Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  Isaac opened the car door and tossed the woman’s body into the back. He set his bag on the floor. “Let’s go,” he grunted, settling himself in the passenger’s seat.

  As they drove out of town, Yuri asked, “How many now, Isaac?”

  Isaac just sat quietly. Finally he said, “I lost count a few years ago. And you?”

  Yuri shrugged as he drove, “Same.” They drove on, the headlights boring a hole in the dark. A few miles outside of Munster, Yuri pulled onto a dirt road that led into a forest. A few hundred meters in, he stopped. “Is this satisfactory?”

  Isaac nodded, got out into the chill night air, and lifted the body out. He walked a few meters into the forest and gently laid Helga under a low bush. Pulling the spread aside, he stood looking down at the young woman. In another life, he might have met her, liked her, maybe even fallen in love and married a young woman like her. It was hard to believe that she had been the cause of so much heartache in this world.

  Back on the road, Yuri said, “I am finished after tonight, Isaac.” The silence thickened.

  Isaac asked, “And you will do what?”

  “Abraham and I are going to Israel.” He smiled and said, “Remember Ursula, that woman in Split?”

  Isaac nodded, starting to smile.

  “Well, we have been corresponding. I have also met her in Brussels once and once in Vienna. She is going to come with me. I think I will marry her.”

  “Good for you, my friend. We have been at this revenge business a long time.” He looked haunted as he turned, “By now, it’s all I know. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Yuri placed a hand on Isaac’s knee, “Come to Israel with us, Isaac. The government there has formed a group called the Mossad. We can work for them.”

  Chapter 38

  Isaac was weary when he and Yuri exited the train station in Brussels. Yuri had returned the BMW they’d borrowed in Munster. It constantly amazed Isaac how many connections Seymour Levintall had throughout the world. Many were former prisoners and camp survivors, but curiously, some were former guards and German soldiers.

  Isaac trudged up the stairs and greeted Seymour, who was sitting behind his untidy desk. He flopped into a facing chair and was about to make his report, but Seymour held up a hand.

  “Not yet, Isaac. I have some news for you.” He leaned forward, hands clasped on his lap. “Two things. First, there was an Austrian policeman here looking for you. Well, not exactly you, one of your aliases, but he had a sketch of you.”

  Isaac took a minute to digest this. Then he exhaled loudly. “So what do you think we should do?”

  Seymour raised an eyebrow, “We? I am a mere collector of information. I have no knowledge of your activities outside of this office.”

  Isaac smiled a small smile, “Ah, Seymour, what do you think I should do?”

  Seymour lit a small cigar and blew smoke over Isaac’s head. “I have another client for you in Brazil. It’s probably better for you to get away for a while. Take your time with this one. Let things blow over here.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. The heart of Odessa country. Do I know this, uh, client?”

  Seymour rifled through the piles of folders, extracting one in a blue jacket. He tossed it on to Isaac’s lap. “You’re going to love this shmuck.”

  Isaac flipped open the folder and stared at the sketch, one of his own. He sucked in his breath. This man, this SS officer was the one Isaac had come upon screaming and slapping Dr. Schwartz. He never knew the officer’s name but he’d never forget that pinched face, small round glasses like Himmler wore, the hooked nose and stocky build. After the war, Isaac tried locating Dr. Schwartz but there was no sign of him. All his inquiries came back negative. No one had seen him since that day. Now Isaac was going after, if not his killer, then the man who had probably ordered it.

  He glanced up at Seymour, who sat like a Buddha, just looking at him, the stub of the cigar clenched in the corner of his thin-lipped mouth.

  “You mentioned a second thing?” asked Isaac.

  “Ah, yes,” Seymour again rummaged through his papers. He extracted a small scrap with handwriting on it. As Isaac reached for it, Seymour snatched it back. “No, not yet. We must talk first.” He waved the paper in front of Isaac’s face. “This small piece of paper will likely change your life, and I must know if you are prepared for it.”

