“Danke, Frau Schaeffer. I immigrated here many years ago with my family.”
She smiled warmly, “Where is your family from, Herr..??”
“Holzer, Frau. My family is from Mannheim.” He nodded his head and nearly clicked his heels. “Do you know it?”
She shook her head, “Alas, no. I have never been there. I have heard that it is lovely in the spring.” That seemed a safe thing to say.
They took their leave, and Andre hailed a taxi for them. It took them to a company that specialized in small coastal freighters that would take several passengers. Isaac and Deborah were going to the city of Rio Grande in the southern province of Rio Grande du Sol. Germans, Poles, Italians, Spanish and even some Jews had settled in this city.
In Rio Grande they found a man, Raoul Martinez, who agreed to drive them in his automobile to Alegrete, a small city close by the border with Argentina. There they hoped to find the former SS Oberstleutnant Heinz Jaffe, the man suspected of killing, or at least ordering the death of Dr. Schwartz, and God knew how many others.
Seymour had received word that an Alfonso Camilo, a grape grower and wine merchant was living in a predominately German town in the southern Brazilian province of Rio Grande do Sul. He looked exactly like Isaac’s sketch.
Isaac would never forget that face and the short, stocky build of the man he had last seen slapping Dr. Schwartz. The next day, Dr. Schwartz was gone from the medical facility, and Isaac, Yuri and Abraham were also sent away.
He couldn’t wait to confront this man. Dr. Schwartz had sheltered Isaac and his friends, fed them food from his own table, and protected the three as best he could. Isaac owed him justice.
On the trip over bumpy graveled roads, Isaac explained all this to Deborah in a low voice, after asking the driver if he spoke German. The man replied something in Portuguese, shaking his head. Nevertheless, Isaac’s instinct was to trust no one.
Deborah listened, occasionally nodding her head, blonde hair swaying as she clutched his hand. Through the windows they could see pastures as they passed through rolling hills with many herds of cattle, sheep and horses. After stopping for lunch in a small village, they arrived in Alegrete in the late afternoon. The town looked like a typical German village in Bavaria near the Austrian border. The houses were half-timbered with flower boxes hanging below the windows. They surrounded a small public square with a tavern and tobacconist on one side and a large market facing the opposite side. In the center was a carved fountain surrounded by ornate wooden benches.
The driver took them to the only hotel in the town. He handed Isaac a piece of paper with a name and telephone number. With much difficulty, he made them understand that this was the name of an uncle and that he’d be staying there until they were ready to return to Rio Grande.
It had been at least a seven-hour ride and, though boring, the countryside had been lovely with lush grass, copses of paraná pine trees that resembled giant green candelabra, and mahogany trees with huge leaves. He’d read somewhere that the roasted seeds of the pine were considered a delicacy. After they checked in and found their room, Isaac and Deborah dropped onto the bed and immediately fell asleep.
They awoke after dark, hungry. After washing in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, they went out looking for a café or restaurant. As short walk brought them to a beer hall on the square. The beer was good, though Deborah opted for a glass of wine, which she declared delicious, as good as many of the French wines she’d enjoyed in Paris.
The waiter brought them plates of grilled sausages, roasted potatoes and a green salad with a peculiar tangy dressing, which the waiter identified as a local specialty, made of lime juice, diced apples and spices. Deborah inquired in German, “This wine is delicious. Is it made locally?”
He grinned a gap-toothed grin, “Oh, yes, from the winery of Senhor Camilo. Very good, yes?”
“Senhor Camilo? Would that be Senhor Alfonso Camilo?” asked Deborah.
“Yes, yes,” the waiter replied, bobbing his head.
Isaac then asked, “Does he give tours of his winery?”
Now the waiter frowned and gave an elaborate shrug. “I do not know. His wine operation is out past the Catholic church north of town. Go left and it is perhaps two miles further on. He lives there with his wife and children.”
“Thank you so much.” They left a generous tip and commented on how good the food was.
The next morning, they walked to the church where they rested in the shade of one of the glorious paraná trees. Then they continued on to the winery. It was hot and the road was dusty but the countryside was beautiful. On a distant hill they could see the rows of grape arbors winding up and over a low ridge.
