The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  “Not good enough, son. Are you trying to embarrass Speaker Conroy? Is that your game?”

  “Nothing we're doing will embarrass the speaker. As far as I know, he is not connected to this.”

  “So you're not investigating Delatrucha.”

  “That's not what I said.”

  “Son, you need to remember you work for the U.S. taxpayer. You can't refuse to answer my questions.”

  “First, I am not your son. Second, I would like to help, Mr. Doneghan, but I will not discuss ongoing cases, and it's not your job to ask me. I report to Mr. Rosen; he reports to the attorney general, and he reports to the president, who presumably reports to God Almighty. If you have a problem, take it up with one of them.”

  “Son, you just destroyed your career. If you don't answer, we'll call a hearing and haul you up to the Hill with a subpoena if necessary. I'm telling you to call off this witch hunt. You're entering a world of hurt if you don't. Don't you know Delatrucha's up for a big prize in a couple weeks? The speaker plans to be there, and he's hosting a party in honor of Mr. Delatrucha afterward.”

  “Let the chips fall where they may,” Eric said. “You might want to keep an open mind about this. If the speaker accepted money, even unknowingly, from someone who turned out to be a former Nazi— and I'm speaking purely hypothetically here—I would think he'd like to know about it so that he could return the money before it becomes public knowledge. Good-bye, Mr. Doneghan.”

  Eric sat down next to me. “What next?” I asked. “Do you think he'll go to the attorney general?”

  “He's a fool if he does. Don't worry about the politics. That's my job. You just focus on finding the truth.”

  “You have to do something about Howard. We can't have a snitch in the department undermining you all the time.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I can't fire the schmuck without cause.”

  “Leaking stuff can be a two-way street.”

  “What? Don't be so fuckin’ mysterious.”

  “What if Howard were to hear some information about you…”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Something that made you look particularly unethical, something that would force your immediate resignation if it became public.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like cooking up evidence, for example.”

  “I'd never do that.”

  “Of course you wouldn't, but what if Howard thought you had? What's the first thing he'd do?”

  “Leak it to the press? Call up his buddy Doneghan, maybe?”

  “Probably both. And if the information was juicy enough, Doneghan would go to his buddy Mitch Conroy. But what if the information turned out to be false?”

  A slow smile spread over Eric's face. “You are evil, Cain. Pure evil. I never knew you had it in you. But it's risky, it would have to be done carefully.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Let me think about it. For now, take that pretty young thing and get the hell out of town. You'll be with your dad until Sunday?”

  “Monday.”

  “If I need you, I'll call you.”

  There was one more thing I wanted to check before we left—that newspaper clip on Susan's desk. I went to my own filing cabinet and pulled out a folder of newspaper articles, rustling through the papers until I found what I was looking for. The New York Times—on one side an article about mad cow disease, on the other a profile of none other than the famous Nazi hunter Marek Cain.

  The sky was cloudy as Lynn and I left D.C., but by the time we crossed the West Virginia state line the sun was shining; it flashed and glinted through the snow-draped pine forest on either side of the road. It was a glorious day for a winter journey—our own Winterreise. The road twisted and turned deep into the hills. It had been plowed some hours before, but driving conditions were treacherous. Clumps of snow, melting in the sun, kept falling from the trees, sometimes thudding against the car roof. Lynn slept much of the way, the brilliant light sparkling in her hair.

  Leaving the sky bruised a deep purple, the sun was already beginning to drop toward the horizon as we reached the dirt road leading to my father's house. Dad lived at the top of a steep hill, commanding a tremendous view of wooded terrain. The nearest village was two miles away in the valley below. The road hadn't been plowed, and the car would never make it. I parked outside the 7-Eleven in the village. Lynn woke up, stretched, and gave me a warm, sleepy kiss.

  “We have to walk the rest of the way,” I said.

  “How do you know he's home?” Lynn yawned.

  “He refuses to leave. He likes being cut off by snow. It reminds him of his childhood in Poland. I should warn you, he can be a bit abrupt. Don't worry if he snaps at you. It's nothing personal. He does it to everyone, especially me.”

  “How does he survive all alone?”

  “He has weeks of supplies. You'll see when we get there.”

  “What about heat?”

  “He has a big barn full of firewood next to the house.”

  It took us half an hour to trek through the snow, carrying our bags. To lighten my load, I left my briefcase in the trunk. The air was cold and bracing. Smoke was rising from the chimney as we approached the cabin. He didn't seem particularly happy to see me, but he brightened up considerably when he saw I had brought a pretty young woman along.

  “Come in, come in, my dear,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and ushering her into the kitchen. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I'm Lynn Daniels,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. And before I knew it, the handshake had turned into a hug. He'd only known her for twenty seconds, and they were already hugging. He hadn't embraced me like that in twenty-five years.

  “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Cain.” She gave him her broadest smile.

  “Pshaw, never mind about the Mr. Cain nonsense. Call me Jacob.” He was already smitten. But who wouldn't be? “A cup of tea, or coffee, or perhaps some hot chocolate?”

