The Heritage Paper

by Derek Ciccone

  “You are part Jewish,” his sister replied, incredulously. “Oma is Jewish, so that makes Dad half Jewish, which makes you a quarter Jewish.”

  “Does that mean I only get part of my Christmas presents?”

  Maggie just shook her head in disgust. But Jamie had already moved on. His attention locked on an object that took up most of a dining room table. “Cool—what’s that?”

  Youkelstein maneuvered to the table and proudly stated, “This is a model of the Führerbunker.”

  “The what?” Maggie asked.

  He took a moment to explain the glorified air-raid shelter the Nazi elite used as a hideout in the last days of the war. Despite grand descriptions from the Nazi spin-doctors, the bunker was nothing more than a claustrophobic tube in which its occupants had to duck debris when a bomb struck nearby. The lower part, where Hitler resided, was made up of fifteen rooms that were divided by thin partitions and connected by a narrow central passageway. The feared Reich went down with nothing more than a whimper, hiding like rats. A concept Youkelstein once took great satisfaction in, but now with the puzzle pieces coming together, he was questioning their true motives.

  “It made no sense that Hitler would be here,” he said to nobody in particular. “He should have been close to the command center at Zossen, south of Berlin. It never made any sense.”

  “What didn’t make sense?” Maggie asked.

  “Nobody in this room is making any sense,” Jamie added.

  Class was now in session and Professor Youkelstein was presiding. “Hitler made all the wrong moves at the end of the war, to the point most observers believed he’d been rendered insane. He was sick, yes—he suffered from debilitating Parkinson’s and syphilis. And he was never the most grounded fellow. But crazy? I’m not so sure.

  “He did make a convincing case to those around him that he’d lost his marbles. He would give an order to send a tank brigade to Pirmasens, then change his mind and send it to Trier, and then to Koblenz. And as erratic as that seemed, the final result would have been the same, regardless—they were all suicide missions! I should have seen it before,” Youkelstein’s voice turned anguished and he pounded his fist against the table.

  “Seen what?”

  “That he’d already put into motion his escape plan—the Apostles. Even when he declared Himmler a traitor for negotiating peace with the Allies in the last days of the war, that was just another con to throw his enemies off the trail. He was crazy … crazy like a fox.”

  “That’s what they said about Oma. But I still don’t get it,” Maggie said, growing frustrated.

  “It was right in front of my face and I didn’t see it,” Youkelstein said and moved to a contraption sitting on an end table, and clicked a button. The out-of-date slide projector shot a large photo of Martin Bormann on the wall.

  Jamie must not have been impressed, because he declared himself “bored” and began chasing the cat.

  “Who is that?” Maggie asked. She wasn’t going anywhere—he had her full attention.

  “Martin Bormann was Hitler’s secretary and some would say closest confidant after Rudolph Hess left. He was a cruel murderer, even by Nazi standards, and a professional weasel whose claim to fame was the trust Hitler put in him. Without Hitler he was nothing, and now it makes sense.”

  Youkelstein reached into a drawer and pulled out the gold cross with v^988v^ engraved on it.

  Maggie inched back. He’d scared her. “Oma said only Apostles have those—you’re one of them!”

  He flashed a comforting smile. “No, my dear, I got this from Bormann. I’d always assumed he was on the run from the authorities like the rest of the Odessa rats running around South America, but he was on the run from something more deadly. If he was a member of the Apostles, why was he unable to make safe passage into the US like the rest of them?

  “That’s why he planted that skull in Berlin, hoping to be declared dead. That is why he created false sightings in places like Chile and Argentina—not to throw off the authorities, but to divert Himmler. That is why fear filled his eyes—because if we were able to locate him, then Himmler had already found him.”

  “But why would Himmler be after Bormann? They were on the same team.”

  “Himmler was anything but a team player, and Bormann knew things that could threaten Himmler’s power within the group.”

  “What did he know?

  “That Himmler was the one behind the murder of Adolf Hitler.”

