The Boys From Brazil

by Ira Levin

Liebermann and Mengele stared across the room at each other.

  The front door opened.

  Closed.

  They looked at the doorway.

  A weight dropped in the hallway. Metal clinked.

  Footsteps.

  The boy came and stood in the doorway—gaunt and sharp-nosed, dark-haired, a wide red stripe across the chest of his blue zipper jacket.

  He looked at Liebermann.

  Looked at Mengele and the Dobermans.

  Looked at the dead Doberman.

  Looked back and forth, deep blue eyes wide.

  Pushed his dark forelock aside with a blue plastic mitten.

  “Sheeesh!” he said.

  “Mein—dear boy,” Mengele said, looking adoringly at him, “my dear, dear, dear, dear boy, you can not possibly imagine how happy I am, how joyous I am, to see you standing there so fine and strong and handsome! Will you call off these dogs? These most loyal and admirable dogs? They’ve kept me motionless here for hours, under the mistaken impression that I, not that vicious Jew over there, am the one who came here to do you harm. Will you call them off, please? I’ll explain everything.” He smiled lovingly, sitting among the snarling Dobermans.

  The boy stared at him, and turned his head slowly toward Liebermann.

  Liebermann shook his head.

  “Don’t be deceived by him,” Mengele warned. “He’s a criminal, a killer, a terrible man who came here to hurt you and your family. Call off these dogs, Bobby. You see, I know your name. I know all about you—that you visited Cape Cod last summer, that you have a movie camera, that you have two pretty girl cousins named…I’m an old friend of your parents. In fact I’m the doctor who delivered you, just back from abroad! Dr. Breitenbach. Have they mentioned me? I left long ago.”

  The boy looked uncertainly at him. “Where’s my father?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mengele said. “I suspect, since that person had a gun that I succeeded in taking away from him—and the dogs saw us fighting and reached their wrong conclusion—I suspect that he may have”—he nodded gravely—“done away with your father. I came to call, having just come back from abroad, as I said, and he let me in, pretending to be a friend. When he drew his gun I was able to overpower him and get it, but then he opened that door and let the dogs out. Call them off and we’ll look for your father. Perhaps he’s only tied up. Poor Henry! Let’s hope for the best. It’s a good thing your mother wasn’t here. Does she still teach school in Lancaster?”

  The boy looked at the dead Doberman.

  Liebermann wagged his finger, trying to catch the boy’s eye.

  The boy looked at Mengele. “Ketchup,” he said; the Dobermans turned and came jumping and hurrying to him. They ranked themselves two at one side of him, one at the other. His mittens touched their blue-black heads.

  “Ketchup!” Mengele exclaimed happily, lowering his leg from the settee, sitting forward and rubbing his upper arms. “Never in a thousand years would I have thought to say ketchup!” He marched his feet against the floor, rubbing his thighs, smiling. “I said off, I said away, I said go, I said friend; not once did it enter my mind to say ketchup!”

  The boy, frowning, pulled his mittens off. “We…better call the police,” he said. The dark forelock fell aslant his forehead.

  Mengele sat gazing at him. “How marvelous you are!” he said. “I’m so—” He blinked, swallowed, smiled. “Yes,” he said, “we certainly must call the police. Do a favor for me, mein—Bobby dear. Take the dogs and go in the kitchen and get me a glass of water. You might also find me something to eat.” He stood up. “I shall call the police, and then I’ll look for your father.”

  The boy stuffed his mittens into his jacket pockets. “Is that your car in front?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mengele said. “And his is the one in the garage. Or so I assume. Is it yours? The family’s?”

  The boy looked skeptically at him. “The one in front,” he said, “has a bumper sticker about Jews not giving up any of Israel. You called him a Jew.”

  “And so he is,” Mengele said. “At least he looks like one.” He smiled. “This is hardly the time to talk about what words I used. Go get the water, please, and I’ll call the police.”

  The boy cleared his throat. “Would you sit down again?” he said. “I’ll call them.”

