A Matter of Honor

“What was it like, old chap?” his companion asked cautiously.

“No trouble for a man who has German, French, Spanish, and Italian as part of his armory,” Adam assured him. “Best of luck, anyway.”

“Mr. Wainwright,” said the secretary, “the board will see you now.”

Adam took the lift to the ground floor and decided to walk home, stopping on the corner of Wilton Place to buy a bag of apples from a pushcart boy who seemed to spend most of his time on the lookout for the police. Adam moved on, going over in his mind the board’s questions and his answers—a pointless exercise, he decided, although he still felt confident the interview had gone well. He came to such a sudden halt that the pedestrian behind only just stopped himself bumping into Adam. What had attracted his attention was a sign that read: The German Food Centre. An attractive girl with a cheerful smile and laughing eyes was sitting at the cash register by the doorway. Adam strode into the shop and went straight over to her.

“You have not bought anything?” she inquired with a slight accent.

“No, I’m just about to,” Adam assured her, “but I wondered, do you speak German?”

“Most girls from Mainz do,” she replied, grinning.

“Yes, I suppose they would,” said Adam, looking at the girl more carefully. She must have been in her early twenties, Adam decided, and he was immediately attracted by her friendly smile and manner. Her shiny, dark hair was done up in a ponytail with a big red bow. Her white sweater and neat pleated skirt would have made any man take a second look. Her slim legs were tucked under the chair.”I wonder if you would be kind enough to translate a short paragraph for me?”

“I try,” she said, still smiling.

Adam took the envelope containing the final section of the letter out of his pocket and handed it over to her.

“The style is a bit old-fashioned,” she said, looking serious. “It may take a little time.”

“I’ll go and do some shopping,” he told her, and started walking slowly around the long stacked shelves. He selected a little salami, frankfurters, bacon, and some German mustard, looking up now and then to see how the girl was progressing. From what he could make out, she was only able to translate a few words at a time, as she was continually interrupted by customers. Nearly twenty minutes passed before he saw her put the piece of paper to one side. Adam immediately went over to the cash register and placed his purchases on the counter.

“One pound, two shillings and sixpence,” she said. Adam handed over two pounds, and she returned his change and the little piece of paper.

“This I consider a rough translation, but I think the meaning is clear.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Adam, as an elderly woman joined him in the line.

“You could invite me to share with you your frankfurters,” she laughed.

“What a nice idea,” said Adam. “Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight?”

“I was not serious,” she said.

“I was,” said Adam, smiling. Another person joined the line, and the old lady immediately behind him began to look restive.

Adam grabbed a leaflet from the counter, retreated toward the back of the store, and began to scribble down his name, address, and phone number. He waited for the two customers in front of him to pay, then handed over to her a “once-in-a-lifetime” Tide offer.

“What’s this?” the girl asked innocently.

“I’ve put my name and address on the center page,” Adam said. “I will expect you for dinner at about eight this evening. At least you know what’s on the menu.”

She looked uncertain. “I really was only joking.”

“I won’t eat you,” said Adam. “Only the sausages.”

She looked at the leaflet in her hand and laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

Adam strolled out on to the road whistling. A bad morning, a good afternoon, and—perhaps—an even better evening.

He was back at the flat in time to watch the fiv

e forty-five news. Mrs. Gandhi, as the new Prime Minister of India, was facing an open revolt in her cabinet and Adam wondered if Britain could ever have a woman Prime Minister. England was 117 for 7 in its first innings, with the West Indies still well on top. He groaned and turned off the television. Once he had put the food in the refrigerator he went into his bedroom to assemble the full text of the Goering letter. After he had read through all the little slips of paper he took out his notepad and began to copy out the translations in order: first, the paragraph supplied by the girl from the YMCA; then Wainwright’s handwritten words from the notepad; and finally the section of the letter translated by the lovely girl from Mainz. He read the completed draft through slowly a second time.

Nuremberg

15 October 1946