The Hunt aka 27 (27 page)

Bert Rudman liked to write in a small reading room off the lobby of the Bristol Hotel, preferring it to his apartment, which was much too quiet and secluded, and his office, which was frenetic and intrusive. The room was subdued and quiet, its floor-to- ceiling brass lamps flared at the top and
m
ounted against the walls, casting soft indirect light off the ceiling on scarlet-and- black-striped silk wallpaper. There were fringed lamps and brass ink wells on the half-dozen mahogany writing desks in the room. The sofas and chairs were leather and the people who sat in them usually whispered as they would in a library.

If he felt the urge for a drink, across the narrow lobby was the hotel bar, a subdued, intimate watering hole with a twenty- foot-long slate bar running the length of one wall, charcoal carpeting, glass-topped pedestal tables and deep-piled chairs. The bartender, Romey, played his favorite records on a Gramophone hidden in a storage closet, his eclectic taste ranging from opera and classics to the latest jazz recordings. Romey was perhaps the rudest bartender in Paris, greeting occasional musical requests from customers with a dour grunt, followed by
‘non.”
He refused to indulge in casual conversation and muttered obscenities to himself when asked to make a drink he personally did not like. But if Romey was less than radiant he made up for it with phenomenal recall, remembering the drink preference of guests he sometimes had not seen for six months or longer.

For two years, Rudman had been keeping a daily journal o his activities, his viewpoints and impressions of the escalatin
g
crisis in Europe, a chronicle of his innermost thoughts and fear an evaluation of the gathering storm.

On this night he was writing an essay about the élan of th
e
French who seemed, on the surface, to ignore the threat to
the
north and east of them. After all, they had the Maginot Line, a string of vertical, concrete buttresses backed up by bunkers that stretched the entire length of the border. That, with the French Army, was supposed to hold back Hitler’s
Wehrmacht.
Rudman thought it was a joke and had so stated in several of his columns, an observation which had hardly endeared him to the French government or the military.

Each night he sat in the writing room with a glass of absinthe and let his thoughts ramble, stretching his subjective viewpoint, adding unproven rumors and predictions on the future of the continent he could not use in his newspaper articles. He had been using the free time before going to work for the
Times
to update the journal, which he called
Overture to
Disaster,
and trying to ignore a persistent inner voice that told him he was actually writing a book. Rudman was not ready yet to accept that responsibility as a reality.

The Bristol Hotel was a small but exclusive hotel catering to steady customers and celebrities who sought the kind of anonymity they would not find at the larger and more famous Ritz. Keegan always stayed at the Bristol. It was a comfortable hotel and because he was known there, he was treated especially well by the managers. The lobby was a long, narrow corridor leading to a small registration desk and an elevator, an open brass and ebony cage. The lobby was bracketed by the reading room on the left and the bar on the right. Keegan and Jenny always came by the reading room when they returned from their nightly forays in search of entertainment. That was Rudman’s sign to quit for the night. They always had a nightcap together.

But tonight they were running late. As Rudman, tired of his own nitpicking rewriting, decided to have another drink, he looked up to see von Meister, the German Embassy attaché, standing across the lobby in the doorway of the bar. Silhouetted by the back-lit glass shelves of liquor behind the bar, he was an intimidating figure, tall and erect, an almost satanic personification of the Third Reich. Von Meister was wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit instead of his uniform, yet Rudman still felt a sudden chill, as if he had walked past an open refrigerator.

“Bon soir,
Monsieur Rudman,” he said. Then, nodding at the journal, “Letting your imagination run rampant as usual?”

Rudman smiled. “I prefer to call it truth.”

“Well, one man’s truth is another man’s lie, correct? I do not know who said that, certainly some astute poet.”

“I’m sure,” Rudman answered.

“I understand your American friend—what was his name again?” Rudman didn’t answer and von Meister waved his hand, as if forgiving the silence. “Ah, yes. Keegan. I understand he is going to marry that German girl.”

“That’s the story going around.”

“I hope they will be very happy,” the German said without conviction.

“I’ll tell them you care.”

Again von Meister indicated Rudman’s journal, this time with a faint smile.

“You hardly have an objective viewpoint,” he said. “I thought that was the mark of a good journalist, objectivity.”

“That what they taught you at Cambridge?”

“What they taught me at Cambridge is of little use to me. What I
learned
at Cambridge is that the British Empire is doomed. The strain is weak. Too much inbreeding.”

“That’s what you thought the last time you took them on and look what happened. You got your ass whipped.”

