The Hunt

He grinned impishly and said, “How appropriate.”

“There’s a touch of the devil in you, Mr. Keegan,” she said, leaning closer to him, staring him straight in the eyes.

“Have you heard the latest?” Gault said, realizing the conversation was about to get away from him. “This morning Goebbels ordered all the American telephone exchanges to fire their Jewish employees. They can only hire members of the Nazi party in the future. And the embassy can no longer make contracts with Jews. Can you imagine, the Germans telling us who to hire and who to do business with.”

“It’s their country,” Keegan said casually.

“No, it’s Hitler’s country,” Miss Dietrich said. “The irony is that he has never been elected to anything. He lost the election to Hindenburg and Hindenburg appointed him chancellor.”

“How do you feel about him?” Keegan asked the actress.

She hesitated for a few moments, looking around the room before answering. “I think he is an enemy of anyone who is creative or intellectual.”

“I’ll never understand why the Germans didn’t resist him,” Gault said.

“It takes courage to resist him, Charlie,” Keegan said. “We kicked hell out of Germany. The Versailles treaty bankrupted them. They haven’t got anything left to resist with.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Gault said, obviously annoyed by Keegan’s defense of the German people.

“It’s not a question of sides. Those are facts.”

“They started the war and we finished it. What would you have done, slapped their wrist?” Gault snapped back.

“Americans never have understood European politics,” Keegan said. “You know what they say, when Roosevelt was elected he forgave all his enemies; when Hitler was elected he arrested all his friends. A difference in point of view.”

“Point of view?” Gault answered. “The Sturmabteilung are his personal police. They beat up people in the streets every day.”

“C’mon, Charlie, things aren’t that much different back in the states. The SA beats up Commies over here, we call the veterans Commies and beat them up in Washington. The Gestapo confiscates the Jews’ property, our banks confiscate people’s homes. The SA beats up Jews, the Ku Klux Klan lynches Negroes. We have the same soup kitchens, the same hobo camps, the same unemployment. Hell, we just got lucky. We got Roosevelt, they got Hitler. And believe me, there are people back home who think FDR’s just as dangerous as Adolf.”

“Not so loud,” Gault hissed, looking around as though he expected someone from the State Department to jump out from behind the potted plants.

“You don’t see Hitler as a threat to America, then?” Miss Dietrich asked.

“Hitlers come and go,” Keegan said. “The Germans want him, they’ve got him. It’s none of our business.”

“Not all Germans want him,” she said.

Keegan’s look got hard for a moment.

“But you all have him,” he said. Then the grin returned. “Hell, I like the German people. I get along with them.”

“I hear they almost got you at Belleau Wood,” Gault said.

“Yeah, well, we made a deal, the Germans and me. I forgave them for the war, they forgave me for the peace.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” Gault said sarcastically.

“Look, Gault, I’ve made a lot of good friends over here. I’m sure some of them are in the Nazi party, hell it only costs six marks a month to belong. I don’t ask them, it’s none of my concern. If Hitler’s their cup of tea, then I say they’re welcome to him. It’s none of our damn business what the Germans do.”

“Please,” Miss Dietrich pleaded, “can we change the subject? I am so tired of it, everyone you meet these days talks politics, politics, politics.”

“It’s the national sport,” said Keegan. ‘We’ve got baseball, you’ve got the storm troopers.”

She scowled painfully at the analogy.

“What brought you here?” Keegan asked her, attempting to remove the scowl.

“Haven’t you heard? The American embassy is the social center of Berlin this season.” Her lip curled into a faint and delicious smile.

“I hope that doesn’t get back to Wally Wallingford,” Keegan said. “His head’s already ten sizes too big for his hat.”

“Speaking of the devil.” She nodded over Keegan’s shoulder.

Wallace Wallingford was the protocol chief of the embassy and its social director. He was a slight man in his early thirties, tense and formal, with blond hair that was already beginning to thin out and anxious, watery eyes. Like many career diplomats, Wallingford affected an air of superiority, an attitude which intimidated some. But on this night he seemed nervous and distracted. Tiny beads of sweat twinkled on his forehead.

“Marlene, darling,” he said, kissing her hand, “how generous of you to come.”

“You’re delightful, Wally,” she said, “but you do have a tendency toward overstatement.”

“And how are you, Francis?” Wallingford said.