At the Schloss, the first mail from home had arrived. For me, a big brown envelope and a small white one, both from 3100 Franklin Tower, Philadelphia 2. Nothing from Siasconset, Mass.

The big envelope contained twenty pages of typewriting all stapled into the blue backer of the Messrs. Shoemaker & Levy, twenty pages of legal outrage beginning with the caption

Boatwright Corporation, 
Boris Fleischer, 
a stockholder, in his own behalf 
and on behalf of all others 
similarly situated, Plaintiffs
CIVIL ACTION No. 61-34239

Malcolm Hopkins, Ellsworth Boyle, 
C. Ellis Boatwright III, R. J. Smith, 
Francis W. McDermott, Jr., 
Walter H. Stumpfhammer, Randall C. Potts, 
G. W. Carothers, Joseph P. Lewis, Jr., 
Warfield Motors, Inc. Joseph W. P. Warfield, Jr., 
Joseph W. P. Warfield III, 
Alfred S. Warfield, Warfield McKnight, 
William Rogers Pennington, 
and Roger C. Cummings, Defendants.


Sixty-three carefully numbered paragraphs: the officers and directors of Boatwright and Warfield were self-dealing crooks, conspiring to merge two sick companies for the sole purpose of perpetuating the inefficient management of Boatwright.

I flipped through the thing, folded it into my pocket and opened the other envelope.

Dearest Friend & Boss [wrote Miss Jersey Cranberries with her IBM Executive on Conyers & Dean stationery] I trust you have arrived at your destination and are having a ball -no pun intended! I will admit that I miss you QUITE A LOT!! and not only after hours because here ALL HELL has broken loose and your friend and mine E. Leaming has made me work for the Masters T. Sharp and B. Butler who sit up nights laboring on what is now known on our time records as Boatwright-Warfield Litigation (Boatwright & Fleischer v. Hopkins # 61-33788EB) which is o.k. with me as I can use the overtime, but you might think one of those 2 Eligible Young Men might ask a girl to dinner when working late, but you would be wrong because those 2 snotty little farts are interested in Debutantes and not some Little Secretary. Although they stare at my PROTUBERANCES so much I plan to send them a bill. Or maybe they think I am your Girl. I wish I was, I mean really. Mr. Ames Mahoney is going to court on this case (with flower in his buttonhole) and he is VERY NICE to me, as are all the others. The older the nicer. Why is that? Mr. Boyle positively DROOLS.

Yesterday I was called to take dictation in the big conference room full of lawyers, Boyle, Mahoney, Forrester, Sharp & Butler, two guys from the Openshaw Pennington firm and a whole bunch of creeps from Shoemaker & Levy. They were trying to settle the case, I think. Spent four hours arguing and dictating letter agreements and stipulations and decrees which I didn't understand and then one of the Shoemakers said they would have to contact their client before they could agree to anything and Mr. Boyle said Well we might have saved ourselves the afternoon if you'd said that in the first place and when they had gone he said Goddammit I wish Graham was here. I almost said Me too!

Did I tell you about the fellow at Drexel? He went to (ugh!) high school with me & knows about my baby and is studying engineering. This summer he works for GE Space Lab. He took me to the Playhouse in the Park to see The Moon is Blue. On Sat. we go to Valley Forge Music Circus to see Carousel. He thinks this is what I like. He is a nice boy but so BORING. What he likes is to watch ball games on TV & drink beer. He drives a Corvette. He would put me in a housing development with 12 brats. He is also Catholic. He loves me. What will become of me?

How is your stupid wife? I'm beginning to think she's not so stupid after all.

Mrs. David Despard called with a very snotty patronizing voice & demanded your address. I was terribly sorry but didn't have your address. If you want Mrs. David Ritch-Bitch Despard to have your address you can! ~ # $ % ~ * () - + well send her a postcard.

I am supposed to be typing a brief and here come the Masters Sharp & Butler yakking down the hall after dinner so I will close FAST 



At first I thought the dormitory was empty, but when I passed Eduard Onderdonk's curtained cubicle I saw that he was lying on his cot, dressed only in undershorts, reading Goldstein's Trial Technique.

