Eli's Promise

by Ronald H. Balson

  “During the war Landsberg was converted to a concentration camp, part of the Kaufering subcamps of the Dachau concentration camp system. That place has a pretty gruesome history.”

  “They were all pretty gruesome, Major. I was liberated from Buchenwald.”

  Donnelly smiled. “Patton’s boys. Sixth Armored Division, as I recall. Super Sixth, they call them. Let me ask you, how well do you know Moshe Pogrund, the Landsberg camp director?”

  “I don’t know him at all. Bernard set the meeting.”

  * * *

  Moshe Pogrund met them in Landsberg’s great dining hall. Rows of long wooden tables filled the cavernous room. A large American flag hung from the center of the peaked ceiling. The entryway was plastered with posters announcing concerts, social gatherings, educational activities and the weekly bulletin from the camp committee. A stack of camp newspapers, the Yidische Cajtung, lay on a table. The hall was empty but for two men who sat waiting for Eli and Donnelly.

  As Bernard had predicted, Pogrund said, “I have asked Rabbi Hirsch to join us. He is our spiritual leader and my trusted advisor.” The rabbi smiled broadly beneath his gray beard. “How is my good friend Bernard?”

  “I saw him this morning,” Eli answered. “He’s holding his own. He’s a tough old bird, and the angel of death is going to have a helluva fight on her hands.”

  “Tell him we wish him all the best,” Pogrund said.

  “I will, sir. I assume that Bernard told you all about Max, the black-market visa salesman?”

  “Bernard’s revelations were a shock to us,” the rabbi said. “Like other DP camps, we are merely a waiting room, a temporary way station where our residents are reborn, rehabilitated, educated and trained in various occupations before moving on and rejoining the world, wherever they may settle.”

  “Rabbi is right,” Pogrund added. “We are merely a platform, a staging area. Landsberg is not a permanent home. Everyone has his or her name on a list, waiting to emigrate. The fact that some dishonest person can buy his way around the list is an anathema to us. Who’s responsible, and how do we prevent such a practice?”

  “The man who sells the visas goes by the name of Max. I believe him to be the same man I knew in Lublin whose name was Maximilian Poleski. He was a corrupt man who wormed his way into the Nazis’ favor soon after they occupied the city. He used his connections to enrich himself and cheat others. He sold promises.”

  “What sort of promises?”

  “Safety, security, survival. Protection from the harsh Nazi edicts. Sometimes, he delivered; sometimes, he made excuses. He had an office in our brickyard, and on many days there were lines of people waiting to purchase favors. More food, a place to live, mercy for a family member who had violated one of the many Nazi proscriptions.”

  “He had that kind of power?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And you believe that this man is now doing business in our camp?”

  “According to our source in Föhrenwald, Max has the cooperation of a Landsberg resident that is quietly putting out the word, casting his lines in the water. If he gets a bite, he arranges a meeting with Max’s agent, Olga Helstein, a Föhrenwald resident. Sometimes, if Max is in the area, he will meet with the prospect and quote his price. Other times, he will communicate a price through Olga. Nevertheless, Max will always deliver the visa in person. He doesn’t trust anyone else to handle his money. We want to be there when Max comes to collect.”

  “Who is it? Who is Max’s contact at Landsberg?”

  “I was given the name of Shael Bruchstein.”

  Pogrund immediately covered his mouth. “Oh no, of all people,” he said. “Shael Bruchstein? Can you be certain?”

  “That’s the name Olga gave us.”

  Pogrund glanced over at the rabbi and shook his head. “Bruchstein is the last man I’d expect to betray his people. He’s such an integral part of our community. An elected member of the committee.”

  “Maybe that’s what makes him such an able facilitator.”

  Rabbi Hirsch nodded sadly. “Bruchstein is a leader in this camp and in contact with thousands of our residents. They respect him. They honor him for his countless hours of service. He has helped to make Landsberg a vibrant and influential force among all the displaced persons camps. The organization we know as She’erit haPletah—the Surviving Remnant—was formed right here and maintains its Central European office here in Landsberg, and Bruchstein is on the board.”

