You saw that?'
Hans nodded eagerly.
'The odd thing is that Prisoner Number Seven was Rudolf Hess, yet these
papers seem to be talking about Hess as if he were another person.' She
pushed her notes away. 'I've probably got it all wrong.
The writer describes a flight to Britain, but mentions a stop somewhere,
in Denmark. It's crazy. There seem to be two men in the plane, not
one. And I do know one thing for certain-Rudolf Hess flew to Britain
alone.'
Hans blinked. 'Wait a minute. Are you saying that the man who died in
Spandau Prison might not have been Rudolf Hess?'
'No, I'm saying that the papers say that. I think. But I don't believe
it for a minute.'
'Why not?'
Ilse got up, went to a cupboard, and removed a beer, which she placed on
the counter but did not open. 'Think about it, Hans. For weeks the
newspapers brave run wild with speculation about Prisoner Number Seven.
Was he murdered? Why did he really fly to Britain? Was he really Hess
at all? Now you find some papers that seem to indicate that the
prisoner wasn't Hess, just as some of the newspapers have been
speculating?' She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. 'It's too
convenient. This has to be some kind of press stunt or something.''My
God,' he said, coming to his feet. 'Don't you see?
It doesn't matter if the papers are real or not. The fact that I found
them in Spandau is enough. They could be worth millions of marks!'
Ilse sat down carefully and looked up at Hans. When she spoke her voice
was grave. 'Hans, listen to me. I understand why you didn't turn in
the papers immediately. But now is the time for clear thinking. If
these papers are fakes, they're worthless and they can only get us into
trouble. And if they are genuine . . .' She trailed off, glanced up
at the clock on the kitchen wall. 'Hans, I think we should call my
grandfather,' she said suddenly. 'I could only read part of this ...
diary, I guess you'd call it, but Opa will be able to read it all.
He'll know what we should do.' She pushed her chair away from the
table.
'Wait!' Hans cried. 'What business is this of his?'
Ilse reached out and hooked her fingers in Hans's trouser pocket.
'Hans, I love you,' she said gently. 'I love you, but this thin is too
deep for us. I heard some of the news bulletins at work today.
The Russians have gone crazy over this Spandau incident. Imagine what
they might think about these papers. We need some good advice, and Opa
can give it to us.'
Hans felt a hot prickle of resentment. The last thing he wanted was
Ilse's arrogant grandfather strutting around and telling him what to do.
'We're not calling the professor,' he said flatly.
Ilse started to snap back, but she checked herself 'All right,' she
said. 'If you won't call Opa, then call your father.'
Hans drew back as if struck physically. 'I can't believe you said
that.'
'For God's sake, Hans. Three years without more than a nod to the man.
Can't you admit that he's in a position to help you? To help us?
He obviously wants to-'
'Three years! He went twenty year@ without talking to me!'
There was a long silence. 'I'm sorry,' Ilse said finally. 'I shouldn't
have said that. But you're not acting like yourself.'
'And what's so wrong with that? Liebchen, people get a chance like this
once in their lives, if they're lucky. I found these papers, I didn't
steal them. The man they belonged to is dead. They're ours now.
Imagine ... all the things you've ever wanted. All the things I could
never afford to buy you.
Your friends from work are always flaunting their fine houses, their
clothes, the best of everything. You never complain, but I know you
miss those things. You grew up with them. And now you can have them
again.'
'But I don't care about those things,' Ilse countered.
'You know that. You know what's important to me.'
'That's what I'm talking about! Children aren't cheap, you know.
When you finally get pregnant, we'll need all the money we can get.'
He snatched up one of the Spandau pages. 'And it's right here in our
hands!'
For the first time since finding the papers, Ilse remembered the baby.
She had been so happy this afternoon, so ready to celebrate their
blessing. She'd wanted everything to be perfect. But now ...
'Hans,' she said solemnly, 'I wasn't being honest, okay?
I probably would prefer driving to work in a Mercedes rather than riding
the U-Babn.' Suddenly Ilse laughed, flirting momentarily with the idea
of easy money. 'I wouldn't turn down a new wardrobe or a mansion in
Zehlendorf, either. But if these papers are real, Hans, they are not
our ticket to getting those things. Finding these papers isn't like
finding a lottery ticket. If they are genuine, they are a legacy of the
Nazis. Of war criminals. How many times have we talked about the
Hitler madness? Even almost fifty years after the war, it's like an
invisible weight dragging us backward. When I spent that semester in
New York, I made some friends, but I also saw the looks some people gave
meJews maybe, I don't know-wondering about the blond German girl. 'Does
she think she's better than we are? Racially superior?' Hans, our whole
generation has paid the price for something we had nothing to do with.
Do you want to profit from that?'
Hans looked down at the papers on the table. Suddenly they looked very
different than they had before. In a span of seconds their spell had
been broken. Ilse's laugh had done it, he realized, not her impassioned
speech. Her musical, selfmocking laugh. He gathered up the loose
sheets and stacked them at the center of the table. 'I'll turn them in
tonight,' he promised. 'I'll take them downtown right after supper.
Good enough?'
Ilse smiled. 'Good enough.' She stood slowly and pulled Hans to her.
He could feel the swell of her breasts through the cotton robe.
She laughed softly. 'You see? Doing the right thing sometimes has its
rewards.' She stood on tiptoe and nuzzled into his neck, at the same
