“That’s goddamned ingenious,” Oppenheimer said.
Fallon ran his hand through his short brown hair. He was a wiry man, not too tall, a little past thirty, who wore a look of perpetual exasperation on a face that was too young to have so many lines in it.
“Well, hell, I don’t know if it’s ingenious or not. All I know is that I’m going home next month — if they don’t court-martial me first I tell you one thing, though. I’ve learned some tricks here that’re gonna set those Ford fuckers back on their ass if they don’t watch out.” He smiled happily at the pleasing prospect, and most of the exasperated look went away.
Cpl. Virgil Little came into the office a few minutes later without knocking, followed by a German civilian dressed in a brown suit and black shoes. Corporal Little was about twenty, with a thinker’s face and a scholar’s stoop. The German civilian was more than twice his age, with a round face, small blue eyes, and a thin-lipped, unforgiving mouth that separated a tiny chin from a rather large nose. What remained of his hair was a dull taupe shade.
“Here he is, Lieutenant” Corporal Little said. “Anything else?”
Before Fallon could reply, Oppenheimer said, “I’d like the Corporal to remain, Lieutenant. All right?”
Fallon shrugged. “Okay.”
“And the other enlisted man. Would you have him come in too?”
“Tell Baxter to come in,” Fallon said.
“Hey, Baxter,” Corporal Little called through the door. “The Lieutenant wants you.”
A big, sleepy-looking youth of about nineteen shambled in and looked around. He was Private Louis Baxter, whose one passion in life was automobiles. Working in a plant where they were actually manufactured was for him an experience of unending joy.
“Would you close the door, please?” Oppenheimer said.
Baxter turned and closed the door, then turned back.
“Private, I think you should sit over there,” Oppenheimer said, indicating a chair, “and you, Corporal, over there.”
Baxter sat where he was told, but Corporal Little looked first at Lieutenant Fallon, who frowned slightly, then nodded. Corporal Little sat down.
That left only the German standing in the center of the large office. He looked calmly at Oppenheimer, smiled slightly, then looked back at Fallon.
“May I ask the purpose of this meeting, Lieutenant?”
Fallon nodded at Oppenheimer. “The Lieutenant here will tell you.”
The German nodded, looked at Oppenheimer, nodded again almost enough for it to be a slight bow, and said, “Please?”
“Your name?” Oppenheimer said in a bored voice.
“Wiese. Joachim Wiese.”
“Your age?”
“Forty-three.”
“Place of birth?”
“Leipzig.”
“Occupation?”
“Interpreter.”
“Occupation before the war?”
“Teacher.”
“What subjects did you teach?”
“English, French, and Latin.”
Oppenheimer stared at Wiese for a long moment, smiled, took out the pack of Camels, rose, and offered the German one. Wiese relaxed visibly and accepted the cigarette. Using his Zippo lighter, Oppenheimer lit the German’s cigarette, smiled again charmingly, and said, “You’re lying.”
“I do not lie,” the German said stiffly as his face turned bright pink.
“What the hell’s this all about?” Lieutenant Fallon said.
Oppenheimer went back to his chair and sat down. He reached into his back pocket as if for a handkerchief and brought out the Walther instead.
“For Christ’s sake,” Fallon said.
The Walther was aimed at the German who said his name was Joachim Wiese. “We’re going to have a court-martial, Lieutenant,” Oppenheimer said. “It won’t take long. I will be the prosecution; you will be the judge; Corporal Little, I think, will be the defense counsel; and Private Baxter — let’s see — Private Baxter, yes, will be sergeant at arms.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Fallon said, and started to rise. Oppenheimer waved the gun at him, and he sat back down.
“I’m talking about friend Wiese here. You see, Lieutenant, his name is really not Wiese at all.” He smiled up at the German. “Tell them your real name.”
The German’s face was beginning to sweat. “I don’t understand,” he said. “My name is Wiese. I was a teacher. Then they sent me to Dachau. I almost died there. My wife, she... she did die.” He spread his hands imploringly. “I have proof — documents.”
“And very good documents, too. You bought them from a man called Damm — Karl-Heinz Damm — in Munich on June 2, 1945. You paid the equivalent of ten thousand dollars for them in Swiss francs. It was an excellent bargain.”
The German was afraid to move his body, so he only turned his head to look at Fallon. “I... I don’t understand any of this, Lieutenant. Can’t you do something? It is all some terrible mistake. You have seen my documents. Tell him that you have seen them.”
“I’ve seen them,” Fallon said in a flat voice.
“Good,” Oppenheimer said. “The judge has seen the documents, so we will stipulate that they have been entered as evidence. Now to get on with the prosecution. You see, Your Honor, the accused was not always an interpreter and was never, never a teacher of English or French or Latin. No, he was in a quite different business during the war — the slave-labor business. Would you care to tell us about the labor business?”
The German shook his head vigorously. The pink had gone from his face. It was now a chalkish white. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“No? You have never heard the name Oskar Gerwinat?”
Again the German shook his head. “No. Never.”
“Strange. Well, Oskar Gerwinat was in the slave-labor business. He was a contractor. By that I mean he was given contracts to feed and house the slave laborers. Well, Herr Gerwinat was an excellent businessman. He soon discovered that the less he fed his charges, the more profitable his business. If they died, from exposure or overwork or hunger, well, no matter. There were always many more where they came from: Poland, France, Holland — places like that. Herr Gerwinat was not the largest contractor in his particular field, but he had a very nice little business going, mainly in the Ruhr area. The most reliable figures estimate that two thousand three hundred fifty-four of Herr Gerwinat’s charges died from hunger or exposure or overwork — or sometimes, I would assume, all three. Now are you quite sure you have never heard of Oskar Gerwinat?”
The man charged with being Oskar Gerwinat was trembling now. “Never,” he said, and sounded as though he were choking on something. “It’s all a mistake — a terrible mistake.”
“The prosecution will now introduce new evidence,” Oppenheimer said. He took from his pocket one of the sheets that he had torn from Damm’s ledgerlike book and, without taking his eyes from the German, handed it to Fallon.
Fallon looked at it. “Hell, this is in German. I can’t read this.”
“The photograph that’s pasted on the page.”
“There’re two photos.”
“The top one.”
“Yeah, that one’s Wiese, all right.”
“Taken through a window, wouldn’t you say? But still, quite a fair likeness.”
“Yeah, it’s him, all right.”