Peter Woods Abroad

By Kenneth S. Most

PETER WOODS Abroad
Peter Woods is a charming Englishman whose personality enables him to be promoted in the business world at an early age. He becomes engaged to the boss's daughter, who is killed in a car accident on the eve of their wedding. His life becomes a compromise between his ambition and his grief, with the former winning out. The action takes place in Paris, Vienna, Geneva, London and several countries of North Africa, at a time when major international conflicts left few clues as to their eventual outcomes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 31, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465333537

Kenneth S. Most

Kenneth S. Most is a retired college professor living in Florida. He has worked in a dozen countries on four continents and considers himself a citizen of the world. He has published many books and articles on economic and financial subjects and one other novel, Peter Woods Abroad (Xlibris, 2005.)

Book preview

Part One

I     

Peter Woods arrived at the Vienna Westbahnhof at eight in

the morning of February 20, 1948. The night in the Wagon Lit from Paris had left him cold, tired, and enervated; he had slept little because of the racket of the wheels underneath, and not at all after a Russian frontier guard at Linz pushed his passport back under his pillow. But he was immediately refreshed by the clear air and engaged a porter to manhandle the two bulky suitcases into a taxi for the drive to the Hotel Post in the Fleischmarkt.

It had snowed during the night, and the streets and houses were white except where vehicle tracks and footprints had started a thaw. Every other corner, it seemed, was a pile of rubble, and in between stood apartment houses and office buildings sadly in need of maintenance. The image he had brought with him, of a wealthy capital city to which people from all corners of an empire had brought their money, was confronted by the reality of the shabby survivor of a brutal war. Nevertheless, the handsome facades of quite a few undamaged palaces and coffee houses bore witness to the past, and signs revealed familiar names: Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, together with a few unexpected ones: Persil, Lucky Strike, American Express.

Surrendering his passport to the hotel front desk for registration with the police, he was escorted without the aid of an elevator to a room on the third floor. It was quite large, the low ceiling indicating the building’s age, and contained a full-size bed, a table and chair, a dressing table, and a double washbasin. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor; a use for the second washbasin became immediately apparent. There was also a closet, ample for his few articles of clothing. The other contents of the suitcases consisted of books, instant coffee and a few bottles of hard liquor that Sydney had supplied as a parting gift, which he prudently left under lock and key.

After shaving in lukewarm water, and washing his upper body, Peter dressed and descended to the hotel lobby. The hotel had no restaurant, and he decided to forego breakfast and go on foot to the office, which was not too far away, and where a cup of coffee might be had. The porter spoke enough English to give directions, and he set off through the snow. It took a brisk quarter of an hour’s walk to get there.

The Andes Trading Company occupied the first three of five floors of a relatively modern office building near the corner of Schottengasse and the Ringstrasse. It had been recently renovated, probably when the Company leased its space, and looked incongruously smart next to its dilapidated and even ruined neighbors. Peter introduced himself to the receptionist, a pretty, dark-haired girl elegant in nylons and high heeled shoes.

I’m Trudy, she responded, her English marked by a strong Hungarian accent. Mr. Staunton was expecting you later. I’ll see if he’s available.

A few minutes later Roger Staunton came out of a nearby door. Peter had met him once in Paris during the interviews, but only for a few minutes, and he was seated at the time. He now realized how tall he was, taller than Peter. A great, gaunt middle-aged man, almost bald on top but possessor of a magnificent moustache that revealed his former hair color as ginger. His close set eyes were unsmiling, but he sounded cordial enough.

Welcome to Vienna, Peter, he boomed. Have a good trip? Hotel all right?

It’ll do fine.

I thought we might have a spot of lunch later, together with Herr Feintuch, with whom you will be working. Take him to the conference room, Trudy, and then tell Herr Feintuch that Herr Woods is here. Would you you like a cup of coffee?

Peter took a seat in the small conference room and Herr Feintuch immediately appeared. Peter had experienced a little apprehension when contemplating this meeting, Alois Feintuch being the chief accountant and Peter having been hired as internal auditor, reporting to Roger Staunton the managing director, and through him to European headquarters in Paris. Feintuch was a small, square man with a large, square face. He immediately set about putting the new employee at ease, in English that had a heavy German accent.

I am very happy you are here, he said with a smile. You and I will work together very close, no? I have arranged an office for you next to mine. Vienna is a mess, it’s like the old wild west (he said vild vest), everybody does as they like. We have five different police forces—Austrian, American, British, French, Russian—and no law and order. You must be on your guard at all times. The Hotel Post is a decent place, but look out where you go. You know about the sectors, no?

