THE GREEN KING (part 102 + 1)
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At 8:10 A.M.,
at tall man, rather corpulent but still cutting a pleasing figure, came out of
private house on Zeppelinstrasse, in Munich, near the Isar. He raised the fox
collar of his coat, adjusted his smart suede gloves, and opened the door of his
garage. The Mercedes, his pride, was there, sparkling clean. He sat down behind
the wheel and reveled in hearing the engine purr softly. He put the car in
gear.
‘Don’t move
please.’
The voice was
so soft and so courteous that he felt no fright. Then turning, he recognize the
eyes, and a blazing terror overtook him.
‘It can’t be!’
‘I’m afraid
so,’ answered Reb. ‘I know that your children are going to come out and that
you have to take them to school. There will be no change in the program. There
better not be. I would be forced to kill your children, also, and I would
rather not. Now drive normally, please.’
‘Michael…’
‘Drive please.’
The Mercedes
backed out of the garage and pulled up slowly in front of the house. The two
children walked out, bundled up in red and blue wool scarves. They showed some
surprise at seeing a stranger next to their father, but Reb smiled and said to
them; ‘Your father and I are old friends. He took care of me almost like a
father for twenty months. Come, get in; we are going to drop you at school.’
The children
smiled at him and asked questions. He told them his name was Michael, or,
rather, that their father called him that because he did not like his other
name. And what was this name? Oh, he said, something very foreign and strange,
and they could ask their father what is was.
THE GREEN KING (part 104)
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They arrived at
the school, and Reb said to the driver of the Mercedes: ‘You should kiss your
children. They are charming.’
The children
went into the school, and the car pulled away.
‘Michael, my
God…’
‘We are going
to Dachau,’ said Reb. ‘Please. Mauthausen is too far and we would have to cross
the border. Dachau will do.’
‘Michaael…’
‘My name is
Reb,’ said Reb, smiling. ‘Slow down a little, please. I wouldn’t wabt us to
have an accident. And I would like you be quite. To hear you speak … only
increases that great anger I feel. Do you understand?’
They drove in
silence. The camp appeared, still intact after twebty-three months.
‘We are not
going inside. It’s not necessary. Just follow the wall until you can see the
crematoriums.’
Two minutes
went by.
‘There. Stop
now, please. And get out of the car.’
Reb also get
out. He was holding a can in his left hand and a weapon in his right.
The former
Obersturmbannfuhrer asked in hollow voice: ‘Would you really have killed my
children?’
‘I think so,’
said Reb. ‘But I’m not sure. I am very angry but I don’t know whether I would
have gone as far as to kill them.’
He handed him
the can.
‘Open it and
drink, please.’
THE GREEN KING (part 105)
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The Candlesticks
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The former
Oberstrurmbannfuhrer unscrewed the cap and immediately recognized the smell. He
said in a strangled voice: ‘It’s gasoline.’
‘Yes,’ said
Reb. ‘I remembered a young Frenchman you forced to drink, three years and four
days ago, at about the same time. For him, it was sludge. Probably because you
didn’t have enough gasoline. He was ten years old. He was born on July 23 in
Bordeaux. I remember him very well. It took him ten hours to die. I think you
will drink this gasoline because you will hope until the very end that I will
not kill you. And it’s true that you have a change. Not a big one, but you have
one. But, before you drink…’
From the pocked
of his jacket, he took a small object wrapped in paper.
‘A present,’ he
said.
The man removed
the paper. He found a lipstick.
‘I would very
much like you to put some on your face, on your lips especially…’
Time went by.
‘There. The
cheeks, also, please… very good. Now you can drink the gasoline.. The can is
yours, in case you didn’t recognize it. And this latter will be found in your
pocket. It was written by a young Lithuanian named Zaccharius. Youl’ll tell me
he’s dead. But is that reason enough? He describes in it what you did to the
children, of which I was one …. Drink a little more, please…’
He shot from
very close, under the right cheekbone. Then he placed the weapon in the
still-warm hand of former Oberstrumbannfuhrer Wilhelm Hochreiner and, with the
dead man’s own fingers, pulled the trigger once again, this time shooting into
a bush.
He waited until
he was far away before throwing up. In fact, Dov Lazarus had to stop his car
two more times so that he could throw up again.
THE GREEN KING (part 106)
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‘Watch it,’
whispered Dov
The woman had
just reappeared, this time with two men.
‘Don’t you
recognize one of them, kid?’
Reb nodded. The
smaller of the two men was German, and three weeks earlier, right after
Hochreiner’s execution near the crematoriums of Dachau, ha and Dov had seen him
driving one of the trucks that delivered Stars and Stripes between Salzburg and
Munich. The military police never searched those trucks, other than to take a
few copies with a smile, so that during almost ever trip Nazi fugitives
travelled, hidden behind stacks a news papers. As for the women, with short
grey hair and cold expression, she was the one who, on July, 3, 1945, in
Salzburg, had told Reb he could find the photographer named Lothar at his
laboratory near the bell tower and had in this way sent him into the trap laid
by Epke.
The women had
been the first step In the hunt under taken by Reb Klimrod. (The search for
Hochreiner had been easy, because the former Obersturmbannfuhrer had simply, at
the beginning of 1946, returned to running his textile mill.) Reb had found her
less than a hundred hours after he returned to Austria from Munich, and on this
day, March 23, 1947, he and Lazarus, together or separately, had been on her
tail for forty-three days.
‘There are
other guys in the chalet, kid. At least three men.’
‘Four,’ said
Reb.
It was about
10:00 p.m. and it was going to be a cold night. Below the small wood where they
were lying in wait, they could see the lights of Althoussee. It was in the
heart of the Dead Mountains, and the lakes there are deep and dark, set between
high, often almost vertical cliffs. Sixty thousand civilians loaded with loot
from all of Europe had sought refuge there during the last months of the war.
