The Heritage Paper (22 page)

He took a moment to explain the glorified air-raid shelter the Nazi elite used as a hideout in the last days of the war. Despite grand descriptions from the Nazi spin-doctors, the bunker was nothing more than a claustrophobic tube in which its occupants had to duck debris when a bomb struck nearby. The lower part, where Hitler resided, was made up of fifteen rooms that were divided by thin partitions and connected by a narrow central passageway. The feared Reich went down with nothing more than a whimper, hiding like rats. A concept Youkelstein once took great satisfaction in, but now with the puzzle pieces coming together, he was questioning their true motives.

“It made no sense that Hitler would be here,” he said to nobody in particular. “He should have been close to the command center at
Zossen
, south of
Berlin
. It never made any sense.”

“What didn’t make sense?” Maggie asked.

“Nobody in this room is making any sense,” Jamie added.

Class was now in session and Professor Youkelstein was presiding. “Hitler made all the wrong moves at the end of the war, to the point most observers believed he’d been rendered insane. He was sick, yes—he suffered from debilitating Parkinson’s and syphilis. And he was never the most grounded fellow.
But crazy?
I’m not so sure.

“He did make a convincing case to those around him that he’d lost his marbles. He would give an order to send a tank brigade to Pirmasens, then change his mind and send it to
Trier
, and then to Koblenz. And as erratic as that seemed, the final result would have been the same, regardless—they were all suicide missions! I should have seen it before,” Youkelstein’s voice turned anguished and he pounded his fist against the table.

“Seen what?”

“That he’d already put into motion his escape plan—the Apostles. Even when he declared Himmler a traitor for negotiating peace with the Allies in the last days of the war, that was just another con to throw his enemies off the trail. He was crazy … crazy like a fox.”

“That’s what they said about Oma. But I still don’t get it,” Maggie said, growing frustrated.

“It was right in front of my face and I didn’t see it,” Youkelstein said and moved to a contraption sitting on an end table, and clicked a button. The out-of-date slide projector shot a large photo of Martin Bormann on the wall.

Jamie must not have been impressed, because he declared himself “bored” and began chasing the cat.

“Who is that?” Maggie asked. She wasn’t going anywhere—he had her full attention.

“Martin Bormann was Hitler’s secretary and some would say closest confidant after Rudolph Hess left. He was a cruel murderer, even by Nazi standards, and a professional weasel whose claim to fame was the trust Hitler put in him. Without Hitler he was nothing, and now it makes sense.”

Youkelstein reached into a drawer and pulled out the gold cross with
v^988v^
engraved on it.

Maggie inched back. He’d scared her. “Oma said only Apostles have those—you’re one of them!”

He flashed a comforting smile. “No, my dear, I got this from Bormann. I’d always assumed he was on the run from the authorities like the rest of the Odessa rats running around South America, but he was on the run from something more deadly. If he was a member of the Apostles, why was he unable to make safe passage into the US like the rest of them?

“That’s why he planted that skull in Berlin, hoping to be declared dead. That is why he created false sightings in places like Chile and Argentina—not to throw off the authorities, but to divert Himmler. That is why fear filled his eyes—because if we were able to locate him, then Himmler had already found him.”

“But why would Himmler be after Bormann? They were on the same team.”

“Himmler was anything but a team player, and Bormann knew things that could threaten Himmler’s power within the group.”

“What did he know?

“That Himmler was the one behind the murder of Adolf Hitler.”

Maggie sat beside him. Trusting him again. “My history teacher said Hitler shot himself in the mouth while chewing down on a cyanide tablet. And his wife overdosed on pills.”

Youkelstein cringed. “Did your teacher explain to your class that the blood on the wall of the room was A2, which correlates with Eva Braun, not Hitler?

“Did your teacher explain why no signs of a gunshot residue or cyanide poisoning were found in Hitler’s corpse?”

Maggie shrugged.

“Did your teacher explain why the body of Eva Braun had six steel fragments lodged in her chest and severe injuries to the thorax, that even the most novice forensic doctor would recognize as a death from shrapnel injuries? And last I checked, no recorded suicide ever occurred from shrapnel wounds.

“And did your teacher explain to you how a man who had such severe Parkinson’s that he walked by throwing his torso forward and dragging his legs behind him, and shook constantly, somehow held a gun in his mouth and bit on a cyanide capsule at the same time?”

Maggie sighed. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

Youkelstein had written a book over twenty years ago that laid out his theory of how Hitler was murdered, but only today could he connect a motive. In the end, Himmler attempted to negotiate his safety with the Allies, but it became clear that they would never consider him anything but a war criminal, and he was forced to take the Apostle escape hatch to ensure his survival. But he wasn’t going to play second fiddle to anyone, especially the young child that Hitler proclaimed to be his chosen successor—a bizarre and reckless decision likely driven by the syphilis that was eating away at his brain. So Himmler began a plan of divide and conquer within the group before the war even ended. To control the Apostles he had to remove its leader. He needed to kill Adolf Hitler, and Bormann, who was always willing to attach himself to the winner, was his handpicked man to do it.

Youkelstein explained to Maggie that the expectation was for Hitler and his new wife, Eva Braun, to commit suicide on April 30, 1945. At 3:30 in the afternoon, following Hitler’s marriage to Eva and a long ceremonial goodbye, their ‘much publicized’ and ‘expected’ suicide was to take place. So much so that Hitler’s physician, Dr. Haas, had even tested the cyanide on Hitler’s dog Blondi. But they never were going to kill themselves.

“Which means that someone was going to have to do it for them. The SS guards who protected the lower bunker—the ones controlled by Himmler—locked the doors, supposedly to provide privacy for the Hitlers to end their lives. This left only Goebbles, Bormann, Hitler, along with his driver, Lidge, and Dr. Haas.

