The Hunt

“As long as he has papers nobody will question him,” Fuegel explained. “But if he comes in without papers, we have no choice but to deport him.”

“Even if you know his papers are phony?” Keegan said.

“As long as he has a passport and a hundred dollars in his pocket, there’ll be no questions asked. But he must have papers.”

“Christ, what a silly game.”

“Not silly, Keegan, necessary,” Wallingford said. “If we permit German refugees to enter the country without passports, there will be hell to pay with the German government. We’ve got to maintain some semblance of diplomatic relations with Germany. We have to know what the hell’s going on here and we can’t do it if they shut the embassy down.”

“So you’re on the run?” Keegan said to Reinhardt.

“Ja.”

“Running for his life,” said Fuegel.

“What did you do?” Keegan asked quietly.

Reinhardt looked up slowly and said, “I disagreed with Hitler. Unfortunately I am also a Jew. That’s what I did, sir. I have a big mouth and a Jewish mother.”

“You’ve read his articles,” Wallingford said. “He’s an enemy of the state.”

“What the hell’s he doing here? Half the SS is down in the living room,” Keegan said.

“There was no place else for him to go,” Wallingford said. “No place safe.”

“What am I doing here, Wally?”

“We have to get him out of Germany tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“There’s a warrant for his arrest. Specifically he’s been charged with sedition for publishing The Berlin Conscience. If they catch him, he’s finished.”

“What do you mean, finished?”

“For Christ sake, Francis, you heard what he said. The brownshirts broke into his partner’s place this afternoon, shot him in cold blood, then burned the building. You know what’s going on here!”

Keegan thought about the storm troopers on their nightly forays, torch flames whirling in the wind as they drove through the streets in their open trucks, chanting their persistent dirge, “Down with Jews, Death to Jews,” as they sought their prey. It was a common sight and like most people in Berlin, Keegan had become immune to its dreadful portent. Like most foreigners, he was reviled by the brownshirts but felt powerless to do or say anything against these drunken bullies with their insatiable appetite for violence. They had more power than the local police and they traveled in packs like hungry predators. Besides, it was a temporary thing, he thought. It would pass. And if the German people did not feel compelled to speak out against them what could he do? After all, it was their country. Germany was going through the trauma of revolution—death and fear were the companions of revolt. So he had learned to shut out the sounds of shattering glass and the cries of the victims, to turn his eyes away from the Sturmabteilung as they looted Jewish stores, beat up the owners, and painted crude, six-sided stars on the doors.

Keegan shook his head and his eyes opened fully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t get involved in local politics.” He leaned over to Wallingford, and added, “This isn’t your problem either, Wally.”

Wallingford turned to Reinhardt. “Will you excuse us a minute,” he said, and led Keegan into the adjoining office.

“We can’t just ignore him,” he said flatly.

“I admire him for going to bat for his country, but it’s his country. We have to live with these people. It’s none of our damn business.”

“Listen, Reinhardt is one of the few outspoken German writers left,” Wallingford said, his voice brittle with tension. “His articles and editorials have a strong impact on Germans. Hell, he could be nominated for a Nobel Prize this year—if he lives that long.” He paused for a moment, then leaned over and said softly, “President Roosevelt wants him out.”

“Ah,” Keegan dragged the word out, “we get to the payoff.”

“Call it anything you want, we need to move quickly, Francis.

“What do you mean we?”

“This is everybody’s business. This man is a symbol. We need to get him out of Germany.”

“You need to get him out of Germany. You blow this and you’ll end up third assistant attache in some banana republic with tarantulas for a staff. Hell, you got the whole damn diplomatic corps, spies crawling out your kazoo and you want me to find you a forger. What am I supposed to do, go over to the Kit Kat Club and ask around? Why don’t you just grant him political asylum?”

“It’s too late for that,” Wallingford said, lighting a cigarette. “This man is a very hot potato, he’s been accused of treason. Asylum would not go down well at all, not well at all. My instructions are to get him out of Germany tonight and keep the government out of it. You’ve got a plane. Let us use it to get him to Paris. It’s two hours away. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

“So that’s what this is all about. You want my plane.”

“Just to fly him to Paris. Two hours, for God’s sake.”