Up in Honey's Room (14 page)

“I recall one of the defendants in that trial,” Joe Aubrey said, “invented what he named a ‘Kike Killer,' a short round club that came in two sizes, one for ladies.”

Maybe she could get him to write the check and not have to kiss him or do anything else.

“This evening,” Vera said, “could be our last meeting. There are no recording devices in my house, or any one of us likely to inform on the others, despite the ruthless efforts of the Justice Department. Let's refill our glasses, toast our future”—looking at Walter now—“and hear what our Detroit version of Heinrich Himmler is so anxious to tell us. Walter?”

 

They had turned off Woodward and were creeping along Boston Boulevard, the street divided by a tree-lined median and big, comfortable homes on both sides.

Honey said, “I can't read the house numbers.”

“The one with two cars parked in front,” Carl said. “The Ford belongs to Walter,” the cars shining in the streetlight, “and a Buick.”

“That's all?” Honey said. “What about the one we're coming to?” Another Ford, three houses from Vera's on the same side of the street.

“That's FBI surveillance.”

“How do you know?”

“It's where you'd park to watch the house.”

They crept past the car, Honey sitting taller to have a look at the black four-door sedan.

“There's no one in it.”

“I'll bet you five bucks the house is under surveillance.”

“Okay, turn around, and we'll go back.”

Now she was telling him what to do. At the Paradiso, the restaurant, she kept telling him what to order, like the collards. In charge now since he'd chickened out. Would not jump on her when she showed him her bare breasts, Jesus, using them like a buck lure, and they'd gone out to eat instead of falling in bed. She didn't act pissy or disappointed, she was making fun of him by giving him orders. Carl turned at the next opening in the median and started back toward the house. Now she told him, “Park behind Walter's car.”

“What're we doing?”

“I thought we'd drop in on the meeting.”

Carl pulled to the curb and stopped.

“You believe they'll invite us in?”

“Don't you want to see Jurgen?”

“When they tell me I can pick him up.”

“What if he's gone by then?” She said, “You know what? I'll say my ex-husband asked me to stop by and I brought a friend. We'd never met any spies before.”

Carl said, “You're having fun, aren't you?”

“Or, I'll go in and you can wait here.”

“How about this,” Carl said. “You get out of the car you're on your own.”

Honey got out and stood holding the door open.

She said, “I'll tell you about it tomorrow.” Closed the door and waved her fingers at him in the window.

J
urgen was seated with Vera on the sofa, more than half the living room from where Walter was standing in the opening to the dining room, a row of candles on the polished table lighting him from behind. He had placed a few newspaper and magazine pages on the table and now was ready to begin.

“All of you know of the enigma that shrouds the birth of Heinrich Himmler and myself.” He paused.

Vera groaned. She said, “Please, God, shut him up.”

“I think he memorized his opening,” Jurgen said, “and forgot what comes next.”

“Their date of birth,” Vera said.

“I was delivered into the world,” Walter said, “the seventh day of October in the year 1900.”

“On the same day,” Vera said.

“On the same day,” Walter said, “as Heinrich Himmler, the future
Reichführer
of the SS.”

“In the same hospital,” Vera said, her eyes closed.

“But not in the same place,” Walter said.

Jurgen turned his head to Vera. She was again watching Walter, saying, “What's he doing?”

“Heinrich was born at home,” Walter said. “Two Hildegardstrasse in an upstairs flat. I also was born at home. However I was taken to hospital with my mother the same day where we were both cared for. My mother had suffered complications giving birth to me.”

Vera turned to Jurgen. “He wasn't born in the hospital.”

“I have never lied to you,” Walter said. “I believed I was born in that hospital and came to believe Heinrich was also, as my twin, because so many people said to me from the time I was a lad, ‘Aren't you Heini Himmler? Did you not move to Landshut?' Or, someone says to me, ‘I saw you this morning in Landshut.' It's north of Munich fifty miles. ‘What are you doing here? Isn't your father headmaster at the school?' Now I'm living here, and by the thirties I see photos of Heinrich in German newspapers. Heinrich reviewing SS troops with the Führer. I look at the pictures of him and I think, my God, Heinrich and I are identical. I began to consider other similarities. Both of us born in Munich on the same day. Could we look so much alike and not be twins, born of the same mother? Why were we separated, kept apart? I began to believe Heini and I were put on this earth with destinies to fulfill.”

“Not unlike the Virgin Mary,” Vera said.

“In April 1939 I was asked by several of my Detroit friends, did I see myself on the cover of
Time,
the magazine. I was already reading about this rising star of the Nazi Party who must be my twin. Now he was gaining international attention. Heini was dedicated, conscientious. So was I.”

