Lost Kin Read online

  By 8:00 p.m., Harry had an Opel sedan from the motor pool. Max had told him to dress as if he were going hiking, so he wore expensive Swiss alpine boots he’d been given but never used, wool trousers, and a thick sweater, wrapping it all in an even thicker mackinaw jacket of faint dark green plaid. He stowed a Jerry can of gas in the trunk and drove out beyond the main train station, parallel to the tracks. As Max instructed, he entered the courtyard between the remains of the Pschorr and Hacker breweries, a dead end of battered wooden kegs and brick walls, loading docks and fences. As he wheeled around, backing in to face the entrance, his headlights flashed on a couple kissing between stacks of kegs in a corner. Harry could tell from the shine of the man’s black hair and the way his arms cradled her up high, erect and yet tender (like a man dancing well), that it was Max.

  Harry switched off the lights, stood out at the front fender, and let them come out to him. They would want to see that he was alone. He lit a Chesterfield to confirm it was he.

  The woman approached the rear fender. She wore a dark hooded poncho.

  “Irina?”

  “It’s me, Mister Harry,” Irina said in her German with the heavy accent. She pulled back the hood and rushed over and hugged him, kissing both cheeks.

  “Pretty happy to see me for not wanting to see me,” Harry said.

  Irina laughed. She grabbed Harry’s cheek and twisted it like a grandmother to a tot.

  “Got a vise grip, sister,” Harry said.

  “Ah, that didn’t hurt,” Max said as he walked up.

  Irina stepped back and compared the two brothers, Max sharing a smile with Irina as they studied Harry. Max nodded in approval at Harry’s outfit and then shook his head at his own worn-out great coat. “If only I had such a jacket as yours, perhaps in a fine loden cloth,” he muttered.

  Irina nodded. “One could not tell you apart.”

  Harry pinched out his smoke, his mood darkening. “I got news for you—I’m not him.”

  Irina dropped the smile, but Max just shrugged.

  “You really left me in the lurch,” Harry told Irina.

  Irina lowered her eyes.

  “You can blame me for that,” Max said. “For everything.”

  “That right? How would I know? First thing I need here are some simple answers. Before we go any further.”

  “It’s nothing sordid.”

  “Says a guy I don’t really know.”

  “You’ll understand. You will.”

  “Let’s try some basics. What papers you carrying?”

  “I have my old army paybook.” Max pulled his Wehrmacht Soldbuch from inside the greatcoat. “It has my name in it.”

  “But no domicile?”

  “Domicile? These days? You want the bombed one or the firebombed one?”

  “You’re telling me you have no registration with local MG, Polizei, no POW papers, nothing.”

  Max forced out another smile. “Sorry, Harry.”

  “You were drafted, I hope.”

  “What on earth do you think?” Max held out his palms. “I was an actor here as well. No one needed actors in the end. Mass murder demands far more of a man than a musical.”

  What Max claimed wasn’t that uncommon, Harry told himself. Former soldiers still roamed the land, homeless and heartbroken, their girls shacked up with GIs now. But they were asking for trouble without permanent papers. Irina knew about a murder, and Max might have ended up Hitler’s valet for all Harry knew.

  “I never know if you’re joking or not,” Harry said.

  “You don’t need jokes right now, Harry.”

  “Or trouble. And neither do you. You know what I think? Maybe I’m committing too much to you and whatever this is and just because you’re my brother.”

  “Or, perhaps you have not committed enough? Am I right? You like to take a chance.”

  Harry started. “Hey now look, don’t go supposing you know me … that you know what I’m thinking even for a second.”

  “No. I don’t suppose anything, not anymore. I only know what I see and I hear,” Max said. “So? Here is what you need to know: Let us say there is a lifeboat. Out at sea. Water freezing, sharks all around. One mad fellow in the boat wants to kick out all the rest out, so that he alone can live. What does one do?”

  Harry threw up his hands. “Now it’s riddles I’m getting.”

  “No riddles. We’re talking about fate. The mad fellow, he’s out. Let him swim with the sharks. Done for.” Max slid his hands against one another, slapping them as if clearing off dust. “That’s your answer. For starters.”

  “And, that was the man I saw with a saber through him?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid. The very one.”

