The Heritage Paper

by Derek Ciccone

  Veronica turned to him. “Do you really think Aligor Sterling could have given Ellen those cyanide tablets?”

  “I don’t know, but the guy does have a lot to lose in this election. And if he thought Ellen’s connection to the Nazis was a threat to Kingston winning, who knows.”

  Youkelstein cleared his throat and spoke up from the backseat, “I’ve known Aligor since 1944. We’ve had our differences over the past few years, but he saved my life. He saves lives, not takes them.”

  “Except for when you two played judge, jury, and executioner. My mother always told me that if you stoop to someone’s level, then you turn into that person,” Zach challenged.

  “Those Nazis weren’t human lives. They were rabid animals that laughed when they shot Esther right in front of me. She was my soul—and when your soul is ripped from you, Mr. Chester, then you can talk.”

  They had more in common than Youkelstein would ever know. Only Zach’s soul wasn’t ripped away by soldiers wearing swastikas, but by a drug that proved just as crippling.

  He looked back at Youkelstein. “Okay, Mr. Nazi Hunter, how about cluing us in on what’s going on here?”

  “I’m as much in the dark as everyone else.”

  “You just happened to have written books that claimed Himmler, Hess, and other members of this so-called Apostles group had survived the war, and then you received an invite to the Ellen Peterson ‘Nazi coming out party’? That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”

  “The only connection I can make is from when Aligor and I interrogated Bormann in South America, many years ago.”

  “And this would be Martin Bormann, who according to the official record was declared dead when his remains were discovered buried at the Lehrter Bahnhof railway station in West Berlin, and later confirmed in DNA evidence and dental records?”

  `“Ah, the official record. It sounds plausible to me that these skeletal remains just suddenly showed up there in 1972, twenty-seven years after his disappearance.”

  The coy smile told Zach that Youkelstein knew exactly how Bormann’s body wound up there.

  “Official record aside, when Aligor and I tracked him down, he told us he had correspondence that proved Himmler was both alive and part of this Apostles group.”

  “If you believed he could track down Himmler, it might have made him useful to you. I’m guessing that he would have told you whatever you wanted to hear at that point, hoping to buy himself some time.”

  “That was our belief, which was why we didn’t pursue his alleged correspondence.”

  “And it’s interesting that you never mentioned any of this in your books.”

  “The books you speak of were forensic investigations, which detailed how numerous Nazi criminals, including Himmler, used doppelgangers to survive the war and conspired with Western powers to do so. I had evidence to prove that Himmler survived the war, but I could never confirm his whereabouts, or determine exactly what happened to him. As a journalist, I’m sure you understand this standard.”

  Zach did. He also understood how to dig for the answers he needed. “Sterling mentioned that he believed your books put ideas in Ellen’s head, which was already spinning with alien theories.”

  “Aligor is the delusional one. Not Ellen.”

  “Regardless of the mental state of those involved, I think you wanted to validate these ideas of Apostles and the rising of the Reich, and you found Ellen as a willing partner. By her publicly telling this tale, she is helping to reinforce your theories.”

  “Blast my tactics, but don’t ever attack my sincerity. I’ve dedicated my life to justice, not publicity!”

  “But justice isn’t cheap, and keeping alive the myth that a Darth Vader figure like Himmler is alive can bring publicity, along with funding from your fellow conspiracy theorists.”

  Zach used his phone to pull up the Internet. He googled Himmler, which took him to the archived front-page headline Death of Himmler that ran on May 25, 1945 in the Daily Mirror. He held up the photo for Youkelstein to see. “I’m no expert, but he sure looks dead to me. Do you really think this guy is still alive?”

  “First of all, Himmler was born in 1900, so I truly doubt he’d still be alive. But since you brought up the newspaper article, does it mention that the corpse’s legs were muscular, contrasting with Himmler’s frail physique, which was backed up by testimony of those closest to him? Or that many of Himmler’s closest friends didn’t recognize the photo in the paper? In fact, the British wouldn’t allow his mistress, Hedwig Potthast, or his brother Gebhard, to view the body. And anyone who’s had a mustache as long as Himmler would have a pale area of skin when it’s shaved off, which wasn’t present on the corpse.”

  “All things that can be explained away by the context of the time. It was twenty days after the war had ended. The whole place was chaos. Does it really surprise you the examination wasn’t done in optimal fashion?”

  “That’s the thing, Mr. Chester, the examination of Himmler ranked as one of the most meticulous postmortem examinations of any historical figure. They noted every lesion, scar, and needle prick on the body. Now please click on the photo from the Mirror.”

  Zach followed his orders, and the photo of the dead man enlarged to fit the entire screen.

  “As you can see, the eyes are level and bridge of the nose is straight. The tissue of the lower third of the nose deviates to the right. Much different from the real Himmler.”

  “Maybe the structure of his face was altered when he entered the camp.”

  “There is overwhelming evidence that no torture took place at the camp, but if it did, I was still able to get my hands on Himmler’s dental records. His last visit was November 1944, six months prior, and his teeth were in perfect shape. When I compared them to the postmortem X-rays, it would seem that either Himmler had a case of the fastest spreading gum disease in history, or more likely, it wasn’t Himmler who committed suicide in that camp.”

