The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  “And then what?”

  “Like I said, then she left.”

  “And that was it?”

  “That was it. Until…” She dabbed at her eyes again.

  “Until?”

  “Until I did something I probably shouldn't have done. I called up my dad. I hadn't spoken to him for a long time… and I guess I was waiting for an excuse. I wanted to hear his voice. I missed him. So I called. Elissa answered. She didn't want to let me speak to him. I said it was a matter of life and death. I told him the whole thing. I said Sophie might be on her way to see him in the next few days. He listened very calmly, asked a few questions, and then very politely thanked me. Like I was a complete stranger. He didn't even ask how I was. And now she's dead, and it's all my fault,” she wailed.

  But I wasn't finished with her yet. I still had a few more questions. “Did you ask your father what the awful things might have been?”

  She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you know if Sophie actually did see your father?”

  “No. He didn't call back, and I never heard from her again. The next thing I knew, she was dead.” She stifled another sob. “Excuse me for going all soft on you. I haven't told anyone about this, and it's been eating away at me.”

  “But Susan, surely you're not suggesting that your father had something to do with Sophie's death?” Lynn asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “It's not so easy to have someone killed. You can't just look up ‘hit men’ under the letter H in the yellow pages,” I observed.

  “My father, he knows lots of people. He's a member of a gun club. He loves guns, never goes anywhere without one.”

  “My dad's the same way. That doesn't make him a murderer,” Lynn countered, shaking her head. “You don't think he asked one of his gun club buddies to commit a murder? That's totally wacky. Gun club members are the most law-abiding people in America.”

  “No, of course not.” Susan reddened. “But, like I said, my father knows all kinds of people. A few years ago, he hired an ex-con to do his gardening. He said it was a good deed because everyone deserves a second chance. They became quite friendly. Maybe they're still in touch. Maybe that guy has friends from prison, criminal types, he could have asked to do him a favor.”

  “What's this gardener's name?” I asked.

  “I don't know. I forget.”

  Lynn butted in. “I thought you said you hadn't spoken to your dad for years. How would you know about his gardener?”

  “That was when we were still speaking from time to time.”

  “So that gardener was years ago.”

  “But that doesn't explain why someone would be following you. Your father wouldn't harm you,” I said.

  “I don't know what to think. He may not want me in his life, but I don't think he wishes me harm. I think what he's really after is Sophie's papers. Maybe he thinks I know where they are, and he's hoping I'll lead him to them. Do you know where they are?”

  “I never saw them. Sophie told me she'd hidden them somewhere safe. I don't even know if they still exist. As far as we know, you're the only person to have seen these documents. Do you remember anything else about them at all?”

  “Not really. Some of them were letters, but it was all in German. I couldn't tell you anything about what was in them, apart from the pages she left behind.”

  “Pages? You only gave me one page.”

  “There were two. Here, take it. I never want to see it again.” She rummaged in her desk and came up with a piece of paper. It was badly crumpled, as if someone had balled it up to throw away and then smoothed it out again. It was in the same crabbed hand as the previous document.

  “Did Sophie describe the contents of these documents?”

  “All she said was they were shocking.” Susan looked sad and worn out.

  “I assume you had these translated. Did they mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “What kind of man is your father? I asked. “You said you hadn't spoken to him for several years. Was he a loving father?”

  She looked at me blankly. “Yes, when I was a little girl, he was a wonderful father. That's why he can't be a Nazi. It's not possible.” Her voice held layers of pain and anger.

  It was all too possible. Many Nazis I had encountered were great family men. “And later?” I asked.

  “When I was a teenager and in college, he was still wonderful. Of course, we had our ups and downs. For several years, he struggled on and off with depression, which made things difficult for everyone. There was a time when he was drinking too much. Sometimes he had bad dreams. But he got through it, and we were all pretty happy together. Until Elissa came along, and he didn't want my mother or me around any more.”

  “You're an only child.”

  “Yes. So was Sophie. I never had a sister. And now I never will.”

  “So you believe her? You think she really was your half sister?”

  “How can I know for sure? But there was a connection between her and my father, that I do know.”

  “Susan, I'm going to give you the name and phone number of an FBI agent. She's investigating the attack on us yesterday. Please call her and tell her about the man who was following you.”

  She hesitated. “I'll think about it.”

  “Call her. She might be able to tell you some simple things you can do to protect yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you remember something else, or you just want to talk, here's my direct office number.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I'm not sure. We need to get back to Washington.”

  “I have to ask you.” Susan paused, her face stricken. “Who do you think my father really is? What do you think he did?”

  My turn to hesitate, but we owed her an explanation after all she had told us.

  “We're not certain yet, but we believe he may have served in something called Operation Reinhard.”

  “A military operation?”

  “No, it was concerned with killing Jews. Maybe two million.”

  “Oh, my God. No!”

  “As I said, nothing is confirmed. The evidence may disprove it. We're still at a fairly early stage of the investigation. And contrary to what you may have heard, we're very cautious. We won't take any steps against him, or say anything public, until we are 100 percent sure. But you must promise not to tell anyone about this conversation, especially not your father. It may put you in more danger.”