"Hallo, Anders," he called. "Back so soon from the Wolfgangsee?"

"Yes, yes, got lots of work to do," I said, beginning to take off my wrinkled clothes. I felt strongly in need of a shave and a shower. I heard Onderdonk getting off his bed and then he came over, carrying his book.

"I never will understand this jury system, this wonderful English jury business of yours," he said. "To us, it sounds like taking people off the street to decide legal matters, it means a lawyer must be an actor, the better actor persuades these people. Why don't you let the judge decide the case, as we do?"

We talked about the pros and cons of the jury system for a few minutes, the historical background, the reasons Americans prefer to leave questions of fact, questions of who was telling the truth (as opposed to questions of law) to twelve people off the street, our basic deep-seated suspicion against giving judges complete and absolute power, and sitting on my bed watching me take my pants off Onderdonk suddenly changed the subject.

"Graham, do you remember how it was in '47? How hard it was for all of us to believe that this whole thing" -he gestured with his arm, indicating the room and the Schloss and the Academy- "that this whole thing was entirely unpolitical, entirely free of American government influence, that it was really just a private organization. . . ."

" Oh yes," I said, surprised at how much it still hurt "I remember it very well."

"And of course it was true, it has been true all these years," Onderdonk went on, speaking earnestly, the book still in his hands. "And by now everybody in Europe knows that this place is independent, nothing to do with your government, it presents an honest picture of the United States, the good things as well as the. bad things, you can believe what you learn here, the people who come here can have confidence in that. That's true, is it not?"

"Yes. it's true."

"Yes. Well." He hesitated, turning the book in his hands, looking down at the floor. "You know, it is a little hard, after all I am a guest here, but I have a special feeling for this place, as you do. . . . I have heard something, and I want to talk to an American about it, and I have a feeling that you and Professor Minto perhaps have the right connections in America. . . ."

In my undershorts too, I sat down on the windowsill, facing him. "Go ahead, Eddie. Tell me what you've heard."

"Do you know anything about the political situation in Europe this summer? The question of Berlin, of East Germany?"

"Not much," I said. "Just what I read in the papers."

"Well, it is a very dangerous situation. Very dangerous. The D.D.R. (Deutsche Demokratische Republik, German Democratic Rebublic), the East German government, cannot maintain itself the way things are going now. The people are all running away. I think it is something like one or two thousand every day now. Every day. And most of them are running into West Berlin, where you have this fortress, this outpost in the middle of their country, and they cannot go on this way. Ulbricht's government will collapse, and the Russians will not allow that. The Russians and all the eastern countries are terribly afraid of this German rearmament, the West Germans becoming the strongest power in NATO -after the Americans, of course- and they fear that you will give atomic weapons to the Germans, and what will the Germans do then?"

I didn't know what to say to all this. Onderdonk stood up and walked over to his cubicle, but he came back immediately with his pipe and his leather tobacco pouch.

"What have the East Germans got to do with the Academy?" I asked. "There aren't even any East Germans here."

"How do you know that?" asked Onderdonk carefully filling his pipe from the pouch.

"Well, you mean some of the Germans here are really--"

"I don't know. I don't know. But von Liss said a curious thing to me the other day. You know Liss?"

Harald von Liss, despite his name, was not German but Swedish, a tall icy elegant Crown Counsel from Stockholm, who said very little to anybody and sat in the library after lunch reading the 5venska Dagbladet, which he received by airmail every day. He had something to do with the Ministry of Justice -something important.

Onderdonk was lighting his pipe, standing beside the open window, his face surrounded by pungent blue smoke. "You understand I have known Liss for some years. When I was in Stockholm on a matter for my government, he was representing the Swedish government . . . Well, it makes no difference to you, but in Europe we are careful what we say to strangers. So if he speaks to me of such a matter, it is because he knows me. You understand?"

"What did he say?"