The German’s smile faded. The muscles in his jaw tightened.

“You know, it is a privilege for you to work in Germany.
We
grant you a visa and
we
can always rescind it. I would not forget that if I were you.”

“I don’t forget anything,” Rudman said.

“How interesting,” von Meister answered. “Neither do I.”

“Christ, you’re an educated man, von Meister. Can’t you see what’s happening to your country? Don’t you have any conscience?”

Von Meister stared at him. “Hitler is my conscience,” he said.

He turned to return to the bar.
“Bon soir,”
he said without turning back. “Give my regards to Herr Keegan and his
de
utsche
lady friend.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast.

Rudman was deeply disturbed by the conversation. His mind was in a perpetual whirl, trying to sort out all the dichotomies of the German situation. He had spent fifteen years off and on in Germany and he thought he knew the people. But the reaction of Germans to the startling rise of Hitler from jailbird to absolute dictator of the country astounded him.

He turned back to his ledger and wrote:

“How could the Germans let this happen? How could they simply give up freedom of speech, freedom of expression, freedom from search and seizure?

“The German people are virtually prisoners in their own country. They are choked by censorship and rampant police excesses. Their literacy and taste are controlled by creative illiterates. Goebbels and his henchmen, supported by religious opportunists, have stripped the libraries of the great books—Kipling, Mark Twain, Dante, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Freud, Proust, Thomas Mann, the list is endless—which they have deemed degenerate, and the museu
m
s of the depraved paintings of Van Gogh, Picasso, Modigliani, Gauguin, Degas and dozens more.

“How can they abide the destruction of the Constitution by judges who are political henchmen, who make their decisions, not on the basis of morality or justice, but simply to appease Hitler and his mob. Legalize sterilization? Legalize lobotomy? These men are
judges!
They legalize everything he does. My God, what crimes are justified in the name of Justice!

“How can a whole nation of basically decent people turn its collective face away from the wholesale robbery, assault and murder of
Jews and political dissidents? Good God, these things are not subtle! It takes an
effort
to look the other way!

“How, indeed?

“Perhaps if we learn the answer to
that
question, we can prevent such a human tragedy from ever happening again.

“But I doubt that we will.

“We never seem to learn.”

A few minutes later Keegan and Jenny came in with their arms wrapped around each other, laughing as usual. He closed the ledger.

“What was it tonight?” Rudman asked, gathering up his papers and putting them in a leather portfolio.

“Le Casino de Paris,” she said, her words rushing together
with excitement. “We saw the Dolly Sisters and the Duke of Windsor and Maurice Chevalier and, who was the fighter, Francis?”

“Jack Sharkey,” he answered and rolled his eyes. “He’s only the ex-heavyweight champion of the world.”

“Another memorable night, eh?” Rudman asked.

“Oh yes,” she said, wrapping her arms in Keegan’s. “Every night is memorable.”

The memory of Wilhelm Vierhaus’s first day in school sometimes intruded on his thoughts without warning, subconsciously triggered by some real or imagined look or word. When that happened, Vierhaus was overwhelmed with awesome fury, made more terrifying by his cold control of his emotions. The object of that fury was always David Kravitz.

He had led a rather sheltered life until that day, his deformity accepted and ignored by family and friends. Although he was aware that the ugly lump of muscle on his shoulder made him different from others, he was not yet aware of how cruel children can be.

The initial offender was David Kravitz, whose family was rich and influential, and who was a kind of self-appointed class leader. It became quickly apparent to Kravitz, an excellent student, that Vierhaus represented a threat. The deformed boy was brilliant, quick to raise his hand in class, always prepared. So David Kravitz set out to demean and discredit Vierhaus, whom he called the “new boy with the mountain on his back.” He implied that the deformity was really the result of some dark and horrible genetic secret, carefully guarded 1y the family. He had once spread the story that Vierhaus, actually an only child, had a sister who was so deformed she was kept in a closet. The other children quickly joined in the conspiracy.

Kravitz was the first person Vierhaus had truly hated and that hatred quickly spread to include all Jews. He reveled in the lies and rumors which the racists spread about them and when Vierhaus read
Mein Kampf
its racial distortions had fired that hatred. It became his Talmud, his Bible, the Psalms that motivated him. Hitler was God, Jews were the Devil and blood was the holy water of life, to be purified, cleansed, Aryanized for the
glory of the Third Reich. He was the perfect Nazi, an intelligent, dedicated man whose blind hatred had replaced moral conviction and whose racism was so vile it was akin to a perverted religious fanaticism in which humiliation, treachery, torture and murder were the rituals.

