Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  Yuri stepped over the bodies also and gripped Deborah’s arm, “Quickly. There may be more of them.”

  She frowned as they ran down the steps. “Who are they?”

  Yuri shrugged, eyes scanning left and right. Traffic sped by on the busy street. Across from them, Yuri saw a man start at the sight of them, turn and run into the nearby park.

  “Uh–oh,” he muttered, shoving Deborah toward a small, tan sedan. After making sure she was seated, he started the car and drove quickly away from the deadly house. A half block behind them, a black Mercedes sedan pulled out from the curb. It stopped for the man from the park.

  Yuri took a roundabout route to the hospital, glancing into his rear view mirrors often. The Mercedes stayed a few cars behind them.

  Yuri nudged Deborah’s leg. Without turning his head, he said, “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  She whispered, “Yes, Isaac showed me. Why?”

  “We have company following us, and if I am correct, there will be a couple more at the hospital. We must get Isaac out of there.” He slipped her one of the pistols he’d taken from the boarding house.

  Again she asked, “Who are they?”

  “Probably former Gestapo, SS or even VNV. Or DeVlag. Belgian collaborator organizations.” He glanced at her. “Very bad people. Most of them just came home and returned to their former lives.” Yuri shook his head, “But they gave up more than twenty-five thousand Jews to the Germans.”

  He pulled up in front of the hospital. Several people were waiting for rides or buses. The sun was out, glinting off the windows. It was difficult for Yuri to believe that Brussels had been heavily bombed in the raids of 1943 and 1944. The rebuilding had been swift and concentrated. The large companies had reformed and the “Belgian Miracle” fueled the economic recovery.

  Yuri took a deep breath. “Keep the gun in your purse and your hand on it. If I indicate a target, do not hesitate. Do you understand?”

  Deborah nodded. Before they could get out of the car, a man appeared at the glass hospital door. He was a thin youth, a cigarette dangling from his full lips, dark curly hair falling over his forehead. He beckoned to Yuri.

  “Let’s go,” Yuri said and quickly exited the car. Deborah followed. They ducked through the door held open by the young man. “Thank you, Dov. This is Deborah. Deborah, Dov.” He didn’t stop and headed for the elevator.

  Outside Isaac’s door stood two men. One was in a dark suit and sandals. He looked dapper, though thin. The other leaned back against the wall, humming softly to himself. He was heavy, but not fat, and dressed in baggy corduroy slacks, and a threadbare flannel shirt with red checks. Both men had bulges under their arms.

  Yuri nodded and slipped into the hospital room. Isaac was supported by three pillows, a book propped up on a fourth. He looked up and smiled as Deborah came in behind Yuri.

  “Ah, my two favorite friends.” He saw the look of consternation in Yuri’s face, the tightness of his jaw.

  “Feeling better?” Yuri asked.

  Isaac nodded, moving his right arm up and down in its sling. “How much longer am I going to be here?” he asked.

  Yuri looked at his watch and replied, “About fifteen minutes. Get dressed. We have more company outside.” He took another pistol out of his waistband and handed it to Isaac with a shrug. “I’ve got a plane at the airport. We need to be there in less than an hour.”

  “A private aeroplane?” asked Deborah.

  Yuri smirked, “Actually, it is an El Al DC6. They are, ah, having some fuel problems at Melsbroek.”

  “Not the new Aeroport?”

  “Thought it would be best to have the option of a more private departure point.” He patted Isaac’s leg and nodded at the clothes on the chair.

  In a few minutes, with Deborah’s help, Isaac was dressed. He was weak but able to walk unaided. Yuri left first. “Zʼl s gyyn! Let’s go.” Yuri said to the two men. They led the way down the beige corridor toward the elevator, followed by Isaac and Deborah, Yuri bringing up the rear. When the elevator doors opened, both men had their hands on their guns. A small, dark nurse looked left and right, then slipped between the men and hurried down the corridor, glancing fearfully over her shoulder.

