by Andrew Kane
Agent Richard Schwartz was one of the FBI’s leading specialists on Nazi war criminals. He was a seasoned agent, nearing retirement, tired, cynical, and aware that he had caught this detail because of his German-Jewish background, while most of the Bureau’s higher-ups couldn’t give a shit. Throughout the Nazi-hunting community, however, he was legendary.
Schwartz’ career launched in the ’70s on one of the most difficult Nazi war criminal cases in history, involving a Romanian-born U.S. citizen named Valerian Trifa living in Grass Lake, Michigan. Trifa had been an active member of the infamous Romanian “Iron Guard,” and had participated in pogroms against thousands of Jews in Bucharest. What had made the case tricky was that Trifa was an archbishop and leader of the Romanian Orthodox Episcopate of America. After years of dogged investigating, and resisting intense political pressure from his own and other governmental agencies, Schwartz saw to it that Trifa was convicted of entering the U.S. under false pretenses. The fascist archbishop was denaturalized, deported, and ended up in Portugal – the only country that would admit him – where he eventually died a free man.
Schwartz’ second big case concerned a carpenter who had lived in Mineola, Long Island, named Boleslavs Maikovskis. Maikovskis, a native of Latvia, had also entered the U.S. during the ’50s, by way of Austria. On his immigration papers, he had described himself as a staunch anticommunist, and claimed to have worked as a bookkeeper during the war. His Long Island neighbors saw him as a friendly, docile sort who attended church every morning. Schwartz’ evidence, based on a request for extradition from the Soviet Union, told a different story: Maikovskis had been chief of the second precinct of the Rezekne District for the Nazi-created police force in Latvia. In 1941, he had personally ordered the mass arrest of every man, woman and child in the village of Audrini, totaling about 300 people, most of whom were Jews. He also ordered that every house be burnt to the ground, after which thirty of the villagers were publicly executed in the middle of the town, while the rest were taken out to the nearby woods and slaughtered.
Maikovskis was eventually sentenced to death in absentia in a Soviet Latvian court for his crimes. As a result of Schwartz’ efforts, he was denaturalized and deported from the U.S. in 1987, and fled to West Germany to avoid Soviet justice. The German government, after years of prodding by Schwartz and the Israelis, eventually indicted him, and was set to try him in 1994, when he became ill. The trial was suspended, and Maikovskis died two years later of a heart attack. Another free man.
But of all Schwartz’ cases, the most harrowing was the one against John Demjanjuk, the Cleveland, Ohio, autoworker accused of having been “Ivan the Terrible,” a notorious Treblinka concentration camp guard who personally supervised the extermination of thousands of Jews. Schwartz had worked closely with the Israelis, who sought extradition of Demjanjuk to Israel for trial. Demjanjuk was eventually convicted of lying on his U.S. immigration papers, denaturalized, and extradited for what was to be the second-largest Nazi criminal trial in history, next to Eichmann’s. There was testimony from five eyewitnesses, and a resulting verdict of guilty, which was eventually overturned by the Israeli Supreme Court on grounds of reasonable doubt. The higher court’s decision had emanated from the release of previously secret KGB files identifying a supposedly different Ukrainian, one Ivan Marchenko, as Ivan the Terrible.
Though there was other evidence supporting a claim that Demjanjuk, while not Ivan the Terrible, may actually have been a guard at another concentration camp, the Israeli court chose not to convict him on that charge either, because he had not been given ample opportunity to defend himself from it. In the end, Demjanjuk reapplied for his U.S. citizenship, and was still awaiting a decision from the U.S. District Court on that matter, while the entire Nazi-hunting community had been left lost and demoralized.
“If you’re not comfortable, we can go somewhere else,” Galit whispered.
“No.” Schwartz was defensive. “This will do just fine.”
“I thought it was a good idea. Neutral turf, so to speak, and it also reminds us why we do what we do.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
There was a brief silence between them.
“When was the last time you were in a synagogue, Richard?”
Schwartz looked her in the eye. She could tell he felt uneasy with the question, partly because, through the years they had known each other, she had never before called him by his first name. He remained quiet for a few seconds, thinking, and then said, “My son’s bar mitzvah.”
“You never told me you had a son.”
“You never asked.”
“You’re right, I guess there is much about our lives that we don’t discuss.”
“If we even have lives.”
She digested the comment. “Where is your son now?”
“Law school. Yale. No thanks to me, however. His mother divorced me when he was 3. I don’t know if it was me she couldn’t stand or the job. Either way, I didn’t see much of him as he grew up. Paid what I had to, but was too busy with other things. You know how it is.”
She nodded.
“So,” Schwartz continued, “you asked for this meeting. What’s it about?”
“I understand you are upset with us.”
“It was a pretty stupid thing, your boys getting caught outside that psychologist’s office with their pants down like that. Caused a lot of unnecessary complications.”
“You knew what we were doing. You authorized it.”
“I didn’t authorize getting caught.”
