by Alan Elsner
In the hotel ballroom, preparations were well under way for the evening gala. Workers were hoisting balloons, arranging flowers, and testing the sound system. The organizing committee had commandeered a meeting room on the mezzanine floor and turned it into a makeshift command center. Young people with serious faces rushed around, clutching clipboards. Phones were ringing left and right. Christine Sanford, the chairwoman, was standing in a corner, holding a phone in one hand and a hot drink in the other.
“What the fuck is she doing in Milwaukee?” she yelled into the phone. “I don't care. Get her a limo to Chicago if you have to. Just get her on a plane. And get me the White House chief of staff. If the president's bailing on me, the least they can do is send me a replacement.”
She slammed down the phone. “Welcome to my world,” she greeted Eric brusquely. She was a petite woman, dressed in black except for a scarf around her neck that almost matched my tie. She gave us both a harried look. “You must be Rosen. And you are…?”
“Marek Cain, deputy director.”
“You've got two minutes. Pull up a chair if you can find one, and tell me what's so important.” The phone rang again. She shouted to a young aide,“Robin, hold my calls for a couple of minutes. If it's the White House, I'll take it.”
“Pretty hectic around here,” Eric noted.
“That's the understatement of the year. It's chaos. It'll be a miracle if we have an event at all. What I wouldn't give for a cigarette.”
Sanford had been a moderately successful movie actress, who had left the screen for politics twenty years ago and become a well-known voice for liberal causes. She was often on TV sounding off about abortion rights, human rights, privacy rights, civil rights, gay rights, and animal rights. In person, she somehow seemed both smaller and larger than life, speaking in a low smokers’ growl, jabbing her index finger in our direction for emphasis.
“Just our luck that the biggest snowstorm in years hits the weekend before the ceremony. Half our guests are stranded in different airports trying to get here. Whoopi is stuck in Wisconsin, for Christ's sake. Why she would be there in the first place is beyond me. Nancy canceled. Plus, just to make things fucking perfect, some White House lackey called yesterday to say the president can't make it now. Or the vice president. Or the first lady. I asked if the assistant janitor could come. They said they'd get back to me. I told them half of the guests only show up for a chance to get their picture taken with the president. What am I supposed to tell them? It's a disaster. Thank God for Mitch Conroy, and I say that as a devout Democrat. His office said he'd be there for sure. If necessary, he can do the honors. What can I do for you guys?”
“Did Roberto Delatrucha make it to D. C.?” Eric asked.
“Delatrucha? He's right here in the hotel. God bless him, he's the one person I don't have to worry about.”
“You do now,” Eric said. “I'll be brief. We have reason to believe that Roberto Delatrucha is a Nazi war criminal.”
“What?” she choked on her drink. “Run that past me again.”
“We believe his real name is Franz Beck. He was a Nazi and a member of the SS. He served at an extermination camp. He sang to the victims on their way to the gas chambers,” he said.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“No joke. And there's no doubt. We have cast-iron evidence.” Sanford was aghast. She looked wildly around the room, then grabbed Eric by the arm and pulled him toward the door. I trailed along behind. “Come with me, and keep your voice down, for Christ's sake,” she hissed. “Let's go somewhere we can talk.”
She stalked down the corridor like an assassin, opening doors and slamming them shut until she found a deserted conference room. As soon as the door was closed, Sanford turned on Eric. “Why the fuck did you wait until today to tell me?” she asked. “What do you expect me to do now?”
“We didn't have the evidence until this past weekend. We would have told you earlier if we could have.”
“Wonderful. Just wonderful. Tell me what you've got.”
As Eric laid out the case and showed her the photograph of Beck in his SS uniform, her eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned.
“What a disaster. No wonder the president is running away like a nun from a nudie show. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”
“You should withdraw the prize from Delatrucha today and exclude him from this evening's celebrations,” Eric said.
There was a long silence.
