Fear Itself Page 13

  In the big rec room two girls had begun a game of ping pong, but the rest played outside. A piano sat in a corner, where on Sunday nights they would gather for a singalong after supper, and Mrs Grumholtz played old German favourites which the girls sang dutifully, then sang with more enthusiasm a few American songs (‘Five Foot Two Eyes of Blue’ was the campers’ favourite). He noticed one of the window frames was rotting, and cursed. His duties included making minor repairs – and they were constant.

  He passed by the camp office, empty since Herr Schultz, the camp director, was away. In that room Nessheim had been interviewed on his arrival – a formality, since he had been officially offered the job, but still a daunting one since it was the first time he had posed under his assumed identity.

  A man named Beringer had collected him at the train station in White River Junction. Slim and elegantly dressed in a blazer and Panama hat, Beringer had made a few polite queries about his journey, and then they had driven in silence to the camp.

  On arrival, Beringer had said Schultz wanted to see him in his office. When Nessheim asked to use the bathroom first, he was disconcerted that Beringer had followed him in. There was a line of six urinals placed there by a CCC corps expecting mainly male residents, and when Nessheim took his stance at the furthest one he found Beringer standing next to him, staring with such interest at Nessheim’s exposed organ that Nessheim felt as if he had pulled a snake out of his fly.

  The interview itself hadn’t lasted long.

  ‘You come recommended to us by Herr Bock from the German Consulate in Washington,’ Schultz said. He had a harsh metallic voice and a pie-shaped face made mean by startling eyes. Short but compact, he wore a tight-fitting jacket and tie. The effect was slightly military, enhanced by hair that was short, bristly, and cropped by a straight razor on sides and back. He looked like a smaller, older version of Agent Mueller.

  ‘That’s very nice of him,’ said Nessheim, trying to look appreciative.

  ‘How did you come to know Herr Bock?’

  Nessheim knew the script by heart. His résumé included a fictitious stint as a lifeguard at the Oak Street Beach in Chicago – the man in charge during the pertinent years was now dead, which would make it hard to check – and a stint at Mesinger’s, which in a sense was real enough. ‘I don’t know him personally – we’ve never met. But his family and mine were neighbours in Germany.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘A village called Dasbach, near Neidernhausen. It’s outside Frankfurt.’

  ‘Not my favourite city. Too cosmopolitan for my taste.’ Schultz made a face. Then he said, ‘I am surprised your last job was working for a Jew.’

  ‘I needed the job. Though to tell you the truth, I couldn’t stand it. Filthy kikes; they tried to cheat me out of a week’s salary.’

  ‘You are surprised by that?’ asked Schultz with a knowing smile. ‘Der Jude ist ein Laus.’

  Beringer nodded as if it went without saying.

  Then they questioned him on his politics, his feelings about National Socialism, and what he thought of Germany’s recent expansion. Guttman had instructed him that though he should hew to the line of the Bund and show allegiance to Nazi Germany, he mustn’t go overboard. He was to come across, Guttman reminded him, as easy-going rather than fervent, tending on the dumb side rather than smart. ‘An athlete not a thinker,’ Guttman had said, then laughed.

  And despite the vagueness of his replies, Nessheim must have satisfied Schultz, for the camp leader seemed to tire of Nessheim’s unsophisticated answers to his pointed political queries, and began describing his duties instead. He would teach swimming and canoeing, and each weekday afternoon lead the campers on a hike (Schultz was big on hikes, and said the mountains of Vermont reminded him of his native Bavaria). And once a week, Nessheim would take the kids into the nearest town, Woodstock, where the campers would be allowed to spend their pocket money.

  Schultz said, ‘You will be there to supervise the girls, both on the bus and in town. You may find some of the inhabitants not so welcoming. We try and keep a low profile. There are not many Germans here, and the Yankees are an odd breed.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Ja. They seem to think they are the true Aryans. Everyone else is Untergebene,’ and he gave a pointed thumbs-down.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Nessheim.

