The Lost Years of Billy Battles

Chapter 3-2

Katharina and I exchanged glances. “I thought we were only supposed to keep our ears open, not engage with spies,” she said.

“Yes, you are absolutely correct. But it would be advantageous if you actually got to know one or two of these people and could extricate some useful information.”

“Why is Veracruz so important?” I asked. “I know General Funston believes it is a conduit for weapons in violation of the arms embargo the United States has in place for Mexico, but it just doesn’t make a lot of sense to me to be so concerned about a two-bit place like Veracruz.”

Parker leaned back in his chair, pulled a pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it.

“There are more than a few Germans here representing the German government who are actively supporting President Victoriano Huerta.”

“So what?” Katharina interrupted. “What does that have to do with the United States?”

Parker directed a look of what appeared to be puzzled exasperation at Katharina. “Madam, were you not a German baroness, and did you not reside in Germany?”

Katharina grimaced. “Yes, I was a baroness, but I am not a German citizen. And yes, I did live in Germany. What has all of that to do with anything?”

“Well, you must know of Germany’s desire to expand and to project power in the Americas and Asia. After we licked Spain in 1898, Kaiser Wilhelm began to feel we were getting too big for our britches. He saw Mexico and the whole Gulf of Mexico region as a counterweight to growing American influence and strength.”

Katharina and I looked at one another, and I could feel our thoughts coinciding. Had one of those secret German invasion plans we discovered years ago finally made it to Washington?

Katharina shifted forward. “I do know there were powerful business and military factions in Germany who wanted to be more aggressive in colonizing weak nations.”

“Precisely.”

“But you can’t possibly think Germany has such designs on Mexico—”

“I don’t think they want to rule Mexico, but they have other plans.”

“Such as?”

Parker lowered his voice. “Are you aware that between 1903 and 1904 Germany made highly secret offers to Mexican President Porfirio Diaz to buy Baja California?”

That got my attention, and I shot Katharina a surprised look. Katharina sat back in her chair and took a sip of coffee.

“Why?” she asked.

“The kaiser wanted to use the entire peninsula for his naval operations. It has several deepwater harbors on both the western and gulf coasts. When Teddy Roosevelt found out about it, he got out the big stick and Germany backed down.”

Intriguing. Katharina and I knew about Germany’s secret and often modified plans to invade the United States that dated back to the mid-1890s. We exchanged glances once again. This time Parker noticed.

Looking first at me and then at Katharina, he asked, “Is there something I should know?”

“The Baja matter happened more than ten years ago,” I said, ignoring his question and feigning ignorance. “It surely has no bearing on the present.”

Parker looked at me like I was a dunce. “Mr. Battles, I have been in Mexico since 1900, and I know every state and most big cities. There is more devious and mendacious European intrigue and scheming going on here than almost any place else on earth.”

“Uh huh.”

“Aren’t you a journalist? Don’t you know what is happening in Europe? It’s only a matter of time before the place explodes in war.”

“I’d say it’s none of our business what happens over there.”

Parker shot me an exasperated look.

Katharina chuckled. “William, don’t.” She looked at Parker. “It’s an old reportorial technique. Pay no attention.”

“Look, Mr. Parker,” I began. “You have been down here for what, fourteen or fifteen years? Why didn’t General Funston give you the assignment he gave us? You know a lot more of the ins and outs than we do.”

“I’m a known commodity,” Parker said. “When I walk into a room where Germans are, it’s as if everybody is suddenly in church. Besides, I don’t speak German.”

“So what you’re telling us is that if and when a war does start in Europe, the Germans will want to keep us out of the scrap, and that’s why they’re bringing weapons into Mexico. They want Mexico to invade the United States?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but we have a 2,000-mile border with Mexico, and if the Germans can induce Mexico to keep us busy along that border, we won’t be inclined to join the fray in Europe and will be less inclined to ship weapons, ammunition, and other material to our allies.”

“What kind of inducements are we talking about?” Katharina asked.

Parker took another look around the room, leaned forward and once again lowered his voice.

“One proposal we know about is for German naval officers to train the Mexican navy,” Parker said. “Another is to bring German military instructors here to train the Mexican army. Yet another is to provide Mexico with millions of dollars in aid, low interest loans, and weapons. Since the revolution began in 1910, the government here is just about broke.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “I bet Washington isn’t happy about that.”

