Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone Read Online Free PDF Page B

far end. A dirty dress hung from her spare frame like a coat on a nail, and rope-soled sandals covered her feet. She eased open a wooden door while old hinges screamed their resistance. Within a space about eight feet square, three trunks were stacked.
    â€œThose have been here for decades,” she said.
    He stepped inside. A mouse scurried away at his approach.
    She smiled. “Evi loves the mice.”
    He reached for the top trunk and opened the lid.
    Dust cascaded off.
    Inside lay an assortment of belongings. On top were clothes—a double-breasted windbreaker jacket, a pair of trench boots, and a swastika armband.
    â€œMy father’s.”
    â€œI thought he was a civil servant,” Wyatt said as he continued to sift through the trunk.
    â€œYou could not expect to rise in the government unless you were a party member.”
    He lifted out a heart-shaped silver gorget upon which was affixed a gilded eight-point sunburst. Farther down he came across a bandolier and some ragged gauntlets.
    Then it dawned on him. “Your father was SS?”
    â€œObviously.”
    He was beginning to dislike her tone.
    He noticed a stack of mildewed coupons bound together with a piece of brittle string. He studied the top coupon. Two sig-runes were imprinted in the left-hand corner beside the words STANDORT-KANTINE , beneath which was the ominous designation BUCHENWALD . At the lower right was the notation RM 2 .
    â€œWhat are these?” he asked.
    â€œThe guards in the camps were paid in tokens. They could use them to buy food and sundries in the camp canteen. Those were worth two reichsmarks each.”
    â€œBuchenwald was an extermination camp. What was your father doing there?”
    She shook her head. “My older brother. He was a guard in the Death’s Head Unit. The SS-Totenkopfverbände.”
    He caught the German pride in her voice.
    â€œDid he die in the war?”
    â€œThe Russians slaughtered him.”
    He eased the top trunk down to the earthen floor, then started searching the second. More clothes, children’s keepsakes, and a curious item—a typewriter, its black metal casing rusted and battered.
    â€œMy father’s. Used during the war.”
    He noticed the keys. The number row served the usual dual function. A semicolon appeared above the 1. Parentheses above 6 and 7. Other number keys likewise possessed punctuation as a second alternative. But above the 5 was a double sig-rune. SS. The typewriter had apparently been modified to accommodate the regime.
    He was beginning to wonder about Isabel and her father.
    He opened the last trunk.
    Inside was crammed with letters and old newspapers. He lifted out one of the bundles.
    The cat wandered in, and Isabel stroked the animal. “Such a good girl, Evi.”
    He faced Isabel, who was still petting the cat. “Does Evi have any connection to Eva Braun?”
    â€œOf course. Her closest friends used that nickname. I called her that myself. So I’ve named every cat I’ve owned since after her, in remembrance.”
    His patience was wearing thin. “What’s your game?”
    She continued to stroke the cat. “Whatever do you mean?”
    He stepped toward her. Not the slightest hint of fear filled her eyes. They remained icy green marbles.
    â€œYou and Herr Combs are being played for fools.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œThe Brown Eminence.”
    He’d already done the math. “He’s long dead.”
    â€œNot his successors.”
    Maybe they were Combs’ objective? “What’s their game?”
    Her glare sharpened. “They are all we have left.”
    â€œWho is we?”
    â€œThose of us who believe.” Her eyes were hard with indignation.
    â€œThat was a long time ago. It’s over.”
    â€œYet you and Herr Combs are both still interested. Herr Combs knew that my father worked for the Führer. That’s why he came. He also knew it was