“Yes, sir,” said Pug, for once having not the vaguest idea of what an admiral was talking about.
16
LESLIE SLOTE gave the Wannsee photostats to the minister of the Amer-Jican legation in Bern, describing the material as “explosively urgent.”
William Tuttle was a retired California railroad millionaire, a West Point graduate. The loss of an eye to German shrapnel in the First World War had cut off his Army career. Instead, he had gotten rich. This tall paunchy Republican grayhead naturally hated the New Deal and had strongly opposed a third term for that socialistic son of a bitch in the White House. With the fall of France in June 1940, however, and the nomination by the Republicans in July of a political amateur named Wendell Willkie, Tuttle had decided that the socialistic son of a bitch had better stay in the White House. He had headed the California branch of “Republicans for Roosevelt,” earning the disgust of his friends and family before the election, and the sugarplum of a diplomatic post afterward. Slote liked this maverick legation head. If the railroad man was short on diplomatic experience he was long on horse sense, and he could make tough decisions without dithering.
Slote did not hear from Tuttle for three days, then the minister telephoned him in mid-morning. “Oh, say, Les, come on up and let’s chin a bit.”
It was a modest office for the representative of the United States of America in Switzerland: bookshelves stacked with unread-looking official volumes, dark old furniture, and three windows facing out on bare trees in mist, through which on clear days one could see the Alps. The minister puzzled Slote with aimless war talk, leaning back in his swivel chair with thick fingers folded over his belly. The successful escape from Brest of the Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau, he said, was a worse sign of British decay than the crumbling of Malaya. “Ye gods and little fishes, Les! Malaya’s on the other side of the earth. But if the Royal Navy and Air Force between them couldn’t stop two damaged German battleships from slipping away up the English Channel, right under their guns, then something’s rotten — their intelligence, their combat readiness, or both.”
Slote caught a whiff of rum-flavored tobacco, and the third secretary, August Van Winaker, walked in with the portfolio in which Slote had put the Wannsee papers. This appalled Slote. Van Winaker was the legation’s stickiest man on Jewish matters; whether because of a consular background — he had shifted over not long ago to the Foreign Service track — or a bone-deep genteel anti-Semitism, Slote could not tell. He knew that Jastrow had had trouble with this same fellow in Florence. Slote thought Van Winaker a pompous nuisance, absurdly preoccupied with his genealogy.
“Les, Augie’s had some intelligence background,” said Tuttle. “Mind if he sits in?”
“Not at all, sir.”
Van Winaker smiled and sat down, crossing short plump legs and laying the portfolio on the desk.
“Okay, then,” said the minister, “what’s your evaluation of this material, Les? And what action do you recommend?”
“I believe it’s an authentic document of grave import. The legation should shoot off an urgent summary cable to the Secretary of State, and send him the document by special air courier.”
The minister looked toward Van Winaker, whose smile indulgently broadened. “Augie thinks differently.”
“Indeed I do. A kindly description would be ‘a compassionately motivated fraud.’ ”
Slote forced a grin. “Let’s hear your reasons, Augie.”
Van Winaker puffed blue rum-smelling smoke through his smile. “Okay. Let’s start at the point of contact. You meet a pretty girl at a party, Leslie. Some time later her father, one Dr. Jacob Ascher, unexpectedly invites you to dinner. You’re a new arrival, not too familiar with Bern, with a reputation for compassion to Jews. Whereupon —”
“Now, stop right there —”
“Just let me finish, laddie.” Van Winaker rolled his eyes at the minister, and ran a hand through his close-cropped blond hair. “Whereupon a priest at that dinner party offers to slip you documentary evidence on the Jewish situation. Interesting! Jacob Ascher happens to be president of the Jewish Council of Bern, a rich man who hounds all the legations for refugee visas. Still, he’s an honest sort, so let’s say some wily fabricator put one over on him and your priest, possibly with this so-called document, perhaps mulcting Ascher of a goodly sum in the process. Of course, he’d jump at it, it’s a fine propaganda tool for him.”
“Augie, that’s just theorizing. If the Germans are committing mass murder under cover of war — and I think they are — President Roosevelt can turn world opinion against them with this document.”
