Fatherland

No, definitely not."
    "Did he go out at all last Friday?"
    "Last Friday? I think—yes. He went out early in the morning." She sipped her sherry. March made a note.
    "And when did he tell you he had to go away?"
    "That afternoon. He returned about two, said something had happened, that he had to spend Monday in Munich. He flew on Sunday afternoon so he could stay overnight and be up early."
    "And he didn't tell you what it was about?"
    "He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing. His business was his business, if you see what I mean."
    "Before the trip, how did he seem?"
    "Oh, irritable, as usual." She laughed—a girlish giggle. "Yes, perhaps he was a little more preoccupied than normal. The television news always depressed him—the terrorism, the fighting in the East. I told him to pay no attention—no good will come of worrying, I said—but things ... yes, they preyed on his mind." She lowered her voice. "He had a breakdown during the war, poor thing. The strain . . ."
    She was about to cry again. March cut in: "What year was his breakdown?"
    "I believe it was in '43. That was before I knew him, of course."
    "Of course." March smiled and bowed his head. "You must have been at school ."
    "Perhaps not quite at school _ " The skirt rose a little higher.
    "When did you start to become alarmed for his safety?"
    "When he didn't come home on Monday. I was awake all night."
    "So you reported him missing on Tuesday morning?"
    "I was about to when Obergruppenführer Globocnik arrived."
    March tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. "He
    arrived before you even told the Polizei? What time was that?"
    "Soon after nine. He said he needed to speak to my husband. I told him the situation. The Obergruppenführer took it very seriously."
    "I'm sure he did. Did he tell you why he needed to speak to Herr Luther?"
    "No. I assumed it was a Party matter. Why?" Suddenly her voice had a harder edge. "Are you suggesting my husband did something wrong?"
    "No, no . . ."
    She straightened her skirt over her knees, smoothed it out with ring-encrusted fingers. There was a pause and then she said, "Herr Sturmbannführer, what is the purpose of this conversation?"
    "Did your husband ever visit Switzerland?"
    "He used to, occasionally, some years ago. He had business there. Why?"
    "Where is his passport?"
    "It is not in his study. I checked. But I have been over this with the Obergruppenführer. Martin always carried his passport with him. He said he never knew when he might need it. That was his Foreign Ministry training. Really, there's nothing unusual about that, really . . ."
    "Forgive me, madam." He pressed on. "The burglar alarm. I noticed it on my way in. It looks new."
    She glanced down at her lap. "Martin had it installed last year. We had intruders."
    "Two men?"
    She looked up at him with surprise. "How did you know?"
    That was a mistake. He said, "I must have read the report in your husband's file."
    "Impossible." Surprise had been replaced in her voice by suspicion. "He never reported it."
    "Why not?"
    She was on the point of making a blustering reply— "What business is it of yours?" or something of the sort—

    but then she saw the expression in March's eyes and changed her mind. She said in a resigned voice, "I pleaded with him, Herr Sturmbannführer. But he wouldn't. And he wouldn't tell me why."
    "What happened?"
    "It was last winter. We were planning to stay in for the evening. Some friends called at the last minute and we went out to dinner, at Horcher's. When we got back, there were two men i n this room ." She looked around as if they might still be hiding somewhere. "Thank God our friends came in with us. If we'd been alone . . . When they saw there were four of us, they jumped out of that window." She pointed behind March's shoulder.
    "So he put in an alarm system. Did he take any other precautions?"
    "He hired a security guard. Four of them, in fact. They worked shifts. He kept them on until after Christmas. Then he decided he didn't trust them anymore. He was so frightened , Herr Sturmbannführer."
    "Of what?"
    "He wouldn't tell me."
    Out came the handkerchief. Another helping of sherry was sloshed from the decanter. Her lipstick had left thick pink smears around the rim of her glass. She was sliding toward the edge of tears again. March had misjudged her. She was frightened for her husband, true. But she was more frightened now that he might have been deceiving her. The shadows were chasing one another