Chapter 27

Table of Contents

It was with some trepidation that Mike entered the lobby of Viatica Manor, uncertain if Herr Müeller would receive him or not.  Mike thought about dumping the box of medals and running, but believed the Herr would refuse it, and rightly so, thinking it filled with dog turds or some other vile substance dredged out from the dens of trolls.

"I'm here to sssee Josef Müeller," Mike said meekly to the battle-hardened crone behind the desk, who looked at anyone below the age of 70 with great suspicion.

"Is he expecting you?" Brunehilde, warrior princess of the Visigoths asked.

"Probably not," said Mike.

"Then I'll have to call first.  Name, please."

"Michael Gasden of Cornudo, Arizona." That was the first time he had verbally identified himself with the place.

The rapidly fossilizing secretary called, but did not take her guilty until proven innocent eyes off of Mike at any time.  The Herr answered on the other end, and the secretary exchanged angry invective with him in what must have been multiple Viking-based languages.  Then she put the phone down, after which her watchdog scowl was replaced by a mask of sweetness.  "He says he will be most pleased to see you immediately.  Please sign in."

Mike moved with caution down the hallway toward the Herr's room, suspecting that the old Prussian warhorse had laid a minefield to get the last laugh on him. This was too easy, so far.  But somehow he survived the booby trapped hallway to make it to the Herr's door, where he knocked gently, not sure if the entryway was spring loaded to set off a bouncing Betty, or some other explosive device. 

The Herr opened the door.  "Mike! Come in mein Freund."  The elderly gentleman, looking a lot like the Grand Moff Tarkin, shook Mike's hand vigorously.  The old stormtrooper was slightly more stooped over than their last meeting, but had energy for another 15 years yet.  "Setzen Sie sich bitte.  Sit down.  Ver are my manners.  Vergib my lapses into Deutsch. Ha ha, 70 years later and I still slip into my mother tongue. Sit down."

Mike sat down after brushing the area beneath his britches with one hand, thinking there may be explosives rigged to the chair or, at least a whoopie cushion. 

"Forgive me the condition of my room," the Herr said, making a grand sweeping motion across the general untidiness, like a Panzer Division encircling a Russian army.  Mike noted there were papers and photographs scattered everywhere.  Even in the open bathroom he could see scraps of scribbled notes resting on the towel rack and toothbrush holder.  "I have been writing my memoirs.  I figure if that Nazi-loving Hans Rudel can do it, vy not me?  Ja?"

Mike nodded, not sure what he was nodding for, then held up the cigar box.  "That sort of reminds me, Herr Müeller, I brought something for you."

"You call me Joe.  Was?  Mein Gott!  Ist das...?

Mike handed him the cigar box. It read Weiße Garde on top.  The Herr snatched the box and opened it.  "Ver did you find this?  I vas looking for this for years."

The Herr took out the medal with the blue cross.  "My Blue Max!  The highest decoration in the German armed forces.  Und hier ist my Eiserness Kreuz, Iron Cross, und mein Pilot's Badge.  "Ver did you find these?"

"In the wall behind the office."

"Ach!" exclaimed the Herr.  "Of course.  I used to have a little hideout back there, a panic room I guess you could call it.  In those times after the var, guys like me were very vorried about the Israeli Mosad picking us up first und denn asking questions spater.  I never committed any var crimes, but some of my associates were in deep with the Nazis.  Anyvey, later on ven the coast was clear I had that room valled over.  I guess I must have left these little keepsakes in there.  How did you find it?"

"I was doing a little remodeling of my own," Mike said.  "Why were you vorried? - worried?  Weren't you just an ambulance driver or something?"

"Scheiße!" Swore the Herr.  "I just said that to those Arschlöcher in Cornudo so they would leave me alone.  "No my boy, I was a Luftwaffe flying ace.  A Stuka pilot, to be exact."

Mike thought that was hella bitchin.  The Herr was pretty impressed with it himself, because he kept going, puffed up like a rooster.