  Past the office sat the staffroom, from which Ernst Kessler now emerged. He was Nessheim’s cabin mate, a middle-aged German who taught the language to the girls and never laughed. Nessheim nodded to him and took a short cut through the kitchen, where the Negro cook stood over an enormous range.

  ‘Hey, Smitty. Cooler today.’

  ‘Not in here,’ he replied with a grin. Nessheim liked the man, but couldn’t make out if his reflexive smile was sincere, or the product of years knowing it was safest to act happy to white men. Smitty slept in a tiny room, not much bigger than a closet, behind the kitchen toilet; at one point Nessheim had thought of suggesting he share the roomy quarters of his own cabin. But when he’d raised it with Kessler, the German had been horrified. ‘Ein Schwarzer?’ he’d said with disbelief, and that was the end of that.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ he asked now.

  ‘Fried chicken,’ said Smitty with a smile. ‘Mit Hefeklösse,’ he added in pitch-perfect German that made Nessheim wonder about him again.

  He came out of the kitchen and around the lodge to the back, where he could see the girls already playing, scattered along its ragged lawn. This was one of the few times when he was without duties – Mrs Grumholtz was in charge until dinner. Sixty minutes of freedom, and he walked down to the lake and then around it to the far side, where his own cabin lay at one end of the line of twelve, each with a pitched roof and screens for windows on both sides.

  Inside the Kessler-free cabin he lay down and read for an hour. He’d finished a collection of Hemingway stories, and the only English-language books he’d found in the lodge were a book of poems by Robert Frost and an ancient history of Vermont. A century before, he discovered reading the latter, the hillsides around him had been denuded of trees and grazed by sheep. Would wonders never cease, thought Nessheim sourly, wishing he’d joined the library in Woodstock.

  He thought of his recent mail: there had been nothing from Guttman, and he was tempted to call him again soon. But each call carried a small but discernible risk of getting caught; he knew too that Guttman was impatient with Nessheim’s impatience, which he’d expressed even in their first phone conversation.

  Guttman had ignored him then, asking instead, ‘Have you found a rendezvous point yet?’

  ‘Yep. I have.’ In the flat pocket of woods that lay between Route 12 and Coolidge Hill, Nessheim had located an old forestry track. Disused, it seemed the perfect location, and in his first note to Guttman, posted beneath the WPA-sponsored murals of the post office in Woodstock on Saturday afternoon, he had drawn a small map locating this track for emergency meets.

  Not that it looked as though it was ever going to be used. With just three weeks left to go at the camp, Nessheim wondered what was supposed to happen to him after that. Was he going to be sent back to San Francisco? Or was there some other part of the Bund organisation he’d be sent to infiltrate? He could just see it – writing copy for the latest edition of the Deutscher Weckruf.

  At supper the counsellors split up among the tables, standing with the children as Schultz said grace in German. The campers took turns bringing the food from the kitchen window, where Smitty stood on the other side, handing them the crockery bowls. This evening Nessheim had Mrs Grumholtz on the opposite end of the table, with six girls chattering happily on the benches between them. Then Beringer sat down on his right.

  ‘You have been to town,’ he said to Nessheim in his mild German accent.

  ‘I took the girls.’

  Beringer served himself from the bowls, then looked down at his plate. Green bean salad dressed in cider vinegar, German dumplings, and a
piece of fried chicken with a thick flour crust. ‘This looks like Dreiländer food,’ he said with an amused air.

  ‘What’s that? Three lands?’

  ‘Ja. A little joke from my part of Austria.’ Beringer pointed to his bean salad. ‘Here is some of the food these local Yankees like – meagre fare in my view. Then dumplings: German heft, thank goodness. And finally fried chicken – the Schwarzer gets to make his own contribution.’

  When the plates had been cleared and they sat waiting for dessert, Schultz appeared, and stood at Nessheim’s end of the table next to Beringer. The girls at the table were suddenly quiet.

