by Ira Levin
“He’s related to those Mengeles?” Klaus asked.
Liebermann nodded.
Nürnberger, taking salad onto his plate, said, “No wonder he could afford the equipment. Well, he can’t have been the donor himself, if the eyes don’t match.”
Lena said to Liebermann, “Do you know who’s the head of the Comrades Organization?”
“A colonel named Rudel, Hans Ulrich Rudel.”
“Blue eyes?” Klaus asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check. And his family background.” Liebermann looked at the fork in his hand, put its tines into a slice of carrot, raised the carrot, put it into his mouth.
“At any rate,” Nürnberger said, “you know now why those men are being killed. What are you planning to do next?”
Liebermann sat silently for a moment. He put his fork down and took the napkin from his lap and put it on the table. “Excuse me,” he said, and got up and went out of the kitchen.
Lena looked after him, looked at his plate, looked at Klaus.
“It’s not that,” he said.
“I hope not,” she said, and pressed the side of her fork into her meat loaf.
Klaus looked beyond her; watched Liebermann go to the bookshelves in the other room.
“Not that this isn’t excellent meat,” Nürnberger said, “but we’ll all be eating much better meat some day, and much cheaper, thanks to mononuclear reproduction. It’ll revolutionize cattle-breeding. And it’ll also preserve our endangered species, like that beautiful leopard there.”
“You’re defending it?” Klaus asked.
“It doesn’t need defending,” Nürnberger said. “It’s a technique, and like any other technique you can mention, it can be put to either good or bad uses.”
“I can think of two good ones,” Klaus said, “and you just mentioned them. Give me a pencil and paper and five minutes and I’ll give you fifty bad ones.”
“Why must you always take the opposite side?” Lena asked. “If the professor had said it’s a terrible thing, you’d be talking now about cattle-breeding.”
“That’s not true at all,” Klaus said.
“It is so. He’ll argue against his own statements.”
Klaus looked beyond Lena; saw Liebermann standing in profile, head bent to an open book, rocking slightly: Jew at prayer. Not a Bible, though; they didn’t have one. Liebermann’s own book? He was standing just about where it was. Checking on the colonel’s eyes? “Klaus?” Lena offered the salad bowl.
He took it.
Lena turned and looked, turned back to the table.
Nürnberger said, “I’m going to have a hard time keeping my mouth shut about this.”
“You must, though,” Klaus said.
“I know, I know, but it won’t be easy. Two of the men in the department have tried it themselves, with rabbit ova.”
Liebermann stood in the doorway, ashen and beaten-looking, his glasses hanging from the hand at his side.
“What is it?” Klaus put the bowl down.
Nürnberger looked; Lena turned in her chair.
Liebermann said to Nürnberger, “Let me ask you a foolish question.”
Nürnberger nodded.
“The one who gives the nucleus,” Liebermann said. “The donor. He has to be alive, yes?”
“No, not necessarily,” Nürnberger said. “Individual cells are neither alive nor dead, only intact or not intact. With a lock of Mozart’s hair—not even a lock; with a single hair from Mozart’s head—someone with the skill and equipment”—he smiled at Klaus—“and the women”—he looked back at Liebermann—“could breed a few hundred infant Mozarts. Find the right homes for them and we’d wind up with five or ten adult Mozarts, and a lot more beautiful music in this world.”
Liebermann blinked, took an unsteady step forward, shook his head. “Not music,” he said. “Not Mozart.” He brought his hand from behind his back and showed them Hitler; the paperback book bore three black brush-strokes: mustache, sharp nose, forelock.
Liebermann said, “His father was a civil servant, a customs officer. He was fifty-two when…the boy was born. The mother was twenty-nine.” He looked around for someplace to put the book, found no place, put it on one of the stove’s burners. He looked at them again, wiped his hand against his side. “The father died at sixty-five,” he said. “When the boy was thirteen, almost fourteen.”
They left everything on the table and went in and sat in the other room, Liebermann and Klaus on the daybed again, Nürnberger on the campstool, Lena on the floor.