  Lynn also seemed quite taken with him and his old-world charm. I had to admit, the old man seemed pretty fit for his seventy-five years. His shock of white hair became him, setting off his vivid blue eyes above a bony nose that was getting more craggy with age, like the beak of a bird of prey. Suddenly, I was really glad to be there, glad to see him, despite the cold welcome. West Virginia would be perfect. We would sleep late, enjoy the scenery, and recharge. Just for a couple of days, I wanted to forget Delatrucha and stop the endless tape of Schubert songs that had taken up permanent residence in my brain.

  “Hot chocolate sounds good,” Lynn said.

  “Black coffee for me, no sugar,” I said.

  “Marek, your office has been calling,” he said.

  “Marek?” Lynn asked.

  “It's my real name. It's Polish. Nobody but my dad ever uses it.” I said. “This person who called, did he give a name?” I asked.

  “I think he said Eric.”

  “I'll call him back. There's just enough time before Shabbat begins. But after that, no more calls.” I picked up the phone to return the call. “Mark here, what's up?”

  “I had a call from that FBI woman, Fabrizio. She wanted to speak to you. I gave her your number down there. She'll probably be calling some time this evening.”

  “I don't want to speak to her until after Shabbat.”

  “Then have Lynn tell her that when she phones. Also, there was a call from Susan Scott. You may also hear from her.”

  “Eric, please don't give my number down here to anyone else.”

  “Give your dad my best.” He hung up.

  We dumped our stuff in the spare bedroom, and Lynn got to work with my dad, cooking up a vegetarian stew. He and Lynn were getting along like a house on fire.

  To my surprise, before dinner, Dad hauled out a pair of silver candlesticks I had not seen since my mother died. “My dear, would you light the candles and say the blessing for the Sabbath?” he asked Lynn.

  “Of course,” s
he replied.

  He said the blessing over the wine himself in an old-fashioned Eastern European–accented Hebrew that you rarely heard anymore. Modern Hebrew, with its throaty guttural stresses, sounds completely different. My father's blessing was like a message from a lost civilization.

  After dinner, we played Monopoly. My dad was a demon player, buying up property like Donald Trump, building houses and hotels with abandon. I kept going to jail and not passing Go. As I sat around that table, I realized it felt like a family—a feeling I hadn't known for years.

  Fabrizio called around nine. I took it, despite the Sabbath. After all, you're allowed to break Shabbat in matters of life or death. Lynn came into the bedroom to listen.

  “Cain, why didn't you tell me this Delatrucha is so connected?” she asked. “There I am, investigating his gardener, and all of a sudden I've wandered into a political minefield.”

  “What happened?”

  “An agent in the Orlando field office called him up to ask about the gardener. Delatrucha denied ever employing any ex-cons. An hour later, my boss is on the phone to me, asking what the hell I thought I was doing messing with one of Mitch Conroy's best friends without clearing it with the director.”

  “The director?”

  “The head of the FBI—that's how high this goes. You can't go rummaging around in the life of a man like that without cast-iron evidence. Forget about investigating the gardener, buddy. It ain't happening.”

  “So that's it?”

  “What do you expect?”

  “My boss told Mitch Conroy's office to go to hell when they tried to lean on us.”

  “You both may find you have no jobs by the time this is over. I plan to keep mine.”

  “I've got bigger worries. Don't forget, a guy with a knife came at me two nights ago. What about Sophie's murderer?”

  “Quite a personality. He still denies the murder. Says he found the pocketbook with the knife inside it lying on top of a trashcan.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “We need to do some more checking. Reynolds is fit to explode because his case is unraveling, but I think there are lots of holes in it. There's nothing in his record to suggest he's capable of murder, and he had no motive. He claims he'd never even heard about the murder until he was charged with it.”

  “So the murderer may still be out there.”

  “Right.”

  “And by now the trail is cold as ice.”

  “Right.”

  “Nice.”

  “By the way, tell your girlfriend not to worry about charges being brought against her because of the gun. I managed to talk him out of that.”

  “Thanks. I'll tell her.”

  “Any signs of anything unusual or suspicious out there?”

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “Well, then, enjoy yourselves, and don't fall off the mountain.”

  16

  Since the stink in the summer was no longer bearable,

  the method of burning bodies on pyres was adopted.

  —TESTIMONY OF SAMUEL KUNZ

  BY SIX THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, I had had enough of the lumpy couch in the living room. My father was already in the kitchen, eating his daily oatmeal. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat beside him.

  “You're up early,” he observed.

  “I've got a tough case. It's worrying me.”

  “What case?”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Then forget about it for a couple of days. You can't always be living your work. This girl, this Lynn, do you love her?”

  “I don't know, Dad. We haven't known each other that long.”

  “I knew I loved your mother the moment I saw her.” He swept the back of a bony hand across his eyes. If I hadn't known him better, I would have sworn he was brushing away a tear.

  “Maybe it doesn't work like that for me,” I said. Or maybe I didn't dare admit it.

  “Let me tell you something, Marek. I've only known her a day, but already I can tell she's special.”

  “Maybe you should marry her. She was smitten with you, too.”

