by Joseph Kanon
“Until the next one,” the doctor said, leaving. “A few minutes only,” he said to Aaron.
Fritz put on his coat. “I’m sorry, I would stay but my editor—”
“No, no, please. I can’t thank you enough.”
Fritz handed him a card. “Let me know how he is. If there’s any change.”
Aaron looked at him, a new thought. “You’re not putting this in the paper, are you?”
Fritz shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s not such a big story. The Time cover? How long ago was that?” Then, hearing himself, slightly embarrassed, “Maybe you can get him to slow down a little now. You can’t get all the Nazis. Too many. Or none, if you believe them.” He nodded again to his card. “Call if there’s a change. Then it’s news.”
When Fritz had gone, Aaron walked across the room, jittery, an expectant father pacing, then stood at the window watching clouds move in and cover the sky. Real Hamburg weather, gray as the Elbe, turning cold and raw, as if some door were closing on the Indian summer afternoon, closing on him, stuck here now.
Max’s room faced the city, not the lake, a window framing rooftops and a steeple, dimmed by the cloud cover and the sheer curtains the nurse had pulled across.
“Let him sleep,” the doctor said, almost a whisper. “You’re the son?”
“Nephew.”
“It’s just—someone has to sign papers.”
Aaron nodded. Back with Herschel, the stifling room, the one responsible.
He sat in a chair by the bed listening to Max breathe, a steady rhythm, a child sleeping. Maybe you can get him to slow down a little. The Time cover? How long ago was that?
“Is he gone?” Max, clearing his throat but audible, not weak.
“Yes.”
“Good. We can talk.”
“You need to sleep.”
“I’m dying and you’re quarreling.”
“How do you feel?” Aaron said, a step back.
“How do I feel.”
“The doctor said you’d be here a few days.”
Max nodded, accepting this, then waved his hand. “Is there a little water?”
Aaron poured some, then held the glass to Max’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Max said. “That’s better. You get dry. Now listen to me. It’s important. I know what you’re thinking—he’s over the deep end, delirium, something worse. But I’m fine—that part anyway. And I know what I’m talking about. So listen.”
“Max—”
“I don’t see ghosts, I’m not crazy. It was Otto.”
“He’s dead,” Aaron said quietly.
“It’s a mistake. Somebody made a mistake. It was him.”
“You thought he was dead.”
“So I can make a mistake too.”
Aaron raised his eyebrows.
“But not this. Not about him.”
“You didn’t even see his face.”
“I saw enough.”
“After how many years, for one second. Not even. And that was enough.”
Max paused, regrouping. “I don’t need to see his face. I saw him walk. In front of me. Do you know how many times I walked behind him? While he made the selection? He would make me come, walk behind him while he did it. Left to the gas, right to the barracks. For work. Over and over. Do you think I could ever forget that? How he walked? And then today—” He put up his hand. “All right. I’m not getting excited. I’m just telling you something. I would put my life on it. My life.”
Aaron looked away. Defuse it. “I thought Mengele made the selections.”
“He did. He enjoyed it. Humming sometimes. Looking for his twins. All those poor children. Barrack 14. The Zoo, they called it. And then they’d move them to the Gypsy camp for the experiments.” He caught himself. “But he couldn’t be there all the time. For the selection. So sometimes Schramm did it. Schumann too, or one of the other doctors, always a doctor. A medical decision if they could work. But mostly Schramm. He was under Mengele. Even though he was older, my age. So a little friction there. They didn’t like each other—it was always formal with them. But Otto did the sterilization tests, and they were interested in that in Dahlem, at the Institute, so Mengele never interfered. And if he couldn’t do the selection, then Otto. His second in command. That’s how everything happened. Because he was making the selection the day I arrived. What should we call it, fate? Not luck. Not luck.” He broke off, upset.
“Max, don’t—”
“I’m all right. You have to know. What he is to me. Then tell me if I could make a mistake. Not know him. Just the walk. Out for a stroll. While he was sending people to their deaths.” He stopped and swallowed, then picked up the thread again, his voice steady now, a willed calm, pacing himself.
