Soul Intent (6 page)

His projected face was crumpling. A growing white circle engulfed first his nose, then his whole head. The room went dark.

Flora opened the drapes.

Mr. Morgan stood holding the end of the projector’s electrical cord. “The bulb melted the film,” he said. “This is not going to work.”

“We have one more slide left,” Flora said. “Let’s let the bulb cool off, and then keep going.”

The overseer nodded. “Let me know how it turns out.” He left the room.

Another two hours crept by. Baba finished the second painting, then used her gold reader to calculate the soul identity. Mr. Morgan was pleased when he saw it matched James’s identity on file—the camera was going to work after all.

In the morning, to fulfill her duty to Soul Identity and to get Baba to the States, Flora would face the Nazi monster. She just hoped she had the nerve.

ten

September 1946

Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

Flora thought Colonel Burt Andrus looked like he was trying to be a movie star with his crisp uniform, white shellacked helmet, and wooden baton. She and Mr. Morgan followed Nuremberg Prison’s Commandant down the two flights of stairs into the bottom level prison block.

Andrus stopped outside the first prison cell on the right. Flora read “H. Goering” on the metal plate at the top of the door frame.

A pair of soldiers stood outside the white door. One faced out toward the hallway, and the other peered through a small opening into the cell. Andrus tapped the peeping soldier with his baton, and he turned around. Both soldiers saluted.

The Commandant returned the salutes. “At ease,” he said. He took out his key ring. “Mr. Goering, the reporters are here.”

Flora held her breath. She was about to stand face to face with the man responsible for millions of concentration camp deaths; the man responsible for her father’s death. Although she had dreaded its arrival, this moment seemed to have come too quickly for her to prepare. She hoped she could maintain her composure and do her job and get out of there.

Andrus unlocked and opened the door. “You have exactly five minutes,” he told Mr. Morgan. He turned and swaggered further down the hallway, tapping his baton against the wall.

The facing-out guard walked into the cell and stood to the right of the doorway. “Enter, but don’t touch anything,” he said.

Mr. Morgan stepped into the cell, and after a moment’s hesitation, Flora followed him.

The cell looked smaller in person than it did in the magazines and in Flora’s dining room mock-up. A bed took up the whole left side. On the far wall, a frosted window high above let in scant light—even less than she had feared. Goering sat in a chair in front of a desk on the far right wall. A seat-less toilet bowl lurked in a recess in the corner to the right of the guard.

Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering looked shorter, thinner, and happier than Flora expected. His uniform, mottled with spots where badges and medals once hung, draped loosely on his frame. He stood up from his desk and rubbed his hands together. “Archibald Morgan, finally you have come.”

Mr. Morgan shook his hand. “Hello Mr. Goering. The Colonel only gave us a few minutes for our magazine interview, so we must be efficient with our time.”

Goering gave him a wink. “Of course, of course, Mr. Morgan,” he replied in English. “What questions for your magazine can I answer? Would you like to hear how much I admire the Western political system? Or how about we discuss why you will be fighting the communists in only a few years?”

The overseer’s lips twitched upward. “Our magazine is more spiritual in nature. How about you explain to our readers your thoughts on the afterlife?”

Goering smiled. “Very well. Please tell your readers that I am looking forward to my return to this world. I am waiting for the day when I can view the marble monuments that my beloved countrymen will erect for me in a rebuilt Berlin.”

Mr. Morgan motioned for Flora to set up her camera. He looked around the cell. “Maybe you can tell us a bit about your current living conditions.”

The guard stepped forward. “Colonel Andrus does not allow any questions on prisoner security.” He pointed at Flora. “And I must examine your photographic equipment before you take any pictures. You now have four minutes left.”

Flora held her camera out to the guard, and he took it and opened the front. “Mind if I take a picture of you, darling?” he asked.

Flora looked at Mr. Morgan, who shook his head. “We only have six pictures, sir,” he said. “We cannot afford to waste any.”

The guard scowled. “She’s the prettiest photographer we’ve ever had in the cells. If I don’t take a picture of the girl, then she don’t take a picture of the prisoner.” He looked at his watch. “And it seems I was mistaken about the time. Now you only have two minutes left.”

Mr. Morgan’s eyes narrowed, but then he nodded.

Flora brought over Goering’s chair. “Rest the camera here on the chair’s back, so it doesn’t shake when you take the picture,” she told the guard.

He set the camera on the chair and turned it toward Flora. She focused the lens and showed him how to work the exposure lever. “Press here when I smile.”

The guard ran his hands on top of hers. “Like this?”

She pulled her hands away. “Like that.”

He smiled. “Stand next to the prisoner.”

Flora took a deep breath and walked over. She tried not to cringe when Goering put his arm on her shoulder.

The guard took the picture, and Flora walked back to him and retrieved the camera.

Flora advanced the film. She looked through the view finder and frowned. Goering’s eyes weren’t in the light.

She looked at the guard. “Excuse me, sir. Can we please use the other wall? This side is too dark, and our readers need to see his pale blue,” she leaned close to him and dropped her voice to a whisper, “
evil
eyes.”

The guard frowned, and Flora summoned up the courage to flash him a smile. “Maybe we could find a way to work a diligent guard into our feature story.”

The guard slowly nodded his head. “Mr. Goering,” he barked. “Sit on the toilet and put your head in the light.”

Goering frowned. “I will not sit on the toilet,” he replied. “It is undignified for the highest ranking prisoner in Germany to be sitting on the toilet with guests in his cell.”

