to see this stuff buried for good, either, given the way certain matters were handled, way back when.”
“Good. That means I can proceed with a clear conscience.”
“Oh, dear.” He sounded concerned, but he quickly relaxed into a chuckle. “Am I to take it you found some way to outsmart us?”
“No comment.”
Another chuckle.
“You don’t exactly sound worried by the prospect,” Nat said.
“Off the record again?”
“Sure.”
“A few days ago I would have been. But we kept our end of the bargain-delivered everything Bauer wanted, took every precaution to assure its secrecy. If he’s still not used to dealing with the likes of you-well, that’s his problem. Besides, it’s the Agency that stands to be embarrassed on our side, not us. Although frankly we’ve also made some accommodations I’m not very comfortable with. Agreeing to look the other way on some of these recent deaths, for example.”
“Gordon’s?”
“No. His was natural. I wasn’t lying about that.”
“Willis Turner, then, and the PI in Florida. Plus Gollner in Germany.”
“It was the Germans who caved on Gollner. And those other two are only part of the story.”
“You mean there were more?”
“This thing got pretty complicated, and Bauer pulled out all the stops. As of now we’re not even certain who was responsible for half of it. Bauer, the Iranians, who knows? But today I was told in no uncertain terms that we no longer need to find out.”
“So we’re covering for him. Again. Meaning he’ll never answer for it.”
“Not in a court of law. Which should explain why I’m not really upset by what you’re apparently up to. Of course, I never said that. In fact, we never had this conversation.”
“Fine by me. As long as you pay my tab.”
SO NOW IT HAD COME to this on a cloudy Monday morning in Berlin: Nat, standing beside Liesl on the grounds of the Plotzensee Memorial. Berta, with her camera, lurking behind a wall. Bauer, stooped and wary, bouquet in hand. All the dramatis personae, in place for the final act.
Bauer shuffled toward the spot in the stone courtyard where he always placed the flowers. Just as he was bending over, the motor drive of Berta’s camera whirred into action. Nat heard it clearly. Bauer must have, too, because he stiffened and clenched the flowers tightly. Even from twenty feet away you could see his knuckles whiten. He then turned toward Nat and strolled briskly forward, as if he had decided that this was where he would focus his anger first.
Liesl, holding Nat’s arm, tensed in anticipation, and Nat decided to intervene before things turned ugly. He patted her hand and headed toward Bauer. The two men came face-to-face in the middle of the courtyard just as Berta emerged fully from behind the shed.
Bauer raised a bony finger, which quivered as he spoke.
“All of this is over, you know!” Spittle punctuated every word, flak bursts of fury. “Over! For you and for that horrid girl!” He nodded toward Berta, who had lowered her camera and was watching in rapt silence. “One call to the police and she will be arrested! They will no doubt wish to hear about you as well. I will ruin you, just as I ruined her.”
No sense arguing, Nat decided. Only a full frontal assault would do now.
“As you please, Herr Bauer. But I’ve brought someone with me who has wanted to speak to you for a very long time. Liesl, will you please come here?”
Bauer froze at the sound of her name and clutched the flowers to his chest. For a moment Nat feared he would drop dead from a heart attack. He even felt a twinge of sympathy. Look at how far astray the man’s adoration had led him-so many misguided betrayals, each of them a burnt offering at the altar of her memory. But now you could sense the dawning realization that he had built a flawed temple to a false god.
“It
Bauer reached out a hand, but Liesl backed away, repelled. There was no way she was going to let him touch her, and you could see that it wounded him deeply. Berta, too, had been halted in her tracks. It was clear to Nat that she had recognized her Oma’s best friend and, having heard Liesl’s name, she was now adding up the rest of the story, stunned by its implications.
“Yes, Kurt. It is me,” Liesl said. “I have told our story to this young man. Hannelore’s story, too. She was the grandmother of that young woman over there, the one with the camera. Anything else you’ll just have to learn by reading about it. And by then, of course, everyone will know.”
Bauer was too dumbfounded to answer, as if he was still trying to reconcile this vengeful old woman with the girl he had once loved. Liesl turned toward Berta.
“Put your camera down and come here, unless you never want to escape your past, like this bitter old man here. If you come with me, I think we will have a great deal to talk about.”
Liesl held out her hand. Berta nodded, and obeyed as if in a trance. They linked arms and turned to go. Liesl called out to Nat over her shoulder.
“I will see you back at the car, Dr. Turnbull.”
Berta nodded toward him, the barest hint of a smile. Gratitude or relief, he couldn’t tell which. She was still stunned to silence, yet also aglow, as if she had not only finally found her answers but also had been pleasantly surprised to discover that there was more than just death at the heart of things.
As for Bauer, he remained speechless and staring, his open mouth as rigid as that of a corpse. He was an old man rooted to his memories, unable to reconcile any of what he had just seen. Turning slowly, he watched the two women climb into the taxi, the younger one helping the older. Yes, it was Liesl, so stooped and bent-his age, his era, and, also like him, fading now beneath the burdens of their shared past, a history that had at last come to claim him.
At the very moment when the door of the taxi slammed shut, the bouquet fell from his hands. The flowers were still bundled in wet newspaper, his final tainted offering upon a girl’s empty grave.
EPILOGUE
January 2008
New semester, first day of class. Professor E. Nathaniel Turn bull scanned the creaking rows of the lecture hall for early arrivals.
One eager lass had already snatched a syllabus and taken a seat up front, but the telltale lines of a stowaway iPod betrayed her true intentions. Last-minute texters hovered by the door, bent to the task like scriveners to their ledgers. A cell phone’s forbidden galaxy tune twinkled in a backpack.
It was 7:56 a.m., not the best of time slots for a debut course. Half the arrivals still had damp hair from their morning showers. Some were already stifling yawns.
Nat could hardly blame them. The name of the course certainly wasn’t sexy: History 225: Modern Germany, a Case History. The department had given him only half an hour to come up with a twenty-five-words-or-less description for the spring catalog, and even then it had only slipped in as a typewritten insert: An assessment of the Third Reich’s lingering aftereffects on postwar Germany, told through the life story of resister-turned-collaborator Kurt Bauer, the noted industrialist.
Only twenty-seven takers for fifty slots, but Nat wasn’t worried. Reviews would be glowing. Word would spread. By next fall they would have to move him to a bigger room, especially after the book came out over the summer.
His greater concern this morning was whether any of his invited special guests would show up, including a particular student who was a procrastinator by nature. Ah, there she was now.
Karen flashed him a daughterly smile and settled into a seat toward the back. Finally, he would be teaching in a style that wouldn’t shame her. Not that he expected to win her over completely to his favorite subject. He couldn’t
