Two years later, weighing a few pounds more, aged seventeen and hungry as a rat, with that creature’s suspicion and mistrust of everyone and everything, he had come on a ship called the President Warfield, alias the Exodus, to a new shore many miles from Karlsruhe and Dachau.
The passing years had mellowed him, matured him, taught him many things, given him a wife and two children, a commission in the army, but never eliminated the hatred he felt for the country to which he was traveling that day. He had agreed to go, to swallow his feelings, to take up again, as he had done twice before in the previous ten years, the façade of amiability and bonhomie that was necessary to effect his transformation back into a German.
The other requirements had been provided by the service: the passport in his breast pocket, the letters, cards, and documentary paraphernalia of a citizen of a West European country, the underclothes, shoes, suits, and luggage of a German commercial traveler in textiles.
As the heavy and freezing clouds of Europe engulfed the plane he reconsidered his mission, fed into him in days and nights of briefing by the quiet-spoken colonel on the kibbutz that produced so little fruit and so many Israeli agents. To follow a man, to keep an eye on him, a young German four years his junior, while that man sought to do what several had tried and failed to do, infiltrate the Odessa.
To observe him and measure his success, to note the persons he contacted and was passed on to, check on his findings, ascertain if the German could trace the recruiter of the new wave of German scientists headed for Egypt to work on the rockets. Never to expose himself, never to take matters into his own hands. Then to report back with the sum total of what the young German had found out before he was “blown” or discovered, one of which was bound to happen. lie would do it; be did not have to enjoy doing it, that was not part of the requirement. Fortunately, no one required that he like becoming a German again. No one asked him to enjoy mixing with Germans, speaking their language, smiling and joking with them. Had this been asked, he would have refused the job. For he hated them all, the young reporter he was ordered to follow included. Nothing, he was certain, would ever change that.
The following day Oster and Miller had their last visit from Leon. Apart from Leon and Motti, there was a new man, sun-tanned and fit-looking, much younger than the others. Miller adjudged the new man to be in his midthirties. He was introduced simply as Josef. He said nothing throughout.
“By the way,” Motti told Miller, “I drove your car up here today. I’ve left it in a public parking lot down in the town, by the market square.” He tossed Miller the keys, adding, “Don’t use it when you go to meet the Odessa. For one thing, it’s too noticeable; for another, you’re supposed to be a bakery worker on the run after being spotted and identified as a former camp guard. Such a man would not have a Jaguar.
When you go, travel by rail.” Miller nodded his agreement, but privately he regretted being separated from his beloved Jaguar.
“Right. Here is your driving license, complete with your photograph as you now look. You can tell anyone who asks that you drive a Volkswagen but you have left it in Bremen, as the number could identify you to the police.” Miller scanned the driving license. It showed himself with his short hair but no mustache. The one he now had could simply be explained as a precaution, grown since he was identified.
“The man who, unknown to him, is your guarantor, left from Bremerhaven on a cruise ship on the morning tide. This is the former SS colonel, now a bakery-owner and your former employer. His name is Joachim Eberhardt.
Here is a letter from him to the man you are going to see. The paper is genuine, taken from his office. The signature is a perfect forgery. The letter tells its recipient that you are a good former SS man, reliable, now fallen on misfortune after being recognized, and it asks the recipient to help you acquire a new set of papers and a new identity.” Leon passed the letter across to Miller. He read it and put it back in its envelope.
“Now seal it,” said Leon.
Miller did so. “Who’s the man I have to present myself to?” he asked.
Leon held out a sheet of paper with a name and address on it. “This is the man,” he said. “He lives in Nuremberg. We’re not certain what he was in the war, for he almost certainly has a new name. However, of one thing we are quite certain. He is very high up in the Odessa. He may have met Eberhardt, who is a big wheel in the Odessa in North Germany. So here is a photograph of Eberhardt the baker. Study it, in case your man asks for a description of him from you. Got that?” Miller looked at Eberhardt’s photograph and nodded.
“When you are ready, I suggest a wait of a few days until Eberhardt’s ship is beyond the reach of ship-to-shore radio-telephone. We don’t want the man you will see to get through a telephone call to Eberhardt while the ship is still off the German coast. Wait till it’s in mid-Atlantic. I think you should probably present yourself on next’ Thursday morning.” Miller nodded.
“All right. Thursday it is.”
“Two last things,” said Leon. “Apart from trying to trace Roschmann, which is your desire, we also would like some information. We want to know who is now recruiting scientists to go to Egypt and develop Nasser’s rockets for him. The recruiting is being done by the Odessa, here in Germany. We need to know specifically who the new chief recruiting officer is.
Secondly, stay in touch. Use public telephones and phone this number.” He passed a piece of paper across to Miller. “The number will always be manned, even if I am not there. Report in whenever you get anything.” Twenty minutes later, the group was gone.
In the back seat of the car on their way back to Munich, Leon and Josef sat side by side, the Israeli agent hunched in his comer and silent. As they left the twinkling lights of Bayreuth behind them Leon nudged Josef with his elbow. “Why so gloomy?” he asked. “Everything is going fine.” Josef glanced at him.
“How reliable do you reckon this man Miller?” he asked.
“Reliable? He’s the best chance we have ever had for penetrating the Odessa. You heard Oster. He can pass for a former SS man in any company, provided he keeps his head.” Josef retained his doubts.
“My brief was to watch him at all times,” he grumbled. “I ought to be sticking to him when he moves, keeping an eye on him, reporting back on the men he is introduced to and their position in the Odessa. I wish I’d never agreed to let him go off alone and check in by phone when he sees fit. Supposing he doesn’t check in?” Leon’s anger was barely controlled. It was evident they had been through this argument before.
“Now, listen one more time. This man is my discovery. His infiltration into the Odessa was my idea. He’s my agent. I’ve waited years to get someone where he is now-a non-Jew. I’m not having him exposed by someone tagging along behind him.”
“He’s an amateur. I’m a pro,” growled the agent.