“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Peter repeated.
There was a vibration as the engines engaged.
“Following which,” Gradny-Sawz said, “you will be taken to the Frade Guest House. Until the ceremonies are completed, you will reside there as the guest of Colonel Jorge Guillermo Frade, uncle of the late Hauptmann Frade, and former colonel commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón. I wish to speak to you about that.”
“Oh?”
“It is a singular courtesy on the part of the Frade family to you. Your conduct during that period is of great importance, if you take my meaning.”
In other words, I am not to get drunk and piss all over the carpet, right?
“I understand.”
“Though it is his custom to have newly assigned members of the embassy staff as guests in his home, under these circumstances, Ambassador Graf von Lutzenberger will not be able to share his home with you. He has asked me to express his regret.”
“That is very gracious of the Ambassador,” Peter said.
“In other words, you will be at the service of the Frade family tonight and tomorrow,” Oberst Grüner said. “We don’t know what plans, if any, they have for you. But if they have made plans, and you were not available, there is a question of bad manners.”
“I understand, Herr Oberst.”
“And what plans have you made for the removal of the late Hauptmann Duarte’s remains from this ship?” Gradny-Sawz asked.
“I believe el Capitán Schirmer will remove them from the hold with a crane and lower them onto the dock,” Peter said, with a straight face.
He thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in Colonel Grüner’s eyes.
“I don’t know how long it will take us to reach the dock,” Gradny-Sawz said, Peter’s subtle sarcasm having escaped him, “but may I suggest that you change into a proper uniform, including the Knight’s Cross, Herr Hauptmann?”
The Husares de Pueyrredón were mounted on absolutely beautiful horses and looked as if they were about to charge into Bosnia-Herzegovina and lop off rebellious heads with their sabers, or impale rebellious bodies on their lances, thus keeping peace in Emperor Franz-Josef’s domain.
The Army band, not nearly so ornately uniformed as the Husares, played “Oid, mortales” (“Hear, O Mortals”—the Argentinean national anthem) as the casket was lowered off the Belgrano onto a horse-drawn artillery caisson. Salutes were exchanged between German and Argentinean officers, and then the official party formed up behind the caisson.
With the drums of the band beating out the Argentinean equivalent of “slow march,” the procession marched off the dock and into the streets of Buenos Aires, with the cavalry bringing up the rear. Policemen halted traffic. Pedestrians stopped and faced the street as the procession marched by—some of them respectfully removing their hats, and most of them crossing themselves.
It was a long walk to the Avenida Alvear, and it was almost brutally hot. First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, Peter noticed with some pleasure, was not only sweat-soaked, but had not managed to avoid stepping into the horse dung left by the six animals drawing the caisson.
They had some trouble passing the caisson through the gate at the Duarte mansion—the lead horse tried several times to rear. But finally the caisson was in place, and eight Husares—almost certainly officers, Peter decided, although he could not read Argentinean insignia—unstrapped the casket, and struggling under its weight, carried it into the foyer of the mansion.
The official delegation followed. A man and a woman stood just inside the door, with a rank of servants behind them. The woman was in mourning black, broken only with a strand of very large pearls, her face concealed behind a veil.
A short fat officer who looked almost ludicrous in his Husares uniform was ahead of Peter in the line. When he reached the couple, he said, “Señor Duarte, Señora de Duarte, I have the honor to present Capitán Freiherr von Wachtstein of the German Air Force, who had the sad duty of bringing Capitán Duarte from Germany.”
Duarte’s father shook his hand limply and said, “How do you do?”
“May I extend the condolences of the Luftwaffe and the German people on your loss?” Peter said.
“Thank you,” the father said.
“My son is now home, thanks to you. Captain,” the mother said. “And with the Blessed Jesus and all the angels in his heavenly home.”
Peter felt like crying.
You dumb shit, he thought angrily, you left this to go fly a Storch and be a hero at Stalingrad? It wasn’t even your goddamned war!
The short fat man tugged at his arm and led him away.
“I am Coronel Alejandro Sahovaler,” he said. “I have the honor of commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón.”