Amerikan Eagle

Hans Groebke, leaning against the fender of Sam’s Packard, a paper package at his elbow, on the car’s mud-spattered hood.

Sam’s first instinct was to charge over and punch out that smug face in a series of hammer blows, but he wondered if he was strong enough. If he wasn’t, what then? He started for his revolver, to shoot the Nazi son of a bitch right then and there, but there was something in the man’s eyes that stopped him. A look that didn’t belong. Sympathy? Concern? What was it?

Groebke straightened, performed his courtly, tiny bow. “Guten tag, Inspector Miller.”

“What the hell are you doing at my home?”

The Gestapo man said, “Things have changed since you went away. At midnight a new—how you say—permit process has been implemented.” From his coat pocket, he removed a square of cardboard gilted on the edges. “All vehicles must now have this pass. Without it, you would have not been able to go work for us today, which would be unfortunate.”

“How did you get here?”

“Herr LaCouture drove me here on his way to the naval shipyard on some sort of inspection.”

“A favor? You’re doing this to me as a favor?”

A brief nod. “Something like that, yes.”

“Do you know where I’ve been these past few days?”

Groebke studied him for a moment. Then he said, “Against orders from your own boss, you have been investigating the matter of the dead German found by your railroad tracks. You left town as part of this investigation. That’s all LaCouture and I know. And eventually, you will be punished for that… oversight.”

“Even with that, you want me?”

“Yes, we do. We have come to depend on what you can provide for us.”

“That’s bullshit,” Sam said.

“Excuse? Bull what?”

“Crap, nonsense, that’s what I meant. Any cop on the force can do what I’m doing for you. Which is why what you said is crap.”

Groebke reached over to the package. “You may call it whatever you like, Herr Miller, but there is work to be done. And here. Some breakfast for you.”

Sam took the paper bag, looked into it. A cardboard container of coffee, a plain doughnut. Groebke said, “After being with your police after all this time, I think I know what you like, am I right?”

Sam looked at Groebke, the smooth features, the blue eyes, the blond hair. In his mind’s eye, he saw other things. The SS men at the Burdick camp. The newsreels of German troops burning and slashing their way through Europe and Russia. The photos he had seen yesterday of the massacre of the innocents.

Sam dropped the bag at Groebke’s feet, the coffee spilling through the brown paper. “You don’t know shit.”

* * *

The scent of Groebke’s cologne was strong in the confines of Sam’s Packard as he drove to the Rockingham Hotel. Groebke said, “Your punishment—has it begun with your haircut?”

“No,” Sam said, holding the steering wheel firmly with both hands, feeling self-conscious for a moment, that his sleeve may slip and reveal the tattoo.

“I see. And why did you get this haircut, then?”

“None of your business.” Sam slowed for a checkpoint up ahead. There was a striped wooden barrier across the road, two MPs and a Portsmouth cop he recognized as Steve Josephs, one of the newer guys on the force. The MPs saw the cardboard pass on the dashboard, lifted the barrier, and waved the car through. The streets were nearly deserted.

After a bit, Groebke said, “Such a drive, with not much to say.”

A flood of memories started churning through Sam, all tinged with the memory of that sickening fear of being in the camp, of not knowing if he would ever get out, would ever get to see Sarah and Toby again.

Sam said, “There’s not much to say to someone like you. The Gestapo. Secret police. Torturers, killers.”

Groebke scratched at his clean-shaven chin. “Oh, yes. How we’re portrayed in the cinema, in books. But we are mostly cops, Herr Miller. Enforcing the laws.”

“What do you know about cops?”

“That’s what I was years ago,” the German said reflectively. “A cop in a Bavarian village, taking complaints, investigating burglaries, part of the Kriminalpolizei. That’s all I wanted to do, eh? Be a cop. But in 1936 changes came—all of the police forces came under the rule of the state, under Himmler, and the Kriminalpolizei, we were absorbed into the Gestapo. That’s what happened to me.”

“Sounds ordinary. But however you call it, you’re still Gestapo.”

Groebke said mildly, “Yes, still Gestapo. The stories about torture, killing, it’s just a minor part. The rest is police work. Do you understand? Just cops doing the job of their government. It’s what I do. It’s what you do.”

“Sure,” Sam said, hearing the bitterness in his voice. “And what about the Jews? Being slaughtered by the tens of thousands, branded, dumped into camps. Is that just a job?”