Boys from Brazil by Ira Levin Page A

say.”
    â€œWe’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the colonel said. “ If we come to it. Let’s hope Liebermann stops talking even to students, and you get to make ninety-four checks on this beautiful chart.” He stood up. “Walk me to the plane.” He thrust out a robot-stiff leg and stumped in slow motion, singing: “‘Here comes the bride’—step!—‘All dressed in white’—step! What a nuisance! I’m for simple weddings, aren’t you? But try telling that to a woman.”
    Mengele walked him to the plane, waved him into the sky, and went back into the house. His lunch was waiting in the dining room, so he ate it, and then scrubbed his hands at the lab sink and went into the study. He gave the can of enamel a good shaking and used the screwdriver to pry its lid off. He put on his glasses, and holding the can of bright red and the new thin brush, mounted the stepladder.
    He dipped the bristles, pared them against the can’s rim, took a steadying breath, and brought the red-tipped brush to the box next to Döring—Deutschland—16/10/74 .
    The check came out quite nicely: gleaming red on white, straight-edged and jaunty-looking.
    He touched it up a bit and painted a similar check in the box of Horve—Dänemark—18/10/74 .
    And Guthrie—V.St.A.—19/10/74 .
    He got down off the stepladder, backed away, and studied the three checks over his glasses.
    Yes, they would do.
    He climbed back up on the stepladder and painted checks in the boxes of Runsten—Schweden—22/10/74 , and Rausenberger—Deutschland—22/10/74 , and Goodwood—England—24/10/74 , and Oste—Holland—27/10/74 .
    He got back down and took another look.
    Very nice. Seven red checks.
    But hardly any pleasure at all.
    Damn Rudel! Damn Seibert! Damn Liebermann! Damn everybody!
    Â 
    Pandemonium, that was what he came back to. Glanzer the landlord, who would have made a marvelous anti-Semite if not for the fact that he was Jewish, shouted accusations at a trembling little Esther while Max and a gawky young woman Liebermann had never seen before pushed at Lili’s desk, forcing it toward the corner by the bedroom door. A musical pinging and plopping came from pots and bowls that sat everywhere catching water-drops that fell from dark wetnesses all over the ceiling. A piece of crockery smashed in the kitchen—“Oh rats! ” (that was Lili in there)—and the phone rang. “Aha!” Glanzer cried, turning, pointing. “Now comes the big world figure who doesn’t care about the average man’s property. Don’t put that suitcase down, the floor won’t take it! ”
    â€œWelcome home,” Max said, hauling at an end of the desk.
    Liebermann put his suitcase down, and his briefcase. He had expected, because it was Sunday morning, a quiet, empty apartment. “What happened?” he asked.
    â€œWhat happened?” Glanzer squeezed toward him between the backs of two desks, his bulbous face fire-red. “I’ll tell you what happened! We had a flood upstairs, that’s what happened! You overload the floor, you put strain on the pipes! So they break! You think they can take this load you’ve got here?”
    â€œThe pipes upstairs break and I’m to blame?”
    â€œEverything’s connected!” Glanzer shouted. “Strain is transmitted! The whole house ’ll come down because of the overloading you’ve got here!”
    â€œYakov?” Esther held out the phone with a hand on its mouthpiece. “A man named von Palmen, in Mannheim. He called last week.” A wisp of gray hair stuck out from under the side of her red-brown wig.
    â€œGet the number, I’ll call him back.”
    â€œI just broke the pink bowl,” Lili said, standing mournfully in the kitchen doorway. “Hannah’s favorite.”
    â€œOut!” Glanzer shouted,