A Quiet Flame

“You’ll have to be. You know what they do with the people they don’t like, in Argentina? They take them for a plane ride. And push them out over the River Plate at ten thousand feet. Listen to me, man. Forget you ever saw that girl.”

I put the gun down and sprang forward, gathering his cashmere coat lapels in one hand and then slapping him hard on each side of his astonished, swarthy face—forehand and backhand, like a Ping-Pong champion.

“When I want to listen to you, I’ll slap you first,” I said. “Now, let’s have the rest of it. Every rotten detail of your filthy work in this city. You got that? I want it all, or I’ll show you the real meaning of an unworthy life.”

I pushed him back down on the chair and let go of his lapels. Mengele’s eyes were cold and narrow now, like small stones in a snowball. His face was pale, except where the palm and back of my hand had crimsoned his cheeks. He put his hand on his jaw and snarled an answer back at me like a cowed dog.

“Perón has a taste for young girls,” he said. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Virgins. And none who are using contraception, any more than he does. He likes the tightness of a young girl because his penis is so small. I’m telling you that because just knowing it in a country like this will get you killed, Hausner. He told me this when we first met. And since July of last year, when I came to Argentina, I’ve carried out as many as thirty abortions for him.”

“And Grete Wohlauf?”

“Who’s she?”

“A fifteen-year-old girl in the police morgue.”

“I don’t know their names,” he said. “But I can tell you this. None of these girls has died. I’m good at what I do now.”

I didn’t doubt it. Everyone has a skill in life. Destroying life was his.

“Fabienne von Bader? What about her?”

“As I said, I don’t know their names.”

For some reason, I believed him.

“You know, I’m not the only one,” he said. “The only German doctor doing this, I mean. Being an SS doctor is an attractive combination for the general. It means that, unlike the local Catholic doctors, who have scruples about carrying out abortions, we have to do what we’re told or risk being sent back to face Allied justice.”

“So that’s why he likes to meet doctors from Germany.”

“Yes. And that means I’m important to him. That I’m serving his needs. Can you say the same?” Mengele smiled. “No, I thought not. You’re just a stupid policeman with a taste for the sentimental. You won’t last long here. These people are just as ruthless as we Germans. Perhaps more so. You see, they’re easier to understand. It’s money and power that motivates them. Not ideology. Not hatred. Not history. Just money and power.”

I showed him the Smith in my fist. “Don’t be so sure I’m not as ruthless as they are. I’m liable to shoot you in the stomach and then sit back to watch you die. Just for the hell of it. You would probably call that an experiment. Maybe I will shoot you, at that. They’d probably give me the Nobel Prize for medicine. Right now, however, you’re going to find a pen and paper and then you’re going to write out everything you just told me. Including the part about the president’s taste in young girls and the useful cleaning-up service you provide for him afterward. And then you’re going to sign it.”

“With pleasure,” said Mengele. “I’ll be signing your death warrant. Before you die, I think I’m going to visit you in your cell. I’ll make sure to bring my medical bag. Perhaps I’ll remove one of your organs while you’re still alive.”

“Until then,” I said, “you’ll do what I tell you and smile while you’re doing it, or I’ll want to know why.”

I slapped him again, just for the pleasure of it. I could have slapped him all afternoon. He was that kind of guy. Some people just bring out the worst in me.

He wrote out the confession. I read it and put it in my pocket.

“Since you’re in a confessional mood,” I said, “I have one more question for you.” I brought the gun nearer his face. “And remember: I’m in the mood to use this. So you’d better answer carefully. What do you know about Directive Eleven?”

“All I know is that it was something to do with preventing displaced Jews from coming here.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

I reached into my pocket and took out the little chai necklace Anna Yagubsky had given to me. I let it spin in the light for a moment. I could see that he recognized what it was.

“That was a neat trick, ripping their guts out like that so as to put us off the scent,” I said. “But you’re not the only one who can do that kind of thing. If I have to shoot you, I’ll leave this little chai near your body. Chai is a Hebrew word that means ‘life.’ The police will find it and assume that one of those Israeli murder squads caught up with you. They won’t look for me, Mengele. So I’m going to ask you just one more time. What do you know about Directive Eleven?”