The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  “For some people it does. Like those large crocheted ones with patterns the Israeli settlers wear. But not mine. I wear it out of respect for God and to remind myself we are all living here on earth under His sovereignty. It's not so much a statement to the world as a reminder for me. That's why I prefer to wear a plain black kippah.”

  “You said His sovereignty. Does that mean you believe God is a man?”

  “If you read Deuteronomy or Maimonides, you know that God has no form, not of a man or a woman or any living creature.‘Him’ is a kind of shorthand, and I'm used to it. But do I see him as a muscular guy stretching out his hand, like the one painted in the Sistine Chapel? No.”

  “Okay, enough theology. Do you have some music we can listen to?” I turned on the CD player. Delatrucha's voice came on. I read the translation.

  We sat so quiet together,

  In the cool shade of the alders.

  We looked down so quietly together

  Into the babbling stream.

  I did not look at any moon,

  Nor any star shine.

  I looked at her form

  At her eyes alone.

  As the song ended, I leaned forward, no hesitation. She tilted her head ever so slightly, inviting me in, and I kissed her. I've read the Song of Songs a thousand times. We read it in shul every year at Passover. Now, finally, I understood it. She was fragrant, she was myrrh and aloes, she tasted of honey and almonds, her lips were yielding and sweet as figs and pomegranates, and each kiss was better than wine.

  We talked for hours. She told me about her family; her father was a keen outdoorsman who loved hunting and fishing. Lynn, his eldest, was apparently a grave disappointment because she was not a boy and did not share his enthusiasm for firearms. To be kind, she occasionally allowed him to drag her out to the firing range.

  I told her about my dad in the wilds of West Virginia and how I had promised to visit him. Lynn was immediately enthusiastic and said she would like to come too.

  “Really?” I said, visualizing us tramping through the snow together and roasting chestnuts over an open fire. “Let's go. When are you free?”

  “The weekend after next, maybe. Is there room for both of us?”

  “Sure, there's a spare bedroom, and I can sleep on the couch.” I brought up office regulations about not dating your boss. Lynn replied tartly that she might be a few years younger than me, but she was not a child, and I should shut up. If we really were going to be dating, we shouldn't be working together. But I pushed that thought to the back of my mind. Right now, I was too happy. If it lasted, I'd figure something out later.

  Lynn left shortly after midnight, lingering at the door for half an hour before finally tearing herself away. I made sure she was safely in a taxi before going back upstairs, wondering when I could see her again.

  My buddy Clint has come up to help. I hauled his fat ass around the city, showed him the Jewish dude's apartment building, pointed out his car. He wanted to see where I slit the German bitch's throat. So we went over there, but there was nothing to see—they even cleaned up the blood stain.

  It's time to let Clint know about the plan. So far, the only person that knows is Burl. I told him, “Clint, we've got to think a lot bigger. We've got to think on an entirely different scale.”

  “What do you mean, shrimp?” he said. I've told him a thousand fucking times not to call me that, but I let it pass because I need him to listen to what I'm saying.

  I tell him, “Millions of patriots in this nation are sick to their stomachs. They're like dried kindling waiting to ignite, waiting for a spark to set them in flames.”

  He says, “For a small guy, you sure like to use big words.” This is the kind of shit I have to put up with all the time. Was it like this for Julius Caesar or Alexander the Great?

  I tell him, “Just ’cause you come from West Virginia, doesn't mean you're stupid, so don't make like you are.” I look him straight in the eye to show I'm serious. I say, “We can be the spark, Clint. By God, we can be the spark that ignites the conflagration that brings freedom back to this country. You and me and Burl. How do you like that?” I'm not sure he gets it, but he nods anyway.

  “Damn right, shrimp, damn right,” he says. I grab him by the collar, press my forearm against his fat neck, shove my face about an inch from his, and I tell him, “Don't fucking call me that ever again.” I feel a little bad doing it, but a leader needs to be respected. I tell him, “If you call me by that name again, Clint, so help me God, I will cut your fucking balls off and stuff them down your fucking throat. Are we clear?”

  His face turns red, and he gurgles a bit, but the look in his eye tells me he comprehends what I'm trying to communicate. I let him go.

  Then I explain to him that random acts of defiance aren't going to cut it anymore. They're not the kind of spark that can start a conflagration. Which is why I sat in my car outside the Jewish temple for four hours on Saturday and drove away without pulling the trigger. It took real self-control because I had those people in my sights, each and every one of them, as they streamed in and out. It's a lot harder not to kill someone than to kill them. The Scripture says, “I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan,” so it would have been okay to plug one or two of them, which I could have easily done and still gotten away. But I held back.

  Lying flat on the back seat, looking through the slit I made in the trunk of my car, I subjected them, one by one, to my personal examination and scrutiny. I held the power of life and death over each one of them. But the Lord gave me the strength to hold back. Now was not the time. So I let them live, even the one who calls himself the Nazi Hunter. I had him in my sights for at least ten seconds. His day will come soon enough, but nothing must compromise the mission.

  And I'm wondering whether it was a mistake to kill the jogger.

  8

  I saw a mountain of clothes of all types behind our locomotive shed.