“Well, this is quite a crock of shit you've landed me in,” Sanford said at last.
“I would have thought it was a simple decision,” Eric replied.
“No decision is simple around here. First of all, half the committee hasn't even arrived yet. I can't make this kind of call on my own. Some of them won't get here until just before the event. We worked for nine months before deciding to give him the prize. Now I'm supposed to take it away based on a two-minute briefing from you? The programs are printed. The guests are invited. This is a big deal.”
“I realize that,” Eric said coldly.
“And you don't just make accusations against someone without giving him a chance to defend himself. It's un-American.”
“You've seen the picture,” I said. “This man is evil.”
“Evil is relative. We've all committed acts you could call evil at one time or another. Let him who is free of sin cast the first stone and all that,” she said.
“We're not talking about minor transgressions. This man served at an extermination camp and helped murder half a million people,” I replied. She was beginning to get on my nerves.
“That's what you say. But evidence can be wrong, pictures can be doctored. It happens all the time. I'm not saying these are. I'm just saying we can't condemn him without hearing his side of it. We're not running a fucking kangaroo court. The Constitution says he's innocent until proven guilty.”
“I don't see what the Constitution has to do with him receiving an award. He'll have ample opportunity to defend himself once we initiate legal proceedings against him,” Eric said. “He'll have every single constitutional right there is and then some. I wanted to save the president and your organization the embarrassment of being tainted by association with such a man.”
“I wish you hadn't told me. We could have pleaded ignorance.” She thought for a moment. “I'll try to convene the whole committee later to brief them on your allegations. But I'm pretty sure they'll say the show must go on. The prize is awarded for a lifetime of achievement in the arts. It has nothing to do with what may have happened before. I assume you aren't questioning his artistic merit.”
“He's a wonderful singer,” I said. “But he's a wonderful singer who's a war criminal. He got his start in a death camp.”
“He still deserves a fair hearing. We can always revoke the prize retroactively.”
“Your decision,” Eric replied coldly. “But when the shit starts flying and it lands on you and your committee, don't say we didn't warn you.”
“This isn't a good sign,” Eric said as we walked back to the office. “We don't want people rallying around him because he's such a wonderful singer. I wish we could have stopped him getting the prize. It may strengthen his position once the fight begins.”
“When people see the pictures and hear about what he did to Rachel Levitas, no prize will save him. In fact, it makes it a juicier story for TV. By the way, what about Mitch Conroy? Shouldn't we warn him to stay away?”
“We should,” Eric said, his eyes narrowing the way they did when he had an idea. “Absolutely.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Call Doneghan and send copies of the documents by messenger.”
“Done.”
“You know, it's amazing how often you hear about important documents being delivered late or not being opened on time, especially on a day like today, when half the city probably isn't working because of the snow.”
“That would be regrettable,” I said, catching on.
“And phone calls don't always get through. You do your best, leave a voice mail or a message with an intern, but somehow they just don't get through in time.”
“Such things have been known to happen,” I said.
“It would be a pity if that happened,” Eric murmured.
Back at the office, I was surveying the lamentable disorganization that had overtaken my desk when Lynn stuck her head in. “How'd it go?” she asked.
“Not well. I don't think we persuaded her.”
“No way. Get out!”
“Their problem, not ours. Meanwhile, we have a lot of work to do here if we're going to have a press conference later this week. Can you prepare an AV display and a background paper for the media? Eric's still considering how to break the story. He may give it as an exclusive to someone like Barbara Walters or 60 Minutes to drum up more publicity.”
“On it,” Lynn said.
“And I want George to contact that guy in the German Justice Ministry who traveled with us, what was his name?”
“Gunther Scharpf?”
“Yes. We need him to get permission from that abominable old Nazi Ruddiger to take the video we shot of him public.”
Upstairs, lawyers were drafting a court order to revoke Delatrucha's U.S. citizenship. Janet was writing a brief explaining the historical role of Belzec. We were also arranging separate briefings for the German and Israeli ambassadors. The whole office was now working on the Delatrucha case. John Howard had called in sick.