“It was nothing we did. Who could have known that someone like Gifford would be going in and out of the building regularly? He’s ex-naval intelligence, trained to see things that normal people don’t. You can only hide from an eye like that if you are prepared for it.”
“And what do you think Jacques Benoît is, blind?” Schwartz whispered angrily. “Let me tell you, he’s every bit as observant as Gifford, and every bit as smart as we are. If Gifford saw them, then Benoît did too.”
“What does that matter? Benoît knows we are onto him. What difference does it make if he sees us following him?”
“All the difference in the world. Right now, we have very little on him. At best, there are only three or four eyewitnesses, a circumstantial trail, and a few old, worn photos. You know how that sort of stuff turned out in the Demjanjuk thing. We need more. I was hoping that if he felt safe for a little while, maybe he would do something stupid or lead us someplace.”
Her eyes asked for an explanation.
“Look Galit, it’s a reach, I know, but we’re both aware that these guys sometimes consort with their cronies, keep one another abreast of happenings, dangers. They even help one another out financially. It’s hard to believe that a man of Benoît’s resources hasn’t been approached. We only started watching him closely a few months ago, so we’re not sure who he’s been in touch with over the years. If we could catch him on camera with some other guy who looks familiar to us, we could start to build a stronger case, maybe get someone to turn against him, or maybe even find a bigger fish to fry.”
This wasn’t the first time Galit had heard this strategy, though she knew that things never quite worked out this way. Rumors of a “brotherhood” of Nazi fugitives had been rampant in the Nazi-hunting world for the past five decades but never proven. And even if such an organization had existed, the fact was that most of its members would be dead at this point. “I doubt that Benoît will be meeting with anyone,” she said.
Schwartz didn’t disagree; on the contrary, he wore his frustration. “So, what do you propose?”
“I say we stay on Rosen. I know it is a long shot, but he is the best thing we have.”
“I hear you’re getting very close to him, perhaps too close.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that.”
“And what do yo
u think you can possibly get from him? Even if he learns something, it’s unlikely he’ll give it up, and even if he does, it wouldn’t be admissible in any court.”
“I know.”
“So why are we wasting our time with him? Aside from your own personal amusement.”
She ignored the gibe. “It is possible that he could give us something that doesn’t require testimony.”
“Like what?”
“Look, Richard, we both know that Benoît is different from the others. He is bolder, more egotistical. Instead of laying low in some blue-collar neighborhood with a menial job, he has put himself in the public eye. Of course, he has avoided photographers, but aside from that, he acts like a man with no fear. He is calculating and cunning, and his choice of Rosen is not an accident. I don’t know why, but I do know that he is dying to tell someone. Martin Rosen is going to learn things, and just maybe one of those things will prove useful to us.”
“It’s a lot of resources to spend on a hunch.”
“It is all we have.”
Schwartz looked at her, then shifted his eyes around the sanctuary. “Tell me, Galit, what keeps you going?”
“The same thing that keeps you going.”
His eyes landed on the Ark. “You really think we make a difference?”
“Sometimes.”
“You know, we’re becoming obsolete.”
“After this, we will be obsolete.”
He turned back to her, a sympathetic expression on his face. “This is it for you, isn’t it?”
“For us all, my friend.”
He considered her response. “Then let’s go out with a bang.”
“Yes, let’s.”
chapter 26
Jacques Benoît hastened from his limousine into the bank. He was taking chances, but he gave himself no choice. He knew it shouldn’t bother him that he was still being watched; after all, he went to the bank all the time. Still, he was nervous. This visit was different.
The manager met him at the entrance, as usual. “Good afternoon, Mr. Benoît. How are you today?”
“Fine, Charles, and how are you?”
“Very well,” the manager answered uncomfortably. Numerous times, he had asked Benoît to call him Chuck – My friends call me Chuck – and never had Benoît obliged. “What can we do for you today?” he asked, trying to remain businesslike.
“The vault, please.”
“Yes, of course.”
The manager escorted Benoît to the vault. As he opened the file drawer for the signature card, he turned to Benoît and whispered, “Which one?”
Benoît looked at the man oddly. True, the presence of a second, and secret, vault box was a private arrangement between him and the manager – an arrangement for which the manager had been aptly rewarded – but there was no reason to whisper when they were the only ones in the room. No reason other than the manager trying to accentuate the fact the he and the billionaire shared a secret. Realizing that it was getting harder for him to suffer fools, Benoît recomposed his face and smiled. “My own,” he replied, excluding the box that he shared with his wife.
The manager turned the keys and extracted the box. He carried it as he led Benoît to a private room. “If there is anything else, Mr. Benoît…”
“Thank you, Charles, that will be all.”
Benoît stared at the box. It had been decades since he had opened it. A wave of dread came upon him, a feeling he didn’t understand. He was alone and no one knew what he was doing. He was simply going to open the box, remove the object, place it in his pocket and leave the bank. What was there to worry about?