  ‘You have been working hard, young Rossbach, and I have good news for you. Someone is coming to join our staff and he will be helping you with the swimming duties.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘He will be here tonight. I think you will be pleased to have his help.’ Schultz looked at Beringer then back at Nessheim. ‘It seems the news from Europe is getting interesting.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nessheim, who had seen nothing noteworthy in the Bund paper. There was a radio in the staffroom, but it was rarely listened to. He felt out of touch with events, but he also tried to avoid political discussions with the other counsellors. Schultz often made disparaging comments about Roosevelt and the administration, and about those groups he put under an umbrella he called ‘riff-raff’, pronounced lovingly with a guttural German emphasis to the Rs. The category included Communists, Democrats, Roosevelt, Jews, bankers, Poles, Italians, French-Canadians, and the local Yankees – in short, much of what constituted the American people.

  ‘The Führer has made it clear that he considers Danzig a natural extension of Germany. With justice, too, I might add. But the British are kicking up a bit.’

  Beringer scoffed. ‘Ach, Chamberlain kicked up before, you know. But in the event he did nothing. There is no reason to think this will be any different, Max. Why stand up for Poles when you have not done the same for Czechoslovakia? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Schultz slowly, and Nessheim felt the man’s eyes were on him. ‘There was another report too. It said that if there was a war in Europe there might be a draft here soon.’

  Mrs Grumholtz was listening from the far end. ‘Well, it’s always windy, Max. It doesn’t do anyone harm.’

  Schultz gave an indulgent smile, but his eyes remained fixed on Nessheim. ‘What do you think?’

  Nessheim shrugged. ‘I can’t see the point of it myself.’

  ‘Can’t you? You have a draft when you expect your men to go to war.’ Peach cobbler had arrived, and Nessheim took the stack of small bowls by his side and began doling the dessert out with a large tin spoon. Schultz mused, ‘It will be interesting to see the way our people react.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Nessheim, then kicked himself for getting drawn in.

  ‘Would you enlist if it meant fighting against your people’s homeland? That’s what Roosevelt wants Americans to do.’

  Nessheim looked at Schultz blankly. ‘I’ve always assumed America would keep out of it. Let the British fight their own corner. Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Maybe. But what do you think will happen if there is a draft? Will young men put up with it?’ He waited a beat. ‘Will you, young Rossbach?’

  The question dropped like a weight on the table.

  Keep it simple, he told himself. ‘I couldn’t fight against Germany.’

  ‘Ja, but if you are drafted?’

  ‘I would refuse to serve.’ He was acting, but he didn’t like saying the words.

  Nessheim handed Beringer a bowl. The German picked up a spoon and inspected the cobbler. ‘You would go to prison for that,’ Beringer said.

  ‘Not if I were in Germany,’ he said.

  ‘You would go there?’ asked Schultz, surprised by Nessheim’s reply. He seemed to look at him anew. Then suddenly Schultz laughed out loud. ‘Fine words. But let me give you some advice, young Rossbach. If you’re really thinking of returning to the Fatherland, you had better learn to speak the language first.’

  After dinner they played softball on the lawn that ran down in a gentle slope to the lake. The girls enjoyed it, and Nessheim pitched for both teams. They used a twelve-inch ball that was soft, with raised seams, and he would gently lob it to the plate underhand. Sometimes Frances would come out and help the littlest girls bat. When dusk came they played one last inning and by then Schultz had appeared, dressed in alpine shorts and stout hiking boots. There was something ridiculous about the man, but something formidable as well.

  Schultz insisted on a turn at bat, and hit the second lobbed ball deep towards the lake. Nessheim ran almost to the water’s edge and just managed to catch the ball without toppling in. Cheers came from the girls and he heard clapping from nearby. Nessheim looked over and saw a tall man in green work pants and a striped shirt applauding gently. He had the build of a pulling guard, with ragged blond hair that fell across his forehead like strands of bleached hay.

  The man said, ‘Good catch,’ and grinned, revealing big buck teeth that gave his face a childish cast. But his eyes were beady, and examined Nessheim like a tailor gauging his suit size.

  He said, ‘They tell me you’re from Chicago.’ When Nessheim hesitated he added, ‘Or have I got the wrong fellah?’

  ‘No, that’s me all right.’