  Zach realized he wasn’t going to win this debate, so he got back on track, “Okay, I’ll concede the point that Himmler survived the war, and that he might be a member of the this group called the Apostles. But what does it all mean … and where do we go from here?”

  “It means that they were acting in concert. And I believe we’re going to Rhinebeck.”

  “Any idea what this symbol might represent?”

  Zach held up a piece of paper that he’d scribbled the symbol on during Maggie’s presentation. v^988v^ .

  “I wish I knew. The images around the number look like horizontal lightning bolts—as you know, the SS symbol was double lightning bolts, so there might be a connection there. As far as the number, I’ve run numerous scenarios in my head, but have hit nothing but dead ends. Thanks to Ellen’s confession, we know that Bormann, Himmler, Hess, Müller, and Ellen were five of the twelve. I think we must figure out who the other seven were, and decipher what aliases they used, or are using, since the war—only then will the symbol be clear.”

  That seemed like a pretty tall order to Zach, and one that was unlikely to be successful.

  Veronica must have been thinking the same thing. “All these men must be dead by now. So even if they survived the war, what’s the difference?”

  Youkelstein answered, “Think about what the original Apostles did. At the time of their deaths, Christianity still wasn’t a dominant religion by any means. But they had planted the seeds. And Constantine, the Roman Emperor, years later took the fruit of that tree and declared Christianity the law of the land. By learning the identity of the Apostles who planted the Nazi seeds, it will lead us to the modern-day Constantine. He or she will be the one who will execute their takeover plan … and is the one we must stop.”

  “And where would we even start?” Zach wondered aloud. He looked back at Youkelstein, who answered Zach’s question with a sideways glance.

  He looked at Maggie.

  Chapter 17

  Veronica pulled off to the side of the road. Th
e sky was bleak and she even noticed a couple of snowflakes float by. It was as if it were a sign that she should turn the vehicle around and not stop until she was curled up beside a fire in her living room.

  But Ellen had hooked her with the bait. The Raphael appeared authentic, and if it wasn’t, Ellen sure went through a lot of trouble to find a good knockoff. Not the work of your average dementia sufferer.

  “I promised Oma that I wouldn’t discuss the memoir,” Maggie said, sounding like a prisoner of war.

  Veronica realized the men were in over their heads in dealing with her daughter. So she took a deep breath and said, “Sweetie, Oma has gone to a better place, so nothing she told you can hurt her anymore. But if we don’t find out what is going on here, more people could get hurt, and that’s the last thing Oma would want.”

  “Oma said the reason I can’t say anything is to protect her family, which if you haven’t forgotten, is also my family. We have to trust that she’s going to lead us in the right direction.”

  Dead or not, Ellen Peterson was pissing Veronica off. “Trust a woman whose entire life was a lie? If she really wanted to protect her family then she wouldn’t have pulled this stunt!”

  “It’s not a stunt. And so far everything she’s said has come true.”

  Maggie had a point. But protecting her children was Veronica’s sole mission, and Ellen had compromised it.

  Zach must have felt her angst spilling over because he stepped in, “Maggie, it’s very important we locate this memoir you worked on with her. It would help us a lot if you’d tell us where it is.”

  “I don’t have it!”

  “Maggie!” Veronica shouted out. “Where is the memoir!?”

  “I swear I don’t have it,” Maggie squeaked and began to tear up. “There was only one copy and Oma didn’t tell me where it was. She even burned the computer I typed it on.”

  The coffee pot fire. Crazy fox strikes again.

  Veronica backed off, knowing that Maggie would just shut down if this turned into a screaming match.

  Zach took over the questioning, assuming the good cop role, “I believe you, Maggie. But perhaps you remember some of the things she dictated to you when you typed it. Names, places … anything.”

  “She didn’t use the real names. Or say what the plan was. And she left it open-ended; she said it would be up to us to write the ending. Hopefully a happy one.”

  “I’m not following,” Zach said, his voice remaining calm.

  “Oma was worried if I knew the real names and aliases of the Apostles, then it would put me and them in danger. So she dictated it to me in code.”

  “So if the memoir is written in code, then Ellen and the other Apostles would be the only people who knew what it meant,” Zach followed up. “I’m not sure how it would be relevant to us, since nobody would understand it except for the inner circle.”

  “No—I taught her how to use the ‘find and replace’ option on the computer, so she could put the proper names into the final version. She was able to convert all the code names to the real ones before she printed it. She said it would be a historical record that she’d release when the time is right. And like I told you, only Oma knows where the printed copy is or when she plans to release it.”

  “You can’t release something when you’re dead!” Veronica interrupted.

  “Everything she said has come true, so I’m not going to start doubting her now,” Maggie shot back.

  “She’s not here anymore—I’m sorry, I really am, but this charade is over, Maggie.”

  “If it’s such a charade then why are we going to Rhinebeck?”

  Good question. “Maybe I’ll turn the car around and we won’t.”

  Good cop Zach again interjected, “Do you remember any of the code names she dictated to you, Maggie?”

