Contemplating the nebulous banks opposite, he must have been sure of my admiration and loyalty.
He said, as if remembering a tune, ‘Magna est Veritas et Praevilabit. A sacred text faulty in its premises and would not have rescued me from consequences of the Plot.’
A small breeze cobbled the water, gulls criss-crossed above their shadows. Again in nonsensical qualms, I thought of death by drowning, untraced murders, then, even more ludicrously, of the English Princes in the Tower. I moved more apart. Could he hold some clue to the hushed Rose Room. My own submissiveness unnerved me, like a stammer. My very face, usually obstinate under untidy hair, must have weakened, with the sham power of a pugilist in decline.
At last turning away, indicating the road, the Herr General sighed. ‘You may not realize my relish for teasing. My concession to… I really do not know.’ His laugh, youthful, was itself a tease. ‘I once had a grudge against the Japanese consul at Riga. He had commended me as a Jew-baiter, while unaware that I knew sufficient of his private life that would have dismayed his family and entertained his masters. At my hint of this, he tripped over his tongue, to accede to my proposal to pass me five thousand visas, which I then distributed to anti-Nazi Jews and gentiles. By special arrangement, they crossed Russia to the Shanghai International Settlement.’
It did not occur to me to doubt these assertions, delivered like commonplaces. But a worry touched the strongly moulded face, frayed less by age but by impatience or spirit. Still calm, his next words lost some ring.
‘My motive? Merely, I fear, to make an Asiatic menial look foolish. Yet you will surely agree that if an action, a book, a painting has any value an analytical précis does not suffice.’
This dissatisfied him and he moved ahead, perhaps seeking the more convincing. Catching up, I made some remark, empty, stupidly deferential, but was inwardly cautious, as if fearing a false step on to an escalator. Quickening pace, he said no more until reaching his car. Beside it, under the pillars, he looked smaller, older, leaning on the black, opulent machine as if for support. Its glitter matched not him but his clothes. In no haste to drive either to the Manor or to some further destination, he reverted to defensiveness, against criticism I was incapable of inflicting.
‘Life cannot be passed in remorse and laments. Nostalgia cannot reclaim Eden or tie up in Ithaca. More often, it creates the Gorgon, lets Medusa speak. We must nail down the years and stride forward. Few of us can bear much scrutiny. Not only Spengler but Tolstoy taught that, with rare exceptions, martyrs and the tormented are tyrants. Tolstoy, at least, spoke with some authority, being one himself. Today, I am apt to hear that in both world wars the real victor was Germany, by fortitude and resilience extracting assets from defeat. You and I, Erich, are both…’
What we were, he did not explain. The afternoon had chilled, thickening over the sun. I had stood thus with Alex, both reluctant to relinquish a cheerful day.
The Herr General’s affability appeared more than ever calculated, that of a capable scientist during an experiment interesting but not crucial.
‘I myself, Erich, am no genuine moral victor. I once authorized the torture of a Polish sniper. And why? To wring out information that saved several thousand lives. Legally, it entitled me to a hanging. Morally… Well! You may think I agonized over my decision. But I did not. The matter was ice clear.’ His wryness was perfunctory. ‘There was no alternative. I felt very little. German officers, Polish partisans, they create souls, then spoil them. Distillation of bravado, often worse. I leave souls to others and content myself with the job in hand. Signing in so as not to be signed off. Genius, seeking a break-out, die Aufbruch, understands that judge and victim can be the same. Actually, I have found few unwilling to be victims. Prey to fashions, Herr Omnes yet enjoys regulations, respectable desires, cosiness. So you and I must treat him like a favourite dog – you remember poor dear Caspar – tenderly but not forgetting the muzzle. I should add that I much respect the Jewish gentleman who betrayed to the world the Israeli nuclear reactor and weaponry at Dimona and Israel’s industrial espionage and deals with Pretoria and Washington. I also refused a substantial bribe from the ill-bred bullies in Baghdad. Some Russian, French and UN lordlings were less scrupulous. Friendship with your mother made me reflect that, while English and Americans trusted to luck, Germans were Macbeths, over-respectful to Fate, which often wears one face too many. Like a whore.’
We were solitary under the thick pillars, the air hung with pungent damp, the Manor in and out of mist, enclosed by Forest and its secret lives. The dead were around, I remained in uncertain paralysis, as if seeing a footprint almost but not quite human.
With some brusqueness, as though I had impertinently interrupted, he said, ‘Your mother was English in many things but not in her intuitive and engaging disregard of what lesser imaginations consider reality. I reproach myself for not having been more effective in restraining that charming but careless tongue.’
‘But my father…’
He shook aside my sudden urgency. My heightened nerves gave his head under shadowy branches an impression of antlers. ‘My dear boy…’ One hand on the car handle, he was enquiring, as if concerned for my choice of cigar or liqueur, yet with an uncharacteristic complacency, approaching a smirk. His deep voice affected surprise, as he asked whom, in truth, I thought my father was.
The week had cloyed and died. National flags were sodden, wind blew litter down pavements. Mass elation had descended to the industrious and businesslike, the onus of reconstruction, maybe retribution. Discontent began.
Barely aware of events, my thoughts were shapes without edge, vague, slippery. Only the Gulf dispersed mental upheavals, fantasies of breathless races, to win which would be fatal. Chasms lurked beneath obdurate silence. Pahlen’s dry, pointed face changed to a frozen Alpine peak. Not assassins, but Loki stalked, his grin transforming life to mirthless jokes. Without despair, exhilaration, hope, I had no clear emotions, though could too easily ascribe my more unpleasant traits – irritability with the aged and slow, prolonged introspection – to the Herr General’s salesman’s fluency, High Folk humour. In all, he was superior, lacking priggishness, grabbing opportunities with some style. I remembered an old German tale of a giant without a heart.
Some current beneath ice was grateful affection for the quiet gentleman, despised by the Herr General as impractical, whom I would always acknowledge as Father. Shy, unpossessive, more lonely that I had supposed, he had loved me.
Some words of Mother’s, spoken to herself, but audible, then puzzling, were now painfully comprehensible, ‘Where is the man I thought I had married?’ My impulse was to seek solace alone, by cliff and wave, though, involuntarily, I blurted a little to Eeva. Sensible, no-nonsense, asking few questions, she was like a new colleague in a firm small but solvent. We preserved considerable formality. It helped that, to her artists, journalists, students, I was the Cold War Hercules, Voice of Estonia. I appreciated her stride, moderate laughter, disdain of emotional wiles, her backing. ‘I see in my sky, Erich, that you will be prominent amongst us.’
Spring was launched in fanfare of green and pink, eagerness of birds and lovers, radiant water, good humour in shops, bars, Viru street markets. Shadowed by tall, weathered frontages and towers, the populace, competitive, agog for the main chance, was also generous.
Gradually, my confusion abated. Eeva’s predictions were confirmed by a government offer as senior consultant to the Education Ministry. ‘That will be the earthworks,’ Eeva pronounced, more complimentary than it sounded. Less clear cut was the Herr General’s invitation to lunch at Independence, the new international restaurant near Parliament, frequented by diplomats, politicians, carteliers. Despite conflicting responses, I did not consider refusal.