“Dedicated to what,” Vera said, “cutting meat?”

“He suffers from an upset stomach,” Walter said. “At times so do I.”

“Gas,” Vera said. “Quiet, but telling.”

“At one time he was a devout Catholic,” Walter said. “So was I. He believed that allowing oneself to be sexually aroused by women, who by their nature could not control themselves, was to be avoided before marriage. So did I.”

Jurgen said, “I can't see Heinrich with a woman.”

As Walter was saying, “Heini's wife, seven years his senior, gave him a child, a daughter. I'm told he first noticed Marga—who referred to the Führer's exterminator as ‘my naughty darling'—because of her beautiful blond hair. The woman I married was much younger than I and, unfortunately, quite immature. Honig also had blond hair. My one regret is that she did not provide me with a son before she walked out of my house.” Walter paused. “I saw Honig the other night, the first time in five and a half years.” He said, “She looked the same as I remembered her. Perhaps her hair was more blond.” He stopped and stared into the room at his audience: Jurgen and Vera, Bohdan and Dr. Taylor, Joe Aubrey in an armchair by himself. Walter continued, saying, “Heini believed in unconditional devotion to duty. So do I.” He paused and was thoughtful as he said, “Why did I believe for so long we were identical in every way, one of us an imprint of the other?”

“Because you wanted to believe it,” Jurgen said.

“Because I wanted to believe I have a destiny as meaningful as Heini's, who has set out to eliminate a race of people from the world by means of
Sonderbehandlung,
a special treatment, murder in the gas chamber. First in Europe, then comes here and turns his
Einsatzgruppen
on America, his death squads. They say, now that Heini is head of the SS and the Gestapo, Reich Minister of the Interior, Reich Minister of Home Defense, head
of military intelligence, Germany's chief of police, he must follow the Führer as the next master of the Third Reich. But think about it. Would the Führer in his wisdom choose the most hated man in the world to succeed him? A man so detested he would be rejected even by the Nazi Party? Heini has said people may hate us, but we don't ask for their love, only that they fear us. He tells his SS, we must discuss the plan for extermination, but never speak of it in public. He said they can look at a thousand corpses in one place, mounds of dead bodies the result of their work, and know they remain good fellows. Heini is responsible for the murder of Jews, Romas, priests, homosexuals, Communists, ordinary people, in numbers estimated to exceed, easily, ten million.”

Vera and Jurgen watched him, not saying a word.

“I cannot,” Walter said, “compare my destiny to Heini's. I have in mind the extermination of only one man.”

He turned to the dining table and began looking through pages from magazines and sheets of notepaper.

“Himmler,” Vera said.

“You're joking.”

“Walter is Himmler's ghost double, his doppelganger. When someone's doppelganger appears it means the someone he looks like is going to die. It happened with my husband, Fadey. The day I learned he went down with his ship, Bo was trying on one of Fadey's suits, very loose on him. He put on Fadey's hat the way Fadey wore it and was impersonating him, the gruff way he spoke.”

“And Fadey walked in.”

“Not this time. Fadey never saw Bo mimic him, but I think Bo was still his doppelganger.”

Jurgen nodded toward the dining room and Vera turned her head to see Walter in his black suit and pince-nez ready to continue.

“I have photographs and my notes here, and a map you can look at later if you want. What I intend to do is assassinate the president of the United States—”

“Frank D. Rosenfeld,” Joe Aubrey said and started laughing, putting it on. He said, “Walter, how you gonna do it, sneak in the White House?”

“The Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia,” Walter said. “I have learned Roosevelt has been there since March thirtieth, resting, restoring his energy. I was counting on him remaining in Warm Springs through the twentieth of this month, Adolf Hitler's birthday, but I'm going to move the date of the assassination to the thirteenth. Once I'm successful, the name Walter Schoen will have a place in American history to rival that of John Wilkes Booth.”

Jurgen said, “Who's John Wilkes Booth?”

“And will be remembered longer,” Walter said, “than the name of the man who murdered ten million. I say this not in a boastful way.” Walter paused and said, “What was his name again?” Walter smiled and turned it off.

“Who was the one he'll be as well known as?”

“Booth,” Vera said. “He shot Abraham Lincoln. Ask Walter how he's going to do it.”

Joe Aubrey was already saying to Walter, “How you gonna get near him with Secret Service and marines all over the place? You know Rosenfeld's been going there for twenty years? See if that warm mineral water—why they call it Warm Springs—always eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit day or night. See if it'll help his polio-my'litis ease up. You know he wears steel braces on his legs, has 'em painted black, or he wouldn't be able to stand up, like he does from the ass end of a train, the observation car. There's a lot of people go down there for the water. I been to the springs, it isn't fifty miles from Griffin, up on Pine Mountain.”

