Part 15 (1/2)
”Ernst, you exaggerate,” Franz said. ”Only a teenage crush, surely. She is just a schoolgirl, after all.”
”Love is love.”
”What has she told you?”
”Nothing, really.” Ernst tapped his temple. ”You might not know it from my recent work, but I still have the eye. I am attuned to emotion. Besides, the girl positively glows at the mere mention of his name.”
Franz bristled at the thought of his daughter having romantic feelings. He knew precious little of Freddy or his family. Besides, she was his little girl. Franz was not ready to accept any of it. ”Precisely, you are an artist. p.r.o.ne to romanticism, fantasy and excess.”
”Guilty on all counts.” Ernst held up both hands in a mea culpa. ”Still, I am not wrong about Hannah.”
Eager to change the subject, Franz looked up and down the street to convince himself that no one was within earshot. ”Have you visited Simon and Charlie recently?”
Ernst nodded. ”This morning. I spent most of the time trying to talk Charlie out of sneaking out of the city.”
Franz sighed. ”Never mind his leg, with those weakened lungs of his . . .”
”Charlie wouldn't stand a chance on two legs, let alone one. But at heart, he is a soldier. It's all he knows, really.”
”Will he stay, then?”
”This week, perhaps.” Ernst inclined his head. ”He will not stay indefinitely. Of that, I am certain.”
”We must delay him as long as we can.”
”Agreed.” Ernst leaned in close enough for Franz to catch a whiff of his hair grease. He lowered his voice. ”I went to that rally last night.”
Franz frowned. ”Ernst, you are still a fugitive.”
Ernst flicked at his long hair and then stroked his beard. ”The j.a.panese don't recognize me. And those philistines I sell art to as Gustav Klimper have never heard of Ernst Muhler or any real artist of my generation.”
Franz was not convinced, but he was too intrigued to argue. ”The rally?” he prompted.
”Von Puttkamer spoke. He is something, that baron.”
”What did he say?”
”Oh, the usual n.a.z.i doublespeak and claptrap. More nonsense about how all the recent retreats and withdrawals are part of some brilliant strategy. As best as I can tell, Hitler and Goring plan to win the war by fighting backwards.”
Franz laughed nervously but didn't comment.
”Still, von Puttkamer is very persuasive.” Ernst lowered his voice to a hush. ”He spent much of the time talking about you.”
Franz felt his gut tightening. ”The refugees?”
”All of the city's Jews. The Russians and Shanghailanders too.”
”What did he say about us?”
”That you have no business being here.”
”Some surprise,” Franz snorted.
”Like a scratched recording, I realize. However, there was something different about it this time.”
”Different in what way?”
Ernst dug a cigarette out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket and lit it. ”He sounded almost . . . smug. As though . . .” He frowned, searching for the right words. ”He kept talking about what he called the 'Jewish question.' It was as if he had some kind of plan.”
More than fearful, Franz suddenly felt drained, as though he had not slept in days. Almost five years and ten thousand miles separated him from Vienna-and Kristallnacht-and yet here he was being dragged back into the snake pit of anti-Semitism. It would never end. ”Did the baron mention any specifics?” he mumbled.
”None.” Ernst shook his head. ”Maybe it's nothing. I could be wrong. I hope I am. But on my way out, I overheard a group of young men talking about their visit to the ghetto and how it could not come soon enough.”
Fighting off a shudder, Franz considered von Puttkamer's recent visits to their neighbourhood. He had long suspected that they represented some form of reconnaissance, but what could the n.a.z.is possibly have in mind? An old-fas.h.i.+oned pogrom? Like the way the Cossacks used to raid Jewish villages?
Ernst kept talking, but Franz was lost in his own thoughts. Before long, the artist stopped and stared at him expectantly. ”Should I go, Franz?”
”Go where?”
”To meet von Puttkamer,” Ernst said impatiently. ”In person. He and my neighbour were school chums in Berlin. He says he will take me to dinner with the baron and his inner circle.”
”You really think you can infiltrate that group?”
”Why not?”
Before Franz could list the many reasons that came to mind, the growl of an engine drew his attention. Moments later, a j.a.panese military vehicle pulled up to the curb beside them. As soon as it crunched to a stop, the driver climbed out and hurried over to open the rear pa.s.senger door. A young officer emerged, followed by Ghoya in his usual pinstriped suit. After Ghoya, Colonel Kubota emerged and struggled to pull himself upright in the street. He waved off the young officer's extended hand and eventually reached his feet without a.s.sistance.
Ghoya motioned to Franz and exclaimed, ”Dr. Adler!”
Franz's stomach plummeted. His eyes involuntarily s.h.i.+fted to Ernst, who, despite a slight pallor, looked as calm as ever. Ernst had once practically ripped a painting off Kubota's wall to protest the atrocities the j.a.panese were visiting upon the Chinese, particular the family of his lover. Franz knew that Ernst's new hairdo and beard would never deceive the colonel.
Ghoya led Kubota over to them. The little man waved a hand at Ernst as though he were not even present. ”This man. I do not recognize him, Dr. Adler. He is not a refugee?”
”No.” Franz said, meeting Ghoya's gaze. ”We are old friends from Vienna.”
”Is he a Jew?”
Franz's heart beat in his throat. ”No, as I said-”
”I have been called worse.” Ernst chuckled as he extended a hand to Ghoya. ”My name is Klimper. Gustav Klimper.”
Looking surprised, Ghoya met the handshake. Ernst turned and offered a hand to Kubota. The colonel viewed him carefully, but his lined face gave away nothing. Finally, he transferred his cane to his unsteady left hand and reached out with his right. ”I am Colonel Kubota.” A small smile appeared on his face. ”Your name, it sounds very similar to that famous Austrian artist.”
”Gustav Klimt.”
Kubota nodded. ”Yes. I greatly admire Klimt's work. In fact, I have become somewhat partial to Austrian art in general.” He paused. ”Except, of course, those paintings that possess more political overtones. They do not interest me in the least.”