I heard a pop and turned to see Kammler opening a bottle.
“I usually have a glass of champagne about this time. Will you join me?”
I said I would.
“It’s my one real luxury,” he said, handing me a flute.
I almost laughed as I noticed the box of Partagas on the sideboard, the Lalique decanter and glasses, and the silver bowl of roses on the coffee table.
“Deutz,” he said. “Rather difficult to get up here.” And then, lifting his glass in a toast, he said, “To Germany.”
“To Germany,” I said, and sipped the delicious champagne. Glancing out of the window at the little silver plane on the runway-sized lawn, I said, “What’s that? A BFW?”
“Yes. A 109 Taifun. Do you fly, Herr Gunther?”
“No, sir. I finished my war working for the OKW. Military Intelligence, on the Russian front. Accurate plane-spotting was a matter of life and death.”
“I was in Luftwaffe when the war started,” said Kammler. “Working as an architect for the Air Ministry. After 1940, there really wasn’t much opportunity for an architect with the RLM, so I joined the SS. I was chief of Department C, building soap factories and new weapons facilities.”
“Soap factories?”
Kammler chuckled. “Yes. You know. Soap.”
“Oh. Yes. The camps. Of course.” I drank some champagne.
“How’s your champagne?”
“Excellent.” But the truth was, it wasn’t. Not anymore. The sour taste in my mouth had made certain of that.
“Heinrich and I got out early, in May 1945,” said Kammler. “He was my head of security at Jonastal, weren’t you, Heinrich?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor.” Grund raised his glass to his master. “We just got in a staff car and drove west.”
“We were building the German bomb at Jonastal, so naturally the Amis welcomed us with open arms. And we went to New Mexico. To work on their own bomb program. We stayed for almost a year. By then, however, it had dawned on them that, at the end of the war, I was effectively number three in the SS hierarchy. Which made my continued employment in the USA very sensitive. So I came to Argentina. And Heinrich was good enough to come with me.”
“It was my honor, sir.”
“Gradually, I was able to get most of my things out of storage and shipped here. Which is how you find me now. It’s a little remote, but we have pretty much everything you would want. My wife and daughter are with me now. And they’ll be joining us for dinner. Where exactly are they now, Heinrich?”
“They’re looking at some new calves, sir.”
“How many cattle do you have?” I inquired.
“About thirty thousand head of cattle and about fifteen thousand sheep. In many ways, the work is not so dissimilar from what I did during the war. We rear the beasts, drive them into Tucuman, and then transfer them by rail to Buenos Aires for slaughter.”
He seemed unashamed by this confession.
“We’re not the biggest estancia in these parts. Not by a long way. But we bring a certain efficiency to the running of an estate not usually seen in Argentina.”
“German efficiency, sir,” added Grund.
“Precisely,” affirmed Kammler. He turned to face a little Fuhrer shrine I hadn’t noticed before. There were several photographs of Hitler, a small bronze bust of his distinctive head, a few military decorations, a Nazi armband, and a pair of Sabbath candlesticks that looked as if someone used them to keep the leader’s flame alight on the Nazi high holy days-January 30, April 20, April 30, and November 8. Kammler nodded reverently at his shrine. “Yes, indeed. German efficiency. German superiority. We have him to thank for always reminding us of that fact.”
I didn’t see it that way, of course, but for the moment, I kept my reservations to myself. We were a very long way from the comparative safety of Buenos Aires.
When I’d finished my champagne, Kammler suggested I might go upstairs and wash. The maid showed me to a bedroom where I found Anna lying on an elaborately carved wooden bed. She waited until the maid was gone, then sprang up.
“This is very cozy, isn’t it? His own private Berghof. Just like the Fuhrer. Who knows? Maybe he’ll put in a guest appearance at dinner. Now, that would be interesting. Or how about Martin Bormann? You know, I always wanted to meet him. Only I ought to tell you now, I’m a little worried about dinner. I don’t know the words of the Horst Wessel Song. And let’s not beat around the burning bush. I’m a Jew. Jews and Nazis don’t mix.”
“I don’t mind you sticking it to me, Anna. But please try to cut the sarcasm in front of the general. He’s beginning to notice. And no confessions about who and what you are. That would really cook our goose.” I looked around the room. “Where’s the gun?”
“Hidden.”
“Hidden where?”
She shook her head.
“Still thinking of shooting him?”
“I know, he should suffer more. Shooting is too quick. Gas would be better. Perhaps I can leave the oven on in the kitchen before we go to bed tonight.”
“Anna, please. Listen to me. These are very dangerous people. Even now, Heinrich is carrying a gun. And he’s a professional. Before you can even cock that Smith, he’ll blow your head off.”
“What do you mean, ‘cock’?”
I shook my head. “See what I mean? You don’t even know how to shoot.”
“You could show me.”
“Look, those dead people in that camp. They could be anyone.”
“They could be. But they’re not. We both know who and what they are. You said so yourself. It was a camp created by order of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. What else would they want a camp for but to imprison foreign refugees? And your friend. The Scotsman. Melville. It was he who mentioned Directive Twelve. An order for barbed wire to be delivered to a German SS general called Kammler. Directive Twelve, Bernie. That implies something more serious than Directive Eleven, don’t you think?” She took a deep breath. “Besides, before we left Tucuman this morning, you told me it was Kammler who built the big death camps. Auschwitz. Birkenau. Treblinka. Surely you must agree that he deserves to be shot for that alone.”
“Perhaps. Yes, of course. But I can promise you, shooting Kammler here, today, isn’t the answer. There has to be another way.”
“I don’t see how we can arrest him. Not in Argentina. Do you?”
I shook my head.
“Then shooting him is best.”
I smiled. “See what I mean? There’s no such thing as a murderer. There’s just a plumber or a shopkeeper or a lawyer who kills someone else. Ordinary people. People like you, Anna.”
“This isn’t murder. This will be an execution.”
“Don’t you think that’s what those SS men used to tell themselves when they started shooting pits full of Jews?”
“All I know is that he can’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“Anna, I promise you. I will think of something. Just don’t do anything rash. All right?”
She remained silent. I took her hand but she snatched it away again, angrily.
“All right?”
She let out a long sigh. “All right.”
A LITTLE LATER, the maid brought us some evening clothes. A black beaded gown that made Anna look stunning. A dinner jacket, dress shirt, and bow tie that somehow managed to fit me.
“Well, what do you know, we look almost civilized,” Anna said, straightening my tie. There was some perfume on the dressing table. She put some on. “Smells like dead flowers,” she observed.
“Actually, I rather like it,” I said.
“It figures. Anything dead probably smells good to a Nazi.”
“I wish you’d lay off that Nazi gibe.”
“I rather thought that was the point, Gunther. To make them think you’re one of them. So we can save our skins.” She got up and paused in front of the full-length cheval mirror. “Well, I’m ready for anything. Maybe even a killing or two.”
We went down to dinner. Besides Kammler, Grund, Anna, and me, there were three other people.