Fatherland

cheered back.
    "What's he talking about?"
    The television cast a blue glow in the darkness of Stuckart's apartment. The woman translated: " 'The Germans have their system and we have ours. But we are all citizens of one planet. And as long as our two nations remember that, I sincerely believe: we can have peace.' Cue loud applause from dumb audience."
    She had kicked off her shoes and was lying full length on her stomach in front of the set.
    "Ah. Here's the serious bit." She waited until he finished speaking, then translated again: "He says he plans to raise human rights questions during his visit in the fall." She laughed and shook her head. "God, Kennedy is so full of shit. The only thing he really wants to raise is his vote in November."
    " 'Human rights'?"
    "The thousands of dissidents you people lock up in camps. The millions of Jews who vanished in the war. The torture. The killing. Sorry to mention them, but we have this bourgeois notion that human beings have rights. Where have you been the last twenty years?"
    The contempt in her voice jolted him. He had never properly spoken to an American before, had only encountered the occasional tourist—and those few had been chaperoned around the capital, shown only what the Propaganda Ministry wanted them to see, like Red Cross officials on a KZ inspection. Listening to her now, it occurred to him that she probably knew more about his country's recent history than he did. He felt he should make some sort of defense but did not know what to say.
    "You talk like a politician" was all he could manage. She did not bother to reply.
    He looked again at the figure on the screen. Kennedy projected an image of youthful vigor, despite his spectacles and balding head.
    "Will he win?" he asked.
    She was silent. For a moment he thought she had decided not to speak to him. Then she said, "He will now. He's in good shape for a man of seventy-five, wouldn't you say?"
    "Indeed." March was standing a meter back from the window, smoking a cigarette, alternately watching the television and watching the square. Traffic was sparse— mostly people returning from dinner or the cinema. A young couple held hands under the statue of Todt. They might be Gestapo; it was hard to tell.
    "The millions of Jews who vanished in the war..." He was risking court-martial simply by talking to her. Yet her mind must be a treasure house, full of ill-considered objects that meant nothing to her but would be gold to him. If he could somehow overcome her furious resentment, pick his way around the propaganda . . .
    No. A ridiculous thought. He had problems enough as it was.
    A solemn blond newsreader filled the screen; behind her, a composite picture of Kennedy and the Führer and the single word DÉTENTE.
    Charlotte Maguire had helped herself to a glass of Scotch from Stuckart's liquor cabinet. Now she raised it to the television in mock salute. "To Joseph P. Kennedy: President of the United States—appeaser, anti-Semite, gangster and sonofabitch. May you roast in hell."
    The clock outside struck ten-thirty, ten forty-five, eleven.
    She said, "Maybe this friend of yours had second thoughts."
    March shook his head. "He'll come."
    A few moments later, a battered blue Skoda entered the square. It made one slow circuit of the Platz, then came around again and parked opposite the apartment block. Max Jaeger emerged from the driver's side; from the other came a small man in a shabby sport jacket and trilby, carrying a doctor's bag. He squinted up at the fourth floor and backed away, but Jaeger took his arm and propelled him toward the entrance.
    In the stillness of the apartment, a buzzer sounded.
    "It would be best," said March, "if you didn't speak."
    She shrugged. "As you like."
    He went into the hall and picked up the intercom.
    "Hello, Max."
    He pressed a switch and unlocked the door. The corridor was empty. After a minute, a soft ping signaled the arrival of the elevator and the little man appeared. He scuttled down the hallway and into Stuckart's foyer without uttering a word. He was in his fifties and carried with him, like bad breath, the reek of the back streets—of furtive deals and triple-entry accounting, of card tables folded away at the sound of a tread on the stairs. Jaeger followed close behind.
    When the man saw March was not alone, he shrank back into the corner.
    "Who's the woman?" He appealed to Jaeger. "You never said anything about a woman. Who's the woman?"
    "Shut up, Willi," said Max.