“Yes, the Red Postwar Beast, who will turn on the Allied nations that buttressed its dubious triumph to begin with. This poses a challenge to the more farsighted members of the German high command. They must sow the seeds of their postwar redemption now, while the outcome of the war remains in doubt. They must prove themselves palatable and potentially valuable to the postwar West, and see to the hoarding of monies for their ultimate relocation.”
Dudley fondled his lapel pin. “I’ve heard that there was quite the confab in Ensenada. November of ’40, it was. The Russians and the Kameraden got down to brass tacks. The Hitler-Stalin pact won’t last. One of us must lose this war. How will civilized and enlightened men like us survive in such a predicament?”
Lazaro-Schmidt fondled his lapel pin. “I attended the conference. I told both factions that Mexico might well prove to be a gateway for the establishment of gainful resettlement throughout Latin America, with proper guarantors of safety provided by U.S. Intelligence services based in Mexico herself.”
Dudley said, “I would be loath to hide godless Reds.”
“You won’t have to. Germany will lose the war — and a newly reformed civilized world will require Nazi brainpower to help keep the Red Beast in check.”
Dudley slapped his knees. “Will all unruly Nazi acts be forgiven?”
“Of course. The concept of realpolitik holds sway here. Seeds of reconciliation have already been planted. Humanistically inclined Nazis have begun a process of atonement with world Jewry. You will see a moving example at the ceremony I’ve invited you to. It is realpolitik at its bald-faced best.”
Dudley scanned the wall ledge. He caught a boffo photograph. Abwehr boss Canaris. NKVD boss Beria. A festive cantina backdrop.
“Is that your conclave there?”
Lazaro-Schmidt twinkled. “Indeed. As subtext, I’ll add that Canaris has been leaking German secrets to British Intelligence since ’37, during the same time frame that Beria has been sending parcels to Churchill himself. As further subtext, I’ll add that both men were quite anxious to visit the legendary Blue Fox.”
Dudley roared. The Wolf appeared. He pointed to a photograph on a bookshelf. Dudley studied it. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt attacked her viola.
El Governor plucked the photograph and passed it over. Constanza bore down bellísima. Her bow threw sparks. She’d snapped a string. Her white gown dipped off one breast.
“My frenzied sister. She was Kyoho Hanamaka’s lover, some time ago.”
The Statie airfield had been prettified. It was a rush job. The theme was Welcome Exiles!!!
WILLKOMMEN signs lined the runway. Statie goons rolled out a red carpet. An old lady distributed pamphlets. They were quasi — symphony programs. A Spanish-language text ballyhooed the virtuosi.
Four uprooted souls. All first-chair musicians. Late of the Dresden Staatskappelle and Hitler’s death camps. Miklos and Magda Koenig. Sandor Abromowitz. Ruth Szigeti. Mittel European Jewry. Austro-Hungarian, all.
Their flight was due. Dudley stood behind a rope line and mingled. The welcome crowd ran forty, tops. They were all Mex and ran to type. Oldster kultur hounds. Konzertgoers in this heathen land.
A small airplane swooped toward the runway. A baggage cart rolled into view. The kultur hounds applauded. A Statie sergeant wheeled the Lazaro-Schmidts. They waved Hungarian flags on sticks.
Governor Juan wore a seersucker suit and white bucks. He eschewed his swastika lapel pin. Constanza wore a pink summer dress and spectator pumps. The Wolf strained at the rope line. He plainly desired her.
The Lazaro-Schmidts hopped off the cart and stood by the red carpet. A Statie corporal carried out a long-cord microphone. Dudley leafed through his program and checked the photographs.
The overfed Koenigs. The aged Abromowitz. The thin-sculpted Ruth Szigeti. They wore symphony black and held stringed instruments. Das Vaterland was good to them then.
The airplane dipped and landed. The pilot fishtailed up to the carpet. The kultur rubes cheered. The Wolf cocked his head and pawed the ground. What is this shit?
The Statie corporal pushed steps up to the airplane. The door swung open. The four refugees filed out.
The men wore overcoats and winter-wool suits. The women wore long dresses and fur wraps. The gulf heat smacked them. They looked like they’d pass out.
They weaved onto the carpet. Lazaro-Schmidt and fair Constanza dispensed abrazos and handshakes. The refugees looked gaunt and all beat-to-hell. They broiled in their winter ensembles. Old man Abromowitz grabbed Ruth Szigeti’s arm for support.
The rubes lapped it up. They tossed bravos. An old girl dipped into a paper sack and tossed rose petals. The Koenigs glared at the crowd. Old Abromowitz reeled. The Szigeti woman waved.
Lazaro-Schmidt braced the microphone. He spoke high-end Spanish and cut straight to the Big Theme Gist. He hit Expiation, Redemption, Reconciliation. He hit Forgiveness and Asylum. Our hermanos y hermanas were spared certain execution. Honor knows no national or ideological boundaries. German men of conscience saw to the rescue of these four gifted people. They are dedicated to the overthrow of Adolf Hitler and determined to create a better tomorrow for all citizens of the world. Our four new friends will be resettled into the exile community in Los Angeles. They will resume their musical careers as this storm of catastrophic war rages around us.
Applause blitzed the wrap-up. Constanza grabbed the mike and announced a reception. “My home, tonight. There will be music.”
The refugees reeled. Sing for your supper. Ruth Szigeti fumed and peeled off her fur coat.
Her arms were bare. Dudley saw torture scars and an SS tattoo.
The Wolf pre-prowled the wingding. Dudley walked the beach outside the house and peeped windows.
Said house was classic Spanish. It ran inimical to El Governor’s modernist spread. A night breeze stirred sand. The Wolf loped back and reported.
The refugees greeted Los Beaners. Well-wishers engulfed them. It was mucho enlightened and disingenuous. El Governor played host. Juan Pimentel wore Statie black and clicked his heels, Nazi-esque. The refugees avoided him. The kultur hounds swilled free champagne and snarfed free hors d’oeuvres.
Constanza circulated. Her dress straps kept slipping down her shoulders. She had short hair and wore no makeup. She went barefoot. Open windows stirred that beach breeze. Her pink dress swirled.
She’d coupled with Kyoho Hanamaka. It was “some time ago.” That mandated thought.
The Wolf curled up on a beachfront chaise. Dudley peeped a picture window. A valet laid out folding chairs. The refugees unpacked their instruments and sat down. Ruth Szigeti wore a black cocktail dress. She rolled up the sleeves and revealed half her tattoo.
They ripped into baleful Bartók. The room went kultur-hushed. Dudley slipped inside and skirted the crowd. He walked toward the back of the house.
Bisecting hallways. Brushed-adobe walls. Hardwood floors and silk tapestry rugs. Garish oil paintings. An all-jungle motif. Green foliage and predator cats.
Dudley opened doors and flipped light switches. He saw servants’ quarters and storage rooms and a closet jammed with skeet guns and horse-riding tack. He opened the adjacent door and caught Constanza’s scent.
She wore sandalwood perfume. He’d smelled it at the del Norte recital and the airfield. He flipped a wall switch. Floor lamps popped on and cast light.
The room ran fifteen-by-fifteen. It featured rough wood walls and floors. Phonograph records, a Victrola, a desk. Ornament shelves and framed wall photographs.