Uruguay
1985
6:35 a.m.

Eduard heard the shouting in the street. He sat at the breakfast table and studied the objects cluttering the window sill. Two ceramic pots, a red and yellow basket he bought for Maria in that little shop by the Rio de la Plata on a recent trip to town. A framed photograph taken in Mexico of his smiling grandson, a skeleton mask dangling from his hand, the Day of the Dead celebration.
         He felt Maria's touch as she bent forward and put her cheek next to his. Maria's fingers lightly caressing Eduard's hair then pulling him close to her, resting her head against his as she stood behind him, whispering all would be well when they both knew it would not be.
         With her hair up, she looked as she had the first time he'd noticed her, a school girl of sixteen crossing the Avenida de Julio on an errand for her mother.
         Maria poured Eduard's coffee then sat down next to him, her husband of thirty-five years.
         "What will you do, cara mia?" he asked. "You are much too young. There will be others."
         "Wait for you," she said. "What else?"
         "But it may be very long. I might not return."
         "I will wait."
         "Remember when . . . "
         Outside the apartment building, they heard a jeep brake to a stop.
         Eduard had lived the greater part of his life in this haven. He had been given a second chance, had eluded his enemies and had made passage from Vichy to this obscure little town in the mountains of South America. He'd often wondered if there was a forgiving God, but, in his case he did not think so. Only Maria. She had understood and forgiven him, had seen something deep within his soul that others would not.
         Voices in the hallway. The sharp military commands more distinct now. Eduard had a vision from the past, a different hallway and different voices, an officer addressing him in an almost forgotten language. "Herr Sturmbannfuhrer," the words keeping pace with the footsteps pursuing their quarry.
         Eduard was Commandant then, drafted at a young age into the SS. He had never killed anyone. No, not directly. His job was to contain, keep the status quo. But who would care about these details now? After all this time, after all this terrible history.
         Eduard opened the door. He wanted to tell his story to the men in uniform. "I was young then," he could tell them. "How could I disobey my superiors? I did not want to do those things. I am not responsible." But he knew they would not listen.
         Maria, framed in the doorway, her hand to her mouth, a hushed scream, the final image before they led him to the car with the engine running.
         Eduard was thankful Maria had urged him to wear his heavy coat. It was unusually cold for early September. And these men? Eduard did not blame them. It wasn't their fault. They were only doing their job, following orders as he had once done. And if they didn't hurry, they would be late.
         The train to Montevideo was always on time.

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