“Oh, come on, laddie. The Nazi mistreatment of Jews was wrung dry years ago. People are numb to it. As for mass crime, the document is sheer fantasy.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, for pity’s sake, cabinet-level government men meeting and discussing such a gruesome scheme so calmly — and putting it into writing! Not a word of such business would ever appear on paper. Oh, the stilted language, the labored jocularity, the coffee-hour tone! The whole thing is amateur romancing, Leslie, very badly done.” Languidly Van Winaker picked up the portfolio and slid out the black sheets, releasing the nasty chemical odor. “And just look at this mess! The Germans have the best copying equipment in the world, and white on black, incidentally, is not the way they reproduce documents. They print from a negative film, and it comes out black on white. I mean, I respect your compassion, but —”
“Never mind my compassion,” snapped Slote. “I’m well aware who Dr. Ascher is. Now as to the text, I say it’s real. It’s turgid, boring, like most German official documents we’ve both waded through. Everybody at the meeting is a droning pedant. Everybody’s fawning German-fashion on the chairman, Heydrich. It’s all Teutonic government prose to the life. Moreover, as to the reduction of an inhuman plan to writing”— Slote turned to Tuttle —“sir, nothing is more German than that. I took my degree in German political history. Look, Augie, read Treitschke. Read Lueger. Read Lagarde. Christ, read Mein Kampf! Hitler’s just a self-educated street agitator, but even he uses thick political jargon, and a grandiose pseudo-philosophical moral frame, to justify the most bloodthirsty proposals. I don’t want to make a classroom lecture of this, but —”
“I’ve read Mein Kampf,” said Tuttle.
Slote struck the desk with a fist. “Well, sir, I say a person from the submerged Germany, the liberal Germany, copied this document. I say he was risking torture, death, and the exposure of his anti-Nazi group. I say he sneaked a portable apparatus into a top-secret file room, his heart in his throat, and did a hurried job. Printing this copy was as risky as taking the pictures. You probably can’t even buy black-on-white photocopy paper in Germany today without signing a receipt that can hang you.”
“You’re a warm advocate, laddie.” Van Winaker was smiling again. “But notice that the thing is dated January twentieth. A top-secret report written, approved, mimeographed, filed, surreptitiously copied, and secretly delivered to Bern, all in less than three weeks? No, Les, I sympathize with your compassion, but —”
“Jesus Christ, Augie,” Slote exploded, “stop using that goddamned word! Of course they’d rush it to the outside world! It describes a crime almost beyond human imagination!”
“Why, I admire compassion, Les,” Van Winaker returned softly. “Just let me tell you a little story. A document came to me in Florence, in much the same cloak-and-dagger way, about top-secret Italian war plans. In language and physical appearance, unlike this crude botch, it was flawless. I guessed it was a fraud, all the same. I said so. Our embassy in Rome swallowed it, however, and gave it to the British. Well, they analyzed it and laughed it off. It was hogwash, intended to misdirect their entire North Africa strategy. So there you are. These things are an art, and that”— he waved limp fingers at the photostats —“is the work of a low-grade bungler.”
“Okay, Augie,” Bill Tuttle said. “Many thanks.”
With a f
riendly, even apologetic smile at Slote, and a wave of the pipe, the third secretary got up and left.
Swivelling his chair in a half-turn, Tuttle laced his fingers behind his head. “Sorry, Les, I’m with Augie. That stuff is the pipe dream of an ignoramus, making up a horror story and doing a bum job.”
This was a real shock to Slote, though he had anticipated Van Winaker’s reaction. “May I ask why you say that?”
