“You said ‘each crime’? There have been more than one?”
“It’s a serial,” Jamie admits, hoping she is not letting too much information leak out.
“Cereal? Like Wheaties?”
“I mean a serial killer. He is killing former Nazis and leaving notes behind, each with the name of one of the ten sons of Haman written on them. There have already been six murders. Each body had a note, and each note had a name—from Esther chapter nine, in order,” Jamie confesses. She keeps her voice hushed, just loud enough for her words to make it to the Rabbi’s ears.
“You don’t think the killer is Jewish, God forbid?” Rabbi Silverman whispers fervently back, his eyebrows raised in a mixture of shock and disdain.
“We don’t know. The notes also have initials on them, ‘J.V.R.’, ‘W.K.’, ‘E.K.’,”
“Wait, don’t tell me the next one, give me a second. I’ll be right back,” Rabbi Silverman interrupts. He walks over to a small office and starts typing on a computer. A few minutes later, he comes back with a piece of paper he printed off the Internet. “A.R.?” Silverman asks.
“Oh my—,” Jamie catches herself, then continues, “how did you know that?!”
“And then ‘H.F.’, ‘W.F.’, ‘F.S.’?”
“What’s going on? What are the initials?” Jamie demands, standing up from her chair.
“I can’t believe this,” Silverman mumbles, slowly sitting back down. He looks at the paper before him thoughtfully. Looking back up at Jamie with worry he says, “This is deep.”
“Can’t believe what? What are the initials?
Chapter 31
Eagerly Simon runs along the street to his home. The elementary school he attends is only a few blocks away, and his mother lets him walk. Today he is excited. His feet rhythmically smack the pavement as he sprints. Simon cannot get home fast enough to see his father. After six weeks of being abroad, Dad will finally be home today.
The excitement is almost too much to bear. Simon has so much to show his father. While his father was gone, Simon made him several pictures, and he was proud of his work from school. He had received the highest marks in the whole third-grade class for a shoebox diorama that he had constructed, and he wanted to show his father the chemistry lab set that his mother had bought him last month for his birthday.
As he rounds the corner, Simon’s excitement intensifies at seeing his father’s car in the driveway. This time he did not come home and immediately drive off to work or somewhere else. So many other times, Simon had run home, only to be disappointed to hear that his father decided to stay a few extra days.
He is only two houses from his own. The grass of the fading lawns is highlighted with light yellow streaks. The wind blows through the neighborhood trees, and Simon runs through a shower of yellow leaves. He skips the long route to his house and instead runs through the grumpy old man’s bushes. Simon is usually on the lookout for the mean old man, but today he could not care less.
Imagining himself to be as fast as a lightning bolt, Simon races through his yard, up the porch steps, and into his home. Breathing heavily, he leaves the front door open and drops his backpack right behind him. Looking to his right, Simon sees his father’s suitcases plopped down by the side of the entryway.
His mother stands on the stairs, furiously glaring at Simon’s father, who stands on the other side of the banister. Simon pauses, feeling the tension in the air. Although his father glances over at Simon, his mother seems oblivious to his arrival. Simon knows he has just walked into something very bad.
“You care more about the dead than you do about the living!” Simon’s mother yells, fire blazing in her eyes.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Simon’s father counters, his voice low and solemn. “But I’m not going to allow these murderers to sleep peacefully while my parents have nightmares.”
“You’re running this family into the ground! When are you going to see how much this really costs us? It’s a lot more than just the money!”
“I already said I’m sorry that I missed our anniversary, but I brought you a present, and we can celebrate tonight,” his father tells her calmly.
“Oh, a little knick knack from Europe is supposed to appease me? That is supposed to comfort me for all those nights I spent worrying because you were too busy to call? Or make up for me taking care of Simon all alone, or keeping your silly dry cleaning business running, so you have the money to track these so-called murderers!”
Simon’s father looks at Simon. “Let’s talk about this later, honey.“
“It’s never a good time to talk about it!” His mother storms off up the stairs.
