The Second Objective Read Free Page B

English is astonishing.”
    “I’m from New York. Brooklyn.”
    “Is that a fact? How fascinating. Born and bred?”
    “That’s right. How about you?”
    “Munich, but as you may have gathered, I spent my formative years in England. Father was in the diplomatic corps, stationed to the embassy in London. We went over in twenty-eight. I was ten at the time. Father enrolled me at Westminster, public school. All those incestuous aristocratic family trees, it’s a breeding ground for degenerate half-wits. So in I waltzed from the hinterlands, armed only with my meager schoolboy English. Bit of a wonder I survived.”
    “Hope the education was worth it.”
    “Oh, I got an education, all right. Where were you at ten, Brooklyn?”
    “Fifth grade. PS 109.”
    “Of course you were. How charming.”
    “So you spoke only English in school?”
    “Not just in school, old boy. At home, in the park, in the bath with my proper English nanny. Even family dinners. Father didn’t want any guttural German consonants ruffling the feathers of our hosts.”
    “When did you come back to Germany?”
    “Once the unpleasantness broke out, the tea bags ushered us straight to the door. Imagine my father’s disappointment. He’d spent the better part of his life trying to penetrate this ironclad veil of courtesy. He never realized that’s the reason for their obsession with manners: a coat of paint covering a hatred of all things foreign. And they seem so polite until you get to know them.” Von Leinsdorf flashed a smile, stood up, and walked to the window. “So we both came back to Germany at the same age. Strange, feeling the outsider in your own country, isn’t it?”
    You don’t know the half of it,
thought Bernie.
    “Where the devil are we, by the way? I was hoping I might be headed to Berlin. Has anyone told you what this is about?”
    “Not a word,” said Bernie.
    “Very hush-hush all this, isn’t it? Have they tipped their hand about what we’re doing here, Brooklyn?”
    “All they told us is that this guy Colonel Skorzeny’s running the show.”
    Von Leinsdorf spun around. “Skorzeny? Otto Skorzeny?”
    “That’s what they said.”
    “Have you seen him? Has he been here?”
    “No. Why?”
    “I tried to transfer into his commando unit last year—”
    “Where you been stationed?”
    “Dachau,” he said casually, flicking his cigarette.
    Bernie had heard about the Munich suburb the SS used as a training center. Lurid stories about their concentration camp had been circulating through Berlin, but he knew better than to ask. He’d learned never to ask an SS man anything.
    “I’m going to write up this report that your English is first rate,” said Bernie. “They’ll probably put you in Category Two.”
    Von Leinsdorf leaned over to glance at Bernie’s notes. “That sounds suspiciously like a demotion. Why not Category One?”
    “That’s only for guys who come in knowing a lot of American slang.”
    “But you could teach me, couldn’t you?”
    “If that’s what they want—”
    “It’s what
I
want,” said Von Leinsdorf, sharply. He softened his tone and turned the charm back on. “Just between us, old boy, I hate thinking I’m not good enough for the top category. Sheer vanity, really.”
    “It’s not up to me.”
    “I’m not asking for much. Wouldn’t want the officers to think you’re reluctant to help a fellow soldier. All this cloak and dagger, they must be watching you more closely than the rest of us. I’m sure they’d take a dim view of wobbly loyalties.”
    Bernie smiled, trying not to let him see that he’d even heard the threat. “I’ll try to help you out, sure, what the fuck.”
    “What the fuck?”
    “Most popular word in the GI language. Fuck this, fucking that. Fucking camp—”
    “Fucking Krauts—”
    “Now you’re cooking with gas.”
    “What the fuck does that mean?”
    “Means you’re on the money, on the beam, moving down the right track.”
    “Right.