The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  I cleared my throat and felt a pang of nerves. “This hasn't been an ordinary investigation. We've collected a ton of information, but the key all along has been Sophie Reiner's documents.”

  “Tell us something we don't know,” Eric growled.

  “I have an idea where we can find them.” I took out my legal pad. “These are the notes I took when Sophie Reiner came to see me. She made a comment I didn't understand at the time, but I wrote it down anyway. She said,‘I want the world to know my testimony.’”

  “She had a Messiah complex?” Janet offered.

  “That's what I thought. I figured she might have a few screws loose.”

  I flipped forward a few pages. “After she was killed, the police showed me what they found in her hotel room. That's how I got on Delatrucha's trail in the first place. But look at this.” I pointed to one particular item in my notes.

  “A ticket to the Holocaust Museum? So?” Eric asked.

  “At the time, I didn't pay much attention. It wasn't until last night that it occurred to me there might be a connection.”

  “How?” George asked.

  “If you survived the Holocaust, where would you go if you wanted to put your experiences and memories on record?”

  “The Holocaust Museum,” Lynn said. “I even told your father he should go there to do just that.”

  “They have an archive where they collect the stories of survivors. People give accounts on videotape or in writing. The librarian, Sara Barclay, and I were at a dinner party a few weeks ago, and she described an old woman coming with her family to give her testimony. My guess is that's where Sophie went with her documents. After all, they are a kind of testimony. I think they're somewhere in the museum. All we have to do is find them.”

  Eric was unconvinced. “Nice speech, but, if you're right, why hasn't someone found them already?”

  “If no one knew they were there, why would they look?”

  “You have no real reason to believe it's there, other than that you want it to be there,” Eric said.

  “There is a connection. We should start searching right now. There's still time. It's not just a guess.”

  Silence around the table. Then George said, “Only one way to find out. What are we waiting for?”

  I looked at Eric. He nodded his assent.

  The first flakes were falling as we walked the short distance down the Mall to the museum. Only a few brave tourists were in the entrance-way. I gazed again at the words engraved into the stone wall: “The Museum will touch the life of everyone who enters and leave everyone forever changed.” I said a silent prayer that it would.

  Sara met us at the library, looking as unruffled and elegant as ever. I explained the situation and what we were looking for. “Yes, many survivors come here to record their testimonies,” she said. She showed us how the computer system worked. Survivors were asked to fill out forms, if possible attaching photographs that could be scanned into the system.

  “Do people ever deposit documents here?” George asked.

  “Sometimes, but few survivors actually have documents in their possession,” Sara said. “What did you say this woman's name was?”

  “Sophie Reiner.”

  She punched “Reiner” into the computer. Three names appeared on the screen—Oskar Reiner, Gina Reiner, and Itzik Reiner. Their photos confirmed that none of these was the person we were looking for.

  “There's no record that she left a testimony here. What is it exactly you're looking for?”

  “We think she had documents about a war criminal—letters, photographs, maybe a journal,” Lynn said.

  “When did you say this woman came in?” Sara asked.

  “November 27,” I said.

  Sara checked the log for that day but came up empty. “But that doesn't mean she wasn't here. We're always understaffed, and we're sometimes sloppy about keeping proper logs.”

  “It wouldn't necessarily be under her own name,” I said. “Her testimony was about someone else. Try looking under ‘Delatrucha.’”

  “Like the singer?” Sara asked. “Are you sure?” I nodded, not bothering to offer an explanation, so she checked the directory again. Nothing.

  “What about ‘Beck’?” Lynn offered. There were two Becks in the archive, but neither was Franz. We called up their files; both were genuine survivors. I was choking with disappointment. I had been so sure, but my hunch was barreling down yet another dead end.

  “Try Belzec,” George said.

  Nothing.

  “Well,” shrugged George. “I guess that's it. We should get out of here before the snow starts in earnest. They say we're getting a foot and a half.”

