Waiting

So, the old man thought, grimacing as he eased himself back into his chair. Here it is. My past, here to tap me on the shoulder, after all these years, asking if I’d really thought I could leave it all behind forever.

He’d known at once, when the valet had brought him the phone and his – “Sí?” – had been met by stone cold silence at the other end. Not the kind of silence that tells you there is nobody there. A wrong number perhaps, a faulty line. No. It was a very different kind of silence. The kind of silence that brings the world around you into sudden sharp focus. A silence that makes your breath stop and your heart race and every muscle in your body become as still as a rabbit fearing the glare of the spotlight.

And then, the quiet voice that had said his name. His real name, not the name he’d been using for the past fifty-five years in the life he’d called his own, even though it had once belonged to someone else. Not Señor Guzmán (Mr Goodman, Herr Gutermann. A good man. How he’d chuckled when he’d first received the documents).

“Herr Schmidt.” Without a trace of an upward inflection, a statement borne of confidence and certainty. This wasn’t a question. They knew.

“You’ve got the wrong number,” he said in Spanish, before putting the phone down carefully, politely almost, giving nothing away. But it was clear to him that there was nothing left to give away. He had been found. It had taken them more than half a century to find him, but there was no doubt in his mind that they had.

If they’d waited another year I could have made it to a hundred, he thought. The inconsiderate bastards!

At that moment he felt every one of his ninety-nine years, and more. Normally strong and healthy for his age, the shock of the call, and of the realisation that his life was in danger, had made him feel frail and weak. As he’d lowered the phone back onto the valet’s tray, his mind temporarily stunned into silence, he’d found himself mesmerised by the sight of his hand; so thin now, hands that had once been so strong. Pale, papery skin stretched tight over his bony knuckles, knotted, gnarled veins meandering across his hand and fingers. His hand trembling, shaking so much he’d needed to concentrate on putting the phone back onto the tray. His sad, skinny arm poking out from the cuff of his linen shirt.

Ah, the indignity of getting old, he thought.

“Someone once told me”, he remarked to the valet, “that getting old is only for the brave. I can’t say that I recommend it.”

“Sí, señor.” Diplomatic, as always, the valet bowed slightly and left the room.

Watching him go, for a fleeting moment the old man remembered being young; strong and handsome, so sure of himself and the righteousness of everything he did. Now here I am, he thought, old and tired and about to be … what? Killed? Here in the club, in front of the other members, all of them well-known ‘pillars of society’? Surely not. Ah well, he thought, it’s not as if I can run anywhere. Can barely walk, for that matter. A sitting duck, as it were.

Settling back into his chair, the old man signalled to the maître d’ of the club for another drink, then looked around the room.

Were they here already? he wondered. Watching him, waiting for the right moment to strike?

Looking around, he saw that the men in the club were all regulars, local businessmen and politicians with the usual swagger and complete lack of manners that went with it in this town. He knew every one of them, by sight if not by name.

Surveying the room, he felt suddenly very tired. He held his whisky glass carefully, desperately trying not to let the clink of ice give away the shakiness of his hand. Every movement, even sitting upright in the chair, took enormous effort. But there was something else, something taking hold of him that was more than just the tiredness of old age. The more-than-usual tremble in his hands, the shallowness of his breath, a slight perspiration despite the cool breeze slipping softly between the slats of the wooden blinds at the windows.

He was afraid. Strange, when he’d been wishing for death for so many years, that he should fear it now that it was imminent.

“Would you like some company, Señor Guzmán? You look pale, are you alright? Can I call someone?”

“Ah, Señor García. Please sit down. No, no, I’m fine. Just a little tired. I think I’m allowed to be at my age.” And the company will be useful, he thought. Would they really come in and kill me here, right in front of a witness? A bit of breathing space will be good, allow me to gather my wits. What’s left of them, anyway.

Señor García took the armchair opposite Señor Guzmán, placing his glass on the ivory-inlaid coaster on the small table between them. The two men were acquaintances from the club, rather than friends, not familiar enough to use first names.

“You know, coming to the club is such a blessing, Señor Guzmán. Pleasant surroundings, pleasant company. No women or children here to spoil the peace and quiet. Don’t you find?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. But then, I live alone, apart from my housekeeper and driver, so I don’t really have anyone to disturb me at home.”

“Ah, you’re a lucky man then Señor Guzmán! Of course, you are not married. Were you never tempted? You must have been popular with the girls, such a handsome man as you must have been.”

Looking down at his drink, Señor Guzmán waited a while before answering. Sighing gently, he looked up, his rheumy eyes betraying the emotions he was feeling.

“Yes, yes, I was tempted once. Very much so.” He paused again for a long time, then just as Señor Garcia was about to ask once more if he was alright, he began again to speak.

“She was not what most men would call beautiful, but I loved her. I loved her very much. And she loved me, at least she said she did. We planned to marry, to raise children, to grow old together. But life, you know, had other plans.”

At this point Señor Guzmán stopped again, seemingly lost in thought. The club was quiet that day, the rhythmic thrum of the overhead fans overlaid with soft murmured conversations and occasional laughter from the groups of men scattered around the spacious room.

Leaning forward in his chair, Señor García gently prompted the older man to continue. “If you don’t mind me asking, my friend, what happened?”

“Oh, it was all so very long ago. Different times. A different place. You know I’m not from here, don’t you?” The other man nodded. “Yes, my accent. I’ve worked hard to perfect it, but I don’t think you can ever lose your mother tongue entirely. It stays with you in your heart, if not your mouth. It speaks to you in your sleep, reminding you of who you are and where you are from.”

