The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  And Delatrucha—he was now the Elf King, with his beguiling voice, luring children and adults alike to their deaths.

  That evening, I called Fabrizio from the hotel, hoping to hear that the police had arrested the thugs who tried to kill us. “We got more information about the truck owner,” she said. “But he and his friends have disappeared, gone underground. There's no sign of either them or the fertilizer.” She sounded tense and worried.

  “That's not good news. Where could they be hiding?”

  “Who knows? They probably have friends all over the region. We don't even have any of their identities except this Burl character.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  “He's done some time, but nothing major—just penny-ante stuff like auto theft and drug possession. You can say that about half the people down here. That's not what worries me.”

  “What does?”

  “The ammonium nitrate. For years, these guys have been talking about attacking the federal government. Someone might be nutty enough to do it now. The thought of a bunch of loonies driving around with a truck stuffed with explosives, it's—scary.”

  Our third witness, Wolfgang Schütz, lived with his wife in a small apartment in the center of Munich, not far from the famous beer hall where Hitler launched his first, unsuccessful attempt to seize power in 1923. Schütz had spent his life as a music teacher in a local high school and had retired several years ago. Alone of our witnesses, he had no trace of Nazi involvement. George had discovered that Schütz had fought in the Wehrmacht at the very end of the war, but he was never a party member.

  He turned out to be a genial, white-haired man with impeccable old-world manners. He and his wife received us in a room lined with books and dominated by a massive grand piano. In the hallway hung a row of glass cases containing stuffed fish—trout, for the most part. We couldn't escape them.

  My father, recognizing a fellow enthusiast, took to Herr Schütz right away, and they were soon comparing notes on fly fishing. Meanwhile, his wife fussed over us, serving coffee and strudel and an indecently rich Black Forest cake. There are some things that Germany has given the world for which the rest of us ought to be properly grateful. Black Forest cake is one of them. I said so, and was rewarded with another slice and a broad smile from Frau Schütz. Time to get down to business.

  “As Herr Scharpf has probably explained, we're investigating the circumstances surrounding a song recital you played in early 1944,” I began. Schütz leaned back in an armchair, stuffing foul-smelling tobacco into an old clay pipe.

  “I was surprised when you contacted me,” he said, puffing and sucking furiously, trying to get the pipe to draw. “It was so long ago. I hadn't thought of it for years. I don't understand your interest.”

  “I'd be happy to explain,” I said. “But first, if you please, Herr Schütz, could you kindly describe the circumstances that led up to that recital.”

  Schütz sucked on the pipe, and a cloud of noxious blue fumes billowed around his ears. “It was quite a grand affair for those miserable times,” he began. “It was, of course, a tremendous opportunity for me. All sorts of Nazi bigwigs were there. The concert was under the patronage of no less a personage than Heinrich Himmler. It was organized in order to introduce to the nation a major new talent, a singer by the name of Franz Beck.”

  Schütz spoke mellifluous English, marred only by the occasional grammatical slip.

  “I was only seventeen, you understand, and only by chance did I receive an invitation to perform. The truth is, many others could certainly have played better than I. But the choice was—how should I say—limited. All our young men had been conscripted; the war was not going so well anymore, and they were taking boys younger and younger. They took me, too, not so long after. There was an audition, I recall. A few girls tried out; I was the only boy. I was nervous and not so confident in my abilities, but the soloist liked me, and so I got the job.”

  “Tell me about the soloist.”

  “Franz Beck. He was considerably older than I—twenty-three, maybe twenty-four—and had served on the eastern front.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes. He had received some formal musical education before the war, I suppose, but even I could see that his technique needed work. He had a raw, rather untrained talent. But he had a wonderful voice, no question about that. Looking back, I suppose it was not a particularly expressive voice, but, no question, it was a tremendously powerful instrument.”

  “How well did you come to know this Beck?”

  “Hardly at all. First, there was this disparity in our ages. We rehearsed together every day for about two weeks—maybe a little more. We would meet in the rehearsal studio and work and then part. I would not say that we formed a friendship. His behavior toward me was correct, never more than that. He was very demanding. There was no question the recital was all about him, and I was there to serve him.”

  “Did he speak about his war experiences?”

  “Never. I once asked, and he told me he didn't want to talk about it.”

  “Did he wear a uniform?”

  “No, except for the night of the recital, when he suddenly appeared in an SS uniform with a chest full of medals. That surprised me very much, as you can imagine.”

  “Were you aware if he was married or had a girlfriend or family?”

  “No.”

  “Did he speak about his relationship with Himmler?”

  “No, but it was understood that he had a powerful patron who was behind the recital. The show sold out, you know, unusual for a student performance.”

  “Tell us, please, what happened that night.”

  “Not much to tell. I was very nervous. I believe he was, too. We were performing Winterreise. I remember my hands were shaking. His voice was, as well, unsteady. I was surprised, since at rehearsal it was always so strong and true.

  “We made it through the first song in a nervous fashion and the second in somewhat better style. It was then that the siren sounded. Almost immediately, we heard bombs falling. They sounded rather close, but people were quite used to raids and evacuated the hall in an orderly manner. I lost sight of Herr Beck in the dark.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Herr Schütz.”