  “Wait,” I said. “It's here! I know it's here. Think harder! What name could she have used?”

  We all looked blank.

  “Maybe Roberto or Robert, his first name?” Lynn ventured. Worth a try.

  Nothing.

  “Schnellinger,” Lynn suggested.

  Nothing.

  I still wasn't ready to admit defeat. “It's got to be something really obvious. She wouldn't have put it in a place where nobody could find it,” I said.

  “Why not? She was just looking for somewhere safe. This isn't some kind of treasure hunt,” Lynn said.

  “We need to put ourselves in her shoes,” I said. “What has this case revolved around?”

  “Deceit,” Lynn said.

  “Death,” said George.

  “Lying, betrayal, murder, cruelty—you name it,” Lynn added.

  “All true,” I said. “But you could say that about any war crimes case. What makes this one different?”

  “Music,” said Lynn.

  The word reverberated in my brain. “That's right. ‘A lover of German song,’ she called herself,” I said excitedly.

  “I don't see it.” George said.

  And then—in a snap—I did. “That's it, Lynn. You're right. That's the answer, right in front of us!”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “We almost had it a minute ago, but we stumbled past it. Remember, you suggested looking under Robert. Why did he call himself Robert? According to his own words, he was named after Robert Schumann, his mother's favorite composer. But we know that Robert wasn't his real name. His real name was Franz, and he was named after…”

  “Look under Schubert,” Lynn shouted.

  Sara shot me a skeptical look, then punched the name. The hard drive whirred, and slowly a document filled the screen. Lynn threw her arms around me. Even George was smiling and shook my hand. I sighed in relief.

  “What does it say?” Lynn asked.

  “It's in German,” I said. “Here, scroll down.” I began to translate:

  I am the daughter of Franz Beck, a German who served at the camp of Belzec in Poland and has successfully hidden himself away for 40 years. I believe he was involved in war crimes at the Belzec camp. I have discovered these facts by chance, and also I believe that for all his deeds he feels no remorse. He has played with people's lives and takes no responsibility. He rejects his own flesh and blood. He lives like a king while the one who loved him, sacrificed for him, and kept faith with him struggled all her life and died alone. I have evidence which I have deposited in an appropriate place in this museum. If something happens to me, they may be released to Herr Marek Cain, the Nazi hunter.

  Underneath was her signature—Sophie Reiner.

  Declaration to the American People:

  My fellow Americans, by the time you read this declaration, the first blow in an epic battle for freedom and godliness will already have been struck. This is a new dawn of freedom, in which patriotic citizens will finally overthrow the evil that has gripped our beloved nation and return to the ways of God. I call on all right-thinking Americans to rise up against a federal government that slaughters unborn babies, promotes vile sexual practices, and gives away our precious freedoms to the United Nations and World Jewry.

  The government will no doubt lab
el me as a terrorist. Do not listen, fellow patriots. It is they who are the terrorists. Abortion is murder. And when the regime in Washington made this vile and barbaric practice the law of the land, it gave up the right to be called a government. A government that allows children to be vacuumed from the wombs of their mothers is evil according to the laws of God and Nature. A government that sends its young men to war for Jewish-Zionist interests under the control of the United Nations has given up all claims of legitimacy. A government that allows sodomites to promote their perverted lifestyle, which God has called abhorrent in His eyes, cannot be allowed to stand.

  In taking arms against such monstrosities, I invoke historical precedent. In 1776, our founding fathers decided that the British crown had trampled their rights and therefore forfeited its legitimacy. Were the sins of the British any greater, any more abhorrent, than the deliberate murder of 50 million children? This is the true Holocaust, not that invention of the Jews to which this so-called government raises monuments and museums all over our sacred land.

  Some may question the use of force and the shedding of blood, even in a just and righteous cause. I regret the loss of life—even of agents of an evil government—but all must recognize that by lending their hands to this regime, they have made themselves targets. Their deaths are as nothing in the face of the mass slaughter they defend.