“You’ve never spoken of your past, Señor Guzmán. Where are you from? It’s very difficult to tell from your accent, you really do speak Spanish very well.”

The old man hesitated for a long time. Finally he spoke, this time in a hushed tone, his voice almost a whisper.

“I’m going to tell you something, Señor García. Something I haven’t spoken of in almost sixty years. Something I’ve tried hard not to even think about, to leave behind me in the past where it belongs. But I’m afraid the past has a way of catching up with you, no matter how long it lets you wait.”

Señor García sat quietly, waiting for the other man to continue with his story, his only movement a slight twitching of his right cheek, just below the eye, as he watched Señor Guzmán’s shaking hand lift to take another sip of his drink.

Taking a deep breath, Señor Guzmán continued with his story.

“It was another time, another life.”

He paused again, seemingly unsure of how to continue. Then he suddenly rallied, his voice becoming clear and firm.

“Germany. I was born in Germany.” He lifted his glass to his lips and gulped the whisky, his bird-like tongue darting out to make sure none was left on his lips before returning the glass to the table.

The sudden ring of the bell at the door of the club startled the old man, and, jumping in fright, he clutched at the arms of his chair. His walking cane slipped from the arm of his chair and clattered to the ground.

“Señor!” The younger man leaned forward, placing his hand on Señor Guzmán’s arm to steady him. “Are you ok? Please don’t have a heart attack, at least not until I have heard the end of your story!”

Señor Guzmán didn’t smile. He sat completely still, barely breathing as he waited to see if the newcomer would be the one who had said his name on the phone.

“Señor,” his companion said again, this time more gently.

At that moment two men, well-known to Señor Guzmán, entered the room and strolled companionably towards the bar. Señor Guzmán’s shoulders slumped and his eyes closed briefly before he once more took up his story.

“They were strange times. I was just a teenager when Hitler came to power, just a boy; a young man caught up in things I didn’t know or understand. And really, there didn’t seem to be very much to understand. My family were avid nationalists, and who was I, a young boy, to question them? Of course, I joined the HJ, what you would know as the Hitler Youth, and I have to say I enjoyed those years very much. What is it, my friend? You look … I don’t know. Are you shocked?”

“Not at all, Señor Guzmán. Please continue your story, it is fascinating to say the least.”

“They were good days, special days. We were the pride of our town, the future of Germany. And not only that, we got to play at being soldiers, doing military training and the like. We were just boys, but we were made to feel like important men.” The old man paused, smiling to himself. “And the uniforms” he said. “Ah, the uniforms. The uniforms made us look so handsome, so very grown-up. We were very popular with all the girls.”

“Aha!” said Señor García. “And now I suspect we come to the story of your sweetheart?”

Nodding, Señor Guzmán’s face softened. “She was that, she was my sweetheart. I never met another girl like her. We had been at school together, then managed to meet up whenever we could, even once the war had broken out. As I said, we were planning to get married once we had won the war. And then, when I was twenty-four, I was sent away, and I never saw her again.”

“Sent away?”

Once more, Señor Guzmán became quiet. His hand absent-mindedly slipped from the arm of his chair, his wrinkled fingers fiddling with the cloth of his trousers, so baggy on his spindly frame. Sipping his drink, he looked away from his companion.

“Yes. I … I was sent away. To another part of the country. We had lost a lot of men in the war, and I was promoted to a position I had never expected to achieve, not at my age and with such a lack of experience. I was sad to leave my family, and especially my girl, but of course I expected to return soon enough, to peace and prosperity.”

“Where were you sent to? You seem uncomfortable discussing this, Señor Guzmán. Please don’t feel that you have to continue.”

“No, I’d like to. It’s been so very long that I have kept this secret to myself, it would do me good to talk about it. Now, where was I? Ah yes, my promotion. I’m sure you have guessed by now my new role? No? I was a guard, a guard at the camps. Does that seem barbaric to you? Remember, I had never known another life, my entire life I had been made to fear the enemy, taught how important it was to rid our wonderful country of the people who would take it from us. You know, I’ve given this a lot of thought in my new life here, and I still believe we were right in what we did. Are you still not shocked my friend?”

Señor García waited a moment, his face still but for that small tic in his cheek. Then slowly he shook his head and silently indicated that he would like the old man to continue his story.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, I’m going to die soon anyway. Well, we didn’t win the war, as you know, and I didn’t return home to my family and my girl. Instead I went to ground, hiding with sympathisers and helping others to escape. We were called the ‘ratlines’, and we lived like rats half the time, skulking around at night, scuttling from one meeting place to the next, never knowing if the next rescue would be our last. And then it was my turn to leave, to come here. And here I’ve been ever since.”

Señor Guzmán stopped to take another sip of his drink.

“Please, drink up,” urged Señor García. “You must be thirsty with all this talk. Forgive me, I am making you speak more than is good for you. But one last thing I must know – have you never felt regret for your involvement in that war? For all the deaths, and for helping so many others escape punishment for what they did?”

“You want me to say yes, I know you do. But do you want the truth? The honest truth? No, I haven’t regretted it. Not once. We did what we had to do, what was right and what was necessary, and those people who died, well they’d had their chance to leave our country and they hadn’t taken it. And if I and others escaped punishment, well that was our good luck, wasn’t it.”

The old man, seemingly exhausted by the telling of his story, shrank back into his chair. Suddenly, without warning, he began to wheeze, then clutched at the collar of his shirt, clawing feebly at the buttons with his spidery fingers. Gasping for breath, he looked towards Señor García for help.

Señor García leaned close to the old man’s ear, then softly whispered, “Better late than never. The drinks are on me, Herr Schmidt.”