8
February, 1975.
After dinner, Dick Bowden produced a cognac that Dussander privately thought dreadful. But of course he smiled broadly and complimented it extravagantly. Bowden’s wife served the boy a chocolate malted. The boy had been unusually quiet all through the meal. Uneasy? Yes. For some reason the boy seemed very uneasy.
Dussander had charmed Dick and Monica Bowden from the moment he and the boy had arrived. The boy had told his parents that Mr Denker’s vision was much worse than it actually was (which made poor old Mr Denker in need of a seeing-eye dog, Dussander thought dryly), because that explained all the reading the boy had supposedly been doing. Dussander had been very careful about that, and he thought there had been no slips.
He was dressed in his best suit, and although the evening was damp, his arthritis had been remarkably mellow -nothing but an occasional twinge. For some absurd reason the boy had wanted him to leave his umbrella home, but Dussander had insisted. All in all, he had had a pleasant and rather exciting evening. Dreadful cognac or no, he had not been out to dinner in nine years.
During the meal he had discussed the Essen Motor Works, the rebuilding of postwar Germany — Bowden had asked several intelligent questions about that, and had seemed impressed by Dussander’s answers — and German writers. Monica Bowden had asked him how he had happened to come to America so late in life and Dussander, adopting the proper expression of myopic sorrow, had explained about the death of his fictitious wife. Monica Bowden was meltingly sympathetic.
And now, over the absurd cognac, Dick Bowden said: ‘If this is too personal, Mr Denker, please don’t answer… but I couldn’t help wondering what you did in the war.’
The boy stiffened ever so slightly.
Dussander smiled and felt for his cigarettes. He could see them perfectly well, but it was important to make not the tiniest slip. Monica put them in his hand.
Thank you, dear lady. The meal was superb. You are a fine cook. My own wife never did better.’
Monica thanked him and looked flustered. Todd gave her an irritated look.
‘Not personal at all,’ Dussander said, lighting his cigarette and turning to Bowden. ‘I was in the reserves from 1943 on, as were all able-bodied men too old to be in the active services. By then the handwriting was on the wall for the Third Reich, and for the madmen who created it. One madman in particular, of course.’
He blew out his match and looked solemn.
‘There was great relief when the tide turned against Hitler. Great relief. Of course,’ and here he looked at Bowden disarmingly, as man to man, ‘one was careful not to express such a sentiment. Not aloud.’
‘I suppose not,’ Dick Bowden said respectfully.
‘No,’ Dussander said gravely. ‘Not aloud. I remember one evening when four or five of us, all friends, stopped at a local ratskeller after work for a drink — by then there was not always schnapps, or even beer, but it so happened that night there were both. We had all known each other for upwards of twenty years. One of our number, Hans Hassler, mentioned in passing that perhaps the Fuehrer had been ill-advised to open a second front against the Russians. I said, “Hans, God in Heaven, watch what you say!” Poor Hans went pale and changed the subject entirely. Yet three days later he was gone. I never saw him again, nor, as far as I know, did anyone else who was sitting at our table that night.’
‘How awful!’ Monica said breathlessly. ‘More cognac, Mr Denker?’
‘No thank you,’ he smiled at her. ‘My wife had a saying from her mother: “One must never overdo the sublime.”’
Todd’s small, troubled frown deepened slightly.
‘Do you think he was sent to one of the camps?’ Dick asked. ‘Your friend Hessler?’
‘Hassler,’ Dussander corrected gently. He grew grave. ‘Many were. The camps… they will be the shame of the German people for a thousand years to come. They are Hitler’s real legacy.’
‘Oh, I think that’s too harsh,’ Bowden said, lighting his pipe and puffing out a choking cloud of Cherry Blend. ‘According to what I’ve read, the majority of the German people had no idea of what was going on. The locals around Auschwitz thought it was a sausage plant.’