“So. That day. You read about it, you think you know. But you don’t know the smell. The noise. Shouting. The dogs. They unlocked the doors. Finally. Days on that train. No water. And Daniel is with me. Ruth, you know, was already dead a year by then. A nervous temperament, always. I think the fear killed her. Not a very scientific diagnosis but science doesn’t know everything. Not Ruth. So the two of us. Holding on to me. And the doors open and people are yelling, and you have to jump. The train, it’s high for a little boy, so I jump and then lift him down. And his eyes, watching everything. The size of it. Barracks and then more barracks, you couldn’t see to the end. All the chimneys. Guards with clubs. The dogs, he was afraid of the dogs. So he held on to me like this.” He clutched Aaron’s hand. “The children, they’re mostly with their mothers, not in the men’s line, but he’s with me. And Otto comes to the platform. For his stroll. And he sees me. He knows me, from university. “Max, it’s you?” Then he shouts, ‘Any doctors, stand out of line. Over here.’ And I thought, he’s trying to save me, a special work detail, not hard labor. We studied medicine together. He’s helping me, without showing the others. So of course I stand out of line. With Daniel. Still holding me.” He clutched again. “And Otto points with his stick—go with the other children. And he says to me, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see him later. After the delousing.’ So what could I do?” He opened his hand, letting Aaron’s fall away. “I nod, it’s OK, and he goes to the other line. To the gas, I learned later. I didn’t know then. And Otto doesn’t say a word. He watches him go and he turns to me. ‘You’ll work with me. We need doctors.’ A smile. Knowing Daniel is walking to— A child. Imagine how frightened, to see everyone naked. Grown-ups. He’s never seen this before. Alone. But maybe some mother looked after him. And then of course the doors closing and the screaming—”
He stopped again. “But we’re walking, the doctors, and Otto is with us and while we’re walking he must have known Daniel was dying, how he was dying, and—what? There’s some pleasure in this? Talking to me while he’s killing my son. Don’t worry, you’ll see him later. And when I don’t, what do I say? Because by that time I know if I say anything, I’ll be gassed too. So we pretend to be colleagues. The other doctors, they mostly worked with the prisoners. Prisoners with prisoners. To keep them alive, so they could work. Try to stop the typhus. They were afraid the guards would catch it. What doctors do. But me, I work with him. He tells me to do things. I do them. Never an actual killing. He’s clever. Never a situation where you break and you can’t do it. But look what you are doing. We worked with X-rays. They had the idea to sterilize people with them. It was a question of when, how long an exposure. The women they worked on in Block 10. Auschwitz 1. Terrible things. Tumors in the fallopian tubes. The pain. Burns in the uterus. We were in Birkenau, the men. Boys, really. Pubescent. The genitals placed on a metal plate, then the X-rays. How long? Different times, sometimes very bad burns. Another group, physical castration, one testicle, both, which is more effective? As if this is a real question. And after the X-rays? Semen samples to test for fertility. Otto did it with a piece of wood, like a club, up the rectum to rub the prostate until the semen was discharged. So the boys were—humiliated? No, whatever’s worse. Of course, later they were killed, wit
h the others, so— He didn’t make me do this. But I was part of it. Part of the experiments. He made me—complicit. Think what that means. To be part of it. He liked watching me struggle with this. And give in. We always gave in. Or it was the gas. So we were like him. What he did, we did. Complicit. Daniel? They were going to kill him anyway. The children were the first to go. Nothing would have saved him. It was the way things were there. But this other? A special torture. Making me part of it, the same kind of murderer, using science to cover what we were doing. No better than him. He took my soul. So let me ask you, if you were me, in my place, would you forget how such a man walked? Would you know him?”
Aaron looked at him, his mind swimming. X-ray plates and inflamed scrotums, whimpering. Mothers taking off their clothes, eyes wide with terror. The choking, gasping for air. All the stories, all of them familiar and yet each time new, looking into the dark pit of what was possible.
“Yes,” he said, the expected answer.