  Chapter 43

  Maggie sat beside him. Trusting him again. “My history teacher said Hitler shot himself in the mouth while chewing down on a cyanide tablet. And his wife overdosed on pills.”

  Youkelstein cringed. “Did your teacher explain to your class that the blood on the wall of the room was A2, which correlates with Eva Braun, not Hitler?

  “Did your teacher explain why no signs of a gunshot residue or cyanide poisoning were found in Hitler’s corpse?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “Did your teacher explain why the body of Eva Braun had six steel fragments lodged in her chest and severe injuries to the thorax, that even the most novice forensic doctor would recognize as a death from shrapnel injuries? And last I checked, no recorded suicide ever occurred from shrapnel wounds.

  “And did your teacher explain to you how a man who had such severe Parkinson’s that he walked by throwing his torso forward and dragging his legs behind him, and shook constantly, somehow held a gun in his mouth and bit on a cyanide capsule at the same time?”

  Maggie sighed. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Youkelstein had written a book over twenty years ago that laid out his theory of how Hitler was murdered, but only today could he connect a motive. In the end, Himmler attempted to negotiate his safety with the Allies, but it became clear that they would never consider him anything but a war criminal, and he was forced to take the Apostle escape hatch to ensure his survival. But he wasn’t going to play second fiddle to anyone, especially the young child that Hitler proclaimed to be his chosen successor—a bizarre and reckless decision likely driven by the syphilis that was eating away at his brain. So Himmler began a plan of divide and conquer within the group before the war even ended. To control the Apostles he had to remove its leader. He needed to kill Adolf Hitler, and Bormann, who was always willing to attach himself to the winner, was his handpicked man to do it.

  Youkelstein explained to Maggie that the expectation was for Hitler and his new wife, Eva Braun, to commit suicide on April 30, 1945. At 3:30 in the afternoon, following Hitler’s marriage to Eva and a long ceremonial goodbye, their ‘much publicized’ and ‘expected’ suicide was to take place. So much so that Hitler’s physician, Dr. Haas, had even tested the cyanide on Hitler’s dog Blondi. But they never were going to kill themselves.

  “Which means that someone was going to have to do it for them. The SS guards who protected the lower bunker—the ones controlled by Himmler—locked the doors, supposedly to provide privacy for the Hitlers to end their lives. This left only Goebbles, Bormann, Hitler, along with his driver, Lidge, and Dr. Haas.

  “Hitler was unceremoniously strangled to death in his room. For her part, Eva tried to fight off her husband’s attacker, which is how her blood got on the wall. She was helpless to stop it, before being whisked away. A doppelganger was then buried in her place.

  “The dental records proved that the corpse burned in the garden was indeed Adolf Hitler. But the cause of death never added up. Those who found him recorded the smell of almonds coming from in his mouth, but when his organs were sent for further testing, no cyanide was detected in his tissues—an obvious attempt to stuff poison into an already dead Hitler’s mouth to make it appear to be a suicide. But by that time, nobody really cared about the how and why, all that was important was that the monster was dead. There was no clamoring for further investigation.

  “But when Bormann peeled away the layers, even a dumb block of cement like him was able to figure out th
at he was being set up to be Himmler’s patsy, and he made a run for it. That is why he never joined the other Apostles in the States … not because he was a casualty of war.”

  Maggie appeared unimpressed. “Hitler was murdered by his own people, fine, whatever, but it doesn’t solve our problem. I think we should concentrate on what made him choose Josef to be his successor. One minute you’re saying it was because he was crazy, and then you tell me how he was pretending to be nuts to pull off an escape—it’s the same stuff they tried to say about Oma. Make up your mind, which is it?”

  She had a point, and she wasn’t finished. “You know what’s also weird? That they killed him, but they didn’t kill his wife ... at least not the real one. Did you ever try to find her in one of your Nazi hunts?”

  He clicked a picture of Eva Braun onto the wall. It was a glamour shot from 1945 when she was in her early thirties. No, he hadn’t looked for her. Why would he? She wasn’t a Nazi criminal—just some dimwit who obsessed on fame, which she gained for being the Führer’s girlfriend, but not until after her presumed death.