At around 3:00 P. M., just as I was going for my fourth cup of coffee, the phone rang. It was Sara Barclay. “They found your girl in the Yad Vashem registry,” she announced. “Rachel Levitas, born 1926, from a small town called Jaslo. Southern Poland. I looked up the Nazi deportation schedules to Belzec, and the dates fit.”
“Who filed the papers listing her as a victim?”
“Her brother. He filed in 1964 for his parents as well. Also, another brother, aged four, and several aunts, uncles, and cousins. About fifteen people in all.”
“What's his name, this brother who survived?”
“Yitzhak Levitas. At the time he filed with Yad Vashem, he gave an address in Ramat Gan, Israel. But that was thirty years ago. I have no idea if he's still there or even if he's still alive. I asked the guys at Yad Vashem if they could trace him, but it may take some time.”
“That's great, Sara. Thanks so much. I'd like to talk to him soon and tell him how heroic his sister was.”
“What did she do?”
“She tried to warn Jews they were going to their deaths at Belzec. Delatrucha shot her point-blank in the head. When things are a bit quieter, I'll tell you the whole thing. You won't believe it.”
“There's one more thing,” she said. “There was a picture of Rachel on file. They faxed it over from Jerusalem. I've already sent it to you by messenger. She was such a beautiful young girl.”
“I owe you big-time.”
That reminded me that I had to “send” some material to Jack Doneghan. I photocopied a picture of Delatrucha wearing his Nazi uniform and stuffed it in an envelope with a brief note explaining our findings. “If we send this over to Capitol Hill right now, when will it arrive?” I asked the receptionist.
“It will be in their mailroom within an hour or two, but it might take longer before it reaches the desk of the person you're sending it to, especially today with so many people off.”
“Do they stamp the date and time when it arrives?”
“I believe so; we do here.”
“Perfect,” I said. “By the way, I'm expecting a packet myself any minute. Please call me when it arrives.”
“It just did,” she said, handing me an envelope.
Back in my office, I called Doneghan and was put through to his assistant's voice mail. I left my name and number and asked him to call back. With any luck, he'd get the message tomorrow, when it would be too late.
Lynn popped in as I put down the phone. “What's that?” she asked.
“Rachel,” I said, ripping the envelope open. Her features were fuzzy from the fax transmission, but you could see her dark, vibrant eyes framed by prominent eyebrows, delicate cheekbones, and soft dark lips in a half-smile. She was about thirteen or fourteen years old in the picture and gazed out with a mixture of innocence and determination. I gazed back and felt my eyes fill with tears. She was born the same year as my mother.
“Poor child,” Lynn said, leaning over my shoulder. “I almost feel like she's talking to me.”
“What's she saying?”
“‘It's time to nail the bastard.’”
26
Some time later, I heard that during the transport of the Jewish work brigade from Belzec to Sobibor, some mutiny and shooting took place.
—TESTIMONY OF WERNER DUBOIS
THEN MY FATHER WALKED IN. I hugged him gingerly; he felt skinnier and frailer than I remembered. He hadn't shaved that day, and I had a flashback to that childhood feeling of rubbing my face against his whiskers. “Dad, I think this is the first time you've ever been in my office,” I said. “Now you can observe me in my natural habitat.”
“It was quite difficult to get in. There's a lot of security inside and outside the building,” he said. That must be Fabrizio's doing, I thought.
“Hi there, Jacob,” Lynn said.
His eyes lit up when he saw her. “Lynn, how wonderful you look, as always.”
“It's almost time to leave for the Kennedy Center, and we still have tons to do,” I said, breaking up the love fest.
“Can I go dressed like this?” he asked, indicating his checked flannel shirt and blue jeans.
“Why not? Who's going to object? Delatrucha?”
I explained my plan to them.
