“No,” she answered, “sometimes it is better.”
They both laughed. “Come,” she said, “let’s dance.” Hanna led him back to the dance floor on weakened legs.
On the way, he bumped into another couple. “Excuse me,” he mumbled.
“That is all right, Isaac.” It was Yuri and the short girl. Yuri, the former rabbinical student, was grinning widely at them.
The band was playing loudly and Isaac just wanted to scream his joy and jump up and down with the others – and he did!
Chapter 36
The next day Abraham and Yuri left early, hugging Isaac goodbye and wishing him a good trip. Isaac packed his few possessions in a small duffle bag and reviewed the file on Rolf Boettcher. A survivor from the camp had recognized him on the street and followed him home. The next day he and his cousin had brought a camera and waited for him to emerge from his home. When he had, they had pretended that they were taking pictures of each other but were secretly taking his picture. The cousin had a very expensive Leica camera, which allowed them to home in on Boettcher’s face. They knew of Wiesenthal, and Levintall, and just sent the pictures off addressed to the Nazi Hunter, Levintall in Brussels, Belgium. It had taken two weeks, but the photos had finally made it to Seymour’s desk.
Before Seymour sent Mrs. Katz with the aged Peugeot to take Isaac to the airport, Hanna slipped into his room for a tryst. This time she taught him to use a condom, also known as a French letter, she informed him. He enjoyed her installing it almost as much as the using of it. She even explained some of the wonders of the female anatomy to him.
Levintall had arranged for him to fly on a commercial flight to England and then to New York’s LaGuardia Airport on a Pan American Lockheed Constellation. However, the War Crimes Commission gave him priority papers, and he was boarded on a Swedish converted B-17 bomber taking convalescing British POW’s home. He was the only civilian aboard, and the soldiers looked at him distrustfully. All Isaac could do was ignore them. It would do no good to show them his tattoo as the British distrusted Jews almost as much as the Nazis.
It was a bumpy ride, and they landed in London on an overcast, drizzly day. The plane taxied to a private hanger where a line of dark green ambulances waited. Isaac helped the medics carry the stretchers and wheelchairs down the portasteps. Then he jogged over to the terminal.
There was a Pan American kiosk at the end of the terminal near a door that opened onto to the taxiway. Isaac showed his papers to the young gate attendant, who studied them, smiled sweetly and told him that the plane would leave in about two hours. While he waited, Isaac walked around the terminal, which was only now being converted from a military airbase back to a commercial airport. He found an American USO coffee canteen tucked into a corner. He felt that now was a good time to practice his rusty English.
“Good evening, Mistress,” he said, smiling.
Though his accent was thick, she understood him and said, “It’s Miss, not mistress, young man.” The woman was easily in her forties, with bleached blonde hair and wore a tight uniform over her stocky form. “You in the military, kid? The US military?”
Isaac smiled and shook his head, “No, Miss, but I am going to Chicago, America. Do you know that city?”
She appraised him through half glasses that were perched on the end of her nose, “Yeah, sure. My brother Jake lives there. Well, in the central part, a place called Irving Park. Why, is that where you’re going?”
Isaac pulled a scrap of paper out of his wallet, “Um, no, it is in a part called Lincoln Wood.” Looking up, he asked, “Do you know that place?”
She raised her eyebrows, “Oh, hoity-toity.”
He frowned, “I do not know the meaning of the term, hoity-toity. Please explain.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned forward, “It means that it’s a rich area. Lots of big shots live there.” She looked him up and down. “You gonna visit a big shot?”
Isaac shrugged, “I do not know. I only have address.”
She poured him a cup of coffee. “Here, kid, it’s on the house. The federal government won’t miss it.” She handed the paper cup to him and indicated the cream and sugar. “So why’re you goin’ to Chicago? Family?”
