“I have no attitude at all about it.”
“But the Jew, Roosenfeldt, seems to be doing a respectable job on your home front.”
Keegan laughed, although even a chuckle was painful to his throbbing head. “It’s Roosevelt. And he isn’t Jewish.”
“Really? I had heard otherwise.”
“Well, either you heard wrong or somebody’s pulling your leg.”
“Pulling my leg?”
“An American expression. It means they are making a joke at your expense. Personally I don’t give a damn what anybody says about him, but I hate to hear a silly lie like that perpetuated by an intelligent person like yourself.”
“Danke. I guess I should take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
“I’m sorry you are indisposed. I love to discuss issues with Americans. Perhaps when you are feeling better we could have lunch.”
“I’d love to have lunch with you someday but you’ve probably heard the extent of my opinion about everything,” Keegan answered.
“Oh, I doubt it, a man with your education and experience.”
“What do you know about my education and experience, Professor? We just met five minutes ago.”
“Uh, yes, that’s true. Uh, may I be. . . honest with you, Herr Keegan?”
“That would be refreshing.”
“I know about you. Your war record, your success in business. I did seek you out. Nothing mysterious about it, really. I thought perhaps we might talk about something which could be mutually beneficial.”
“That’s what I like, Professor. In my country we have a saying, One hand washes the other.’”
“That’s very good. That says it precisely. I will be out of the city for a few days. Perhaps when I come back I can, how do you Americans say it? Give you a ring?”
Keegan stared at the professor for a moment, a hard stare, then he nodded slowly. “Why don’t you do that. When you get back, give me a ring.”
Vanessa almost missed her train.
“One more time,” she suggested when he returned from the steam room. “It may be years before we see each other again.”
They had lost track of the time.
She pulled down the window of her compartment and kissed him.
“You may be the Bootlegger to the Kings to them,” she said with a laugh, “but you’re my white knight.”
As the train started to roll out she reached up suddenly, whipped off her hat and threw it to him.
“My favor,” she said brightly. “Wear it proudly in battle.”
He watched as the big steam engine lumbered out of the great domed train station, then he walked the several blocks back to the hotel. He was surprised to realize he was going to miss her. Not exactly for her company, more for her potential. It was a waste, he thought. Vanessa would go home, finish college, get married by arrangement, have two-and-two-thirds children and be dead of boredom by the tune she was fifty.
When he got back to the hotel he suddenly changed his mind and took a cab to Der Schwarze Stier Verein.
The club was virtually empty except for the cleanup people. It smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. He went to the back and took the stairs to the second floor. Conrad Weil lived in an apartment that occupied the front side of the building, adjacent to the windowless Gold Gate club. His knock on the door was answered by Weil’s valet, an elderly man who regarded everyone and everything with dour suspicion.
“I’ll see if Herr Weil is in,” he consented grudgingly.
The apartment was a model of art deco, done in shades of blue and green. There was not a sharp corner on a table or chair in the living room. Fluted lamps cast spots of light on the ceiling, bathing the entire room in indirect light; the bar in one corner was smoked glass and lit from below. A large picture window overlooked downtown Berlin.
In a few moments Weil entered the room dressed in dark pants and a red silk smoking jacket. Weil would be elegant in the shower, thought Keegan.
“Well, well, so you finally came by for a visit,” Weil said with a smile.
“Sorry I didn’t call first,” Keegan said. “It was a spur-of- the-moment thing.”
“Whatever reason, I’m delighted. How about a brandy? It’s Napoleon, the dust is still on the bottle.”
“Why not?”
“So, is this a social call or business?” Weil asked as he poured them each a generous snifter. His hawk-like features seemed ominous in the reflection of the lights from the bar.
“I need the address of the singer, Jenny Gould.”
“What for?”
“What do you think for? I’m going to sue her for not taking requests.”
Weil clicked his tongue. “I never get used to your American sarcasm,” he said. “Are you smitten with her, Francis?”
“I don’t know, Conrad, that’s what I expect to find out. I thought maybe she’d be here rehearsing.”
“She does not work here anymore.”
“What!”
“My customers were complaining.”
“About what?”
“They did not like her singing. Or more precisely, they did not like the songs she was singing.”
“You mean the brownshirt assholes with the crooked crosses on their sleeves?”
“Unfortunately, the SA thugs are my customers. We had a scene here last night. She was singing a song, an American Depression song, ‘Brother Can You Spare a Dime,’ I believe it is called. There was a lot of restlessness in the crowd, then they started yelling at her to sing a German song. She kept going. Then from the crowd someone yelled, Jude! And somebody else joined in. Then one of the brownshirts stood up and screamed Heil Hitler and another joined and another until the whole room was on its feet. I dimmed the lights and got her offstage. Then the mob began singing ‘Horst Wessel’ and suddenly my beer hail became a Nazi rally. The point is, my friend, Jenny Gould is not even Jewish.”
“And you fired her anyway, as good as she is?”
“Good has nothing to do with it. You think that bunch knows what good is?”
“Why the hell did you hire her in the first place?”
“An error in judgment. I thought she might give the place some class. But if she had continued here I would have had a riot on my hands every night. All someone in the crowd has to do is yell Jude’ to create a riot.”
“Whether it’s true or not?”
“Truth is immaterial, dear Francis. In Germany, it has become the ultimate insult. And before you get too hot under the collar, Ire, I found her another job making the same money.”
“Where?”
“A few blocks away, at the Kit Kat Club. It is more suited to her singing anyway. A very sophisticated audience goes there to hear American jazz. There are a lot of American tourists. At the Kit Kat there will be no trouble. Brownshirts do not frequent it.”
“It’s a dive!” Keegan said sourly.
‘Ja, but a very nice dive. You think the Stier is a symphony hall?”
“All this because they accuse her of being Jewish,” Keegan said, shaking his head.
“Come, come, Francis, you know it is a sin to be a Jew in Germany nowadays. Or a Communist, a Social Democrat, a Gypsy or an artist. Any minority, anyone who disagrees. There is no such thing as dissent. I could be arrested for even talking about this. How have you managed to ignore it?”
“I didn’t ignore it, it wasn’t any of my business before.”
“Ah, and now suddenly you make it your business, ja?”
“I’m only interested in the girl.”
Conrad shook his head. He sat beside Keegan on the sofa, legs crossed and his snifter poised on one knee. He leaned close to Keegan, speaking almost in a whisper.
“You are a charming rascal, Francis. Here suddenly you are having an attack of conscience over this young woman. Suddenly you are outraged, ja?