by Ira Levin
“I think I would know of such a group,” he said, “and I’ve never heard of any group of any kind whose members are all sixty-five.”
The young woman stayed standing. “Maybe their being sixty-five now isn’t what’s important,” she said. “The…connection might have been established when they were younger, when they were all thirty-five or twenty-five. Maybe they were all involved in a certain military action in the war, and killing them is an act of revenge.”
“Some are German,” he said, “and some are English and American, and some are Swedes, who were neutral. But—”
“A U.N. patrol!” someone called.
“They’d have been too old,” he answered, and looked again to the long-haired young woman, who had sat down. “But that’s an interesting point,” he said, “about sixty-five not being the significant age, for of course they’ve all been the same ages all their lives, so that opens the door to other possibilities. Thank you.”
He wrote: Link at earlier age?—and someone called out, “Are they natives of those countries or only living there?”
He looked up. “Another good point,” he said. “I don’t know. Perhaps they were one nationality originally.” Where born? he wrote. “This is good, keep it up!” He pointed.
A young man sitting cross-legged in the front row said, “They’re people who help you, your major contributors.”
“You flatter me. I’m not that important and I also don’t have ninety-four major contributors. Of any age.” He pointed elsewhere.
The Barry-like young man: “When does the two-and-a-half-year period begin, sir?”
“Two days ago.”
“Then it ends in the spring of 1977. Is there an important political event scheduled to take place then? Maybe the killings are going to be announced, as a show of strength, or a warning.”
“But why these particular men? Yet again an interesting point. Does anyone know of an important event, political or otherwise, scheduled for the spring of 1977?” He looked around.
Silence, and heads shaking. “My graduation!” someone called. Laughter and applause.
Spring ’77? he wrote, and smiling, pointed.
The young man in the blue sweater again, with his high-pitched voice: “The men aren’t highly placed themselves, but their sons, who are in their forties, are. And the men are to be killed so that their sons will have to neglect important work to attend their funerals.”
Derision. Booing and hoots of scorn.
“That’s slightly far-fetched,” he said, “but still, there’s the germ of something to think about. Are the men related to important people, or associated with them somehow?” He wrote: Relations? Friends?—and pointed.
The shrewd-looking blond young man stood up. Smiling, he said, “Herr Liebermann, is this really only a hypothetical problem?”
Never pick this boy again. A stillness expanded through the auditorium. “Of course it is,” he said.
“Then you must ask your friend to give you some more information,” the shrewd-looking young man said. “Not even the great brains of Heidelberg can solve his problem without at least one more relevant fact about the ninety-four men. Given the information we have now, we can only speculate blindly.”
“You’re right,” he said, “more information is needed. But the speculation helps; it suggests possibilities.” He looked around. “Does anyone have any more speculation?”
A hand came up at the left rear; he pointed at it.
An elderly man stood up, white-haired and frail-looking—a faculty member or perhaps a student’s grandfather. Leaning on the back of the seat before him, he said in a firm and contemptuous voice, “Not one of the suggestions made so far has recognized Dr. Mengele’s presence in the problem. Why is he introduced if the killings are only political killings of the conventional kind, which the Comrades Organization could engineer without him? He is introduced, obviously, because of his medical background, and I therefore suggest a medical aspect to the killings. They might, for instance, constitute the covert testing of a new means of killing, and the men would therefore have been chosen precisely because they’re old, unimportant, and no menace to Nazism. A testing program would also explain the lengthy time-span. In the spring of 1977 the real killings would begin.” He sat down.
Liebermann stood looking at him for a moment, and then he said, “Thank you, sir.” To the whole audience he said, “I hope for your sake this gentleman is one of your professors.”
“He is,” several voices assured him bitterly, and the name Geirasch was spoken.
WHY M.??? he wrote—and looked up again in the man’s direction. “I don’t think a testing program would be limited to civil servants,” he said, “or even carried out in this part of the world rather than in South America, but you’re surely right about there being a specific reason for Dr. Mengele’s involvement. Can anyone think of one?” He looked around.
The young people sat silently.
“A medical aspect to the ninety-four killings?” He looked to the long-haired young woman; she shook her head.
The Barry-like young man shook his, and so did the young man in the blue sweater.
He hesitated—and looked to the shrewd-looking blond young man, who smiled at him and shook his head.
He looked at his card on the lectern:
Money?
Link at earlier age?
Where born?
Spring ’77?
Relations? Friends?
WHY M.???
He looked at the audience. “Thank you,” he said. “You haven’t solved the problem, but you’ve given me suggestions that may lead to the solution, so I’m grateful to you. We’ll go back now to your questions.”
Hands sprang up. He pointed.
A young woman next to the Barry-like young man stood up and said, “Herr Liebermann, what’s your opinion of Moshe Gorin and the Jewish Defenders?”
“I’ve never met Rabbi Gorin, so I have no opinion of him personally,” he said automatically. “As for his Young Jewish Defenders; if they’re defending, fine. But if, as is sometimes reported, they’re attacking, then not so fine. Brown shirts are never good, no matter who’s wearing them.”