“Rachel, please, Simon’s....” Simon’s father is standing at the foot of the stairs now, looking up as Simon’s mother stalks away.
“Don’t bring my son into this!” Her voice echoes from the hallway, still thick with fury.
Simon’s father gently slumps forward. Slowly turning around, he sees Simon.
“Hey buddy, how are you doing?” For Simon, his father’s cheerful voice and huge smile dissipate the tension in the room.
Simon runs to hug his father. “Great, Dad!”
His father gives him a big bear hug. Simon allows himself to relax into his father’s arms.
Pulling away, his father asks, “What have you been up to lately?”
“Dad, I got highest marks in the whole grade for my diorama!”
“Really! Let’s see this amazing diorama.”
“Come on, Dad!” Simon shouts excitedly, rushing up the stairs to his own room.
Throwing the door open, Simon runs over to his dresser where the diorama sits. He proudly picks it up and hands it to his father as he comes in the doorway. His father examines it, oohing and ahhing at Simon’s hard work.
“This is amazing kiddo! I’m proud of you.” He carefully looks the whole diorama over.
“Check this out, Dad!” Simon grins as he points to the chemistry set he got for his birthday.
“Wow! Mom picked it out well. I told her to get you a nice one, but this is better than I imagined.”
“Yeah, Dad! It’s amazing. Thank you so much. And here,” Simon continues, shoving a piece of paper in his father’s hand. “It’s my painting of you and me playing ball in the front yard.”
“That’s great, buddy.” His father gives him a genuine smile. “Let’s put it up on my wall in the den.”
They both head downstairs to his father’s den. With a sewing pin, Simon’s father adds his picture to the space right above his roll-top desk. His dad stands back to admire the view, and Simon copies his action, putting his own hands on his hips.
“Looks perfect,” Simon’s father proclaims.
Simon smiles at his Dad.
“So, do you want to help me find some Nazis?”
“YEAH!” Simon agrees, jumping up and down with delight.
His father goes over to the desk and picks up two or three large books that sit on the ground beside it. He grabs the chair by the desk and offers it to Simon, who eagerly jumps at the opportunity to sit in his father’s chair. Laying out the books in front of Simon, his father says, “Alright we are looking for the word Kleiss. K-L-E-I-S-S. You think you can help me with that?”
“Sure, Dad!” Simon responds, eagerly scanning the names in the back of the book.
“I’ll be right back; I have to get my work from the front door,” Simon’s father tells him, walking out of the den.
Simon continues down the list of names. He is confused when he discovers that there are rows and rows of Kleisses. Simon turns the book to look at the name. He cannot read the title. Although he knows the letters, the words do not spell anything that Simon is used to reading. As he goes back to the list, his father returns to the room.
“Happy birthday, Simon!”
Startled, Simon turns to see his father standing in the doorway, a large grocery bag in his hands.
“I know how much you love chocolate, so
I brought the best chocolate home with me!” Simon’s father explains, holding the bag out to his son.
Simon races from his chair to look inside the bag. There are dozens of wrapped chocolate eggs in the bag, along with long chocolate bars, and plenty of gummy candy. Simon eagerly unwraps one of the eggs and is about to bite it, when his father begins to protest.
“Careful, Simon, these are special chocolate eggs. They are Kinder eggs, and each one has a surprise in the middle.”
“No way!” Simon shouts with disbelief, then quickly takes a bite of the egg. It cracks open, and he pulls it from his mouth to see pieces of a car and some stickers.
“You can build your own toy and decorate it. Pretty neat, huh?”
“Thanks, Dad!” He finishes off the chocolate and begins snapping together the car.
“You’re welcome. Now, how was it going with the list? Did you find Kleiss?”
“Oh yeah! Come see,” Simon announces, leading his father to the desk. “See? Look, there are pages of them!”
“That’s wonderful, Simon! Can you find a Stefan Kleiss? S-T-E-F-A-N.”
