‘Sometimes,’ Bowden said, holding his glass of wine up to the sun and admiring its rich dark colour, ‘the past don’t rest so easy. Why else do people study history?’
Ed smiled uneasily and said nothing.
‘But don’t you worry. I never meddle in Richard’s affairs. And Todd is a good boy. Salutatorian of his class… he must be a good boy. Am I right?’
‘As rain,’ Ed French said heartily, and then asked for another glass of wine.
23
Dussander’s sleep was uneasy; he lay in a trench of bad dreams.
They were breaking down the fence. Thousands, perhaps millions of them. They ran out of the Jungle and threw themselves against the electrified barbed wire and now it was beginning to lean ominously inward. Some of the strands had given way and now coiled uneasily on the packed earth of the parade ground, squirting blue sparks. And still there was no end to them, no end. The Fuehrer was as mad as Rommel had claimed If he thought now -jf he had ever thought -there could be a final solution to this problem. There were billions of them; they filled the universe; and they were all qfter him.
‘Old man. Wake up, old man. Dussander. Wake up, old man, wake up.’
At first he thought this was the voice of the dream.
Spoken in German; it had to be part of the dream. That was why the voice was so terrifying, of course. If he awoke he would escape it, so he swam upwards…
The man was sitting by his bed on a chair that had been turned around backwards ~ a real man. ‘Wake up, old man,’ this visitor was saying. He was young — no more than thirty. His eyes were dark and studious behind plain steel-framed glasses. His brown hair was longish, collar-length, and for a confused moment Dussander thought it was the boy in a disguise. But this was not the boy, wearing a rather old-fashioned blue suit much too hot for the California climate. There was a small silver pin on one lapel of the suit. Silver, the metal you used to kill vampires and werewolves. It was a Jewish star.
‘Are you speaking to me?’ Dussander asked in German.
‘Who else? Your roommate is gone.’
‘Heisel? Yes. He went home yesterday.’
‘Are you awake now?’
‘Of course. But you’ve apparently mistaken me for someone else. My name is Arthur Denker. Perhaps you have the wrong room.’
‘My name is Weiskopf. And yours is Kurt Dussander.’
Dussander wanted to lick his lips but didn’t Just possibly this was still all part of the dream — a new phase, no more. Bring me a wino and a steak-knife, Mr Jewish Star in the Lapel, and I’ll blow you away like smoke, ‘I know no Dussander,’ he told the young man. ‘I don’t understand you. Shall I ring for the nurse?’
‘You understand,’ Weiskopf said. He shifted position slightly and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. The prosiness of this gesture dispelled Dussander’s last hope.
‘Heisel,’ Weiskopf said, and pointed at the empty bed.
‘Heisel, Dussander, Weiskopf… none of these names mean anything to me.’
‘Heisei fell off a ladder while he was nailing a new gutter onto the side of his house,’ Weiskopf said. ‘He broke his back. He may never walk again. Unfortunate. But that was not the only tragedy of his life. He was an inmate of Patin, where he lost his wife and daughters. Patin, which you commanded.’
‘I think you are insane,’ Dussander said. ‘My name is Arthur Denker. I came to this country when my wife died. Before that I was—’
‘Spare me your tale,’ Weiskopf said, raising a hand. ‘He has not forgotten your face. This face.’
Weiskopf flicked a photograph into Dussander’s face like a magician doing a trick. It was one of the two the boy had shown him years ago. A young Dussander in a jauntily cocked SS cap, swagger stick held firmly under one arm.
Dussander spoke slowly, in English now, enunciating carefully.
‘During the war I was a factory machinist My job was to oversee the manufacture of drive-columns and power-trains for armoured cars and trucks. Later I helped to build Tiger tanks. My reserve unit was called up during the battle of Berlin and I fought honourably, if briefly. After the war I worked in the Essen Motor Works until—’