“No, Miss, I am trying to track down old friend. I have hear that he now works there.” They continued talking for a while, she correcting his fractured English, he thanking her each time. At one point she gave him a pamphlet and had him read it. The woman, Ruby, helped him sound out the words. After another cup of coffee, Isaac needed to go to the men’s room. Afterward, he was restless and needed to walk. Through the large glass windows, he saw one of the new Pan American Lockheed Constellations land, its triple tails reflecting the runway lights. Isaac had never seen anything like it. It was beautiful, all polished aluminum with the large blue Pan American insignia splashed the length of the fuselage. He watched the ground crew roll the boarding stairway into place behind the wing, and well-dressed passengers began alighting.
While this was going on, more ground crew unloaded luggage and cargo from the belly of the aircraft onto low trailers pulled by powerful motorized tugs. A man on the wing hauled a hose up from a fuel truck and locked it into place. He gave a thumbs up to a grounds man who then started the pump. All this was evidence of long practice with military efficiency. Isaac was impressed. He guessed they were readying the airplane for its next flight.
He soon wandered back to the USO canteen and said goodbye to Ruby and thanked her for helping him with his English. She pointed to the departure gate, smiled and waved.
Soon he was seated on the plane and on his way to New York. The drone of the four mighty engines was hypnotic and he fell asleep, not waking until the stewardesses served breakfast. The plane landed at LaGuardia and, after passing through customs and immigration, Isaac made his way to the information counter. He asked the man behind the counter how to get to Chicago and was told that he could either go by airplane or train. The train, of course, would take longer, but it was less expensive than flying. Isaac showed the papers he had received from the War Crimes Commission. The man scrutinized them and placed a phone call. “Just hang on, young feller. A man will be out to see you in a minute.” He directed Isaac to a nearby seat.
Five minutes later a man dressed in a dark suit came and sat next to him. He was young, just a little older than Isaac, clean-cut, short hair and well muscled. “Why are you going to Chicago, young man?”
Isaac looked the well-dressed man in the eye and asked in his best English, “Who are you, sir?”
The man pursed his lips and pulled out a wallet from his suit jacket pocket. He flipped it open showing his gold badge and identification. It read Henry Conner, FBI. “Now I’ll ask you again, why are you going to Chicago?”
Isaac wasn’t sure if he should tell the truth or not. Seymour had cautioned him to be discreet regarding his trip. “This FBI is a police organization?” He was playing for time, marshalling his thoughts.
The agent nodded and said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Nodding, Isaac replied, “I am going to this city of Chicago to find a friend.” He pulled the sleeve of his shirt back to reveal his tattoo, turning it so the agent could see the numbers clearly. “We were in camp together.”
“And these papers you showed the Info Clerk?”
“My friend may know of camp guard in Chicago city. I will investigate and report to War Crimes Commission.” That was all Isaac was going to say.
The agent considered this reply, then said, “You know that you are to take no action, do nothing if you locate this man. If you do, you are to report it to the Chicago police or the area FBI office.” He eyed the youth. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. Those are my orders also.”
The agent stood and placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, “I’m sorry for what you went through, pal. I wish we could have saved more of you.”
Isaac snorted, “Your government knew of Auschwitz in 1942 and
chose not to believe, chose to do nothing.”
The agent looked slightly embarrassed and offered, “Well, times were different then. Have a good trip.” He walked away without a backward glance.
The Information Clerk once again asked, “Plane or train?”
“Airplane, please,” replied Isaac.
The clerk pointed to the Pan American gate that would take Isaac to Chicago. On the way, Isaac bought a pastry and a small waxed cardboard container of milk. He knew that he would get a full meal on the Chicago flight but, he had an hour to wait and he was hungry.
He found a discarded New York newspaper. It was difficult to read because of the many words he didn’t understand yet, but he read that executions for Nazi war criminals were about to begin in Nuremberg. He noted that the pages of weddings and obituaries were larger than the news pages. The new United Nations was considering another mandate for Palestine. At this, he had to chuckle. The Jews in Palestine would determine their own fate, not some distant collection of disinterested nations. Soon the British would be gone, along with their precious Mandate Palestine.