THE GREEN KING (part 107)
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‘Four men and another
women,’ said Reb. He had started with the hypothesis that, working with Epke,
she might had been at the house near the Bohemian Chancellory. He was right:
Gerda Huber, as described by Reb, had been identified by two shopkeepers in the
neighbourhood. They had also revealed her name and her origin. She came from
Graz, Erich Steyr’s hometown. The rest had been easy. The women worked for the
Austrian Red Cross, helping displeaced people. As such, she had access to all
short of passes.
‘Something’s
up.’
A third man
came out of the chalet, and Dov as well as Reb recognized him.
‘Arni Schaide,’
said Dov, ‘my old pal Arni, who likes so much to visit the Franciscan
monasteries between here and Rome.’
On two occasion
already, Dov had tracked Schaide, who each time had let him to Rome, to the
very door of the Vatican. From there, each time, Schaide had come out alone,
having obviously entrusted to the Roman Curia the fugitive he had escorted.
Schaide also worked for the Red Cross.
‘Dov?’
For a long
time, Reb had focused his binoculars down towards the first curves of the
little road leading to the chalet.
‘Two
automobiles, Dov. But they have stopped, both of them, and they have just shut
off their headlights. There are three hundred yards away.’
In the dark,
they looked at each other.
‘Cops?’
‘I don’t think
so,’ said Reb.
The two large
Mercedes-Benzes certainly didn’t belong to the Austrian police, or two any of
the occupation authorites. No, it was something else, and Dov must have thought
the same thing. He left his post, retread, and also focused his binoculars.
THE GREEN KING (part 108)
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After half a
minute, he said: ‘Ten days ago, when I returned from Italy for the second time,
right behind Arni, I saw an identical Mercedes. With the same back left door
handle broken. It was Innsbruck. Three men inside looking like crack shots.
Arni got in with them. I remember the licence plate number… Wait for me, kid.’
He slipped
down, disappeared.
Less than the
minute later, the phone in the chalet rang and was immediately picked up. Three
more minutes, after which there was some commission around the chalet. Reb saw
the men who until now had been talking leisurely jump up. One of them rushed
outside, two other spread out, weapon in hand. They’ve just been alerted, he
thought.
After a pause
there was an almost imperceptible sound. Reb hid behind a tree, his finger on
the trigger.
A whisper:
‘Kid? Don’t shoot me, please.’ Dov appeared about fifteen away, out of breath.
‘Same car and
same guys. Except there are eight or ten of them. And more coming. It looks
like Stalingrad all over again, my boy. And I’ll bet you a rabbi for a doughnut
that it’s us they’re after.
He smiled.
‘And I wonder
who the hell is in that fucking chalet.
Are you sure it’s not Adolf Hitler?’
A quarter of an
hour later, they had proof that it was, in fact, a round up: all around them,
in a semicircle of which they were almost the centre, flashlights were turned
on.
‘But they ended
up losing, in Stalingrad,’ said Dov.
THE GREEN KING (part 109)
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He and Reb were
moving along the eastern bank of the little lake of Althausssee, and were
already more than a thousand yards from the chalet. They were not running, yet.
They went along under the trees, not really worried. Their intention, since the
descent towards Althoussee was cut off, was to reach another little village,
more to the east, called Grundlsee. From there, they intend to go either to bad
Aussee or for help, even to the police. But Reb, who was walking ahead,
suddenly stopped. Another line of flashlights had appeared, to their right. The
circle was closing in, or almost.
They had no
choice but to continue straight ahead, tripping halfway down an increasingly
abrupt slope.
They increased
their speed, and in the clear night they could see before them the snowy peaks
of the Dead Mountains. ‘We’ll never get through,’ said Dov. ‘At least not me. I
don’t have your legs, kid.’ He was ready to mount a counteroffensive, which was
in his nature, but Reb pressed him to keep going. The concentric line of
flashlights was now one hundred yards from them as they moved on. They had to
pass to the northeast of Grundlsee, and for an instant they saw automobiles,
with their headlights on, stationed along the little road that leaves Grundlsee
and ends in a-cul-de-sac two and a half or three miles farther on. There were
men line up there, also, in the light of the headlights, all armed, some with
rifles, their faces turned in their direction. ‘all the survivors of the Third
Reich are here,’ remarked Dove, laughing.
He had already
fallen twice and had lost his glasses. In the dark, he could hardly see at all.
Reb must certainly have helped him. The flashlight carriers were on their heels
and closing in.
More lights
appeared to their light, those of Gossl. They had now been running for two
hours. They were in sight of Toplitz lake. Dov could go no farther. He
screamed, addressing himself to those chasing them, that he was Dov Lazarus in
person and that he was ready to fight them…
THE GREEN KING (part 110)
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They answered
with six or seven shots, the dry, light clicking of 22 Mausers, entrusted
during the war to the sharpshooters of the Wehrmacht. Neither Dov and Reb was
hit. Again they were climbing, a more and more abrupt cliff, and soon Dov
refused to go any farther or any higher. The lake was beneath them, almost
vertically down. Dov said he was going to stay right there, in this
hollowed-out rock on a kid of platform ‘from which you have a magnificent
view,’ and he shook his head quietly, probably smiling in the dark. He was
going to remain there, he said, and the intended, even without his glasses, to
prevent this Nazi army from coming too close. ‘Think, kid. And, anyway, I’m
sure you thought of it before me, with that head yours: we won’t make it this way,
buy running. They run faster than we do. So you stay calm, kid, you stay sharp.
And listen to that fucking brain of yours that is so extraordinary and is
telling you that’s our only change…’ He
would hold up enough for Reb, with his young goat’s legs, to climb through the
Dead Mountains and maybe get some help.
‘I won’t move,
Reb. What are you going to do? Carry me? I weigh a good one nine-eight, from
all that beer. Beat it, kid, please. Find that guy you’re .’looking for and put
me on his bill.’
… And, of
course, when Reb Klimrod agreed to leave him behind and began his climb, he
heard, a few minutes after his departure, the first shots. He also heard Dov
singing as loudly as he could – ‘My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies
over the sea.’
