Manfred took a deep breath. He really didn’t want this job. He’d have preferred to stay in Argentina. But how could he refuse? The party had done so much for him and now it asked that he pay back. Perhaps once this was over, he might finally be restored to the favor that he had enjoyed before his father-in-law had so carelessly thrown everything away. So, here Manfred was, sailing through the sky, watching the clouds fade through the window of the aircraft, on his way to save the Führer. If the mission failed, they would all end up in prison, or worse.
Konrad and Manfred checked into the hotel as Michael and Joseph Morgenstern, brothers. Jews. It was a less-than-standard hotel, and no one seemed to pay much attention. Their room could have used a good cleaning. The sheets on the bed should have been white but were gray with dirt. The vents had pockets of dust stuck to them. Manfred set his suitcase on the bed, and sat down on a chair next to a table. Konrad got a bottle of schnapps out of his suitcase and offered Manfred a swig. “Have some. It will help relax you,” Konrad said.
Manfred drank deeply. Konrad watched. The liquor had been drugged. Although Manfred didn’t realize it, he’d been drugged the same way that he had drugged Dolf Sprecht before he’d killed him. Manfred yawned and handed the bottle to Konrad. “Have a swig,” he said, his words already beginning to slur.
“I will join you in just a moment. I have to use the bathroom,” Konrad said. He left the room but did not head to the end of the hall to use the facilities. Instead he stood outside the room and waited. It would not be long before Manfred was passed out. Konrad walked the length of the hall twice. He went into the bathroom and stood in a stall for several minutes. Then he walked slowly back to the door of the room he shared with Manfred. An older man walked past Konrad. The man had his arm around a very young woman, wearing a tight skirt and low cut blouse. Konrad nodded to them, assuming she was a prostitute. Then he checked his watch again. It had been five minutes. Time enough.
Manfred was passed out on the bed with his feet on top of his suitcase when Konrad entered the room.
“Manfred . . .” Konrad said, to be sure that he was not awake.
No answer. “Manfred . . .”
Konrad checked Manfred’s pulse. He was alive, but he was out cold. Konrad picked up the phone and gave the operator the number that he’d been given by the Mossad agents. Konrad knew that they were waiting to hear from him.
“Blau is here with me at the hotel, and he’s passed out,” Konrad said.
“Leave the room with the door unlocked,” the Mossad agent said. “We’ll take it from here. By the way, Klausen, Blau had better be there, and he’d better not have a gun. No funny stuff. If there are any problems with this mission, it’s you who will pay.”
“Everything is just the way you wanted it. I did what you asked me to do,” Konrad said.
“Good, it had better be. And, by the way, you’ll be hearing from us within the next week. We want Mengele next.”
“I told you I will bring him to you.”
“You’d better, if you want to live,” the Mossad agent said.
Konrad looked at Manfred one last time before he left the room. Then the old wooden door creaked as he closed it. Konrad wrapped his arms across his chest; shivering, he walked down the hall. This reminded him too much of what he’d done to Detrick, and made him sick with guilt. Now they wanted Mengele. Blau was a small player next to Mengele. Konrad was afraid to bring the doctor to Mossad. If he did, he was sure ODESSA would find out, and they would kill him.
All Konrad wanted was to escape Mossad. That would mean that he had to leave the Nazi party behind, he must never return to Argentina. If he did not go back, there was a good chance that they would never find him or any of the others for that matter. He could not go through this again with Mengele or Eichmann. They were too important. ODESSA would find out. He had to get away. When he got to the airport, he tore up his return ticket to Argentina. The next plane to South America was going to Chile. He would be on board. He had plenty of money to start over. So, when he arrived in Chile, he would find an apartment and a job. Then he would change his name and disappear from everyone—from the Nazi party and from the terrible Israelis who were constantly hunting him.
Chapter 76
Manfred’s head pounded and his back ached when he awoke. It took a few minutes for his eyes to focus. Either this was a nightmare or he was inside of a jail cell. Perhaps things had gone awry. Where was Konrad? Probably in the cell next to his.
