“I know. The same thing always happens. She’s…”
“What, she’s seduced me?”
“No, ‘seduced’ isn’t the right word; she’s like ice. She has a calming effect on you. On you and everybody else. Being with her is like being alone, focused exclusively on your own pursuits, in a state of total relaxation.”
“Don’t talk like that. Ingeborg loves you. Tomorrow I promise I’ll send you the money. Are you coming back?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t understand what’s keeping you there. Is there something you haven’t told me? I’m your best friend…”
“I want to stay a few days longer, that’s all. There’s no mystery. I want to think, write, enjoy the place, now that there’s hardly anybody here.”
“That’s it? Nothing to do with Ingeborg?”
“Don’t be silly, of course not.”
“I’m happy to hear it. How is your match going?”
“Summer of ’42. I’m winning.”
“I figured as much. Do you remember that match against Mathias Müller? The one we played a year ago at the Chess Club?”
“Which match?”
“A Third Reich. Franz, you, and me against the group from Forced Marches.”
“Yes, and what happened?”
“Don’t you remember? We won and Mathias was so angry— he’s a bad loser, you know—that he swung a chair at little Bernd Rahn and broke it.”
“The chair?”
“That’s right. The members of the Chess Club kicked him out and he hasn’t shown his face there since. Remember how we laughed that night?”
“Sure, of course, my memory is still good. It’s just that some things don’t seem so funny to me anymore. But I remember everything.”
“Of course.”
“Ask me a question, anything, and you’ll see…”
“I believe you, I do…”
“Ask me. Ask if I remember which parachute divisions were at Anzio.”
“I’m sure you do…”
“Ask me…”
“All right, which…”
“The First Division: First, Third, and Fourth Regiments; the Second Division: Second, Fifth, and Sixth Regiments; and the Fourth Division: Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Regiments.”
“Very good…”
“Now ask me about the SS Panzer Divisions in Fortress Europa.”
“All right, what are they?”
“The First Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, the Second Das Reich, the Ninth Hohenstaufen, the Tenth Frundsberg, and the Twelfth Hitlerjugend.”
“Perfect. Your memory is in perfect working order.”
“What about yours? Do you remember who led the 352nd, Heimito Gerhardt’s Infantry Division?”
“All right, that’s enough.”
“Tell me, do you remember or not?”
“No…”
“It’s very simple, you can check it tonight in Omaha Beachhead or in any book of military history. General Dietrich Kraiss was the division commander and Colonel Meyer was the head of Heimito’s regiment, the 915th.”
“All right, I’ll look it up. Is that all?”
“I’ve been thinking about Heimito. He really knows everything. He can recite from memory the complete setup for The Longest Day, down to battalion level.”
“Of course, since that’s when he was taken prisoner.”
“Don’t mock him, Heimito is one of a kind. I wonder how he’s doing now?”
“Fine, why wouldn’t he be?”
“Because he’s old and everything changes; because people abandon you, Conrad. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
“He’s a tough, happy old man. And he isn’t alone. He went to Spain in July with his wife on vacation. He sent me a postcard from Seville.”
“Yes, I got one too. The truth is I couldn’t read his handwriting. I should have asked to take my vacation in July.”
“So you could travel with Heimito?”
“Maybe.”
“We can still do it in December. For the Paris convention. I got the program a little while ago, it’ll be quite the affair.”
“It’s not the same. I wasn’t talking about that.”
“We’ll be able to present our paper. You’ll get to meet Rex Douglas in person. We’ll play World in Flames with real natives. Try to muster a little enthusiasm. It will be fantastic…”
“What do you mean, ‘World in Flames with real natives’?”
“A team of Germans will play Germany, a team of Brits will play Great Britain, a team of Frenchmen will play France, each group under its own flag.”
“I had no idea. Who will play the Soviet Union?”
“That’s a good question. The French, I think, though you never know, there might be some surprises.”
“And Japan? Will the Japanese come?”
