“Whatever I have to do,” Harry said. “How many of us are left?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said. “The Nazis have taken most of the Jews to the settlement in Milbertshofen, Knorrstrasse 148, and the housing area in Berg am Laim before deporting them to Palestine.”
“They’re not going to Palestine, they’re going to concentration camps: Dachau, Theresienstadt and Auschwitz.” He had this on good faith from prisoners he had met and worked with. Harry could see the bewildered look on the old man’s face. “We have to get out of Germany.”
“Come with me,” the old man said, taking him to the cellar where services were conducted. He gave Harry a name, Recha Sternbuch, and an address on a piece of paper. “If you can get to Montreux, Switzerland, this woman will help you. Do you have money?”
Harry nodded.
“You can take the train. But you will have to bribe the Swiss police. A boy your age traveling alone raises a red flag. I will pray for you.”
Harry slept on a bunk in the cellar of the warehouse synagogue and left the next morning. It was strange walking through the city not wearing the yellow star on his coat, seeing Nazis everywhere. He was nervous at first, and then got used to being disguised as a normal German, no one taunting him, giving him a hard time, no one even noticing him.
He walked two miles to the train station, stood in the terminal, studying the board that listed departures, and bought a ticket to Montreux. He went to track 23. He would be out of Germany, free in a few hours.
The train was there, so he got on and took a seat in the middle of the car next to the window. He watched people come down the aisle and fit their luggage on the overhead rack. He heard the soldiers before he saw them, six SS officers in gray-green uniforms, peaked caps, jodhpurs and black jackboots. They sounded drunk, laughing and talking loudly.
Harry sank down in his seat and looked out the window. A train had just pulled in on the next track and people were getting out. He glanced over at the soldiers, accidentally made eye contact with one of them, and looked away. He saw the man out of the corner of his eye, saw him get up and start down the aisle.
Harry could feel his heart banging in his chest.
“You are traveling alone?”
Harry looked up at him and nodded.
“Where are you going?” He had a pistol in a black holster on his hip.
“Montreux,” Harry said. “To visit my grandmother.”
The Nazi glanced at the empty luggage rack. “What is your name?”
“Volker Spengler.” That was the name on his ID, the name his father had chosen for some reason. Probably because it sounded so German.
The Nazi said, “How old are you, Volker Spengler?”
“Fourteen,” Harry said, trying to stay calm.
The Nazi sat down next to him, and Harry felt his pulse take off. He leaned back against the window, trying to move away from the man, give himself a little room.
“Are you all right? You seem nervous.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said, heart pounding.
The Nazi said, “What do you have to be nervous about?”
“Nothing.” He could feel his palms sweat and rubbed them on his pant legs.
The Nazi was staring at the sleeves of his coat covering half of his hands.
“This is yours? It looks too big for you.”
“My cousin grew out of it and gave it to me.”
“Let me see your papers.”
Harry took the ID out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. The Nazi opened it, looked at the photograph and back at Harry.
“Where are your parents?”
“My father was in the Heer, killed in action. The battle of Kutno.” Harry remembered his father talking about it at dinner one night. “My mother works at Dachau, secretary to the commandant.”
“What is his name?”
“Herr Weiss.”
The Nazi nodded and got up, keeping his eyes on Harry. Handed him his ID and went down the aisle.
Eight
Detroit, Michigan. 1971.
“He’s a voting member of the Christian Social Union of Bavaria,” Bob Stark said. “The CSU operates in alliance with the Social Democratic Party. Each maintains its own structure, but they form a common caucus in the Bundestag, the German parliament.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” Harry said.
“Ernst Hess is politically well connected. I’m not saying he’s going to, but some day he could run for chancellor of Germany.”
They were in Stark’s office on the fortieth floor of the Penobscot Building. Stark was a friend, an international attorney, tenacious, self-made, put himself through law school working a fulltime job. Spoke fluent French and Italian, and passable German. The smoke from his cigarette drifted up toward the ceiling. Stark picked a piece of paper up from his desktop and started reading.
“The German government has a democratic constitution that emphasizes the protection of individual liberty, and division of powers in a federal structure.”
Stark looked over the top of the page, met his gaze.
“Protection of individual liberty, huh?” Harry said. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“They’ve changed,” Stark said with a grin.
“Seven hundred and fifty years of anti-Semitism and now they’re tolerant. What do you think was the big influence?”
“Got their ass kicked in World War Two.” Stark puffed on his cigarette.
“What was Hess doing in Washington?”
“Meeting with construction companies, selling the capabilities of his airships. Hess builds Zeppelins.” Stark put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Claims he’s a distant relative of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, who invented the first one in 1900.”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked it up,” Stark said. “Remember the Hindenburg? Crashed and burst into flames over New Jersey in 1937. It was the largest flying machine of its kind ever built. Eight hundred and eight feet long. Almost three football fields.” He paused, straightening the knot of his red paisley tie. “Hess is trying to revive the concept. He’s developed an experimental line of airships that are smaller, lighter, faster and more practical. We’re not talking about the Goodyear blimp. Hess’ airships have an internal skeleton, built to carry more weight. Perfect for transporting heavy equipment and supplies to inaccessible areas: ski resorts, coastal developments.”
“Doesn’t this strike you as a little odd, a German politician with diplomatic status coming here for personal gain?”
“What’s good for Ernst Hess is good for Germany,” Stark said. “I’ve looked into it. You want to sue him? Say the word, I’ll file charges.”
“What’s that going to do?”
“Bring attention to what happened to Sara, public outrage.
“I don’t want to start a crusade,” Harry said. “This is personal.”
“It might get you a settlement.”
“I don’t want money.”
“What do you want?”
Harry said, “Where’s he live?”
“I don’t know,” Stark said. “Somewhere in Bavaria would be my guess. What do you have in mind?”
Harry looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“You want to find out more about Hess, I can call Fedor Berman. Private investigator, lives in Munich. He’s a survivor like you.”
Harry went to the gun range on Grand River. Took the .357 Mag out of his pocket and pushed in his earplugs. He held the revolver with two hands. Fired six rounds at a paper target from thirty feet, putting all of the shots, perfect cylindrical holes, where he wanted them, mid-chest on the black outline of a man. Reloaded and did it again.
After, he went to his office where he hadn’t been for almost two weeks, sat at his desk, shuffled through the mail, opened a letter from the IRS. According to their audit findings, S&H Recycling Metals underpaid on its 1970 Federal Tax return and owed $17,500, payment due by September 15, 1971. Harry paid all the bills and signed a dozen blank checks. Picked up the phone and told Phyllis to come in.