  “Shael helped bring in people like Jakob Oleski to set up occupational training courses through ORT, the Organization for Rehabilitation and Training, right here in our camp, and Landsberg is ORT’s field headquarters,” Pogrund added. “Shael stood side by side with David Ben-Gurion when he came to Landsberg last year. Why would a man like that engage in an illegal scheme to circumvent our emigration laws?”

  “Frau Helstein was getting twenty-five percent,” Eli said. “At six thousand Swiss francs per visa, that’s a lot of reasons why.”

  “Ach, it makes me sick to my stomach,” the rabbi said.

  “We have to shut him down, but we have to do it discreetly,” Pogrund said. “If the residents learn that one of our most respected leaders is involved in a criminal enterprise, it’ll bring shame upon all the good work we do.”

  “We have to do more than stop Bruchstein,” Eli said. “Our mission is twofold: first to catch Max in the act, arrest and prosecute him; and second to force him to reveal the identity of his source. He has a well-placed contact in the United States.”

  “Well, you have our complete cooperation.”

  “Does Bruchstein live alone?”

  Pogrund shook his head. “He lives with a woman. If you want to arrest him, I can take you there.”

  “No, I prefer it to be in private, not in a crowded neighborhood.”

  “That’s very kind and considerate of you.”

  Eli scoffed. “I’m afraid it has nothing to do with kindness. If we arrest him in a public place, in plain sight, the news will get to Max and he’ll never come back here. I’d like you to lure Bruchstein to the administration office. Tell him that you need to meet with him on urgent committee business.”

  “He’ll want to know what it’s about,” Rabbi Hirsch said. “What will you tell him?”

  Pogrund shook his head. “I don’t know; it’s not in my nature to be deceitful, but I’ll think of something.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  LANDSBERG DP CAMP

  AMERICAN ZONE

  DECEMBER 1946

  Shael Bruchstein arrived at the Landsberg administration office shortly after four o’clock. He shook the snow off his coat, hung it on the rack and greeted Moshe Pogrund and Rabbi Hirsch. Then he turned his attention to the other two men in the room. “I don’t think I know these two gentlemen, Moshe.”

  “This is Eli Rosen, a board member at the Föhrenwald Camp, and Major Donnelly, an adjutant to Colonel Bivens at the U.S. Army garrison in Garmisch.”

  Bruchstein smiled and shook their hands. “Sounds serious,” he said in a nonserious tone. He pulled up a chair to join the four men sitting around a small conference table. “How can I assist? You said it was urgent committee business, Moshe.” He smiled at Eli and Donnelly, but the smile was not returned.

  “I’ll defer to Mr. Rosen,” Moshe said.

  Eli gestured to Donnelly. “The major is here to arrest you, Mr. Bruchstein.”

  Bruchstein turned white. He looked from face to face and finally settled on Pogrund. “Is this a joke, Moshe? It’s not funny in the least.”

  “It is not a joke, Shael. I wish it were.”

  “What am I accused of?”

  The major leaned forward, took a breath and said flatly, “Conspiring to commit immigration fraud, conspiring to sell stolen documents, willful violation of the laws of the United States Immigration Service and of the American Occupation Zone, solicitation of others to commit an illegal act and aiding and abetting a United States citizen in fr
audulently issuing visas for illegal sale to foreign nationals. That’s all I can think of at the moment. I’m sure that the U.S. Attorney will have a much better handle on other included offenses.”

  Bruchstein sank into his chair. His hands covered his face. “Olga.”

  Rabbi Hirsch nodded. “How could you, Shael? Why?”

  “I knew it was wrong. I didn’t do it for myself. I would never have purchased, accepted or used a black-market visa.”

  “Oh, but you would take a commission,” Eli said. “I believe that’s equivalent to ‘doing it for yourself.’”

  “I didn’t make a cent. If Max paid Olga, none of it ever came to me. I didn’t do it for the money.”

  “Then why, Shael?” the rabbi pleaded. “I have known you to be such a good man.”

