Philip Kerr - A Quiet Flame

“I rather supposed you were when you mentioned pogroms.”

“My aunt and uncle went to Germany from Russia. Somehow they survived the war and came to South America in 1945. But Jews were not welcome in Argentina, in spite of the fact there were a lot of Jews living here already. You see, this is a fascist, anti-Semitic country. And until recently, there was a secret government directive, called Directive Eleven, that denied entry visas to all Jews. Even to Jews who had family here already, such as my aunt and uncle. But like many other Jews who wanted to live here, they managed to get into Paraguay. And from there, eventually, they were successful in coming across the land border and entering the country illegally. For a while, they lived very quietly in a small town called Colon, in the province of Entre Rios, north of Buenos Aires. From time to time my father would go and see them with money, clothes, food, whatever we could spare. And they waited for an opportunity to come and live here in Buenos Aires.

“But then one day, about three years ago, they disappeared. My father went to Colon and found them gone. The neighbors knew nothing about where they had gone, or if they did, they weren’t saying. And because they were illegal, my father couldn’t very well go to the police and ask them. Since then, we’ve heard nothing. Nothing at all. For obvious reasons, my parents are reluctant to make inquiries about them, in case they get into trouble. The directive may have ended, but this is still a military dictatorship, and people-opposition people-are sometimes arrested and thrown into prison and never seen again. So we still have no idea if they are alive or dead. What we do know is that they weren’t the only illegal Jews who have disappeared. We’ve heard of other Jewish families who have lost relatives in Argentina, but nobody knows anything for sure.” She shrugged. “Then I heard about you. I heard that you used to look for missing persons in Germany, before the war. And, well, it seemed more than likely that some of those missing persons must also have been Jewish. And I thought- no, that’s not true-I hoped that you might help. I’m not asking that you do anything very much. In your position, you might hear something. Something that might shed a little light on what happened to them.”

“Couldn’t you hire yourselves a private detective?” I suggested. “Or a retired policeman, perhaps.”

“We already tried that,” she said. “Policemen here are not very honest, Senor Hausner. He robbed us of all our savings and told us nothing.”

“I’d like to help you, senorita. ” I shook my head. “But I don’t know what I could do. Really, I don’t. I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know my way around very well. And I’m still learning the language. Trying to settle in. To make myself feel a little bit at home. You’d be wasting your money. Really.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I wasn’t offering to pay you, senor. All my extra money goes to supporting my parents. My father doesn’t play much anymore. He used to give music lessons but doesn’t have the necessary patience. My mother works in someone else’s shop. The pay is not good. The fact is, I hoped you might help me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I see.”

This was one I hadn’t heard before. A request to work for nothing. In the ordinary course of things, I might have shown her the door. But she was hardly ordinary. Among the many things I had to admire about her already I was now obliged to add her chutzpah. But it seemed she hadn’t finished telling me what she was prepared to offer in lieu of money. She colored a little as she told me what this was.

“I can imagine how difficult it might be to settle into a new life in a new country,” she said. “It takes time to adjust. To make new friends. You might say that as a daughter of immigrants I have a greater understanding of the challenges that lie ahead of you.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway. I was thinking. That since I can’t afford to pay you. Perhaps. Perhaps I might become your friend.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting anything else. No, I was thinking that we might go and see a play, perhaps. I could show you around the city. Introduce you to some people. From time to time I might even cook you dinner. Really, I’m very good company.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“In a way, we’d be helping each other.”

“Yes, I can see how you might think that.”

Maybe if she hadn’t been quite so good-looking I might have turned her down. There was also her Jewishness to take into account. I hadn’t forgotten the Ukraine in 1941. And the guilt I felt toward all Jewish people. I didn’t want to help Anna Yagubsky, but somehow I felt I had to.

“All right, I’ll help you.” Stammering a little, I added, “That is to say, I’ll do what I can. I’m not promising anything, you understand. But I will try to help you. I could use a home-cooked dinner now and then.”

“Friends,” she said, and we shook hands.

“Actually, you’re the first friend I’ve made since I got here. Besides, I’d like to do something noble for once.”

“Oh? Why? I’m curious.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t help either of us.”

“What you say makes me think that you think you have to do something noble to atone for something else you did. Something not so noble, perhaps.”

“That’s my business. I will tell you this, though. Don’t ever ask me about it. That’s part of my price, Anna. You don’t ever ask me about it. All right? Are we agreed?”

She nodded, finally.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“All right, then. Now. Tell me. How did you find me?”

“I told you. I have a friend in the police. As a matter of fact, he’s the same bastard cop who robbed us of our savings. But he feels guilty about it now and wants to help in any way he can. Unfortunately, he has spent all the money. Gambled it away. It was he who told me where you were staying. It wasn’t so very difficult, I think. It’s on your cedula. All he had to do was to look it up. I went to your hotel and followed you here.”

“The less this cop knows about what I’m doing, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

She nodded and sipped her coffee.

“Your uncle and aunt. What were their names?”

“Yagubsky, same as mine.” She picked up her bag, found her wallet, and handed me a business card. “Here,” she said. “That’s how you spell it. Their names were Esther and Roman Yagubsky. Roman is my father’s twin brother.”

I pocketed the card. “Three years, you say?”

She nodded.

I lit a cigarette and sighed a pessimistic cloud of smoke.

“Three years is a long time with a missing-persons case. Three months, maybe we could find a lead. But three years. And not a word. Not even a postcard?”

“Nothing. We went to the Israeli Embassy. We asked if maybe they had emigrated to Israel. But there was no trace of them there, either.”

“Shall I tell you what I think? Honestly?”

“If it’s that you think they’re probably dead, then I agree with you. I’m not an idiot, Senor Hausner. I can read the runes with something like this. But my father is an old man. And a twin. Let me tell you, twins are strange about things like this. My father says he feels Roman is still in Argentina. And he’d like to know for sure, that’s all. Is it so much to ask?”

“Maybe. And nothing is ever for sure in this business. You’d better take that on board now. Nothing is ever for sure.”

“Except death,” she said. “That’s about as sure as anything can get, isn’t it?”