“Sure!”
His father picks up some files and begins to open them. He leaves the den and returns with his briefcase. Opening it, Simon’s father pulls out the papers and starts sorting them into the separate files.
“Dad?” Simon asks.
“Mmm?”
“I can’t read the name of this book. I recognize the letters, but I don’t understand the word.”
Without even looking up from his filing, Simons father explains, “That’s because it is a German census book. And Germans speak another language, even though they use the same alphabet.”
“Oh.” Simon nods, although he is still confused. “What is a census book?”
“The government likes to keep track of how many citizens it has,” his father responds, looking up from his filing.
“Why are we looking for this Stefan Kleiss?”
His father’s tone becomes more serious. “He is a very bad man, Simon. During the war he did horrible things to people. To escape punishment, he went into hiding. I found him, but he is using a different name. I am trying to gather proof that he is, in fact, the same Stefan Kleiss, the bad guy.”
“Are you like Dick Tracy, Dad?”
Simon’s father’s mouth twitches with amusement. “In a way, yes. No other detective will go after these bad guys, even though they killed many good guys.”
“So does that make me your sidekick? And we are going to fight crime together?” Simon asks excitedly.
“That’s right, we are going to get the bad guys in the end, just like Dick Tracy,” his father answers, once again smiling at his son.
“I’m going to help you find Stefan Kleiss, and we will catch the bad guys!”
Simon’s father beams with pride as he returns to his own work.
* * * *
Simon sits in his usual seat at the Starbucks. His coffee in hand, Simon stares at the laptop before him. He is still thinking about his dad. As he daydreams, he remembers back to when he was sixteen.…
Simon unlocks the front door to his home. It’s already dark outside, but there are no welcoming lights to greet him. The family car is in the driveway, but Simon doubts his father is actually home. In the last year, Simon has seen his father once a month or so, and has become accustomed to being by himself. Although Simon is only a junior in high school, he has learned to take care of the bills, manage the house, and keep an eye on his father’s dry cleaning stores while Dad is out of town. Ever since the divorce, he has been splitting his time between his parents. He goes by his father’s house three times a week when he is out of town, to get the mail and collect the circulars that are left on the driveway.
Walking inside the front door, Simon sets his backpack on the ground right in the entryway. There is a small light emanating from the den in the back of the house. Simon’s hopes begin to rise. His father is home! He walks down the hallway, past the stairs, and past the kitchen. There, to his right, is the den. Simon’s father is hunched over at the desk with a small piano light shining on him.
The den is covered with papers, folders, and newspaper clippings. The walls have several pictures of young men in Nazi uniforms. From each picture is a string that connects it to official documents and pictures of other people and their testimonies. The room looks like it belongs in an FBI office, not the private office of the owner of dry cleaning stores. There are stacks of newspapers on the floor in different languages. The ones in German Simon can mostly read, thanks to three years of high school German.
In one corner of the den, there are two, tall file cabinets, stuffed so full with paper that most of the drawers do not even close properly. Once, the den had been furnished with chairs and side tables, but now it contains only mountains of stacked papers, pictures, newspapers, and official documents. Simon carefully picks his way through the stacks, making sure he does not tip over one of the towers of information.
“Dad? How was your trip?” Simon inquires, pulling on the bottom of his t-shirt.
There is no immediate answer. Simon is unsure whether this is a good sign or a bad sign.
Then he hears a sigh.
“Did you find the government documents on Edward Bayer?” Simon asks, trying to change the subject.
“I have to go to Austria next week to ensure that they provide me with the documents on Eduard Baier. The last letter I wrote them was a month ago, and they still haven’t gotten back to me. I have to be in their face to get the information I need,” his father snarls bitterly. “Did you send off my letters?”
“Yes. Like you said, I sent them off in the mail every day.”
“You would think, after fifteen years of pestering, they would actually look at the evidence I have against these bastards!” his father bellows, slamming his fist on the desk.