They looked at the empty glasses on the trunk before them, the bowls of carrot-sticks and almonds. They looked at one another.
Klaus picked up a few almonds, tossed them on his palm.
Liebermann said, “Ninety-four Hitlers,” and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. It’s not possible.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Nürnberger said. “There are ninety-four boys with the same genetic inheritance as Hitler. They could turn out very differently. Most of them probably will.”
“Most,” Liebermann said. He nodded at Klaus and at Lena. “Most.” He looked at Nürnberger. “That leaves some,” he said.
“How many?” Klaus asked.
“I don’t know,” Nürnberger said.
“You said five or ten Mozarts out of a few hundred. How many Hitlers out of ninety-four? One? Two? Three?”
“I don’t know,” Nürnberger said. “I was talking. No one really knows.” He smiled wryly. “The frogs weren’t given personality tests.”
“Make a guess,” Liebermann said.
“If the parents were matched only by age, race, and the father’s occupation, I’d say the prospects were pretty poor. From Mengele’s viewpoint, I mean; pretty good from ours.”
“But not perfect,” Liebermann said.
“No, of course not.”
“Even if there were only one,” Lena said, “there would still be a chance of his…being influenced the right way. The wrong way.”
Klaus said to Liebermann, “Do you remember what you said at the lecture? Someone asked you if the neo-Nazi groups were dangerous, and you said not now, only if social conditions got worse—which God knows they’re doing every day—and another leader like Hitler appeared.”
Liebermann nodded. “Speaking to the whole world at once,” he said, “by television satellite. God in heaven.” He closed his eyes, put his hands to his face, and wiped his fingers across his eyelids, pressing hard.
“How many of the fathers have actually been killed?” Nürnberger asked.
“That’s right!” Klaus said. “Only six! It’s not as bad as it seems!”
“Eight,” Liebermann said, lowering his hands, blinking his reddened eyes. “You’re forgetting Guthrie in Tucson, and the one between him and Curry. Others, too, that we don’t know about in the other countries. More at the beginning than later on; that’s how it was in the States.”
Nürnberger said, “The initial batch must have had a higher success-ratio than he expected.”
“I can’t help feeling,” Klaus said, “that you’re a little bit pleased by the achievement.”
“Well, you have to admit that strictly from a scientific viewpoint, it’s a step forward.”
“Jesus Christ! Do you mean you can sit there and—”
“Klaus,” Lena said.
“Oh—shit.” Klaus slapped the almonds down.
Liebermann said to Nürnberger, “I’m going to Washington tomorrow to speak to their Federal Bureau of Investigation. I know who the next father there is; they could trap the killer, they have to trap him. Will you come with me and help convince them?”
“Tomorrow?” Nürnberger said. “I can’t possibly.”
“To prevent a new Hitler?”
“God!” Nürnberger rubbed his brow. “Yes, of course,” he said, “if you absolutely need me. But look, there are men there, at Harvard, Cornell, Cal Tech, whose credentials are much more impressive than mine and who woul
d in any case carry more weight with American authorities simply by virtue of being American. I can give you names and schools if you’d like—”
“I would, yes.”
“—and if for any reason you do want me, I will come over.”
“Good,” Liebermann said. “Thank you.”
Nürnberger took a pen and a black leather memo pad from inside his jacket. “Shettles himself would probably help you,” he said.
“Put his name down,” Liebermann said. “And where I can reach him. Put down everyone you can think of.” To Klaus he said, “He’s right, an American is better. Two foreigners, they’ll kick us out on our asses.”
“Don’t you have any contacts there?” Klaus asked.
“Dead contacts,” Liebermann said. “Not-with-the-Justice-Department-any-more contacts. I’ll manage, though. I’ll break down doors. God in heaven! Think of it! Ninety-four young Hitlers!”
“Ninety-four boys,” Nürnberger said, writing, “with the same genetic inheritance as Hitler.”
