The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  I phoned Eric when we returned from our walk. “It's worse than we could have imagined,” I said.

  “For us or for him?”

  “For humanity. And for him. We're not just talking deportation. We're talking extradition and possibly a major war crimes trial.”

  “Fax me all the details first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “There's a lot.”

  “Boil it down to a fifteen- or twenty-minute presentation. We have a meeting at the White House tomorrow, eleven o'clock sharp. I'll want to review all the material before then, but you'll be the one giving the presentation.”

  Sunday morning, Lynn and I both woke up well before sunrise. She was haunted by the same horrible thoughts as me. We made love with fierce abandon.

  The day dawned cold and sunny. We all met in Eric's office at 9:30 to go over the presentation. Then we made the short walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. Surrounded by snow, the White House looked even more resplendent than usual. We waited at the gate while the Secret Service checked our credentials, then we went through the metal detector, up the curving driveway, past the marine standing stiffly at attention, and into the West Wing. Lynn squeezed my hand. Despite growing up in D. C., I had never been inside the White House—not even to take the tour. We were ushered into a surprisingly shabby conference room. Half a dozen officials sat around the table. Some I knew; others I recognized from TV.

  We were introduced to Barry Shields, White House chief of staff; Megan Christie, the president's spokeswoman; and Paul Willett, his chief of communications. I nodded greetings to the deputy attorney general and the Justice Department spokesman.

  “Well, Mr. Cain,” said Shields, “you dragged us all through the snow on our day of rest. The floor is yours.”

  “Thank you very much. Tomorrow evening, as you know, the president is scheduled to hand out the McCready Awards for lifetime achievement in the arts. We believe that one of the award winners, Roberto Delatrucha, is an ex-Nazi who should not be in this country and who should never have been granted U.S. citizenship. We also believe he is a major war criminal, who committed vile crimes against humanity.” I held up the photo of the young Franz Beck in his full Nazi regalia. That grabbed their attention.

  “We believe and we can prove that Mr. Delatrucha's real name is Franz Beck. Beck was an SS officer who served at the Belzec extermination camp in 1942 and participated in the murder of approximately half a million Jews. We have obtained his wartime letters to his girlfriend in Germany as well as a personal journal written in his own hand.”

  “Can you tell us where you got these documents?” Spokeswoman Christie asked.

  “They were stored for many years in Germany by Franz Beck's wartime lover, a woman named Hildegard. When she died last year, her daughter discovered the documents and passed them to us.”

  “Could these be a hoax, like those Hitler diaries some years back?” Shields asked.

  “No, sir, we have verified key parts of the story with actual living witnesses in Germany and Ukraine.” We had decided not to get into the Sophie Reiner story. It would only muddy the waters, and we still had no proof that Delatrucha was involved in her murder.

  “Please continue,” said the chief of staff.

  “We have translated these documents. There are many pages. With your permission, we would like to read you a few that illustrate one particular story from Beck's time at Belzec. A full report of the investigation and transcripts of all the documents will of course be available to you later.”

  I sketched some background on Belzec, explaining how Jews were unloaded from the trains onto a ramp and hustled from there straight into the gas chambers. I showed them the exercise books and some of the letters. Then George read the first extract from the journal, June 23, 1942:

  Wonderful day! On the ramp, I saw a young girl get off the train carrying a violin case. She was dark like most of them, maybe 16 years old. She told me her name is Rachel Levitas. She is not unattractive, though dirty, as they all are after the journey. I ordered her to play something. She said her instrument was out of tune. I told her it didn't matter. She played a few measures of a Bach partita. Magical! People stopped to listen; even the Jews smiled. They were on their way to the gas, although they didn't know that, of course. She has real talent; pity she's Jewish. I had a wonderful idea, a true inspiration. There must be many other musicians who arrive here on the transports. What if I collected some? I could form a little orchestra, which would raise the morale of all concerned. I separated her from the rest of her family who went to the “showers” for “delousing.” She kept asking for her parents and her little brother, asking when she could see them. I tried to calm her; told her “later.” Finally I left her in the barracks with the capos. They'll soon set her straight.