Tuttle was lighting a cigar. He rolled it with relish in his mouth, and waved it at the portfolio. “The railroading part. I’ve been handling intelligence on European railroads since I got here. General Marshall asked me to do that. I’ve known George forever. I send him periodic summaries. The rolling stock in all of German-held Europe couldn’t do it. You’re talking here about transporting millions upon millions of civilians, Leslie, with a deteriorating rail system that’s already in a bind. Hitler’s having trouble just moving his troops, his supplies, and his foreign laborers around. Depots are piling up with vital things like food, fuel, tanks, and shells. Whole divisions are sitting on their duffs on sidings because the trains can’t get them to the front, and the British are bombing the hell out of their locomotive factories and railroad yards. It’s not going to get better but worse. Okay? Now how does such a broken-down system go shunting eleven million people all over the continent for some crazy massacre scheme?” Tuttle shook his head. “It’s stupid nonsense. The faker who did that document didn’t know anything about railroading. He should have done a little research.”
Slote was chewing on his cold pipe during the minister’s tirade, slumped in the armchair, a picture of pale discouragement. “Sir, at the risk of seeming compassionate, may I respond?”
“Go ahead,” grinned Tuttle.
“It’s just that the job isn’t that big. It’s a sweep of a dragnet through western Europe, sort of fanwise” — Slote made a half-circle in the air with spread fingers — “Scandinavia, Holland, Belgium, France, then Italy and the Balkans, all spilling into Poland and conquered Russia. Out of reach of the Red Cross and the press. Away from liberal populations. Backward areas, where communication is bad or nonexistent, and anti-Semitism is rife. But, sir, most of the Jews are there already, in Poland and occupied Russia. That’s the whole point. They don’t have to be moved far, if at all. Bringing the Jews from the west shouldn’t overtax the rails. There’s no fighting in the west.”
The minister puffed at his cigar, cocking his good eye at Slote. “How would you go about authenticating this document?”
“What would you consider authentication, sir?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t believe the damned thing, not one bit. I say the railroading problem’s insurmountable. Now, I’m not telling you to forget this thing. Bring in some authentication, if you can, and meantime give the document maximum security storage.”
“I will, sir.”
“Maximum security storage isn’t, for instance, the hands of an Associated Press reporter.”
His face hot and tingling, Slote replied, “Nobody will see it unless you release it.”
“Okay, then.”
Returning to his office with the portfolio, Slote felt drained, defeated, stupid, with no notion of what to do next. He drudged through the lunch hour on official papers, haunted by a sense of defeat which made his lips tremble. About three o’clock a secretary looked in. “Will you see Dr. Jean Hesse?”
“Absolutely.”
The Swiss diplomat entered briskly, a decent, sad little man Slote had known since Warsaw, with a red tuft of chin beard. They sometimes played chess, and Hesse gloomed over the board in Spenglerian tones about the collapse of European man. “Well, I have been to Siena, and I have seen Mrs. Natalie Henry,” said Hesse, rasping open his briefcase. “A handsome woman. Jewish, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she’s Jewish.”
“Mmmmm!” The sidewise look and a pull at the beard expressed concurrence with a naughty erotic taste. “I gave her your letter. Here’s an answer.”
“Thank you, Jean. How are the other journalists doing?”
“Desperately bored. Drunk all day. In that respect I could envy them. I’m going to report now to your minister. They’ll probably come out in March or April, the way the negotiation is going.”
Slote locked his door, ripped open the letter, and read the yellow sheets at the window.
Dear old Slote:
Well, what a marvelous surprise! Your nice Dr. Hesse is having a cup of tea out in the lemon house with Aaron while I hammer this off.
First of all, I’m fine and so is Louis. It’s crazy, how comfortable we are here. But I feel sick to the heart whenever I think of the Izmir. We almost sailed on that boat, Leslie! A German diplomat who knew Aaron got us off and drove us to Rome. I still don’t know what his motives were, but he rescued us from terrible danger, possibly from death. The BBC didn’t make much of the story, but apparently the Izmir just vanished after the Turks forced it to leave Istanbul. What in God’s name became of it? Do you know? The news here is so scanty! I still have nightmares about it. What a world! I saved my baby, and I suppose I should be thankful, but I keep thinking about those people.
We found the house in good shape. Took off the dust covers, put sheets on the beds, lit the fire and there we were! Maria and Tomaso are going on with their work in exactly the old way. The weather is chilly, but lovely once the morning mists lift. Only the internees down at the Excelsior Hotel remind us of the war. They come up here for lunch, one or two at a time. The police are nice about that. Correspondents, wives, a singer, a couple of clergymen — an odd lot, bored to death, mostly staying ossified on Tuscan wine, and full of cranky little complaints, but perfectly okay.
