“I know an Oberführer von Deitzberg.”
“Sir, I believe that Oberführer von Deitzberg has been seconded to the Wehrmacht.”
“I see. Are you telling me he’s here, in Buenos Aires?”
“Sí, mi Coronel. He just got off the airplane. He’s at the Alvear Plaza.”
“Well, Mayor, please extend my compliments to Generalmajor von Deitzberg and my warmest wishes of welcome to Argentina.”
“Si, Señor. Señor, the general asked me to tell you that he would consider it a personal service if you would receive him at your earliest convenience, preferably today.”
There was another long pause.
“There are questions of protocol, Mayor, as I’m sure you will understand. I would be delighted to receive the General socially, as an old friend, but I’m afraid coming here…”
“I believe the General wishes to pay his respects as a friend, mi Coronel.”
There was another pause.
“I have yet to find myself a suitable apartment, Mayor. For the time being, I’m staying at the house of an old friend, at 4730 Avenida Libertador—that’s right across from the Hipódrome.”
“Yes, Sir.”
That’s Cletus Frade’s guest house.
“Would you please tell the General I would be pleased to receive him there, as an old friend, at, say, half past seven tonight?”
“It will be my privilege, mi Coronel,” Peter said.
“Socially, you understand, Mayor?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.” The line went dead. Peter hung up and looked at the door to the bath. He could hear the shower running.
He reached in his pocket and opened the letter from his father. It was typewritten.
* * *
THE FÜHRER’S HEADQUARTERS
30 APRIL 1943
MY DEAR SON,
GENERALMAJOR VON DEITZBERG HAS KINDLY AGREED TO CARRY THIS TO YOU IN BUENOS AIRES. IT WILL THUS ARRIVE SOMETIME BEFORE MY LETTER OF 27 APRIL, WHICH UNFORTUNATELY DEALS WITH THE SAME SUBJECT.
I MUST, WITH PROFOUND REGRET, INFORM YOU THAT OUR FRIEND COLONEL GRAF CLAUS VON STAUFFENBERG HAS BEEN SERIOUSLY WOUNDED WHILE SERVING WITH THE AFRIKA KORPS. AS NEAR AS I CAN PIECE THE FACTS TOGETHER, HE WAS TRAVELING IN A CAR WHICH WAS ATTACKED BY AMERICAN AIRCRAFT.
HE HAS LOST HIS RIGHT HAND, HIS LEFT EYE, AND THE THIRD AND FOURTH FINGERS OF HIS LEFT HAND. HE WAS FLOWN FROM AFRICA TO MUNICH, AND WHEN GENERAL STABBEN AND I VISITED HIM IN HOSPITAL THERE, HE WAS REFUSING PAIN-REDUCING MEDICINE IN THE BELIEF THAT DOING SO WOULD FACILITATE HIS RETURN TO DUTY.
I GO INTO THESE UNPLEASANT DETAILS BECAUSE I AM SURE THAT YOU WILL WISH TO WRITE TO HIM-YOU ALWAYS THOUGHT OF HIM AS AN OLDER BROTHER—TO EXPRESS YOUR BEST WISHES, AND I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU SAID NOTHING, IN AN ATTEMPT TO CHEER HIM UP, THAT WOULD MAKE HIM FEEL WORSE.
I AM IN GOOD HEALTH, BELIEVE I AM DOING MY DUTY TO THE FATHERLAND, AND THINK OF YOU OFTEN.
THE WARMEST WISHES OF YOUR FATHER, OF COURSE.
* * *
One hand, one eye, and fingers gone from the other hand. He’s a fucking cripple!