  She nodded. “Just tell me one more thing:What was his name, his real name?”

  “Franz Beck,” I said. “Does it ring any bells?”

  “I never heard it before.”

  There was a long silence. I half wanted to offer some comfort, but it didn't feel right.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Lynn said, as we were halfway out the door. “When you phoned your dad and told him Sophie might be on her way to Florida, did you mention Mark by name to him?”

  “Yes, I did.” Susan averted our gaze. “I guess that was a mistake. How bad is it?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not so terrible. The FBI has been briefed. If I need protection, they'll be there to provide it.”

  I doubt I convinced her. I hadn't even convinced myself.

  When you're at war, you're bound to have setbacks. I tell this to Clint, but he's not a happy camper. He sits there, with a towel over his head, pressing a bag of ice against his wrist, shivering and moaning. I tell him not to be such a crybaby, but he carries on whimpering. His eyes are red and swollen almost shut. He looks like shit. “We can draw strength from this,” I tell him. “We were tested and we survived. I got you out, didn't I?” It was a miracle I was able to drag the fat lug out of there before the cops arrived.

  “You never said nothin’ about them being armed,” Clint says. “They could've killed me.”

  He has a point. I blame myself. I should have done the job myself ins
tead of leaving it to him. But he begged me. Thinking about all of this, I feel a headache coming on, and I pop a pill to stop it before it starts. I tell Clint, “I'm gonna kill that bastard and his bitch, too, for what they did to you. I promise you, Clint, I will take care of him if it's the last thing I do.”

  It's time to go home and make final preparations.

  15

  Why this solitary tear?

  It clouds my vision.

  —“WHY THIS SOLITARY TEAR?” BY HEINRICH HEINE,

  MUSIC BY ROBERT SCHUMANN

  “WHAT DID YOU THINK?” I asked Lynn in the taxi back to the airport.

  “I think she was telling the truth. I'm not sure it was the whole truth, but I ended up feeling sorry for her. Imagine someone announcing she's your long lost half sister and your dad's some kind of Nazi. Her reaction seemed credible.”

  “I agree, although I wish she'd kept my name out of it,” I said.

  “Some little things struck me wrong, though. That stuff about the gun club, that was ridiculous.”

  “What she said also casts Sophie in a different light. She wasn't a do-gooder devoted to truth and justice. She wanted to be Delatrucha's daughter despite his crime. She only started crusading for truth and justice when he turned her down.”

  I called Agent Fabrizio from a pay phone at the airport. “You just caught me,” she said breathlessly. “That perp who was charged with the Reiner murder—I'm on my way to see if I can get more out of him. I'll call you when I'm done.”

  “I have something for you, too,” I said, relaying what Susan had said about her father's ex-con gardener. “He may link Delatrucha and the murder,” I said.

  “We'll try to check that out. Gotta go.”

  Once the plane had taken off, I took the photocopy Susan had given me out of my scarred briefcase and smoothed it out. I started translating out loud, with Lynn writing down the English. The style was a little dated. I stumbled over a few words, but mostly it was easy enough to understand. We both leaned over to read the completed text.

  The piano is a fine German instrument, a Bechstein. I was able to stretch my fingers and even my voice. After weeks without practice, I was very rusty. To think that music was once my entire life. Those days seem long ago. Still, sometimes I hear the notes of a song echoing in my head. The other day, I seemed to hear the sounds of Schubert's “Trout” — that much-loved song so dear to us both. I tried to banish the notes from my mind. They have no place here. And yet, though I perform my duties with enthusiasm, I must confess that I sometimes miss singing. My comrades were surprised and delighted at my abilities. They want to organize a concert at which I would sing for the entire unit. I told them music was in the past for me. There is no time for singing now. That time will come again after victory. Life meanwhile continues on its rigorous path. I strive each day to harden my soul. The future is not built by weak-lings. Unpleasant jobs need to be done, and we are doing them. In the meantime

  “That's it?” Lynn asked.

  “That's all we have. It looks as if it continued on another page, but there's a lot we can learn from this.”

  “It's clearly a letter,” Lynn said.

  “Yes, he talks about the beloved song ‘so dear to us both.’”

  “And we assume this was written by ‘Uncle Robert’ to Sophie's mother?”

  “Presumably.”

  “It's interesting that the beloved song turns out to be ‘The Trout.’”

  “Trout—Delatrucha.”

  “It was definitely written during the war,” she continued. “By someone serving in the army. He speaks of his comrades in the unit doing unpleasant jobs.”

  “Not necessarily the army. Could be the SS or even the police. They were experts when it came to unpleasant jobs. It's frustrating. If we knew where this person was writing from, we might be able to figure out what the unpleasant jobs were. The more I see of these documents, the more I want to see the rest. I wish there were some way of knowing where she hid them.”

  “For all you know, she could have rented a locker at Union Station and stuffed the papers in there.”

  “If she did, they could sit there for the next fifty years without anyone finding them,” I mused.

  When we arrived in Washington, Lynn headed for her apartment. I wasn't sure I wanted to return to my own place, but no group of thugs was going to drive me from my bed. We agreed to meet in the office the next day to drive down to West Virginia for the weekend. I felt physically and emotionally drained, but it was nothing that a few days of fresh air, snow, and scenery couldn't cure.