He was two
hundred yards farther up, after a mad climb in the night, when he heard the
thudding sound of a mass tumbling down the mountainside and falling into the
icy black water of the lake. He thought Dov was already dead. But shortly
after, he could near the sound of the two 45s firing calmly and the
Irish-accented voice singing again.
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But it was
finally interrupted, by one ultimate round of fire.
At around 3:00
A.M. he was back in sight of the chalet. There were no guards visible, but he
could see a light. He climbed to the balcony, and at the sound of his footsteps
someone asked in German: ;Did you get them?’
‘Only one,’
answered Reb.
The guard
appeared at the threshold with a double barreled shotgun under his arm. As soon
as he saw Reb, he started to reach for the gun. Reb’s bullet pierced his
throat.
He went into
the chalet, where he found another man, unarmed, and one of the women, not
Gerda Huber.
‘Don’t move,
please,’ he said to the terrified couple.
With the barrel
of his gun towards the floor, he checked to see that the other rooms were
empty. The man who was looking at him fixedly; he had a thin face and a hooked
nose and was balding.
He asked: ‘Who
are you looking for?’
‘Erich Steyr.’
‘I knew an
Erich Steyr who was an attorney in Vienna.’
‘That’s the
one.’
‘I have no idea
where he might be. He may even be dead.’ His shiny black eyes gave him a
somewhat Jewish appearance.
‘Who are you?’
asked Reb.
Just then, he
heard, through the door he had left ajar on purpose, the sound of the engines
of at least two automobiles.
‘Who are you
and why are you being so protected?’
‘You are
mistaken,’ said the man. ‘The one who was being protected left this very
evening. I’m only the owner of this chalet. And I never knew the name of man
who was hiding here.’
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Klimrod took
the papers the man had on him. At that time, he had neverheard the name Adolf
Eichmann.
Yoel Bainish
saw Reb Klimrod in Rome around April 10, 1947. Luck had nothing to do with the
meeting of the two young men, who had not seen each other for almost eighteen
months. Bainish was in Italy on behalf of Haganah, to handle emigration
channels. (Three months later, he was to play an active part in the embarkation
of four thousand five hundred and fifteen people, on an old American cargo
ship, the President Garfield, which became the Exodus).
He and Klimrod
met in front of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, at the end of the morning.
‘How in the
world did you know that I was in Italy? I found your message at Bertchick’s
just in time. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow.’
Klimrod
explained that he had gone to Bertchick’s ‘to talk to someone about Mossad or
Haganah’ and that, in order to make himself known, he had to give the names of
men who would answer for him.
‘Yours was one.
And Bertchick told me that you were in Rome. Do you have two hours to spare? I
would like to show you something.’
He took Bainish
into a little street leading to the Via Crescenzio, right next to Saint Peter’s
square, and showed him a plaque, in Italian and German.
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‘The escape
route leads to this place. They leave Germany through Lindau and Bregenz on
Lake Constance, or by the Reschen Pass, which you and I took, two years ago.
They travel by car, sometime by bus, and spend their nights in Franciscan
monasteries. I have made a list for you. One of the men who arranges the
convoys is named Arni Scaide. There is also a woman, Gerda Huber. There’s also
a list of them. In Rome, they are taken in charge by Monsignor Heidemann, a
German, who runs an official organ of the Vatican. Heidemann furnishes them
with passports from the Red Cross. Some of them are even given cassocks and
false papers belonging Jesuits. They leave Italy through Bari or, mostly,
Genoa. Some of them go to Spain, Syria, or Ethiopia, but many embark for South
America. Hundreds have already escaped this way.
Bainish was
stunned.
‘Why this
sudden avalanche of information?’
‘I found out
about all this while looking for something else. I had to tell someone about
it.’
That last
sentence implied that he had no superiors or organization to whom he had to
answer. Bainish (whose career was progressing: it had finally been recognized
that he was too intelligent to be dynamiter and he was being assigned more
delicate missions) knew that his former road companion had severed all ties
with the Zionist organizations. Someone had spoken to him about a certain
Klimrod who was working for ‘those
crazies in Nakam.’
He asked: ‘Are
you still with them, Reb?’
‘No. Not for a
long time.’
‘And Lazarus?’
‘Dead.’
Nothing else.
They were walking along the Tiber. Bainish examined Klimrod and found him
changed. Not so much in size or weight, though he might have grown a little
more and gained a few pounds. But he still had the silhouette of a daddy
longlegs, that same apparent slowness of step, and the same depthless gaze. The
change was elsewhere: there was a greater hardness and an apparent certainty of
a destiny.
‘Did you find
what are you looking for, Reb?’
‘Almost.’
Silence.
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Then Bainish
said suddenly: ‘I’ve always felt a great friendship for you. Really. If there
is anything…’
‘Thank you
nothing.’
And again
silence.
To fill it,
Bainish began to talk about this country that was being born on the banks of
the Tiberias and the Jordan, where they would finally have their place, he and
Reb and so many others who had come or were coming. He was getting excited
talking about the great adventure to be lived, even in the Negev desert, which
they were beginning to conquer.
The answer
came, slowly but definite.
‘Without me,’
said Reb.
‘You are almost
as Jewish as I am. To be Jewish can also be a choice.’
‘I am nothing.
Nothing.’
Bainish took
down the list, needing almost twenty pages, even with his small handwriting,
the names, the monasteries, the relay stations, all the information Reb had
gathered while ‘looking for something else.’
Strangely
uncomfortable, Bainish started to laugh.
‘It’s as if you
were giving us a farewell gift.’
‘In a way,’
said Reb.
And then a
warm, friendly look came into his eyes, and he began to smile. He wrapped his
large hand around Bainish’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, thank you for everything.’ He
left and crossed the Tiber.
In Tangiers,
Henri Haardt also saw Klimrod again, around this same time, ‘mid-April, I
think.’
