“I’ve never met Rabbi Gorin, so I have no opinion of him personally,” he said automatically. “As for his Young Jewish Defenders; if they’re defending, fine. But if, as is sometimes reported, they’re attacking, then not so fine. Brown shirts are never good, no matter who’s wearing them.”
And silver-haired Horst Hessen, sweating in bright sunlight, raised large binoculars to his blue eyes and watched a bare-chested man in a white sun hat riding a power mower slowly across a vivid green lawn. A flagpole flew an American flag; the house beyond was a neat one-story box of glass and redwood. A black cloud shot with leaping orange replaced the man and the mower, and a thud of explosion came bluntly through distance.
3
MENGELE HAD MOVED the Führer’s portrait and all the smaller photos and mementos of him over to the west wall above the sofa—which had meant moving his own degrees and commendations and family photos to whatever spaces he could find for them between the two outside windows in the south wall and around the laboratory observation window and the doorway in the east wall. He had then had the cleared north wall fitted with a waist-level three-inch wood molding, above which the pale-gray wallpaper had been stripped away. Two coats of white paint had been laid on, the first flat and the second semi-glossy. The molding had been painted pale gray. When all the paint was thoroughly dry he had had a sign-painter flown down from Rio.
The sign-painter made beautifully straight thin black lines and lettered handsomely, but in his first light pencilings he showed an inclination to miscopy and/or misplace unfamiliar marks of pronunciation, and to go his own Brazilian way in the matter of spelling. For four days, therefore, Mengele had sat behind his desk, watching, instructing, warning. He had come to dislike the sign-painter, and by the second day was glad the dolt was going to be thrown from the plane.
When the job was done, and the long table with its neat stacks of journals in place against the wall, Mengele could lean back in his steel-and-leather chair and admire the very chart he had envisioned. The ninety-four names, each with its country, date, and square box as if for balloting, were set out in three columns, the middle one of necessity a name longer than the two outer ones (a small annoyance, but what could be done at this late date?). There they all were, from 1. Döring—Deutschland—16/10/74 
to 94. Ahearn—Kanada—23/4/77 . How he looked forward to filling in each of those boxes! He would do that himself, of course, with either red or black paint, he hadn’t yet decided which. Perhaps he would try making checks, and if the first few didn’t turn out uniformly, then fill in the boxes.
He swung in his chair and smiled at the Führer. You don’t mind being moved to the side for this, do you, my Führer? Of course not; how could you?
Then, alas, there had been nothing to do but wait—till the first of November, when the calls would come in to headquarters.
He had busied himself in the laboratory, where he was trying, not very enthusiastically, to transplant chromosomes in frog-cell nuclei.
He flew into Asunción one day; visited his barber and a prostitute, bought a digital clock, had a good steak at La Calandria with Franz Schiff.
And now, at last, the day had come—a fine one, so blinding-bright that he had drawn the study curtains. The radio was on and tuned to the headquarters frequency, with the earphones lying ready beside a memo pad and pen. On a corner of the desk’s glass top a white linen towel was laid out; on it, in surgical line-up, were a small unopened can of red enamel, a screwdriver, a new thin short-bristled paintbrush, a coverless petri dish, and a screw-top can of turpentine. The left end of the long table had been drawn from the wall; a stepladder waited before the first column of names and countries.
He had decided to try the checks.
Shortly before noon, when he was beginning to get quite impatient, the drone of a plane came with increasing loudness through the curtains. The drone of the headquarters plane—which meant either very good or very bad news. He hurried from the study, through the hall, and out onto the porch, where a few servants’ children sat breaking up a flat cake of some kind. He stepped over them and went around the side of the house to the back and down the few steps. The plane was just dropping behind treetops. Shielding his eyes, he hurried across the yard—a servant stopped leaning, started hoeing—and past the servants’ house and the barracks and the generator shed. Jogging, he entered the greened-over pathway cut through thick jungle foliage. He could hear the plane landing. He slowed to a fast walk, tucked the back of his shirt down into his trousers, got out his handkerchief and wiped his brow and cheeks. Why the plane, why not the radio? Something had gone wrong; he was sure of it. Liebermann? Had that filth somehow managed to end everything? If he had, he himself would personally go to Vienna and find and kill him. What else would he have left to live for?
He came out onto the side of the grass airstrip in time to see the red-and-white twin-engine plane rolling slowly toward his own smaller silver-and-black one. Two of the guards were lounging there with the pilot, who waved at him. He nodded. Another guard was across the strip at the chain-link fence, holding something through it, trying to lure an animal. Against rules, but he didn’t call out to him; he watched the door of the red-and-white plane, stopped now, propellers dying. Silently prayed.
The door swung down, and one of the guards trotted over to help a tall man in a light-blue suit down the steps.
Colonel Seibert! It had to be bad news.
He started forward slowly.
The colonel saw him, waved—cheerfully enough—and came toward him. He was carrying a red shopping bag.
Mengele walked faster. “News?” he called.
The colonel nodded, smiling. “Yes, good news!”
Thank God! He speeded. “I was worried!”
They shook hands. The colonel, handsome with his strong Nordic face and white-blond hair, smiled and said, “All the ‘salesmen’ checked in. The October ‘customers’ have all been seen; four on the exact dates, two a day early, and one a day late.”
Mengele pressed his chest and breathed. “Praise God! I was worried, the plane coming.”
“I felt like taking a flight,” the colonel said. “It’s such a beautiful day.”
They walked together toward the pathway.
“All seven?”
“All seven. Without a hitch.” The colonel offered the shopping bag. “This is for you. A mystery package from Ostreicher.”
“Oh,” Mengele said, and took it. “Thanks. It’s no mystery. I asked him to get me some silk; one of my housemaids is going to make shirts for me. Will you stay for lunch?”
“I can’t,” the colonel said. “I have a rehearsal for my granddaughter’s wedding at three o’clock. Did you know she’s marrying Ernst Roebling’s grandson? Tomorrow. I’ll have some coffee and talk awhile, though.”
“Wait till you see my chart.”
“Chart?”
“You’ll see.”
The colonel saw, and was enthusiastic. “Beautiful! An absolute work of art! You didn’t do this yourself, did you?”
Putting the shopping bag by the desk, Mengele said happily, “God no, I’m not even sure I can make the checks decently! I had a man flown down from Rio.”
The colonel turned and looked at him, surprised and questioning.
“Don’t worry,” Mengele said, raising a reassuring hand, “he had an accident on his way home.”