“That’s a wager you would win, Mr. Battles.”

Katharina sighed and leaned back on the couch. “All of this Weltpolitik is giving me a headache.”

“Believe me, all Americans will have a headache if Germany encourages Mexico and its bands of bandits and revolutionaries to cause trouble along the border.”

“Why would they do that?” Katharina asked.

“Because the Mexican government is fractured and crumbling. Huerta is a dictator, and he barely has any power or money to supply and pay an army. Right now he is issuing worthless paper currency, as are the different rebel forces. Do you know that there are more than twenty different paper currencies in Mexico? To top it all off, President Wilson has refused to recognize the Huerta government. And now, with this German ship supposed to be arriving loaded with weapons and who knows what else, Washington is rightfully nervous.”

We fell silent as a waiter came by with more coffee and warm milk and refreshed our cups.

Katharina stirred her coffee, took a sip, and looked at Parker. “Mr. Parker, why is it that we always feel a need to get involved in the affairs of other nations?”

“Well, as far as Mexico is concerned, I can tell you in one word why we are involved here. Oil. That’s another reason the Germans are here too—that and the fact that there are several hundred coffee plantations in the state of Chiapas to the south of us that are owned by German companies.”

Suddenly, Parker’s eyes grew wide. He was looking toward the hotel’s double doors some one hundred feet away. He quickly picked up a newspaper he was carrying, opened it, and pretended to read it, effectively hiding his face.

“You two should leave,” he whispered. “Somebody just came in who shouldn’t see us talking.”

We did as we were told, moving inconspicuously to the other side of the lobby where a newsstand was located. That gave me an opportunity to observe the man whose presence had provoked Parker’s tense behavior.

He wore a dark gray suit, a matching fedora, and looked to be in his early thirties. He was just under six feet tall, thin, with blond hair. His face was swarthy and pockmarked, and beady weasel-like eyes darted around the lobby. He was obviously looking for somebody.

As I continued watching the man, I noticed Parker get up, walk to the reception desk, and hand the clerk a folded piece of paper. Then he looked over at me and walked out of the hotel.

“I think Parker just left us a note at the reception desk,” I said to Katharina. “Why don’t you go get it? I’ll keep an eye on him.” I eyeballed the man who had unsettled Parker.

I remained where I was for a minute or two, and then I moved to a group of leather armchairs and couches in the middle of the lobby.

Katharina returned and sat in one of the chairs opposite me.

“Well, at least we know his name,” she said, nodding at the man in the gray fedora. She made sure the man wasn’t looking in our direction and handed me the note that Parker had hastily scribbled.

“Kurt Jahnke. Born Germany. Naturalized American citizen. Served in U. S. Marines. Saboteur. German Spy. Very dangerous.”

“Quite the résumé,” Katharina said.

Jahnke was standing near one of the hotel elevators and was clearly waiting for someone.

When the elevator door finally opened, a woman stepped out. She walked over to Jahnke, embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek. She looked to be in her midthirties, close to five foot eight, with light-auburn hair that was covered by a navy blue, lace-embellished straw riding hat. She wore a two-piece navy suit trimmed in ivory with a three-quarter-length jacket over a creamy-white blouse.

“Herr Jahnke knows how to pick ’em,” Katharina said. “That woman is dressed to the nines.”

Unexpectedly, the two of them moved toward a group of chairs barely ten feet from us. Katharina and I both pretended not to notice. We ordered two more coffees and continued reading our newspapers while keeping our ears tuned to our new neighbors’ conversation.

As Jahnke prepared to sit, he looked over at us and tipped his head politely. We returned the gesture.

As expected, the two spoke exclusively in German. They engaged in some small talk and made a date to have dinner that night at the Via Berlin restaurant that Parker had mentioned. Katharina and I looked at one another. We would be having dinner there also.

As the conversation moved ahead, it became obvious that the woman, who Jahnke referred to as Margarethe, was recently widowed. She and Jahnke were now engaged in a fervid affair. Her late husband, an Austrian named Glöckner, had owned two large coffee plantations to the south in the state of Chiapas.

Much of the conversation had to do with what Margarethe was going to do next.

“You can stay here, with me,” Jahnke insisted.

“I cannot. I have thought about it, Kurt. I must return to Germany or my family will disown me. My father is already angry that I have remained in Mexico so long after Herbert’s death.”

