coming loose and dropping across his furrowed forehead. Dieter absent-mindedly brushed it back into place with a liver-spotted hand.
How much time does he have left, Willy wondered for the first time today. He was seventy-four now, elderly, and yet still among the youngest of the Bund’s surviving founders. How many of the old men were left now? Dieter knew, certainly. Frail though his body might be, his mind was still as sharp as ever, something that couldn’t be said for many of the Kameraden. Enough of them were still around and sharp enough to be firmly in charge of the Bund, Willy had to remind himself, with a touch of envy. Well, his generation’s time was coming, hopefully soon.
Dieter coughed once, then again. He pulled a brilliantly-white handkerchief from the left sleeve of the smoking jacket and wiped his lips with it. “How are you feeling?” his son asked.
“Like any old man, some days fine, some days like scheiss ,” Dieter croaked. He coughed again, then barked out a laugh. “If your mother were still here, though, I could muster up enough good days to enjoy myself a bit.”
Willy Baumann looked at his father in surprise. He had never heard him speak of his late wife with such lustiness. And yet, who could blame him? Anna Baumann may have been ten years in the grave by now, but her memory was still clear in the mind of her son, and undoubtedly even more so in that of her husband. She had been a beautiful woman indeed, a cultivated daughter of Argentine high society who nevertheless was called “ meine Feuerballerin” , my fireball, by Dieter on the few occasions Willy had been witness to real intimacy between husband and wife. He could imagine what had gone on behind closed doors, though, having known a few native fräuleins himself.
“So, what is happening?” Dieter asked.
Willy knew that he meant the family business, and not the business they engaged in openly. The cattle, the cement works and power plants, the newspapers and radio stations, all purchased and built up over the years, the companies that made Baumann a name of influence in Argentine politics and high finance, were tended to quite efficiently by Willy now that Dieter was in retirement. So efficiently, in fact, that the family was now one of the richest in the country. No, his father was asking about the family’s real business.
“Alles ist in ordnung,” he answered. All is in order, a phrase that was particularly pleasing to any German’s ear, no less his father’s. “I spoke with Heinz by telephone an hour ago. He will be meeting with the General tomorrow to discuss the South Georgia question.” The General was Roberto Viola, the current head of the junta that ruled Argentina. Heinz Nagel, a close friend of Willy’s, was the Bund’s chief operative in Buenos Aires and its main contact with the junta.
“What does Heinz think?”
“He believes the general will be agreeable to our timetable,” Willy said carefully. In truth, Heinz was certain that Viola would do exactly as he was told, but as always, Willy wanted to be cautious. They had not gotten this far by being reckless.
Dieter nodded, and Willy could almost hear the gears turning inside. His father had been in this country more than forty years now, and knew its people better than any of the other German expatriates ever would. After all, he’d had the ear of Juan Perón himself, and were it not for his father’s tireless dedication to the cause, Project CAPRICORN never would have happened. And now, after all the years, all the work, all the danger and intrigue, they were so close…
“Make sure to inform the Reichsleiter as soon as you have confirmation from Heinz,” Dieter said firmly.
“Of course,” Willy said, automatically glancing around to see if any servants were present. Only among select members of the Bund was the word “Reichsleiter” even uttered; it appeared nowhere on any correspondence, could be found in no file. The Reichsleiter’s
How much time does he have left, Willy wondered for the first time today. He was seventy-four now, elderly, and yet still among the youngest of the Bund’s surviving founders. How many of the old men were left now? Dieter knew, certainly. Frail though his body might be, his mind was still as sharp as ever, something that couldn’t be said for many of the Kameraden. Enough of them were still around and sharp enough to be firmly in charge of the Bund, Willy had to remind himself, with a touch of envy. Well, his generation’s time was coming, hopefully soon.
Dieter coughed once, then again. He pulled a brilliantly-white handkerchief from the left sleeve of the smoking jacket and wiped his lips with it. “How are you feeling?” his son asked.
“Like any old man, some days fine, some days like scheiss ,” Dieter croaked. He coughed again, then barked out a laugh. “If your mother were still here, though, I could muster up enough good days to enjoy myself a bit.”
Willy Baumann looked at his father in surprise. He had never heard him speak of his late wife with such lustiness. And yet, who could blame him? Anna Baumann may have been ten years in the grave by now, but her memory was still clear in the mind of her son, and undoubtedly even more so in that of her husband. She had been a beautiful woman indeed, a cultivated daughter of Argentine high society who nevertheless was called “ meine Feuerballerin” , my fireball, by Dieter on the few occasions Willy had been witness to real intimacy between husband and wife. He could imagine what had gone on behind closed doors, though, having known a few native fräuleins himself.
“So, what is happening?” Dieter asked.
Willy knew that he meant the family business, and not the business they engaged in openly. The cattle, the cement works and power plants, the newspapers and radio stations, all purchased and built up over the years, the companies that made Baumann a name of influence in Argentine politics and high finance, were tended to quite efficiently by Willy now that Dieter was in retirement. So efficiently, in fact, that the family was now one of the richest in the country. No, his father was asking about the family’s real business.
“Alles ist in ordnung,” he answered. All is in order, a phrase that was particularly pleasing to any German’s ear, no less his father’s. “I spoke with Heinz by telephone an hour ago. He will be meeting with the General tomorrow to discuss the South Georgia question.” The General was Roberto Viola, the current head of the junta that ruled Argentina. Heinz Nagel, a close friend of Willy’s, was the Bund’s chief operative in Buenos Aires and its main contact with the junta.
“What does Heinz think?”
“He believes the general will be agreeable to our timetable,” Willy said carefully. In truth, Heinz was certain that Viola would do exactly as he was told, but as always, Willy wanted to be cautious. They had not gotten this far by being reckless.
Dieter nodded, and Willy could almost hear the gears turning inside. His father had been in this country more than forty years now, and knew its people better than any of the other German expatriates ever would. After all, he’d had the ear of Juan Perón himself, and were it not for his father’s tireless dedication to the cause, Project CAPRICORN never would have happened. And now, after all the years, all the work, all the danger and intrigue, they were so close…
“Make sure to inform the Reichsleiter as soon as you have confirmation from Heinz,” Dieter said firmly.
“Of course,” Willy said, automatically glancing around to see if any servants were present. Only among select members of the Bund was the word “Reichsleiter” even uttered; it appeared nowhere on any correspondence, could be found in no file. The Reichsleiter’s
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