  Eleven

  MAX AND IRINA SHOWED HARRY SUITCASES, boxes, and bags full of food, blankets, and tools. They loaded up Harry’s Opel, which flattened out the springs so much the city streets’ holes and lumps hit them like hammers banging the chassis. Max had offered to drive, but Harry didn’t want his lack of papers causing trouble. Irina had squeezed in back between cargo, shrouded under her poncho and hood. This food and these blankets and even tools seemed harmless—so far, Harry reminded himself. He fought the urge to press Max and Irina on the name or the why of that corpse as Max had him head northeast out of Munich using a secondary highway with only a narrow lane each way. A US jeep or staff car passed once or twice, and they spotted refugee campfires here and there flashing from within woods or barns.

  “I made that poncho for her from an army blanket,” Max said. “Amazing what a man learns.” He chuckled to himself, a bitter laugh that was new to Harry.

  Harry found Irina’s hood in the rearview mirror, her head bobbing. “Gerlinde was worried about you,” he told her.

  “Her food was excellent. Will you thank her?”

  “I will.”

  Harry brought real coffee in his chrome canteen. He had Max pour some into its red cap and they passed it around. Harry said, “That was some embrace you two showed me back there when I picked you up. Max always grab you like that, plant one on you?”

  Irina shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps it’s another of Maxie’s props.”

  “Like his cane,” Harry said.

  Max didn’t respond. He sipped, staring at the road ahead.

  “You’re laying low. Yet you wear that jaunty scarf,” Harry said to him.

  “The slightest nod to civility,” Max said. “One can’t be all storm and stress, can they?”

  They passed Landshut and then Dingolfing. The headlights lit up endless trees and the occasional small meadow, village, or villa. Snowflakes swirled at the windshield but didn’t stick. Irina was snoring, a low rumble that mixed in with the engine’s drone. The coffee had warmed and quickened Harry, but he wondered how long it would last. Max still hadn’t told him who the dead man was. Harry would get to that. Right now, he had other complaints.

  Max knew it. He was watching Harry, his eyes pinched. “All right, have at it,” he said in English. He added a glance at Irina as if to make sure she was sleeping.

  “Your being over here?” Harry began. “It only made it worse on pop. The authorities hauled him in. The Alien Control Boards, the FBI even. They badgered him about having family here. Did he tell you that?”

  “No. But I guessed as much.”

  “How long you been in contact with them?”

  “A few months now. Letters. I have occasional access to a—what do you call it? Ein Postfach.”

  “Post office box.”

  “They are happy to hear from me, Harry. Oh, don’t look so shocked.”

  “Who’s shocked? It’s just that they never wrote me about it.”

  “I asked them not to tell you—until I could find you. I wanted to tell you myself, once I had something to show for it. So here I am.” Max opened his arms wide and grinned like a dancer in top hat.

  Harry kept a stone face.

  Max dismissed it with a wave. “I’m not used to calling you Harry.�
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  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I must, so I will. In any case: It wasn’t like I was living it up with Nazis.”

  “Who knew what you were doing? We heard all kinds of rumors.”

  “What could I do? Japan attacks the US, Hitler declares war, and suddenly America gets in the ring. It all happened so fast. By then, I figured Mutti and Vati would only get worse treatment if they started receiving letters from me. So I held off, kept telling myself that it would end—”

  “We heard you went and joined the SS.”

  “This is bullshit. Who told you that?”

  “Relatives, up north. You been up north?”

  “To see relatives? Yes. But that was … before. I’d lived in Hamburg, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Harry added, “Then we hear you’re Missing in Action.”

  “Missing in Action? I’m right here, aren’t I?” Max patted at his chest.

  “You said you were drafted—in the army, just another sorry Landser. What front?”

  “Eastern front, Western front,” Max said, his voice rising, straining. “What does it matter now? What, Harry, huh?” He looked out the window, into the blackness, searching it.

  He let his forehead rest against the window.

  Harry offered him a Chesterfield. Max nodded in thanks and slipped it under his ascot and into an inside breast pocket.

  An hour passed in silence. Max was still staring out the window but sat increasingly rigid, his eyes alert to any changes in the dark country night. They passed through Plattling, which had a concentration camp during the war. Then an American armored car was parked along the road keeping watch. Harry let off the gas a little as he passed it. “Next one could be blocking the road. Never know—”

  “Anyone stops us? We’re relatives,” Max blurted and his voice sounded like someone else’s. The tone was monotone, metallic. He reminded Harry that their Opel had legit US MG stencils and plates as if trying to convince himself of it. “Me and you? We are looking for more of our relatives, who used to live in this area. This is what we tell them.”