“Yes,” Max said, lying back on his pillow, closing his eyes. “It was him.”
Aaron waited.
“And now I can’t do it,” Max said. “Not by myself. With this.” He opened his eyes. “You have to help me. This one thing. Not a guard this time. A monster. It’s worth everything to get him.”
“How? Tell the police he’s still alive? Because you had a feeling.”
“It was him. You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you think you saw him. Maybe you did. Let’s say you did. How do you prove it? Otto Schramm back in Germany? Walking down the busiest street in Hamburg, where anybody could see him. It makes sense to do that?”
“Somebody did see him. Me.” He raised his finger. “But he doesn’t know it. That’s our piece of luck. Our advantage. He thinks he’s safe. Why not show yourself? Take a walk? He’s arrogant. And he’s supposed to be dead. Nobody expects to see him. So he’s invisible. Except to me. And now I’ve lost him. He’s there and then—” He made a poofing sound.
“You haven’t lost him.” Trying to sound as if he meant it.
“You think he takes a walk every day?” Max shook his head. “Maybe a good-bye walk.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He’s arrogant, but he’s not crazy—not that way. He can never live in Germany again. Even as a dead man. Too many people know that face. The risk— So, a visit only. A visit you can manage. If you’re careful. Of course, a new passport. Helmut Braun is dead.”
“Who?”
“The name he was using. How many years I tried to find that name. What good were records without a name to check? Once there was a letter from a Jew in Buenos Aires. He thinks he recognizes Schramm. Now Braun. But I’m already looking at so many. It’s a common name. Where do you start? And anyway, what about all the other letters? The leads. Why this one and not them? Then, when he dies, the name comes out and I realize I had it all along. And I put it with the others.” He looked up, catching the drift in his voice. “But now it’ll be something else. So no point in checking the flight manifests—who would we be looking for? And this is Hamburg, planes from everywhere. By the time you check all of them he really could be dead.”
Aaron looked over at him, drawn in, a crossword puzzle start.
“Why Hamburg?”
“Yes,” Max said, nodding. “I’ve been thinking about that. Why here? Why does anybody come? To get a ship. But I think he would fly. The longer it takes, the more he’s exposed. You know the first time, it took three weeks. From Genoa.”
“To Argentina.”
Another nod. “It’s in the file. How the Ratline got him out. Elena can show you. You should know it. And maybe it gives you an idea.” Already on the job.
“Max—”
“So why Hamburg? Why does a man make such a visit?”
“To see family.”
“Yes. I thought that too.” Nodding, partners now. “He was close to his family. Of course, according to them, he disappeared in ’45. No idea where he is, if he’s alive. But I think they were giving him money all along. The Schramms were rich. Probably through Switzerland, private. When the father dies, Otto’s not in the will. I checked. Why? Because they can’t forgive his crimes? No. I think they already had some arrangement. He got his inheritance that way.”
“And when he died? What then?”
Max shook his head. “An Argentinian will. I requested it, but from here it’s difficult. They ignore you. And, you know, after he’s dead, I lost interest.” He thought for a minute. “There was a child, but the wife divorced him after he disappeared. A case of abandonment. So more likely it’s back with his family.”
“You think it’s a business trip? To see whoever’s looking after the money now.”
“But the family’s in Munich. So why here? And to come all this way. It would be safer to go the other way, for them to visit him. Uncle Otto in South America. Uncle Helmut. Or whoever he is now. Unless—”
“Somebody here died.”
Max smiled. “Exactly. So a dead man flies to see a dead man. How often can that happen? Quite a situation.”
“If he did.”
“Yes. So now we dig.”
Aaron looked across at him. “And you’re going to do this from a hospital bed.”
“No, I’m going to get better. But right now it’s you. And my friend Fritz. You liked him? A messy person, but a good mind. And an office with a staff. To look for things. A gentile and he does this work. Proving something, maybe. Not all of us were like that. It’s a powerful thing, guilt. You should have some.”
Aaron ignored this. “And what are we looking for?”
