A Quiet Flame

“He’s finished,” I said. “By the time an ambulance gets here he’ll be dead.” I took hold of her arm and moved her smartly toward the door, then switched out the light. “With any luck, by the time anyone finds him, the rats will have spoiled the evidence.”

Anna took my hand off her arm and switched the light on again. “I told you. I don’t like rats.”

“Maybe you can flash a message in Morse code while you’re at it,” I said. “Just to make sure people know that there’s someone here.” But I left the light on.

“He’s still a human being,” she said, going back to the body on the floor. Trying to keep her shoes out of the blood, she dropped down on her haunches and, shaking her head helplessly, she looked back at me as if begging for a clue about what to do next.

The man twitched several times and then lay still.

“I had a rather different impression,” I said.

Crouching down beside her, I pressed my fingers hard under his ear and paused for the sake of verisimilitude.

“Well?”

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“What do you want me to do, write out a death certificate?”

“The poor man,” she whispered. Then she did something that struck me as an odd thing to do if you were a Jew: she crossed herself.

“Speaking for myself, I’m glad the poor man’s dead. The poor man was going to rape and kill you. But not before the poor man killed me, probably. The poor man had it coming, if you ask me. Now, if you’re quite through grieving for the poor man, I’d like to get out of here before the cops or any of the poor man’s friends show up and wonder if this murder weapon I’m holding in my hand makes me a suspect. In case you’ve forgotten, they have the death penalty for murder in Argentina.”

Anna glanced at the gaucho knife and nodded.

I went to the door and switched out the light. She followed me outside. At the gate in the fence, I told her to wait a minute. I ran to the edge of the north dock and hurled the knife as far as I could into the River Plate. As soon as I heard the evidence hit the water, I felt better. I’ve seen what lawyers can do with evidence.

Together we walked back to where I had left my car, in front of the railway station. The sun was coming up. Another day was dawning for everyone except the man with one tooth who was now lying dead on the floor of the Immigrants’ Hotel. I felt very tired. In every way it had been a long night.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often, Herr—what did you say your real name was again?”

“Gunther, Bernhard Gunther. And you make it sound like you weren’t there, Anna.”

“I can assure you, I’m not likely to forget this evening in a hurry.” She stopped walking for a moment and then threw up.

I gave her my handkerchief. She wiped her mouth and took a deep breath.

“All right now?” I asked.

She nodded. We reached my car and got in.

“That was quite a date,” she said. “Next time, let’s just go to the theater.”

“I’ll take you home,” I said.

Anna shook her head and wound down the window. “No. I can’t go home. Not yet. Not feeling the way I do now. And after what happened, I don’t want to be alone, either. Let’s stay here for a moment. I just need to be still for a while.”

I poured some of the coffee she’d brought. She drank it and then watched me smoke a cigarette.

“What?”

“No trembling hands. No unsteady lips on that cigarette. No deep drags. You smoke that cigarette like nothing happened. Just how ruthless are you, Herr Gunther?”

“I’m still here, Anna. I guess that speaks for itself.”

I leaned across the seat and kissed her. She seemed to enjoy it. Then I said, “Tell me your address and I’ll drive you home. You’ve been out all night. Your father will be worried about you.”

“I guess you’re not as ruthless as I thought.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

I started the engine.

“So,” she said. “You really are going to drive me home. That’s a first. Maybe you do want to be a saint after all.”

She was right, of course. The fact is, I wanted to prove to her how polished and shiny my armor really was. I drove quickly. I wanted to get her home before I changed my mind. Nobility swims only so far in my gut before it hits its head on something hard and unyielding. Especially where she was concerned.

14 BERLIN, 1933, AND BUENOS AIRES, 1950

THE FIRST WE KNEW about it was a strong smell of burning. Then we heard the fire engines and the ambulances from Artilleriestrasse. Frieda went outside the hotel entrance to take a look and saw an excited crowd of people heading northwest across Pariser Platz. Above the rooftops of the French Embassy something lit up the night sky like an open furnace door.

“It’s the Reichstag,” said Frieda. “The Reichstag is on fire.”

We ran back into the hotel, intending to get a better view from the roof. But in the lobby I met Herr Adlon. I told him the Reichstag was on fire. It was just after ten p.m.