  ‘Thought I’d say hello, being as we’ll be working together.’

  This must be the new hire, who would help with swimming lessons and the afternoon hike.

  He stepped forward. ‘I’m Rossbach. They call me Chug.’ He shook hands.

  ‘I’m from Detroit myself. My name’s Peter Heydeman.’

  13

  ‘THEY CALLED ME.’

  ‘Again?’ Guttman was unable to disguise his alarm.

  Bock nodded. He looked unperturbed as he carefully shelled a peanut. He had developed a fondness for them ever since Guttman had brought a bag along to one of their rendezvous. After that Guttman brought a bag to each meeting, and would suppress his irritation as Bock ate them one by one, carefully tearing a panel from the brown paper bag on which to lay the empty shells.

  ‘Yes, they were asking about Rossbach.’

  Twelve months before Bock had suddenly flipped from being a grudging informant to an actively helpful one. The trigger had been the sudden recall of Ambassador Luther – one week he was in place, helpfully leaving out the drafts of his cables back to Berlin; the next he had been abruptly recalled. No more cables, no more information. Overnight, Bock’s market value in intelligence terms had plummeted like an October ’29 share price.

  Guttman had expected Bock to be relieved by the Ambassador’s departure. Without access to the confidential cables, there wasn’t much he could do for Guttman and the FBI. But instead, the German had seemed deeply alarmed, even fearful. When Guttman had tried to reassure Bock that he was never going to inform Bock’s superiors about his predilection for boys, the German had cut him off. ‘I have access to other information. There is much going on in the embassy that I could report to you.’

  Sure, thought Guttman, you’ve lost your card in the hole, so magically you find another ace. He stifled a groan at the prospect of this ‘information’: the menus from official banquets, the seating plans – what else could a Principal Secretary provide? Meeting with Bock took up a lot of time, and it wasn’t as if Guttman weren’t busy with other things – just the week before he had spent seventeen hours investigating a state department employee who had several undeclared cousins in the Soviet Union, one of them in the Kremlin.

  He was tempted to sever the relationship, but something held him back. He had come to know Bock, he realised. He was not a career diplomat by vocation, nor a true Nazi – he had, of all things, been an aspiring opera singer. In the end he told Bock he’d be happy to continue to meet.

  And to his surprise, if not astonishment, when he next saw Bock the German had something of value to impart. They met by the banks of the P
otomac on the capital side, which meant a shorter ride for Guttman. It was a windy day and they walked for a few minutes in silence, watching as a coal barge made leaden progress through the river’s choppy waves.

  Bock suddenly spoke up. ‘Do you remember some time ago, you asked me about a name mentioned in one of the Ambassador’s cables?’

  ‘Do you mean Werner?’

  ‘Yes. Did you ever find him?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I bet you haven’t,’ Bock said archly.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ Guttman hadn’t expected this at all.

  ‘Because he’s disappeared. Even his friends don’t have any idea where he is.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I told you I could establish good contacts with the Bund. And I have – in New York. I have met Kuhn himself.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Guttman. No orator, Kuhn was so shrill that he was ignored now even by the real Nazis in Germany. Not that Guttman believed this was anything but tactical.

  ‘I agree that Kuhn is not much of a leader. But Schultz is different.’

  The name was vaguely familiar, but he associated it with Detroit. ‘Why is that?’ he asked leadingly.

  ‘Schultz is a businessman – he owns a small printing business in New York, and he is establishing a summer camp for little German-American girls up in Vermont. He is correct in manner, intelligent, clear-headed – unlike Kuhn. Schultz is not so theatrical, or impetuous. He would have made a far better leader, and many people think so. Yet he has absented himself from all public gatherings of the Bund.’

  ‘Sulking in his tent maybe?’

  Bock shook his head. ‘He could have been the leader – without question. Most people thought that’s why he moved to New York from Michigan. But he chose not to.’

  ‘What has this got to do with Werner?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ said Bock, yet smugness sat on his face like the photographed grin of a golf club champion. ‘It was interesting nonetheless to learn that Werner’s sister is married to Schultz.’