  “Pshaw, don't make such stupid jokes. Listen to me, I know what I'm talking about.”

  “Dad, you've been hoping for grandchildren for years. Every girl I've ever introduced you to is the one.”

  “Not like this one. This one is different. She's pretty, she's smart, she knows how to cook…. What are you waiting for?”

  “Let us do this our own way, at our own pace.”

  “Fine, do it your way. Just do it!”

  We hadn't exchanged this many words in years.

  The weekend unfolded slowly. I went into the spare bedroom and recited those parts of the morning service I was permitted to say without a minyan. As I approached the end, Lynn slipped into the room and listened quietly.

  “It's nice the way you have such strong faith,” she said as I took off and folded my prayer shawl.

  “Actually, you know very little about my faith,” I said, stung. “It may be more complicated than you think.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I'm an agnostic. I don't know whether there is a God. I do like some of the traditions, like lighting candles on Friday and celebrating the holidays, but I can't see the point of all the laws. How does keeping kosher help you become a better person?”

  “It teaches you self-discipline, for one thing. It's God telling us not everything was put on this earth for the benefit of humans. We're allowed to enjoy food, but not without limitations, not without restraint. It's a good way to live.”

  “Doesn't that apply to every religion?”

  “I guess, but we're Jews, so we do Jewish stuff, or at least we should. We've been doing this for thousands of years. It's what's helped us survive as a people. The prayers I say in the morning are the same prayers Jews have said for centuries. Touchy-feely Judaism doesn't have that power. If everyone thought the way you do, we would have disappeared as a people long ago.”

  She shook her head. Great, now I was driving away the one person I was beginning to care about most.

  “Does it bother you, my being religious?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. “Maybe a bit. I don't know what to make of it. I've never really known anyone who was Orthodox, much less kissed one. Most of the time, you seem just like everybody else, but then you go off into this place where I can't follow you. I envy you a little. It seems like an easier way to live, having all the answers. On the other hand, being agnostic leaves your mind more open to examine ideas, I think. Life is uncertain, and I kind of like that uncertainty.”

  “I don't have any more answers than you. I struggle with this stuff every day. My religion actually has very little to do with faith and much more to do with how to live a good life, a life of value.”

  “You have doubts, too?”

  “I don't doubt the existence of God. If I did, I'd be even more lost than I am now. But I still have to wrestle with the same dilemmas as everyone else in the world. Being religious doesn't automatically make you a good person or a happy person or even a wise person. It doesn't solve your problems or make the choices you face easier. It just gives you a rough roadmap of how to live.”

  “Does my lack of religion bother you?”

  “You're sweet and kind and compassionate. I see how you are with other people, like Mary Scott, or my dad. They respond to you in a way they'd never respond to me.”

  She blushed a little. “Flattering, but you didn't answer the question. Does the fact that I don't believe in your God bother you?”

  “I'd like to think you were someone who could share the things that are most important to me, or at least understand them. But what you believe or don't believe doesn't bother me at all. You don't have to believe in a laundry list of things to be Jewish. You don't even have to believe in God. But you do have to want to stay Jewish. If you couldn't make that commitment, then I would have a problem.”

  She looked at me for a minute, then nod
ded.

  My dad only had one pair of cross-country skis. Lynn said she didn't mind just hanging around the cabin reading. I skimmed the weekly Torah portion, the first in the Book of Exodus. The section I was reading reached a climax when Moses asked God to tell him His name. God replies, “I am who am.” Some people translate this as, “I shall be as I shall be.” Either way, scholars have been puzzling over the meaning ever since. I couldn't help thinking about Roberto Delatrucha and all his names, wondering who he really was.

  Then Lynn discovered our old family photo albums. I hadn't looked at them since my mother died, which is when we stopped taking photos. We spent the afternoon going through them. Lynn wanted to know who every single person was and what had happened to them. There were a couple of pictures of my grandparents, who had died at Belzec. Lynn said I looked like my grandfather.

  “He was a wonderful man, my father,” Dad said. “He was one of those men who could fix things. He'd go around with a pocket full of screws and nails, ready to fix anything that was broken.”

  There is a concept central to Judaism called tikkun olam—the idea that we humans are put on earth to repair the world. But my grandfather's hammering and screwing had been of no avail against the Nazis.

  My father became uncharacteristically talkative. Lynn even managed to coax him into speaking about his childhood, growing up in Poland in the 1920s and ’30s. He spoke about the excitement of going to the weekly market in the main square and watching the Jews and Gentiles haggling over their wares; of wandering through the Jewish quarter, where beggars pleaded for alms, and Hasidim with beards and sidelocks congregated in black coats; and of swimming in the frigid waters of the river running through the town and climbing the mountains surrounding it.

  “You ought to write all that down. Or do a video for the Holocaust Museum in Washington,” Lynn said.

  “Nah, that's for victims and survivors. I got out before the madness started,” he said.

  “Some of these pictures from before the war are really wonderful, Dad,” I chimed in. “I'm sure a museum would be interested.”

  “I want you to have these albums, Marek. If you wish to give them to some museum, feel free.” He picked one up and shoved it into my arms.