Vierhaus understood the irony of the fact that he depended so completely on Jews to carry out one of his most important assignments. And so he smiled as he watched through a slit in the door to his sitting room, as Herman Adler was ushered into his office. He checked his watch. He would let him wait for ten minutes. Ten minutes alone in that foreboding room with only paranoia for a companion, what a delicious thought.

Herman Adler sat on the edge of his chair with his satchel clutched against his chest as if he were afraid it would fly away. The room was dark except for two overhead lights, one beaming down on the desk, the other on Adler. The top of the oak desk was empty except for a writing blotter, a telephone and an ashtray. The rest of the office was dark but before Adler’s eyes became accustomed to the deep shadows, the door opened and Vierhaus entered the room, walking with a kind of shuffling gait, trying to minimize the hump on his back. He did not look at Adler. He sat down at his desk, slipped on a pair of glasses, opened a drawer and removed a file folder. He took out a pocket watch and put it on the desk, opened the folder and leafed through the contents, stopping occasionally to read something, nodding and murmuring approval to himself as he scanned the contents.

Finally he lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair. His flinty eyes fixed on Adler, who remained seated on the edge of his chair clutching the satchel.

“So
...
may I call you Herman?’’ He said pleasantly.

“Oh, yes sir, please do.”

“You may call me Professor,” he said, looking back at the file.

“Thank you,
Herr Professor.”

“You have been remarkably successful working in our Genealogy Program, Herman. I have been wanting to meet you personally but
. . .
these are busy times.”

“Of course,
Herr Professor.”

Vierhaus had learned that the more one did, the more Hit
ler demanded. First it had been the intelligence unit, then the Black Lily and now this Genealogy Pro gran-1. He was determined to make the experiment work. While Hi
m
mler and Heydrich were busy with the major problem of dealing with the Jews, Vierhaus was quietly performing his own service with mixed- blood subjects, half, quarter, and one-eighth Jews. It was
difficult
to ferret them out. Adler had turned out to be an invaluable ally in this project.

“I see we share a mutual interest in opera,” he said without looking up. He was not in the slightest interested in Adler’s love of opera; he simply wanted the Jew to know that the SS knew everything about him.

“Yes, it is my first love. When my wife was alive we would take all our holidays in Italy. We went to La Scala every night.”

“How nice. Well, as I was saying, yours is a most impressive record.”

“Thank you,” Adler answered, his head bobbing nervously.

“What is it now, twelve, thirteen families?”

“Fifteen, sir,” Adler said modestly.

“Hmm. Are any of the Jews in your c’3mmunity aware that you are doing this work?”

“No, no, Professor,” Adler said with a look of alarm, “nobody would speak to me.”

“Of course.”

“That is why I come at night to make my reports.”

Vierhaus peered intently at Adler again. He was fifty-four years old, a short man, chunky although not fat, with dimpled hands and soft eyes. His graying black hair was receding and his face was lined and chalky. He was wearing a blue serge suit worn shiny at the elbows and his shirt collar was frayed. A thin line of sweat glistened on his upper lip. Neat but tawdry, thought Vierhaus. Grateful—no, indebted—for the smallest favors.

“I am curious about something, Herman. Does it bother you? Turning up other Jews this way?”

Adler did not have to think, he shook his head immediately.

“It’s the law,” he said. “I think I am lucky to have the opportunity.”

For an instant, Vierhaus’s eyes glittered and his eyebrows rose with surprise. “I must say, that is a most practical point of
view,” he said slowly. He looked back at the papers. “You are a jeweler by trade, yes?”

“Yes. I had my own shop.”

“Was it nationalized?”

“Yes.”

“And your home?”

“Yes.”

“You live at 65 Konigsplatz now. Is that a flat?”

“Yes,
Herr Professor.
One room and a small kitchen.”

“No family, I see.”

“My son was killed on the Western Front in 1916. My wife died three years ago.”

“Yes, a heart attack, I see.”

“Ja.
She never really got over our son Ira’s death.”

“And you also have a heart problem?”

“Minor. I had a small attack a year or so ago. I have my pills just in case. I am quite fit.”

“Good. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You understand, Herman, there are people in the party who disagree with this department’s mixed-blood policy. They feel only full-blooded Jews should be involved in repatriation and emigration. Bureaucrats, mostly. They are slow to come around, bureaucrats thrive on the status quo. That will change with time, of course. In the meantime, the Führer has given me the responsibility of starting this experiment. But you do understand the confidential nature of this work, don’t you, Adler? You don’t even discuss it with other SS personnel.”