The Benjamin Franklin, as a hotel, a place to stop at, rated about one tenth of a star in Mengele’s judgment, and that only because the sink in the bathroom had a certain antique charm. As a place to rid oneself of an enemy bent on destroying one’s life work and the last hope (correction, certainty) of Aryan supremacy, however, it rated three and a half stars, possibly a full four.
For one thing, the clientele in the lobby was partly black, which meant, of course, that crime on the premises wasn’t unheard of. As proof of this, if proof were needed, the door of his room, 404, bore the gouge-marks of forcible entry, and For your own protection please keep door bolted at all times, a red-lettered sticker on the inside urged. He complied.
For another thing, the place was ill-attended; at 11:40 in the morning, breakfast trays still lay outside the doors of some of the rooms. As soon as he had taken off the damn neck-brace (only for border-crossing and maybe in Germany) he nipped outside and got himself a tray and a breadbasket and a Do Not Disturb sign. He hid the tray between the mattress and the box spring, the breadbasket in a paper laundry bag on the closet shelf; put the Do Not Disturb sign in the writing drawer with the one already there. He checked the floor plan on the door; there were three stairways, one right around a corner from arrow-marked 404. He went out again and found it; opened the door, went onto the landing, looked up and down the gray-painted flights.
Room service was abominable. By the time his lunch appeared he had excreted and cleaned the tube of diamonds, washed up, powdered his chafed neck, unpacked as much as he meant to unpack, tried the television, and made a list of everything he had to buy and do. But the waiter who brought the lunch—a full star right here—was a white man almost as old as he, sixty or so, wearing a plain white linen mess jacket such as might be bought, surely, in any working-class clothing store. He added it to the list; easier than filching one.
The food, sole à la bonne femme—forget it.
He left the hotel at a little after one, by a side door. Dark glasses, no mustache, hat, wig, overcoat with turned-up collar. Gun in shoulder holster. He would leave nothing of value in that vulnerable room, and besides, it was wise to go armed in the States; not only for himself, for anyone.
Washington was cleaner than he had expected and quite attractive, but the wide streets were wet with day-old snow. The first thing he did was stop in a shoestore and buy a pair of rubbers. He had flown from summer into winter and had always been susceptible to colds; vitamins were on his list too.
He walked until he came to a bookstore, and went in and browsed, exchanging the dark glasses for his regular ones. He found a paperback copy of Liebermann’s book; studied the stamp-size photo on the back of it. There would be no mistaking that Jewish beak. He flipped through the section of photos at the book’s center and found his own; Liebermann, on the other hand, would be hard put to recognize him. It was the Buenos Aires photo of ’59, obviously the best Liebermann had been able to come up with; neither with the brown wig and mustache nor his own cropped gray hair and newly shaven upper lip did he look much at all, alas, like this handsome sixteen-years-younger himself. And Liebermann, of course, wouldn’t even be watching for him.
He put the book back in its place in the rack and found a section of travel books. He selected road atlases of the States and Canada; paid for them with a twenty-dollar bill and accepted his change, bills and coins, with a casual glance and a nod.
In dark glasses again, he walked into less spacious streets with brighter, more gaudy shop windows. He couldn’t find what he wanted, and finally asked a young black man—who would know better? He walked on, following the surprisingly well-spoken directions.
“What kind of knife?” a black man behind a counter asked him.
“For hunting,” he said.
He chose the best. German-made, good in the hand, really beautiful. And so sharp it whisked ribbons from loosely held paper. Two more twenties and a ten.
A drugstore was next door. He bought his vitamins.
And in the next block, Uniforms & Work Clothes.
“I’d say you’re about a thirty-six?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to try it on?”
“No.” Because of the gun.
He bought a pair of white cotton gloves too.
A food store was impossible to find. Nobody knew; they didn’t eat, apparently.
He found one finally, a glary supermarket full of blacks. He bought three apples, two oranges, two bananas, and for his own consumption, a lovely-looking bunch of green seedless grapes.
He took a taxi back to the Benjamin Franklin—the side entrance, please—and at 3:22 was back in that dismal one-tenth-of-a-star room.