  I ask all American parents: Would you defend your own children if they were under attack? Of course, every right-thinking parent would. But America's unborn children, all our children, are under attack this very day, this very hour. I ask you all, Would you defend the freedom of the United States against international threats to its sovereignty? We are so threatened by a United Nations controlled by Jews that promotes the awful, ungodly concept of international government. Lastly, I ask, would you defend the sanctity of the two-parent family, one man joined to one woman under God? Our families, the sacred bonds of marriage itself, are under siege by sodomites and the homosexual agenda.

  I say to all right-thinking Americans that, together, we can take back our country and restore the nation our founders envisioned, a Christian nation under God, with freedom and justice for all.

  Our enemies are powerful and backed by powerful forces that hide in the shadows and work their will in dark and devious ways. But World Jewry cannot stand against the righteous wrath of an America determined to win back its freedom.

  Fellow Americans, I have struck the first blow. I call on you to join me. Victory is inevitable. Long live liberty. Long live the United States of America.

  23

  I've found what I was seeking

  However it may be.

  —“THANKSGIVING TO THE BROOK” BY WILHELM MÜLLER, MUSIC BY FRANZ SCHUBERT

  OUR JUBILATION ONLY LASTED A MINUTE. We still didn't know where the documents were—only that they were somewhere in the museum.

  “Maybe in the library,” George said.

  We rushed across the corridor, only to be confronted by a vast array of neatly shelved books—thousands and thousands.

  “This could take weeks,” I groaned.

  “It's one of the largest Holocaust archives in the world,” Sara said proudly.

  “We don't have time to search the entire library. We need to narrow it down,” George said.

  “Start with books about Belzec and Operation Reinhard,” I suggested. We spent half an hour going through them, but found nothing.

  “Too obvious,” Lynn said. “Put yourself in her shoes.”

  “Where would you look, then?” George asked.

  “She's been totally consistent all along, and it always comes back to music. Maybe there's a section in here on Schubert or something.”

  “We actually have a special archive devoted to music,” Sara said. “Printed material, published and unpublished; also handwritten manuscripts and sound recordings—but I don't think there's any Schubert,” she said.

  “Let's look,” I said.

  She led us to into another room overflowing with books and manuscripts.

  “How is this collection organized?” I asked.

  “As you can see, it's not entirely cataloged yet. New material arrives all the time, so it's a little higgledy-piggledy.”

  “O God, just what we need,” George moaned. “She could have just dumped it in a pile of stuff.”

  “There are five different sections,” Sara continued. “One deals with songs sung in the ghettos and camps and by partisans; another with music suppressed by the Nazis; there's also a section on music composed by exiled or persecuted musicians; we have a collection of anti-Nazi songs, and then works written by and performed by Holocaust survivors.”

  “How does Delatrucha fit in with that?” I wondered aloud.

  “The nearest is music sung in the camps,” Lynn said.

  “But we have no idea if Sophie knew how the place is organized. She may have dumped her papers anywhere,” said George.

  “True, but we have to start somewhere,” I countered. “Let's start with the music sung in the camps.”

  “Over here,” Sara beckoned, already moving down an aisle.

  Much of this material was in loose-leaf folders stacked on shelves and in filing cabinets in no particular order. We had to pull out each folder individually to see what was inside. I tried to put myself in Sophie's position. She wanted her material to be hidden so she could retrieve it if necessary, but she also wanted it to be found by others if necessary.

  I glanced in wonder at scraps of paper covered with musical notation—songs written by concentration camp prisoners. If there had been time, it would have been fascinating to go through these files. Even in the depths of hell, these captives had held on to their humanity. They had hoarded every precious piece of paper they could find and used them to write down melodies. Each of these fragments, now preserved in plastic envelopes, represented a profound act of resistance. Delatrucha had perverted music, but these prisoners had redeemed it.