"Because I was not one of those Nazi bootlickers, I did not get credit for some of my kills, but I was the top tank killer of Vorld Var Two.  Ach!  Ver are my manners!  Vould you like some coffee?"

Mike was a little fidgety, wondering when the nice act ended and the Herr went Boys from Brazil, pulling out instruments of torture to use on him. But Mike said yes, even while looking back to make sure he knew exactly where the door was, in case he had to bolt.

"Ver vas I?" the Herr said when he came back with the coffee.  "Ah yes.  Throughout the war I was in a rivalry with that Schweinhünde, Hans Rudel.  He is credited with 519 tank kills, vile mein official toll is 518.  One tank short!  One tank short and he gets all the glory, all of the praise in the annals of the Luftwaffe.  But I was cheated by that Nazi bastard.  Cheated I tell you!"

The Herr pounded the table with his fist, and Mike's coffee sloshed and spilled. That was okay, he didn't plan on drinking it anyway. "Entschuldig," apologized the Herr.  "I still get so vorked up.  But there ve vere," he said while drawing an imaginary line with his hand in the air, "retreating across Europe as fast as the Russians could push us.  Ve knew the var was over, but Hans und Ich could not let our rivalry go.  Now was the time to lay low and save our skins but ve just couldn't do it."

"The rivalry was intense at that point, precisely because we could see the writing on the vall.  I had a comfortable lead on Hans and he couldn't stand it.  Whether Germany von or lost, he vas determined to end the war ahead of me in kills, at any cost.  One day toward the end he got his chance.  I was ordered that day to drop my bombs on a little village where some suspected partisans were supposed to be hiding.  Vat do ve care about partisans at that point?  We occupy a piece of ground one day, but it is gone tomorrow.  Let the partisans have it, I say."

"Besides, it had always been my personal policy not to fire on civilians, even ven ve vere at our high vater mark on the Russian front.  I don't mind killing Ivan ven he has a gun in his hand and is shooting at me, but shooting and bombing unarmed civilians goes against the vay I vas raised.  Hans Rudel knew this and up until now he alvays looked the other vay ven I shot my guns over the head of some donkey cart or dropped my bomb harmlessly beside a road packed mit fleeing vomen und children."

"So I got on the radio und said to Hans, flying on my ving - Look Hans, the var is over soon, vy do ve kill these innocent villagers, it vill just make us look bad after.  Hans says oh ja, I agree, so I dropped my bombs in a field, avay from the village."

"But Hans is obsessed mit beating my record for tank kills.  So that day he rats me out mit our commanding officer, and I find myself locked up for insubordination.  During that time Hans goes on a tank-killing spree, recklessly risking his own life and disobeying orders himself so he can beat me.  Meanvile, the var ended für mich in that cell.  Lucky for me, American paratroopers liberated the town I was held in before the Russians could get there.  I was taken prisoner and sent out here to the desert.  Ven I got out I married an American voman, my charming Elsie, but she died in childbirth.  But dat is another story. Vile I vas in jail that scoundrel Hans Rudel beat my kills record by one tank.  Ein verdammt tank!  Which is vy I have to write my story, to set the record straight about vat that cheating scoundrel did to beat me!"

For a moment Mike feared the Herr was going to topple over in cardiac arrest.  The withered warrior went red in the face, shuffled unsteadily on his feet, and held his hand over his heart. Then he took a series of prolonged breaths and regained his composure.

"Mike, do me ein favor." he said. “Ach! You have already done me a great favor my bringing me my momentos, but I ask you etwas mehr."

"Yeah, s-sure," Mike said.

"If I die before I finish my memoirs, because let's face it even Stuka pilots don't live forever, tell the Vurld my story.  Tell them how that Nazi bastard Rudel cheated me."

"Yeah, no problem.  Ssoo.."

The Herr spun his hawkish face toward Mike.  "Ja?  So vat?"

"So we're good, right?"

"Vat do you mean ve're gut?"