  “Capos were Jews who were forced to work for the Nazis,” George explained, “doing jobs like pulling corpses out of the gas chambers. If they refused, they were killed.”

  She ought to be grateful I saved her life. If not for me, she'd be up in smoke by now, like the rest of her family. Commandant Wirth was very excited about my idea and granted me full authority to implement it.

  The officials were silent. Christie looked shocked, the others more stoic.

  I resumed: “Next we want to read you an excerpt from a letter dated August 28, 1942, from Beck to Hildegard.”

  Lynn picked up the paper and read aloud.

  Dear Hildegard,

  Excuse me for not writing for so long. You can't imagine the pressure we are under. But wonderful news. We had a very distinguished visitor here today. I can't tell you his name…

  “ We believe this man was Heinrich Himmler,” I explained, “Hitler's top deputy, as you know, and the man in charge of the Final Solution. We have collected videotaped testimony in Germany from someone who accompanied Himmler on this visit and remembers the orchestra and a man with a beautiful voice singing as the Jews went to their deaths, just as Beck described.”

  Lynn resumed.

  I think I have told you about my orchestra. Well, perhaps “orchestra” is too grandiose a word for it; it's more a quintet right now—violin, mandolin, accordion, trumpet, and clarinet. A strange combination. The standards are not so high because conditions here are far from ideal. Still, we try our best. My violinist has real talent. We play almost every day. I obtained some sheet music from Warsaw which I have arranged for the instruments we have. Sometimes I sing. The visitor, an important person in the Party, overheard me singing. He said Germany needs talent such as mine. I should be trained, he said, so that I could bring credit to the Reich. When my job here is done, he said he would arrange for me to be recalled to resume my musical studies. Imagine, in a few months I may be back in Berlin! Perhaps this is my reward for all the years of hard service.

  With all my fondest embraces,

  Your Franz

  “This is particularly significant because it explains how Himmler came to sponsor Beck's debut recital in Berlin in 1944,” I said. “We have a newspaper announcement of that event, also an interview that Señor Delatrucha gave to a Spanish newspaper in 1958 describing the concert. We also located the man who was Delatrucha's accompanist that night, and he confirmed crucial details.”

  George resumed. “The next few entries describe Beck's relationship with the young Jewish violinist, Rachel. First, a journal entry from July 1, 1942:

  I think of her night and day. I know it's wrong. I know in some sense she is not fully human, but who of us in this place is? And yet her form is human and lovely, and I am but a man. I will be strong. This is a test of my will, and I shall not fail it.

  This of course was the first extract Susan Scott had given me. Now that we knew the context, it made sense.

  “One week later, on July 8,” George continued,“Beck confided in his diary that he almost kissed Rachel but managed to restrain himself. Two days after that, he wrote about her again:

  The witch has captivated me. I must break free of her spell. Aga
in I almost kissed her. A force I cannot comprehend pulled me toward her. I am deeply ashamed. I want to protect her, even though I know it is impossible. I cannot allow myself to take such risks. Even writing such words could be dangerous. Hildegard seems but a pale shadow in my memory compared to the creature who presently occupies my thoughts like a black succubus. I must control myself.

  “In the following entries, Beck wrestles with his conscience as he becomes more and more obsessed with Rachel,” George said.

  August 14, 1942. Commandant Wirth approached me with these words—“Listen Franz, fuck the bitch if you must, but stop making eyes at her like a lovesick youth. It sets a bad example. She's a Jewess, for Christ's sake.” He's right, of course, but I am helpless. I can neither fuck her nor stop making eyes at her. This must end. She is becoming dangerous to me.

  George paused. Everybody was listening raptly. “We have one final document for you, dated September 28, 1942,” I told them. Ashen-faced, Lynn lifted the paper.

