Pursuit (47 page)

“Poland,” Steiner said succinctly. “October 1939. Near Lezsno, as near as we can tell.”

The officers on the screen nodded to one another, raised their arms in an abrupt Nazi salute, and marched off. Only von Schraeder remained, rolling up the maps, smiling broadly. The camera came in close, wobbling a bit as if it had been taken from its tripod and was being hand-held for the close-up. Von Schraeder winked first with one eye, then with the other, laughed, and turned away. Herzl frowned. There was something in the way von Schraeder had half saluted, something in the manner in which he rolled up the maps, that teased Herzl's memory. And that winking first with one eye and then with the other … But before he could follow up the thought there was a click, the usual slight stutter from the projector, and they were looking at a new scene. His attention moved with the film.

“Maidanek,” Steiner said, and added a trifle apologetically, “We have nothing from his time in Russia although he spent almost a year there. The Russians undoubtedly must have some captured film, but—” He shrugged.

The scene was basically like the one in the first book he had seen, the photograph taken by the brave but foolhardy prisoner. In this one, however, no prisoners or civilians could be seen. The film showed an open area with four uniformed officers standing about as if waiting for someone or something, and while the identifying tall chimney seen in the book was not in evidence, the barracks-like buildings were there, and the barbed-wire fence that stretched almost out of sight before bending to disappear behind a tiny watchtower in the distance, clearly identifying the place as a concentration camp. The men spoke idly to one another and then suddenly could be seen coming to attention, drawing themselves in a line. The camera swung; a car was drawing up, coming to a stop in the area. The driver got down and hurried around the long black sedan to open the rear door and instantly spring to rigid attention. The man who got down wore a monocle; he was tall and quite thin, and impeccably uniformed.

“Eichmann,” Steiner said a bit breathlessly. “Eichmann,” he repeated softly, excitedly, and fell silent, watching as if he had never seen the clip before.

Eichmann approached the line of men, smiled, and extended his hand, shaking hands cordially with each one in turn. Then he stepped back and one by one the officers facing him stepped forward to be rewarded with medals which Eichmann took from an attendant at his side and pinned to the man's uniform blouse. Von Schraeder was the last to step forward, bend rigidly at the waist for a fraction of an inch, straighten, and stand like a statue while the medal was pinned to his chest. Like the others he then stepped backward one pace and saluted.

That was when the resemblance struck Herzl—

That raised arm—or, rather, that half-raised arm! That movement in rolling up the maps, as if the full extension of the arm to roll them up in one smooth motion was somehow lacking! And that wink, first with the left eye and then with the right! Benjamin Grossman used to amuse his young son with that droll grimace many years before, laughing afterward and tickling his giggling youngster.

He sat, stunned, as the lights went on and Steiner started to respool the film, talking as he did so.

“It's all we have on the man, I'm sorry but that's all, as I say the Russians may have more but … A pity so much was destroyed, ah, yes, criminal, criminal! Lucky we even have this … oh, yes …”

Herzl sat and stared at the blank screen, trying to bring his confused thoughts into some order. It was a coincidence, of course, a monstrous coincidence. Helmut von Schraeder was dead, that had been witnessed and attested to; he had died of typhus at Buchenwald. The Germans were too organized to make a mistake on something like that. And Benjamin Grossman was alive, a hero of Israel, a brigadier general in the army, as well as being a wonderful father. What he, Herzl, had been thinking was not only impossible, but was stupid, vicious, and cruel. Someone had once postulated a theory that everyone in the world had a double somewhere, someone born the instant he was born, who acted in every respect as he acted, who looked in every respect as he looked—except that the one who resembled von Schraeder in that uncanny fashion was not Benjamin Grossman, but his son. But it had to be a coincidence, because anything else was too dreadful to contemplate. And besides, Helmut von Schraeder was dead.…

He could not remember getting up, leaving the small projection room without even thanking the voluble Rolf Steiner, or finding the stairs to the first floor and then to the second. He walked through the door into the large library and stared at Miriam Kleiman as if he had never seen her before.

She was shocked by the blankness on his face, by the ashen complexion.

“You are all right? Is the film bothering you?”

“Von Schraeder,” he said, and it sounded to him as if the words were coming from some disembodied person at his side. “What do you have on his death? The details?”

She looked puzzled. “But I am showing you everything yesterday. It is all we have except for the testimony on the war trials that you are already reading—”

“I don't remember. Could I see—?”

“Of course.”

She hurried to the stacks while Herzl sank down in a chair and stared numbly at the table. When at last she brought the proper volume and slid it before him, opened to the proper page, he stared at the book for several moments before shaking his head violently as if to clear it of cobwebs, and then forced himself to concentrate on the words before him. Miriam Kleiman retreated to her desk slowly, and watched him anxiously, perplexed at what could have effected the profound change in the young man in such a short time. He had seemed such a stable sort, but possibly he was not; as she recalled, the films were certainly not that disturbing.

Testimony of Colonel Reginald Manley-Jones, British Army interrogator at Bergen-Belsen camp after liberation.