  Isaac frowned, “Is it another client?” He shrugged. “Just put him in line, and I will get to it when this one is finished.” He touched the blue folder.

  Seymour shook his head. “There was a small article a week ago in Paris Match magazine about the work we are doing. The reporter asked many questions, and since you usually use false names, I felt that it was all right to describe you as my assistant, an investigator, and I used your real name, Isaac Rothberg.”

  “Did you release any pictures?” Isaac was concerned that the article could bring former Nazis after him.

  “No, no pictures. Just a short interview.” He slid forward on the edge of his seat. “Did you know that there was a group of Jews who wanted to kill six million Germans as revenge for the Holocaust? They asked some prominent former Irgun members to sanction this project, but they were refused.” He snorted and sat back, “As if we aren’t hated enough.”

  Isaac spread his hands and said, “Seymour, the paper? Is it for me or not?”

  Seymour said, “Listen, my son, you have become a cruel man, a Jewish assassin. I won’t mince words, but this paper I’m going to show you has the name of a woman, a young woman. She saw your name in the paper and immediately came to Brussels to find you.”

  “Who? Who is it, Seymour?” He was anxious to know now. Could it be his mother or his sister?

  “She told me her story, Isaac. She has been through a lot, a terrible ordeal, so you need to understand and show her some compassion.”

  “Who? Dammit, Seymour, who is she?” He snatched the paper from the older man’s hand and read it. Deborah Eisenstein. He felt his heart nearly stop.

  After a few moments, Seymour said, “Close your mouth.”

  “Tell me about her.” He looked at the older man with tears in his eyes.

  Seymour shook his head and pointed behind Isaac. A young woman stood just inside the door. She wore a muted floral print dress and a tight felt hat at least ten years out of date. Her white-gloved hands clutched a worn leather purse to her waist, and an equally worn cloth coat was draped over her arm. She leaned forward and whispered, “Isaac? Isaac Rothberg? Is it you?”

  Isaac pushed himself up slowly. He just stood staring at her heart-shaped face. Her blonde curls peeked out of her hat. “Deborah?” He walked slowly to her and just stood, looking down into her pale face. Tentatively he put his arms out, and she leaned against him gently, exhaling a sigh.

  “I’ve looked for you, you know,” he said softly.

  “I’ve looked for you, too.” She started to cry. “I had nearly given up hope of ever seeing you again. Then I saw the story in the newspaper and knew I had to come.”

  She looked up, and he took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped away her tears.

  Seymour coughed. “Isaac, why don’t you take the afternoon away from here. I can wait for your report. Buy this young woman something to eat. She must be starving.”

  “That’s a good idea, Seymour. I will return in the morning. Speak to Yuri. He can tell you most of what happened.”

  Isaac and Deborah walked down the stairs arm in arm, she never taking her eyes off him. She looked a little worn, thinner than the chubby-cheeked girl he’d last seen in the freight car on their way to the camp.

  They sat inside the small Litvak Café that Isaac frequented. The proprietor, a man named Kajus from Lithuania, also a camp survivor, welcomed them with a shout and a slap on Isaac’s broad back. “Welcome, my friend, and lady.” He smiled a large toothy grin at Deborah and said, “If you are a friend of Isaac’s, you are my friend and welcome here always.”

&nb
sp; She smiled tentatively and just nodded.

  “It is fine, Kajus. Please bring us both some tea.” Isaac raised an eyebrow at Deborah, “Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “No, no, tea will be fine.”

  “And some of those little pastries your wife makes, please. I forget what they are called.”

  “Aha! Spurgos! The little baked balls of sweet dough with the powdered sugar.” Kajus kissed his fingers and looked dreamy. “Yes, I will get a plate.” He leaned on the table and said in a low voice, “Perhaps in two days my wife has been talking of making Baba. It is a traditional dish from my country. You come back. You will love it, yes?”

  Isaac and Deborah smiled and nodded. “We will try, Kajus. Thank your wife, please.” This exchange took place in German with some Yiddish words and an occasional Lithuanian word thrown in. Somehow they understood each other.