  He smiled wryly. “I should. That was an important night in my life. As I made my way into the street, I slipped and gashed my hand on some broken glass—quite badly. It took several hours before I could get medical treatment because the hospitals were full. Eventually, I had many stitches. There was a shortage of drugs and medicines. They could give me no anesthetic. Today, that wound would be nothing, but then, it was worse than I thought, and it became infected. Because of my injury, I could not be in the concert, and another took my place.”

  “So the concert did eventually take place?”

  “I believe so. Maybe two or three months later. I could not bear to attend. And shortly after, I was conscripted. I never saw Beck again, and my hand was also never again the same. It did heal, but I did not completely regain my flexibility of movement. My hand was good for everything except the career of a professional musician.” He sighed. “Perhaps I would not have been good enough. I'll never know. Those two songs from Winterreise were my only performance on the concert stage.” He shrugged. “Ah well, so it goes. This was many years ago, and there is no reason to be sorry now. I made myself a good life as a teacher. I have the love of a beautiful woman.” He beamed at his plump wife, who beamed back. “Perhaps it was never meant to be. I have no cause to complain.”

  “Do you know what became of Beck after his performance?”

  “No. I often wondered.”

  “Would you recognize a picture of him?”

  “Perhaps.” I pulled out the portrait of Delatrucha as a beardless young man.

  He studied it carefully. “No, this is not him. It is close, but not the same.”

  “You say it's close?”

  “The eyes—they are precisely
the same. Hard, determined. But the lips and mouth—they are not quite the same.”

  I showed him a photo of Delatrucha, beard and all. “Do you know this man?”

  “Naturally. It is Roberto Delatrucha, the famous singer of lieder.” He paused as the realization sunk in. “Do you mean…?”

  “That voice you heard each day for two weeks—is it possible that Franz Beck and Roberto Delatrucha are one and the same?”

  “Never could I have imagined it, never! I know the work of Delatrucha. I even possess one or two of his records.”

  “So it's not possible?”

  “No, I didn't say that. I believe it is possible. Of course, Delatrucha is a mature musician, a great singer, a singer of subtlety and of wonderful technique. Beck's voice lacked that technique, that subtlety. He was young, without advanced musical education. But, yes—it is possible. The power, the strength of Beck's voice that I remember—you hear that same power in Delatrucha.”

  “But you couldn't swear it was the same voice.”

  “No, I couldn't swear it, even if I suspected it.”

  We said our good-byes. Disappointment again. We had added valuable background information, but we still hadn't proved anything. And now, our work in Germany was done. Time to send George home, while Lynn and I flew to Kiev. It might be our last chance to find the missing link.

  “It's still the same problem—proving the connection between Beck and Delatrucha,” I told George as he packed his bags. “I'm sure in my heart they're the same man, but how do I prove it?”

  “What more do you need? Delatrucha said he sang Winterreise at a recital interrupted by bombs, and now we know Franz Beck also sang Winterreise at a recital interrupted by bombs. I'm not a lawyer, but isn't that good enough?”

  “We need someone to identify Delatrucha as Beck, or vice versa.”

  “Ruddiger recognized him.”

  “True, but he's ninety. I need a more reliable witness, and preferably more than one. Listen, George, when you get back, don't talk to anyone about this except Eric and Janet, and especially not John Howard. He'll be pestering you for information.”

  “Don't worry. I'll keep my mouth shut.”

  My father, who had been very subdued since the meeting with Ruddiger, thought about returning home with George, but decided to accompany us to Ukraine. “I also have some personal business to conduct,” he said enigmatically. I asked what it was, but he just shook his head and said,“You'll see.”

  Only twelve days left before Delatrucha received the McCready Award from the president.

  20

  During the disposal of the bodies, I also established that the whole procedure was not entirely satisfactory from the point of view of hygiene.

  —TESTIMONY OF PROFESSOR WILHELM PFANNENSTIEL

  DAVID RUSSELL, the chief political officer at the U.S. embassy, met us at the snowbound Kiev airport and briefed us on the way to our hotel.

  “You've blundered into a sensitive diplomatic situation. The ambassador wasn't happy you were coming. This is a difficult situation for the Ukrainians, and we don't want to upset them if we can avoid it,” he said, his brow wrinkled with concern.

  “What's so sensitive?” I asked.

  “We're involved in extremely complex negotiations right now. Ukraine has a large number of nuclear weapons on its soil from when the Soviet Union fell apart, and we would like them to give them up or send them back to Russia. We don't want them falling into the wrong hands.”

  “What's that got to do with us?”

  “There's a strong nationalist lobby here with an anti-Semitic element, and we don't want to give them any extra ammunition against the government. They have elections coming up in a couple of months, and we don't want the ultranationalists gaining ground. The Ukrainian government would like to help you because they want good relations with the United States. On the other hand, they can't afford anything that would look like an admission of guilt for the Holocaust, which they view as a purely German crime. Which of course it was.”