Herzl turned the page, feeling better, ashamed of himself for the gross and unwarranted suspicions he had entertained. Colonel Helmut von Schraeder was dead, all right.

Herzl stared at the words in shock, and then slowly closed the book as if he could also close the information from his mind with the motion, but the words stood out in large letters in his brain.

Benjamin Grossman.

Benjamin Grossman, the only one to see Helmut von Schraeder die, the one who had sewed him into the burial sack and saw that he was cremated. Benjamin Grossman, who the testimony said worked in Ward Forty-six; but Herzl's Uncle Max had told him once that his father, Benjamin Grossman, had been in Ward Forty-six as a victim of bestial experimental surgery. Surgery. Scars. Surgery, Herzl suddenly thought, but
plastic
surgery! Benjamin Grossman, who came from Hamburg where all records were destroyed, most probably born when Helmut von Schraeder died! Benjamin Grossman, graduate in mechanical engineering, fierce and fearless warrior …

Herzl became aware that someone was talking, that it was not just an echo in his mind. He looked up and saw it was a girl sitting at a desk.

“Did you say something? Were you speaking to me?”

“I ask if you are all right. You are not looking too very well—”

“I'm—” What had he wanted to ask her? Oh, yes. “Do you have any further information on von Schraeder—any other books you might have missed, anything at all?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

He remembered something else, but at the moment could not recall where he had heard it. “Somebody said something about another library. In London, I believe?”

“I am telling you myself, last night,” she said, and now she sounded really worried. “The Wiener Library. It's on Devonshire Street, number four. Why? You go there? When?”

“Tonight,” he said vaguely. “This afternoon, if I can.” He remembered something else. “Is it possible to get copies of the film clips I saw this morning?”

“Yes. There is a laboratory in town who does this work.”

He drew his checkbook from his pocket, scribbled his signature, and tore the check out, handing it over.

“Fill in the amount,” he said. “Add postage. Airmail, first-class, to—” He stopped to think a moment, his mind still foggy. “To Zion Films, to my attention. Herzl Grossman.” He fumbled in his pocket for his letter of introduction, handing it over. “The address …”

She accepted it, looking at him strangely, wondering for a moment if there had been anything she might have said or done to cause this sudden change in him, in his attitude toward her, in his plans. Surely he understood that a girl did not let a man take her home the first date. But that was ridiculous; they were strangers, and he had been so friendly when he first arrived that morning. A pity he was leaving; he was very attractive and she would have liked to have dinner with him again, to get to know him better, and even let him take her home this time. But he obviously had not been serious, he had forgotten already. A pity …

“Wait, I write down the Wiener Library address for you,” she said, and reached for a slip of paper. “I am also giving you a little note to them,” she added, and wrote.

He waited, staring around the room, his mind in a state of shock. He was the son of Helmut von Schraeder! How long before the same tendencies would appear in him, the same ability to kill and kill and kill without conscience? But it could not be; violence disgusted him, blood sickened him—or was this something he had inherited from his mother? What had someone said to him recently? We are all monsters.… But the entire thing had to be a mistake, a horrible coincidence but a coincidence just the same. Benjamin Grossman, his father, the same man as Helmut von Schraeder? Ridiculous!

Actually, what was the basis for this vicious canard? The similarity of his looking like the man; the fact that Benjamin Grossman was the only witness to the death of the man, a pure coincidence since obviously someone had to sew him into his shroud and it just happened to be a prisoner named Grossman; the uniqueness of a few similar gestures that a thousand or a million men probably used to entertain their children, winking with alternate eyes! Looked at in this light, or any other rational light, the suspicion was idiotic.…

He became aware the girl was handing him something. What—? Oh, yes, of course, the address of the library in London and a note to the personnel there. He tucked it into his jacket pocket without looking at it.

“Thank you,” he said without realizing he had said it, and walked blindly from the room.

The people at the Wiener Library in London were as helpful as possible, but the fact was they had nothing to add to what he had learned about Helmut von Schraeder in Munich. Fingerprints? No, there was no record of any for many of the Nazi war criminals; ODESSA had seen to that. Yes, they were quite sure; the Allies had made a search in depth. Photographs? They had the same studio picture as well as the same book photograph, but that was all. The librarian who helped him was a Miss Pizer, an elderly lady, and he remembered with a sharp pang Miriam Kleiman and wondered at his cavalier action in walking out without giving her the courtesy of an explanation. True, he had been stunned, but in retrospect that seemed like a small excuse. He really should call her, try to explain—but what would he say? I'm almost positive I'm the son of Helmut von Schraeder, the Monster of Maidanek, the man who was responsible for the gassing and burning of over a million people, including Germans like yourself. How would you like to have dinner with me and possibly get to know me well enough even to fall in love?

Or
am
I the son of Helmut von Schraeder? Wouldn't I have felt it before this if I were? Could my mother, Deborah, have fallen as much in love as she obviously is with a murderer like von Schraeder? At least Herzl was responsible enough, now, to order photocopies of the pictures, and the testimony of Colonel Manley-Jones, as well as the other facts from the files before leaving the library, and then he left to trudge the streets of London, unable to resolve the problem.