  The lights were shining brightly in the lobby. The landlord had quickly repaired the damage. You would never have known it had been the scene of an assassination attempt twenty-four hours before.

  My apartment was dusty; I couldn't be bothered to clean it. The fridge was almost empty, but a couple of cans of soup huddled in the cupboard, and some old bread looked suitable for toasting. As I sat down to eat, the phone rang. Eric wanted an update.

  “Sophie Reiner may have been Delatrucha's daughter.”

  “Wow! That is big news.”

  “The problem is, we can't prove it. That's the way it is with this case. We keep turning up interesting possibilities, but we can't prove any of them.”

  “Perhaps it will all fall into place when you arrive in Europe.”

  “I'm going to Europe?”

  “I heard from the State Department today. The Germans have tracked down some witnesses, and they've scheduled interviews for next week. You should be the one to talk to them. George is a historian, not a lawyer.”

  “When do I have to be there?” I asked.

  “The travel office booked you a flight for next Tuesday night. Drop by the office tomorrow morning to pick up the ticket. After that, you'll probably have to go to Ukraine. Our embassy in Kiev wired back that the Ukrainians have identified a couple of witnesses there as well.”

  “Tuesday night? That means I can still have my weekend in West Virginia.”

  “Never let it be said that the Office of Special Investigations stands in the way of true love. But once you get over there, don't waste any more time. Just get the job done and come back home. Remember, the clock's ticking.”

  Again, I slept badly that night. I lay in bed thinking about Lynn, about what it would be like to embrace her and undress her and make love to her. It had been years since I had known such an intense physical longing. I literally ached for her. I told myself it wouldn't be a sin, even if we weren't married. The Torah doesn't forbid premarital sex, even though the rabbis frown on it. I had checked out the question many years before when I was in my early twenties and in the throes of a previous love affair. We were so dissimilar, though. Would Lynn be able to adopt my lifestyle? Would I be willing or able to compromise?

  Toward morning, I dreamed my mother was warning me about something. “They're burning, they're burning!” she cried.

  “What's burning?” I asked her.

  “The potato pancakes.” When I went into the kitchen, it turned into a vast field full of people. I was the only one wearing clothes. I started running, looking for a way out, but arms grabbed me, and I couldn't move.

  Lynn and I had agreed to meet at noon to begin our trip. That way, I could catch up on paperwork before we left. I was nearly finished when the phone rang again. “Jack Doneghan called,” a grim-sounding Rosen said. “He wants to speak to you. He said he'd call back within a quarter of an hour, and he wants you on the line.”

  “Tell him all the budget information he asked for is being typed up and checked. He'll have it Monday afternoon.”

  “He doesn't want to talk to you about the budget. He wants to talk about Roberto Delatrucha, and he sounded mighty pissed,” Eric said.

  “Shit. I'll be right up.”

  Eric was pacing around his office, bristling like an angry little terrier. “Mark, how the hell did Doneghan find out about Delatrucha? This is just what I wanted to avoid. I told you no le
aks. How the hell did this get out?”

  “Two words, Eric: John. Howard.”

  “Howard? I don't believe it.” His voice shook. “I built this department. Christ, I am this department. What would he be without me? Just another little pisher wandering around D. C. looking for some big shot to pay him some attention,” he said. There were times when Eric made it really difficult, even for people who loved him, to tolerate his egomania. But this was no time for recriminations. I had nailed my colors to his mast. I had to stick by him.

  “Eric, I told you he knew we were investigating Delatrucha. He'll use any weapon he can against you. That Delatrucha has political connections makes it worse. He hosted a GOP fund-raiser for Conroy last summer.”

  “Oh, great. Now we're deep in the political stew. Watch what you tell Doneghan. Don't get him even more riled than he already is.”

  “That's rich, coming from you, after that dustup you had with him last week,” I said. “Before I speak to him, tell me there's no way you'd give in to political pressure to stop the investigation.”

  “Of course not,” Eric said. “Khas v'shalom, over my dead body. Even if it costs me my job. Which it won't!” The phone rang. Eric pressed the speakerphone.

  “Good morning, Mr. Doneghan,” I said. “This is Mark Cain.”

  “Cain, are you totally fuckin’ crazy? Why else would you be investigating one of our nation's finest citizens and greatest musicians?” he snarled.

  I envisioned him sitting in his office like Jabba the Hut. “I can't discuss ongoing investigations with you,” I answered piously.

  “Don't give me that bullshit. You know what I'm talking about. Delatrucha's a personal friend of speaker Conroy. Hosted a fund-raiser for him, sang the most incredible ‘America the Beautiful’ any of us will ever hear. The speaker values his friendship and support very highly.”

  “He is a good singer,” I understated. “Nobody's questioning that.”

  “Don't get cute with me, y'hear? You gotta have a very good reason to go after a man like that. The speaker can't believe what he's hearing; neither can I.”

  “Again, I can't comment, but I can assure you we're not ‘going after’ anyone,” I told him.