“Funerals. Hamburg, the suburbs. All the newspapers keep files. It’s not a needle in a haystack. Say the last week. Two. No more than that. I don’t think he’d risk that, such a long visit. Two weeks. Then we see.”
“Unless the funeral hasn’t happened yet. Maybe he just got here.”
“Then he’s still here.” He sighed. “Two pieces of luck, it’s a lot. But check the death notices too. Every paper. The Abendblatt, the Morgenpost, all of them.”
“And if nothing turns up?”
“We think of something else. I’ve been doing this for a long time. Start with the papers.”
“You know, even if you find something, it won’t prove that it was him.”
“No. But I think it would prove something to you. I need to do that. So first we put him here. The possibility of him.”
“But if you’re right, he won’t be here for long. He’ll be back in Argentina. As someone else.”
Max nodded. “Your contacts will be useful. This place you work for, they have an office in Buenos Aires? Some people on the ground?”
Aaron said nothing.
Max closed his eyes again, moving away from it. “All right. Now maybe I should sleep. You’ll call Fritz?”
“Max—”
“Even with my eyes closed I can see your face. Aaron, this is a monster. I have the money. I’ll pay you.”
“You don’t have the money.”
“I’ll get it. You won’t be out of pocket.” He opened his eyes. “Do this for me, this one thing, and I’ll do what you want. I’ll give it up. But not him. After, you don’t want the documents, you don’t want them. Your decision. Go back to America. But this—” He slowed. “All right, enough. Read the file. Now let me sleep.”
“You’re going to sleep. Like this, all excited.”
Max closed his eyes again, an answer.
Aaron leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Then sleep.” He started for the door.
“One more thing,” Max said. “The family was Schramm, but the mother I think was a Brenner. Look in the file. It might be on her side. Tell Fritz to check both.”
* * *
Max’s flat was a short walk from the hospital at the Steindamm end of Danzigerstrasse, a nondescript new building that had probably replaced a more graceful one lost in the Allied bombings. His office wasn’t in the living
room, a point of pride over Wiesenthal, but it wasn’t far: a second bedroom down the hall had been fitted out with filing cabinets and two desks and a seating area of mismatched chairs where Max conducted his interviews, survivors pouring out their terrible memories while Elena’s pen ran across her pad, her face impassive, the unimaginable now part of her everyday. “We could move a daybed in, make it a guest room,” Max had said, but Aaron had insisted on the hotel across from the station, just a few streets away, grateful for the distance.
The Schramm file turned out to fill most of a drawer, old folders stuffed with clippings and yellowing reports and notes to the file, rumors of sightings and letters from strangers, all the paperwork of an obsession. There seemed to be no organizing method to any of it, but after a while Aaron saw that there were time groupings: the postwar years, when most of the testimonies had been collected; Otto’s disappearance to somewhere in South America; and finally his death. Aaron looked at this first. Clippings from both German and Argentinian papers, where the death, coming soon after Eichmann’s kidnapping, was tabloid news—car crash or assassination? Had another Israeli team violated Argentine sovereignty? Except the other driver had been killed too, which would have made it a suicide mission, and would the Israelis go that far? Without a show trial at the end? There were pictures of the accident scene but none of Schramm, careful even in death to avoid the camera. Stern had run a slightly blurred picture of a party at the Buenos Aires Jockey Club a few years back, a group of men in tuxedos on a staircase, one of them Schramm. Aaron stared at it, then turned his head back and forth, trying to duplicate the angle of his sight line at the Alsterpavillon, but the face was too grainy to be recognizable.
He took out the first folder, which he guessed would have an SS picture, Otto in uniform. A high forehead, fixed military jaw, and Prussian cheekbones, but otherwise unremarkable, even pleasant, his voice probably gentle when he told Daniel to join the other children. But what would he look like now? Aaron tried the head trick again with the SS picture, moving it to refocus, but the thin face in the photo refused to become the one he’d glimpsed on the terrace. How could Max possibly have recognized him? Seeing him without seeing him. Could you really tell a man from his walk, as distinct as a fingerprint?