“Not the Germans. The Nazis.”
“Word games again. There is no difference between them. You should know that. You do know that.”
This time Ettinger shrugged.
“Let me tell you about the Argentineans, David. We Argentineans. I am not a German anymore. I speak the language. I read Goethe and Schiller, I eat apfelstrudel. But I am no longer a German. I am an Argentinean.”
“You are also a Jew.”
“I am an Argentinean who happens to be a Jew.”
“You are a German Jew who has lost his life and his family to the Nazis.”
“I am an Argentinean whose family, Inge and Sarah, has been saved by the Argentineans. I am an Argentinean. I became an Argentinean. I swore to defend this country, David, to obey its laws. Argentina is neutral. I want nothing to do with a spy from the United States of America or anywhere else.”
“They killed our people. They are killing our people.”
“I think it would be best if you left, David, before Inge and Sarah come home,” Klausner said.
Ettinger stood up, then looked down at Klausner.
“Because we were friends together in Germany,” Klausner said, “I will not report you to Internal Security. But please, please, do not come back, and do not tell anyone that you knew me in Berlin.”
“As you wish, Ernst,” Ettinger said.
“Auf Wiedersehen, mein alt Freund. May God be with you,” Ernst said.
[TWO]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
0900 29 November 1942
Clete was wakened by Señora Pellano, who set a tray-on-legs with orange juice and coffee on his bed.
“Buenos días, Señor Cletus.”
“’Días, muchas gracias,” he said, smiling at her, carefully trying to sit up without upsetting the tray.
“Would you like me to bring you something to eat?”
“Let me come downstairs,” he said, smiling at her. “Give me thirty minutes to shower and shave.”
“I would be happy to serve it here.”
“Downstairs, please.”
“Sí, Señor Cletus,” she said, and went to the wardrobe and took out a dressing gown and laid it on the bed before leaving.
Even in the house on St. Charles Avenue, he thought, I was never treated this well, like an English nobleman in the movies.
There were two maids, so that no matter what hour of the day, his needs would not go unattended. There was also a cook and a houseman, a dignified old man named Ernesto. The staff was run with an iron hand by Señora Pellano, who, his father had told him, came from a fine family who had been in service to the Frades for three generations. One of the maids was a Porteño, the other from a family who lived on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Both were young and attractive, which made him somewhat uncomfortable. He would have preferred maids twice their age.
Despite the physical comforts, he had spent an uncomfortable night at the house on Libertador—his second night there—primarily because he was bored. Exploring Granduncle Guillermo’s playroom, which is what he finally did after everything else failed, didn’t really help to cure his boredom.
At ten of the morning after their meeting, his father called to ask if he was comfortable, and to apologize: He had to leave town and would be in touch in a couple of days, after he returned; if Clete needed anything in the meantime, Señora Pellano would provide it. He did not mention how they parted the day before.