He rested awhile, eating grapes and looking at the atlases in the easy (ha!) chair, consulting now and again the typed sheets of names and addresses, dates. He could get Wheelock—assuming he was still in New Providence, Pennsylvania—almost on schedule; but from then on, it would have to be catch-as-catch-can. He would try to keep within six months of the optimum dates. Davis in Kankakee, then up into Canada for Stroheim and Morgan. Then Sweden. Would he have to renew the visa?
After he had rested, he rehearsed. Took off the wig and put on the white jacket and gloves; practiced carrying the basket of fruit on the tray; said, “Compliments of the management, sir”—again and again till he got the th-sound right.
He stood with his back to his bolted door, hung the Do Not Disturb sign on air and let it fall, knocked at air. “Compliments of the management, sir.” He carried the tray across the room, set it on the dresser, drew the knife from the sheath in his belt; turned, keeping the knife behind him; walked, stopped, put out his left hand. “Sank you, sir.” Grabbed with his left hand, stabbed with his right.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Th, th, th.” Grab with the left hand, stab with the right.
Do Jews tip?
He worked out some alternative movements.
The sunlit plateau of clouds ended abruptly; blue-black ocean lay below, wrinkled and white-flecked, immobile. Liebermann gazed down at it, his chin in his hand.
Ei.
He had lain awake all night, sat awake all day, thinking of a full-grown Hitler hurling his demonic speeches at mobs too discontented to care about history. Two or three Hitlers even, maneuvering to power in different places, recognized by their followers and themselves as the first human beings bred by what in 1990 or so would be a widely known, maybe widely practiced, procedure. More alike than brothers, the same man multiplied, wouldn’t they join forces and wage again (with 1990 weapons!) their first one’s racial war? Certainly that was Mengele’s hope; Barry had said so: “It’s supposed to lead to the triumph of the Aryan race, for God’s sake!” Words to that effect.
A lovely package to bring to an F.B.I. that’s had an almost hundred-percent turnover since Hoover died in ’72. He could hear the puzzled question: “Yakov who?”
It had been easy enough last night to tell Klaus h
e would manage, would break down doors; and in truth he wasn’t wholly without contacts. There were senators he had met who were still in office; one of them, surely, would unlock the right doors for him. But now, having weighed the horror, he was afraid that even with unlocked doors too much time might be lost. Guthrie’s and Curry’s deaths would have to be investigated, their widows questioned, the Wheelocks questioned…Now it was the utmost necessity to capture Wheelock’s would-be killer and find through him the five others. The rest of the ninety-four men had to stay alive; the knobs of the safes, to follow Lena’s comparison (a good one to remember and use in the days ahead), must not be allowed to be turned to what was maybe the last and most crucial number in the combination.
And making matters even worse, the 22nd was only an approximation of Wheelock’s death date. What if the real date was earlier? What if—laughable, the small thing future history might hinge on—Frieda Maloney had been wrong about the puppy being ten weeks old? What if it had been nine weeks old, or eight weeks old, when the Wheelocks got their baby? The killer might kill and be gone a few days from now.
He looked at his watch: 10:28. Which was wrong; he hadn’t set it back yet. He did it now—spun the hands and gave himself six extra hours, at least as far as watches were concerned: 4:28. New York in half an hour, customs, and the short hop to Washington. He’d get some sleep tonight, he hoped—he was a little punchy already—and in the morning he would call the senators’ offices; call Shettles too, some others on Nürnberger’s list.
If only he could arrange now to have Wheelock’s killer watched for, without any waiting, explaining, checking, questioning. He should have come sooner; would have, of course, if he had known the full enormity…
Ei.
What he needed, really, was a Jewish F.B.I. Or a U.S. branch of Israel’s Mossad. Someplace where he could go in tomorrow and say, “A Nazi is coming to kill a man named Wheelock in New Providence, Pennsylvania. Guard him; capture the Nazi. Don’t ask me questions, I’ll explain later. I’m Yakov Liebermann—would I steer you wrong?” And they would go ahead and do it.