“Are you sure?” Lynn asked. “If you're caught, you could get into big trouble.”
“I know.”
“Don't you want to run it past Eric?”
“Eric won't agree. He has to go by the book.”
“Don't you?”
“Officially, yes. But this isn't official. This is personal.”
“I don't want you losing your job over this.”
“I've spent my whole life following procedures. No more.”
I made six copies of the picture of Rachel Levitas and stuck them together with tape to form a large rectangle, which I rolled into a cylinder.
On the way to the Kennedy Center, I asked the cab driver to stop at the Willard Hotel, where I bought a bunch of red roses at the florist shop in the lobby.
“I have an important package for Mr. Delatrucha,” I told the concierge on duty. “Could you please have it delivered it to his room? If he's not in, have the bellboy slide it under his door. I'd like him to see it as soon as he gets back.” He nodded when I slid a twenty into his hand.
At the Kennedy Center, the nation's cultural elite was climbing out of limos and preening into the foyer. Inside, bejeweled women in low-cut gowns and men in tuxedos strutted around, cocktails in hand. And these were just the hangers-on. The truly rich and famous, including all the movie stars, were nowhere to be seen. They were presumably enjoying their champagne and canapés in private rooms upstairs rather than mixing with the hoi polloi in the lobby.
Our seats were in the middle of the orchestra section, about twelve rows back from the stage. My dad was several rows behind. As we sat down, there was a loud cheer as Mitch Conroy, with Jack Doneghan at his side, entered and took his seat. The speaker waved enthusiastically, drinking in the applause. Doneghan clearly had not received my phone message or the letter I had sent him warning him not to show up. What a pity!
Sean Connery, wearing a tux with a tartan bow tie and matching cummerbund, took the stage and picked up the microphone, and the evening began. In his soft, Scottish burr, he apologized on behalf of the president who could not be present due to other pressing engagements. Fortunately, Speaker Conroy had gallantly filled the breach.
“God, I love that accent of his,�
� Lynn murmured. “So sexy. Why don't you have a British accent, Marek?”
“Dreadfully sorry, old thing.”
Then Connery introduced the six prizewinners who filed one by one onto the stage, acknowledging the warm ovation, and sat down in a semicircle. As his name was called, Delatrucha strolled out, beaming, relishing the moment. He bowed several times, clutching his hands over his heart and blowing kisses to the audience. I wondered if his ex-wife was somewhere in the crowd. If she was, she was probably seething.
To my surprise, the laureates were not required to do anything except listen while others praised them. The evening consisted of a procession of distinguished presenters reading biographies of each winner interspersed by musical interludes. They did show a video clip of Delatrucha singing Mahler, with a full orchestra behind him. His voice soared effortlessly over the massed strings and brass, awesomely powerful and authoritative.
I felt a bit sorry for Art Garfunkel, having to follow that. I had expected “Bridge over Troubled Water,” but instead he sang “Sound of Silence” which was possibly more appropriate. Delatrucha listened intently and clapped politely. Whoopi Goldberg miraculously arrived from snowbound Wisconsin and regaled the audience with a racy monologue. A semi-famous pianist played a Bach prelude and fugue and afterward made a big point of hugging Delatrucha.
Finally, Mitch Conroy took the stage to bestow the gold medals on the lucky winners. One by one they came forward, basking in appreciation. Delatrucha was the last to approach. Conroy was waiting, medal in hand. A barrage of flash lights went off as the two embraced. Delatrucha bent his head, and Conroy hung the medallion around his neck. Then he joined the other winners, who had stepped forward to wave to the audience once again.
“Now,” I said to Lynn, thrusting the flowers into her hand. She walked forward until she was standing directly beneath Delatrucha, who was near the front of the stage. I hung back a few steps behind her. Other audience members were also handing out bouquets or tossing them onto the stage. “Mr. Delatrucha,” she called. She caught his eye, and he smiled at the pretty young woman offering him roses and went down on one knee to accept them.