The intricately wrought iron gate that provided the only entrance through a stone wall topped with broken glass that stretched far off into rolling hills in both directions. Isaac looked through the gate and saw several buildings in the distance, about a half-kilometer from them. Isaac saw no bell or button in which to signal their presence.
He looked at Deborah and shrugged, “Over the wall? Tonight?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have never done this. It is up to you. Should we wait for him to come out?”
“And how would we stop him?” Isaac wanted to draw her out, see if she was up to being a mate, a partner. A killer.
Deborah thought for a minute and laid out her plan. It was as good as anything he could think up. He agreed and they began slowly walking back toward the church. The day was pleasant, but dry and they were in no hurry. Sometimes they walked hand-in-hand, though Isaac felt uneasy with one hand immobilized and frequently freed his. After walking for almost an hour, they heard a car approaching on the road. Isaac turned his head, and when he did, Deborah swooned and fell into the road.
The car screeched to a halt, and a man stepped out with a pistol trained on them.
“Please help us, Mein Herr. My wife, she’s ill.” Isaac was kneeling down, cradling her head in one hand.
The driver knelt down next to him, the gun forgotten. “Is she breathing?” he asked. He took his hat off and fanned her face with it.
“I don’t know. I’m afraid to check. She hasn’t been well since she became pregnant.” He was making up his story as fast as he could. As the man bent closer, Isaac hit him in the back of his head with a rock he’d concealed in his hand. The man collapsed on top of Deborah.
“Oof,” she huffed. “Get this oaf off of me.” She was shoving and pushing against the dead weight. Isaac grinned and yanked on a limp arm, dragging the man off.
He reached down and helped Deborah to her feet where she brushed the dust off her dress. She reached down and picked up the pistol, a semi-automatic Beretta 9mm. She handed it to Isaac who checked the load.
They walked to the car, a Mercedes common in this part of Brazil. Isaac jerked the rear door open, the pistol at the ready. He was looking down the barrel of a similar pistol held in the hand of the man they’d come to see.
Isaac grinned, “Senhor Alfonso Camilo?”
The small man frowned, “Si. Who are you?”
“My name is Rolf Schaeffer. We came to tour your winery, my wife and I.”
The man’s gun didn’t waver as he snapped, “There are no tours. My winery is private. Where is my driver?”
Isaac kept smiling. “Well then, perhaps we have the wrong man. The man I am looking for is SS Oberstleutnant Heinz Jaffe.” Just as he said it, Deborah tapped at the window beside Jaffe’s face. As Jaffe turned his head to look at her face, she pulled her sleeve up displaying her tattooed number. Isaac shot him in the chest twice. The pops were loud in the confines of the car. The slugs made Jaffe’s body jump as they struck him and then buried themselves in the padding of the seat. Jaffe’s finger spasmed, and his pistol went off sending a slug whizzing past Isaac’s leg. A thin curl of smoke drifted from the gun barrel into the car. Isaac picked up the ejected shells and tossed them behind him into a ditch beside the road. As he did, the d
river jumped on his back, hands clawing for the gun. Isaac tried to shake him off, but the big man only clutched tighter. Isaac heard a shriek and felt even more weight as Deborah wrapped her arms around them both, pulling backward. The three fell heavily to the dusty road. Deborah dug her nails into the driver’s face, clawing for his eyes. Isaac bent forward as far as he could, and then rammed his head back, breaking the driver’s bulbous nose with a loud crack. The driver went limp and Deborah pushed him off once again.
Inside the car, Jaffe clutched his chest. Isaac reached in and took his gun, dropping it to the floor. Jaffe’s eyes were starting to cloud when Isaac pulled his own sleeve back. “Don’t you remember me, Mein Herr?” The life disappeared from Jaffe. The sun beat down and all was quiet.
Deborah helped him drag the lifeless body of the driver back to the car, where they propped him behind the wheel and placed his pistol back in his hand after throwing the shells in the ditch after the empty casings. “If we are lucky, someone else may come along and assume the driver shot him.”