And silver-haired Horst Hessen, sweating in bright sunlight, raised large binoculars to his blue eyes and watched a bare-chested man in a white sun hat riding a power mower slowly across a vivid green lawn. A flagpole flew an American flag; the house beyond was a neat one-story box of glass and redwood. A black cloud shot with leaping orange replaced the man and the mower, and a thud of explosion came bluntly through distance.
3
MENGELE HAD MOVED
the Führer’s portrait and all the smaller photos and mementos of him over to the west wall above the sofa—which had meant moving his own degrees and commendations and family photos to whatever spaces he could find for them between the two outside windows in the south wall and around the laboratory observation window and the doorway in the east wall. He had then had the cleared north wall fitted with a waist-level three-inch wood molding, above which the pale-gray wallpaper had been stripped away. Two coats of white paint had been laid on, the first flat and the second semi-glossy. The molding had been painted pale gray. When all the paint was thoroughly dry he had had a sign-painter flown down from Rio.
The sign-painter made beautifully straight thin black lines and lettered handsomely, but in his first light pencilings he showed an inclination to miscopy and/or misplace unfamiliar marks of pronunciation, and to go his own Brazilian way in the matter of spelling. For four days, therefore, Mengele had sat behind his desk, watching, instructing, warning. He had come to dislike the sign-painter, and by the second day was glad the dolt was going to be thrown from the plane.
When the job was done, and the long table with its neat stacks of journals in place against the wall, Mengele could lean back in his steel-and-leather chair and admire the very chart he had envisioned. The ninety-four names, each with its country, date, and square box as if for balloting, we
re set out in three columns, the middle one of necessity a name longer than the two outer ones (a small annoyance, but what could be done at this late date?). There they all were, from 1. Döring—Deutschland—16/10/74 to 94. Ahearn—Kanada—23/4/77 . How he looked forward to filling in each of those boxes! He would do that himself, of course, with either red or black paint, he hadn’t yet decided which. Perhaps he would try making checks, and if the first few didn’t turn out uniformly, then fill in the boxes.
He swung in his chair and smiled at the Führer. You don’t mind being moved to the side for this, do you, my Führer? Of course not; how could you?
Then, alas, there had been nothing to do but wait—till the first of November, when the calls would come in to headquarters.
He had busied himself in the laboratory, where he was trying, not very enthusiastically, to transplant chromosomes in frog-cell nuclei.
He flew into Asunción one day; visited his barber and a prostitute, bought a digital clock, had a good steak at La Calandria with Franz Schiff.
And now, at last, the day had come—a fine one, so blinding-bright that he had drawn the study curtains. The radio was on and tuned to the headquarters frequency, with the earphones lying ready beside a memo pad and pen. On a corner of the desk’s glass top a white linen towel was laid out; on it, in surgical line-up, were a small unopened can of red enamel, a screwdriver, a new thin short-bristled paintbrush, a coverless petri dish, and a screw-top can of turpentine. The left end of the long table had been drawn from the wall; a stepladder waited before the first column of names and countries.
He had decided to try the checks.
Shortly before noon, when he was beginning to get quite impatient, the drone of a plane came with increasing loudness through the curtains. The drone of the headquarters plane—which meant either very good or very bad news. He hurried from the study, through the hall, and out onto the porch, where a few servants’ children sat breaking up a flat cake of some kind. He stepped over them and went around the side of the house to the back and down the few steps. The plane was just dropping behind treetops. Shielding his eyes, he hurried across the yard—a servant stopped leaning, started hoeing—and past the servants’ house and the barracks and the generator shed. Jogging, he entered the greened-over pathway cut through thick jungle foliage. He could hear the plane landing. He slowed to a fast walk, tucked the back of his shirt down into his trousers, got out his handkerchief and wiped his brow and cheeks. Why the plane, why not the radio? Something had gone wrong; he was sure of it. Liebermann? Had that filth somehow managed to end everything? If he had, he himself would personally go to Vienna and find and kill him. What else would he have left to live for?
He came out onto the side of the grass airstrip in time to see the red-and-white twin-engine plane rolling slowly toward his own smaller silver-and-black one. Two of the guards were lounging there with the pilot, who waved at him. He nodded. Another guard was across the strip at the chain-link fence, holding something through it, trying to lure an animal. Against rules, but he didn’t call out to him; he watched the door of the red-and-white plane, stopped now, propellers dying. Silently prayed.
The door swung down, and one of the guards trotted over to help a tall man in a light-blue suit down the steps.
Colonel Seibert! It had to be bad news.
He started forward slowly.
The colonel saw him, waved—cheerfully enough—and came toward him. He was carrying a red shopping bag.
Mengele walked faster. “News?” he called.
The colonel nodded, smiling. “Yes, good news!”
Thank God! He speeded. “I was worried!”
They shook hands. The colonel, handsome with his strong Nordic face and white-blond hair, smiled and said, “All the ‘salesmen’ checked in. The October ‘customers’ have all been seen; four on the exact dates, two a day early, and one a day late.”
Mengele pressed his chest and breathed. “Praise God! I was worried, the plane coming.”
“I felt like taking a flight,” the colonel said. “It’s such a beautiful day.”