“I understand,
Herr Professor.”

“Personally I think four generations is far enough to go back. Eventually the numbers will be overwhelming. So, Adler, there will always be plenty of work for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Perhaps I might even have you elevated to Aryan status. It is done, you know, in cases of special merit. You cannot vote or marry an Aryan woman, but those are minor things. If your success keeps up we can make arrangements for you to move to something a little bigger, more comfortable, maybe get you another shop, eh, even throw a little party business your way?”

Adler closed his eyes. He had heard that the Germans sometimes destigmatized Jews but this was the first official confirmation that it was possible.
My God,
he thought,
to have my own shop again, a decent house, to have the
‘J
’ removed from my ID. To have a sense of freedom again.
It was too much to hope for.

“That would be most generous,
Herr
Professor
,”
Adler said, his voice trembling. His heart began beating faster.

“I offer you another challenge, Herman,” Vierhaus said, standing and walking around the desk. “Herr Himm
l
er would like to bring back some rather influential
Jews who have.
. .
left Germany. These are people who, for many reasons, we would like to have back here. Traitors. Troublemakers in other countries. They are scattered everywhere.”

He waved his hand flamboyantly.’

“Italy, France, Egypt, Greece, America. Any leads you might get for us would be an even bigger feather in your cap. You would not only earn my gratitude, but
Reichsfuhrer
Himmler’s as well. I can provide you with a list of names. You keep your ears open, hmm?”

“I will get on it right away,
Herr Professor.”

Vierhaus patted the Jew on the shoulder,

“Would you like a cigarette?” He took out the package and

shook a cigarette loose. “They are French. Gauloises.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” Adler said, taking it with a shaky hand. When it was lit, Adler opened the briefcase and took out a sheaf of documents.

“I have something here, I think you will be very excited by this.

He laid them very precisely on the desk in front of him. Almost as an afterthought, he then put the case on the floor beside the chair.

“These are family records,” Adler said. “Birth certificates, some interviews with family members, friends. This man Oskar Braun has a bank near Coburg. Very successful.” He shuffled through the papers and stopped at a chart. “I tracked back four generations, four,
Herr Professor,”
Adler said proudly, holding up four fingers. “His maternal grandfather was a
Jew
Joshua Feldstein. He was a cantor in the synagogue and he actually started the bank. I have a list of all the descendants, including nephews and cousins. Forty-six in all.”

“Yes, yes, that’s quite ingenious. The
Schutzsta
f
fe
l
will take care of Herr Braun. But,” Vierhaus said, picking a note from the folder, “it says you have information for my ears alone. What is that about?”

“Yes,
Herr
Professor
.
It is regarding the memorandum you sent around about a month ago.”

“Adler, I write a dozen memoranda a day.”

“This one concerned the Black Lily.”

Vierhaus looked up sharply.

“You have information about the Black Lily?” he said, making no attempt to conceal his sudden interest.

Adler nodded.

“Well
...?“
Vierhaus wiggled his fingers toward Adler as if to coax the information out of him.

Adler shuffled through more papers. “Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Uh, you know about the connection with Reinhardt and..

“Yes, yes, we know all that,” Vierhaus said slowly, taking off his glasses and placing them on the desk. His eyes narrowed to luminous slits, but his voice never changed. If anything, it became more controlled. He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “We arrested Reinhardt, that is past history. I need names, jeweler,
names!”

“I
have
names for you, sir,” Adler stammered fearfully. “And charts.”

He fumbled nervously through his papers and as he did, Vierhaus suddenly and radically changed his mood. This was what he called a “neutral interrogation.” Non
-
adversarial. But he used the same methods he would have used in less friendly encounters, employing subtle changes in temperament combined with equal doses of cruelty and generosity, designed to keep his prey off balance and intimidated. Methods he had learned from the master of the technique, Adolf Hitler. The difference was that Vierhaus, unlike his volatile and psychotic boss, was a study in serpentine control.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked abruptly, with a smile. “It is imported from South America, an excellent brew.”

“Oh, that would be very kind,” Adler said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face. He had been reduced to ersatz coffee months ago. He couldn’t specifically remember the last time he had a cup of real coffee.

Vierhaus got up and went to a corner of the room and turned on a floor lamp. A pot of coffee simmered on a hot plate.

“Cream?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”
Cream. Real cream.

Adler sipped the coffee with his eyes closed, savoring every drop.

“Now, tell me what you know about the Black Lily.”