He said to Walter, “Even before you told me, I had an idea you were after Rosenfeld. You come visit and get me to fly down there. All this time you're scouting the area.”

He said to the others, “You can get in trouble you fly over the Little White House. They warn you, get out of here. You don't leave fast I'm told they shoot you down.”

Joe Aubrey turned to Walter again. “How you gonna do it, buddy, show up in an iron lung? You don't halt when they tell you, you'll hear machine-gun rounds dingin' off your breather. Walter, tell us how you plan to assassinate the man.”

“I'm going to rent a small plane,” Walter said, “fill it with dynamite, light the fuse, dive straight down like a Stuka into the Little White House and blow it up.”

No one in the room spoke.

Jurgen and Vera were sitting up now. Jurgen said to her, “He's going to kill himself.”

Vera raised her voice. “Walter, why do you wish to end your life?”

“It's my gift to the Führer.”

“Please, what has the Führer done for you?”

Joe Aubrey said, “I taught Walter to fly in my Cessna after he pestered me to death. Now he tells us he wants to be the only German-American kamikaze pilot in World War Two, so people will remember him, Walter the Assassin. Walter, you ever hear about the Jap kamikaze pilot that survived? Chicken Nakamura?”

Vera said to Jurgen, “What's today, the eleventh,” and to Walter, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I'll fly down with Joe. I'm counting on my friend to get me the dynamite and rent a plane, since I don't have a license.”

Vera got up from the sofa and went to Walter, wanting to touch him. She put her hand on his shoulder. Walter staring at her through his pince-nez, submissive, sad? Perhaps confused. She said, Walter, if you could fly your plane to Moscow and use it to kill the Evil Dwarf, ahhhh, it would be a gift for humanity. The world would rejoice, even the Bolsheviks. Trust me, Walter, it's true. But to kill the president of the United States, now, the war in its final, what, weeks? What would be the good of it?”

“I told you,” Walter said, “it's my gift to the Führer.”

“You want him to show his appreciation?”

“It isn't necessary.”

“Give you the Knight's Cross posthumously. Or to a member of your family, your sister who never speaks?”

“Knowing I've served the Führer will be enough,” Walter said.

“But will Adolf appreciate your gift, the Red Army about to descend on him? What happens to your meat business, your slaughterhouse?”

Bohdan said, “Vera?”

She looked at him sitting with Dr. Taylor.

“What Walter might consider,” Bo said, “develop an act where he does Himmler monologues in an SS uniform, the hat, the one with the skull and crossbones on it.”

Vera gave him her cold stare.

“I'm serious,” Bo said. “The material's way overdone, and with funny punch lines where you least expect. Walter does it without cracking a smile.”

Vera said, “Yes…?” Thinking about it now. “Walter does it for American audiences?”

“Who else? After they win the war. You could represent Walter, act as his agent.”

“He's serious,” Vera said to Walter, Walter frowning at her. She gave his cheek a pat and turned to Jurgen on the sofa, Jurgen with raised eyebrows showing her an open mind. Vera moved to him with a faint smile thinking, Thank God for Jurgen.

The front doorbell rang with a
ding-dong
chime.

Then again.

It stopped Vera at the sofa. She looked at Bo. Bo looked back at her but didn't move from Dr. Taylor's side. Vera gestured toward the door. She watched Bo give the doctor's hand a pat as he got up from his chair.

“Vera, are we expecting anyone?”

Now Joe Aubrey was on his feet.

“Lemme handle it. Nobody comes in this house without a warrant signed by a federal judge.”

Vera was thinking if it was the police, the FBI, all right, it was over, out of her hands. She watched Aubrey go to the front entrance, release the double lock and open the door.

Walter said, “My God, Honig?”

Joe Aubrey turned to Vera, not sure what to do.

Honey walked past him into the foyer.

 

She had a nice smile ready for the faces staring at her, picking out Vera Mezwa, the head German spy Kevin had told her about, and the young guy in the sport coat—not the one wearing a skirt—who must be Jurgen, the German POW watching her with a pleasant expression; he seemed calm for a guy on the run. Joe Aubrey looked familiar, from the Bund rally in New York years ago. The other two must be Dr. Taylor and the houseman, the one Carl had called Bohunk, but the guy didn't look bad in the gray sweater and skirt. Weird but kind of attractive. They didn't
look to Honey like a ring of German spies having a meeting, but that's what they were.

She stuck out her right arm in the Nazi salute to show she'd come in peace, with no intention of causing trouble, and said, “
Sieg Heil,
y'all. I'm Honey Deal.”