  Petrol was poured over items of clothing that were no longer wearable and then they were burnt.

  —TESTIMONY OF OSKAR DIEGLEMANN

  I BOUGHT SOME NEW SHIRTS, one dark blue, one green, and—in a gesture of unbelievable daring—a black one. I couldn't actually imagine wearing it in the office, but perhaps the day would come. As I left the store, a man bumped against me. I swung around instantly ready to defend myself, my breath coming short, my muscles tensed. But it was nothing, just two guys brushing shoulders in a crowd.

  The Post reported that a runner had been murdered in Rock Creek Park. No witnesses. The body was found lying by the side of the road with a bullet in his head. I had run this same stretch the day before. Maybe it hadn't been too cold. I called to ask why the pepper spray hadn't arrived yet and was told it was in the mail.

  George had disappeared on a short ski trip, so it wasn't until after New Year's Day that we convened again to discuss Delatrucha. But at least I knew Lynn was working hard on the assignment. While we were waiting for the Germans to finish Christmas, there wasn't much I could do, so I busied myself with other tasks. So much paper was rolling into my office, it was difficult to keep the files straight. Each day brought another hate letter or two, which I sent—unread—straight upstairs.

  The Post ran a series of interviews with the six McCready Award winners. Delatrucha's was the last to appear. The writer mainly seemed interested in his pretty young wife. “She has rejuvenated my creative life,” Roberto said. “When we make music together, we are one being.” There was a picture of the two of them sitting side by side in front of a grand piano. I scoured the article, hoping to find some clue about Delatrucha's early life, his childhood, his parents—anything. There was just one little snippet. “I had music in my life from birth,” he said. “My mother named me after Robert Schumann, her favorite composer. I remember her singing me some of his songs when I was quite young. She died when I was twelve.” Now we had something in common—my mother had also died when I was twe
lve.

  On January 4, five weeks after her murder, the police held a press briefing to announce a breakthrough in the Sophie Reiner case. Local TV carried the highlights on the five o'clock news. The police commissioner said the suspect was a known violent felon and drug addict who had been caught with Sophie Reiner's wallet in his pocket. Reynolds was standing behind the commissioner, grinning, like a cat who had caught a canary.

  Next morning, I called Detective Novak to find out if the police had found any documents.

  “Nope, no papers.”

  “Did you ask the guy? Maybe he had them and threw them away.”

  “You know, I did ask him. He said he didn't know what I was talking about.”

  My last chance of finding Sophie's documents had just gone down the toilet. Why the hell hadn't she just brought them with her that first day? “So who is this guy?” I asked.

  “A drunk, a junkie, and a scumbag.”

  “How did you track him down?”

  “The moron had her credit card in his pocket, and he couldn't resist using it. Bought a shitload of booze. We had a watch out on the card. We were on the scene within minutes and picked him up on the street. When we searched his room, we found her pocketbook.”

  “That didn't come out in the press briefing.”

  “What I just told you is strictly off the record, between us.”

  “Of course.”

  “Inside the pocketbook we found a knife wrapped in a silk scarf. Forensics confirmed it was the murder weapon. Reynolds is the department superstar right now.”

  “So what was the motive?” I asked.

  “Theft, pure and simple.”

  “He confessed?”

  “Not yet. He says he found the pocketbook lying around on top of a garbage can.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “He has no alibi and a record longer than your arm. I'm with Mitch Conroy on this; we need to fry scum like him. Save the taxpayer the cost of locking them up.”

  “What about gangs and neo-Nazis and the mark of the beast and all that stuff you were asking about?”

  “False leads. We get them on every case.”

  “How do you know he wasn't paid by someone to murder her? That 6-6-6 in Sophie's pocket has to mean something.”

  “Professor, we examined the neo-Nazi angle, but it didn't add up. There was no evidence. You can't build a whole theory on one piece of paper.”

  “So that's it? Case closed? Chalk another one up for Washington's finest?”

  “That's it. Case closed.”

  “What about Sophie's mother's secret?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Look, Prof, that's the way it usually is in this business. You always have a few unanswered questions. But we got the guy who did the killing, and that's enough. The DA's happy, and if the DA's happy, we're happy. There's no way Reynolds will reopen this case.”

  “What about the threats against me?”

  “Like I told you before, when you have the FBI in the same department, why do you need us?”

  I wandered upstairs to consult with Eric, who had seen the same TV reports and the morning papers. “Now that we know Delatrucha had nothing to do with the murder, where does that leave our investigation?” I asked him.

  “I'm not sure. What do you think?”

  “I'm meeting with Lynn and George this afternoon. We can reassess after that,” I replied. “I know you're suspicious, but the evidence seems thin to none right now.”

  “Maybe, but if there's any lead, any little snippet, no matter how small, I want you to keep digging. Remember, the president's giving a prize to this guy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “By the way, have you received any threatening phone calls recently?”

  “You, too?”

  He hesitated. “Not exactly threatening.”

  “Just quiet breathing, and then they hang up.”

  “It makes me nervous.” he said.

  “How do you think I felt about that note under my windshield? Plus my ex-girlfriend falls on the track in the Metro. Then some guy gets shot dead in Rock Creek Park, where I go running almost every day.”

