you need? Can I help you with anything?”
She pondered this question for a moment. Then, instead of answering, she said, “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“Wiseman Jack,” Jack said.
She laughed. “You answer like a Hungarian.”
“Yes.”
“But you are not Hungarian. Your family, I mean.”
“No. My mother’s parents came from Russia, my father’s great-grandparents from Germany.”
“But Wiseman Jack, you are a Jew, no?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am a Jew.”
“So this is why you helped the Jewish man and his nephews.”
“Yes. I mean, no. Anyone would have helped.”
She laughed darkly. “You are a funny man.”
“No, I’m not.”
She sized him up with a single, raised brow. “Perhaps not. And yet you make jokes.”
“I really don’t.”
“To say anyone would help is a joke. No one helps. No one ever helped.”
“No. I guess not.” He bit his lip. “Please.”
“What?”
“Please. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“What is it you want to do?”
He stared, flummoxed. He had no idea.
She gave him a reprieve. “Thank you, Jack Wiseman. If ever I need anything, I will come to you.”
• 4 •
JACK SHARED HIS BILLET in an apartment house off the Hoftsallgasse with two other officers, Phillip Hoyle, a lieutenant fresh out of West Point, and another named David Ball, who did something in the OSS about which Jack was careful never to ask. Ball was from Philadelphia, a gawky man with beautiful hands and long, delicate fingers who planned after his service to disappoint his mother’s dreams of his career as a concert pianist and instead go to medical school. Ball’s brief was mysterious and his movements furtive, but part of his duties, Jack knew, included the pursuit and apprehension of former members of the local Nazi Party. One day about two weeks after the incident with Maria, Ball was sent to arrest the former mayor of a small village about twenty miles from Salzburg. The burgomaster’s wife, tipped off to the Americans’ arrival, had hung signs in English throughout her home that read WIPE YOUR FEET and NOT TO TOUCH.
“I wouldn’t even have bothered with a search of the house,” Ball said, “if it weren’t for those damned signs.”
It was beneath a floorboard in the kitchen that Ball’s soldiers found the steel box that now lay on the rickety table in the kitchen of their billet.
“Jesus,” said Hoyle. Neither Ball nor Jack liked Hoyle, though Jack’s loathing was more pronounced, stemming as much from the fact that Hoyle had served in battle not a second longer than it took to earn a dubious Distinguished Service Cross before being pulled back to protect his valuable brass hide, as from the twenty-two-year-old West Pointer’s greedy and craven nature.
“What are you going to do with it all?” Jack said.
It was a record, written in food, of the advance of Hitler’s armies across Europe: tins of potted French foie gras, packets of Dutch chocolate, Spanish sardines canned in oil.
“Eat it, of course, you fucking idiot,” Hoyle said. “Foie gras, Jesus Christ!” He took his knife from his pocket and picked up a can, but Ball lifted a restraining hand.
“No. It’s evidence, Hoyle.”
“Then what’d you bring it here for?”
“It was a moment of weakness. But seeing you salivating over it has brought me to my senses.”
“If you take it back, some corporal in the evidence room is just going to boost it.”
“True enough,” Ball said, looking like he might be on the verge of another moment of weakness.
“I know what to do with it,” Jack said.
“He’s going to take it to that red Jewess of his,” Hoyle said.
“I’ve seen the lady,” Ball said. “She could stand to put a little meat on her bones.”
Jack carried the strongbox down to the Hotel Europa, self-conscious at the value of his burden in a city undergoing ever-increasing food shortages. For weeks now, he had been bringing bread and C rations, cans of
She pondered this question for a moment. Then, instead of answering, she said, “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“Wiseman Jack,” Jack said.
She laughed. “You answer like a Hungarian.”
“Yes.”
“But you are not Hungarian. Your family, I mean.”
“No. My mother’s parents came from Russia, my father’s great-grandparents from Germany.”
“But Wiseman Jack, you are a Jew, no?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am a Jew.”
“So this is why you helped the Jewish man and his nephews.”
“Yes. I mean, no. Anyone would have helped.”
She laughed darkly. “You are a funny man.”
“No, I’m not.”
She sized him up with a single, raised brow. “Perhaps not. And yet you make jokes.”
“I really don’t.”
“To say anyone would help is a joke. No one helps. No one ever helped.”
“No. I guess not.” He bit his lip. “Please.”
“What?”
“Please. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“What is it you want to do?”
He stared, flummoxed. He had no idea.
She gave him a reprieve. “Thank you, Jack Wiseman. If ever I need anything, I will come to you.”
• 4 •
JACK SHARED HIS BILLET in an apartment house off the Hoftsallgasse with two other officers, Phillip Hoyle, a lieutenant fresh out of West Point, and another named David Ball, who did something in the OSS about which Jack was careful never to ask. Ball was from Philadelphia, a gawky man with beautiful hands and long, delicate fingers who planned after his service to disappoint his mother’s dreams of his career as a concert pianist and instead go to medical school. Ball’s brief was mysterious and his movements furtive, but part of his duties, Jack knew, included the pursuit and apprehension of former members of the local Nazi Party. One day about two weeks after the incident with Maria, Ball was sent to arrest the former mayor of a small village about twenty miles from Salzburg. The burgomaster’s wife, tipped off to the Americans’ arrival, had hung signs in English throughout her home that read WIPE YOUR FEET and NOT TO TOUCH.
“I wouldn’t even have bothered with a search of the house,” Ball said, “if it weren’t for those damned signs.”
It was beneath a floorboard in the kitchen that Ball’s soldiers found the steel box that now lay on the rickety table in the kitchen of their billet.
“Jesus,” said Hoyle. Neither Ball nor Jack liked Hoyle, though Jack’s loathing was more pronounced, stemming as much from the fact that Hoyle had served in battle not a second longer than it took to earn a dubious Distinguished Service Cross before being pulled back to protect his valuable brass hide, as from the twenty-two-year-old West Pointer’s greedy and craven nature.
“What are you going to do with it all?” Jack said.
It was a record, written in food, of the advance of Hitler’s armies across Europe: tins of potted French foie gras, packets of Dutch chocolate, Spanish sardines canned in oil.
“Eat it, of course, you fucking idiot,” Hoyle said. “Foie gras, Jesus Christ!” He took his knife from his pocket and picked up a can, but Ball lifted a restraining hand.
“No. It’s evidence, Hoyle.”
“Then what’d you bring it here for?”
“It was a moment of weakness. But seeing you salivating over it has brought me to my senses.”
“If you take it back, some corporal in the evidence room is just going to boost it.”
“True enough,” Ball said, looking like he might be on the verge of another moment of weakness.
“I know what to do with it,” Jack said.
“He’s going to take it to that red Jewess of his,” Hoyle said.
“I’ve seen the lady,” Ball said. “She could stand to put a little meat on her bones.”
Jack carried the strongbox down to the Hotel Europa, self-conscious at the value of his burden in a city undergoing ever-increasing food shortages. For weeks now, he had been bringing bread and C rations, cans of
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