“Zé!” Wilson said in a dangerous tone.
“My dear Wilson,” Da Silva said, pretending amazement. “The unicorns, you recall? The griffins? Just this afternoon, you wanted no part of this operation.”
“That’s right,” Wilson said, his voice slightly tinged with bitterness. “I didn’t want any part of it. But who dragged me in? You did! So now at least answer my question. And seriously. Are you honestly convinced that there is a conspiracy in this country to rebuild the Nazi party?”
“All right.” Da Silva sat up. “You want an honest answer, here it is. Yes, I am. I am convinced. Completely.” He thought a moment before continuing. “Let me put it to you this way: I won’t say that the rebuilding could be termed a rebirth of the Nazi party, in the sense that the Nazi party is the same National Socialist German Worker’s party of years ago. But as far as I am concerned, it comes to the same thing. This group has the same aims, the same methods, and therefore to me they represent the same danger.” He put his glass down almost violently; Wilson recognized the signs of his friend’s conviction. He leaned back in silence, waiting for the revelations he knew would come.
“Let me tell you a little story,” Da Silva said, leaning forward and staring at Wilson intently. “This is a story that happened a long, long time ago. Long before you came to Brazil.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Wilson waited patiently for him to continue.
“About eight years ago,” Da Silva said finally, “I received a very interesting visit from a man named Goetz. I hadn’t been in the service too long at that time, and maybe I took things a bit too seriously. Anyway, I took what this man told me seriously, and I haven’t gotten over it yet.” He inhaled again, letting the smoke drift from his nose as he spoke.
“This Goetz was a giant of a man, twice as big as me; he came in looking like a laborer, older than God and three times as tough. My first reaction was to throw him out of the office — if I could — until he started to talk. After he talked for five minutes, I knew I had a job, for as long as it lasted; until it was cleaned up.
“This Goetz was German-born, living in the south of Brazil, which is where most of the Germans emigrated back in the twenties. Anyway, he told me of a meeting that had been held in a chácara — a coffee fazenda near Itapeva in the State of São Paulo, away back in 1939. Before the war. The chácara was owned by an old friend of his, a man named von Roesler.” He smiled at Wilson’s start. “Interesting, eh? You recognize the name?”
“I was an observer at Nuremberg,” Wilson said, almost stiffly. “Of course I recognize the name. But it could hardly be the same.”
“Of course it couldn’t be the same. But wait. Let me tell you. It was actually an uncle.” He arose, filled his glass, and reseated himself. “The meeting, however, was held by the nephew. By Captain Erick von Roesler himself, speaking, apparently, in the name of the SD.”
“Colonel,” Wilson interrupted, almost automatically.
“In 1939, captain. In any event, it appears that this Goetz was not much in favor of either the program or the personalities of the Third Reich, and he stormed out of the meeting. And later he told me all about it, as well as telling me who was present at the time.”
Wilson stirred in his chair. “And just when did he tell you all this?”
“In 1952.”
“And why had he waited so long?”
“I can only tell you what he told me. He said that old von Roesler was his oldest friend; that he was sure that the old man had nothing to do with the meeting, other than providing the meeting place, and he was sure that even this had been forced on him. The two of them, Goetz and the old von Roesler, had come to Brazil together from Germany in the early twenties, he said. When the old man died, he came up to Rio and told me the whole story. He had simply waited until there could be no repercussions against his friend.”
“And what was the meeting about?”
Da Silva set his glass down slowly, and then looked Wilson directly in the eye. “The meeting,” he said slowly, “was to form a Nazi party group in Brazil.”
Wilson threw up his hands involuntarily. “My dear Zé,” he said, controlling a smile with an effort. “You have to remember that this was far from uncommon in those days. They did the same thing in almost every country in the world.”
Da Silva nodded his head. “I know. But most of the groups they formed in those days were quickly broken up. Or were broken up later, either during or after the war.” He looked at Wilson speculatively. “This group never was. Remember that. But let me tell you the rest of the story.” He lit another cigarette from the end of the first, and continued.
“I made inquiries, of course, but thirteen years is a long time. There was no indication that the nephew had ever returned to Brazil; when the old man finally died in 1952 the property was sold to the neighbor who had the next farm, and joined to that fazenda. A neighbor, by the way, who was also present at that meeting.”
Wilson interrupted. “What happened to the money from the sale? Who got it?”
“It was banked in Switzerland in the name of a niece, Monica von Roesler.”
“And has the money ever been taken out?”
Da Silva shook his head. “That we have never been able to find out. The bank wouldn’t say, and we can’t force them to tell us. But it really isn’t important; the farm didn’t bring any great price, and with the depreciation in the cruzeiro since then, nobody will ever get rich on it. However, let me tell you why I think this meeting in Brazil was different from the meetings that we both know were held in many countries at that time for the same purpose.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“It was some of the people who were at the meeting. And remember what I said before; this is one group that was never broken up.” He sat up straighter, ticking the names off on the fingers of one hand.
“One. Goetz, of course. He died, by the way, in ’55, a fact I only learned much later. And of course, von Roesler, the old man, I’m not counting them.
“Two. The neighbor who later bought the farm, when the old man died. His name is Gehrmann. He’s pretty old now; still lives on the fazenda. To tell you the truth, as far as we know he is pretty inactive in everything, including politics.
“Three. A man named Riepert, from Paraná, Goetz told me that Riepert left this famous meeting together with him, also in discord. I later spoke with Riepert himself, and he told me he never saw any of the others again except the old man, and then they only played chess and never discussed the meeting. We think he was telling the truth.” He paused to get up and refresh his glass.
“So far,” Wilson said as he waited, “you haven’t made out much of a case. Two who are dead, one who was in disagreement with the group, and one who, by your own opinion, is and was inactive.”
“Wait,” Da Silva said, reseating himself. “I haven’t finished.” He suddenly smiled. “Dessert always comes last, you know.” He resumed his count.
“Four. A man named Gunther. A Santa Catarina schoolteacher, a rabid fan of Adolf Hitler, and the father of our friend from customs.
“Five. A man who was, at the time, an importer and exporter, but who later found politics more interesting. Named Wilhelm Strauss...” He smiled at Wilson’s barely concealed start. “Yes, my dear Wilson, the very same. Now our notorious Deputado Strauss from the State of São Paulo. You probably recall his campaign to limit immigration, particularly from Europe. From certain countries in Europe, specifically. Let us be honest; it was meant to bar Jews, and it failed. You may also recall his support for the various shirt groups that have sprung up over the years. A man making an honest mistake?” He smiled bitterly. “Well, possibly. I won’t say no. But I also won’t forget that he was at that meeting back in 1939.” He switched hands and continued counting as Wilson looked thoughtful.