  “Bobby dear—”

  “Pickles,” the boy said; the Dobermans rushed snarling at Mengele. He backed down onto the settee, forearms crossed before his face. “Ketchup!” he cried. “Ketchup! Ketchup!” The Dobermans leaned at him, snarling.

  The boy came into the room, unzipping his jacket. “They’re not going to listen to you,” he said. He turned toward Liebermann, pushed his dark forelock aside.

  Liebermann looked at him.

  “He switched it around, didn’t he?” the boy said. “He had the gun, and let you in.”

  “No!” Mengele said.

  Liebermann nodded.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  He shook his head, pointed at the phone.

  The boy nodded and turned.

  “That man is your enemy!” Mengele cried. “I swear to God he is!”

  “You think I’m retarded?” The boy moved to the table, picked up the phone.

  “Don’t!” Mengele leaned toward him. The Dobermans snapped and snarled at him but he stayed leaning. “Please! I beg you! For your sake, not mine! I’m your friend! I came here to help you! Listen to me, Bobby! Only for one minute!”

  The boy faced him, the phone in his hand.

  “Please! I’ll explain! The truth! I did lie, yes! I had the gun. To help you! Please! Only listen to me for one minute! You’ll thank me, I swear you will! One minute!”

  The boy stood looking at him, and lowered the phone, hung it up.

  Liebermann shook his head despairingly. “Call!” he said. A whisper, not even getting out of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Mengele said to the boy. “Thank you.” He sat back, smiling ruefully. “I should have known you would be too clever to lie to. Please”—he glanced at the Dobermans, looked at the boy—“call them off. I’ll stay here, sitting.”

  The boy stood by the table looking at him. “Ketchup,” he said; the Dobermans turned and hurried to him. They ranked themselves beside him, all three at the side toward Liebermann, facing Mengele.

  Mengele shook his head, ran a hand back over his cropped gray hair. “This is…so difficult.” He lowered his hand, looked anxiously at the boy.

  “Well?” the boy said.

  Mengele said, “You are clever, are you not?”

  The boy stood looking at him, fingers moving at the head of the nearest Doberman.

  “You don’t do well in school,” Mengele said. “You did when you were little, but not now. This is because you’re too clever, too”—he raised a hand, tapped at his temple—“thinking your own thoughts. But the fact is, you’re smarter than the teachers, yes?”

  The boy looked toward the dead Doberman, frowning, his lips pursed. He looked at Liebermann.

  Liebermann poked his finger at the phone.

  Mengele leaned toward the boy. “If I am to be truthful with you,” he said, “you must be truthful with me! Are you not smarter than the teachers?”

  The boy looked at him, shrugged. “Except one,” he said.

  “And you have high ambitions, yes?”

  The boy nodded.

  “To be a great painter, or an architect.”

  The boy shook his head. “To make movies.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Mengele smiled. “To be a great movie-maker.” He looked at the boy; his smile faded. “You and your father have fought about this,” he said. “A stubborn old man with a limited viewpoint. You resent him, with good reason.”

  The boy looked at him.

  “You see,” Mengele said, “I do know you. Better than anyone else on earth.”

  The boy, bewildered-looking, said, “Who are you?”

  “The doctor who de
livered you. That much was true. But I’m not an old friend of your parents. In fact, I’ve never met them. We are strangers.”

  The boy tipped his head as if to hear better.

  “Do you see what that means?” Mengele asked him. “The man you think of as your father”—he shook his head—“is not your father. And your mother—though you love her and she loves you, I’m sure—she is not your mother. They adopted you. It was I who arranged for the adoption. Through intermediaries. Helpers.”

  The boy stared at him.

  Liebermann watched the boy uneasily.

  “That’s distressing news to receive so suddenly,” Mengele said, “but perhaps…not wholly unpleasing news? Have you never felt that you were superior to those around you? Like a prince among commoners?”

  The boy stood taller, shrugged. “I feel…different from everyone sometimes.”

  “You are different,” Mengele said. “Infinitely different, and infinitely superior. You have—”

  “Who are my real parents?” the boy asked.