“I don’t know, maybe. If Rex Douglas comes, why not the Japanese… Though maybe we’ll have to play Japan ourselves, or the Belgian delegation can. I’m sure the French organizers have it all worked out.”
“The Belgians will be ridiculous as the Japanese.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“This all sounds ridiculous. I can’t believe it’s true. So the main event of the convention will be World in Flames? Whose idea was that?”
“Not exactly the main event. It’s just in the program and people are excited about it.”
“I thought Third Reich would be given a place of honor.”
“And it will, Udo, during the presentation of papers.”
“Right, while I’m droning on about multiple strategies everyone will be watching World in Flames.”
“Not true. Our talk is on the 21st in the afternoon and the match takes place after the lectures each day, from the 20th to the 23rd. And the game was chosen because several teams could play, not for any other reason.”
“Now I don’t feel like going… Of course the French want to play the Soviet Union because they know we’ll wipe them out on the first afternoon… Why don’t they play Japan?… Out of loyalty to the old alliances, of course… They’ll probably monopolize Rex Douglas the minute he lands…”
“You shouldn’t speculate like this, it’s pointless.”
“And the Cologne gang will be there, of course…”
“That’s right.”
“All right. Enough. Say hello to Ingeborg.”
“Come back soon.”
“I will.”
“Don’t be depressed.”
“I’m not depressed. I’m fine here. Happy.”
“Call me. Remember that Conrad is your best friend.”
“I know. Conrad is my best friend. Good-bye…”
Summer 1942. El Quemado shows up at eleven. I hear his shouts as I’m lying in bed reading the Florian Linden novel. Udo, Udo Berger, his voice echoes on the empty Paseo Marítimo. My first impulse is to lie still and wait. El Quemado’s call is hoarse and raw as if fire had also scorched his throat. When I open the balcony doors I see him on the sidewalk across the street, sitting on the seawall of the Paseo, waiting for me as if he has all the time in the world, with a big plastic bag at his feet. There’s a familiar air of terror to our greeting, to the way we acknowledge each other, essentially encapsulated in the abruptly silent and absolute manner in which we raise our arms. Between the two of us a stern and mute awareness is established, to galvanizing effect. But this state is brief and lasts only until El Quemado, in the room now, opens the bag to reveal an abundance of beers and sandwiches. Pathetic but sincere cornucopia! (Earlier, when I passed the reception desk, I asked for Frau Else again. She isn’t back yet, said the watchman, avoiding my gaze. Next to him, sitting in a huge white armchair, an old man with a German paper on his knees watches me with a scarcely concealed smile on his fleshless lips. Judging by his appearance one would say he has no more than a year left to live. And yet from beneath that extreme thinness, the cheekbones and temples especially prominent, the old man stares at me with a strange intensity, as if he knows me. How goes the war? asks the watchman, and then the old man’s smile grows more marked. If only I could stretch over the counter and grab the watchman by the shirt and shake him, but the watchman senses something and backs a little farther away. I’m an admirer of Rommel, he explains. The old man nods in agreement. No, you’re a miserable loser, I shoot back. The old man forms a tiny o with his lips and nods again. Maybe, says the watchman. The looks of hatred that we shoot each other are naked and full of real aggression. And you’re scum, I add, wanting to put him over the edge or at least get him to come a few inches closer to the counter. Well, that’s that, then, murmurs the old man in German, and he gets up. He’s very tall, and his arms, like a caveman’s, dangle down almost to his knees. Actually, that’s a false impression, caused by the old man’s stoop. Still, his height is notable: standing upright he must be (or must once have been) well over six feet tall. But it’s in his voice, the voice of a stubborn dying man, that his authority lies. Almost immediately, as if all he’d intended was for me to see him in his full grandeur, he drops back into the armchair and asks: Any further difficulties? No, of course not, the watchman hastens to say. No, none, I say. Perfect, says the old man, infusing the word with malice and virulence—per-fect—and he closes his eyes.