"He said to me, the other day, the other evening in the garden, he said, 'Onderdonk, there is something funny here.' I asked what he did think was funny? He said, There is something funny about Pressburger.' You know Pressburger, don't you?"

I knew who Dr. Pressburger was, but had never spoken with him. He was one of the oldest and most nondescript students, a man in his fifties, a law professor from Kiel, a short potbellied man with a wrinkled face, heavy glasses, and a fringe of long gray hair. He studied eamestly and chain-smoked cheap German cigarettes and kept entirely to himself.

"During the Nazi time, Pressburger was a refugee in Sweden," Onderdonk went on. "He took Swedish nationality and remained there after the war was over but then, after a few years, for some reason he went back to Germany and became a professor there. Liss has seen the Swedish files about him, he did not want to tell me why he had seen them but it was not an important matter, a routine matter some years ago. In any event, he has seen enough to form a clear idea of Dr. Pressburger."

Onderdonk stopped, puffing on his pipe and looking at me.


"Liss says this gentleman here is not Dr. Pressburger."

"What is that supposed to mean? Can't there be another Dr. Pressburger? Is that such an unusual name? Did he ever claim to be the same one in the Swedish files? I don't understand what he's driving at. . ."

Onderdonk shook his head. "I don't know either, but Liss is quite sure there is something wrong. He went to some trouble to check into names and dates, he has written a letter home to Stockholm for confirmation and he is quite sure that this main pretends to be the Pressburger who was in Sweden, and of course he wonders, why?"

There were voices in the corridor and then several students in bathing suits and sandals clomped into the dormitory, carrying their towels and books and arguing about the Self-Incrimination Clause of the Fifth Amendment.

'You had better take your shower," said Onderdonk. "The lunch bell will ring in a few minutes. We can talk more about this later."

By the time I had shaved and showered and changed my clothes I was late for lunch, so I ran down the curving stairs two at a time and came into the dining hall to find the others already eating. I took an empty chair next to Nora Rasmussen, and it was not until I turned to be introduced to the man on her other side that I recognized Logan Brockaw.

"Don't tell me you two know each other?" said Nora.

"Well, we spent three years in the same room," I said. "Freddie told me you had a job here. What is it you do?"

In his drawling adenoidal voice, Logan Brockaw explained that he was on the staff of the Academy, working for Rasmussen by setting up future sessions and traveling about Europe to interview potential students. He had just returned from Prague, where he had signed up two people for the December session, "American Foreign Policy." At the same time he was writing a master's thesis on Austrian baroque architecture, specifically the work of Fischer von Erlach.

Austrian baroque architecture? Logan Brockaw?

"Fischer von Ur-lack?" Nora Rasmussen laughed. "Isn't that priceless? He sounds like a seafood. I've never heard of him, I think Logan's made the whole thing up."

I had beard of him, though. "He built the Dreifaltigkeitskirche across the river. He built the chapel at the Johann-Spital. I think he built Schloss Klessheim."

Brockaw looked surprised. "You know this town?"

"I used to know it, but I haven't been here for a long time." While we chatted, eating our Wiener Schnitzel and salad, I looked at him. He was a society boy from New York and Yale, who had come to Penn for law school because he couldn't get into Harvard; blond, conventionally good looking, the only man I ever knew who appeared in cigarette advertisements. "Mr. W. Logan Brockaw III, of Park Avenue and Southampton, enjoys a Camel while preparing a law review article." Color photograph of Brockaw in pink shirt and suspenders, surrounded by stacks of law books, writing on a yellow pad with one hand while elegantly fingering the Camel with the other. We thought it was funny and posted it on the third-year bulletin board among an the announcements of law firm interviews. He drove an Aston Martin and he played bridge every afternoon in the Sharswood Club room, but he must have done pretty good work too, because he got a job at Iselin Brothers & Devereaux.

I had not seen him for nine years.

"You mean to say you quit 'the Brothers'?" I asked. "When did that happen?"