“Don’t leave, Margarethe,” Jahnke said, placing his hand on hers. “We will go to the United States. San Francisco. I have a house there.”

“But I don’t speak English very well. How could I live in San Francisco?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Margarethe looked over at Katharina, perhaps sensing that she might be listening.

“Let’s take a walk, Kurt.” The two stood up and walked out of the hotel.

Katharina looked at me. “Did you get all of that?”

“Most of it.”

“Quite the lovesick spy, our Herr Jahnke.”

***

That evening while having dinner at Via Berlin, things began to get interesting. As Parker had told us, Via Berlin was about four blocks away from the Plaza de Armas, down a narrow cobblestone street. The place had a strong German Gasthaus motif— chestnut wood-paneled walls and high-backed wooden booths that lined the walls and front windows. I judged the Via Berlin to be about 150 feet in length and perhaps 60 feet wide. A set of double doors to the rear led to an outdoor beer garden bedecked with strings of tiny white lights. Twenty or so tables were scattered under the lights, and they too were filling up fast.

We settled at one of the indoor tables that was swathed with white linen tablecloths and began studying the two-page menu. At the top of the menu, in German, were the following words:

“Wir servieren deutsche Küche mit einem mexikanischen Geschmack.“

“German food with a Mexican flavor? This will be interesting. Talk about two incompatible cuisines,” Katharina said.

A few people were already in the restaurant, and they’d given us the once-over when we walked in. We heard some people comment that we were that wealthy American couple from New Orleans who had arrived on a 135-foot yacht. Remarkably, the entire population of Veracruz already seemed to know who we were, even though we had been in Veracruz just three days.

I checked my pocket watch. It was just about eight o’clock, and patrons were beginning to file into the restaurant which looked able to seat perhaps sixty people. Within minutes, it seemed, the place was almost full, and a dozen or so Mexican waiters dressed in black pants, white shirts, and three-quarter black jackets were scurrying about taking orders and delivering drinks and appetizers.

We were slightly amazed when our Mexican waiter addressed us in German.

“Guten Abend,” he said.

“Guten Abend,” Katharina said. “Wir möchten mit dem Besitzer sprechen. ”

The waiter bowed and scampered away. Moments later a man in his midforties appeared. He introduced himself as Hans Geissler, the owner of the Via Berlin.

“May I be of service?” he asked, speaking with a heavy German accent. Herr Geissler was a short, round-bodied, stoop-shouldered man with close-set eyes that peered from behind thick eyeglasses. A black pencil moustache looked as if it was painted above his lip.

“We were just admiring your menu, Herr Geissler,” Katharina said. “It says you prepare German food with Mexican piquancy?”

Geissler eyed Katharina warily for a moment and then extended an insincere gap-toothed smile.

“Ja, madam. We are making spicy Weißwurst, Bratwurst, und Mexican Schnitzel in the back. You want maybe to try?”

“I don’t know. What is this?” She pointed at a selection of dishes listed under the heading: “Jarocho Küche.”

“Jarocho Küche is typisch Veracruz food. Very good. There are many Spanish, African, and Caribbean Einflüsse . . . uh . . . influences. You like fish?”

“Fish? Why yes.”

“Darf ich . . . uh,” Geissler caught himself. “Pardon, I am speaking German.”

“Das ist in Ordnung. Wir sprechen beide Deutsch,” Katharina said, indicating that we both spoke German.

Geissler looked relieved, and the remainder of our conversation was in German.

“May I suggest this dish?” He pointed at the word huachinango on the menu. It was red snapper prepared a la veracruzana in a tomato-and-olive-based sauce with arroz a la tumbada (tumbled rice) and caldo de mariscos (seafood soup).

“My dear Herr Geissler, you have talked me into it.” Katharina flashed him one of her patented zesty smiles, and Geissler was immediately besotted.

“Und der Herr?” Geissler asked, looking at me. I opted for an African-Caribbean dish called pollo encacahuatado (chicken in peanut sauce) and mondogo (tripe soup).

Geissler snapped his fingers and our Mexican waiter immediately appeared. He spoke to the man in Spanish, turned back to our table, clicked his heels, and excused himself.

“Preußische Leuteschinder,” Katharina whispered as Geissler walked away.

“What?”

“The man’s a little Prussian martinet. Did you see how he clicked his heels? God, they can’t help themselves.”

As we would later learn, Geissler was much more than that.