A Quiet Flame

“You’ll both stay to dinner, of course,” said Kammler. “My chef used to cook for Hermann Goering.”

“Now, there was someone who really enjoyed his food,” Anna said.

Kammler smiled at Anna, uncertain of her temperament. I knew how he felt. I was trying to think of a way of getting her to shut up without using the back of my hand.

“My dear,” he said, “after your exertions, perhaps you’d like to go and freshen up a bit.” To a hefty-looking maid hovering in the background, he said, “Show her to a room upstairs.”

I watched Anna go up a staircase as wide as a small road and hoped she would have the good sense not to come back with the gun in her hand. Now that Kammler was being friendly and hospitable, my greatest fear was that she might turn into an avenging angel.

We went into an enormous living room. Heinrich Grund followed at a respectful distance, like a faithful aide-de-camp. He was wearing a blue shirt and tie and a gray suit that was nicely tailored, although not well enough to conceal the fact that he was also wearing a shoulder holster. None of these people looked like they were taking any chances with their security. The living room was like an art gallery with sofas. There were several old masters and quite a few new ones. I could see that Kammler had escaped from the ruins of Europe with a lot more than just his life. In a tall, freestanding Oriental-style cage, a canary flapped its wings and twittered like a little yellow fairy. Past a pair of French windows an immaculate lawn stretched into the distance like the green felt on some divine billiards table. It all looked a very long way from Auschwitz-Birkenau. But in case it wasn’t quite far enough, there was a plane parked on the lawn.

I heard a pop and turned to see Kammler opening a bottle.

“I usually have a glass of champagne about this time. Will you join me?”

I said I would.

“It’s my one real luxury,” he said, handing me a flute.

I almost laughed as I noticed the box of Partagas on the sideboard, the Lalique decanter and glasses, and the silver bowl of roses on the coffee table.

“Deutz,” he said. “Rather difficult to get up here.” And then, lifting his glass in a toast, he said, “To Germany.”

“To Germany,” I said, and sipped the delicious champagne. Glancing out of the window at the little silver plane on the runway-sized lawn, I said, “What’s that? A BFW?”

“Yes. A 109 Taifun. Do you fly, Herr Gunther?”

“No, sir. I finished my war working for the OKW. Military Intelligence, on the Russian front. Accurate plane-spotting was a matter of life and death.”

“I was in Luftwaffe when the war started,” said Kammler. “Working as an architect for the Air Ministry. After 1940, there really wasn’t much opportunity for an architect with the RLM, so I joined the SS. I was chief of Department C, building soap factories and new weapons facilities.”

“Soap factories?”

Kammler chuckled. “Yes. You know. Soap.”

“Oh. Yes. The camps. Of course.” I drank some champagne.

“How’s your champagne?”

“Excellent.” But the truth was, it wasn’t. Not anymore. The sour taste in my mouth had made certain of that.

“Heinrich and I got out early, in May 1945,” said Kammler. “He was my head of security at Jonastal, weren’t you, Heinrich?”

“Yes, Herr Doktor.” Grund raised his glass to his master. “We just got in a staff car and drove west.”

“We were building the German bomb at Jonastal, so naturally the Amis welcomed us with open arms. And we went to New Mexico. To work on their own bomb program. We stayed for almost a year. By then, however, it had dawned on them that, at the end of the war, I was effectively number three in the SS hierarchy. Which made my continued employment in the USA very sensitive. So I came to Argentina. And Heinrich was good enough to come with me.”

“It was my honor, sir.”

“Gradually, I was able to get most of my things out of storage and shipped here. Which is how you find me now. It’s a little remote, but we have pretty much everything you would want. My wife and daughter are with me now. And they’ll be joining us for dinner. Where exactly are they now, Heinrich?”

“They’re looking at some new calves, sir.”

“How many cattle do you have?” I inquired.

“About thirty thousand head of cattle and about fifteen thousand sheep. In many ways, the work is not so dissimilar from what I did during the war. We rear the beasts, drive them into Tucumán, and then transfer them by rail to Buenos Aires for slaughter.”

He seemed unashamed by this confession.

“We’re not the biggest estancia in these parts. Not by a long way. But we bring a certain efficiency to the running of an estate not usually seen in Argentina.”

“German efficiency, sir,” added Grund.