A Quiet Flame

“And you think that’s punishment enough?”

I shrugged. “Punishment is a little like beauty, sometimes. Subjective. True, lasting punishment, at any rate.”

“I prefer the kind of punishment that everyone can understand.”

“Oh, you mean like a public execution.”

“Isn’t that what he really deserves?”

“Probably. But we both know that isn’t going to happen. In the long run, I suspect, he’ll get what’s coming to him. We all do, eventually.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Take it from someone who knows.”

“Hmm. I wonder.”

“You’re a hard woman, A

“It’s a hard world.”

“Isn’t it? That’s why I’m here. Now that the police know what I know, I’ve been told to leave the country. And just to make sure I got the message, they took me for a ride in a plane with the door open and showed me the River Plate from five thousand feet. The bottom line is that I can be on tonight’s boat to Montevideo, or I can be underneath it.”

“They actually threatened you?”

I laughed. “You make it sound so much nicer than it was, A

“Yes, of course. Please. Come through.”

We went into an arty-farty sort of living room that was probably more farty than arty. Everything had been painted with an Italian filigree: the walls, the furniture, the doors, the electric fan, a piano, even a typewriter. There was an artist’s palette and some brushes on a filigreed table.

“Ha

I nodded and told myself I probably had about ten minutes before Ha

“So, what are you going to do?” she asked, sitting down.

“I’m not much of a swimmer,” I said. “Especially when my hands are tied behind my back. It’s been made clear to me that I can spend the rest of my life dead. Or I can go. So I’m going. To Montevideo. Tonight.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, and kissed my hand. “Really I am.” Then she let out a sigh. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Most men who are good to me-and you have been good to me, Bernie, don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done-most of them end up leaving. My father says it’s because I don’t know how to hang on to a man.”

“With respect to your father, it’s very simple, angel. Especially in this case. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just thread your arm through mine and come with me.”

“To Montevideo?”

“Why not? That’s where I’m going.”

“I can’t leave, Bernie. This is my home. My father and mother live here.”

“They left Russia because of persecution, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but that was different.”

“Somehow I don’t think your aunt and your uncle would agree.”

“You said you weren’t sure about that. You said we don’t know who those people were. That they could have been anyone.”

“We both know I only told you that to stop you from getting us both killed.”

“Yes. Only I do wish I’d listened to you in the first place. You were right. Sometimes it’s better not to know. I thought dead was dead and that was as bad as it could get. Well, now I know different. But maybe I want to forget about it now.”

“I’m not asking you to leave on my account,” I said. “But your own. The secret police told me that, given you know what I know, it would be advisable for you to leave the country, too. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, A

“Is this another lie? To make me come with you?” She pushed her long tangle of hair out of her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t leave. I won’t.”

I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her gently.

“Listen to me, A

“I can’t leave my parents,” she said. “They’re old.”

“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, A

“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, A