"Couple of years ago, Graham. Have some beer?" He filled my tumbler from the foaming pitcher that was being passed around the table. When I didn't say anything he seemed to feel that an explanation was required. "Well, you know, I just got bored, tired of the treadmill. I got started on the foreign bond issues, mostly German deals, registration statements, trust indentures, flying back and forth to Frankfurt and London all the time--"

"Sounds like fun."

"Was, at first. But then, one night when I came back to the office after dinner and here was another proof of a trust indenture lying there, ninety-seven pages of boilerplate to check for mistakes . . . Well, you know I never got married, my mother had just died and left me a little money, I didn't need to sit there and work on that crap every night--"

He's lying to me, I thought, wondering how I knew, but knowing that I knew it and wondering why he was doing it

"What made you switch to architecture?" I made myself ask him. "Do you want to build things?"

"No, it's too late for me to become an architect, but I've always been interested in it, took a couple of courses at New Haven, and I thought I'd like to write about the field, or maybe teach the history of architecture, and this way I could travel around and look at the beautiful buildings, not just boardrooms and law offices all the time."

A perfectly plausible story.

"How is Mr. Devereaux these days?"

Something moved behind his eyes. "Oh, you know Armistead?"

"I used to know him, yes. His son started all this."

"Yes, I know." Brockaw deliberately finished the last bits of veal and lettuce on his plate before he allowed himself to continue. "Fact of the matter, Armistead got me this job. I put in two semesters of graduate work at the School of Arts and Architecture at New Haven and then I wanted to write my master's thesis on some aspect of the Austrian baroque and I happened to mention it, and he told me about the Academy, told me to apply for a job on the staff--"

"He must be about ready to retire, isn't he? Does he spend a lot of time in Washington these days?"

"In Washington? Not that I know of. He lets the younger people do the SEC work, terrible hours as I'm sure you know, he's kind of an elder statesman, sits on lots of boards. . . ."

SEC work? Did Brockaw think I didn't know what Armistead Devereaux did in Washington? I was just about to straighten him out on that point when I caught myself. How did I know anyway? Where had I heard it? I didn't remember, but it must have been a long time ago. Maybe it wasn't common knowledge; indeed, maybe it wasn't true any more. I decided to say nothing, our conversation petered out and the others turned their attention to Porter Lamason who, somewhat pink and loquacious from the beer and the lunch, was regaling the whole table with the latest Kennedy story. I didn't listen. I looked across the big room at Dr. Pressburger, alone in the crowd at his table, drinking his coffee and smoking a cigarette.

"Well what about it? What difference does it make?" asked Freddie sullenly, munching on the piece of Apfelstrudel I had brought him from the dining hall. He had been sound asleep and he did not like being waked up.

"I just told you, I think there's something fishy going on here. Here's this German professor who isn't who he's supposed to be, and now here's this Logan Brockaw claiming to be a student of baroque architecture--"

"Why shouldn't he be? I told you he came into some money, why shouldn't he take up architecture if he feels like it?"

"Because it's completely out of character, Freddie. He's not that kind of a guy. He doesn't know or care any more about Fischer von Erlach than you do."

"Fischer who?" Freddie groaned again. "Listen, I really feel lousy, there's a hammer beating inside my head. Just tell me what if anything you want me to do and then get the hell out of here and let me sleep."

I looked about the dark apartment, the writing table littered with books and papers, the open closet with Freddie's suits, the sliver of sunlight peeping between the heavy curtains . . . This had been Boswell Hyde's room in 1947, where Joseph Kaufman had stared at me. I suddenly felt lonely.

"I guess there's nothing I want you to do, Freddie," I said. "I guess I just wanted to talk to somebody. Go on back to sleep."

Astrid Königsmark, sitting on the stone bench in front of the reclining goddess at the edge of the park talking in the moonlight:

"Why not? I will try to tell you. If I can. I don't know. it was different for your friend, for Professor Minto. For him the whole thing was . . . a big excitement, you know? A middleaged man, a young girl, you know, it's a so familiar story. . . . I mean it is big cliche, sure, but also, you know, it's rather nice, like this is the big adventure of his life, a very important thing, even if the girl is not going to run away with him or anything like that, she knows he isn't really in love with her or anything like that, but still, well, it is something to remember, even for her.

