by Alan Elsner
“What's the time over there?” I asked.
“Four in the afternoon. I feel as if I haven't slept for a week. You know, if we had that new communication system everyone's talking about, we could just send each other electronic messages whenever we wanted.”
I could just imagine his bony face knotted in a scowl of earnest self-justification. “E-mail? What good would that do? We'd still need to talk. Anyway, it's in the budget for next year, along with cell phones for everybody, if Congress doesn't cut it all out. How far did you get with the Nazi newspapers?”
“I'm up to February 21, 1944.”
“I hope you're not rushing it. I don't want you to miss anything.”
“Don't worry, I'm not.”
“How far do you think you need to search? Delatrucha said his concert was near the beginning of 1944. I would think that would be in the first three months. Unless he was trying to throw people off the scent.”
“He wasn't,” George said.
“Did you find something?”
“You have no idea how many pages of garbage I had to go through today. I deserve a hefty raise.”
“You aren't getting one, George. Did you find a concert review?”
“No.”
“Then what? Godammit.”
“A tiny announcement advertising a concert for the following evening, just a little box at the bottom of a page.”
“Excellent. What did it say?”
“It was for February 18, 1944—the debut performance of a young baritone. And guess what else.”
“His name was Schnellinger?” I said eagerly.
“No, it wasn't. It was Franz Beck.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Me neither.”
“Did it say what he was singing?”
“Unfortunately not. It just said it would be a recital of lieder.”
“No picture, I suppose.”
“No, it was really small, like I said.”
“But it could be our man.”
“Well, it could be, but it's not definitive. There could have been more than one song recital around that time. There was plenty of musical activity going on even in wartime. Concerts, recitals, you name it. I looked through the newspaper for the following three days for a review of the performance, but I couldn't find one.”
“It was interrupted by an air raid, so that's not so surprising,” I said.
“Right. And when I looked in the newspaper for February 19, there was some mention of a bombing attack the previous night, which fits what he said. But still, I wouldn't go rushing into a courtroom on the basis of one little announcement in the Nazi newspaper.”
“What did you say his name was—Beck?”
“Franz Beck.”
“Interesting. He told the Post he was named after his mother's favorite composer, Robert Schumann. Maybe he was mixing a little truth with a little fiction.”
“What do you mean?” George asked.
“Maybe he was named after his mother's favorite composer just like he said, but it wasn't Schumann, it was Franz Schubert.” George, who believed strictly in verifiable facts, chose to ignore this flash of insight. “Anyway, nice work,” I said. “Now we have a possible name for this guy.”
“Perhaps.”
“Your next move is back to the Document Center to see if they have a file on Franz Beck.”
“I'll be there first thing Monday morning. I'll probably have something for you on Tuesday.”
“Get a good night's sleep and treat yourself to a fancy meal with an expensive bottle of wine. It's on me. You deserve it,” I told him.
“I'll do that after I get home so I can share it with my wife.”
“Have two bottles, then, one now and one later.”
“No fun drinking wine when you're alone.”
“So find a nice plump little fraulein to drink with you.”
“Mark!” He was shocked. Shocked!
“Just kidding. George, okay, I'll say auf wiedersehen.”
“There's one more thing,” George said.
“What's that?”
“A very tiny detail.” He paused. “The concert was under the patronage of someone pretty famous.”
“Who?” Von Karajan? Strauss?”
“Much bigger.”
“Who?”
“Heinrich Himmler.”
“My God!” I breathed. How would a man like Himmler, head of the SS and the Gestapo and second in the Nazi hierarchy only to Hitler himself, become involved with a young singer? Was he a friend of the family; perhaps they had common acquaintances? Or perhaps they had crossed paths somewhere.
“So how about that raise now, boss?”
“I'll run it by Mitch Conroy and get back to you,” I told him. “Keep this strictly confidential. I'll brief Janet, but I don't want it going further. If you get any calls from anyone else…”
“You mean John Howard,” George said.
“He called you?”
“He seems pretty interested in what I'm doing.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, but he knows we're investigating Delatrucha.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Eric brought this on himself by acting like a secret agent.”
“Whose side are you on, George?”
“Nobody's. I'm just a tiny pawn in your chess game. I want to be friends with everyone and get the job done.” Then he hung up.
The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully. Sunday was Tu B'Shvat, the New Year for Trees. In Israel, the almond trees would start blossoming. In D.C., we were still deep in the grip of winter.
On Monday morning, I briefed Janet and Eric on George's discovery.
“Is there anything we can do to speed things up?” Eric asked.
“I wish we had a picture of him without that great bushy beard,” I said. “If he was in Nazi Germany in 1944, he was definitely clean-shaven.”
“There's software now that can generate computer images of what a person might have looked like when he was younger or what he might look like when he's older,” Eric said. “Send me a picture. I'll contact the FBI, see what can be done.”
“Now that the investigation is making progress,” Janet said, “I'd like you to put it on the agenda for the weekly staff meeting.”
“Still too sensitive,” Eric replied firmly.
Janet frowned, but said nothing more.