The force of his blow knocks a picture down from the top shelf of the desk. The noise of breaking glass fills the room as the frame hits the dark wood. Another sigh escapes his father. Simon watches as his father puts the picture back up with glass shards still stuck in the frame. Without even looking, Simon knows the photograph is of his grandfather and grandmother. His father’s parents posing for their wedding picture.
“They deserve better,” his father whispers. “The horror they lived through by the hands of these wicked savages, who slaughtered and tortured people they never met, but hated all the same.”
Simon stands silently, watching his father’s hunched shoulders, as his father stares into the past through the picture of his parents. The body in the chair suddenly seems older to Simon, weak and tired, as his father shakes slightly in the chair.
“She sorted through clothes, thousands of clothes, small and large. Each piece belonged to someone who had a family, someone who was a son or daughter, a wife or husband, a father or mother. The worst was the children’s clothing. Mother could hardly hold back the tears as she went through the piles of children’s clothes. Little pink jackets, little mittens, small spectacles, and the shoes. The mountains of shoes. And even baby clothing and baby blankets. Could you even imagine, Simon, how that would feel?”
Simon says nothing, and his father continues.
“At first, she could hardly look at each piece of clothing, as she knew it belonged to a precious life that had been maliciously taken. Yet, with time, she became a robot without feeling, doing her job to survive, and ignoring the rest. Mother did what she had to in order to make it out alive,” Simon’s father whispers to the picture.
“Those memories haunt her even today…You know, she can’t forget any of the faces of the guards and capos, the ruthless creatures who burned a number into her like she was cattle? As a boy, I remember her screaming out in the night sometimes. Her cries were blood curdling. Screaming for her mother and her grandparents, all of whom were gassed minutes after they arrived at the concentration camp. Her family eradicated as casually as one kills a simple mosquito.
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“The most precious things of your world destroyed in a heartbeat, until you are completely alone in the world, all because you have different religious beliefs, all because of these maniacal butchers. They laugh, even now, Simon, they laugh at me. Each one happily escaping consequences of killing, not just one person, but hundreds or thousands. And now they live among us, free to enjoy lives because they stole their lives from others. The Justice Department claims over ten thousand Nazis ‘with blood on their hands’ came to the United States after the war. Ten thousand.”
Simon nods. He has heard this at least a hundred times, almost verbatim.
“How can they shake hands with their neighbors covered in the blood of thousands of innocent people? They laugh, that’s how. They mock us. Coming to America to take over here and reestablish their base. If we let them get away with this, what are we telling them?”
Simon says nothing, but stands still. He is frozen, lost in his father’s vision.
“Simon, we are telling them that it’s okay to kill Jews. It’s okay to murder innocent people. To butcher and mutilate anyone who thinks differently. We are telling them we are okay coexisting with evil. There are consequences to mass murder. And that’s what I am here for. To make filthy beasts like Stefan Kleiss and Edward Bayer suffer, instead of basking in undeserved joys. We are here, Simon, to make sure they get the fate they deserve. We have not forgotten what they have done. We will not let them escape punishment for their murders, for their crimes. We will not let them slip through the fingers of Justice.”
Simon’s father turns around in the swivel chair to face his son. The scarce light casts shadows upon his father’s face. Through the darkness, Simon can see the burning in his father’s eyes. But there would be no trip to Austria the next week. Or any other week for that matter.
Simon is awakened at 3:30 in the morning by the sound of sirens on his normally quiet street. Police and ambulance are stopping right in front of his house. He quickly throws on a robe and goes downstairs to open the door. The 9-1-1 call had come from his own house. He leads the paramedics to his father’s bedroom, where he finds his father lying on the floor next to his bed, the telephone in his hand. His face is so pale that Simon can hardly recognize him. He had gotten up to go to the bathroom and had had a massive heart attack. Luckily, he was able to grab the phone on the nightstand and make a gasping emergency call.
The Esther Code Page 20