A Quiet Flame

In the beginning, I went to their places of work. Most of the Nazis in Buenos Aires had good, well-paying jobs. They worked for a variety of companies, such as the Capri Construction Company, the Fuldner Bank, Vianord Travel, the local Mercedes-Benz plant, the Osram lightbulb company, Caffetti, Orbis Gas Appliances, the Wander Laboratory, and Sedalana Textiles. A few worked in slightly humbler occupations at the Dürer Haus bookshop in the city center, the Adam restaurant, and the ABC café. One or two worked for the secret police, although these remained—for the moment, at least—something of a mystery to me.

A man at work, however, is often a very different person from the man he is at home. It was important that I encountered these men relaxed and off guard. And after a short while, I started turning up at their houses and their apartments in true Gestapo fashion, which is to say late at night, or early in the morning. I kept my eyes and ears open and, always, I kept my true opinion of these men a secret. It would hardly have done to give my honest impression of any of them. There were times, of course, when I wanted to unholster the Smith & Wesson given to me by Montalbán and put a bullet in an old comrade’s head. More commonly, I went away from their homes wondering what kind of country I was in that would give sanctuary to beasts like these. Of course, I already knew, only too well, what kind of country had produced them.

Some were happy, or at least content with their new lives. Some had attractive new wives or mistresses, and sometimes both. One or two were rich. Only a few were filled with quiet regret. But mostly they were ruthlessly unrepentant.

THE ONLY SORROW displayed by Dr. Carl Vaernet related to his no longer being able to experiment freely on homosexual prisoners at Buchenwald concentration camp. He was quite open about this, his life’s “most important work.”

Vaernet was from Denmark but living with his wife and children at Calle Uriarte 2251, close to the Plaza Italia in the Palermo district of Buenos Aires. Dark, thick-set, with shadowy eyes and a mouth full of pessimism and bad breath, he was operating an endocrinology clinic offering expensive “cures” to the better-off parents of Argentine homosexuals. A very masculine country, Argentina regarded being joto, or pájaro, as a danger to the health of the nation.

“When your Red Cross passport runs out,” I told Vaernet, “that is, if it hasn’t run out already, you will have to apply to the federal police for a special passport. To get this passport you will have to prove that while you have been resident in Argentina you’ve been a person of good conduct. Friends—if you have any—will have to oblige with testimonials as to your character and integrity. If this proves to be the case—as I’m sure it will—I myself will issue you with the good-conduct pass that you can then use to apply to a court of first instance for an Argentine passport. Naturally, the passport can be in a different name. The important thing is that you will be able to travel freely again in Europe, without fear of arrest. Like any normal Argentine citizen.”

“Well, of course, we’d like to visit our eldest son, Kjeld, in Denmark,” confessed Vaernet. He smiled at the thought of it. “Much as we love it here in Buenos Aires, home is always home, eh, Herr Hausner?”

We were sitting in the drawing room. There was a baby grand piano with a number of framed photographs on the lid. One of the photographs was of the Peróns and their poodles—Eva holding the black one, Juan holding the white—together looking like an advertisement for Scotch whiskey.

Vaernet’s wife served tea and facturas, little sweet pastries that were very popular with the sweet-toothed porteños. She was tall, thin, and nervous. I took out a pad of paper and a pen and tried to appear properly bureaucratic.

“Date and place of birth?” I asked.

“April 28, 1893. Copenhagen.”

“My own birthday is April 20,” I said. When he looked blank, I added, “The Führer’s birthday.” It wasn’t true, of course, but it was always a good way of making men like him think that I was some kind of die-hard Nazi and, therefore, someone to be trusted.

“Of course. How silly of me not to remember.”

“That’s all right. I’m from Munich.” Another lie. “Ever been to Munich?”

“No.”

“Lovely city. At least it was.”