* * *
I spent a lot of time thinking about Delatrucha. Only now was his true character coming into focus. He was a formidable adversary. Most ex-Nazis just try to disappear. Delatrucha had been in the public eye for forty years, flaunting his presence. He must have been driven by a gargantuan ego; he was utterly determined but also enormously shrewd. He could be charming and courageous, but he was also ruthless and cruel. I would need to be equally relentless and resourceful to nail him.
I was hoping my lunch with Mary Scott would add more details to the portrait. Chez Louis turned out to be impeccably snooty and unbelievably expensive. Delatrucha's ex-wife had lavish tastes. I blanched at the prices on the menu. Luckily I'd be eating salad. Everything else was treif—nonkosher. I spent ten minutes staring at a $10 glass of fizzy water, watching people come and go, wondering if Mary was standing me up. A striking woman in a luxurious fur coat sailed into the restaurant on the arm of a man sporting a dirty blond ponytail. She imperiously handed him her coat. Under it, she was wearing a shimmering black dress. Everything about her smelled of glamour and money. I realized I was staring and returned to studying the menu, wondering which of the wonderful-sounding concoctions would be most fun to eat, if only I could.
The restaurant was swarming with lobbyists and activists, presumably on fat expense accounts. Republicans were still celebrating the election that had brought them back to power after decades in the minority. One corner of the joint, reserved for cigar smokers, was full. A happy hubbub rose from the diners. I caught a glimpse of the woman gliding through the rest
aurant as if she owned the place. Then she was at my table. She glared at me for a moment, then sat down without saying a word. She had short black hair and wore long, silvery earrings that accentuated her high cheekbones and matched the silver necklace around her neck and the bracelets hanging loosely around her thin wrists. Then I realized I knew who she was.
“You must be Susan Scott,” I said, offering my hand. She ignored it. I tried again. “I'm Mark Cain.”
“I know who you are and what you do,” she said. Her voice was thin and hard. She was wearing a kind of pale silvery lipstick that complemented her gray eyes, which glinted metallically. “I looked you up because I was suspicious about this strange man who suddenly appeared, wanting to talk to my mother. I want you to leave my mother alone. She's not going to talk to you. She's in a fragile mental state, and I don't want you driving her over the edge. Leave her alone.”
A waiter came up; she waved him away with an imperious flick of her fingers. “Well, don't you have anything to say for yourself?” she said.
I took off my glasses and started polishing them with the tablecloth to buy time. “I had no idea about your mother's mental state. I certainly wouldn't want to cause her any harm,” I said.
“As long as that's understood.” She stood to go.
“Perhaps you'd be willing to speak to me for a few minutes.” I gestured her to sit down again.
“Why should I? You investigate war criminals, like that Demjanjuk. My father may not be perfect, but he's no Nazi. I have no interest in talking to you. In fact, if you know what's good for you, you'll stop what you're doing before I hire a lawyer and file a restraining order. I will not be known to the world as the daughter of a Nazi.”
I didn't know how to respond. “I have nothing against your family, nothing against your father either. He's a wonderful singer. But let me ask you something:What do you really know about him?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean, do you know where he was born, where he grew up? Do you know his real name?”
She sank back into her chair. “His original name was Schnellinger. That's no secret,” she said.
“Are you sure that's the name he was born with? How do you know?”
She inhaled audibly. “So you really are investigating him,” she muttered under her breath. “Damn that crazy German woman!”
“Ms. Scott, I can't discuss internal department matters,” I said, playing for pomposity. “But I can assure you all our investigations are carried out fairly, impartially, and within the law. Our interest lies simply in finding the truth.”
“Is that so? Then why did you try to trick my mother into talking to you, posing as some kind of a writer?” she said with some of her former feistiness. “I wonder what your boss would say if he knew. Or perhaps that's how you people operate. You can sneak around my father all you like, but you won't find anything. He and I may have our issues, but he's not a Nazi.”
She stood up again, but I wasn't ready to let her go yet. “You said something about a German woman. I assume you mean Sophie Reiner.”
Her face went pale. “How do you know about her?”
“I know she was in Boston before she was murdered. She contacted you, didn't she? What did she tell you?”
She sat down again, swallowed hard, and started fiddling with one of her rings. She wouldn't meet my eyes. Her skin seemed too tightly stretched over her face. I had seen that look often enough in court during cross-examination. It was the look of a witness who was rattled. I stayed on the offensive.
“Ms. Scott, you probably don't know that Sophie came to see me the day before she was killed. She had documents she wanted to give me. I think she showed them to you.”
Susan grabbed the glass of water on the table and took a sip. I locked eyes with her. “I think you should talk to me. This is a murder case. I can help you. Or you could talk to the police instead.” The police had made it clear they had their man, but Susan didn't know that.
“I won't be a part of it,” she gasped, rising to her feet. “If one word of this gets out, you're toast. I warn you.”
She swiveled and strode toward the exit, shoving a waiter out of her path. The ponytail was waiting. He helped her put her coat on, and they hustled out of the restaurant.