  Kajus was a small thin man, bent at the waist with thinning dark hair, a bushy moustache and only one eye. He had been in Bronna Gora, a small extermination camp that was overrun by the Russians before the Nazis could kill everyone and destroy the camp. Kajus had escaped in the confusion and headed northwest on foot. He and two other men had walked across Poland, across Germany and finally to Brussels where he’d met another Lithuanian, a woman named Laima. Kajus had told him that the name meant “luck” in Lithuanian, and that he was a lucky man, so he married her.

  Isaac turned to Deborah and took her hands in his. “Do you want to tell me what happened after I left you on the train platform?”

  She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. “No, not really. You will not want to know me anymore.” This last was almost a whisper.

  He leaned closer. “It is all in the past. We all did what we had to, to survive. We both are here where many are not. Your family?”

  She shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks again. “Gone, all gone. I searched the lists for survivors, but nothing. So I was offered a position with a refugee resettlement group in Paris and, that is where I have been.” She squeezed his hands once and asked, “And you?”

  Kajus saw that they were deep into their conversation so he just placed the tea and plate of sweets on the table and silently left them alone.

  Isaac outlined what happened to him in the camps, how he met Yuri and Abraham and some of the work he’d been doing, just not the killing. He told her he’d been uncovering former Nazis and “bringing them to justice.” Isaac leaned back and sipped the sweet tea. “Now you, my Deborah.”

  She sighed, “I suppose that you will have to know sooner or later.” In a mechanical voice, frequently touched with anger, she related how, when she was separated from her parents and small brother on the platform, she watched them being led off in a line with old people, mothers with children, the infirm and undesirables.

  A guard had herded her into a small crowd of girls and kept them isolated in a pen until the trainload was dispersed. Then they were taken to a building and told to disrobe. She showered with the other girls while the guards watched and made jokes. Some of the girls were taken away, but about a dozen were left, all about her age. They were given plain cotton shifts and taken to a barracks where the off-duty guards took turns raping them. For almost a year, this was her life on a near daily basis. Somehow, she did not get pregnant. When a girl became pregnant, she was taken away, never to be seen again.

  Finally, after a night when she was held down and forcibly taken by a group of drunken SS guards in every orifice of her body, she did become pregnant. A doctor examined her and found she was carrying twins, so she was sent to another camp where a different doctor did experiments on her, taking fluids from her, X-raying her repeatedly and finally delivering the babies, who were immediately taken from her. The doctor fixed her so she couldn’t have any other children, and she was sent to a woman’s work camp.

  She stayed there until near the end of the war, when she was marched farther into the interior of Germany. There the female guards just left them, killing many but finally just running off.

  Isaac listened and wondered if she had been in the crowd of women he’d seen being marched off from Buchenwald. He asked her if she remembered a guard named Helga.

  She wrinkled her nose and spat out, “Yes, that evil bitch was one of the worst. She would shove a weak woman to the ground and beat her with a piece of steel rod she carried. Then she would shoot her, all the time smiling or laughing.” She looked up, eyes round. “And she was just a child herself. Why? Do you know her?”

  “Yes. I found her in a small town near Munster. She won’t hurt anyone again.”

  Deborah’s hand covered her mouth, and she gazed at this man across the table. “You turned her over to the authorities?”

  “A higher authority,” was all he said. “Are you married?” he asked, changing the subject.

  She shook her head, “No, never. I am ruined now. No man will want me.” She gazed at him with what he took for a hopeful look.

  He smiled gently. “I want you.”

  Chapter 39

  They walked back to his rooming house, arm in arm. Madame LeDuc greeted them as they came in. With raised eyebrows, she asked, “And who is this young lady?”

  Isaac introduced Deborah and asked for a separate room. Deborah turned and pleaded, “But I want to stay with you.”

  Madame Leduc shook her head and, crossing her arms under her massive bosom, sternly said, “Not in my house.” Then she softened, and with a wink encouraged, “Of course, what happens after I am fast asleep is no one’s business but their own.”