At that time Austria was partitioned in sectors, each of which came under the military control of one of the four victorious powers, and Vienna was in the middle of the Russian sector. The capital, however, was administered jointly, and the streets patrolled by jeeps, manned by four military policemen, one from each country. He had been advised not to go outside this urban area without proper documentation and preferably by public transportation.

How is your German? Feintuch asked.

Peter mumbled a few words to demonstrate facility with the language. He could read and write German quite well, a tribute to first-rate instruction at an English grammar school, and needed only a few weeks of conversation to bring his oral skills up to par.

You be careful with the women, isn’t it? Feintuch went on. Peter felt a little embarrassed by the direction of the conversation, but he pressed on. Much disease. Even the girls who work in this office—you ask me, I know which ones have the gonorrhea. Be very careful who you go to bed with.

This was undoubtedly the strangest indoctrination lecture Peter had undergone since he first started to work, but the concern was understandable. He was a member of a nation occupying a conquered territory, even though he was a civilian, and relations with the populace, particularly the female members, were critical.

Feintuch motioned Peter to follow him to a suite of small offices at the back of the building, and into a room perhaps one hundred feet square, containing a desk on which there was a black telephone and an old rotary hand calculator. This, he was to discover, was a sign of Feintuch’s organizing genius, because office machinery was virtually unobtainable locally. Eventually Peter managed to get a Friden electric calculator sent over from New York. There was also a low back office chair. No filing cabinet; no bookshelves.

Feintuch then took him next door to his office. It was only slightly larger, and crammed with files and books. His desk was covered with account books and papers. In one corner was a small typist’s table where a greying middle aged lady sat typing. Peter was assailed by the smell, a combination of cigarettes, dust, and body odors.

Feintuch addressed her in German.

This is Herr Woods, who will be working with us from now on. Herr Woods, this is Frau Hopper, my secretary. You will give him everything he needs, nicht wahr?

Frau Hopper rose and made a slight curtsey as she took Peter’s hand, revealing the source of the body odor. This was a surprise, as he had worked in French offices for several months, where female hygiene was assisted by a plentiful use of perfume. Obviously Frau Hopper did not use perfume.

Feintuch then conducted a tour of the building. The first floor was occupied by top management, accounting and marketing, and the second by purchasing and shipping. Peter was introduced to a quick succession of names and faces, and shown a number of brochures in varous European languages, and it became apparent that Roger Staunton and he were the only Western Europeans in the organization. There were Austrians, Bulgarians, Czechoslovaks, Hungarians, Poles, Roumanians, Russians, and Yugoslavs. Vienna had always been a cosmopolitan city, and the displacement of populations that accompanied World War II added to the mix of ethnic and national groups who lived there. Of course, this was why the Company had set up shop in Austria, as part of its plan to become the dominant trading firm in Central and Eastern Europe.

Of the score or so of employees to whom Peter was introduced, one made an immediate impression, perhaps because of the familiar and outgoing attitude he displayed. His name was Rudi Schein, a Roumanian, and as Peter was to discover subsequently, a Jew who had survived the holocaust by serving in the Roumanian army under an alias. He was in charge of purchasing, which meant not only that he was involved in deals with vendors in a number of Eastern European countries, but also responsible for shipments from the Company’s main offices in the United States and Great Britain.

Rudi was smartly dressed in a new glen check suit and knitted yellow waistcoat. About medium height, he was between thirty and forty years old, with clearly defined features, a very pale complexion, and surprisingly blue eyes. He greeted Peter cordially, in almost unaccented English.

Welcome, Mr. Englishman, he said as he shook Peter’s hand vigorously. Welcome to Vienna, its sausages and beer. We know you have come to check up on us, but don’t worry, you’ll have an easy job here. We are all friends in this office, and you will be our friend also. Come and see me any time you have a question.

Peter acknowledged his invitation politely, which merely recognized the facts of the situation. After a few more handshakes it was time to return to Roger Staunton’s office, where he was preparing to go to lunch. A large chauffeur-driven automobile of aerodynamic shape awaited them at the curb outside the building.

What kind of a car is this? Peter asked, sitting in the spacious back seat with Feintuch. Roger sat in front with the driver.

It’s a Tatra, answered Roger. Made in Czechoslovakia. It’s the rear-engined luxury car that Mercedes should have made, and didn’t.

I never realized that the Czechs made cars.

This one is out of production, but the Czechs still make a small car called the Skoda, and you’ll see a lot of them buzzing around Vienna. We looked into exporting them to the West, but decided that a communist country couldn’t handle the quality and maintenance problems. The Czechs are a surprisingly inventive people. The number of patents filed in Czechoslavakia per hundred thousand population is higher than in any other country, including Germany and the United States.