  Yuri hurried to the stairway door and clattered down while the others took their time entering and pressing the button for the main lobby. The thin man motioned Isaac to one side of the elevator and Deborah to the other. The thin man crouched and the taller, heavier man moved to the side. If anyone were waiting, their fire would have to be adjusted. It might only take a split second, but the split second was to Yuri’s people’s advantage.

  As the elevator door opened, a spray of bullets showered the car. The heavy man was hit in the arm before he could step all the way to the side, the blood splashing on Isaac’s face and sling. He grabbed the man’s gun before it could hit the floor. The thin man shot from his crouch, taking the shooter in the upper thigh knocking him down. He was an older man, grim-faced, a scar bifurcating the left side of his face. His graying crewcut glistened with sweat. Though he was down, he wasn’t out. His finger tightened on the trigger and the spray of bullets cut sideways across the now deserted lobby. Screams could be heard on all sides.

  Just then, Yuri threw open the stairway door. He instantly assessed the situation and squeezed off one shot. The hollow point bullet hit crewcut in the forehead. His head exploded, pieces of skull spattering the glass door behind him.

  “Go! Go! Go!” He yelled motioning those in the elevator. Deborah helped the heavy man out. Isaac stepped in front, gun in his good hand, the other in his sling.

  “Ari, check on Dov.” Yuri motioned to the thin man. “Careful, there’s more than one of them.”

  Ari nodded and moved to the side of the glass doors. He quickly glanced out. “Dov’s down!” he said without turning his head.

  Yuri moved swiftly behind him. “You go left, I’ll go right. The car is three down on your side. Be careful of the two-year old black Mercedes sedan. It was behind us.” Yuri tapped Ari on the shoulder. “Go!”

  Ari and Yuri darted through the door. As they did, more bullets came at them, breaking windows and windscreens of the cars parked on the street outside.

  Isaac kept the others back. He brought his gun up and covered the door, expecting more men to come in at any minute. The heavy man reached into a pocket and brought out a pill. He swallowed it without water, tilting his head back.

  Deborah asked, “What was that you took?”

  He smiled slowly, never taking his eyes off the door. “Energy pill. Wards off shock and fatigue. Pain also.” He tapped Isaac, “Give me a gun.”

  Deborah handed him the one Yuri had given her.

  Outside, they heard more gunfire. First automatic weapons fire, then the pop, pop, pop of pistol fire. Yuri ducked his head in and motioned them forward. “Come, quickly now!”

  “Karl, can you help Dov?” He raised his chin at the heavy man.

  “Yes,” Karl replied, pushing past Isaac and shrugging off Deborah’s arm. They all moved outside. Sirens could be heard, still far off but coming toward them. Karl hoisted Dov onto his big shoulder and began jogging toward their car. Yuri ran ahead and Ari came behind, sweeping his gun back and forth. On the street the black Mercedes-Benz was halfway up on the curb, the windscreen starred where Yuri and Ari’s bullets found the driver.

  They jumped into their sedan, Yuri driving, and made it almost a block when the police cars came roaring around the corner, five in a row, passing them, sirens bleating their bee-baw, bee-baw. Yuri had pulled aside for them to pass, then gunned the motor and sped for the airport. He reached for a microphone on the seat beside him and pressed the button. “El Al, this is Brussels 1. We are on our way. We’ll need a medic aboard.”

  A tinny voice replied, “Roger that. We’re ready.”

  Ten minutes later, they drove through a gate and up beside the comforting blue and white airplane, its huge tail towering above them. Helping the two inju
red men aboard, they all settled into blue plush seats. When they were belted in, the plane started for the taxiway and was soon airborne.

  Yuri smiled from his seat facing Isaac and Deborah, “Welcome to Israel,” he said.

  Chapter 43

  Miriam and Al sat back, mouths hanging open. Miriam shook her head, casting off the spell that Isaac’s words had woven about them. They had met with him nearly every day for over a week. They could tell that the old man was growing tired, but Al still asked, “After you got to Israel, did you have many more adventures?”

  Isaac chuckled, “A few, but Deborah forbid me to do any more field work. I taught shop at our King Saul Boulevard. That was the Mossad’s headquarters, and later at Jerusalem University.” He shrugged, “Nothing very interesting.”