  Today was the hardest of my life, and yet, reflecting on it, I'm sure the shattering experience I have undergone will purify my soul. We were on the ramp, and a transport was pulling in. I had called on the band to play “The Trout,” which has become a favorite of the camp personnel, who have heard it so often. Rachel complained once again that she would not play. I grabbed her and cajoled her, after which she said she agreed. The transport came to a halt, and the band struck up. I had just finished the first stanza when she threw down her instrument and started yelling to the disembarking Jews that they were in danger, that they were all about to die, and that they should resist or run away. I have never been so embarrassed or so angry. The ungrateful bitch was alive only because of me. I drew my weapon, approached her, and pulled the trigger. Her blood and brains spattered everywhere. I stomped on the violin until it was completely destroyed. I kicked her body and yelled for an orderly to take it away. The Jews, of course, exploded into panic and had to be forcibly restrained with bullets and dogs. I was afraid I would be blamed, but the commandant congratulated me on my prompt action and said he admired my resolve. So it seems my career will not suffer. My colleagues patted me on the back and later bought me drinks. But now, in the privacy of my room, half drunk, I feel deeply conflicted. I am free of her, yes, but I still see her before me, pleading with those dark Jewish eyes. That she is no longer on this earth has thrown me into utter confusion. For a few moments, I succumbed to darkness. I took out my weapon and pointed it at my own head. My hands shook, and I could not fire. Why could she not accept things as they were? I would have kept her alive as long as I could. I will be happy to leave this accursed place, but how will I free myself of the memories? Will I see her face before me for the rest of my life?

  Tears were streaming down Megan Christie's face. The others looked down at the table, unable to move, unwilling to speak. I found myself again in Belzec. Did the ghostly strains of Rachel's violin still haunt those bare woods? No, her only existence was in these long-concealed pages written by her murderer, and in the darkest recesses of Roberto Delatrucha's memory. But that would change. I could not restore Rachel to life, any more than I could bring back my own mother. Things that are done can never be undone. I could not help my grandparents, nor the hundreds of thousands of others who died at Belzec. Only God could bring the dead back to life. But I would make sure the world heard about Rachel Levitas.

  “What do you propose we do?” the chief of staff asked finally.

  “I've been trying to contact the McCready prize committee,” Eric said, “but Chairwoman Sanford can't see me until tomorrow morning. We'll ask her to withdraw the award from Delatrucha. In case the committee hesitates, I suggest that the president find something else to do tomorrow evening. Whatever happens, he should not be anywhere near the Kennedy Center.”

  “Consider it done,” Shields said. “What's your next step?”

  “We'll be drawing up deportation papers for Delatrucha. We also plan to alert the German government, which may wish to extradite him to face murder charges, or perhaps the Israelis if the Germans don't want him. Naturally, we'll be consulting the State Department on that. When the time comes, we'll also be scheduling a press conference to expose this man to the world.”

  As we rose to leave, Megan pressed my hands. “Thank you for doing this. I can't help wondering what I would have done in Rachel's situation. Would I have had that kind of courage?”

  “Thank God we'll never have to find out,” I said. “As for Delatrucha, it's time for him to face the music.”

  25

  The power to revenge still burns in me.

  —“THE ANGRY BARD” BY FRANZ VON BRUCHMANN, MUSIC BY FRANZ SCHUBERT

  ON SUNDAY NIGHT, the temperature dropped another fifteen degrees, and the city froze. Rachel Levitas flitted in and out of my thoughts all night. There was so much I wanted to know about her. Where was she from, who were her parents, where had she learned to play the violin, what did she look like? She was calling to me from beyond the grave, begging me to make her more than just a name in Franz Beck's diary.

  I quit the fruitless struggle to fall back to sleep and slid out of bed just after five. Lynn's clothes were strewn around as usual. I picked them up and folded them neatly. In the bathroom, the harsh light accentuated the black circles under my eyes and the deepening creases around my mouth.