‘He came to see
me as if he had seen me the night before, asked me if I would agree to carry
out a few operations with him. He had some money, about six thousand US
dollars, and wanted to invest it all in a single trip, in a sort of double or
nothing.
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‘He looked
about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. His second stay in Tangiers lasted
four months, and during this period we made four trips together, all
successful. Not counting expenses, that left us with a profit of a little more
than fifty dollars per case. One hundred and twenty cases were his during the
first trip, and after that he had two hundred each time. The calculation are
simple: he netted close to thirty five thousand dollars.
‘As for his departure from Tangiers, it was
simple as his arrival. He merely told me that our collaboration had been “both
extremely pleasant and agreeable”- he really spoke like that, slowly and
softly, with an almost old-fashioned courtesy – but that the time had come for
him to leave. I told him of my regret and that I had a great feeling of
friendship towards him, almost affection. And I also told him that we could
have made a fortune together. He smiled at me and told me that didn’t interest
him.
‘I don’t know
where he got it, but under his arm he was carrying a small painting, unwrapped,
which he showed me, asking me whether I liked it. I have never been an
authority on painting and all I could see were spots of colour. I told him so,
and he started laughing, but the laughter never reached his eyes, which wined
ever so slightly.
“The signature
belongs to a man named Kandisky, who died three years ago,” he said. “A very great painter. One can kill
for a painting, Henri, but one can also be killed by it….”
‘On Boulevard
Pasteur, he bought a cloth bag the exact size of the painting. And, as far as I
know, that was the only baggage he took with him when he left Tangiers, at the
beginning of August 1947, for a destination unknown to me. That painting and
those two books that he was always dragging around with him….’
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At the time, Arcadio
Almeiras was fifty-six years old. He had dreaded becoming a painter, but had
been one for five or six years in the
early nineteen-twenties with Emilio Pettoruti. He had gone as far as Berlin to
meet Klee. As for Kandinsky, he remembered very well the three or four times he
had visited him in Weimar. That was when he hoped to have a little, a very
little, bit of talent. ‘Not even a little bit. The Gobi desert.’
He asked: ‘And
whose is it, in your opinion?’
The tall young
man shrugged his shoulders.
‘A name like Kandinsky.
But it’s worth a lot of money, I’m sure. At least a thousand dollars.’
His Spanish was
perfect correct, although he spoke hesitantly.
‘French?’
‘Belgian,’ said the young man.
Almeiras took
the painting to the door to his shop and held it up to the pale daylight of the
argentine winter. He examined it closely. As often happened, the s in
Kandinsky had been made by the painter to look like a j. He smiled at very
pretty young woman who was walking by his gallery in Buenos Aires, then turned
around.
‘It’s a
Kandisky, a Russian painter who died recently in Paris. And you are right; it
is worth a great deal. More than a thousand dollars, at any rate. You are
really interested in selling it?’
‘I need money.
And I didn’t steal it.’
He presented
some documents, which it turned out, were not worth much, establishing that the
painting had been legally purchased in Madrid a year earlier, from a man named
Maurer, and legally taken from Madrid to Buenos Aires.
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Almeiras said:
‘There is mention of other paintings…’
‘Four others,’
said the young man. He took a little notebook from his pocked, opened it,
showed the page to Almeiras, who read: ‘July 3, 1946, Madrid. Five paintings
bought from Gunther Maurer, of Berlin. Klee, F. Marc, Kondinjky, F. Marc, A.
Marcke. 1200 US dollars.’
‘You really
paid twelve hundred dollars for these five paintings?’
‘He wanted five
thousand, but he was in rush.’
Almeiras closed
his eyes. ‘Twelve hundred dollars for a Klee, two Marcs, one Kandinsky, and an
August Macke! These Europeans have really gone crazy! And are you considering
selling all of them?’
‘I don’t think
so,’ answered the young man quietly. ‘Or maybe later..’
‘Or if you are
made an interesting offer.’
The young man’s
thin face, rather impressive with those light eyes that pierced it, softened noticeably
when he smiled.
‘I guess.’
They decided
that Almeiras would keep Kandisky for a few days. He would have liked to see
the four other paintings, if only for his personal pleasure, nut the young man
told him he didn’t have them with him, that they were not in Buenos Aires, not
even in Argentina. He have left them with his brother, in Bogota. Yes, he had
family, his father, his mother, and three brothers in Bogota. And he would be
going back there shortly.
‘Do you speak
German?’ asked Almeiras.
Just the usual
words, he said, ‘Jawohl’ and ‘Kommen Sie mit mir’ and so on. He laughed, very
pleasantly.
‘Der Blaue
Reiter,’ said Almeiras. ‘The Blue Rider. That was the name of a group of
painters before the Great War of 1914. Kandisky, Marc, Macke, and Klee were
part of it. A collector would certainly be interested in the purchase of your
five paintings at the same time. It’s already a collection in itself. You understand?’
‘I understand,’
said the young man.
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‘Especially Argentines
of German origin. We have many Germans in Argentina, especially of late. Franz
Marc and August Macke both die during the 1914-18 war. Their painting are much
in demand by collectors. They died and didn’t have time to paint very much. And
for people German origin, to buy these paintings is almost like – how shall I
put it? – like making a patriotic gesture.
‘I understand,’
repeated the young man. ‘I am agreeable to a complete sale, then, if the price
is interesting. And thank you for your honesty. I will not forget it.’
No, he couldn’t
furnish an address in Buenos Aires, but he would return to the gallery. His
name was Henri Haardt, he said, in answer to the question put to him by
Almeiras.
After a
seventeen-day watch, Erich Steyr appeared.