  Deborah leaned forward and touched his knee, “But our father. You never wanted to know him, see him, spend time with him and us?”

  Isaac smiled sadly at his niece. “I kept tabs on all of you through Saul.” He turned his head and looked at Al. “I was at your high school graduation. University too.” His hand covered Miriam’s, “I was at yours too, my dear. I was also at the synagogue when you were married.” He chuckled again, “Never did trust that French fellow.”

  “How about our cousins’? Were you there too?”

  He stiffened, “No, not for that Nazi. Never.”

  She sighed and made to argue, but Al placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mim, it’s too late. Pop and Uncle Hans are dead. Let it go.”

  She patted Al’s hand and nodded. Turning to her uncle, she asked, “What happened to Yuri and Abraham?”

  Isaac closed his eyes for a minute, then breathed a long breath. “Yuri was killed in early 1982 in Lebanon. He was undercover and was discovered with a radio. They sent his head back in a box.”

  “I’m so sorry, Uncle. He sounded like such a good friend.” Miriam was almost in tears with the old man. “Poor, poor Ursula.”

  Al broke the mood, “And Abraham?”

  “Ah,” he smiled, “the old fool died three years ago. He was in the Knesset representing his kibbutz for more than twenty years.”

  “And your wife, Deborah?” asked Al.

  He shook his head, “No, not my wife.” Isaac wiped a tear away. “We never married. She wouldn’t marry me, said she was not good enough for me.” He leaned forward and said intently, “The truth was, she was better than I ever was, ever would be.”

  “So besides being your, um, partner, what else did she do?” Asked Miriam.

  “She went to school and became a nurse. Distinguished herself in the 1967 war and again in the Yom Kippur War. That would have been in ’73. I was so proud of her. We lived as man and wife for forty years. I loved her from the first day I helped her into that freight car. She died of breast cancer about ten years ago.”

  The old man hauled himself to his feet and, as Al and Miriam stood, said, “Bless you my children. May you live long and healthy lives and may your children also. Please tell them they had an Uncle Isaac. I love you both.” He turned and walked out of the small café.

  Six months later, Saul Goldman informed them that their Uncle Isaac had died peacefully in his room in Tel Aviv. The old man’s struggle for justice was over at last.

  The End

  If you enjoyed reading Isaac’s story, you can learn more about the Rothberg family in Don Kafrissen’s best selling first book,

  BROTHERS BEYOND BLOOD.

  The third book in this trilogy set around the event of the Holocaust will be out in 2015. The main character was introduced in

  LONG LOST BROTHER.

  An excerpt from

  NOT MY BLOOD follows.

  Not My Blood

  Traffic noise grew louder as the door opened, and then faded away again as it closed. A small bell chimed softly.

  Customer?

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Ari Lubinski sighed and struggled to his feet. He pulled his glasses down from his forehead and fumbled his feet into the worn slippers by his chair. Glancing through the pass-through he saw a dark-haired young woman standing at the counter of the American Pawn Emporium. The shop stood near the corner of Flatbush and Castle Avenues on the edge of the Jewish section of Brooklyn.

  Ari stood looking through the one-way mirror, just gazing at her. She was short, maybe 5’2”, buxom, and wore a brightly printed dress that defied fashion and hung halfway down her calves. Her face was dark. Tanned or swarthy, he decided. Jet black hair was gathered casually at the back of her head. It twined wildly in untamed curls, kinky and long. There was a glint of a metal clip buried in it somewhere behind her left ear.

  Over her shoulders was a shawl with long fringes. Certainly not a local girl, he decided. He’d seen them all, knew most of them. Middle European? A gypsy girl, perhaps, although he knew of none living in the area. She was nervously tapping a bright red nail on the scarred counter top, looking anxiously around her.

  Ari pushed open the swinging door and slowly walked the length of the counter, his hands clasped over his protruding belly.

  “How may I help you, young lady?” This came out as a barely recognizable wheeze. Ari was eighty-seven years old, and had emphysema and diabetes. He didn’t care much about his health; he’d died a half-dozen times already in this life.

