“Did you know what was happening in those camps?” Kent demands, his grief subsumed by horror.
“Of course, we did. Nobody was allowed to visit the inside of the concentration camp, but the smell from the smokestacks came to my home when the wind was blowing it toward our town. I cannot ever forget that smell.” Her face is suddenly dark and fearful.
“What happened when Auschwitz was evacuated? Did Mr. Rossi escape?” Jamie asks. She remembers from her school days that it had been bad enough to be in Auschwitz itself, but it was no better when they moved the Jews out of the camp. Jamie fears that Mr. Rossi may have been involved with all of these horrors.
Mrs. Rossi’s eyes fill again with very different tears. “No.” Her whole body shudders with the pain of recollection. “Martin participated in the death march to Wodzislaw, which was thirty-five miles away. It was something he always regretted. In Wodzislaw, he was assigned to put the women on the train. There were open-air cattle cars, and he loaded them into those cars, in the snow, to go to Ravensbruck concentration camp. That was more than Martin could handle. After he had them loaded, he fled, despite the freezing temperature and falling snow. He was supposed to go on to Ravensbruck and then receive further assignment, but he chose to make a run for it.”
“Where did he go?”
“He escaped to Brzezinka and found me. By then, we were already engaged to be married, but he was afraid for us to be married in Poland because he didn’t want any records for the SS to come and find him. He hoped that they would assume he had been killed or captured. Our neighbors hid us in their basement when the Russians came through in late January 1945. For months, we were separated while in hiding, until that summer.” Mrs. Rossi stops, her eyes seeing the scenes of her past as clearly as though it had happened yesterday.
“Why did you go into hiding?”
“They never tell you in the history books about the Russian liberating force that came into Poland, and about the mass rapes of the native women. My own mother was raped four times in a single day. I thank God we were able to hide and were not found. The Russians would have executed Martin,” Mrs. Rossi answers through thick tears.
“How did you escape Poland?”
“Martin had money, gold, and other valuables that he had taken from the…that he got in Auschwitz. We made our way to Switzerland by the end of the summer. We immediately got married and moved to Innsbruck. After a couple of years living there, we heard the rumors about Auschwitz guards being arrested, tried, and even executed. It was time to leave. Our plans were to immigrate to Brazil in 1948 using his real name but he changed it in Italy instead. He changed it to Rossi, a common Portuguese name. In 1953, we came to the U.S. and made a new life hiding from the past. All of our children were born in this country.”
“Did your husband ever know anyone else with a similar story, or was he ever in contact with someone in the same predicament?”
Mrs. Rossi thinks for a moment, and then replies, “No, not that I am aware of.”
Kent had stopped pacing half way through Jamie’s questions. He now stands off to the side, still with shock, seeing his mother—and his father—with new eyes.
Jamie crouches next to the bed and puts her hand on Mrs. Rossi’s. She looks up into the old, tired eyes. As horrified as she is by the truth, Jamie sympathizes with the cost to Mrs. Rossi to reveal it. “Thank you for the truth. I appreciate you sharing your tale, despite the hardship of reliving those memories. I want you to know that it could be extremely useful in finding and stopping your husband’s killer. I will try to keep you updated. And, if you think of anything else, please call me,” Jamie says gently, handing Mrs. Rossi her business card.
Mrs. Rossi mutely accepts the card, her tears still flowing freely. Jamie leaves the room, and the zombie-like mother and son, closing the door behind her. Once the door is shut, Jamie makes her way downstairs and finds Phil.
When he sees Jamie waving him to leave the room, Phil politely excuses himself. He leaves Peter with a polite “I will have a police officer address your concerns until I can get back to you.”
“Worthless assholes!” Peter yells angrily at Phil’s back.
Jamie leads Phil out the front door.
“So?” Phil inquires expectantly.
"I think we have a Nazi-hunter on our hands.”
Chapter 24
At the same time, the politics of the country turned for the worse, and things around the world became more chaotic. My dream of college died as World War II broke out. Over the next few years, I would see and live through things that should never be repeated. You see, I am a Jew. The nightmares that I lived through cannot be adequately described, but I feel I must write them down and pass them along. Maybe someday in the future, such events will be thwarted before they happen again. I also write this memoir, in a way, to heal myself. Maybe once it is down on paper I will be free from the horrors I have experienced. Just maybe.
After World War I, Slovakia became a part of Czechoslovakia. During those days, you either told people you were Czech or Hungarian, since the Slovaks were more anti-Semitic. I actually never experienced any real anti-Semitism growing up in Propoc, Slovakia, not far from Kosice. My best friend, Mary, was a Christian. Living in a small town and owning the only dry goods store meant we were quite well off. As a child growing up, I had no idea that my grandparents actually wielded some influence throughout the community.
It was during World War II that Hitler took over and gave what was originally Slovakia to Hungary. It sounds terrible, but this is what actually protected many Jews for a little while, that Hungary and Germany were allies. Some of the local Jews tried to leave, going to the United States, France, or England. Others, like my family, believed that Jews had withstood persecution in the past, and it could be done again. Little did any of us know what persecution, horrors, and hatred we would see in the coming years.
