ensuring the silence of living men has yet to be devised.'
'But after five decades ... who would be left to carry out such a
sentencet' Natterman rolled his eyes. 'How about one of those bald
neo-Nazi psychopaths who roam our streets at night with brickbats? No?
Then how about these 'soldiers of Phoenix' that Number Seven mentions?
He certainly seems terrified of them. And don't forget this: at the end
of the war, close@ to forty divisions of Warren SS remained under arms
throughout the world. That's more than a quarter of a million men! I
don't know how many Death's-Head SS survived, but what if it were only a
few hundred? Just one of those fanatics could wipe out a man's family,
even today. I fought in the war, and I could easily shoot someone down
in the street tonight.' Natterman glanced at his watch. 'And that is
my final word on the subject,' he announced. 'I must go.'
'Go?' Ilse said uneasily. 'Where are you going?'
Natterman picked up his briefcase. 'To do what must be done. To show
the arrogant, self-righteous British for what they were during the
war-no better than we Germans.' His eyes sparkled with youthful
excitement. 'Ilse, this could be the academic coup of the century!'
'Opa, what are you saying? Those papers are affecting you just like
they did Hans!'
Natterman looked sharply at his granddaughter. 'Where is Hans, by the
way?'
'At the police station ... I guess.' Ilse tried to summon a brave face,
but her mask cracked. Hans had been gone far too long. 'Opa, what.if
they know what Hans did ... what he found? What would they do?'
'I don't know,' he answered frankly. 'Why don't you call the station?
If Hans's superiors don't know about the papers, it can't hurt. And if
they do, well ... they'll be expecting your call anyway, won't they?'
Ilse moved uncertainly toward the phone in the living room, then
snatched it up.
'Listen very closely,' Natterman cautioned. 'Background voices,
everything.'
'Yes, yes ... Hello? May I speak to Sergeant Hans Apfel, please?
This is his wife. Oh. Do you know where he is now?' She covered the
mouthpiece with her palm. 'The desk sergeant says he knows Hans but
hasn't seen him tonight. He's checking.' She pulled her hand away.
'I beg your pardon? Is this the same man I spoke to earlier?
Yes, I'll'be home all evening.' Natterman shook his head violently.
'I'm sorry,' Ilse said quickly, 'I have to go.' She dropped the phone
into its cradle.
'What did he tell you?' Natterman asked.
'Hans stopped in to answer a few questions, but left soon after.
The sergeant said he wasn't there longer than twenty minutes.
Opa?'
Natterman touched his granddaughter's quivering cheek..
'Ilse, is there some place in particular Hans goes when he is under
stress?'
Ilse held out for a moment more, then the words poured out of her.
'He talked about showing the papers to a journalist! About trying to
sell them!' 'My God,' said Natterman, his face white. 'He wouldn't!'
'He said he wouldn't. But-'
'Ilse, he can't do that! It's crazy!
And far too dangerous!' 'I know that ... but he's been gone so long.
Maybe that's where he is, meeting a reporter somewhere.'
Natterman shook his head. 'God forgive me, I hope that's it.
He'll probably turn up any minute. But I'm afraid I can't wait.'
He held up his hand. 'Please, Ilse, no more questions.
I'm going to the university to get some things, then I'm leaving the
city.'
'Leaving the city! Why?'
Natterman donned his long overcoat, then picked up his I briefcase and
took his umbrella from the stand by the front door. 'Because anyone
could find me in Berlin, and eventually they would. People are
searching for these papers now-I can feel it.' He laid a hand on Ilse's
shoulder. 'We have stumbled into a storm, my child. I'm trying to do
what is best. It's nine o'clock now. You wait here until midnight.
If Hans hasn't returned by then, I want you to leave. I'll be at the
old cabin.'
'On the canal? But that's two hundred kilometers from hereF' 'I just
hope it's far enough. I'm serious, Ilse, if Hans hasn't arrived by
midnight, leave. The cabin telephone's still connected. I always pay
the bill. You have the number?'
She nodded. 'But what about Hans?' she asked, her voice tremble' ngThe
professor set down his briefcase and hugged his granddaughter.
'Hans is a grown man,' he said gently. 'A policeman. He knows how to
take care of himself. He'll find us when he's ready. Now I must go.
You do exactly as I said.' He patted his briefcase. 'This little
discovery is going to make a lot of people very nervous.'
Too dazed to argue, Ilse kissed him on the cheek. 'You be careful,' she
said. 'You're not a young bull anymore, you know.'
'No,' said Natterman softly, his eyes glittering. 'I'm a wise old
serpent.' He grinned. 'You haven't forgotten your patronymic, have
you? 'Natter' still means snake. Don't worry about me.'
With that the professor kissed Ilse's forehead and slipped outside the
door. He looked disdainfully at the old elevator; then he stepped into
the stairwell and, despite his excitement, started down with an old
man's careful tread. He did not hear the stairwell door open again
behind him, or the whisper of Jonas Stern's stockinged feet descending
the concrete steps.
Stern knew the game now. It was a simple one. Follow the papers.
Strange how the peaceful present could be shattered by a few strokes
from an old pen, he reflected. Cryptic telegrams from an unquiet past.
For in the Israeli's pocket nestled another scrap of paper-the sleed Of
the premonition that had brought him to Germany after so many years.
One hour before he'd driven out of the Negev desert headed for BenGurion
Airport, Stern had dug it out of the little chest he'd saved from
Jerusalem-his unfinished-business chest, an old cherry box containing
the musty collection of loose ends that would not leave a man in peace.
On this scrap of paper was a brief note written in Cyrillic script,