  A copy of “Eli, Eli,” the famous song by Hannah Senesz, passed through my hands. Senesz parachuted into German-occupied territory during the war on a mission for the British. She was captured, tortured, and executed.

  Oh Lord, Oh Lord,

  I pray these things never end.

  The sands and the sea,

  The rush of the waters,

  The crash of the heavens

  The prayers of man.

  I went on to the next folder, and the next.

  Another folder revealed an entire opera written by a camp inmate. The next contained songs written by partisans in the forest, with words in Hebrew or Yiddish.

  “Anything?” I asked the others. They each shook their heads, no.

  “This is a waste of time,” George complained from across the room.

  I was beginning to agree with him when I saw an outsize envelope at the back of a filing cabinet, much larger than all the other folders. I pulled it out. It was labeled,“Franz Beck, Baritone.”

  My body tingled with electricity. I had goose bumps. This envelope had cost Sophie Reiner her life. I was trembling so hard I had to sit down. Lynn glanced over. “Mark, what's the matter? You look pale.”

  “I found it,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “I found it.”

  She rushed over, pulling me to my feet. “George, Sara, come here. Mark found it!” she shouted.

  They flocked around as I carefully pried it open. The envelope was stuffed tight with papers. First out was a photograph of a young Nazi in full SS regalia, his arms outstretched, his mouth open in song. The resemblance was unquestionable. This was Roberto Delatrucha.

  “Bravo,” said Lynn, hugging me excitedly. “This is it!”

  Even dour George was smiling broadly. “Will you look at that? Unbelievable, totally unbelievable. Even John Howard would be satisfied. These pictures are conclusive,” he said.

  “And maybe we'll finally discover what he did,” I said. “Hopefully all his dirty secrets are in this en
velope.”

  Sara found us an empty room to work in. Outside the snow was really coming down. The ground was already covered. The city was about to be wrapped in a thick white shroud. We had to work fast. I asked Sara if the museum had a camera we could borrow. She said she'd find one. We had to document thoroughly every move we made.

  Lynn returned from calling Eric. “The museum is emptying out,” she announced. “Everyone's trying to beat the snow. They're closing early. We have another hour before they throw us out.”

  “Start taking pictures,” I said. Lynn snapped a few close-ups of the envelope. George and I carefully removed the rest of the contents, spreading the papers out on a large conference table. My hands were shaking as George pulled them out one by one and Lynn photographed them.

  “If you don't need me anymore, I think I'll go home,” Sara said.

  I looked up. “I can't thank you enough.”

  “All part of the service,” she told me, smiling faintly. “And Mark?…”

  “Yes?”

  “Be happy,” she said as she left.

  There were some press clippings that appeared to be German newspaper reviews of Beck's concert performances in the 1950s. Next was a packet of letters still in their original envelopes, addressed to Fraulein Hildegard Reiner. It was in the same handwriting as the two extracts Susan had given me. Each letter was neatly dated. There were perhaps thirty or forty. There were also half a dozen photographs. Two showed Beck in uniform. The others were snapshots, taken years apart. In the first, he was cradling a baby. In the last, the baby was already a teenager—the youthful Sophie. This had to be the picture Sophie had shown Susan Scott. Lastly came two school exercise books, their pages yellowing with age. I opened one. It looked as if it had been written with a fountain pen; the original black ink had faded. The handwriting was the same—difficult to decipher but not impossible.

  January 1, 1940. The start of a new year, a new decade and for our Reich a new…

  what's this word?…

  a new era of renown. How wonderful to stand at the very frontier of the Reich. To be alive and young at this time, I consider myself the most fortunate of men. History is being made. I pledge to do my part and to live every moment to the absolute fullest. My goal for this year must be to put aside selfish ambition. In the coming months and weeks, our nation and our race will be tested. I dedicate myself to the glory of the Fatherland.