Chapter 25
Heading to the kitchen, Simon retrieves a beer from his refrigerator and sits down at the small breakfast table. Screwing off the top of the beer, Simon lets his mind wander back to his father. He takes a sip, then leans back, reminiscing. Simon remembers it clearly.
He is seven-years-old, sitting on the porch, waiting for his father to come home. Dad has been away for what seemed like months, but which was probably only a couple of weeks. Sitting next to Simon are his baseball and mitt, waiting as anxiously as him. The family car drives down the street. Simon stands up, ready, wearing a smile wider than his face as he watches the car pull into the driveway. Racing up to the driver’s-side door, Simon opens it, ready to greet Dad with a hug. Inside the car, his father reaches for his suitcases and briefcase, completely missing Simon’s gesture.
Please, please let him be in a good mood, Simon prays as he reaches in to grab a suitcase.
“Thanks,” grumbles his father, stepping out of the car.
Simon’s prayer is not to be answered this time.
With profound disappointment, Simon senses that his father is frustrated and angry, just like the last time. His pale face shows too much work and not enough sleep. His father drags his feet up the driveway. Simon shuts the door, watching his father climb the steps to his house. So much for his hope of playing catch with Dad.
Simon goes running after his father, hoping that the sight of his mother may make his dad happy again. As he opens the screen door and walks inside, Simon hears his father’s voice speaking rapidly and angrily from the kitchen. Knowing better than to get in the middle of another fight, Simon heads to the closest room to listen.
“I cannot believe it!”
“Milton, what did you expect? It has been the same result every time since you started this.”
“I practically handed them all the information they needed to prosecute them!”
“Why do you do this to yourself? I will never understand it,” Simon’s mom counters, slamming a cupboard door.
“If you were the only son of a Holocaust survivor, growing up
hearing her tales every day, you’d be just as vigilant. Everything was stolen from my mother. Her whole family, gone! She was the only one to survive. They took away her home and replaced it with the gas chambers, the crematories, the torture, and the murder of children. These monsters need to be punished for their crimes! What? You want them to get away with it?!”
Simon feels slightly squeamish hearing his father talk. He does not understand all of it, but what he does understand makes him nervous. As the quiet settles in for a moment, Simon holds his breath. When his mother begins talking, he releases it.
“You’ve been chasing these guys for years! What has it gotten you? Ulcers! And what about us? You are using your own money, time, and life, wasting it on chasing criminals that no one else cares about. You said this case was going to be different. The look on your face tells me it wasn’t any different.”
“I have concrete proof this Rossi guy is really Kleiss, and the government won’t do anything to prosecute him. I literally handed over the evidence to the Department of Justice’s Office of Special Investigations three months ago, and you know what they have done with that information? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!” Simon’s father yells vehemently.
“It’s the same old story, and it’s not going to change. I’m sick of it. You said that this time they would do something. And what about Simon Wiesenthal, in Vienna? Send him the information. He will take care of it, so you don’t have to be leaving us all the time. Leave it to the professionals, and stay here, be my husband, be a father,” his mother pleads.
“It’s not that simple. The system is the problem. Remember Kuester? I was able to prove he was in the SS and participated in the Piotrkow massacre. The U.S tried and convicted him of lying on his immigration papers and sentenced him to deportation. Where is he today? Still living in his home in Massachusetts. No country will take him, so he goes on like it never happened. Is that justice? Then there are the others. They are not interested in convicting these murderers, even though they were clearly at the concentration camp. Even if they looked at all my evidence, they won’t do anything because they make an excuse that it costs too much money to go after these men and women who are in their seventies or eighties, especially if they have records of being good US citizens,” Simon’s father bitterly shouts.
“Oh no!” Simon’s mother calls out. A pan slams against the stove. “Look at this! I just burnt our lunch.”
“You are worried about lunch when your next door neighbor is a murderer!”
“Milton, really. You’ve been obsessed with locating Nazis hiding out in the U.S. since before we met. You even got several tried without any notoriety of your own, but this needs to stop now. No more long nights doing research or trips away from home for weeks at a time. It’s enough already!”
“Just because interest in convicting Nazis seems like a waste of time to people who live in comfort, it does not make the pain, the horror, and the murders disappear. If Simon Wiesenthal is not giving up, then neither will I!”
“And what about your family here? Do you even know how your three dry cleaning stores are doing? What do you know about your son? Sometimes I wonder if you even remember that you have a wife and child.”
“Rachel, I do this for both of you, and for my mother. You want to hear the craziest thing in the world? Evidence from communist countries is not admissible in court in West Germany! Where do you think most of these crimes took place, south Florida? The Communists could care less about prosecuting them, and the Germans won’t accept my evidence. It’s ludicrous! These monsters should not be free!”