"But with you? No. It's nothing much. Oh, you are very good, I'm not complaining, it was terrific, but you are divorced or something, aren't you? No? Well, I wonder about your wife then, because you sleep with women all the time and it's just something for you to do, I mean it's not something special.

"Well, the other thing . . . I know, with two girls, all right that is something new, maybe you haven't done that before so that gets you a little excited, and us too, of course, but that's just once, you know. Like jumping in a parachute. Have you ever jumped in a parachute? I have, at Ostia, over the beaches. Oh, the sea was so blue and I was so frightened but it was exciting. You know what you really liked? You liked it when you were in the water behind the sailboat, dragging on the rope and I gave you the wine, and you drank the wine and looked up at the mountains. You liked that best, I looked into your eyes then and I saw that you liked that very much.

"So we are not going to do anything more together. Because if we do I am going to fall in love with you and I do not want to do that, that would be a very silly thing to do, very painful and bad. No. I don't know, but there is something the matter, I don't know what it is, but I have been hurt very bad once before and I can recognize the signs and I do not want to be hurt that way again. I don't mind if it hurts a little bit, that is love and women are always hurt, but not so very bad, by a man who does not feel things. No, please . . . I hope you find the answer, Graham, and I would like to stay with you but I cannot, so let us not play any more, it is not a game. Not for me."

previous chapter, next chapter



1961 - A Point of View
[1] The annual meeting of the stockholders of the Boatwright Corporation
[2] What are you going to do about Boatwright and what are you going to do about yourself?
[3] Have we learned anything this evening, Doctor?
[4] Producing results?
[5] Alexander's Feast
[6] How'd you like to go over to Salzburg for a month with me?

1947 - An Island
[7] You're not going to Berlin. You're staying here.
[8] All right, we're the Military Government.
[9] The Americans are teaching us to be democratic instead of fascistic.
[10] Well, this is Fasching.
[11] Letters after Ash Wednesday
[12] Say Boris is at Schloss Fyrmian.
[13] THE AMERICAN ACADEMY IN EUROPE - Prospectus for the First Session
[14] Learn to think of people as individuals.
[15] Parlez-moi d'amour, redites-moi des choses tendres.
[16] Not one thing left to show that you've ever been on earth? - "Sources of Soviet Conduct"
[17] A Countess, a Prussian Officer and a Ländler
[18] Now this part of your life is over and I'm sending you home.
[19] A father who's too busy to watch his son die. - The Spring of 1961
[20] I cannot sell Schloss Fyrmian to the Academy.

1961 - A Change of Air
[21] The first thing I saw was the Festung Hohensalzburg far in the distance, silhouetted against the shadowy curtain of the high mountains.
[22] Next day at the Academy we got to work - Graham, you know what Fleischer did?
[23] Im weißen Rößl am Wolfgangsee
>[24] Brockaw writing a thesis on Austrian baroque architecture? - Boatwright Corporation and Boris Fleischer, plaintiffs
[25] You know there a Mr. Devereaux? Mr. Armistead Devereaux?
[26] I think always of Peter Devereaux.
[27] It sounds like an act of desperation, and it won't hold up in court.
[28] In those Oklahoma Hills WHERE AH WAS BOW-AHHHN!
[29] ... that we should meet again like this . . . I think perhaps there is a reason.
[30] "Is there here an American by name of Brockaw?"
[31] This is Boris Fleischer!
[32] "Does Hans work for Gehlen?" Paola shook her head. "More the other way around."
[33] Won't you please come home? Everybody needs you, I most of all.
[34] With this Waffenstillstand you have time now.
[35] You're going to regret this for the rest of your life!
[36] We Europeans would not do it. None of us. - People think you need medical attention.
[37] Will they trust you?
[38] Some things about the U.S.A. are perhaps rather important, and to us impressive.
[39] You're going to need a good lawyer.

version: March 2, 2004
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Arthur R.G. Solmssen, Joachim Gruber