They arrived at the Rathauskeller. As they entered Peter’s nose, sensitive to new smells this day, detected the odors of boiled cabbage, roasting meat, and an overlay of cigar smoke. The restaurant was crowded, but they were quickly ushered to a table for four at the back of the room. I usually have lunch at the Hotel de France, which caters mainly to French and British officers, said Roger. But I imagine that you have sufficient familiarity with French cuisine, and you might as well get used to eating like the natives. This was the period when the humorist Art Buchwald was making his reputation in the columns of the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune. Peter was therefore aware of the culinary riches of Vienna through his accounts of the adventures of the garlic patrol, which, like the military police, explored the city nightly, in search, in their case, of ever more tasty meals.

The menu was exotic enough, with unknown delicacies such as Sardellenbutter, Schweinsbraten, Kasselerrippchen, and those sublime Austrian desserts that would become addictive: Linzertorte, Sachertorte, Doboschtorte, Kremschnitten.

Let’s play it safe, Peter, said Roger. "I’ll order you a Wienerschnitzel, and you can choose a dessert. The meal was delicious, but throughout it Peter concentrated on what Roger was saying.

You will find this city both easy to love, and dangerous to live in, he said. There is every kind of civilized pleasure to be had here, and we are able to take advantage of all of them through our relatively high purchasing power. Because of the structure of the military occupation and Austria’s geographical situation, however, there are also great temptations, and we are particularly prone to succomb to them.

He told the story of one American employee who had married a local girl shortly after arriving in Vienna. She, or her family, realized how useful he could be as a courier, smuggling forbidden items in and out of the country. One day he drove to Switzerland on a business trip, successfully passed customs and the military control, and then stopped for a meal a hundred yards beyond the frontier. Apparently the guards frequented the same place; going by his car one of them playfully slapped a fender, whereupon a packet of diamonds taped underneath came loose and fell to the ground. The Company paid officials for his release from custody and arranged to have him shipped back to the States immediately.

Feintuch listened to this, his head nodding in agreement. Peter recalled his admonition, to beware of the women.

I want you to develop a program to check every little detail of our operation, Roger went on. I realize that it will take you a few weeks to familiarize yourself, but by the middle of March I want your plan on my desk. It should cover not only custody and handling of cash, but also every phase of purchasing, importing, selling and shipping. I want you to travel to the places where we buy and make contact with the customers to whom we sell. You are to be my eyes and ears; if anything goes wrong I want to find out about it before the shit hits the fan. Herr Feintuch is my most trusted employee, and you can look to him for any introductions or travel arrangements you may need. Only one thing I beg of you: be discreet. An organization like mine is a community, and it is easily disturbed and distracted. Try not to indicate, by word or deed, suspicion of any individual or group, no matter how much evidence you have concerning them. Our work is our mission, and that must have priority.

They returned to the office, and Peter spent the rest of the day with Feintuch, going over the Company’s organization chart and familiarizing himself with its control system. It was an impressive lesson; Roger obviously knew his business. Peter wondered how youth and apparent inexperience would influence Roger and Feintuch’s judgment of him, but he had confidence in his ability. Peter had entered the work force at the height of World War II, when most able-bodied men were serving in the military, and had been rapidly entrusted with increasingly responsible tasks. As a result, he had developed a kind of arrogance that sometimes showed up in his relations with people.

II     

Peter knew a good deal about the Company and its opera

tions from the month he spent in the Paris office while his visa and work permit were being obtained, and even more from previous months when, as an employee of a public accounting firm, he had taken part in the annual audit. The Andes Trading Company had been founded in Buenos Aires in the 1930s, by a Spanish refugee named Eduardo Nunez Montalban. He built a network of import-export firms throughout Latin America, then established offices in London, New York and Montreal. After his death in 1944 his two sons took the Company public on the London stock exchange, but the family retained control and in fact the shareholders had yet to receive a dividend.

Immediately after World War II the Company set up shop in Paris, from which base it proceeded to undertake profitable trading operations throughout Western Europe. By 1947 commercial relations had come to include Eastern Europe as well, but the imposition by the Russians of communist regimes in those countries had complicated trading arrangements, so that it was advisable to establish an office in Vienna, which, as the capital of Mitteleuropa, retained strong commercial and personal links with them. Roger Staunton of the London office was sent to run the operation. Feintuch until this day had been nothing more to Peter than a signature on a financial report.

He offered to accompany Peter back to the hotel, and on the way suggested to stop at the Cafe Korb, a traditional Viennese coffee house behind the church of Saint Peter. Viennese coffee houses serve a number of purposes. They are often a second home for residents of cramped quarters, and are frequented during the day by ladies of the district, who meet to play cards and gossip. Some house chess clubs, yet others serve as meeting rooms for political activists. A few are gourmet restaurants in disguise, and yet others provide opportunities for assignations with ladies of easy virtue.