“Konrad . . .” Manfred called out, his head aching even as he tried to speak. “Klaussen, where are you, where are we?”
A tall man who looked like a giant walked over to him wearing an Israeli army uniform. On the lapel Manfred saw a pin. It was a golden Star of David.
“Welcome to Israel,” the man said. “You’re here to be tried for your crimes against humanity, Manfred Blau.”
ISRAEL! This was surely a nightmare. “Where is Konrad Klaussen?”
“He betrayed you. He gave you over to us to save his own hide, Blau. That’s the kind of people you Nazis are. NO real loyalties.”
Manfred stood up and stumbled over to the bars of his cell. “KONRAD,” he yelled in panic, hurling his body against the metal. “KONRAD.”
“Holler all you want; there is nobody here to hear you.” The Israeli took a cigarette out of his breast pocket and smiled at Manfred as he lit it, leaning against the wall. “There’s just you and me and a whole bunch of Jewish soldiers who hate your guts. And by the way, Blau, you sadistic bastard, maybe we’ll make soap out of you or a lampshade out of your skin. Isn’t that what you did to the Jews? Shit, Blau, you killed little children, women. Now you want sympathy. Come on, be serious. You and your sick Nazi friends can all go to hell. I’d like to break your nose, but I don’t want you to go on television, especially in America, looking like you’ve been beaten. You are our guest now and we wouldn’t want people to think that Israel was an ungracious host, now would we? God forbid anyone should feel sorry for you. But believe me, you could use a good beating.”
Chapter 77
Everything seemed to be working out for Konrad. It had been over a month since that day in Holland. He had escaped them all; he was living in a small village in Chile, and working as a clerk at a dry goods store. He had no papers, but he was using the name Fredrick. He’d always admired Fredrick the Great. It was a simple life. In the morning, he walked to work carrying his lunch. The work was mindless, easy. He stocked the shelves, smiled at the customers, and then headed home. In the evening, he prepared a simple dinner, sometimes a can of beans with a crust of bread, other times a hunk of cheese. Then he’d spend the rest of the night alone. Sometimes he read, other times he took to making small objects out of wood. He’d learned to whittle as a boy and now he whittled tiny figures.
Since Manfred’s arrest Konrad had had no contact with any of the other Nazis. But more importantly, he breathed a sigh of relief that Mossad had been unable to find him. When he could get newspapers that had international news, he read them with guilt as he watched what had become of Manfred. The trial was to begin for Manfred the following week in, of all places, the homeland of the Jews, Israel. Even the word, Israel, gave Konrad the chills. That was one place he never wanted to see. There was no doubt that Manfred would be convicted and hanged.
Konrad knew that he should stop watching the events unfold to preserve his sanity, but he couldn’t. Every time he saw Manfred’s face on the television screen, he felt like vomiting. At night, dreams of Detrick became more frequent, but now they included visions of Manfred as well, horrible visions. In Konrad’s dreams he sometimes saw Detrick and Manfred in a gas chamber, both of them reaching, trying to climb out of the piles of dead bodies—the way the Jews had done when he watched the gassings. In his dreams, both Detrick and Manfred were reaching desperately, the fingernails on their hands had turned to a bloody mass of shredded flesh, and they were both bleeding from the nose, mouth, and eyes. Once again, Konrad could smell
that distinct and terrible odor of death, of feces, and of urine that he’d smelled when he visited the camps. The guilt at having betrayed his friends followed him like a dark shadow, haunting him every moment of every day.
So far, since he’d come to Chile, Konrad had resisted his need to fulfill his sexual anger with a boy that resembled Detrick. But his urges were growing strong. Perhaps the only thing that would relieve his feelings of anger, guilt, and frustration would be a visit to campamento, the slums of Chile. Konrad didn’t want to go there; he’d promised himself that he would stop. He'd tried to stop . . .