  Then it hit him.

  Youkelstein headed for the door. He realized that he’d already found her.

  Chapter 44

  Veronica didn’t take a breath until she exited into the plaza outside of Sterling House. She sucked in the sharp night air, burning her lungs like it was a punishment for not listening to her gut. She had to find her children. They were with him.

  Youkelstein.

  He knew the whole time!

  Zach caught up to her as she headed toward the busy Park Avenue and delivered more bad news. He made a few phone calls, confirming that on the day of Carsten’s death, Ben Youkelstein was a guest lecturer at Vassar College—in Poughkeepsie!

  Could Youkelstein be involved with these people? But why? Theories filled her head—none of them good—but she didn’t have time to think about it now. She had to find Maggie and Jamie.

  She felt like the surrounding skyscrapers were about to crash down on her. She began running down the busy sidewalk, yelling, “Maggie! … Jamie!” Nobody even made eye contact with her. It was the way New Yorkers dealt with the abundance of mentally ill who flocked to their streets.

  She began grabbing Wall-Street-looking types and demanding cooperation. She shoved wallet-sized photos of Maggie and Jamie in their faces. They pushed her away.

  Her instinct was still to call Carsten. This is when she needed him most. He would’ve grabbed her face with both hands, as he’d always do. Then he would convince her that they’d find them. And she would believe him.

  But Carsten wasn’t available to take her call.

  And the guy who might be responsible for his death had their kids. She just stared at her phone, hoping Carsten would call from the Great Beyond and make this right for their children.

  And then it did ring.

  But it wasn’t Carsten.

  Even better.

  It was Maggie!

  Veronica kept strong during the call, holding back her true emotions, and the ‘running off without permission’ lecture. Maggie went on a tangent about Youkelstein having a eureka moment while they were eating ice cream, and he needed to get to the Führerbunker right away, which apparently was in his apartment because that’s where he took them. He then left just as abruptly, leaving Maggie and Jamie stranded on a street corner as he jumped into a cab and sped off. Not ideal, and likely to get him passed over for any future babysitting gigs, but all Veronica cared was that he was away from them.

  Maggie didn’t know the address, other than she thought it was in SoHo, based on what Youkelstein told the cab driver on the way there. Maggie offered to ask some strangers, but Veronica strongly instructed—more like threatened—them not to talk to anyone or give any appearance of being alone.

  She had a better idea—she’d call Eddie at his precinct. But with all the commotion, she’d forgotten that he was still en route from his security meeting with Kingston. Luckily, she was able to get Eddie’s longtime partner in crime, and occasional partner in fighting it, John Marquez. Eddie and Marquez considered themselves family. He quickly located Youkelstein’s address.

  Zach offered to drive. He was probably scared of Veronica’s emotional state, as was most of Park Avenue at this point. She collapsed into the passenger seat and thanked the same heavens she’d been cursing this past year. She even had a few good thoughts for Ellen, remembering that she was the one who’d purchased the cell phone for Maggie, in the face of her heavy opposition.

  When she spotted her children sitting on the street corner, looking more bored than frightened, Veronica could no longer keep her cool. She practically leaped out of the vehicle and ran to them. She squished them both in a hug and refused to let go.

  They had no idea where Youkelstein went. “Just the way he rolls,” Maggie said with a shrug. But Veronica knew there was more to it. Carsten had seen at least two people before his mysterious death—Youkelstein and Rose Shepherd. There had to be some connection.

  Chapter 45

  Rose Shepherd looked up from her romance novel and smiled at Otto.

  “I hear you had visitors today,” he addressed her pleasantly, as he stepped into her room.

  Even though she was closing in on the century mark she was still childlike. Just like the first time he’d met her back in 1936. “Oh my gosh, yes I did, Otto. I did good, you would’ve been proud of me. They asked about Greta Peterson, and her son coming to see me, but I told them I was framed by Jew lawyers—doesn’t that sound like something my love would say?”

  “Your loyalty has always been a key element in the success of the Apostles. You should never be underestimated.”