  “I can cite thousands of sources that show it wasn't.”

  Russell was a thin, balding, almost chinless man in his late thirties. He looked at me with distaste. “Let's leave the history to the historians. I was talking from a political and diplomatic viewpoint. You need to understand: this is not a battle we want to be fighting in Ukraine—now, or ever. It's dangerous, and it's against U. S. interests. For the same reason, it's also very important that none of your activity goes public. Be grateful they're cooperating at all.”

  “I'm not interested in accusing them of anything. I'm pursuing one case about one man. Who have they found for me?”

  “They've located two individuals who served at Belsen.”

  “I hope you mean Belzec.”

  Another look of disdain. “Right, Belzec. Their names are… Their names are Bogdan Kuznetzev and Ivan Voronsov. Neither one is eager to speak to you, but they both agreed under pressure and only after receiving assurances they would not be asked about their own activities in this place. Consequently, they're likely to be reluctant witnesses. The ground rules for the interview are that a Ukrainian official will be present at all times. The Ukrainians will also provide a translator and a note taker and will in due course furnish an official record. The interview will focus solely on this Beck fellow, and there will be no fishing expeditions for extra information. The embassy has agreed to all this on your behalf. The ambassador has instructed me to obtain your specific consent before proceeding. Do you agree?”

  “I guess.”

  “Guessing doesn't cut it. I need to hear from you specifically and unambiguously that you agree to the conditions I've laid out.”

  “I agree. When can I meet them?”

  “They both live in L'viv. We can drive there tomorrow. You can meet them early next week.”

  L'viv, formerly known as Lwów, was a beautiful Baroque city being strangled to death by the modern world. Cars and trucks clogged its narrow medieval streets, belching clouds of foul-smelling exhaust into a putrid sky. As we arrived, I caught glimpses through the car window of lovely old buildings crowned with terra-cotta roofs, of statues and fountains and elegant church spires. But an all-encompassing smog hung low over the city. Ukraine had yet to discover the benefits of lead-free gasoline, and you could smell the difference. The air itself felt sooty.

  We had to wait a day to meet our witnesses. I spent the morning in the hotel, watching Mitch Conroy being sworn in as the new speaker of the House of Representatives on CNN. The unmistakable Jack Doneghan stood in the background, grinning ominously.

  In the afternoon, Lynn, my father, and I took a walk. The city was enjoying an unseasonable mild spell, and the snow in the streets had melted into brown slush. We found the Goldene Royz synagogue, ruined by the Nazis in 1941. It was built by a Jewish merchant in the sixteenth century, and only a few traces of its once-glorious Gothic interior remained. Down the street, to my surprise, was a small office with Hebrew writing on the door declaring that it was headquarters of the Chabad Lubavitch movement. Inside, a young man with sidelocks was sitting behind a desk.

  “Do you have a daily minyan here?” I asked, after introducing myself. He said they did, and I was welcome to take part. There were still a few Jews in the city, he said, and the community was showing some signs of revival. Next door, there was even a Jewish nursery school, which had recently opened. I made a small contribution and bought a new kippah, tallis, and tefillin.

  Next day, we were driven to an imposing government building near the central square, where we were introduced to an official of the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry, another from the Justice Ministry, and an interpreter. My father, who understood some Russian, took his own notes and made sure my questions were accurately translated.

  We were ushered into a room to find two old men sitting behind a table. They each wore identical flat cloth hats and shabby gray suits, brought out of mothballs for the occasion. The suits were a couple of sizes too
large for each man. They had probably once fit, but the men had shrunk over the years. They were smoking cheap Russian cigarettes. They stood up as we entered and offered mottled, nicotine-stained hands for us to shake. The stains on Sophie Reiner's fingers flashed into my mind as I grasped an outstretched hand that trembled in my grasp.

  In George's absence, Lynn was to operate the video camera. As she opened the case, the first problem arose. “No video, absolutely not,” said the man from the Justice Ministry.

  “For the record,” I said.

  “No. We will provide an official transcript of the meeting, which both sides will sign. That will constitute the record. The faces of our citizens are not to be filmed.”

  “Very well, no video.” I sighed.

  They were both in their seventies and showed the effects of hard, unhealthy lives. They looked remarkably similar, almost like brothers. Their noses were spattered by networks of tiny red veins. Their eyes were dull and watery, their mouths full of gold teeth that glinted when they spoke. Both were racked by incessant bouts of phlegmy coughing.

  The one who had shaken my hand stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray already overflowing with butts. The other gave me a nervous leer. He had spotted my yarmulke and flashed his colleague a knowing look.

  “Perhaps the gentlemen could describe how they came to be at Belzec,” I began.

  “Out of order,” snapped the man from the Justice Ministry. “Not relevant to the subject of the inquiry.”

  “I'm trying to establish some context.”

  “What you call context is irrelevant. Kindly ask your next question,” said the official, his bushy eyebrows twitching.

  “Could the gentlemen tell me where they lived at Belzec?”

  “Not relevant!” His eyebrows were almost up to his hairline.