Konrad already knew where to find the nearest shanty town and how to get there by taxi. He’d heard a lot about the place during his time in Chile. People warned of the dangers of the poverty-stricken campamento. Konrad took heed of their words, but he'd gone to the favela in Brazil and he had managed to stay safe there. He was smart enough to get by. Konrad loaded and packed a small pistol in one pants pocket and a switchblade knife in the other. Then he went out on to the street to catch a cab. Yes, a night with a young boy would help calm his rattled nerves.
Konrad spoke enough Spanish to make himself understood, so when he requested to be taken to the campamento, he could tell by the driver’s reaction that it was rare for anyone from the better areas of town to ask to be driven there. But the cabbie didn’t protest. The driver stopped just as Konrad requested, right across the street from an empty lot. As soon as Konrad paid him and got out, the taxi sped away as if the cabbie wanted to get out of the slums before he got robbed.
It was only about nine at night, but there was no one around. When Konrad had gone to the favela, the park would be buzzing with prostitutes by now. He lit a cigarette and ran his hand over the cool steel of the gun in his pocket. Insurance. Perhaps he needed to walk further into a wooded and deserted area just a few feet away to find what he was looking for, but first he would check the public men’s room that he noticed was in a small building just outside the park area. The male prostitutes in the favela had used a similar place to perform their acts.
Konrad entered the bathroom and flipped the light switch. A dim single bulb lit the room. He was struck by the strong odor of urine. There were stains of it on the tile wall over the urinal and on the floor beneath. But there was not a soul in sight.
He began to walk along the trail through the park. It was just a thin, muddy walkway carved through the trees. Perhaps he would not find what he was looking for here. Perhaps he would be forced to return to the favela and risk either being caught by Mossad or exposing the other Nazis and then be in danger with the party. He stopped to take another cigarette out of his breast pocket. The trees cast shadows all around him, their black arms reaching into the night. Konrad shivered. There was no use going any further. Konrad turned and began walking back towards the street.
“Psssssst . . .” A male voice came from behind the trees. “Are you looking for a date?”
Konrad knew what that meant . . . he’d found a male prostitute. “Yes, I am . . .”
“How much you pay?” the man asked.
“What do you want?”
“2,000 pesos. But I do whatever you want. No questions.”
“Come out here where I can see you,” Konrad said.
A young man of about 19, with blond hair and an athletic build, stepped out from the darkness. Konrad’s heart skipped a beat. This one was perfect. His first thought was ‘Detrick.’ Konrad felt a smile wash over his face. What luck he was having today. It usually took him a long time before he found a man with blond hair in the slums of South America.
“Fine, 2,000 pesos.” He would have paid more.
“What you want?”
“I want you to suck me.”
The boy nodded. “Give me the money first.”
Konrad took out a wad of pesos and handed them to the boy, who stuffed them into his pocket.
“Take off your pants,” the boy said. “And lie down.”
“Why don’t we go into the trees a little, in case someone comes by?”
The boy followed Konrad into the trees. Konrad undid his belt and took off his pants. He kept them beside him, the gun still cool and reassuring inside the pocket. The boy began to take Konrad’s penis into his mouth. Konrad sighed deeply. The boy increased the pressure and moved more quickly in response to Konrad's moans of pleasure. Then, just as Konrad was about to ejaculate, his eyes half closed and his body in complete surrender, the boy pulled a knife out of his back pocket and with the flip of his wrist it was opened. The silver steel shined in the moonlight.
Konrad saw only a glimpse of the knife before it found its way beneath his ribs. The boy twisted the knife several times. Still kneeling over Konrad, the boy checked to be sure that the half-naked man was dead. Once the boy felt no breath or heartbeat coming from Konrad’s body, he got up and cleaned the knife on Konrad’s shirt. Next, he rummaged through Konrad’s pockets, taking his lighter, his watch, and his money. He took the gun that bulged in Konrad’s back pocket and the knife that lay tucked beside it, and shoved them both into his belt. Then the blond boy stood up, shook down his clothes and left. Once he’d gotten far away from the body, he wiped the gun and the knife clean with the tail of his cotton shirt and tossed them far into the dense woods where they would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. Then, after a quick glance in all directions, he walked rapidly away from the murder scene.