"Vell, er Well, what I mean is I did a lot of bad stuff to you.  I feel that I humiliated you.  It was wrong, and I'm sorry for it."

The Herr whisked his hand in the air, as if Mike's apology was only an annoying fly.  “Ach!  No need for that.  I enjoyed your little pranks.  You made life interesting in that verdammt Wuste, vondering vat your next move vas going to be."

"Yeah, but..."

"But vat!" snapped the Herr.  "Speak openly.  Quit pussy-footing around."

Mike lowered his head.  "I feel really scummy about what I was going to do at the end, when I bought the place from you."

"Ach! You did me a favor, taking that rathole auf meine Hande. Vat, Vas is it?"

"I was going to pee on your parking lot and make you watch, as a condition of buying.  But I chickened out because you were being so nice about everything."

The Herr laughed and clapped his hands.  "Ach that vould have been wunderbar!  I vould have agreed, smiling all the time.  Und denn I vould have stuck a firecracker up your arschloch!  Ha Ha!"

Mike laughed along with the Herr this time, then got up.  "It's been really nice talking to you Herr Müeller," he said, "but I've got an appointment at the University.  I'm going to get some Arabic documents translated."

"Arabisch?  Vat for?"  The Herr's interest had been aroused.

Mike hesitated.  How much could he trust this man?  They seemed to have put their feud behind them, but hiding a refugee baby that does not belong to you is a lot more serious than pissing in a parking lot.

"Vy don't you let me have a look?" said the Herr.  "Before the war mein Vater vas military attaché to Egypt.  I spent two years in Cairo, and learned to read and write fluently in Arabic.  I am as good as any professor.  Maybe I can save you the trip.  Let me see."

But you barely speak effin English, thought Mike, but forestalled himself with the Herr's definite Teutonic authoritarian streak.  When you flew Stukas and could bomb people into oblivion, it tended to make you not take no for an answer.

"Gib mir," said the Herr, holding out a hand. “Don’t vorry. If you are in some kind of trouble, I understand. In that verdammt desert trouble has a vay of slithering up to your doorstep on its belly. Your secret is safe with me. I am a military man, I keep secrets.”

Mike regretted now having brought along the envelope the postcards were in.  It was obvious to the still sharp eyes of the Herr that this was the container for said documents.  There was no getting around it.

The Herr put on tiny spectacles that teetered unsteadily on the tip of his nose.  He took the envelope and carefully removed the contents, his dive bomber hands surgically precise.  At the height of his powers he must have been feared by friend and foe alike, Mike thought.  With catlike attention the old warhorse first scrutinized the postcard photos, then read the Arabic scribbling on their backs.

"Mein Gott! Ver did you get these?"

"I found them in a room," said Mike.  It wasn't entirely a lie.

The Herr tapped his fingers on the table pensively.  "Striking scenes of the town of Aleppo.  I was there in my youth.  Ich glaube...I think that these belong to that little boy whose Muter vas killed in the desert.  You have heard of that, ja?"

"I think so," said Mike.

The Herr reexamined the postcards one by one. 

"What do they say?"

"They say - This is my boy ---.  There is a big smudge there.  I cannot see what his name is.  Then it says that bad men, vite volves, are chasing us across the desert."

"What are white wolves?"

The Herr shrugged and flipped to the second card.  "We are refugees of the civil war in Syria, from Aleppo.  My husband was a soldier in the Free Syrian Army.  He fought against Asad.  He was killed.  We will be killed also if we are sent back."

The third card came up.  "Please accept my son as a refugee from the conflict in Syria.  We are good people.  We are not terrorists.  The volves in the jeeps hunt us like bad people, but we are not bad people.  We are peaceful.  We just vant freedom."

The Herr flipped to the fourth and final card. Mike thought he saw a little tear in his eye, magnified by the spectacles.  "My sister is Kalisha Safar.  She lives in Voodland Park, New Jersey.  She has a refugee visa.  Her phone number is 1-973-345-4964. She will take care of him if something happens to me. Please save my son from the volves.  He is a good boy."