“Hitler was unceremoniously strangled to death in his room. For her part, Eva tried to fight off her husband’s attacker, which is how her blood got on the wall. She was helpless to stop it, before being whisked away. A doppelganger was then buried in her place.

“The dental records proved that the corpse burned in the garden was indeed Adolf Hitler. But the cause of death never added up. Those who found him recorded the smell of almonds coming from in his mouth, but when his organs were sent for further testing, no cyanide was detected in his tissues—an obvious attempt to stuff poison into an already dead Hitler’s mouth to make it appear to be a suicide. But by that time, nobody really cared about the how and why, all that was important was that the monster was dead. There was no clamoring for further investigation.

“But when Bormann peeled away the layers, even a dumb block of cement like him was able to figure out that he was being set up to be Himmler’s patsy, and he made a run for it. That is why he never joined the other Apostles in the States … not because he was a casualty of war.”

Maggie appeared unimpressed. “Hitler was murdered by his own people, fine, whatever, but it doesn’t solve our problem. I think we should concentrate on what made him choose Josef to be his successor. One minute you’re saying it was because he was crazy, and then you tell me how he was pretending to be nuts to pull off an escape—it’s the same stuff they tried to say about Oma. Make up your mind, which is it?”

She had a point, and she wasn’t finished. “You know what’s also weird? That they killed him, but they didn’t kill his wife ... at least not the real one. Did you ever try to find her in one of your Nazi hunts?”

He clicked a picture of Eva Braun onto the wall. It was a glamour shot from 1945 when she was in her early thirties. No, he hadn’t looked for her.
Why would he?
She wasn’t a Nazi criminal—just some dimwit who obsessed on fame, which she gained for being the Führer’s girlfriend, but not until after her presumed death.

Then it hit him.

Youkelstein headed for the door. He realized that he’d already found her.

Veronica didn’t take a breath until she exited into the plaza outside of Sterling House. She sucked in the sharp night air, burning her lungs like it was a punishment for not listening to her gut. She had to find her children. They were with him.

Youkelstein.

He knew the whole time!

Zach caught up to her as she headed toward the busy Park Avenue and delivered more bad news. He made a few phone calls, confirming that on the day of Carsten’s death, Ben Youkelstein was a guest lecturer at Vassar College—
in Poughkeepsie!

Could Youkelstein be involved with these people?
But why?
Theories filled her head—none of them good—but she didn’t have time to think about it now. She had to find Maggie and Jamie.

She felt like the surrounding skyscrapers were about to crash down on her. She began running down the busy sidewalk, yelling, “Maggie! … Jamie!” Nobody even made eye contact with her. It was the way New Yorkers dealt with the abundance of mentally ill who flocked to their streets.

She began grabbing Wall-Street-looking types and demanding cooperation. She shoved wallet-sized photos of Maggie and Jamie in their faces. They pushed her away.

Her instinct was still to call Carsten. This is when she needed him most. He would’ve grabbed her face with both hands, as he’d always do. Then he would convince her that they’d find them. And she would believe him.

But Carsten wasn’t available to take her call.

And the guy who might be responsible for his death had their kids. She just stared at her phone, hoping Carsten would call from the Great Beyond and make this right for their children.

And then it did ring.

But it wasn’t Carsten.

Even better.

It was Maggie!

Veronica kept strong during the call, holding back her true emotions, and the ‘running off without permission’ lecture. Maggie went on a tangent about Youkelstein having a eureka moment while they were eating ice cream, and he needed to get to the Führerbunker right away, which apparently was in his apartment because that’s where he took them. He then left just as abruptly, leaving Maggie and Jamie stranded on a street corner as he jumped into a cab and sped off. Not ideal, and likely to get him passed over for any future babysitting gigs, but all Veronica cared was that he was away from them.

Maggie didn’t know the address, other than she thought it was in SoHo, based on what Youkelstein told the cab driver on the way there. Maggie offered to ask some strangers, but Veronica strongly instructed—more like threatened—them not to talk to anyone or give any appearance of being alone.

She had a better idea—she’d call Eddie at his precinct. But with all the commotion, she’d forgotten that he was still en route from his security meeting with Kingston. Luckily, she was able to get Eddie’s longtime partner in crime, and occasional partner in fighting it, John Marquez. Eddie and Marquez considered themselves family. He quickly located Youkelstein’s address.

Zach offered to drive. He was probably scared of Veronica’s emotional state, as was most of Park Avenue at this point. She collapsed into the passenger seat and thanked the same heavens she’d been cursing this past year. She even had a few good thoughts for Ellen, remembering that she was the one who’d purchased the cell phone for Maggie, in the face of her heavy opposition.

When she spotted her children sitting on the street corner, looking more bored than frightened, Veronica could no longer keep her cool. She practically leaped out of the vehicle and ran to them. She squished them both in a hug and refused to let go.

They had no idea where Youkelstein went. “Just the way he rolls,” Maggie said with a shrug. But Veronica knew there was more to it. Carsten had seen at least two people before his mysterious death—Youkelstein and Rose Shepherd. There had to be some connection.

Rose Shepherd looked up from her romance novel and smiled at Otto.

“I hear you had visitors today,” he addressed her pleasantly, as he stepped into her room.

Even though she was closing in on the century mark she was still childlike. Just like the first time he’d met her back in 1936. “Oh my gosh, yes I did, Otto. I did good, you would’ve been proud of me. They asked about Greta Peterson, and her son coming to see me, but I told them I was framed by Jew lawyers—doesn’t that sound like something my love would say?”