throat. ‘Paris,’ I said more firmly.

He peered in at me, then ducked his head, give old Chip and Hiero a good long look. His eyes alighted on the bass propped in the back seat.

‘We American musicians,’ I said nervous like. ‘We just passin through to play in Paris.’

He glanced up at that, stared across the canvas of the car roof at something on the other side. Then he said, ‘Wait here. Don’t move.’ He walked away, over to another guard, begun talking in a low voice.

The morning sun slanted in through the dusty wind-shield, heating up the old leather seats. I felt a line of sweat inching down my ribs.

Chip set a dark hand on the dash, like to feel the warm sun. ‘It ain’t nothing. Don’t you crack, Sid. They just tryin to make you nervous. They probably talkin bout the damn football scores.’

I wasn’t so sure. It looked pretty serious to me. Hell. What if Ernst’s old bastard of a father given us obviously false papers? There got to be something odd bout Hiero’s at least. The kid been stateless for years now. I tried not to swallow.

The Boot turned, shielded his eyes, glanced back at us.

Directly ahead of our car, behind a low mound of sandbags lying like shot dogs, crouched a Boot at a heavy machine gun, watching us. His helmet shaded his eyes.

That first Boot come back to us then, still thumbing through the papers. He squatted down at the window, give Hiero a long slow look.
Don’t you crack, boy
, I was thinking.
Don’t you damn well crack
.

He handed the papers back to me with a dismissive nod. He stepped away from the car, gesturing to the soldiers standing in the ditches. They come forward, drawn back the sawhorses, the weight of it straining the slender Boot on the right.

That Boot was still backing away from the Horch, waving us through.

It was a trick. They pretend to let you through, then they start shooting. They wait till you between the lines, so it ain’t no country’s fault. Sure, we heard the stories. I put a nervous foot on the gas, glided slowly past the dusty sandbags, past more barbed-wire sawhorses, past the jack behind the machine gun.

‘Easy,’ Chip murmured, ‘just go easy.’

We rolled real slow over to the French side. A Frog soldier step forward, waving with two hands for us to stop. The kid twisted round, staring back at the Krauts behind their guns. Chip snapped at him. ‘Turn youself
round
, boy.’

There was another machine gun set just off to one side, atop a small rise, fixed direct on our windshield. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

The Frog soldier who come forward stared at us with real animosity, like he eager to send us back over the lines. His eyes was old, shifty, jaded. In his hefty paunch and greying moustache you seen all the awesome slaughter of Verdun.

‘
Papiers
,’ he snapped. He held out one meaty red hand.

I fumbled at the dash, pulled them out a second time.

‘Vouz-allez où, la? Votre destination.’

I sort of looked at Chip, looked nervously back at the soldier.

‘You ain’t speak English, I reckon?’ I sort of lifted one hand off the wheel, toward him. He stepped swiftly back, levelling his rifle at me.

‘
Tes mains – dans la voiture, mains dans la voiture
,’ he barked.

I froze. I held my old hands up, terrified. ‘No, no. I ain’t meant nothin.’

He shook his old grizzled head, handing the papers back in to me. ‘
Non
,’ he said, frowning. ‘
Non, vous devez retourner. Ce n’est pas correcte, ça
.’ He waved his gun back at the German lines, gestured with his hand for us to turn round.

‘Aw, no,’ I said. ‘Please.’

‘We A
mer
icans,’ Chip shouted at him. He leaned across me, over the seat. ‘Goddamnit. We A
mer
icans. We goin to
Paris
. Don’t you turn around, Sid. Don’t you do it.’

That grizzled soldier was glowering at me, like he wanted nothing more than to haul me out by the collar and line me up against a wall. I was shaking.

‘
S’il vous plaît
,’ Chip called out at him. ‘
Monsieur, s’il vous plaît
. American.’ He picked the mess of papers off my lap, started waving them at the soldier out through the window. The soldier refused to take them, just stood shaking his head.

A second French soldier come across through the barricade, shouting something harsh. I start to sweating. Holy hell, I thought. This is it. This is it.

That second soldier leaned forward, yelling something at us I ain’t caught. He seized the papers from Chip’s hand, begun snapping through them fiercely.

The grizzled soldier with the hard eyes shook his head, muttering comments every few pages. ‘
Oui, oui
,’ the second soldier said, frowning.

I wet my lips. Don’t do this, I thought. Please god, don’t.

All a sudden that second soldier hand the papers back to us, and turning swiftly, gestured at the soldiers behind him. And then the barricades lifted, and we was being waved on through, into the black forested hills of France. I looked in amazement at Chip. Gripping the wheel, I couldn’t get my breath.