Diego Haas was
an Argentine, born in that country of a father Carinthia and a mother whose
name was – and she never failed to point it out – de Carbajal and a Thousand
Other Things. He was a chubby blond young man whose small size was inversely
proportioned to his cynicism, which was considerable, and he exhibited an
insolent cheerfulness that bordered on pure folly. Speaking German and English,
besides Spanish, he had studied law for a while and had recently been engaged
as secretary to an extremely rich German immigrant named Erich Steyr. It was
not September, and five months of employment had already taught him the
essential facts concerning his employer: Steyr, Erich Joachim, was quite rich,
quite intelligent, quite handsome, quite learned, quite elegant and refined,
but if he wasn’t the world’s most despicable worm, he wasn’t far from it.
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Diego smiled
graciously at Steyr.
‘I never heard
of this Kandisky, senor. But I am prepared to find him admirable.’ He glanced
casually at the painting and exclaimed: ‘Admirable!.’
After that he
left the gallery and went outside to ogle the senoritas. Nearby were Steyr ‘s
car, Steyr’s chauffeur, and Steyr’s bodyguard. Steyr didn’t live in Buenos
Aires. As soon as he arrived in Argentina, he had acquired, through Diego, a
beautiful estancia near Cordoba, and less than a week after the purchase, the
crates had arrived, innumerable, concealing the treasures of Golconda. Even
Diego, who prided himself on his lack of culture, had marveled upon seeing such
treasures. At the same time, Steyr was setting uphis Argentine, even South
American, future: he was going to establish himself as an investment counselor,
especially to those unfortunate compatriots of his who had been chased from
their native country by the forces of international Jewry. ‘Jawohl,’ Diego had
said, imperturbable, unaffected by this false exaltation. Steyr, he thought,
was far too intelligent to take this nonsense seriously; he was a piece of
garbage and that was that. They had travelled through Argentina and
neighbouring countries, as far as Venezuela and Chile, and had already been to
Bogota, in Colombia.
In truth - and he recognized it himself when he spoke to
Georges Tarras – Diego Haas had no particular recollection of that day in
September 1947. From the start, he was aware of Steyr’s passion for the arts,
painting especially. The Almeiras Gallery was therefore an almost compulsory
stop; it was the finest in Argentina, and thus the visit to the Kandisky was
not of an usual nature. It was not until Diego’s own meeting with the King and
particularly, the hallucinatory scene in Bogota two months later that he made
the connection…
THE GREEN KING (part 120)
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The Candlesticks
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For it took several
weeks for the ‘Kandisky Affair’ to achieve real proportions. During that
period, Steyr returned many times to the gallery, apparently conducting a slow
negotiation.
On November 5,
Almeiras informed Steyr that the owner of the five paintings he wanted to
acquire had finally decided to say yes.
Steyr left for
the Colombia with Diego, using a business meeting as a pretext, and hoping to
kill two birds with one stone.
They arrived in
Bogota on November 6, 1947.
‘I hate
Bogota,’ said Diego Haas. ‘What’s more, I also despise Santiago, in Chile. And
lima. And Lapaz and Quito. I barely tolerate Buenos Aires. Not to mention
Asuncion, which I abhor, and Caracas , which I positively loathe. In fact,
besides Rio, although they don’t speak Spanish there…’
‘Would you be
kind enogh to shut your big mouth,’ said Steyr, as always without raising his
voice. Seated in the back of the car, he was reading, deeply engrossed in some
business matter. A Colombian driver who looked like a turtle was at the wheel,
with the bodyguard to his right, a man named Gruber, whom Diego judged to be a
little less astute than a cow, and he didn’t think much of cows. Diego was
seated in the back, next to the lawyer.
‘I don’t know
Europe very well,’ continued Diego, completely unaffected by the re buff.
‘Except for a few petticoats here and there. I had almost convinced Mamita –
that’s my mother – to offer me one or two years in Paris when you Nazi guys
started your own excursions there. In my own way, I am a victim of the Third
Reich.’
On hour
earlier, the plane of Caracas had brought the three men to Bogota.
‘Haas, one more
of your stupid jokes and I will ask Gruber to beat you up. Which he will be
delighted to do.’
THE GREEN KING (part 121)
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They were
approaching the centre of the city, which they reached a little after 4:00 P.M.
It was raining, a very find cold rain, explained probably by the very high
altitude. They went directly to their hotel, near San Carlos Palace, where
Bolivar had lived. At the reception desk, a message was waiting for Steyr. It
was written in Spanish and signed by Henri Haardt. Diego translated.
‘He writes that
if you want to buy his paintings, you can find him every day after six in the
evening at Carrera de Bacata, 8, in the Chapinero section. Ole! The “Ole” is
mine.
Steyr decided
to put it off until the following day. But then, driven by what Diego though
was his feverish haste to see these paintings he had been waiting for two
months, he decided to go that vey evening. Diego sets the time as 8:15 when
they arrived at 8 Carrera de Bacata. They found a brand new building, which
looked as if it wasn’t yet live in, but as soon as they reached the door, a man
appeared and told them that one apartment, on the fifth floor, was occupied. By
senor Henry Haardt, precisely, and that Senor Haardt had just come in;
therefore he was at home.
After entering,
there was a narrow hallway, through which there was access to the cellar and
the caretaker’s rooms. It led to a straight staircase, whose first flight ended
on a landing. To the left, five or six steps led to a second hallway, where
they were two elevators and the service stairway.
As always, it
was Gruber who opened the door, and thus arrived first at the elevators. He
preceded Steyr by two or three yards and Diego Haas by much more, because Diego
had stopped to have a few words with the caretaker, whom he thought rather
‘bizarre’.
THE GREEN KING (part 122)
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The Candlesticks
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Diego heard
three shots, but, at the moment, didn’t know who was shooting. He had just
reached the top of the first flight of stairs and was about to step on to the
landing. He hesitated, not knowing what he wanted to do; go see what was
happening or ‘get the hell out as quickly as possible while pretending that I
had gone for help.’ Events didn’t give him the choice. A very tall figure
appeared above him and calmly gave him an order in Spanish.
‘Call the
caretakers, and tell him to come here. There has been an accident.’
Diego didn’t
have to call; the caretaker had also heard the shots. (But not the Colombian
driver who had brought Steyr and his two companions, because the door of
building had been closed.) Diego, in a way reassured by the calmness of the
stranger, climbed the last steps.