He is a good boy.  A damn good boy, thought Mike.

The Herr remained deep in thought.  "Volves, volves, who are these völfe?  Ach!"  He dashed over to Mike and put a hand on his shoulder.  "Michael, listen to me.  If this boy is still alive, he is in grave danger.  Gefahr!  Verstehst du?  Whatever you do, do not contact the local authorities.  Trust me on this.  This child might show up on your doorstep.  In Cornudo, lost or abandoned things have a vay of crawling out of the desert.  If he does, call the sister. I vill write the contact information for you, because you obviously cannot read the Arabic.  Vork it out mit her vat you are going to do.  Do not call the sheriff.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," nodded Mike.  He had not been in Cornudo long, but long enough to understand where the Herr was coming from.

"Good boy," said the Herr.  He put the stack of postcards back in the envelope and handed them back.  "Be careful, Michael.  I sense you are in some deep Scheiße.  Don't get in over your head."

“Oh. One more thing,” the Herr added. He rummaged around the table and found an envelope of his own, that he handed to Mike. “Give this to that schwein Tony Vargas if you see him, and you vill vether you vant to or not. It is a letter from my lawyer. Ve have unfinished business, he and I. Please do not read it. It is of a very sensitive, personlicher nature.”

Mike nodded and took the letter. He walked toward the door of the Herr's small habitation then turned back.  "Let me ask you one question before I go Herr- um Joe.  How did you get along with Tony being your groundskeeper?"

The Herr looked confused.  "Groundskeeper?  Vat groundskeeper?  Why vould I need a groundskeeper for that shitty little place?  And if I did, do you think I would pick Tony Vargas?  I vouldn't let that bum on the property, much less hire him as the groundskeeper."

The Herr could see Mike's startled expression.  "Mike, let me varn you about sometink. Tony Vargas is a harmless, lazy joker, aber vatch out fur his bruder Danny Valero.  That whole clan is bad news.  They vill play you.  They are already playing you, ja?"

Mike's face had gone wan, the approximate color of the blanched desert soil.  "Take my advice Mike.  Get out of there.  Cut und run.  Don't vorry about return on your investment.  Let it rot.  Let it return to dust.  Let it crumble into sand and blow avay.  Cornudo ist ein abomination.  It is someone's bad joke made real. I survived there so many years because they thought I vas a crazy Nazi with an army of SS stormtroopers hiding in the cactus.  There is nothing there for you.  Get aus."

Mike shook hands with the Herr after making solemn vows to come back soon, and other such empty formalities, the intensity and sincerity of which would fade in time then vanish. 

As he made his way out of the building, the dire warnings of Herr Müeller echoed in Mike's ears. Get aus.  Get aus.  Okay, it was only half English, but the meaning was clear.  If the words had been uttered in the Mok language, which at last report had seven speakers worldwide, Mike would have caught the drift.

The problem was that Mike didn't want to believe it.  The Herr was a grouchy recovering Nazi who hated Mexicans.  Yeah, that was it.  From now on, Mike would repeat that like a mantra whenever he doubted.

Mike passed Brunehilde at the front desk, who appeared to be suppressing a smirk and didn't look up.  What was that all about? thought Mike.

He found out what it was all about when he got to the parking lot. The tires, axle and entire undercarriage of Mike's truck were entwined in red duct tape.  It looked as if someone had emptied out the tape rack at Home Depot and enshrouded his wheel base in uncountable rolls of candy apple colored adhesive, while the warrior princess stood watch as a willing and amused accomplice.

Mike's mood improved immediately.  He felt the competitive gorge rise in his craw again and turned back toward the building. There he saw what he expected to see, the Herr looking out from his second story window, laughing and waving. Vaving.

Mike faced the faded Luftwaffe ace, put his heels together, and shot him a perfect Nazi salute.  The Herr came back with a rather impressive one-finger salute of his own.

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Image is a US Navy photo, in the public domain, taken from Wikimedia Commons