He read that the British and Russians were squabbling over Berlin and, also in Berlin, or at least the American zone, the soldiers had freed 5,900 former German prisoners, mostly prisoners of war. Good, he thought, more for us to select from.
Crumpling the American paper, Isaac walked to his departure gate and showed his papers once again. A male clerk nodded and typed out a ticket for him. No money was required. He was on “official business”.
The clerk’s partner, a woman, was also at the counter. Since Isaac had some time before the flight he asked, “How am I to locate a friend in Chicago, please?” he pronounced Chicago like chew, and the woman corrected him, “It’s Chicago,” she enunciated and made him say it a few times until he pronounced it to her satisfaction. Then she reached under the counter and produced a thick telephone book, which she laid on the counter. “This is a telephone book, sir.” She flipped through the thin pages. “See, the white pages have the names of people and in the back, the pages are yellow. Those are business listings.”
“How marvelous,” he exclaimed. “If I tell you my friend’s name, can you look him up for me?”
She shook her head. “This is a New York book. Each city has its own. When you get to Chicago, you can look his name up then.”
She made to put the book away but Isaac stopped her. “May I look, please?”
She shrugged and slid it in front of him. Isaac looked up Rothberg, his own name. There were nearly twenty names, but no Herschel or Miriam. Well, all that meant was that they had no telephone or did not live in New York, if they were alive at all.
The flight was uneventful, and he looked up Saul Goldman when he arrived in the Chicago Municipal Airport. Like most airports after the war, there were as many military aircraft on the ground as civilian.
To his surprise, there were three listings for Saul Goldman. This was perplexing. He obtained some coins and tried each one. He spoke German when the phone was answered. The first Saul Goldman muttered, “Damn Nazi.” And slammed the phone down. The second phone rang and rang but there was no answer. The third was answered after the third ring.
Isaac tentatively asked in Yiddish, “Is this Saul Goldman from Auschwitz?”
After a long minute of silence, the voice asked, “Who is this?” also in Yiddish.
He grinned to himself as he recognized the voice. “This is a voice from your past, boychik. It is I, Isaac Rothberg. I am in Chicago.”
“Mein Gott, Yitzhak. Are you lost?” Isaac heard awe and joy in Saul’s voice.
“Nein, my friend. I am here on business. How do I get to your house?”
Saul said, “Where are you? I will come and get you.”
Isaac said, “I am at the Chicago Municipal Airport. My airplane just landed.”
“Good, good! Find your way to the outside sidewalk and wait. I have an automobile that belongs to a roommate, a Ford Model A. It is blue. I will come for you.”
An hour later, a dark blue Ford sedan screeched to a stop outside the glass doors, and Saul jumped out, yelling and then hugging Isaac. He stepped back and grasped Isaac’s shoulders. “You look good, Isaac. What brings you to Chicago?”
Isaac hoisted his duffle bag and followed Saul back to the car, tossing the bag onto the rear seat. As they drove away, Isaac replied, “I am a Nazi hunter now. I am working with Seymour Levintall in Brussels.”
Saul eyed him as he hunched over the wheel, “And you are here because?”
“Two men, one a former inmate, sent us a letter that an SS Sergeant I knew was seen in the city. So Seymour sent me to find him and alert the Americans.”
Saul nodded. “I see. And how do we find him?”
Isaac was taken aback, “We? You do not have to get involved.”
“I was a prisoner also,” Saul said bluntly, and that was the end of that line of discussion. Isaac and Saul spent the rest of their ride exchanging information about their lives and journeys since they had last seen each other.
Saul told his story. He had caught rides from various military convoys, ambulances and even civilians until he reached Amsterdam and checked into a displaced persons camp. From there he had wrangled a visa to the United States by saying he had relatives there. He went on, “They actually believed me! It must have been the sad look in my beautiful brown eyes.”
He grinned at Isaac as they motored east along Devon Avenue. “They placed me on a ship the following week. Once I arrived, I found that the distant relatives I had invented actually exist. They put me up in their spare room for three weeks and then accompanied me to the University of Chicago school to register. After I started, I met some other lads, and three of us moved into a small apartment together.”