  “What does it matter? I did it. Six times. I’m guilty.” Turning to the major, he said, “Would you permit me to say goodbye to Rachel? We’ve been together for the past year. She’s not very strong, and she depends on me. I’m afraid she’s made a bad choice.”

  The rabbi stood. “What does it matter, you say? It matters to me, Shael. You’ve meant so much to our community, sitting on the boards of ORT and She’erit HaPletah. I believed in you. I know you to be a selfless man. I want to know why!”

  “It might matter, Mr. Bruchstein,” Eli said. “Depending on the circumstances, we may ask you to do something.”

  Bruchstein hung his head. “I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”

  “Tell us how this scheme came to Landsberg and how you became involved.”

  “It started last June. I was at an ORT conference at Feldafing. Olga Helstein was there as well. She and I have served together on the board for some time. During the day, the conversation got around to immigration quotas, as it usually does at those functions. Why won’t the Allied countries open their borders to Jewish refugees? There are only 250,000 of us. The western countries could easily absorb us without even flinching. Why are the quotas so strict for Jewish refugees when they are so generous to others? I mentioned that a friend of mine at Landsberg was desperate to travel to America. His father was dying in a New York hospital, and he would give anything to spend those last days with him. Then Olga said, ‘If the man is important to you, I can get him a visa. It’ll cost, but I can get it.’”

  “Did she mention the name Max or Maximilian?”

  “Not at first. She only said she had a source. Six thousand Swiss francs for a genuine U.S. visa.”

  “And you told her you would make the arrangements?”

  “No. I didn’t want any part of it. I knew it was wrong, but I felt it wasn’t my decision to make. It was Saul’s. I told her I would give Saul her contact information, and if he was interested, they could work out the details. I stepped out of it altogether. Six weeks later, a man shows up in Landsberg asking for me. Everyone figured it had to do with my work on the board, but it was Max, and he had the visa for Saul. Saul had made the agreement directly with Olga without my knowledge.”

  “Why did Max ask for you and not Saul?”

  Bruchstein shrugged and spread his hands. “Maybe that’s who Olga told him to contact; I don’t know. I put Saul and Max together, they made the exchange and the next day both of them were gone. A month later, I received a letter from Saul, thanking me profusely for the time he was able to spend with his father before he died. To tell the truth, I felt good about it. I was happy for Saul. It meant so much to him, and I was happy to play my small part. As far as I was concerned, it was a onetime deal.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it?”

  “No. Harry Florsheim and his wife came to see me. I don’t know whether they heard it from Saul or how they got the information, but they wanted to buy two visas. They had the money.”

  The rabbi interrupted and turned to Eli and the major. “Harry and Bertha Florsheim were elderly. Harry was an accountant in Berlin and was arrested during Kristallnacht. Bertha was left alone, was taken in a roundup and ultimately ended up at Gross-Rosen. By all rights, they never should have seen each other again. Somehow, after liberation, the Central Tracing Bureau put them together. It was a miracle.”

  Pogrund picked up the rabbi’s narrative. “The concentration camps were hard on all of us, but Bertha never quite recovered. She had vivid nightmares, and not just at night. Her visions haunted her. When she got them, she would shake and moan, and Harry would hug her tightly. No matter where they went, Bertha would cling to Harry like a terrified child.”

  Bruchstein nodded. “Harry came to me. He said he had made a solemn promise to Bertha to take her to America, far away from Germany, far away from her nightmares. ‘That promise is what’s keeping her alive, Shael,’ he said to me. ‘Bertha’s eyes still see the horror of her captivity, and I told her that her eyes would soon see America, Die Goldene Medina, and when they did, all her past visions would disappear. She lives for that, Shael. You helped Saul, and now I beg you to help Bertha and me. I have the money.’”

  “And so you called Max?”

  Bruchstein shook his head. “I didn’t know how to reach Max. I called Olga. To see them together, Rabbi, it would break your heart. It broke mine. I put them in touch with Olga without a second thought. In two months, they were gone.”

