Fatherland

bottle of schnapps.
    Jaeger returned and raised his glass. "Prost!"
    "Prost."
    Max wiped the foam from his lips. "Good sausages, good engines, good beer—Germany's three gifts to the world." He always said this when they had a drink, and March always lacked the heart to point it out. "So. What's this about a plane ?" For Jaeger, the word seemed to conjure images of all that was exotic in the world. The farthest he had ever traveled from Berlin was to a family camp on the Black Sea—a holiday last summer near Gotenburg organized by Strength-Through-Joy.
    March turned his head slightly, glanced from side to side. The German look. The booths on either side were unoccupied. Shouts of laughter came from the bar.
    "I have to go to Switzerland. Nebe's given me a twenty- four-hour visa. That key you saw just now in the office—I took it from Stuckart's safe last night. It opens a safety deposit box in Zürich."
    Jaeger's eyes opened wide. "That must be where they keep the art stuff. Remember what Globus said this morning: they smuggled it out and sold it in Switzerland."
    "There's more to it than that. I've been speaking to the American girl again. It seems Stuckart called her at home on Saturday night, wanting to defect."
    Defect. The unmentionable act. It hung in the air between them.
    Jaeger said, "But the Gestapo must know that already, Zavi. Surely her phone is tapped?"
    March shook his head. "Stuckart was too clever for that. He used the phone booth opposite her apartment." He sipped his beer. "You see how it goes, Max? I feel like a man descending stairs in the dark. First the body in the lake turns out to be an alter Kämpfer. Then his death is linked to Stuckart's. Last night, my one witness to Globus's involvement—the cadet, Jost—was taken away by the SS, on Globus's orders. Now it turns out that Stuckart wanted to defect. What comes next?"
    "You'll fall down those stairs and break your neck, my friend. That's what comes next."
    "A fair prediction. And you don't know the worst of it."
    March told him about the Gestapo dossier. Jaeger looked stricken. "Jesus Christ. What are you going to do?"
    "I thought of trying to stay out of the Reich. I even withdrew all my money from the bank. But Nebe's right: no other country would touch me." March finished his drink. "Would you do something for me?"
    "Name it."
    "The American woman's apartment was broken into this morning. Could you ask the Orpo in Schöneberg to take a look occasionally—I've left the address on my desk. Also, I've given her your telephone number in case of trouble."
    "No problem."
    "And can you look after this for Pili?" He handed Jaeger an envelope containing half the cash he had withdrawn from the bank. "It's not much, but I may need the rest. Hang on to it until he's old enough to know what to do with it."
    "Oh, come on, man!" Max leaned across and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's not as bad as that? Is it? Surely?"
    March stared at him. After a second or two, Jaeger grunted and looked away. "Yes. Well..." He tucked the envelope into his pocket. "My God," he said with sudden vehemence, "if a lad of mine denounced me to the Gestapo, I'd be giving him something, all right—and it wouldn't be money."
    "It's not the boy's fault, Max."
    Fault, thought March. How could you fault a ten-year- old? The boy needed a father figure. That was what the Party provided—stability, companionship, something to believe in—all the things March should have given him and hadn't. Besides, the Pimpf expected the young to transfer their allegiance from their family to the state. No, he would not—could not—blame his son.
    Gloom had settled over Jaeger. "Another beer?"
    "Sorry." March stood. "I have to go. I owe you."
    Jaeger lurched to his feet as well. "When you get back, Zavi, come and stay with us for a couple of days. The younger girls are at a Bund deutscher M ä del camp for the week—you can have their room. We can work something out for the court-martial."
    "Harboring an asocial—that won't go down well with your local Party."
    "Fuck my local Party."
    This was said with feeling. Jaeger stuck out his hand, and March shook it—a great, callused paw.
    "Look after yourself, Zavi."
    "Look after yourself, Max."

6

    Drawn up on the runways of the Flughafen Hermann Göring, shimmering through the haze of fuel, was the new generation of passenger jets: the blue-and-white Boeings of Pan American, the red-white-and-black swastika-decked Junkers of