“It’s too bad he doesn’t have a tattoo like us.” Deborah had an ironic sense of humor, Isaac was learning. He liked that.
“Go search the driver’s pockets. I will attend to the Oberstleutnant.” Isaac shoved the body around and took the man’s wallet out. It contained a fat sheaf of bills, both cruzeiros and British pounds. He stuffed them in his pocket, leaving a couple of smaller notes, and placed the wallet back where he’d found it. Just as he was about to exit the back of the car, he noticed a thin black briefcase by Jaffe’s feet. He grabbed it, laid it on the seat, being careful not to get blood on it. Inside he found a sheaf of papers in a thin folder, and under that, Isaac saw a small leather packet. He opened it and whistled.
Deborah looked over the front seat and asked, “What did you find?”
Isaac held up the leather packet. Flipping it open, he held it out for her to see. In it were diamonds, many diamonds, the biggest nearly three carats. “This looks like he was either planning a getaway or being prepared, just in case.”
Deborah just nodded. “The driver has nothing worth taking. I checked the glove box also. Nothing of importance.”
They checked the trunk and didn’t find anything worth taking there either.
As they walked back to the church, Isaac said, “These diamonds are probably taken from Jews before they were murdered.” They stopped for a minute and straightened their clothing. Deborah had a hairbrush in her purse and used it to make them both look presentable.
At the church, they told the priest that they had seen a car stopped back on the road. They were suspicious and afraid to go near it. They said it was a black Mercedes Benz.
The balding father nodded. “That was wise. The only people down that way are Senhor Camilo and his people. I have heard they are, um, sometimes not nice men.”
“Father, do you have an automobile?” Isaac asked.
“Yes, an old Chevrolet. It is behind the church. Why?”
Isaac said, “My wife is not feeling well. It is the heat, I think, and the long walk. Could I borrow it to take it back to town, or would you drive us there?”
“Of course, my son, you may take it. Just leave it with the man who runs the food market. His name is Hernando. I will retrieve it later.”
Deborah clutched his hand, at the same time clutching her stomach, “Thank you, Father.”
Isaac pretended to help Deborah to the rear of the church and opened the car door for her. She slipped inside, and they drove off with a wave to the priest.
She looked at Isaac out of the corner of her eye. “Are you all right?”
He drove steadily. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just killed a man, maybe two. Doesn’t that bother you?”
He shrugged. “Not really. I have killed, or rather, rid the world of some bad people who have done bad things.” Now he looked at her sideways, “You seem to be accepting this rather easily.”
She shook her head, “Oh, no, Isaac. I am trying to make sense of it, trying to decide if what we did was right or wrong.” She lowered her head and softly said, “Suppose that man had become a good man? Suppose he had atoned for his sins?”
“That man, that former SS officer, was responsible for killing thousands, no, millions of our people. Should I be grateful if he saves the life of a child? Should the child’s mother forgive him all his sins just because he saves her one child?” He waved a hand. “Bah, I think not.” He was angry now. “Do you know how many of these devils I have killed? Do you think I even care? As long as Seymour gives me names and locations, I will continue. It is my life. It is my duty to avenge those millions who died so that I could live.”
Now she rounded on him, pointing a finger at his face, “They died so you could live? What the hell are you talking about? They died so the Reich could live. You were just lucky. You survived, perhaps by your own wits or just because. Who knows, the fates or God might have something else for you to do. But this, this killing? Is it right? Will it ever end?”
Isaac drove on, seething. Who was she to question him? Who was this woman, this child he’d met once, to question his whole existence? Didn’t she see that someone had to be the avenging angel? These men and women who had perpetrated such vile acts could not just go free, live their lives in ease, having families, businesses and then simply die at home in peace? Killing them was his sacred duty.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, my Isaac. It is all so very confusing to me. I had hoped to find you and just be with a good, gentle man.”
“And I am not gentle?”
She smiled sadly. “Yes, when you are with me, you are gentle.” She patted his arm and sat back against the dusty upholstery.