  She eyed him, dark eyes flashing between long black lashes. “I have something to sell, if you’re interested.” She dug into her large handbag, finally pulling out an object wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. Ari watched her hands as she carefully unfolded the paper. Inside was a brightly polished silver brooch, intricately engraved and studded with five colored stones. But it was the silver that drew his eye.

  Ari slid open a small drawer under the counter and extracted an eye loupe. He glanced up at the girl who was playing with an escaped lock of hair. He shoved his small, round glasses back onto his forehead and then screwed the loupe into his right eye. Carefully he picked up the ornament and held it close to his face. The engraving was all done by hand, not by machine. The skillfully wrought lines were not exactly aligned. The roughly cut stones, although real, were of poor quality with many occlusions. This was not a professional job.

  “So, what do you want for this, young lady?” he asked without looking up.

  She frowned. “I don’t know. What’s it worth?”

  Now he looked up, lips pursed, estimating her worth. “Is it stolen?” At his age, he really didn’t care about the provenance of the piece, but it had been so long since he’d had a young woman in the shop, he just wanted an excuse to talk with her.

  “No,” she shook her head vigorously. “It belonged to my grandmother. She got it in Europe when she lived there. But when she died, it was left to me.

  Ari continued to appraise her. “Gypsy?” he asked.

  Again she nodded, not speaking. Then she whispered, “Rom.”

  He took the loupe out and pulled his glasses down again. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rom,” she said. “We prefer Rom.”

  Ari forced a small smile, “Ah, yes, and Traveler and Sinti and Ashkali, yes?”

  Again she nodded, the curly hair bobbing. “How much?” She tapped the piece with a fingernail.

  “Let me make a test or two. I want to know the quality of the silver.” He turned it over looking for a stamp or a mark. There was none, but then he didn’t expect to find one on a handmade piece.

  From the drawer he extracted a small metal bar and touched it to the back of the brooch. The bar didn’t stick.

  The rare earth magnet was just a preliminary test. This told him the silver wasn’t plated over a ferrous core. Next he took out a pair of rubber gloves and a small bottle of acid. He squeezed the air out of an eyedropper and, though his hands trembled slightly, managed to touch the tip to the acid and draw up a few drops. He turned the brooch over and put two drops at separate parts on the rear. Ari leaned down closely and looked at the drops as they started to change the color of the sil
ver. It became a distinctive dark, rust colored brownish red.

  Ari frowned. Certainly the piece was not pure silver, not .999 or even .925. Had the acid turned the metal brown it would have meant the silver was.800, but the brownish red meant it was somewhere in between .8 and .9. Very rare. He hadn’t heard of this amalgam since the war.

  “Where did you say you got this?” he asked again watching her face looking for lies.

  “From my grandma.”

  “Is you grandfather still alive?” He needed to find out more about this piece.

  She nodded. “Why? Is there a problem with this? Maybe I should go somewhere else?” She reached for the brooch, but Ari placed his hand over it. When he did that his loose sleeve slid back exposing the fading tattoo on his arm. The girl started at it.

  “My grandfather has a tattoo like that,” she told him.

  Ari pulled his sleeve down, covering the mark.

  “Does he?” Ari frowned. “I think this piece was made from Nazi silver,” he told her.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Silver is alloyed to a very specific grade,” he explained. “During the war, however, the Nazis confiscated all the silver they could get their hands on -- coinage, bar stock, jewelers wire, jewelry and even teeth. It was all different alloys, but in their hurry, they smelted it all, dumping everything in together, and then pouring it into bars. This is way the bars then were mixed and uneven alloys … just like your brooch.”

  “You think Nazis made my brooch?”

  “Not necessarily. But I believe they did provide the silver.”

  “My grandfather gave the brooch to my grandmother.,” she supplied. “It’s mine. Do you want to buy it or not?”

  “I just need to confirm that it was made from Nazi alloy. You see,” he explained, “I was in a Nazi concentration camp. That’s why I have the tattoo. The Nazis took my mother’s wedding ring and my father’s teeth. Some of it was silver, but most was gold.”