  “You're sounding paranoid.”

  “Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get me. Did you call the FBI? I want to hear from an expert.”

  “I was just about to.”

  “Do it, Eric. I've been nagging you for days. You won't feel good if something happens to me. The guilt will haunt you. I wouldn't want that.”

  “Calm down, and remember I'm the boss. That makes me the number-one target.”

  Right, Eric, you're in charge, always numero uno.

  When I got back to my office, David Binder called. “Have you heard of an organization called White Klan Resistance?” he asked. “They're small, but they put out an underground newsletter that gets circulated among many of the extremist groups. It's called the White Patriot. I got their latest issue, and guess what.”

  “What?” I asked, hoping it might open a new trail.

  “It identifies Rosen and you by name as senior agents of the International Zionist Conspiracy. It says you're moles working inside the federal government to dismantle the United States, outlaw Christianity, and contaminate the racial purity of the white race.”

  “Shit.”

  “They're calling on their supporters to harass you. Now that they know who you are, you can definitely expect more threats.”

  “Did they print photos of us?”

  “No, but the text is pretty vile. They call Rosen a ‘dwarf-like degenerate organism subverting the law, who takes his orders from the Secret Council of Zion and perpetuates the myth of the Holocaust.’”

  “Not too far off.”

  “Not a joking matter, Mark.”

  “Sorry. Gallows humor. What do they call me?”

  “You're his ‘slavish lackey who lives only to suck up to his foul, mongoloid master.’”

  “Now all these crazies are going to be sending mail and calling me?”

  “You should definitely delist your home number if you haven't already.”

  “That's what the police said. I'd been putting it off. It's not right letting those thugs decide how I should behave.”

  “You should still do it. It's a precaution you should take to protect your privacy. On the bright side, it doesn't look like these folks are connected to the creep who killed your German woman, if what the police said is true. We're forwarding the material to the FBI, as we always do. I'll fax you a copy as well.”

  I took a deep breath. “David, be honest. How much danger am I in? I've been getting the creepiest feeling that someone's watching me or following me around. My ex-girlfriend died in a freak accident, and a runner got shot in the park where I go running all the time.”

  “Disturbing, I agree, but it may also be a coincidence.”

  “I'm totally spooked.”

  “Was your girlfriend murdered?”

  “They say it was an accident.”

  “And this other guy, the runner. I don't see the connection. If someone wanted to kill you when you were out jogging, why would they kill someone else?”

  “Mistaken identity?”

  “Seems far-fetched. On the other hand, it doesn't hurt to be careful. Report this to your security people. Don't just ignore it and hope it goes away.”

  It was hard to focus after that. I ate a sandwich while going through a memo about something, but I couldn't concentrate. I put a Schubert disc into the machine and leaned back in my chair. Ironically, the voice of Roberto Delatrucha was the only thing that seemed to calm me.

  George and Lynn trooped into my office a couple of hours later. George looked fit and rested from his vacation and was holding a thick sheaf of papers. Lynn was also carrying some files and flashed a broad smile when she saw the dark blue shirt I was wearing. And just like that, seeing her smile, the sun was shining again.

  “Okay, let's get going. George, I assume you received some
responses from the Berlin Document Center. What do you have?”

  If there was anything on this Schnellinger character, that's where it would come from. I had done my own research in the center and knew it contained an unbelievable amount of information—75 million documents stored in over 11 million files. The Nazis tried to destroy their records at the end of the war, shipping them to a paper mill to be pulped. U.S. troops showed up to seize the precious files just in time. One wing of the Document Center included the files of thousands of writers, artists, and musicians who had thrown in their lot with the Nazis. Perhaps one of them had Schnellinger's name on it.

  “Sorry, Mark, I think we struck out,” he said cheerfully. Nothing made George happier than bad news, but he'd had his doubts about the case from the first and would be just as happy to see it die.

  “What did you find?”

  “They found three guys named Schnellinger in the archive, but none of them looks like our man.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Okay, we have Otto Schnellinger. Born Hamburg, 1920, served in the Wehrmacht, died at Stalingrad, 1942. Roughly the right age, but definitely not Delatrucha. Strike one.”

  “Yeah, being dead would seem to rule him out,” I said.

  “Then there's Herman Schnellinger, served in the Luftwaffe, shot down over Britain in 1940, never heard from again. Strike two. The third one is Heinz Schnellinger. He's the only one who may have survived the war, but he's certainly not the Trout Man either. They faxed over a photo in his file, and it doesn't match. He was bald, and his face was all pockmarked. He was born in 1902, which makes him way too old to be Delatrucha. Strike three.”

  “What did he do, this third one?”

  “He was in the Wehrmacht and then a police reservist.”

  “Some of those reserve units were sent to Poland and the Soviet Union. They did horrific things, massacring Jews and loading them on transports to the camps. What happened to him?”

  “I don't know. He was never listed as dead. I could probably check with U.S. Army records to see if he was ever registered as a POW. But I think it's a waste of time. This isn't our man.” He pulled the photo out of his folder to show us. It bore no resemblance to Delatrucha.