He reached the
second hallway. Gruber was lying crouched against the metal door of one of the
elevators, as if he were listening through the door, with his cheek pressed
against it. But blood was beginning to run down his neck.
Erich Steyr was
a few feet away, unharmed, hands above his head, with a look of terror on his
face.
‘On your
stomach,’ Diego was told. He complied immediately, as did the caretaker, who
had just arrived, breathless. A large hand appeared in diego’s field of vision
and proceeded to search him.
‘No tickling,
please. I can’t stand it. And I’m not armed, thank God. Handy as I’m, I could
maim myself with nail scissors.’
‘It’s not you I
am after,’ said the deep voice of the stranger. ‘Nothing will happen to you if
you remain quite.
‘I’ll be as
quite as a mouse,’ answered Diego with as much conviction as he could muster.
‘I had actually intended to spend the evening on my stomach.’
THE GREEN KING (part 124)
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The Candlesticks
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The man also search
the caretaker, without result. There was a moment of silence, and when the
stranger spoke again, it was in German.
‘Do you
recognize me, Erich?’
‘Reb Klimrod,’
said Steyr. ‘You have grown a lot.’
Silence.
‘She died in
Belzec, erich. Just like Mina and Kati. Did you specifically request Belzec, or
did you leave it up to the SS in Lyvov?’
‘I didn’t have
any particular camp in mind. Reb, that young blond man you had lie down
understands everything we are saying. In order words, you will have to kill him
also.
‘And I went to
Hartheim castle.’
‘I asked Epke
to show you the pictures, if he could fine them, before killing you. Did he?’
‘Yes.’
Silence again.
‘I’m not
afraid, Reb. No matter what you do to me.’
‘Good.’
‘How did you
find me?’
‘The post cards
you sent to your wife from Buenos Aires, to tell her you had arrived safely. I
searched her house one night. I almost missed it. And then I remembered that
play you had written, the one that look place in Venice. One of the players was
named Tarantello, like the signer of the card.’
‘That’s the
price one pays for having literary aspirations. Do you really have a Klee, a
Marc, and a Macke?’
‘No. anyway,
not silence you robbed us. Go into the elevator , Erich. The one of the right.’
‘Everything is
in Cordoba, Reb. Absolutely everything. Given time, I could arrange it so that
it would call come back to you legally.’
‘Get in.’
‘If I die,
you’ll lose everything, Reb. All the thing that belonged to you father you
loved so much’.
THE GREEN KING (part 124)
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The Candlesticks
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The fourth shot
made Diego Haas look up. He saw Steyr grimacing from pain and standing on only
his left leg; the bullet had mangled his right knee.
‘Don’t try to
force me to kill you this way, Erich. You won’t succeed. Go into the elevator.’
Steyr moved,
hoping on his good leg and leaning against the wall for support.
‘Do you really
speak German?’
For a few
seconds, Diego didn’t understand that the question was being asked him. He
didn’t even think of lying. ‘Fluently,’ he said. ‘But the only reason I went to
Europe was to look under women’s skirts there.’ For the first time, he saw the
face of the man Steyr had called ‘Reb Klimrod.’ His features were frozen in a
terrible grimace of hatred and disgust. But the voice remained fantastically
calm.
‘Please get up
and go look.’
Diego did. He
discovered an elevator that seemed perfectly ordinary. Then he realized that
the sides were made of sheets of shining steel, as if someone had forgotten to
finish them.
And there were
three photographs line up at eye level, all three showing the same man crawling
on the floor of what appeared to be a cave, mouth open, at the height of
suffering.
‘My father,
Johann Klimrod. Look at him well, Erich. Youl’ll have plenty of time to do so.’
Steyr had
collapsed in a corner of the elevator. He tried to say something, but the steel
panel closed shut and the noise of the lock muffled the sound of his voice. In
the door that had just shut, there was a little window, not longer than two
hands placed side by side. Quickly, Steyr’s face appeared behind it. Diego
could see the lips moving but there wasn’t the slightest sound.
THE GREEN KING (part 125)
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‘What is your name?’
‘Haas. Diego
Haas.’
‘Move back. I
don’t want you to get hurt. Go sit back there, with the other man. He is not a
caretaker and not responsible for anything. He had no idea what I was going to
do. Don’t move, either of you.’
With that,
Klimrod got to work. From the stairwell, he brought a cloth bag and an entire
network of electric wires. For one second, he seemed to hesitate; his pale eyes
had wined and his lips were quivering, as if he were about to cry. But he
plugged in all the connections. Only then did Diego notice the blood running
down the back of his right hand, and the bloody tear in his jacked, ebave the
elbow: one of the Grubber’s shots must have hit him.
Nothing seemed
to be happening since he had plugged in the wires. There were no sparks, or
anything else visible. Klimrod took a step back, staring into the little
window. After a few minutes, he brushed the steel door lightly with his
fingers. A gesture that he repeated many time during the following minutes, in
total silence.
Until the
moment when he said to Diego without even turning his head, in German: ‘Come
feel this.’
Once again,
Diego obeyed. He put out his hand, which was trembling, and pulled it back
immediately. The steel was very hot.
‘And that’s
nothing,’ said Klimrod in a distant, almost dreamy voice. ‘In one minute the
metal will start turning red…’
The only did hr
press the bUtton. There was that hollow noise characteristic of elevators
beginning to function, but the steel cabin started to rise with infinite
slowness, almost imperceptibly, maybe one inch per minute.
From the cloth
bag, Klimrod took eight silver candle stick and as many candles. He lined them
up in front of the elevator, the steel of which was actually beginning to
redden slightly. Diego didn’t dare look through the little window.
‘Eight
candlesticks, eight lights,’ said Klimrod. ‘Two for each member of my family….’
