A Quiet Flame

“Then I’ll pay for them, too. We can send for them when we get to Montevideo. It’s not so far. I’ll buy us a big house where we can all live. I promise you. It will be fine. We’ll manage. Only you do have to believe me. The police know about you. They know your name. Almost certainly they know where you live and where you work. This is serious, Anna. One morning, soon, you’ll be on your way to work and they’ll pick you up and take you to Caseros. They’ll strip you naked and abuse you. Torture you. And when they’re finished torturing you, they’ll put you on a plane and they’ll throw you out of the door. If you stay here, angel, there’s nothing left for you but prayer. I heard one on the plane, yesterday. Over and over again. And guess what? It didn’t work. They threw him out anyway. These people. They’re immune to prayer. They’ll listen to your prayers and they’ll laugh and then they’ll throw you out.”

“No.” There were tears in her eyes, but she was shaking her head with disbelief. “This is just another lie of convenience. Like telling me those people in the burial pits at Dulce were not Jews. You’re just saying all this because you can’t bear the idea of going away on your own. I can’t blame you for wanting me along. If I were you, I’d probably say the same thing. I like you a lot, Bernie. But I’ll get over it. We both will. Only I do wish you’d stop trying to scare me. That’s pretty low of you.”

“You can’t believe I’m making this up, surely?”

“Why not? Bernie, everything about you is made up. I really don’t know anything about you.”

“I told you everything there was to know, on the train.”

“How do I know that? All I know for sure is that you’re here on a false passport. Even the real name you’re supposed to have given to your old comrades—the ones who brought you here—even that’s not yours. That man at the ranch. Heinrich Grund. You told me he was a murderer. But you knew him. He greeted you like he was an old friend.”

“He was, once. Before the war. Before Hitler. I had lots of friends before Hitler.”

“For all I know, you’re one of them, too. How can I possibly trust you? How can I believe a word you say? I’m a Jew. And you’re an ex-SS officer. What kind of trust could there ever be between us?”

“You came to me for help,” I reminded her. “I helped you the best I could. I’m trying to help you now. I asked for nothing in return. Whatever you gave you gave because you wanted to. I saved your life once before. I’m trying to save it again. I put my own life in peril for you. I have to leave the country because of you. Maybe that doesn’t mean so much to you. But I’m still glad I did. I’d have done anything for you. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I love you, Anna. Well, what of it? There’s just this. If there’s any small part of you that feels the same way I do, then forget everything else. Forget everything your head tells you and listen to your heart. Because that’s all that matters between two people. I know I’m not much of a catch for a girl like you. You could do a lot better, I know. If you weren’t standing in an airplane doorway, I’d probably tell you to go and do a lot better, too. But you’re there. I can see the bruises on your face and the wind in your hair, angel.”

I pulled her toward me and kissed her hard, as if trying to breathe some sense into her body. She put her arms around me and kissed me back, so that for a minute or two I almost thought it might be working.

Then she said, “I suppose I do love you. But I won’t leave the country for you. I won’t. I can’t. Every time I see you, it reminds me. Of what happened to my aunt and uncle.”

I wanted to slap her hard on both cheeks, the way you’re supposed to when you’ve been in the SS. That might have worked, too. With anyone but Anna. Hitting her would have been like giving the Hitler salute. It would only have confirmed what she already suspected. That I was a Nazi.

I let her go. “Listen, angel. This probably isn’t going to work, but I’ll try it once more and then I’ll leave you alone. When two people are in love, they’re supposed to look out for each other.”

“Being in love doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “It’s not enough of a reason.”

“Let me finish. When you get a little older—maybe too old—you’ll understand that it makes all the difference to everything and anything.”

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to get any older. Not if Colonel Montalbán was as bad as his word.