  Her look changed from child-like to competitive. “Like those women at Berghof always did. Like that jealous Angela Raubal, who couldn’t stand that he dumped her daughter Geli for me.”

  The Führer actually had Geli, his half-niece and lover, killed for insubordination when she threatened to expose certain secrets after he left her, but Otto didn’t want to ruin the more romantic tale, and kept quiet.

  “And Gerda Christian,” she went on with a frown. “She said I was just a vacuous showoff with a passion for bad clothes and cheap films, hardly suitable for the leader of the Third Reich. But my love told her off … said that I suited him just fine.”

  Otto agreed that Eva Braun was never as stupid as people made her out to be. In fact, she did most of the manipulating in her relationship with the Führer. And her biggest weapon of manipulation was the suicide attempt.

  Her first attempt was in 1932 when she shot herself in the neck. Then in 1935 she made a second attempt by taking pills. After Raubul’s “suicide,” the Führer wanted to move past any scandal that might stunt his still-growing power, especially with the whispers that he was behind her death. So Eva’s tactics often worked, meaning she usually got what she wanted.

  And what she wanted was often expensive. The Führer bought her a villa in a Munich suburb, a Mercedes, and provided both a chauffeur and maid. By 1936 she’d become a fixture at Berghof, his grand estate in the Bavarian Alps. He was always worried about her safety, so he hid her out, so much so that most of the German people were unaware of their relationship until after the war.

  But while she wasn’t the simpleton that many portrayed her to be, Otto would never have described Eva as being deep or profound. Her life was basically that of leisure, even during the war, in which she was oblivious to most of what was going on around her. She spent her days exercising, reading romance novels, and watching films. Unlike most Germans, she was free to read European and American magazines.

  But as dysfunctional as their relationship was, Otto thought that in many ways it worked. They had what the Germans called gemütlichkeit—a coziness. It was something Otto never found in his own life.

  “It’s been a long journey for us,” he said.

  Her smile seemed to go back in time. “I remember the first time I met Adolf back in 1929, when he
called himself Herr Wolf. I was a lab assistant for Heinrich Hoffman, the official photographer of the Nazi Party. It was just like a movie—I was up on a ladder and he came in to a great view of my legs … he always loved my legs.”

  She giggled as she told the story once again, and probably for the last time. Otto must have heard it two hundred times throughout the years.

  “I can see it like it was yesterday. He wore this big felt hat with his light-colored English coat. He told me I had the dreamy beauty of a farmer’s daughter and that I had the same eye color as his mother.”

  Her face turned dismayed. Otto knew that even in the best relationships the thoughts always turned to the end. As was common with Eva, the smile faded away and she returned to her sad sulk—her carefree giggles were often a cover for her inner torment.

  Otto noticed that she was wearing her wedding dress today. Normally a symbol of the beginning of a journey, but for Frau Hitler, it was an emblem of the end.

  “All the women of Germany would’ve given their lives to be with him, but he chose you,” Otto tried to comfort her.

  Her smile returned, like a weak pulse, but it quickly faded. “He deserved a better ending. Not in that dreadful place. All I can remember is the smell—the smell of death. And I’ll never forget the sight of the Goebbles children, their bodies piled in that room. I could never understand how a mother could do that to her own children.”

  The comment took Otto back to that fateful day. Upon arriving at the Führerbunker, he found that their plan had gone terribly awry. The Führer was dead, Bormann and the pilot Baur were nowhere to be found, and Otto’s contacts were telling him that Müller had been captured by either the Russians or Americans. Nobody was sure—the entire country was in the fog of war. Berlin was nothing but chaos—every man for himself as Stalin’s troops marched in.

  What he did find was an inconsolable Eva Braun. She was telling bedtime stories to the bodies of the six children of Joseph Goebbles, all poisoned to death by their mother, Magda. Otto needed to think fast. He decided to bring Eva with him, more out of respect for the Führer than his better judgment, and headed northward to the coastal city of Flensburg. He wouldn’t regret it.