Klausner shrugged.
Why am I growing so angry?
“When I was in an Army school in Baltimore,” Ettinger said, “I was taken, Ernst, to a shipyard in Kearny, New Jersey, which is right across the river from New York City. They are building one ship a day in that shipyard, Ernst. It takes them three weeks to build a ship. Every day, seven days a week, they launch a ship. And they told us they were not up to speed.”
“What?”
“Up to speed. It means that soon they will be making two ships a day, or three, or even four. And that is not their only shipyard. They have—I don’t know, ten, twenty shipyards, maybe more. Germany cannot make enough torpedoes to sink that many ships.”
Klausner shrugged again.
“On the way to Kearny, we passed the airport in Newark. It is bigger—three or four times the size of Tempelhof—and as far as I could see, enormous bombers were about to be flown to England. Not shipped, Ernst, flown.”
Klausner held up his hand to silence him. Ettinger followed his eyes. Inge was coming into the room with a tray.
“They are worse than the Viennese here,” she said, putting the tráy down in front of him. It held an assortment of pastries. “They take a Viennese recipe. If it says ‘six eggs,’ they use twelve. If it says ‘one cup of sugar,’ they use two. And the meat!”
“The meat is incredible,” Klausner agreed. “Cheap. Marvelous.”
Sarah put a coffee service on a low table. Inge poured coffee, handed cups to Ettinger and her husband, then started to pour a cup for herself.
“Liebchen,” Klausner said. “Why don’t you take Sarah for a little walk?”
It was said softly, but it wa
s an order. She put the pot down and smiled.
“We will talk later, David,” she said. “You’ll stay for supper, of course.”
“We will talk,” Ettinger agreed.
“I am so happy that you are here,” Inge said.
“I am so happy to see you all,” Ettinger said.
Klausner waited until his wife and daughter had left the house.
“If you are in the American Army,” he challenged, “what are you doing in Buenos Aires, not in a uniform?”
“That, Ernst, I cannot talk about.”
“You are a spy.”
Ettinger laughed. “No. A spy? No.”
“I don’t believe you,” Klausner said. “I understand why you feel you must lie to me, David, but I don’t believe you.”
“I am sure we—we Americans—have spies here, but I am not one of them.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“A spy by another name. You are playing word games.”
“I am here to harm the Germans, Ernst.”
“Yes, of course you are. Thank you for your honesty.”