“Suit yourself.” The guard looked at Mr. Morgan. “Are you ready to go?”

The overseer took a deep breath. “Mr. Goering,” he said, “we need this picture. You need this picture, sir.”

Hermann Goering shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. “This is outrageous,” he said to the guard.

The guard shrugged. “Might as well start packing it up,” he told Flora.

Goering marched across the tiny prison cell and sat on the bowl. “You guards are despicable,” he said as he leaned forward.

Flora looked through the viewfinder and tried not to smile at the thought of how un-monster-like the mighty Hermann Goering looked now. “I need you a little bit lower, Mr. Goering,” she said.

The Nazi grimaced as he sank into the bowl. “My trousers are getting wet,” he grumbled.

Flora adjusted the camera’s f-stop and shutter speed to compensate for the extra light. She took the five remaining pictures.

“We are done,” she told the guard.

Goering glared at them. “I am stuck,” he said. “Help me stand up.”

The guard snickered. “Pull yourself out, prisoner.”

The Nazi placed his hands on the rim of the toilet bowl and pushed down. After a minute, he said, “I cannot do it. I need your help.”

Flora bit her lip, folded the camera, and tucked it into her handbag.

The guard seemed to be enjoying himself. “Keep trying, prisoner. You’ll get there.” He turned toward the cell door.

“You cannot leave me,” Goering screamed. “I will have your head for this.”

The guard stopped. His eyes narrowed, and he reached into his holster and pulled out his night stick. “Did you just threaten me?” he asked.

Goering froze, and with what seemed a huge effort, put a thin smile on his face. “I am sorry, sir.” He looked down at the floor. “I will pull myself out once you are gone.”

“Damn right you will.” The guard slapped the night stick into his palm, then re-holstered it.

Later that afternoon, as she and Mr. Morgan sat in one of Nuremberg’s rebuilt cafés and waited for the laboratory to develop the film, Flora decided it was time the overseer shared more information with her. She had done everything he had asked her to do, and now she deserved some answers.

“Was this the first time you met Hermann Goering?” she asked.

He nodded. “Until today I have only communicated through intermediaries.”

“Why are you letting him join?” she blurted out.

He cringed and put his finger to his lips. He looked around the café, then back at Flora. “We must use discretion when talking in public places. Please keep your voice down.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded and spoke in a soft voice. “Soul Identity has always allowed anybody membership. And so we must let even unsavory people like Hermann Goering join. We are a business and not a club.”

She banged her cup onto its saucer, and some coffee splashed onto the table. “But you know he stole that gold—how can you possibly let him deposit it?”

The overseer shook his head. “We do not know it is stolen.” He used his handkerchief to dab at the spill.

“You know that gold is just as dirty as the jewels and paintings.” She stuck out her chin. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Morgan sighed and put the handkerchief in his pocket. “We have gone over this many times. The gold will go to the depositary.”

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered.

He glanced around the café, and then he leaned forward and whispered fiercely, “If you want to stop the gold, you must find proof of its theft. Talk to me about facts, and not feelings.” He sat back. “Otherwise my hands are tied.”

“We both know those bars can’t be traced.” She blinked to stop it, but a single tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

He handed her his handkerchief. “Look, Flora, I know this is personal for you. But I must honor Goering’s wishes and get that gold deposited.”

Flora wiped her eyes. “I will keep searching for proof, Mr. Morgan. I’m not giving up.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

eleven

Present Day

Sterling, Massachusetts

I sighed. “That’s your big story about breaking into Nuremberg? You took a picture of Goering’s eyes while he sat on the can?”

Madame Flora nodded. “That’s it. We rescued the artwork, returned the gems, but allowed that monster to deposit his looted gold. We got pictures of his eyes by pretending we were the press. End of story. You can go home now.”

“Not so fast,” Archie said. “Did James really refer to my mission as ‘Goering’s Last Shot’?”

“I thought you knew,” she said. Then she faced me. “I think it’s good that Goering’s money and memories are missing, Scott. I hope you never find them.”

“Thanks for the support,” I said.

She smiled.

I turned to Archie. “Madame Flora does have a point—why not let these sleeping dogs lie?” I was thinking that I didn’t want to help any Nazi, not even a dead one.

Archie glared at me. “Somebody broke into our depositary, and it is our duty to rectify the situation.” He pointed at Ann. “Our members trust us to guard their most valuable possessions, and we must honor that trust.”

“Archibald, nobody broke in,” Ann said. “The records are in order, and your claim of a theft is unfair and unrealistic. If anybody stole anything, they did it before the deposit.”

Archie balled his hands into fists. “Ann, I personally deposited twelve barrels of gold and three boxes of Mr. Goering’s memories.”

“My depositary has no record of that deposit.” Ann reached into her briefcase and pulled out a folder. “I went through the books myself last night. No gold, and no papers. Just one journal, deposited on October 14, 1946.”

Archie froze, then cocked his head to one side. “Do you happen to have that receipt?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Ann opened the folder and extracted a yellow carbon copy the size of an index card. “And if you look right here”—she tapped it with her index finger—“you’ll find it is signed by none other than Archibald Morgan, overseer.”

Archie took the paper and laid it on the coffee table. He leaned forward as he examined it. “It does look like my signature,” he said.

I looked at the paper. It was a numbered deposit receipt. I could read Archibald Morgan’s signature. The items section read “One journal, handwritten.”

Had Archie confused two different events? It had been a long time since the deposit, and he was no spring chicken.