  “Fair enough, Max. Calm yourself. I’ll quit with the questions.”

  Max’s head turned to Harry, mechanically, his shoulders fixed. But his face softened. “You must trust me. Please.”

  “We’re carrying food. Bulk grain, lentils, dry meats. We have blankets, overcoats. Some hand tools.”

  “It’s not black market. Just like I said. It’s for people who need it. I don’t want you to know in case we’re stopped. You’ll know, once we’re in the clear. I promise, Harry.”

  The headlights found a green mass in the road up ahead. Soldiers. They had an armored car with a cannon and heavy machine gun, and enough jeeps to block the road twice over.

  “Checkpoint,” Harry said.

  “We’re helping people, Irina and I,” Max added. “That’s what you want, right?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Max had his Chesterfield in his mouth and he banged his old lighter on his knee, all out of flame. Harry thumbed open his Zippo and lit him. In the rearview mirror, Irina had lowered and slumped, her hood just another sack in the dark.

  The soldiers formed a line, blocking the road left open by a gap between the jeeps. All had light machine guns instead of rifles. They wore the new overcoats and Ike jackets with bright yellow scarves and a red-yellow stripe circling their helmets. Harry whistled under his breath as he slowed.

  “Know who they are?” Max said, eyeing Harry.

  “All too well.” It was the Constabulary Corps—MG’s occupation police. This constabulary troop had the border beat. Theirs was not to fight but to catch a person in the act. Smugglers, illegal refugees, fugitive Nazis. Slowly, keeping one hand up high on the wheel, Harry slid on his horn-rimmed glasses. Max nodded at Harry in tense approval.

  Harry slowed more, probably more than he should have. The key with checkpoints was to keep your speed steady. He tapped at the brake.

  “Is there a problem?” he said to Max. “I mean a big one—something you want to tell me now? Before we get too far.”

  “No. Let’s just do this.” Max puffed away, filling the cab with the smell of profuse American tobacco.

  A sergeant approached.

  “All right. Follow my lead.” Harry braked to a stop, showing off a big smile as he rolled down the window. He placed his MG liaison ID on the window jamb. “Evening, boys.”

  “Sir. How do.” The sergeant was a square-faced Joe who from the steel in his eyes might actually have been in the war. The rest of the line probably graduated from high school the previous spring from the looks of them. The sergeant had his flashlight out.

  “Any action tonight?” Harry said.

  “Not near enough.” The sergeant shined the light around the cab.

  Max smiled back showing twice the teeth than Harry had ever seen on him.

  “Sir, if you keep going this direction, you’ll hit the frontier,” the sergeant said to Harry.

  “The frontier?” Harry said.

  “Czechoslovakia. What they call the Soviet zone now.”

  “The border? Ah, right. No problem. It’s some village on this side we’re after.”

  The sergeant had bent down to check out Max again. “You two brothers?” he said.

  “You got a way with faces,” Harry said. “We have relatives that are supposed to be around here somewhere. If the war didn’t get them. But, what can you do? We promised dear old mom we’d find ‘em.”

  The sergeant walked around the car, flashing more light. He ended up at Max’s window. Max rolled it down. His grin spread wider.

  “What’s the town they’re in? Maybe I can help?” the sergeant said to Max.

  “Some town called Zwiesel? Say it’s right up the road here,” Max said. “What you think, Sarge? Any warm bodies still there? Ten’ll get you twenty, bound to be some kraut there looks like us two mugs here.”

  Harry’s head whipped over to Max. Max’s American English had turned silky smooth, with nearly no accent anyone could pin down. He might have been from Pennsylvania or Ohio. He’d pronounced Zwiesel like only a Yank would.

  “You all right, sir?” the sergeant said to Harry.

  “Fine, fine,” Harry muttered.

  Max took it from there. He told the sergeant that their cargo was for the relatives. Since none of it was worth a smuggle, let alone an arrest, the sergeant peeked in a couple sacks and let it go. Max introduced Irina as his current Gretchen. She pulled back her hood, twinkled her eyes.