THE GREEN KING (part 126)
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He lit the
candles one by one. Through the window, Steyr’s face seemed to be melting in
pain; his eyes looked as if they were burning. Diego though that maybe, at that
moment, he should say something. Klimrod took step back and, in a language
Diego didn’t immediately recognize, began to recite something.
When he was
finished, above the yellow flames of the candles, below the elevator, which was
now red, there was an empty space. The elevator was still rising, the steel
more and more incandescent. Diego was chilled with horror, and looked away.
‘Please get up.
Both of you.’
The other had
been given in Sanish.
He made them go
down the short flight of stairs, then the full staircase. They were halfway
down it when the Colombian driver saw them.
The two shots
fired by Reb Klimrod went high over the man’s head, but the nonetheless felt
like a target and disappeared from the doorway.
‘This way.’
They went into
the quarters of the caretaker, two rooms in a row.
‘Come in here,
please,’ Klimrod ordered the caretaker. He closed the closet door on him and
locked it. Deigo Haas, on the other hand, he pushed ahead of him. They reached
a door, to which Klimrod had they key, and found themselves in a little street
where a Volkswagen was parked.
‘Please drive.
My wound would encumber me. I hope you know how to drive.’
THE GREEN KING (part 127)
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They heard
footsteps behind them: the driver was running towards them. One of his bullets
crashed through the rear window and hit the right edge of the wildshield.
Klimrod answered with two shots, apparently not wanting to hit his target.
‘Let’s go,
please.’
The car was hit
two more time, but one sharp turn taken at full speed by Diego put them out of
reach. They quickly got to Aveida Caracas.
Diego asked:
‘And we are going to?’
‘The airport.’
‘Straight
ahead.’
He was pulling
himself together, recovering some of his friskiness, even if he was still
horrified by the scene he had just witnessed.
He asked: ‘What
was that you were reciting, in front of those candlesticks?’
‘The Kaddish,
the Jewish prayer for the dead.’
‘Because you
are Jewish?’
‘Not any more,
but I was, a little, at one time,’ said Klimrod…
….. who
suddenly yelled, ‘STOP!’
The Volkwagen
had just reached the vast esplanade of the Campo Eucharistique, and two
military police vehicles were about to close in on them.
‘Turn around.
Quickly, please.’
‘Call me
Nuvolary,’ said Diego.
But the turned
at furious speed, as if his life depended on it. And it probably does, you big
fool! He thought. If this big guy with the soft, the policia military certainly
will; they shoot anything that moves. He went full speed towards the Techo race
track. He was living the most exciting hours of his life.
THE GREEN KING (part 128)
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Because other
car appeared, from the left and the right, and from behind, he now was really
involved, and with an incomprehensible cheerfulness, he did his best to avoid
them, going into a wild saraband….
….. until the
moment when, at an order given by Klimrod, he stepped on the brake to stop. He
didn’t even have time to understand (‘Everything was ready and waiting, I
assure you’), but fund himself at the wheel of a truck this time, driving west,
driving by the same police cars that were chasing the Volkswagen.
A short time
after, the road began to descent vertiginously; it became a path, one of the
muddiest, hardly visible through pouring rain. The headlights, t each turn, lit
either the wall of a forest-covered mountain or the frightening gap of a
precipice. At least a dozen times, having clumsily used the brakes, Diego felt
the truck, carried by its own inert force, begin to slide in the yellow mud,
directly towards the abyss. Each time, miraculously, he had managed to pull out
of it. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, he said to himself. This is the
final fall, Dieguito!.
It was only
after several hours of this mad descent that they came in sight of a tiny
esplanade. Diego hit the brake with all his strength, standing on the pedal,
which didn’t stop the truck from crashing into a rock.
But they had
finally stopped.
They both
stepped out at the same time. In a corner of the rock, there was a niche, and
in it stood a light-blue-and-hold Virgin, at whose feet some flowers had been
left in a can, as well as votive offerings, thanking the Madonna for watching
over truck and car drivers through their harrowing descent.
THE GREEN KING (part 129)
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‘Ah, that
explains it,’ Diego said cheerfully. ‘I’m not such a bad driver after all…’
He turned
around and saw Reb Klimrod, his forehead pressed against the rock, crying.
After this
stop, and one more that they made to get some gasoline, they had to drive four
more hours to reach the little town of Villavicencio, which is, in altitude,
not a distance, a bit more than a mile lower than Bogota. By this time, a
rather strange accord had developed between Klimrod and Haas.
After they left
Villavicencio, going east, Klimrod asked Diego where they were, and what was
ahead of them. Diego burst out laughing.
‘I was never
very good at geography. No more than at history, Spanish, foreign languages,
physics and chemistry, and mathematics. And I was always excused from
gymnastics with the help of Mamita. That, under those circumstances, I was able
almost to complete a law degree is, certainly, one of the most nauseating
scandals of worldwide university history. Anyway, to put it simply, to the
right, there is nothing; to the left. It’s completely empty. As for straight
ahead, it’s even worse.’
‘Which means
what, exactly?’
Diego pointed,
thinking. This smacks of being a historical moment, what you are about to do,
my chubby little Diego.
He said: ‘You
walk straight ahead for fifteen hundred or two thousand miles and, at one
point, you turn right. That will be the Amazon. There you start rowing and,
theoretically, after another six hundred or so miles, give or take a month, you
reach the Atlantic. From there you can go back to Austria.
He looked up
and was chilled by the incredible emotion he could see on that thin face.
THE GREEN KING (part 130)
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‘They will be
after you,’ he said, suddenly regretting his lightheartedness. ‘Just in my
country, in Argentina , they have invested more than one hundred million
dollar. They are men like Steyr everywhere, throughout the continent, and I
heard talk about a network that is going to send even more of them over here.
They can’t let something like what you have done to Steyr go by; it could give
other ideas. The caretaker of the building.
‘He wasn’t the
real caretaker. I paid him to play the part, but he knew nothing else. He
though it was a joke. Please exonerate him.’
‘Did he speak
German?’
‘No.’
