The silver Zeppelin was gone when Harry came out of Martz’ house an hour later and walked back to his hotel. He crossed the lobby, stopped at the front desk and asked the clerk if there were any messages for Harry Levin.
“Herr Berman is in the lounge waiting for you.”
Harry saw him sitting at a table, a stocky, ruddy-faced man wearing a tweed sport coat, reading the newspaper. Stark said Fedor Berman had spent three years at Auschwitz. He was the only person in the bar, and looked up as Harry approached. “Herr Berman, Harry Levin.”
The man stood up and they shook hands. He pulled a chair out for Harry. “Bitte.”
They sat at opposite sides of the table. “Will you join me in a drink?”
Harry ordered a beer. “Bob Stark tells me you’re a skier.”
“I spend the morning hiking, walking up the hills I will be skiing down in a couple months. Must get the legs ready.”
Berman poured schnapps in his coffee and sipped it. Opened a briefcase on the chair next to him, took out a manila envelope and handed it to Harry. He opened the envelope and slid out the contents, a dozen photographs of a country estate shot from different angles, and several pictures of Hess’ airship factory. “Where does he live?”
“Schleissheim,” Berman said. “His main residence. Thirteen kilometers north of here. He has a sophisticated security system and a security team watching the estate.”
“Who’s the big guy that’s always with Hess?”
“Arno Rausch. His bodyguard. He’s worked for him since the end of the war.” Berman paused. “Hess also has an apartment in the city.”
Berman handed him a photograph of the building, the address written at the bottom in the margin. He drank his coffee and schnapps.
“Have you been to Munich before, Herr Levin?”
“A long time ago,” Harry said.
“Enjoy your stay. If I can be of further assistance—”
“There is one more thing,” Harry said. “I need a gun.”
Nine
Montreux, Switzerland. 1942.
The four Nazis got off the train at Konstanz, the blond SS Sturmbannführer eyeing him as he walked by. The train stopped again at the border. The rabbi had told him Swiss authorities were cracking down on refugees trying to enter the country. Jews who were caught were deported or handed over to the Nazis.
Swiss police boarded, checking papers. A heavyset officer, hat pulled low over his eyes, looked Harry up and down the way the Nazi had, as if he was guilty of something. Studied his identification, glanced from the photo to his face.
“Volker Spengler,” he said. “A German boy traveling alone in a time of war. Where is your visa?”
“I don’t have one,” Harry said.
“How do you expect to enter this country without a visa?”
“I’m going to stay with my grandmother.”
“Where does she live?”
“Montreux,” Harry said. “She is the only relative I have left. My father was killed in France during the invasion, my mother in Hamburg by an Allied bomb.”
“We have a strict policy concerning refugees.”
Harry had five hundred marks folded in his pocket, hoping it was enough. The rest of the money was hidden in the linings of his shoes. He handed the bribe to the policeman. “My grandmother asked me to give you this. To thank you, to show her gratitude for helping me.”
The policeman looked at the folded pile of bills, tucked it in the front pocket of his uniform shirt. “Welcome to Switzerland, Herr Spengler.”
He was finally free but didn’t trust the feeling. After all that had happened he couldn’t let himself relax. Thought about his parents, took the photograph out of his pocket, Harry posing with his mother and father in front of their house. He slid the picture in his pocket and looked out the window at the lush countryside, mountains in the distance, reminding him of Bavaria.
The train went on to Montreux, arriving in the late afternoon. He got off, walked into the station and found a city map in a rack next to the ticket booth. He went outside, studying the street grid of Montreux. He had no idea where he was going and asked a policeman for directions. It took twenty minutes to walk to the Sternbuch residence. He found the address and knocked on the door. It opened and a bearded man in a fedora said, “What can I do for you?”
He looked about forty, wore round tortoiseshell glasses and a shirt and tie.
“I’m looking for Frau Sternbuch.”
“And you are?”
“Harry Levin.”
“I’m Yitzchok, her husband.”
They talked for a couple minutes, Yitzchok asking where he was from, and where were his parents, and how he had escaped?
There were tables set up in the main room, people sitting around them drinking coffee and talking. It looked like a party. Yitzchok led him through the house to the dining room. A woman wearing what looked like a turban was sitting at the middle of the table, speaking to a group of bearded men wearing hats like the husband’s. She saw them enter the room and stopped talking. The men at the table turned to look at him.
“Recha, I want to introduce you to Harry Levin, a Dachau survivor from Munich.”
The woman stood and came around the table, her face telling him she understood what he’d been through. She put her arms around him, held him the way his mother did.
“Harry, there is nothing to worry about. You are safe,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It is a blessing you have joined us for Shabbos.”
Now the men got up, came over and shook his hand. It was a bit overwhelming these strangers welcoming him like this.
They lit candles and had Shabbos dinner, Recha Sternbuch, her family and forty displaced French, Czech and German Jews, a rabbi saying prayers, people passing platters of food. After dinner the tables were taken out of the rooms downstairs and replaced by mattresses where the refugees slept. It was an open house for anyone who didn’t have a place to stay.
Recha put Harry in a room upstairs with her son, Avrohom‚ who was thirteen, nice quiet kid who had a book in his hands, reading by lamplight.
“What is that?” Harry said.
“Talmudic scripture. Historical writings of the ancient rabbis. It is the legal code that forms the basis of religious law.”
“This is what you read for pleasure?”
Avrohom looked like he didn’t understand.
“What does it say? Read something.”
“Here is a passage: Babia Mezia 114b. ‘The Jews are called human beings, but the non-Jews are not humans. They are beasts.’”
“It should be changed to ‘the Nazis are beasts.’”
“You were in Dachau, my mother said. What was it like?”
Harry told him the whole story, the kid listening without expression.
“God was sitting up in the sky watching over you,” Avrohom said.
Harry didn’t see it that way, but didn’t say anything. The Sternbuchs were deeply religious Orthodox Jews. He didn’t want to offend them.
Recha cabled his uncle in Detroit the following week.
Harry Levin is alive and well, living with us in Montreux, Switzerland. Will arrange for passage to the United States when possible. Please send visa.
Harry stayed with them in Montreux till the end of the war. Recha and Yitzchok were gone most of the time on their crusade to rescue Jewish children, the orphans of Europe. She was the toughest woman he’d ever seen, standing up to the police in Switzerland, and the authorities in other European countries, protecting refugees, saving thousands of kids.
When the war ended, Harry and a group of five hundred Jews sponsored by Recha took a train to Lisbon and boarded a ship on August 20, 1945, arriving in the port of New York two weeks later.