  Mengele looked thoughtfully at his hands, clasped them, looked at the boy. “It would be better for you,” he said, “not to know yet. When you’re older, more mature, you’ll find out. But this I can tell you now, Bobby: you were born of the finest blood in all the world. Your inheritance—I’m speaking not of money but of character and ability—is incomparable. You have it within you to fulfill ambitions a thousand times greater than those of which you presently dream. And you shall fulfill them! But only—and you must bear in mind how well I know you, and trust me when I say this—only if you will go out of here now with the dogs, and let me…do what I must and go.”

  The boy stood looking at him.

  “For your sake,” Mengele said. “Your well-being is all that I consider. You must believe that. I have consecrated my life to you and your welfare.”

  The boy stood looking at him. “Who are my real parents?” he asked.

  Mengele shook his head.

  “I want to know,” the boy said.

  “In this you must bow to my judgment; at the—”

  “Pickles!” The Dobermans rushed snarling at Mengele. He cowered back behind crossed forearms. The Dobermans leaned at him, snarling.

  “Tell me,” the boy said. “Right now. Or else I’ll…say something else to them. I mean it! I can make them kill you if I want.”

  Mengele stared at him over crossed wrists.

  “Who are my parents?” the boy asked. “I’ll give you three. One…”

  “You have none!” Mengele said.

  “Two…”

  “It’s true! You were born from a cell of the greatest man who ever lived! Reborn! You are he, reliving his life! And that Jew over there is his sworn enemy! And yours!”

  The boy turned toward Liebermann, blue eyes confounded.

  Liebermann got his hand up, circled a finger at his temple, pointed at Mengele.

  “No!” Mengele cried as the boy turned to him. The Dobermans snarled. “I am not mad! Smart though you are, there are things you don’t know, about science and microbiology! You’re the living duplicate of the greatest man in all history! And he”—his eyes jumped toward Liebermann—“came here to kill you! I to protect you!”

  “Who?” the boy challenged. “Who am I? What great man?”

  Mengele stared at him over the heads of the snarling Dobermans.

  The boy said, “One…”

  “Adolf Hitler; you’ve been told he was evil,” Mengele said, “but as you grow and see the world engulfed by Blacks and Semites, Slavs, Orientals, Latins—and your own Aryan folk threatened with extinction—from which you shall save them!—you’ll come to see that he was the best and finest and wisest of all mankind! You’ll rejoice in your heritage, and bless me for creating you! As he himself blessed me for trying!”

  “You know what?” the boy said. “You’re the biggest nut I ever met. You’re the weirdest, craziest—”

  “I am telling you the truth!” Mengele said. “Look in your heart! The strength is there to command armies, Bobby! To bend whole nations to your will, to destroy without mercy all who oppose you!”

  The boy stood looking at him.

  “It’s true,” Mengele said. “All his power is in you, or will be when the time comes. Now do as I tell you. Let me protect you. You have a destiny to fulfill. The highest destiny of all.”

  The boy looked down, rubbing at his forehead. He looked up at Mengele. “Mustard,” he said.

  The Dobermans leaped; Mengele flailed, cried out.

  Liebermann looked. Winced. Looked.

  Looked at the boy.

  The boy thrust his hands into the pockets of his red-striped blue jacket. He moved from the table, walked slowly to the side of the settee; stood looking down. He wrinkled his nose. Said, “Sheesh.”

  Liebermann looked at the boy, and at the burrowing Dobermans pushing Mengele down onto the floor.

  He looked at his slowly bleeding left hand, both sides of it.

  Growls sounded. Wet partings. Scrapings.

  After a while the boy came away from the settee, his hands still in his pockets. He looked down at the dead Doberman, prodded its rump with a sneaker-toe. He glanced at Liebermann, and turned and looked back. “Off,” he said. Two of the Dobermans raised their heads and came walking toward him, tongues lapping bloody mouths.

  “Off!” the boy said. The third Doberman raised its head.

  One of the Dobermans sniffed at the dead Doberman.

  The other Doberman came past Liebermann, nosed open the door beside him, and went out.

  The boy came and stood between Liebermann’s feet, looking down at him, the forelock aslant his forehead.