‘Therefore, he
couldn’t have understood anything you and Steyr were saying.’ He smiled, his
yellow eyes sparkling. ‘I’m actually the only witness, the only one to know
your name.
He took Klimrod
hand, forced it to take the 45 from his belt, and pressed the barrel of against
his own temple.
‘Boom!’ he said
gaily. ‘But I don’t mind telling you that would annoy me.’
They drove by a
place called Puerlo Lopez, and there, because a small plane flew over them
twice, they suddenly changed direction, in the ocean of Ilano grass in a
silence that was buzzing in the heat. They went south, for no other reason that
they had stumbled on a to a new road that was hardly visible and obviously old.
They had been gone from Bogota for more than forty hours when they went through
San Carlos de Guaroa, and they reached the Chaffuray rancho on the morning of
the ninth. Beyond that, there was one more registered rancho, and that was La
Horqueta, which they reached after one last stretch that lasted fourteen hours
of driving time. After that, the road ended.
Although Diego
tried to go farther in the truck, he finally had to capitulate before a river
where there was no bridge, and where, after a long search, they could find no
ford.
THE GREEN KING (part 131)
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‘That’s it,’
said Diego, worn out.
When he shut
off the engine, the silence bounced back at him, overwhelming in its force.
Moreover, he had the feeling that an irreparable folly was about to occure.
That wild descent from Bogota, for hours, on that winding road where they
should have been killed twenty times, had nothing premeditated about it; it was
simply the continuation of their escape from the Chapinero. Then, the trip
east, going deeper and deeper into a world that was less human, had been a kind
of game, like moving on inch by inch to the edge of a bottomless pit…
‘Now, we have
come to the final pint…’
He climbed on
to the running board and from there to the roof of the truck. It was not so
much what we saw jungle run along a yellow river and sometimes obscured it completely
– as what he imagined beyond it: an absolute immensity, unknown, glaucous and
gluey, for hundreds of thousands of square miles, swarming with beasts and.. It
gave him goose bumps.
‘Listen, he
said suddenly, with a seriousness that surprised even him, ‘this is madness.
You can’t possibly be thinking of going on , alone, straight ahead…’
‘There is one
think I would like you to do,’ said Klimrod softly. ‘This truck we have been
using – I rented it from someone who didn’t know what I was going to do with
it. This man, whose name and address you will find inside the truck, might some
problems because of me. Try to convince the police of his innocence as well.
And compensate him, please.
He had on the
boots, pants, and cotton shirt he had bought in Villavicencio five day earlier.
He pulled the Cold 45 from his belt and put in on the hood.
‘Take that,
too, or throw it away. As for money…’
THE GREEN KING (part 132)
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He turned the
cloth bag from which he had taken the candlesticks and candles in Bogota upside
down. Out came two books, three passport, and a bundle of bills. He took only
the books, which he put back into the bag, and swung it over his shoulder.
‘And thank you.
I will remember you, Diego.’
The next
minute, he had walked away.
Diego Haas
remembers yelling after him two or three times, imploring him to comeback, torn
by an inexplicable despair. But at no time did Klimrod seem to hear. He went
straight into the jungle, which rapidly, avidly, engulfed him.
Two days later,
on November 11, 1947, having returned to civilization, Diego Haas was arrested
by soldiers, who hit him a little on the head, as well as on other parts of his
body. He was taken back to Villavicencio and from there from Bogota, where he
was questioned with a meritorious determination. He nevertheless stuck to his
own story: he had been an innocent victim, forced by the madman, threatened by
a huge gun and twelve grenades, to drive a car, then a truck, to the very ends
of the Illano, to which, had been alone, he would never have thought of going.
No, the madman said nothing about his name or the reasons that had made him
burn Senor Steyr alive, ‘My-dear-boss-whose-tragic-death-has-overwhelmed-me-with-grief.
Ole.’ (The final ‘Ole‘ had been in petto.) Of Senor Steyr, after the elevator
had been opened by a blowtorch, there was left only a rather repugnant mass of
well-done meat.
What did the
madman look like?
‘He is about
thirty-five,’ said Diego. ‘I would estimate his height as five feet six, black
hair and very dark eyes, a scar on the left cheek. And he is missing part of
the little finger of his left hand. Oh, and I almost forgot: he limps. Yes, he
speaks German, but with a heavy Russian
accent.
No, no, not
Polish, Russian. I know some Russians, you see! There is no way he could be a
real German. At one point, he spoke of Caracas and Venezuela. But my guess is
that he is headed towards the border to the south.
They hit him a
few more times, because his description of the madman didn’t agree too well
with the one given them by the caretaker, who was not even the real caretaker
but a change substitute. Diego said that was not surprising, because the
substitute caretaker was clearly myopic and an alcoholic (which was true).
After that, his
mamita, in Buenos Aires, who had high connections and big means, was able to
intervene and explain that her only, and crazy, son was anything (a loser in
particular) but a criminal who might serve as an accomplice to a ‘Polish Jew or
a Russian Communist.’ As soon as he was set free, Diego found the owner of the
truck, who had not been too worried (they had knocked out only a few of his
teeth); he was compensated for his misfortune with part of the twelve thousand
six hundred and twenty-who-was-not-the real-caretaker was given the rest, after
he got out of prison with no greater damage than the loss of three fingers.
Stirred by a
textile magnet from Medellin, who was offering a twenty-thousand-dollar reward
for the madman’s capture, the search went on four weeks, covering a wide area
stretching from Nunchia in the north to the border in the south.
To the east,
two columns of soldiers and three planes took part in the search. They even
found the last spot the truck had reached, and there they searched through the
Illano for dozens miles. Without much conviction, for, as crazy as he might be,
the madman couldn’t be crazy enough to have gone straight ahead.
The King, in
the meantime, was on his way to his future kingdom.
PAUL-LOUP SULITZER
The Green King
Translated
from the French by Denise Raab Jacobs
First
publishing in Great Britain by Granada publishing 1985
____________________________________
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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