Once he left the park, the boy slowed down his pace, so as not to draw any attention to himself, but the streets were deserted. There was no traffic, and he kept walking until he heard a bus coming down the street. He jogged across the street just as a bus pulled to the stop. With the agility of a leopard, he hopped on board, paid his fare, and curled into a corner seat. Only a few people were aboard the bus that night, people who worked the late shift. Some of them had drifted off to sleep with the motion of the vehicle. The bus let out a belch of smoke as it pulled away from the curb and turned the corner. Then it picked up speed on its way out of the campamento. The boy rode for a long while after the bus left the slums, then he walked to the front and asked the driver to stop. When the bus came to a complete stop, the boy hopped down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Then he strolled for several blocks until he ducked into a phone booth. He inserted several quarters into the payphone and once he got a dial tone, he placed a call.
“Shalom,” a man answered.
“Shalom,” the blond boy said.
“Avraham, are you all right. We’ve been worried.”
“Yes, I am fine,” Avraham, the blond Mossad agent, answered.
“Were you able to complete the mission?” the Mossad agent on the other end of the phone asked.
“It’s done.” There was no question in Avraham’s mind that he would do anything for his country. Nothing was too difficult.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make it look like a robbery?”
“Of course,” Avraham said.
“Good work. Get on the first plane and come home to Israel. We have a trial beginning for the son of a bitch, Manfred Blau.”
“I will be home as soon as I can,” Avraham said. “I can’t wait to be back on Israeli soil, back with my wife and my son.”
“God bless you and keep you safe, my brother.”
“Shalom.”
“Shalom.”
Chapter 78
Katja took the day off on Friday. Aryeh and Brenda were coming to Elan’s apartment for Shabbat dinner that night and she wanted everything to be perfect. This was their first visit, and she’d planned a special menu, purchased a white tablecloth, and a set of four white china dishes. Aryeh had called Elan to say that he and Brenda were getting married. That was when Elan had invited them to come for Shabbat to celebrate their engagement. Katja didn’t mind. Having grown up on a kibbutz, she loved to have a lot of people around.
She was mashing sesame seeds for tahini while the radio played in the background. Her Engli
sh was good, and she had really come to enjoy American music. Ever since Elan had introduced her to rock and roll, she couldn’t get enough. The station she was tuned into had a mixture of Israeli and American artists. On occasion, when she knew the words, she sang along. Just a little more lemon and the tahini would be perfect! She began cutting thin pieces of eggplant to fry.
“We interrupt this program to bring you, firsthand, the trial of Manfred Blau, the sadistic Nazi who was captured and is now standing trial in Israel,” the voice on the radio said.
A Nazi? Katja hadn’t heard anything about this, but she could not help but remember her visit to the Kibbutz of the Ghetto Fighters and the stories of the horrors that the Nazis inflicted upon people. She listened more closely.
“State your name for the court.”
“My name?”
“Your name.”
“Dolf Sprecht.”
“Your given name, sir.”
“Oh, yes. Manfred Blau.”
“Were you or were you not responsible for the torture and death of thousands of Jewish people at the Treblinka concentration camp?” the prosecutor asked.
“I only did what I was told. I am a soldier; a soldier must follow orders.”
“We have a list of Jews who testified against you at Nuremburg before you escaped. Do you remember your trial?”
“No, I don’t remember anything at all,” Manfred said.
“Well then, let me remind you of their names.”
The man began to read off a list. Katja shook her head. What a terrible man, she thought, beating an egg to soak the eggplant in before breading it.
The Promised Land (All My Love, Detrick Series) (All My Love Detrick Book 3) Page 29