“Nonsense. Your father would do no less for Willi. But now I suggest you go to the Ambassador’s office so that you will be there when the second hand on his watch indicates that it’s precisely nine-forty.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst.”
“Oh, one final thing.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst?”
“When young
Frade surfaces—Internal Security has him in the military hospital, but he should be out and about in several days—you should telephone to him and express your delight that he came through this terrible event unscathed.”
“I don’t think I understand, Herr Oberst.”
“You know him socially. You are a German officer and a gentleman. This is a neutral country. It would be the correct thing to do. And when Oberstleutnant Martín gets the transcript of the telephone call, it will drive him mad trying to figure out the connection between you two.”
“I’ll call him, Herr Oberst.”
Grüner, now delighted with his idea, had an even better one.
“Better yet, invite Leutnant Frade to lunch at the downtown officers’ club. We’ll stop in there during the apartment search and obtain a membership for you.”
[THREE]
“You wished to see me, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Ah, yes, von Wachtstein,” von Lutzenberger said. “I have a letter for you. There was a Condor flight this morning.”
The Ambassador rose from his desk and walked to a wall safe concealed behind the official photograph of Adolf Hitler. He worked the combination, pulled the safe open, took an envelope from it, carefully closed it, and then spun the combination dial.
He handed Peter the envelope; it was sealed with green wax, in which was the impression of a signet ring. The letter was from his father. Peter recognized this, however, by the paper of the envelope and not the seal. A box of this stationery was kept in the library at Schloss Wachtstein; it was purchased in London by Peter’s grandfather; and it was used up at the rate of one sheet and one envelope per year to announce births, deaths, marriages, and other significant family events to his grandfather’s sister (and her descendants). She had married an Englishman and lived in Scotland.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador,” Peter said.
“Read it here, von Wachtstein,” the Ambassador ordered softly.
Peter looked at him in surprise.
“That came to me by hand,” von Lutzenberger said. “Not in the pouch. I suspect it should not leave this room.”
Peter broke the wax seal and opened the envelope.
* * *
Schloss Wachtstein
Pommern
Hansel—
I have just learned that you have reached Argentina safely, and thus it is time for this letter.
The most serious violation of the code of honor by which I, and you, and your brothers and so many of the von Wachtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I concluded that honor itself demands that I contribute to such a course of action, I considered all of the ramifications, both spiritual and practical; I am at peace with my decision.
A soldier’s duty is first to his God, and then to his honor, and then to his country. The Allies in recent weeks have accused the German state of committing atrocities on such a scale as to defy description. I must tell you that information has come to me that has convinced me that the accusations are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.
The officer corps has failed its duty to Germany, not so much on the field of battle, but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. In exchange for privilege and “honors” the officer corps, myself included, has closed its eyes to obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Honor, and indeed most of God’s Ten Commandments. I accept my share of the responsibility for this shameful behavior.
We both know the war is lost. When it is finally over, the Allies will demand a terrible retribution from Germany.