  And the sergeant waved them onward.

  Harry drove on. They rounded a bend. A light snow returned, speckles of wet on the windshield. Max had shrunk down, his ears about level with his shoulders. His face was pale, reflecting the faint dashboard light.

  Max had the thousand-yard stare. Harry knew it from Joes who had been on the front line. Combat. He supposed he’d had it too for a time after his battle on the train.

  “All right, maybe you were on the front,” he said.

  Max said nothing.

  “I know you’re an actor,” Harry said after a while, “but I never heard any accent like that on you back home—”

  “It’s not me,” Max snapped in German, his hand out flat as if to karate-chop the dashboard. “It never was. I was just doing what I had to do. We clear on that?”

  Max’s voice had changed again, to a bolder tone Harry hadn’t heard in years. He remembered it from when the kids in New Hampshire called Max a Hun and a kraut, and when Max vowed to get as far away from them as possible. The last time he heard it Max was leaving for New York City, telling their father that he was going to do big things with his acting.

  “For now I am,” Harry said.

  Max blinked. He nodded.

  Harry drove on. After a while, he slid off his horn rims and tried to polish them with one hand.

  Max took the glasses and shined them with a fine cloth he’d produced from his overcoat. “These helped
. Back there. Every little bit helps.”

  “I know. You do realize, I’m the only one whose ID that sergeant saw.”

  “I do,” Max said.

  “My liaison ID, my papers were ideal back there.”

  “I’m not using you, Harry. For something nefarious. If that’s what you’d think.”

  “You said you had no papers. So why am I thinking that you do? Papers that aren’t quite legit but would have just done the trick back there, if need be.”

  “Because you’re the smarter of the two brothers,” Max said. “Without a doubt.”

  Irina had returned to her snoring. They passed through a tiny junction with a few squares of window light, and then the road turned darker.

  “In a few kilometers, there’ll be a little road up here on your right,” Max said, gently now as if telling a child how to bury a dead birdie. “Go ahead and turn there. That’s the way.”

  The town of Zwiesel was straight ahead. “We turn there, we’ll be heading dead east,” Harry said. “You sure? That’s what you want?”

  Max was nodding. “I’m sure.”

  Twelve

  MAX SAID THEY WERE HELPING PEOPLE. But where are they? This was Harry’s first thought as he woke and it had been his last thought before collapsing into sleep. He heaved himself up from his bedroll and sat at the little pine table, taking in his sparse surroundings. His hut was eight-by-eight with a floor like clay and an oven in the middle, its fire gone out as he slept. His back was stiff, and a slight headache pinched at his temples, and no wonder. The drive had taken longer than Max hoped because the final few winding roads had twinkles of ice on them. Then they left the Opel in a barn, contents and all, and Harry and Irina rode on a cart that Max and two other men pulled along a trail that crept ever higher, deep into forest. Harry wanted to pull but Max’s men refused. “You’ll have your turn to pull weight,” one of them told him in clunky accented German. When the forest began to descend, the men turned back with their cart and Harry, Max and Irina had hiked onward in the dark, through ravines, around patches of clumpy snow, and along a stream.

  Harry checked his watch: Nine o’clock in the morning, Saturday, the twenty-first. He heard the birds outside and a trickling stream even though the hut’s walls were of a thick and lumpy old plaster. He pulled his gray wool blanket around him, stood, and opened the door. A deep fog found them when they’d arrived but had now given way to murky sunlight. Around him, Harry saw a settlement along the stream, more like a junction than a village, but there wasn’t any main road, only paths that connected the few thatched-roof farm huts, some of them stone and plaster, some wooden. Beyond was all tree trunks, their bark blotchy white and the leaves dark, the trunks so dense together that the fog stayed there, within that tall wall that loomed all around like the very horizon itself. They had to be miles and miles from nowhere. This place could have been hundreds, no, thousands of years ago—he wouldn’t be surprised to find an undiscovered last tribe of Visigoths still hiding out from Roman times. Two long low barns stood close but at haphazard angles, and a rustic old watermill stood along the stream—the waterway having surely been the main road into here, once upon a time. In the middle of this outpost, all paths led to an open patch of pitted cobblestones with a rudimentary well fountain of stones and wooden lid. This must have served as the village square.