A Quiet Flame

“Don’t judge us too harshly. What happened at Dulce was regrettable, I agree. But that was several years ago. Directive Eleven was found to be necessary to stop the country from being swamped with Jews. But still they came. And the question soon arose as to what we should do with all those we had arrested and interned. Finally, it was decided that it might be easier just to get rid of them as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“So Kammler built Argentina its own death camp.”

“Yes, but on a very much smaller scale than anything he had built in Poland. There were no more than fifteen or twenty thousand Jews, at most. And since then things have changed for the better. An amnesty for all foreigners who entered the country illegally was granted last year. There are no illegal Jews held in camps like Dulce anymore. And the people who implemented Directives Eleven and Twelve have now been removed. So there is even less anti-Semitism than there was. Many Jews are now Perónists. Perón himself now believes that the Jews can actually help Argentina. That their money and enterprise can help our economy to grow. After all, what is it you Germans say? Why slaughter the chicken that lays the golden eggs? Jews are welcome in Argentina.”

The colonel pointed a salutary finger in the air. “All Jews except one. There is one Jew who ought to be on that boat with you perhaps. Anna Yagubsky.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Yes, it might be a good idea,” continued the colonel, ignoring me, “if she accompanied you tonight. Things might be difficult for her if she stayed here in Argentina.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Well, she can’t have disappeared, can she? If she had, I’d know about it, wouldn’t I? And if she hasn’t disappeared, she won’t be hard to find. Not for a detective like you, Gunther. For her sake, I hope not. And who knows? Maybe the two of you can find happiness somewhere. You’re a little old for her, perhaps. But I believe some women like the older man.”

“What if she won’t come with me? Her parents are here. They’re old. She won’t want to leave them.”

“That would be unfortunate. For you, of course. After all, she is very beautiful. But for her, especially.” The colonel stood up. “I hope you enjoy your trip to Uruguay. Its government is stable, democratic, and politically mature. There’s even a welfare state. Of course, the people are entirely European in origin. I believe they exterminated all the Indians. As a German, you should feel very much at home there.”

25 BUENOS AIRES, 1950

IT TOOK ME three hours to find Anna. Her father was no help. I might just as well have asked where Martin Bormann was hiding. Eventually, I remembered that the person who lived upstairs from Isabel Pekerman and who had reported her “suicide” had also been a friend of Anna’s. All I knew was that her name was Hannah and that she lived in Once.

Bisected by Calle Corrientes and the Jewish Quarter, Once was an ugly area with an ugly railway station, an ugly plaza out front of it, and a rather ugly monument in the center of this ugly plaza. At an ugly police station known to locals as the Miserere, I showed my SIDE identification to an ugly desk sergeant and asked about the Pekerman case. He told me the address, and I went to an ugly building on Calle Paso. It was full of ugly smells and ugly music. There was no getting away from it: Argentina had lost some of its charm for me.

A dark and coarse-featured woman came to the door of the apartment above Isabel Pekerman’s. She had hair like the tail of a Noriker mare, much of it on her cheeks, and a complexion like the inside of a coffeepot.

“Is Anna here?” I asked.

The woman rubbed her Cro-Magnon chin with vaguely hominid fingers and smiled an uncertain smile that revealed gaps in her teeth as big as the keys on a typewriter. She seemed like the living proof not just of some improbable paleontological theory but, more important, Durkheim’s first law of sisterhood, which states that every beautiful woman shall have a really ugly best friend.

“Who wants to know?”

“It’s all right, Hannah,” said a voice.

Holding the door, the friend stepped back into the apartment to reveal Anna standing a few feet behind her. She was wearing a gabardine dress in a blue houndstooth print with a nipped-in waist. Her arms were folded defensively in front of her, the way women do when they’re aching to hit you with a rolling pin.

“How did you find me?” she asked as the friend went back to her stall.

“I’m a detective, remember? It’s what I do. Find people. Sometimes I can even find people who don’t want to be found.”

“Well, you got that part right, Gunther.”

I shut the door behind me and glanced around the ugly little hallway. There was a hat stand, a doormat, an empty dog basket that had seen many better days, the ubiquitous picture of Martel the tango singer, and the bag that had accompanied Anna to Tucumán.

“So, did you tell your friends in the secret police about your friends in the SS?”