They walked together toward the pathway.
“All seven?”
“All seven. Without a hitch.” The colonel offered the shopping bag. “This is for you. A mystery package from Ostreicher.”
“Oh,” Mengele said, and took it. “Thanks. It’s no mystery. I asked him to get me some silk; one of my housemaids is going to make shirts for me. Will you stay for lunch?”
“I can’t,” the colonel said. “I have a rehearsal for my granddaughter’s wedding at three o’clock. Did you know she’s marrying Ernst Roebling’s grandson? Tomorrow. I’ll have some coffee and talk awhile, though.”
“Wait till you see my chart.”
“Chart?”
“You’ll see.”
The colonel saw, and was enthusiastic. “Beautiful! An absolute work of art! You didn’t do this yourself, did you?”
Putting the shopping bag by the desk, Mengele said happily, “God no, I’m not even sure I can make the checks decently! I had a man flown down from Rio.”
The colonel turned and looked at him, surprised and questioning.
“Don’t worry,” Mengele said, raising a reassuring hand, “he had an accident on his way home.”
“A bad one, I hope,” the colonel said.
“Very.”
Their coffee was brought. The colonel examined some of the Führer’s photos and then they sat on the sofa and sipped at small gold-and-white cups of steaming blackness. “They’ve all settled themselves in apartments,” the colonel said, “except Hessen, who’s bought a camping truck. I told him to call in once a week, since we won’t be able to reach him if we want to. He’s only going to use it till the bad weather sets in.”
Mengele said, “I need to have the dates the men were killed. For my records.”
“Of course.” The colonel put his cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I’ve had it all typed up.” He reached inside his jacket.
Mengele put his cup and saucer down and took the folded sheet of flimsy the colonel offered. He opened it, held it away, squinted at typing. Smiling, he shook his head. “Four out of seven on the exact dates!” he marveled. “Isn’t that something?”
“They’re good men,” the colonel said. “Schwimmer and Mundt have their next ones set up already. Farnbach needed some talking to; he’s a bit of a questioner.”
“I know,” Mengele said. “He gave me trouble when I briefed them.”
“I don’t think he’ll give any more of it,” the colonel said. “I chewed him out good and proper.”
“Good for you.” Mengele refolded the pleasingly crackly paper and put it on the coffee table’s corner, set it flush with the edges. He looked at the chart and imagined the seven red checks he would paint when the colonel left. He lifted his cup, hoping to set an example.
“Colonel Rudel called me yesterday morning,” the colonel said. “He’s on the Costa Brava.”
“Oh?” Mengele saw at once that the pleasure of flying wasn’t the reason the colonel had come. What was? “How is he?” he asked, and sipped his coffee.
“Fine,” the colonel said. “But a little concerned. He had a letter from Günter Wenzler, warning him that Yakov Liebermann may be on to an operation of ours. Liebermann spoke at Heidelberg two weeks ago. He asked the audience a rather unusual ‘hypothetical question.’ A friend of Wenzler’s, whose daughter was there, told him to pass the word, just in case.”
“What exactly did Liebermann ask?”
The colonel looked at Mengele for a moment, and said, “Why we—you and us—would want to kill ninety-four sixty-five-year-old civil servants. A ‘hypothetical question.’”
Mengele shrugged. “So obviously he doesn’t know,” he said. “I’m sure no one came up with the right answer.”
“Rudel is sure too,” the colonel said, “but he’d like to know how Liebermann came up with the right question. It doesn’t seem to surprise you ve
ry much.”
Mengele sipped his coffee and spoke casually. “The American wasn’t listening to the tape when we found him. He was talking to Liebermann.” He put his cup down and smiled at the colonel. “As I’m sure you found out from the telephone company yesterday afternoon.”
The colonel sighed and leaned toward Mengele. “Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked.
“Frankly,” Mengele said, “I was afraid you would want to postpone, in case Liebermann got an investigation going.”
“You were right, that’s exactly what we would have wanted,” the colonel said. “Three or four months—would it have been so terrible?”
“It might have changed the results completely. Believe me, that’s true, Colonel. Ask any psychologist.”
“Then we could have skipped those men and picked up on schedule with the others.”
“Reducing the outcome by twenty percent? There are eighteen men in the first four months.”
“And don’t you think you’ve reduced the outcome more this way?” the colonel demanded. “Is Liebermann only talking to students? The men, our men, could be arrested tomorrow! And the outcome reduced by ninety-five percent!”
“Colonel, please,” Mengele placated.
“Assuming, of course, that there is an outcome. So far we have only your word for that, you know!”
Mengele sat silently, inhaled deeply. The colonel lifted his cup, glared at it, set it down again.
Mengele let his breath out. “There will be exactly the outcome I promised,” he said. “Colonel, stop and think a moment. Would Liebermann bother with questions to students if anyone else was listening to him? The men are out, aren’t they? Doing their jobs? Of course Liebermann talked to others—maybe to every prosecutor and policeman in Europe!—but obviously they ignored him. What else would they do?—an old Naziphobe like him coming to them with a story that must sound insane when he can’t give the reason behind it. That’s what I counted on when I made the decision.”
