Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“Ask ’em what?”

“Ask if any of these good burghers speak English.”

The three-striper stood up in the jeep. “Any of you fuckers speak English?”

It could have been because he was bored, or because he was curious, or simply that he had never spoken to an American soldier, but Kurt Oppenheimer found himself saying, “I speak English.”

“Git over here, boy,” the three-striper said.

Oppenheimer moved over to the jeep. The man with the red beard examined him with greenish-blue eyes that seemed to be filled with a private kind of laughter.

“We are, I’m afraid, a trifle lost.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“Do you know Berlin?”

“Fairly well.”

“We are trying to get to Dahlem.”

“You’re going in the opposite direction.”

“I told you we took the wrong fuckin’ turn,” the three-striper said.

“You speak very good English,” the red-bearded Sergeant said.

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t he speak good English?” the red-bearded man said to the Sergeant behind the wheel.

“Like a fuckin’ Limey.”

“We’re going to need someone.”

The three-striper nodded glumly. “Might as well be him.” He stared at Oppenheimer. “Whadda they call you, boy — Hans or Fritz?”

“Hans, I think,” Kurt Oppenheimer said.

“Git in the jeep, Hans; you’re hired.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Sergeant Sherrod,” the red-bearded man said. “My associate here, Pecos Bill—”

“My name ain’t Pecos Bill. I wish to fuck you’d quit callin’ me Pecos Bill. My name is James Robert Packer from Abilene, Texas, and my friends, which you’re gittin’ to be not one of, call me either Jim or J.R. — I don’t give a shit which, as long as it’s not Jim Bob or Jimmy Bobby; but you can even call me that, long as you quit callin’ me Pecos Bill.”

“You through?”

“I’m through.”

“Good.” Sergeant Sherrod turned back to Oppenheimer. “Pecos Bill here and I are in need of a guide, interpreter, and dog robber. Are you familiar with the expression dog robber?”

“No.”

“It means factotum.”

“Servant.”

“Not quite,” Sergeant Sherrod said, “but close. Americans don’t have servants. They have hired hands, the girl who lives in, mother’s helpers, and maids, but seldom servants. The British have servants; the Americans have help. A subtle distinction which I think we need explore no further, at least for the moment.”

“Oh, Lordy, how long’s this shit gonna go on?” Sergeant Packer asked nobody in particular.

“You were never a Nazi, were you, Hans?” Before Oppenheimer could reply, Sergeant Sherrod continued. “An idle question, I realize, but in recent months Pecos Bill here and I have inquired of perhaps three hundred citizens of the Reich whether they were ever members of the Nazi Party, and to a man, they have declared that they were not. This leads one to the interesting question of who’s been minding the store these past few years.”

“I am a Jew,” Oppenheimer said.

Sergeant Sherrod grinned. “Another rare species. If you agree to work for us, Hans, you’ll be paid in cigarettes. You can fatten yourself up on U.S. Army rations, and we can probably scrounge you some different clothes, which although not stylish, will be somewhat better than the rags and tatters that you’re now wearing. Well, sir, what do you say?”

“You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” Oppenheimer said.

“Totally.”

“I accept.”

“Git in, boy,” Sergeant Packer said.

The gawkers watched glumly as Oppenheimer climbed into the back of the jeep. As they drove off, the red-bearded Master Sergeant turned and offered Oppenheimer a Pall Mall. It was with a luxurious sense of well-being that Oppenheimer accepted a light and drew the smoke down into his lungs.

“How much are American cigarettes bringing on the black market, Hans?” Sergeant Sherrod asked.

“I have no idea.”

“That, I think, will be your first assignment,” the red-bearded man said with a smile. “To find out”

During the next few weeks Oppenheimer learned that the two American Sergeants had one simple objective: to make $50,000 each on the Berlin black market. He also learned that they both knew exactly what they would do with the money.

Sergeant Packer was going to buy a certain ranch with his, just outside of Abilene. The Sergeant, who had taken a liking to Oppenheimer and occasionally referred to him as “a pretty good little old Jew boy,” often described the ranch in loving detail. The descriptions were so graphic that it became almost as real to Oppenheimer as his own former home in Frankfurt. Sometimes, in his dreams, the two places became blurred.

But Oppenheimer took more than a dream from Sergeant Packer. He also took from him his accent and his detailed knowledge of the city of Abilene, Texas. Both, Oppenheimer felt, might prove useful someday, although he wasn’t at all sure how.

The red-bearded Master Sergeant’s dreams were of a somewhat different nature. Before enlisting in the Army, Sergeant Sherrod had been an assistant professor of economics at the University of California at Los Angeles. Twice he had turned down a battlefield commission. His postwar dreams were clearly mapped out — provided he reached his $50,000 black-market goal.

“With half of it, I intend to buy oceanfront lots,” he sometimes told Oppenheimer. “I don’t care much which ocean, as long as it’s warm — Spain, Southern California, Florida, Hawaii, and maybe even the Caribbean will do. The remaining twenty-five thousand I intend to plunk into something called IBM, which is a stock I am convinced will make spectacular gains during the next few years. Then, after a few more years of penury in Academe, I will be able to tell the world to go fuck itself — to use one of Pecos Bill’s more graphic expressions.”

“You know what he is, don’t cha, Hans?” Sergeant Packer said.

Oppenheimer shook his head. “No. What?”

“He’s a fuckin’ Communist, that’s what.”

“Are you, Sergeant?”

The red-bearded man smiled. “A renegade Marxist perhaps, but scarcely a Communist. There’s a difference, you know.”

“Yes,” Oppenheimer said. “I know.”

By the time the Russians were given the plates, the two Sergeants had made perhaps $5,000 each, mostly from cigarettes whose sales Oppenheimer had negotiated in the thriving black market that had sprung up in the Tiergarten.

“I don’t understand,” Sergeant Packer had said. “You mean to say we just gave those fuckers the plates to print up their own money?”

“Exactly. Our Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Morgenthau, seems to believe that nothing is too good for our gallant Russian allies, including the privilege of printing their own money, which we, of course, eventually will have to redeem. From what I understand, the Russians intend to pay off their troops with it.”

“You mean it’s gonna be good money?”

“Just as sound as the occupation marks that we print. Naturally, the Russians are wise enough to issue one proviso. Their troops will have to spend the money in Germany, not in Russia.”

“You know something?” Sergeant Packer said thoughtfully. “Some of those old Russian boys ain’t been paid in two-three years.”

“More, in some instances,” said Oppenheimer.

“Now, just what item would they like to spend all that lovely money on, Hans?” Sergeant Sherrod said.

“Watches,” Oppenheimer said promptly. “In Russian villages there is often only one man who is rich enough to own a watch. A watch is a symbol of considerable substance.”

“You mean to say everybody has to go see this one old boy just to find out what time it is?” Sergeant Packer said, obviously shocked.