The house was about a thousand square feet. In the bedroom he found a blond-wood table, its glossy surface supporting an oversized candle wrapped in fresh araucaria branches. Above the candle hung a portrait of Adolf Hitler, his fanatical gaze off to the heavens. Incredible. Here was this woman, seventy years after the fact, worshiping a maniac.
He studied the remainder of the sparsely furnished room, gazing at the sad debris of an old woman’s life. A stove covered in glazed tiles filled one corner. A cabinet with center-opening doors, richly painted in the Bavarian style, contained clothes. A maple dresser sat opposite the narrow bed. Atop the dresser were three black-and-white photographs, each outlined by a tarnished silver frame. One was of a man wearing an SS uniform. No emotion showed on his face, just a blank stare, as if a smile would almost be painful. The shore of a lake loomed in the background, tall evergreen trees surrounding.
He searched the dresser drawers, then snuck a peek beneath the bed. Bundles of envelopes lay on the dusty planks.
He slid them out.
They all showed South African postmarks and a masculine handwriting, each addressed to Isabel in Turingia. He opened one of the envelopes. The letter, written in English, was signed by a Gerhard Schüb. He shuffled through the other envelopes. Their dates ranged from the 1960s to the 1980s. He decided to take them with him.
He returned his attention to the dresser and the other two photographs on display. One was of children, each around seven or eight. Two boys and three girls, dressed as if going to church in suits and skirts, posing together, a happy gathering. The final picture depicted two men. One was the same man from the other photo, this time minus his SS uniform. He wore lederhosen, the leather shorts supported by suspenders joined by an ornamented breast band that displayed a shiny swastika. A light-colored shirt covered his chest, knee-high stockings embraced his legs, a woolen cape draped his shoulders. The other man in the photo was short and heavy-chested with sparse black hair. He wore a double-breasted suit with a Nazi armband. He studied the older face closely, noting a contrived smile that showed no teeth, a tight jaw, and a cagey gaze.
He decided to take the photos, too.
True, this wasn’t his fight, but before he killed Combs he wanted to know what had led to these two murders.
He made his way back out of the house, careful to keep a close watch, but nothing generated any alarm.
Letters and photos in hand, he found his car and left.
He drove for half an hour, finally entering a town identified as Los Arana. The highway bisected a quiet residential section to the south and shops to the north. A grassy plaza filled the town center, dotted with lime trees. Between the twin towers of an oyster-colored church, framed like an architectural adornment, loomed the cone of a distant volcano. The streets were largely deserted. The lateness of the afternoon, he assumed.
He parked the car near an open café.
Inside, the tables were filled with black-browed, shaggy-haired men. A strong odor of toil filled the air. The thick ham sandwiches most of them enjoyed looked good, so he ordered one along with a carafe of wine.
While eating, he studied the letters.
February 7, 1969
Our arrival in Bloemfontein was uneventful. This is a strange place, Issie. Nearly five thousand feet above sea level, the air clear and light. Pieces of Europe are everywhere. Waterwheels, homesteads, rose gardens. There is a nearly perpetual battle with drought, pests, and bankers. Luis complains incessantly. He does not like this location. The Union of South Africa is a conflicted nation. It possesses two capitals. Johannesburg to the north is the political center. Bloemfontein here in the Free State is the judicial center. Why this is so no one can explain, though there is talk of merging both in Bloemfontein. The Free State is full of Dutch influence. Many still talk of the Anglo-Boer War, which ended only a hundred years ago. They still remember the concentration camps. Luis likes to tell me that the British invented the concept here when they slaughtered thirty thousand women and children during the war. All things British are still hated here with a deep passion, which pleases Luis.
I wish you could see this country. Brown plains dotted with what the locals call peppercorn bushes, the flatness broken by iron-colored koppies. Flat-topped mountains line the horizon. We have taken a house on the outskirts of town. It stands in the shade of gum trees. You would love the bougainvillea that climbs its walls. Behind are a barn and a stable. Water mills revolve over springs. Without water there would be nothing but barren waste. Nighttime is the best of all. The veld grows silent and turns silver in the moonlight. Our dogs congregate beneath the windows. It is good they are there, as they keep the lions away.
The dogs are fearless. I envy their courage.
May 23, 1969
I miss you, Issie. Time is nearly irrelevant here.