  “I told her to assign a letter like X or Y to each person, but you know Oma, she had to be complicated. So she used her own set of code names—some were short like James and John, but others were weird.”

  “Weird how?” Zach inquired.

  “Long ones like Thaddeus and James the Less, or something like that.”

  Zach and Youkelstein traded glances. Youkelstein began scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. He then held up his pad that read:

  1. Peter

  2. Andrew

  3. James

  4. John

  5. Philip

  6. Bartholomew

  7. Thomas

  8. James the Less

  9. Matthew

  10. Simon the Canaanite

  11. Judas

  12. Thaddeus

  “Were these the names?” Youkelstein asked, showing Maggie the pad.

  “How’d you know that?” she answered like he’d done a magic trick.

  “These are the names of the original Apostles, the followers of Jesus Christ. Bormann had told us that Himmler’s code name was Thomas, but I didn’t see the context back then.”

  Zach looked skeptical. “We can play the cryptology game all day, but what we really need to do is locate the memoir.”

  Then something hit Veronica. “It’s in our backyard. Maggie buried it this morning. In the time-capsule, you told Eddie that the memoir was in there.”

  “Let’s go back,” Zach said with eagerness in his voice.

  Youkelstein seconded.

  Maggie rolled her eyes, as if to indicate that she couldn’t believe the adults were of the same species as her. “Do you think Oma was that stupid? I didn’t bury an important historical record in our backyard like some dead bird. I just said that to throw people off the right track.”

  “To throw who off?” Veronica asked. “We were the only people there.”

  “Oma said I shouldn’t trust anyone, even those closest to me.”

  “Ellen said you shouldn’t trust us? She was a Nazi for God-sake,” Veronica lashed, immediately regretting the comment.

  “Maybe so, but she was also right,” Maggie fought back. “Oma was trying to keep us safe. But knock yourself out … go dig up our backyard. And then we can go tear apart her old room at Sunshine Village, or maybe we can get a court order to dig up the grounds. I’m just a kid, you geniuses can figure it out.”

  Veronica did another slow burn. She remembered something she preached to Maggie and Jamie about if they didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. And since nobody had anything remotely pleasant to communicate at the moment, no more words were uttered until they pulled into the small Victorian downtown of Rhinebeck.

  With a quick check of the rear-view mirror, Veronica noticed that Maggie was staring blankly ahead and gnawing on her lower lip. It was her pet move to indicate anxiety. Jamie pulled on his ear, Picasso batted his tail against the floor, and Maggie gnawed on her lip.

  “Mags, it’s not too late to turn around and go sell the painting on eBay. Hitler autographed … I’ll bet that would pay for a lot of double sprinkle ice cream cones at Carvel,” Veronica attempted to comfort.

  Maggie smiled. Not at another poor attempt at humor by her mother, but it was a smile of relief—knowing there might be another living organism on the planet who believed her, or at least had her back. It was the best response Veronica could hope for these days. Not those big belly laughs from when Maggie was a toddler that she missed so much.

  She parallel-parked the Tahoe on Main Street and entered Flavia’s Art Gallery, not sure what to expect. Maggie and Jamie trailed her, carrying the Raphael, one on each end like it was a couch. A clerk pointed them to Flavia.

  When Veronica saw her, she almost fell over.

  Chapter 18

  Veronica had never felt such rage pulsing through her veins. And she wasn’t sure why. At the end she made up any excuse not to be with him. Their love had long fizzled and they’d entered that zone they never thought they would enter—staying together for the kids—even if they never had an official conversation about it.

  Flavia appeared older than Veronica, probably in her
mid-forties, but it was only a small victory. She was a striking beauty.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, and flashed the most perfect smile that Veronica had ever seen. Although, it probably wouldn’t look so good with a few missing teeth, she thought.

  “I’m Veronica Peterson … Carsten’s wife.”

  Flavia took a step back and froze. They stared at each other, remaining as still as the many sculptures that filled the gallery.

  “Do you two know each other?” Zach asked the obvious.

  “Yeah,” Veronica began, “Flavia was the one who …”

  She caught a glimpse of Maggie and Jamie, still holding on tightly to the priceless painting, and looking intently at their lunatic mother. They worshiped their father, and she wanted them to hang onto that myth for the rest of their lives—no different than Santa Claus, even if Santa ran around behind Mrs. Claus back and once socked her in her rosy cheek.

  “Why don’t we talk in my office?” Flavia read the situation perfectly. There would be no winner in a public display.

  Veronica followed her into a cramped office and closed the door behind them. Flavia offered Veronica a seat, but she chose to stand. If she asked her to stand, she would have sat. The return of her old stubbornness made her feel nostalgic.

  Even the name Flavia sounded exotic—just the opposite of Carsten’s simple family life with the cookie-cutter wife and two kids. At least she didn’t have to wonder what he saw in her.

  When Veronica hired that investigator to follow Carsten—she still couldn’t believe she did that—the PI asked her if she wanted him to dig further, such as name, address, and whether or not she had a spouse. But Veronica declined. The pictures of the two of them sneaking into motels was enough. Veronica didn’t want revenge—just a boring divorce. But before she could summon the strength to address him, their split became permanent.