I always stop off at a cafe house on my way home, said Feintuch as they sat down at one of the marble top tables near the window. It helps me unwind. I spend about twenty minutes going over in my mind the events of the day, to see if I have forgotten to do something, or if I have an important task for the next day. Then I read the newspaper, and after about an hour, I leave. But tonight I will eat my meal with you here.

Are you a Viennese? Peter asked.

No, I am from Lodz, in Poland.

I thought you might be Austrian because of your excellent Germam.

Feintuch laughed bitterly.

I have had plenty of opportunity to learn the language, he said. I was captured by the Germans in 1940, and sent to a labor camp. Somehow I made myself useful to them, but my luck ran out in 1944 and I was transferred to Theresienstadt, destined for extermination. Before they could gas me, my camp was liberated by British troops. I weighed ninety pounds. I managed to get to Vienna in 1945, and I have worked here ever since.

Where did you study to be an accountant?

He laughed again.

I’m not an accountant. In Poland I was a forester. I was employed by a large landowner to survey his timberlands. All day I spent in the saddle, riding through the forests, recording the number, size, variety and condition of his trees. At night I would camp in the open, except in winter, of course. It was a wonderful life, I was free as a bird. And healthy, too.

How did you become chief accountant of this office, then?

I was educated in Poland at a commercial college, and we had to learn bookkeeping and the English language. When the Americans arrived in Vienna they needed men like me for simple clerical work, and I got a job vith American Express, in the banking department. When Andes advertised I applied and was hired as accountant.

Are you married, asked Peter, tactlessly.

Feintuch’s eyes hardened and his lips tightened; his face became a mask.

I was married in Lodz. We had a little daughter. They were deported to a camp at the same time as I was taken prisoner. I have been told that they were killed by the Germans. I have tried to find out what happened to them through the tracing office in Arolsen, but nothing.

It was a moment of great emotion for Alois Feintuch, whose eyes welled up with tears. To Peter a loss like this was unimaginable, and to Feintuch it must be all but unbearable, he thought. Feintuch quickly changed the subject.

Tell me, he asked, what exactly do you intend to do here?

Well, I’m the internal auditor, replied Peter.

Yes, but how will you spend your day?

My first tasks will be to ensure that the Company’s manual of standard operating procedures is being followed, and to familiarize myself with local conditions that might necessitate substitute or additional procedures, to be submitted to head office for approval, of course. Secondly, I must see that Austrian fiscal, customs, and other laws and regulations are being obeyed, because their contravention could lead to the Company’s trading license being revoked. Finally, I will look for employee fraud in the buying and selling activities that constitute the greater part of operations, and report them to Generaldirektor Roger Staunton.

Feintuch’s eyes brightened. You will look for fraud? he asked. You will not have to look far.

Peter became very attentive.

You know something I should know? he asked.

Will you also check on the Generaldirektor.

Of course. Why do you ask?

No reason, Feintuch replied, attacking his Bratwurst mit Kartoffeln.

That night Peter had difficulty falling asleep. Perhaps I am overtired, he thought, turning over in bed for the twentieth time, or perhaps I found the conversation with Feintuch disturbing. He had been in and out of offices since the age of sixteen, and although now only twenty-two, he had developed the ability to size up people fairly quickly. In his opinion Feintuch was a straight arrow, one of those incorruptible individuals who provide the bedrock on which civilization is built. Why had he asked if Peter intended to examine Staunton’s office? Whatever the reason, he resolved to give that audit first priority.

III     

The following Monday was devoted to obtaining a visa that

would permit Peter to travel throughout the Russian sector of Austria and in other countries of Central and Eastern Europe The Company was involved in large scale agribusiness transactions, like buying pork from an agricultural cooperative in Apostag, a village about fifty miles south of Budapest, for export to Australia. This was Rudi Schein’s territory, as he spoke Hungarian, being originally from Timisoara which had many ethnic Hungarian residents. Roger had suggested that Rudi could be taking kickbacks, or otherwise turning these affairs to his own advantage, at the expense of the Company. It would be Peter’s job to find out.

It took most of the day to obtain the necessary permission from the Russians. A young Austrian named Thomas Eberhardt was assigned to guide Peter through the maze of red tape that fed Soviet bureaucracy. The Russians had taken over a number of Viennese hotels, and the visa control section was in one of them, in the second district (Zweiter Bezirk) across the river.

Outside stood two Russian soldiers, looking twice their size in high fur hats. One of them inspected their papers briefly, then motioned the pair inside. A chain-smoking female clerk, also in uniform, was seated at an ornate antique desk. She looked at them as they entered, but said nothing. After a few minutes, Thomas approached her and explained the nature of their business, in German. She motioned them to wait, and disappeared into an adjoining office. They stood in the over-heated lobby for a long time, all available seats around the walls being occupied