The Schirmer Inheritance

“I’m sure it isn’t. Well, I speak the German I learned at high school. I was stationed in Germany for a few months after the war and heard a fair amount of German spoken there. I can understand the drift of most conversations between Germans, but I sometimes misunderstand so completely that I might think I was listening to an argument about politics when what I was really hearing was a discussion of the finer points of chicken farming. Does that answer your question?”

“Very clearly. I will explain the point. When you are using an interpreter, it is not always easy to avoid listening also to the conversation being interpreted. That way confusion may arise.”

“In fact, it’s better to trust to the interpreter and not try to do the work for her.”

“Exactly.”

The barman was hovering in the background. George ignored him. The interview was as good as over and he did not want to prolong it. Her cigarette was half smoked now. When it had burned down another quarter of an inch, he would get up.

“I expect you know Germany pretty well, Miss Kolin.”

“Only certain parts.”

“The Rhineland?”

“A little.”

“You worked on the preparations for the Nuremberg trials, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“As a Yugoslav you must have found that very satisfactory.”

“You think so, Mr. Carey?”

“You didn’t approve of the trials?”

She looked down at her cigarette. “The Germans took my father as a hostage and shot him,” she said crisply. “They sent my mother and me to work in a factory in Leipzig. My mother died there of blood-poisoning from an infected wound which they refused to treat. I do not know exactly what happened to my brothers, except that eventually they were tortured to death in an S.S. barracks at Zagreb. Oh yes, I approved of the trials. If they made the United Nations feel strong and righteous, certainly I approved. But do not ask me to applaud.”

“Yes, I can see you must have wished for a more personal revenge.”

She had leaned forward to stub her cigarette out. Now she turned her head slowly and her eyes met his.

“I’m afraid that I have not your belief in justice, Mr. Carey,” she said.

There was a curious, persecuted little half-smile on her lips. He realized suddenly that he was on the verge of losing his temper.

She rose to her feet and stood in front of him smoothing down her dress. “Is there anything else you would like to know?” she asked calmly.

“I don’t think so, thank you.” He stood up. “It was very kind of you to come along, Miss Kolin. I’m not sure yet when I shall be leaving Paris. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I know.”

“Of course.” She picked up her bag. “Good-bye, Mr. Carey.” “Good afternoon, Miss Kolin.”

With a nod she went.

For a moment he looked down at the cigarette she had stubbed out and the lipstick on it; then he went to the lift and was taken up to his room.

He telephoned the Embassy man immediately.

“I’ve just seen Miss Kolin,” he said.

“Good. All fixed up?”

“No, not all fixed up. Look, Don, isn’t there somebody else I can get?”

“What’s the matter with Kolin?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is I don’t like it.”

“You must have caught one of her bad days. I told you she’d had some pretty rugged experiences as a refugee.”

“Look, I’ve talked to lots of refugees who’ve had rugged experiences. I’ve never talked to one before who made me sympathize with the Gestapo.”

“Too bad. Her work’s O.K., though.”

“She’s not.”

“You wanted the best interpreter available.”

“I’ll take the next best.”

“Nobody who’s actually worked with Kolin has ever had anything but praise for her.”

“She may be fine for conferences and committees. This is different.”

“What’s different about it? You’re not on a vacation trip are you?” There was a note of irritation in the voice now.

George hesitated. “No, but-”

“Supposing there’s a dispute later over the testimony. You’re going to look pretty silly explaining that you passed up the chance of getting a reliable interpreter because you didn’t like her personality, aren’t you, George?”

“Well, — ” George broke off and then sighed. “O.K.-if I come back a raving alcoholic I shall send the doctor’s bills to you.”

“You’ll probably end by marrying the girl.”

George laughed politely and hung up.

Two days later he and Maria Kolin left for Germany.

5

A book-keeper named Friedrich Schirmer had died at Bad Schwennheim in 1939. He had had a son named Johann. Find this son. If he was dead, then find his heir.

Those were George’s instructions.