  Sunrise was still a couple of hours away, but I decided to take a walk in the park. The cold was sharp as pine needles, and the icy sidewalks made walking treacherous, especially while battling a brutal wind. Perhaps some of Rachel's family had survived—not her parents or her brother, of course, but maybe another sibling or a cousin. It was even possible she was listed among the names of the dead registered at Yad Vashem, in Jerusalem, where there were almost three million victims’ names on file, submitted by family members and survivors. It was worth checking.

  I dropped into the minyan on the way back and was home by seven. Lynn was in the shower when I returned. I peeked in behind the curtain. As my glasses steamed up, her body glowed like a Renoir nude, rosy and wholesome. “I'll make coffee,” I called out, my spirits suddenly high.

  Lynn emerged wearing a bathrobe, face flushed, curly hair akimbo. “You weren't out running, were you?”

  “It's too slippery to run. I went for a walk. I couldn't sleep.”

  “You're crazy. You should have woken me up. I would have calmed you down.” She started pouring granola into bowls. We each grabbed a different section of the newspaper and ate in silence, like an old married couple.

  “Here's another writeup about the McCready shindig tonight,” Lynn said. “You should see the list of celebrities who are coming. Barbra Streisand, Robin Williams,Yo Yo Ma, Nancy Reagan…”

  “Wow!”

  “Sean Connery is the MC.”

  “James Bond, my boyhood hero.”

  “Art Garfunkel is singing a song.”

  “You're kidding. Now, I wish I were going.”

  “You are. I bought tickets for us.”

  “You did? When?”

  “A few weeks ago. I thought they might come in handy. I also got tickets for the gala at the Willard Hotel after the ceremony.”

  “The one hosted by Mitch Conroy?”

  She nodded.

  “That must have cost you a bundle.”

  “I'm expensing it,” she grinned.

  “And did you already know who you'd be taking?”

  “Actually I added a third ticket on Friday.”

  “Oh? Who for?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad. I called him up, and he told me he wanted to come. He should arrive in town later this afternoon.”

  “I haven't spoken to him since we got back from Europe.”

  “Don't worry. He knows the pressure you've been under.”

  “And he's obviously crazy about you,” I added.

  After I showered, I was about to put on my usual white shirt when I saw the bl
ack one I had bought a few weeks ago sitting unopened in its packet. There would never be a better day to wear it. I chose a blood red tie to go with it.

  “You look spiffy and just a little bit menacing,” Lynn said. “Like you aren't going to take any shit from anyone.”

  “I'm not.”

  We drove to work down streets canyoned with huge heaps of plowed snow and ice. Schools were closed, and traffic was sparse. Washington was enjoying an unexpected winter vacation. The department was three-quarters empty. The federal government had given all but essential employees the day off.

  In my office, I called Sara Barclay, hoping to find her behind her desk. She picked up. “Sara, I wanted to ask, are you in touch with anyone at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem?”

  “Sure, we share information, and I meet their librarians and archivists all the time at conferences.”

  “I need a favor. I have the name of a young girl. I'd like to know if she's listed in their registry of Holocaust victims.”

  “What's the name?

  “Rachel Levitas. She would have been born around 1925 or 1926, and she probably came from a town somewhere in southern Poland, one of the communities transported to Belzec in late June of 1942.”

  “She may not be listed at all, if none of her family survived.”

  “If she isn't, she isn't. But if she is, I need the information fast, today if possible.”

  “That is fast. I'll see what I can do.”

  Eric had arranged to meet the head of the McCready Award committee at the Willard Hotel, where all the award winners and committee members were staying. The sun was shining brilliantly, although it offered little warmth. Eric was wearing an extravagant fur hat he had bought on a trip to Moscow that covered his ears and half his face. “You look like an old Soviet commissar,” I told him. I think he took it as a compliment.