  Liebermann looked up at him. Pointed at the phone.

  The boy took his hands from his pockets and crouched down, elbows on brown-corduroy thighs, hands hanging loose. Dirty fingernails.

  Liebermann looked at the gaunt young face: the sharp nose, the forelock, the deep blue eyes looking at him.

  “I think you’re going to die soon,” the boy said, “if someone doesn’t come help you, get you to the hospital.” His breath smelled of chewing gum.

  Liebermann nodded.

  “I could go out again,” the boy said. “With my books. And come back later. Say I was…just walking somewhere. I do that sometimes. And my mother doesn’t get home till twenty to five. I bet you’d be dead by then.”

  Liebermann looked at him. Another Doberman went out.

  “If I stay, and call the police,” the boy said, “are you going to tell them what I did?”

  Liebermann considered. Shook his head.

  “Ever?”

  He shook his head.

  “Promise?”

  He nodded.

  The boy put out his hand.

  Liebermann looked at it.

  He looked at the boy; the boy looked at him. “If you can point, you can shake,” the boy said.

  Liebermann looked at the hand.

  No, he told himself. Either way you’re going to die. What kind of doctors can they have in a hole like this?

  “Well?”

  And maybe there’s an afterlife. Maybe Hannah’s waiting. Mama, Papa, the girls…

  Don’t kid yourself.

  He brought his hand up.

  Shook the boy’s hand. As little as possible.

  “He was a real nut,” the boy said, and stood up.

  Liebermann looked at his hand.

  “Scram!” the boy shouted at a Doberman busy on Mengele.

  The Doberman ran out into the hallway, then back crazily, bloody-mouthed, and past Liebermann and out.

  The boy went to the phone.

  Liebermann closed his eyes.

  Remembered. Opened them.

  When the boy was done talking, he beckoned to him.

  The boy came over. “Water?” he asked.

  He shook his head, beckoned.

  The boy crouched down beside him.

  “There’s a list,”
he said.

  “What?” The boy leaned his ear close.

  “There’s a list,” he said as loud as he could.

  “A list?”

  “See if you can find it. In his coat maybe. A list of names.”

  He watched the boy go into the hallway.

  My helper Hitler.

  He kept his eyes open.

  Looked at Mengele in front of the settee. White and red where his face was. Bone and blood.

  Good.

  After a while the boy came back looking at papers.

  He reached.

  “My father’s on it,” the boy said.

  He reached.

  The boy looked uneasily at him, put the papers down into his hand. “I forgot. I better go look for him.”

  Five or six typed sheets. Names, addresses, dates. Hard to read without his glasses. Döring, crossed out. Horve, crossed out. Other pages, no crossings.

  He folded the papers against the floor, got them into his jacket pocket.

  Closed his eyes.

  Stay alive. Not finished yet.

  Faraway barking.

  “I found him.”

  Blond-bearded Greenspan glared at him. Whispered, “He’s dead! We can’t question him!”

  “It’s all right. I have the list.”

  “What?”

  Crinkly blond hair, pinned-in embroidered skullcap. As loud as he could: “It’s all right. I have the list. All the fathers.”

  He was lifted—ei!—and put down.

  On a stretcher. Being carried. Dog’s-head knocker, daylight, blue sky.

  A shiny lens looking at him, keeping up, humming. Sharp nose next to it.

  8

  THEY HAD GOOD DOCTORS

  there, it turned out; good enough, anyway, for him to find himself with a cast on his hand, a tube in his arm, and bandages all over him—in front and in back, above and below.

  In the intensive care unit of the Lancaster General Hospital. Saturday. Friday was lost.

  He would be fine, a pudgy Indian doctor told him. A bullet had passed through his “mediastinum”—the doctor touched his own white-smocked chest. It had fractured a rib, injured both the left lung and something called “the recurrent laryn-geal nerve,” and missed his aorta by only so much. Another bullet had fractured his pelvic girdle and lodged in muscle. Another had damaged bones and muscles in his left hand. Another had grazed a rib on his right side.