It had started to snow as I left to see Jack Doneghan. I grabbed a taxi for the short drive to the Capitol, my mind still churning. A picture was forming in my head, but it didn't entirely make sense. If Sophie had really gone to Florida to confront Delatrucha, he may have had a motive to kill her. But how would a classical musician with no criminal background arrange a murder?
As I paid the taxi driver outside the U.S. Capitol, I couldn't help looking around for suspicious characters. It was becoming a habit, even though I knew it was ridiculous. If I wasn't safe here, under democracy's dome, I wasn't safe anywhere.
Eric was waiting outside the minority leader's office. Conroy would soon be moving into the grander quarters of House speaker after Congress reconvened. His office buzzed with activity. Aides, frustrated by decades in the minority, salivated at the prospect of real power, none more than Jack Doneghan, who was said to be the muscle behind Conroy's throne. After a 20-minute wait, Doneghan's secretary ushered us into his presence. He waved us into two chairs facing his desk, glaring at us from beneath bushy eyebrows. His domed head sank into a doughy neck, pushing the skin into deep folds.
“Let's make this quick,” he said in a broad Texas accent. “We've been going through your record, the speaker and me, and we're not sure what the American taxpayer is gettin’ for his money. All y'all seem to do is chase after a bunch of old men.”
Eric bristled. “With respect, Mr. Doneghan, what the American taxpayer is getting is an office created by Congress and staffed by dedicated individuals who uphold U.S. laws, American values, and the Constitution.”
“That so? Tell it to that poor sonofabitch Demjanjuk.” Doneghan sneered. “How much longer do y'all expect to find more Nazis to hunt? Seems to me most of ’em should have died by now,” he continued.
“There are plenty of Nazis still out there, and we aim to find them. When that's done, we plan to go after other war criminals as well—Bosnians, Rwandans, anywhere there's genocide. We're already working on a bill.”
“I don't think so. You missed your chance. That kind of legislation might have passed in the old Congress, but things are going to be quite a bit different around here from now on. There's a new team in charge. You boys have conducted your last witch hunt if I have anything to do with it. Next time you persecute some poor old man for no reason, we'll be coming down on you like a ton of bricks. And don't think I won't know. From now on, no sparrow in Washington is going to fart without me hearing about it.”
“If you look at our record, you'll see we very seldom make mistakes,” Eric said dryly. “We have the best conviction record of any division within the Department of Justice.”
“And we'll be cutting your budget, of course,” Doneghan went on, as if Eric hadn't spoken.
“If you can get the votes,” Eric interrupted sharply, his face reddening. He puffed out his chest. “We still have friends in this building, Republicans as well as Democrats. You might be surprised.”
“We'll be cutting government departments all across the board,” Doneghan said, his voice rising. “Nobody's exempt. You boys think you're above everyone else? The era of big government is over for everyone, mister, and that includes you.”
It was like watching a prizefight, two heavyweights beating each other senseless. But I was also proud of Eric. He wasn't backing down an inch.
“We're not ‘big government,’ as you put it. Our department is small, our budget is tiny, and we can account for every cent. If you come after us, you'll be making a big mistake.”
“Don't you tell me how to do my job,” Doneghan responded, slapping his meaty hand down on his desk. A secretary poked her head in. Doneghan shooed her away angrily; he was sweating prof
usely.
“I don't care how you do your job. You can cut all the government you want, as far as I'm concerned,” Eric's voice was cold as ice. “Cut Health! Cut Welfare! But I'm going to protect my office and its mission, because it's important and because it upholds the values of the United States.”
“Spare me the speech, boy. Just get me the information I asked for,” Doneghan said. “Then we'll see what we want to cut.”
“You'll have it within a week,” Eric snapped. “And now, if you'll excuse us, I'm sure you're a busy man.” He swept from the room. I hurried after him as he plowed through the tourists in the Rotunda and out of the building. We shared a taxi back to the office.
“That went well,” I deadpanned. “Why didn't you tell him what you really think?”
“He threw down the gauntlet. I had to pick it up. He's just another Washington schmekel blowing off steam,” Eric replied. “He'll back off. It's not worth the political price to go after a tiny department like ours.”
“I hope you haven't made an enemy for life.” I said. “We have enough already.”
“Relax. Doneghan doesn't represent anyone but himself.”
“But he has the ear of Mitch Conroy.”
“Conroy's a realist. He has a slight majority, but that doesn't give him absolute power. We'll be okay. We just have to be even more careful with our investigations, especially if someone high-profile is involved, like this Delatrucha guy.”
“I am being careful.” I didn't mention my lunch with Susan Scott and the possibility we might soon be hearing from her lawyer. “But you have to be careful too, Eric. You have enemies inside the building as well as outside.”
“Nonsense.”
“You do, Eric.”
“Who?”
“John Howard, for one.”
“He loves the department.”
“He may love the department, but he doesn't love you. He knows about our secret Delatrucha operation. George Carter told him. He'll use it against you if he gets the chance.”
Eric slumped down, floored by the revelation. I paid and we got out, shivering in the wind. I was about to go inside, but Eric just stood there, stray snowflakes flurrying around his head. “John's plotting against me?”
