The Blood Flag (16 page)

“Why him?”

Patrick said, “I reviewed the documents again, and he lived closest to the house in Berlin where Kessler lived with the flag. Right next door, in fact. And I was able to find his date of departure. It was earlier.”

“You think these guys know each other? You think they both know about the flag?”

I replied, “Almost certainly. Two guys left Berlin about the same time. Might have even gotten here on the same ship. We don't know. We just know they got here, and have been quiet ever since. No trouble. No rallies, no secret Nazi blogs, nothing. Just going about their business. Hiding.”

Jedediah asked quietly, “What are they hiding from?”

I replied, “Their past. Or others who would want to dig into their past.”

“Like us.”

“Here we are.”

We pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. Florian turned around and looked at Jedediah. “His apartment is around the corner. It's on the second floor.”

Jedediah began getting out of the car and said, “I know.”

I looked at him quizzically. “How do you know?”

“You mentioned the address last night.”

“And?”

He stood on the sidewalk as he peeled off his turtleneck. All he was wearing underneath was a white sleeveless T-shirt, what these days is called a ‘wife-beater.' It was stretched tight across his massive chest and his tattoos were ominous even in the dark. He threw the turtleneck into the backseat of the car and closed the door. He answered, “I never go anywhere to do something if I haven't been there before. I took a look around this neighborhood this morning. I know exactly where his apartment is. I can also tell you exactly how many other apartments are here. Where the exits are, where the service doors are, and where his car is parked. It's the same shit you ought'a know. You guys are lazy.”

I felt stupid. I knew I should have done that myself. We closed the other doors to the car, locked them, and looked at each other wondering whether Jedediah had something in mind other than what we were planning. As we walked down the sidewalk toward the apartment, I walked next to Jedediah. “You ready to take the lead?”

“Yes.”

“You got anything in mind other than what we've planned?”

He glanced at me with that look I first saw in the café in Virginia. The look that told me he was just tolerating me and that at any moment he might not talk to me, or worse. “Like what?”

“Like anything. I get the impression you've got an agenda other than what we've agreed to. If you do, I want to know about it.”

The black, high paratrooper boots he was wearing were imposing enough, but they had leather heals. Every step he took was like a rifle shot on the sidewalk. It echoed against the stone façade of the building we walked in front of. I looked around to see if there were any other pedestrians who had noticed his walk, or him. But there was no one else on the street. It still made me feel uneasy. I felt exposed. He answered, “My agenda is simple. Get the flag.”

We stopped in front of the apartment building and looked up. The lights were on in the second-floor apartment. It was a four-story building, with two apartments on each floor. One to the left and one to the right. They all had windows facing the street and were accessed by a single stairway up the middle of the building. A set of concrete steps led up from the sidewalk to the lowest floor. I looked up and down the street then at the other buildings to see if anyone was watching.

Jedediah was tired of waiting. He said to Florian and Patrick, “You ready?”

They nodded. Jedediah marched up the steps to the door and swung it open. The stairs were marble and his boots echoed as he walked up. The four of us stopped in front of Blick's door. We looked at each other, nodded, and Patrick knocked on the door. His knock was not intimidating, but not gentle. We could hear Spanish-language television from behind the door and heard someone call out in a muffled voice. His wife had died years before, so we thought it was unlikely that he was calling out to anyone other than whoever was at the door. But we couldn't make out the words. I could smell food being prepared somewhere else in the apartment building, and listened for unusual activity. I could hear voices in the apartment above speaking loudly in Spanish. Suddenly, the door opened and an old man with a stooped posture looked at us, blinking his eyes.

“Si?” he said.

Much of the conversation after that was in German, but Florian told me every word. He said to the old man in German, “There is something that we would like to talk about.”

The old man looked surprised to hear German. “What is it about? Who are you?”

“May we come in?”

“I don't think so.” He stood there with one hand on the door handle inside and the other on the door jam. Jedediah pushed the door hard enough that the old man either had to let go or fall over. Jedediah walked in, followed by Florian, Patrick, and me. Jedediah closed the door behind him and stood in front of it. The old man was suddenly aware of Jedediah's presence and his tattooed muscular frame. He breathed with his mouth open and looked around the room nervously.

“Who are you? Are you Israelis?”

Florian responded, “No we are Germans. Germans and Americans.” The man pleaded, “What do you want with me? Why are you here?”

“May we sit down? We want to ask you about something.”

He looked at each of us again, with grave concern. His hair was somewhat unkempt, especially in the back. His shirt had stains on it, and his pants were wrinkled. He finally realized he didn't have much choice and pointed to the couches in front of the television. He turned off the television and we sat down. Florian turned the television back on and sat with Patrick on the couch. I sat in the chair across the coffee table from Blick and he sat in the other chair. Jedediah stood ominously between us and the door. Florian asked Blick if he spoke English. He did. They switched.

Florian began the conversation. “In 1945, just before Berlin came under attack by the Russian Army, you lived on a street near Hitler's bunker.”

Blick listened, his mouth slightly open. He said nothing.

Florian continued. “And sir, of course you know about the Braunes Haus in Munich, and what was kept there?”

He continued to stare without agreeing or acknowledging anything. He watched Florian, still not understanding where he was going.

“There was a certain item that was kept there. It was in the place of honor. And it was kept there by a certain individual. Do you know what we're talking about?”

He nodded his head and spoke, “I know the house you mean. I know there were many things kept there. I think probably you mean the
Blutfahne
.” Florian and Patrick nodded. Patrick said, “Exactly. And that flag, and Otto Hessler who controlled it, was moved to Berlin in late 1944, to your street. And two of the people who lived on that street left before Berlin fell. You are one of them. We think you have the flag.”