But deep down he knew it wasn’t his fear of getting caught anymore. In fact, it wasn’t fear at all. It was disgust, his own personal abhorrence of what he had done, who he had been, and his desire to somehow erase it all. Contained in this box was the one thing he had saved, his sole connection to the past. It was strange to him how his motives for keeping it had changed over time. At first, it was a trophy, a symbol of the power he’d had over others to take whatever he wanted. And now it signified his greatest weakness.
He opened the box and looked at the small manila jeweler’s envelope contained within. He took the envelope and held it for a moment, thinking that perhaps he should just put it in his pocket and leave. There was no reason to torture himself needlessly. Or was there?
It dawned on him that at some point he would have to face himself; otherwise, there was no way he could complete his plan. Suddenly, with determination, he opened the envelope and removed the brooch. He stared at it, his heart beating rapidly. He grasped it and held it up, scrutinizing it beneath the light. It was just as he had remembered, exactly as he had pictured it through the years.
Until this moment, his debauchery had been cloaked in darkness, hidden in the confines of his memories. Now it glistened vividly before his eyes.
chapter 27
Dan Gifford shifted uneasily in his seat. He was finding therapy increasingly difficult, considering Agent Schwartz’ demands for secrecy, as well as his own decision to keep Dr. Rosen out of the loop until something concrete developed. He had been sitting for over a half hour, updating Martin about the latest developments in his case against the Colombians, doing what the psychologist called “past-timing,” a therapy term for avoiding.
“Is something bothering you, Dan?” Martin said.
Gifford had anticipated the question. “Why do you ask that? I think I’m doing fine, really!”
“Well, for starters, you seem fidgety. Last week, you cancelled your appointment for the first time since we’ve been working together, and now we’re not talking about anything meaningful.”
Gifford hadn’t realized he was fidgeting. It irked him that he, a seasoned pro, could be such a giveaway. He had simply become so used to letting his guard down in this room that he was no longer able to reestablish it, even at will.
Suddenly, it occurred to Gifford that a part of him must have wanted to let Rosen know that something was wrong. He had been conflicted about keeping Rosen in the dark to begin with, reluctant to compromise what was probably the only pure, honest relationship he’d ever had. He understood that his time in this room was valueless unless he somehow resolved this.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said.
“Have you been feeling like drinking?” Martin figured he was probably off base, but it was the first question to ask nonetheless.
“I always feel like taking a drink, Doc. That’s nothing new.”
Martin understood that Gifford was still too early in his sobriety to lose the thirst. It embarrassed him to have needed the reminder. “So then, what exactly is it?”
“I’m just stressed over things.”
“Your separation?”
“That, and the job.”
“So, talking about the Colombians isn’t completely afield, I guess.”
“No. Not completely.”
Martin sensed the evasiveness, but the session was too close to the end to continue exploring. “I guess we’ll have to pick things up here next time.”
Gifford stood, dreading what he was about to say. “You know, Doc, I’ve been thinking…”
Martin looked at him curiously. Such words at the close of a session were usually the prelude to quitting therapy, a way for the patient to break free without any discussion. He would never have expected this from Gifford, though he had learned over the years not to be surprised by anything a patient did. Still, he found himself shocked, so much so that he could have sworn that Gifford was going to say something else completely.
“I feel like I need a break from this,” Gifford continued.
“Don’t you think this is something we should have talked about at the beginning of the session?” Martin tried to contain his disappointment.
Gifford was silent. He
was angry with himself, despite his belief that he had no choice but to handle things this way. He couldn’t just keep coming here with a secret, and he couldn’t divulge his secret until he knew what it was all about. His paranoia, and Schwartz’ warning, had landed him in a pickle, and now he had to see it through. For his own mental health, if nothing else.
“Look, Doc, I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. It’s just that we’re getting closer to trial and I’m not going to have time for anything else for a while. I’ll be back, I promise, as soon as the trial’s over. Maybe sooner if things go okay.”
Martin heard the outer door open. His next appointment: Jacques Benoît, prompt as usual. Martin knew he should be used to this by now; patients left treatment abruptly all the time. It was rare, in fact, when treatment actually ended according to plan. Part of that was because many therapists never had a termination plan, and would keep their patients forever unless the patient made the break. The other part concerned the patients, who, because of their fear of chastisement as well as other issues around separation, frequently resorted to such tactics.
But Martin had always regarded himself as different, and found himself acutely disappointed that Dan Gifford didn’t seem to see that. He had even frequently joked with colleagues about the interminable nature of therapy, gibing them with a little-known passage he had once read in Jung’s book, “Psychology and Religion,” saying that therapy ends only “when the patient runs out of money.” That there was nothing he could say in the time remaining to influence Gifford was the most frustrating thing of all. “Why don’t you give me a call so we can discuss this further?” he said in an unusually clinical manner.
“Sure. Okay, I’ll call you.”
Martin believed Gifford was lying, and still he couldn’t do anything about it. Gifford held out his hand and the two men shook. Martin felt the sweat in Gifford’s palm and wanted to reach out and shake the man back to his senses. But, as always, another patient was waiting.