When they got back to the village, Isaac and Deborah packed quickly. While paying the bill, Isaac asked the manager to call the number on the scrap of paper the driver had given them. “Please ask him to come and get us. We are ready to leave.”
“Of course,” the desk manager replied. While he was waiting for the connection, he asked, “And how was your tour of the winery?”
Isaac shook his head, “Senhor Camilo’s man said that they give no tours. It is too bad. I was hoping to make some purchases for my uncle’s restaurant back in Stuttgart.”
A few minutes later, Raoul pulled up in his car. Isaac gave the hotel manager a nice tip and thanked him profusely. Once in the car, he handed a stack of bills over the seat back to their driver. “Buy all the petrol you need and keep the rest. You have been most helpful, Raoul.” He thought that Raoul understood just a few of the words, but cruzieros he understood.
The return trip was just as stultifying as the trip out. Raoul played music again, though at a lower volume than he had before. He occasionally sang quietly along with the music. Isaac and Deborah napped most of the time, awakening only when they stopped for petrol or once for food at the same place they’d stopped a few days before. Isaac couldn’t be sure, but thought he saw another car behind them on long straight stretches of road two or three times. He wondered if they were being followed and by whom.
It was night when they arrived at the road along the port in Rio Grande. Isaac said, “This will be fine, Raoul. Muchas gracias.” They waved goodbye and found a small café. Inside it was quiet, just the bar radio playing softly. Isaac made sure to sit with his back to the wall.
After they’d ordered some wine and food, Deborah said, “So this is what you do? Travel the world and shoot people?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” he answered with irony thick in his voice. “Sometimes I stab them or choke them. Once I set fire to a house and shot into it until the flames consumed the man and his wife. He was a former Polish guard, a brutal fellow, and his wife was a particularly despicable doctor.”
“And will this consume the rest of your life? Our life?”
Isaac was taken aback and asked what she meant.
Deborah placed her hands in his on the table top, “Isaac Rothberg
, I have dreamed of you and waited for you and tried to find you for more than ten years. I swore to myself that I would try to be a good partner for you when I did, but this? This plotting and killing? I do not want to spend my life immersed in death. I have seen enough of it.” Now she squeezed his hands, “Seymour Levintall told me that you have been taking classes at the University in Brussels. Why don’t you finish with your studies and teach instead? Do something positive.”
Isaac’s nostrils flared, and he stood suddenly, glaring at her. He didn’t know what to say. Until she’d come into his life again, he assumed this would be his vocation, until one day when he’d be too slow or calculate wrong and one of the good Nazi boys would shoot him first. The word must be out by now that the Avenging Angel was coming.
“Please, please sit, Isaac,” she implored, clutching his jacket sleeve. “I will say no more. Let us eat and find a hotel room for the night. I am still very tired.”
He slumped into the chair just as the waiter brought their food. He ate, but couldn’t taste the food. Was this it? Were his choices now to be only Deborah or the tracking and killing? Was he a terrible man? What had he become? Once he wanted to be a jewelry designer like his father and grandfather.
Later that night, in the small hotel room, with a cooling breeze blowing across their nude bodies, Deborah pulled him to her and whispered, “Please make love to me. Just be gentle. I, I am ready, I think.” Was there a note of desperation in her voice?
Isaac didn’t care. He’d been sleeping with her since the day they’d reunited and was as frustrated as a young man could be. With gentleness, he caressed her body, kissing her all over, licking her, softly whispering endearments to her. When she was ready, he pulled her on top of him and let her lead. She rose and, with infinite slowness, guided him into her. They remained joined, not moving for a long minute. With palms on his chest, she slowly rose and fell. He dared not move until she urged him on.
“Yes, now,” she said, moving rapidly, and he did, matching her thrusts. His hands dug into her hips, but she felt nothing but the growing ball of fire in her core, flowing outward until she could swear she felt it in the roots of her hair. She climaxed in a long shudder, twisting and turning and whimpering, the tears running down her face and falling on his. He came at the same time, clutching and holding her hips. Finally, after going rigid for a long second, she collapsed onto his chest, her face buried against his neck, her blonde hair across his face.
Long Lost Brother Page 26