  Later that night, Deborah stole down the hallway and knocked softly on Isaac’s door. He just whispered, “Yes?” And she came in, knowing he was awake and waiting. Quickly, she slid into bed and snuggled against him.

  He kissed her forehead and nose. When his hand went to her breast, she froze. He frowned and stopped, then stroked her hair.

  “I cannot,” she said. “Sex means nothing to me anymore. Less than nothing. But my body still remembers what happened in the camp.” She turned in his arms and looked him in the eye, “Isaac, you will have to give me time, lots of time.” In a small voice she whispered, “If you cannot, I understand, and I will go.”

  “No,” he answered quickly. “No, don’t leave. It has taken us too much time to find each other. I will wait, and we will eventually work things out.”

  They fell into a dream-filled sleep, she twitching and almost crying out, he reliving his time in the camps, the brutality of the guards. Frequently they half woke, clutching each other for comfort.

  The next day, they both reported to Seymour, ready for work. They had spoken of this over breakfast, and Deborah swore she would stay with him, especially since Yuri was leaving for Israel with Abraham. He had told her what he actually had done and, though it had shocked her at first, she said she agreed with him for the most part.

  “You know, we are starting to run short of funds, Isaac.” Seymour swept his arm around. “Look at our staff,” he said, with a sarcastic note in his voice. “Mrs. Katz is it now. Sooner, rather than later, we’re going to have to close up shop.” Seymour tilted back in his chair, swinging his feet absently and twirling a pencil in a hand. “So, where are you two lovebirds off to today?”

  “We are going to Brazil to take care of that little matter we spoke of.”

  Seymour raised his eyebrows, “Together? Interesting. And Miss Eisenstein, are you prepared to back this mensch up?”

  She stood taller, head held high, “I am, sir.”

  Seymour compressed his lips and nodded. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a handful of banknotes. They were British pounds. He thrust them at Isaac. “Take them. They may be the last ones.”

  Isaac asked, “What happened to our benefactors? I thought the Americans had come through with a large donation.”

  Seymour snorted. “You know what that whining group said?” In a nasally voice he said, “The war is over, let it go, move on.” He slapped the desktop, “Idi
ots.”

  “And the Israelis?”

  Seymour shrugged, thumbs toying with his suspenders, “You don’t see any boxes of lira here, do you?”

  “Don’t give up, boss. Let’s see what we can uncover in Brazil. I heard that many of those Nazis brought a lot of stolen … ahem … resources, when they fled.”

  Seymour just smiled.

  * * *

  That night Isaac and Deborah flew out of Brussels Airport on a Sabena DC6 to London, then transferred to a BOAC Vickers Viscount for the long flight to Sao Paulo, Brazil. There were several stops for refueling along the way. Isaac read that the former British South American Air Service had recently been rolled into the British Overseas Airways Corporation and that aircraft powered by something called jet engines were just around the corner.

  The airplane landed in Sao Paulo in the middle of the night. After passing through customs and immigration, manned by sleepy clerks, they caught a taxi into the city and checked into a hotel suggested by the taxi driver.

  They slept together soundly and woke some fifteen hours later. Isaac opened his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair, her body, that sweet soft scent of a woman. He wanted her, wanted to just cup a breast, to excite her, to hear her gasp, moan with pleasure. Someday, he hoped. When she opened her eyes, she looked up at him, smiled and kissed him.

  After eating at the small restaurant beside the hotel, they asked the desk clerk if he could find them a taxi to take them to a steamship company, which would take them south. Deborah very perceptively asked in German, and the clerk smiled.

  “Gut, gut, I will, of course, assist you.” He quickly scrawled a map and wrote instructions in German and Portuguese. “Have Andre, outside, show this to a taxi driver.”

  Deborah and Isaac looked at the paper and thanked the man. “You speak very good German, Mein Herr,” said Isaac. He was traveling under the name of Rolf Schaeffer with his wife Sara. As always, they wore tops with long sleeves.