Jedediah crossed from where he stood by the door and said firmly, “It is time for the flag to take its rightful place. The Nazis are about to return to the international stage that they should have taken sixty years ago. Nazi groups from all over the world are going to gather in Germany to promote Nazi ideology throughout the world. To reestablish the supremacy of the Aryan race. We believe that the
Blutfahne
should be the centerpiece of this new movement. And we believe that flag is in your possession.”

Blick looked shocked and disgusted. He looked down at the coffee table and adjusted his glasses, and then looked up at each of us. “You're Nazis.” He shook his head as if encountering something that just kept coming back. “I was a Nazi. I was a member of the party. But it wasn't anything that I believed in. In my position, you joined or you were sent to the front lines or worse. And for the right war, to defend Germany, I would gladly go to the front lines. But for
him
? No. So I was a member of the Nazi party and served in the army staff. I was smart and was promoted rapidly. I was twenty-four in 1945. My goal was to survive the war.”

His hands shook as he removed a pack of French cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He did it quickly with the memorized movements of thousands of previous cigarettes. “So I don't care about Nazism. I'm not waiting for it to rise again or start some new worldwide movement of hatred and murder.” The more emotional he got, the thicker his accent became. “And I don't have your flag. I never saw it, except in a parade. So you've got the wrong person, and you can leave now.”

We looked at each other and all formed the same conclusion. He was not our guy. Florian bent down and looked at him closely in an intimidating way. “If it is as you say, that you don't have the flag, someone else from that street has it. Probably someone else who came to Argentina. Who else is here?”

“I don't know anyone from my street who came to Argentina. I am a lonely old man with no friends. I don't know any other Germans who were on that street—there are other Germans here—but no one from my street.” His tone changed to one of contempt. “You will have to look elsewhere for your flag.”

Florian stood up, looked at the rest of us and said, “Let's go.”

Jedediah held the door for us as we walked out. I stood outside the door as Jedediah stood there with the door open, holding it with his hand, looking back at the man with that intimidating stare, as if he was deciding whether to tear him apart or leave him alone. The German wouldn't look at him. Jedediah stepped out and closed the door loudly behind us. He moved by us and rushed down the stairs. Florian, Patrick, and I looked at each other and started down the stairs wondering what Jedediah was up to.

When we got out to the street and closed the door behind us, we looked around the dark, silent neighborhood and saw no one. Including Jedediah. As I was about to speak, Jedediah came out of the door behind us and down to the street. I said to him, “Where have you been?”

“The basement.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Phone line.”

I thought for a second. “You cut the old man's phone line?”

Jedediah stared at me and said, “You think anybody's going to really believe the three of you are Nazis? You look like cops. They'll believe me. He did believe me. But he didn't believe you. That's why he had to give you his speech about how he wasn't really a Nazi. How he didn't really believe. That's bullshit. He probably thinks we are Israelis, and we're going in there to find out what he knows, and if he knows about the flag. He probably doesn't even think we're looking for it, but on the off chance he does, he probably knows who has it. And it's probably the guy we're going to see right now. The last thing we want is him calling that guy and warning him. So yeah, I cut his phone line.”

“How did you know where it was?”

“I told you I came here before. I told you I don't walk into a situation without knowing everything. That's probably the same thing you've been taught. But you don't think like a criminal. You don't think of cutting someone's phone line on the way out so he doesn't call somebody else. I do. And I did. And he won't be calling our other friend.”

“How do you know he doesn't have a cell phone?”

“I don't know many eighty-nine-year-olds who operate cell phones. They don't want the added expense. Probably doesn't go out much, so he figures he can call whoever he wants from his home phone. Not tonight.”

Florian looked distressed. “If it's so obvious that we aren't Nazis, how are we going to persuade anybody to give us the flag?”

I looked at Jedediah and then answered Florian, “We just have to find the person who has it. Doesn't matter if he believes us.”

The drive to Schullman's house was less than ten minutes. Jedediah had been there too, and he showed us where to park so the car wouldn't be heard. We started walking and noticed a few pedestrians returning from a late dinner. The neighborhood was nicer than Blick's, and had trees on the sidewalk between the walking area and the streets. The streetlights cast long shadows.

Schullman lived in the basement apartment of a three-story building. Lights were on behind the curtains, which were lined with old beige linen. There were lights on in the other apartments. It was approaching ten o'clock at night.

I put out my hand for everyone to stop. I said softly, “Maybe we should approach this guy differently.”

Florian replied quietly, “I think it's a little late to change our approach. We have to go in now.”

Jedediah, who had been looking at the neighborhood over our shoulders, said, “Like you said. Doesn't matter what we say, we just have to get in there, 'cause either he has the flag or he doesn't. And if he does, we'll know it.”

“Let's go,” I said. We walked down the stairs to Schullman's apartment. Florian knocked loudly. Once again, we could hear a television playing.

The door opened and a tall, elegant man with white hair combed straight back stood staring at us.

Florian said boldly, “
Guten
Abend
.”

The old man looked at Florian and repeated the word back to him slowly, “
Guten Abend
.
Was wollen Sie?
”

Florian continued, “
Wir möchten ein Wort mit Ihnen reden und wir
möchten Ihnen etwas anbieten.
”

The man looked at me, at Patrick, and then at Jedediah. He was startled by Jedediah, who had been standing behind Patrick. But once he had a clear view of Jedediah, his eyes widened.

He said, “
Habe ich eine
Wahl?
”

Jedediah said in German, “
Ja. Wir wollen Sie
um einen Gefallen bitten, und wir haben einen Vorschlag, von dem
wir denken, dass er für Sie von Interesse sein könnte.
” Florian and Patrick were surprised. The old man looked at Jedediah, looked at his tattoos, and stepped back into his apartment to allow us in.