Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

“And will you? Ask nicely, I mean?”

“Only if you continue to make yourself available to us and, of course, to the Swiss authorities as well.”

“Of course. That has always been our intent. It is why my father insists on seeing-”

“Whoa. No more mentions of that name. Understood?”

“Then maybe you could at least tell me yours.”

“You won’t need it.”

“How am I supposed to get in touch?”

“I’ll handle that. I already know you’ll be at the Bellevue.”

“But if there is an emergency, or urgent news, how will I find you?”

The American hesitated, then scribbled something on a customs declaration form and shoved it across the table.

“Call this number. Ask for Icarus.”

“Icarus like the myth? What kind of name is that?”

“The kind you had better keep to yourself. So don’t expect me to write it down, and don’t repeat it. Just remember it, if you ever want me to take your call.”

“Icarus.”

“Don’t wear it out.”

Kurt felt scolded, then was angry for feeling that way. If only his father were here. Reinhard would know how to deal with this brand of insolence.

“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. Let your mother sign your tabs at the hotel and avoid the bar. Too many creeps.”

“Creeps?”

“You’ll see.”

AND HE DID. The very next evening, in fact, when he decided to have a drink. He had arrived the night before, shortly after midnight. He threw himself into bed without even bathing, then slept past noon. When he awakened he ate a huge room-service brunch and luxuriated in a tub of hot water while watching the sediment of his travels settle to the bottom. The American’s warnings made him wary of leaving the room, so for several hours he kept to the family’s suite. He shyly joined his mother and sister downstairs for an early dinner, averting his eyes whenever anyone else looked their way. Afterward he ordered a bottle of claret sent up to his room.

But halfway through his second glass he erupted in anger, cursing his timidity. If the stupid flyboy really wanted his cooperation, then the Americans needed to make sure his father got safely into the country. Until then, Kurt was going to play by his own rules. He stalked angrily from the room and shouted through his mother’s keyhole.

“I’m down going to the bar!”

At that hour, with plenty of light remaining in a fine spring day, the place was practically empty. But no sooner had he ordered a shot of schnapps than four men burst through the door with a loud exclamation in German. Two were dressed in the black uniform of the SS, meaning they were probably Gestapo. Kurt looked away but noticed them nudge each other after glancing in his direction. He swallowed his drink and felt a hand come to rest on his back.

“Herr Bauer?”

One of the Gestapo men had materialized at his side.

“Yes?”

“I am Gerhard Schlang, based at the legation. Welcome to Bern. We’d be honored if you joined our table for a round. With my compliments, of course.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to remain alone for now.”

“Ah. Rough journey?”

“You could say that.”

“For your father as well?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“So he has arrived, then?”

Kurt said nothing.

“Well, please give him my regards.”

Did they not know his father had been turned away? In that case, maybe Reinhard hadn’t yet been picked up by the authorities.

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Schlang then startled him by thrusting his face lower, right next to Kurt’s. Beer on his breath, and he lurched a bit. He and his friends must have gotten an early start, Kurt thought. All the more reason to give them a wide berth.

“You know,” Schlang whispered, “just because the war is lost doesn’t mean we can’t make things easier for you here. Or more difficult, if that is your choice.”

Kurt must have blanched, because Schlang smiled as if he had scored a point.

“Besides, some of us who have recently been in Berlin know all too well what your history is, even though your father was able to keep it out of the papers. How do you think that kind of news would play in the so-called New Germany that the Americans want to build? None of these trivial things need be repeated, of course, as long as you’re agreeable.”

“Perhaps we can meet later,” Kurt said weakly.

Schlang straightened. His face was flushed.

“Yes. That would be advantageous for both of us. Here is my card.”

He placed it on the table. Kurt didn’t pick it up.

“We keep very late hours, so call anytime. Or just drop by.”

Kurt finished his schnapps as Schlang rejoined his friends at a table in the back. He signed his mother’s room number to the bill and stood to leave. The others watched as he hesitated, then quickly reached down to pick up the card. Schlang nodded approvingly.

Kurt cursed himself all the way up the stairs, and by the time he reached his room he had decided to retaliate. He locked the door and picked up the phone.

“Operator? Please connect me to the following number.”

He rattled off the one the American had scribbled on the customs form. A woman answered on the first ring.

“Embassy of the United States.”

“I wish to speak with Icarus.” It made him feel like a fool, but the woman didn’t miss a beat.

“Just a moment, sir.”

The line clicked and wheezed. Seconds later the flyboy spoke. He sounded wary.

“Who is this?”

“Bauer. I have information for you. About the Gestapo.”

“Not now, please.”

“But it’s important. Where can we meet?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You’ve been in the hotel bar, rubbing elbows with them.” He laughed. “It’s even worse than I expected. Christ, you’re like an unexploded bomb that needs to be disarmed, and I sure as hell don’t want to touch you. You’re not calling from your room at the Bellevue, are you?”

“Of course.”

Another laugh, and then a judgmental sigh.

“A word of advice, young Bauer. Never, and I mean never, make a call from a hotel unless you’re interested in a wider audience. You’d also better unplug the phone as soon as you hang up, unless you want the Swiss police to have a microphone straight into your room. Oh, and do me a favor. Don’t call here again. From anywhere.”

The American hung up.

Kurt’s cheeks were warm with embarrassment. For all he had endured during the previous years, he knew that in some ways he remained soft, callow, a naive practitioner in games like these. He felt uncertain about what to do next. Schlang had craftily invited him to call, but where would that lead? And what would be the consequences of ignoring Schlang? Icarus, on the other hand, had ordered him not to call. Was there any way around that?

He finally decided that the best answer was to simply be a boy again, if only for a few days. He would banish himself to the children’s table, figuratively speaking, and not rejoin the adults until he’d had time to think things over. The decision immediately made him feel better. He lowered the shades and dressed for bed.

But nine days later his recess ended abruptly, when his father crossed safely into Switzerland. Reinhard’s appearance was shocking. He had lost at least twenty pounds, and he took to bed with a fever. The doctor feared it might be typhus. For the moment, Kurt was the head of the family. It was time to get back into action.

Over the next several days he followed his father’s whispered orders and visited commercial contacts and the family factory, traveling by rail. A company car met him at the rural station, and everyone was respectful as they showed him around and answered the questions his father had dictated from the sickbed. But he saw the strain in their faces, the worried look that asked if he was the only leadership that remained.