being back in Germany made me homesick in a way I could never have imagined. I was dismantled with tiredness by the time we left the restaurant and the boy, but Karl-Heinz insisted I accompany him back to his place. During dinner I had watched the words slip away as he tried to reach for them, behind each hesitation a glimpse of the dark crevass that lay ahead. He seemed distracted and frail. The shock of the old.
Karl-Heinz lived in a smart white cube more reminiscent of a South American hideaway than suburban Germany. It came with the full panoply of paranoid securityâa high wall, window grilles, alarms, and cameras. The number of locks reminded me of my trip to the bank with Dulles.
Inside was furnished with Karl-Heinzâs usual good taste, lots of blond wood and antique rugs. He showed off his stair chair lift with childish enthusiasm and poured large drinks. We sat in an upstairs room with more wood and rugs. The surprise was it was a working room, full of marked-up maps of the Middle East. When I asked what they were about, Karl-Heinz tapped his nose and changed the subject.
He bullshitted on about the old days. Betty Monroeâs name came up again because I was going to see her.
âYou know, I never met Betty,â Karl-Heinz said. * âThere was always a go-between. You or Willi.â
I was surprised, given his connections. Betty Monroe had run Dullesâs foreign operation throughout the war. She had recruited me in 1942, out of Lisbon. Betty was bright, in intelligence and personality, and unconventional. We all had big crushes on her. She was the older woman unbound by bourgeois strictures, who took lovers as she chose, including Dulles. There was a tame, dull husband in the background. Betty was artistic. Betty knew Carl Jung. Betty was brave. We were prepared to die for her. Betty sent agents in and out of Occupied Europe, myself included, while tirelessly working the diplomatic party scene, myself excluded. Willi Schmidt was always claiming that he âmade outâ with her, but none of us believed him. Williâs grasp of American slang was always ahead of my own.
Nobody had questioned Williâs death at the time, least of all me. The river had been in full spate.
Willi would have appreciated Karl-Heinzâs insistence that he was still alive. It was very Willi. Willi had always worked like an optical trick. He had the knack of making himself appear marginal and in the middle of things at the same time. A man of memorable entrances and invisible exits, Willi was gone by the time you noticed. Half the time he hadnât been there when people had sworn he was.
Karl-Heinz recalling him was, I figured, old ageâs equivalent to the imaginary friends invented by children. The man was on heavy medication and got his wires crossed. He should not be drinking alcohol, not in the quantity we did at dinner. Once so elegant, Karl-Heinz now dressed like a large baby. I can still see him in Cairo in 1956, in his white suit, hired by Nasser to teach his police interrogation techniques.
Karl-Heinz wanted to show me something he thought was in his bedroom wardrobe, but then he couldnât remember what he was looking for, and we ended up inspecting his old shirts, all handmade and professionally neat in laundry cellophane wraps. He reminded me of Gatsby and said that his collection of shirts had been inspired by him. Gatsby was a book he carried in his head throughout the war. âIt contains the word holocaust, did you know?â
The house was being watched, he said, plucking at my sleeve. He was being followed, probably by Israelis except they werenât professional enough. (I looked outside. The street was quiet. It was an unremarkable night, quite forgettable. I knew I wouldnât sleep in spite of my tiredness. Seeing Karl-Heinz had unsettled me. I saw my conscience: cold clinker at the bottom of the stove waiting for the rake.)
He kept telling me he had unfinished
Karl-Heinz lived in a smart white cube more reminiscent of a South American hideaway than suburban Germany. It came with the full panoply of paranoid securityâa high wall, window grilles, alarms, and cameras. The number of locks reminded me of my trip to the bank with Dulles.
Inside was furnished with Karl-Heinzâs usual good taste, lots of blond wood and antique rugs. He showed off his stair chair lift with childish enthusiasm and poured large drinks. We sat in an upstairs room with more wood and rugs. The surprise was it was a working room, full of marked-up maps of the Middle East. When I asked what they were about, Karl-Heinz tapped his nose and changed the subject.
He bullshitted on about the old days. Betty Monroeâs name came up again because I was going to see her.
âYou know, I never met Betty,â Karl-Heinz said. * âThere was always a go-between. You or Willi.â
I was surprised, given his connections. Betty Monroe had run Dullesâs foreign operation throughout the war. She had recruited me in 1942, out of Lisbon. Betty was bright, in intelligence and personality, and unconventional. We all had big crushes on her. She was the older woman unbound by bourgeois strictures, who took lovers as she chose, including Dulles. There was a tame, dull husband in the background. Betty was artistic. Betty knew Carl Jung. Betty was brave. We were prepared to die for her. Betty sent agents in and out of Occupied Europe, myself included, while tirelessly working the diplomatic party scene, myself excluded. Willi Schmidt was always claiming that he âmade outâ with her, but none of us believed him. Williâs grasp of American slang was always ahead of my own.
Nobody had questioned Williâs death at the time, least of all me. The river had been in full spate.
Willi would have appreciated Karl-Heinzâs insistence that he was still alive. It was very Willi. Willi had always worked like an optical trick. He had the knack of making himself appear marginal and in the middle of things at the same time. A man of memorable entrances and invisible exits, Willi was gone by the time you noticed. Half the time he hadnât been there when people had sworn he was.
Karl-Heinz recalling him was, I figured, old ageâs equivalent to the imaginary friends invented by children. The man was on heavy medication and got his wires crossed. He should not be drinking alcohol, not in the quantity we did at dinner. Once so elegant, Karl-Heinz now dressed like a large baby. I can still see him in Cairo in 1956, in his white suit, hired by Nasser to teach his police interrogation techniques.
Karl-Heinz wanted to show me something he thought was in his bedroom wardrobe, but then he couldnât remember what he was looking for, and we ended up inspecting his old shirts, all handmade and professionally neat in laundry cellophane wraps. He reminded me of Gatsby and said that his collection of shirts had been inspired by him. Gatsby was a book he carried in his head throughout the war. âIt contains the word holocaust, did you know?â
The house was being watched, he said, plucking at my sleeve. He was being followed, probably by Israelis except they werenât professional enough. (I looked outside. The street was quiet. It was an unremarkable night, quite forgettable. I knew I wouldnât sleep in spite of my tiredness. Seeing Karl-Heinz had unsettled me. I saw my conscience: cold clinker at the bottom of the stove waiting for the rake.)
He kept telling me he had unfinished
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