Oh Lord, I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am to have your letter! When Dr. Hesse left the room just now, I cried. It’s been so goddamned lonesome here! And you’re in Bern — so close, and working on our release! I still haven’t caught my breath.
Well, one thing at a time. I’d better jump to what’s most on my mind.
Slote, Aaron is playing with the notion of staying on here, war or no war.
Between the archbishop and the chief of police, both old friends of his, he’s being treated like royalty in exile. It’s eerily like peacetime, for us. Last Sunday he was even allowed to go and have lunch with Bernard Berenson in his mansion outside Florence — you know, that old American art critic. Well, Berenson told Aaron that he has no intention of leaving. He’s too old to move, Italy is his home, etc., etc., and he’ll stay and take what comes. Berenson’s a Jew too — of sorts, like Aaron. Aaron came back with this bee in his bonnet. If Berenson can do it, why can’t he? As for me, I’m free to go home, of course.
GRRRR!
Bernard Berenson, I have pointed out, has important, powerful connections. He has authenticated paintings for billionaires, lords, national museums, kings. He may well be under Mussolini’s protection. None of this applies to Aaron in the least. He grudgingly admits that. But he says he too is old. His home too is Italy. His rheumatism is worse (that is true). A long rail trip and an Atlantic crossing could knot him all up, maybe disable him. He’s started what he considers his most important book, “the last panel,” about Martin Luther and the Reformation. The book does begin well, and I must say it’s kept us both occupied.
But what he apparently can’t picture is his plight once the rest of us leave. His isolation will be frightful. If he becomes ill, he’ll be in the hands of hostile strangers. He’s in enemy country! That’s the brute fact he won’t face. He says Mussolini’s declaration of war on America was a comedy to keep the Germans quiet. He has an answer for everything.
He squirrels and gloats over one sweaty little ace in the hole, Leslie. During some futile little romance in his early twenties, Aaron was once converted to Catholicism. Did you know that? He dropped it fast but he’s never de-converted, if there is such a thing. A friend of his in the Vatican obtained copies of the American documents and gave them to him. Aaron n
ow regards these scruffy photographs as his shield and buckler. It’s a curse that he ever obtained them!
You see, he’s read up on the Nuremberg laws. I’m not sure of the details, but it seems that a conversion before 1933, when Hitler came to power, makes a material difference for German Jews, or maybe it’s for half-Jews. Anyhow, Aaron says he can handle the Italians; and as for the Germans, why, between his precious conversion documents and his position as an American journalist, he refuses to worry. In short, he has only a few years to live, the one thing he cares about is his work, and he works best here.
I beg you to get word to Aaron to drop this notion. Possibly he’ll listen to you. I have no effect on him any more. He’s apologetic toward me, and in every way tries to mollify me. He’s made me the heir of all his property and copyrights. Aaron’s a prudent man, and quite wealthy. But I remain furious at him, and terribly concerned.
I really don’t know why I should be so upset about Aaron. It’s his life. I came to work for him simply to be nearer you, in those simple lost days when my only worry was a messed-up romance. (God, how young I was!) I hardly knew him then. Now my destiny’s bound up with his. My father’s gone. My mother’s a million miles away in body and spirit, playing canasta and going to Hadassah meetings in Miami Beach while the world explodes. Next to Louis, my uncle seems almost the only family I have. Byron himself is a disembodied idea, an aureate memory, compared with Aaron. I know even you much better than I do my baby’s father.
Omigosh, I hear the voices of Aaron and your Swiss friend, and I have to end this —
Old Slote, my dear, you can’t imagine how GOOD it makes me feel, just knowing you’re close by. You were a fool not to marry me in Paris, when I proposed. How I loved you! Oh, if one only understood sooner that things happen once and then roll away into the past, leaving one marked and changed forever, and — well, this hasty maundering is to no avail. Think of something to do about Aaron, my dear, please!