the
participants Paukanten and a scar was a smite. To have one
on your face was a badge of honor then, a mark of your class. It
meant you were brave and had stood your ground and not
flinched.”
He smiled for the
first time. “Otto Bismarck once remarked that a man’s courage could
be judged by the number of scars on his cheeks.”
Again, everything
was generic, nothing specific to the dead man.
“ Your
papa had three scars, so he must have been a very brave
man.”
“ He
was.”
“ Where
in Germany was he from?”
“ He
lived with us in Stuttgart. It worked very well for everyone. My
wife had company when I was away in Africa and he had someone to
look after him.”
Another
evasion.
He’d have to
enter the decedent’s name and search the Internet. Maybe send his
photograph to Interpol, see what came back.
He returned to
the war. “Was he in the army?”
“ Everyone in Germany served in the military during the war, the
Wehrmacht predominantly. You know the word, Chief Officer. No need
for me to translate.”
“ Where
did he fight?”
“ I
don’t know. We never spoke of that time.”
“ Surely you must have some idea.”
“ What
are you asking? If he was a war criminal, my papa? If he killed
Jews?” His voice grew shrill. “You think the agents of Mossad left
their headquarters in Tel Aviv and came to Patmos, broke into this
place and killed a ninety-year-old man in a garden?”
Said like that,
it sounded preposterous.
Bechtel began
pacing back and forth.“You people are all the same,” he said
angrily. “You assume if a man is a certain age and has a German
accent, he was in Auschwitz running a crematorium. There were
nearly seventy million of us at the beginning of the war. Not all
of us were in the Gestapo, Chief Officer! Not all of us were SS
men, no matter what you think, loading people onto trains and
sending them off to be gassed. Most of us were ordinary people
caught up in events beyond our control. Certainly my papa was that,
just an ordinary man.” There were tears in his eyes. Tears of
anger, tears of grief, perhaps both.
“ I
meant no disrespect,” Patronas said softly.
“ Chief
Inspector, you’ve been asking that question in one form or another
for the last five minutes. As I told you, you are not alone in your
prejudice. Everywhere, people see Germans—my papa in this instance,
my murdered adopted father—and they wonder. You can see it on their
faces. The more impolite among them, they ask.”
Patronas nodded,
recognizing the truth in what he said. He wondered how it worked in
families, when a son asked a father, ‘Where were you in the war?’
If you were German and the answer was Poland, how did the
conversation go?
Chapter Five
He sows on barren soil.
—Greek Proverb
G erta Bechtel wept silently, twirling a strand of
blonde hair around her finger. At least fifteen years younger than
her husband, she carried herself like a dancer. Her face was
lovely, reminiscent of Heidi Klum’s, and her blue eyes were
carefully made up, her hair tousled in an artful way. She was
wearing jeans and an embroidered tunic, sandals with little tassels
that jangled when she crossed her legs. Like the rest of her
family, she was very tan, her hair streaked in places by the sun.
Even now, with tears running down her cheeks, she was one of the
most beautiful women Patronas had ever seen—gazelle-like in her
movements, soft in the way women should be.
She was wearing a
musky scent that seemed to envelop him as he sat there, make him
forget why he’d come.
He and Gerta
Bechtel were alone in a room at the back of the house. It was his
friend Bauer’s study, her husband had informed him, and Patronas
and his colleagues on the police force were welcome to use it, the
computer and Internet, whatever they needed.
Patronas had
demurred. Thanking Bechtel, he said he’d prefer to work at the
police station downtown, leave him and his family in peace when he
was done speaking
participants Paukanten and a scar was a smite. To have one
on your face was a badge of honor then, a mark of your class. It
meant you were brave and had stood your ground and not
flinched.”
He smiled for the
first time. “Otto Bismarck once remarked that a man’s courage could
be judged by the number of scars on his cheeks.”
Again, everything
was generic, nothing specific to the dead man.
“ Your
papa had three scars, so he must have been a very brave
man.”
“ He
was.”
“ Where
in Germany was he from?”
“ He
lived with us in Stuttgart. It worked very well for everyone. My
wife had company when I was away in Africa and he had someone to
look after him.”
Another
evasion.
He’d have to
enter the decedent’s name and search the Internet. Maybe send his
photograph to Interpol, see what came back.
He returned to
the war. “Was he in the army?”
“ Everyone in Germany served in the military during the war, the
Wehrmacht predominantly. You know the word, Chief Officer. No need
for me to translate.”
“ Where
did he fight?”
“ I
don’t know. We never spoke of that time.”
“ Surely you must have some idea.”
“ What
are you asking? If he was a war criminal, my papa? If he killed
Jews?” His voice grew shrill. “You think the agents of Mossad left
their headquarters in Tel Aviv and came to Patmos, broke into this
place and killed a ninety-year-old man in a garden?”
Said like that,
it sounded preposterous.
Bechtel began
pacing back and forth.“You people are all the same,” he said
angrily. “You assume if a man is a certain age and has a German
accent, he was in Auschwitz running a crematorium. There were
nearly seventy million of us at the beginning of the war. Not all
of us were in the Gestapo, Chief Officer! Not all of us were SS
men, no matter what you think, loading people onto trains and
sending them off to be gassed. Most of us were ordinary people
caught up in events beyond our control. Certainly my papa was that,
just an ordinary man.” There were tears in his eyes. Tears of
anger, tears of grief, perhaps both.
“ I
meant no disrespect,” Patronas said softly.
“ Chief
Inspector, you’ve been asking that question in one form or another
for the last five minutes. As I told you, you are not alone in your
prejudice. Everywhere, people see Germans—my papa in this instance,
my murdered adopted father—and they wonder. You can see it on their
faces. The more impolite among them, they ask.”
Patronas nodded,
recognizing the truth in what he said. He wondered how it worked in
families, when a son asked a father, ‘Where were you in the war?’
If you were German and the answer was Poland, how did the
conversation go?
Chapter Five
He sows on barren soil.
—Greek Proverb
G erta Bechtel wept silently, twirling a strand of
blonde hair around her finger. At least fifteen years younger than
her husband, she carried herself like a dancer. Her face was
lovely, reminiscent of Heidi Klum’s, and her blue eyes were
carefully made up, her hair tousled in an artful way. She was
wearing jeans and an embroidered tunic, sandals with little tassels
that jangled when she crossed her legs. Like the rest of her
family, she was very tan, her hair streaked in places by the sun.
Even now, with tears running down her cheeks, she was one of the
most beautiful women Patronas had ever seen—gazelle-like in her
movements, soft in the way women should be.
She was wearing a
musky scent that seemed to envelop him as he sat there, make him
forget why he’d come.
He and Gerta
Bechtel were alone in a room at the back of the house. It was his
friend Bauer’s study, her husband had informed him, and Patronas
and his colleagues on the police force were welcome to use it, the
computer and Internet, whatever they needed.
Patronas had
demurred. Thanking Bechtel, he said he’d prefer to work at the
police station downtown, leave him and his family in peace when he
was done speaking
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