“So, do you have a lady friend yet, Saul?” Isaac asked with a smirk.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, blushing. “There is a lady in my class on torts that I study with.”
“Why, you dog!” said Isaac, barely holding back a laugh.
Saul laughed, “And how about you, Isaac? Any femme fatales falling all over you?”
Isaac smiled, “Well, the daughter of the lady at the boarding house where we are staying sometimes visits me.”
Saul laughed long and loud. “Now, who is the dog?”
The remainder of the ride was spent discussing the hunt for hidden Nazis. Isaac read him the address, which was in Lincoln Park, near a golf club. The two men who had written, worked in Oak Park.
“Tonight we celebrate and sleep. Tomorrow I have no classes. Then we will go visit these two men. But,” he admonished Isaac, “you must speak only English here in public.”
“Why is that, Saul?”
“Well, we are in America and Jews are not especially valued. We will be visiting Ravenswood and it is a predominately German community, and, well, you can imagine how well we are regarded there.”
“I see,” said Isaac, in English. “So, no Yiddish either?” he asked innocently.
The house in which Saul and his roommates lived was a two-story called a two-flat, with on-street parking. One of the men was visiting his family in a small town down south called Barrington. He had taken the bus and left the car for his roommates. They had all chipped in to purchase the blue Ford. It cost them a grand total of $45.00, $15 each. Saul had worked at the university bookstore for two months to pay his share. Since then, he was working three nights a week waiting tables in a bar several blocks away. His roommate was Sidney Feldman. He was a year or two older than Saul. He had a long, thin face and unruly, dark red hair, which he kept sweeping off his high forehead. He spoke in a breathy, halting voice. “Asthma,” he explained,
The next morning, Isaac and Saul set off in the Ford to visit the two men in Lincoln Wood. Isaac gave Saul the address and, after two stops for directions, they found the house. It was a huge brick mansion. Isaac frowned. This didn’t seem right. Behind the mansion was an old coach house dating from the pre
vious century. “Drive down there,” he directed Saul. The coach house was somewhat shabby and had been converted from stables to living quarters. The paint was peeling and the porch tilted to the front.
At the coach house they saw a curtain move. The two ascended the steps and knocked. A small, partly balding man opened the door, peering at them through steel rimmed glasses. “What do you want?” he asked in a thin voice.
Isaac asked if he was the man who wrote the letter to Seymour Levintall about the SS guard.
“Do you speak German or Yiddish? English not so good,” he muttered in Yiddish.
“Ja, das tue ich. Yes, I do.”
“Gut, gut, komm herein,” he said, stepping back. A voice from somewhere in the rear called, “Who is it, Sid?”
“The guys from Brussels that we sent the letter to. Remember? About that Nazi bastard, the Butcher?”
The voice muttered something indistinct, but in a minute a large man emerged wiping his hands on a threadbare towel. “Hello, fellas, I’m Morty, and I guess you met my cousin, Sid.” He spoke perfect English.
Isaac asked, “Do you speak German? It’s getting a little confusing with two languages.”
“Sure,” replied Morty in German. “Come on in the kitchen and have some coffee. I just put it on.” He glanced at the clock. “We don’t go to work for another two hours.” Sid led the way into a spacious kitchen and sat. Morty put a coffee percolator on the table along with four chipped mugs. “Help yourselves.”
They filled their cups, added milk and sugar and sipped companionably until Saul said, “So tell us what you know, what wasn’t in the letter.”
Sid spoke first, “Okay, so me and Morty were on Lincoln Avenue buying some schnitzel and kraut one day and we see this tall German guy standing outside the deli. I elbowed Morty and said who’s that guy? He looks familiar.”
Morty picked up the story. “I looked and it was that bastard Boettcher, the SS sergeant from Auschwitz. Of course, he didn’t have the little mustache and his hair was longer, but I recognized the shmuck.”
Long Lost Brother Page 23