  Eli leaned forward. “Mr. Bruchstein, this is very important: Did you happen to be present when the money was exchanged for the visas?”

  He nodded. “I was always present. Olga would contact me, she’d let me know when Max would be here with the visas, I would notify the buyers and we would all meet with him. But now things have changed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last week, Max called me directly. He has two more visas that were ordered by Aaron and Yetta Davison. He wants to set up the exchange next week.”

  “Did Olga set it up?”

  “Max said he wasn’t working with Olga anymore—something about a problem at Föhrenwald. He trusted me and he would only do the exchange through me. He wanted me to make sure the Davisons had their money.”

  “Did you set a date?”

  “Not yet. I have a telephone number for Max in Munich. I’m supposed to call him back after I talk to Aaron.”

  Eli looked to Major Donnelly. “Are you and your men available next week?”

  “I think you know the answer to that. Colonel Bivens was very explicit.”

  “Tell Aaron to be available next week. Set it up for Wednesday at noon here at the camp,” Eli said. “Make sure that no one other than the Davisons know where or when. Tell the Davisons that they must keep the meeting secret or they’ll never get their visa.”

  Bruchstein grimaced. “I hate to deceive Aaron.”

  “He’s breaking the law.”

  Bruchstein nodded. “May I ask, what is to become of me?”

  Eli leaned forward and spoke directly. “First, you go home to Rachel as though nothing has happened. You say nothing about this meeting to her or to anyone else. Contact Aaron Davison and Max and set up the exchange. Let me know when it’s confirmed so that Major Donnelly and his military police will be present. If you do this, Mr. Bruchstein, if you help us to arrest Max, you will not be prosecuted. You and Rachel may go on living as before. If you betray us, if you alert Max, you will go to jail for a long time. Do we understand each other?”

  Bruchstein stood. “I am truly grateful. I won’t let you down.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ALBANY PARK

  CHICAGO

  ALBANY PARK NEIGHBORHOOD

  DECEMBER 1965

  Nathan was sound asleep when the ring of his bedside phone shook him from his slumber. “Hullo,” he whispered.

  “Nathan, Nathan, get up,” Mimi cried.

  His throat was dry, and he spoke in a whisper. “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Get up and turn on the news! Nathan, they’re dead, Preston and Chrissie. They died last night. Oh, my God.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mimi was hysteric
al. “Pres and Chrissie. They’re gone. They died in a fire. Oh, Nathan, I just can’t believe it. Please, can you come over now? Please?”

  Eli was standing on the front stoop when Nathan came running up. “Such tragic news,” Eli said. “I am so very sorry for you both.”

  Nathan dashed up the stairs. The apartment door was open, and he could hear Mimi crying. “Meems, what happened?”

  “Didn’t you see the news?”

  He shook his head. “I came right over.”

  “Here it is,” Grandma called from the living room. “NBC is broadcasting from the fire station.”

  They watched as the battalion chief was interviewed. “The fire was extinguished before it had consumed the rear of the structure. Consequently, the back bedrooms were intact. Firefighters were able to extract the bodies of two adult occupants, who were later identified as Mr. and Mrs. Preston Roberts.”

  “Do we know how the fire started?”

  “Not conclusively. It’s still under investigation at this time. I can tell you that we believe it originated in the front hallway, and there are signs that suggest the use of an accelerant. That’s really all I have right now.”

  * * *

  The newscast then switched to the outside of an elegant brick home in the Ravenswood Manor section, set one hundred feet back from the parkway. Police were stationed in front of the circular drive.

  “This is the home of Congressman Witold Zielinski,” the reporter said. “The congressman and Mrs. Zielinski are inside, but, quite understandably, they are not talking to reporters. They were informed by telephone of the tragedy that befell their daughter and her husband, both only twenty-five years old and married barely four months.” Photo clips of the wedding were displayed on the screen.

  The reporter then tried to interview a plainclothes police lieutenant who was standing in front of the Zielinski home. He shook his head and said, “Out of respect for the congressman, there is very little we will discuss at this time.”