Simon can hear his father starting to pace the kitchen floor. His mother is done fighting and is trying to calm his father down. Simon leaves his closet and heads back out the front door. Picking up his glove and ball, he stands alone in the middle of the yard. On each side of him, the neighbors are out. On one side, some younger children are running through the sprinklers; on the other, an old man is tending his garden. Simon looks at the old man, wondering if he is one of the monsters his father talks about.
A beeping from Simon’s phone awakens him from his past. He runs to his bedroom, where his phone is still plugged in to the charger. He sees it is a text message from a friend. He ignores it and takes another sip of his beer, his thoughts returning to his father. Simon had a strange relationship with his father. There were times when he spent endless hours with him, when his father would have gladly thrown the ball with him. Then there were the times when his father was angry and frustrated. It was often centered around his frequent trips. His father would eventually settle down, and, in the meantime, Simon would slink away and spend a lot of time alone in his room. It was for this reason, Simon knew, that his mother had finally divorced his father after many years of patient loyalty. Simon even attributed his father’s massive, deadly heart attack, which killed him at the age of fifty-three, to the constant stress and obsession of hunting down Nazis.
After his father’s death, Simon, as the only son, had the task of cleaning out his father’s things. Among them were files containing years of research on each purported Nazi. Some of them his grandmother had personally recognized from Auschwitz. Simon could not throw any of the information away. Simon had promised Dad, on his hospital deathbed, that he would keep up the work and not let these animals get away with it, no matter how old they were.
Simon was well-aware of cases such as Dr. Heinrich Gross, who was head of the Spiegelgrund Children's Psychiatric Clinic during the Holocaust. It was there that children with physical and mental handicaps were sent to be killed as part of the Nazi Euthanasia Program. Gross was tried and convicted after the war, but the conviction was overturned due to a technicality. In 1997, they opened a basement vault at Spiegelgrund and found hundreds of children’s brains in well-labeled jars, which had been there since the Holocaust. At this point, Gross was deemed unfit to stand trial, due to his advanced age. He lived another eight years and died in 2005. There were so many other stories just like this, where the evidence was clear, and nothing was done due to lack of cooperation between governments and other obstacles.
His father’s method, destroying his own life trying to bring justice through the legal system, did not appeal to Simon. So, he had instituted his own method, which, thus far, had proved to be highly successful. Simon sips some more beer and sighs, thinking that so many of the people in the files had already received their justice. Time was running out. He would fulfill his father’s mission. If the legal system would not bring justice, then Simon would make his own justice. It is the only way.
Chapter 26
Jamie arrives at the NCAVC around 8 p.m. She goes in through the side door, using her key card to access the building. A night guard is there on watch and nods to her as she flashes her I.D. Phil has left for home. Besides, she does not need him for this. She has to make her presentation alone.
Before Jamie can even start climbing the stairs, her cell phone rings. From the ringtone, she knows it is Chris calling. She wavers for a moment, then decides to answer it.
“Hey, Babe,” Chris greets her. “I’m here at your apartment. I thought we could do a make-up date tonight for missing Monday.”
“Oh no! I’m sorry, I have to go in to work. Something came up. You haven’t been waiting too long have you?”
“Nah, been watching television. Why don’t you blow off work for tonight? It could wait until tomorrow, right?”
“No it can’t. I wish it could though. I know how your time off is precious, but I have a huge presentation tomorrow.”
“Well, this is frustrating. I would’ve stayed in the city and hung out with Scott and Alex if I’d known you were going to work.”
“I said I’m sorry.” She starts up the stairs to the fourth floor, trying to let out some of her pent-up anger.
“Is it that important? I mean, life and death? It’s not like saving someone’s hand or something.”
“My job is just as much about life and death as your job. I
thought you, of all people, could understand that.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just exhausted.”
“It’s alright,” Jamie groans, still bitter from his words. “Let’s just plan the date together, later, maybe when this case calms down.”
“I’m going to sleep at your place tonight. Too tired to drive back. If you get done early enough, you know where to find me.”
“I promise I will be home as soon as I can.”
“Later,” Chris says and is gone.
Jamie hangs up the phone and finishes her climb. She is pricked by her boyfriend’s words. He is always breaking dates and having to work, but, when the role is reversed, it is suddenly not fair.
There are a few lights still shining brightly through office doors. Tomorrow she will present to the team all of her findings from her trips. Fredericks, Phil, Joey, and maybe even Thompson, will be there early in the morning to hear what Jamie has discovered.
At 12:38 a.m., Jamie finally saves her finished presentation. Exhausted, she wants nothing but to go home and sleep. Shutting down her computer, Jamie remembers that Chris is in her bed.
As she walks toward her apartment building, Jamie can smell spring on its way. The chirping of the first crickets of the season interrupts the still dark of a moonless night. She is unafraid, knowing her Glock is readily available. Jamie enters her apartment and sets her things down quietly. She sees a faint light coming from her kitchen. The freezer door is open about an inch, and the narrow light faintly illuminates the otherwise-dark room.
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