The Nazi Hunter

by Alan Elsner

  “These are from Rachel Levitas,” Lynn hissed. “She wants you to know that nothing has been forgotten or forgiven.” Delatrucha looked puzzled.

  “Who?” I heard him say. He looked down at the flowers and noticed something unusual. The flowers were wrapped in paper containing six images of a young girl. He stiffened, and the roses fell to the ground. Reacting swiftly, he picked them up, his eyes glued to the multiple portraits of the young Jewish girl with her wistful smile, come to call him to account from beyond the grave.

  Applause swelled again from the audience, and all his years of training reasserted themselves. Like an automaton, he bowed, baring his teeth in a ghastly simulacrum of a smile. We retreated a few steps, melting into the crowd where he could no longer see us. Family members of the prizewinners were taking the stage to congratulate their loved ones and share the moment. Elissa Horne, Delatrucha's wife and accompanist, approached to offer a hug and whisper something in his ear. She took the roses from him and glanced at the paper. He snatched it from her, screwed it into a large ball, and shoved it in his pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge. She asked him something, but he turned on his heel without responding.

  “That had an effect,” I said.

  “Yeah, he definitely recognized her. It took him a few seconds, but I saw it in his eyes,” Lynn said.

  Conroy was escorting the other prizewinners from the stage. The ceremony was over, and everyone was anxious to get back to the hotel for the party, where there would be lots of free booze and food.

  “Now what?” Lynn asked.

  “He'll probably want to freshen up a bit in his hotel room before the party.”

  “And that's when he's going to find that package you had delivered.”

  “Yeah, the one-two punch. After the initial surprise, I wanted him to be in no doubt we had all the goods on him. He can sit and read his own diary for a while. He hasn't seen it for fifty years. That should really give him something to think about.”

  Jacob asked,“Do you think he'll have the chutzpah to show up at the party?”

  I thought about it for a second. “He'll be there. You can bet on it.”

  A taxi arrived, and we got in.

  “My guess is, he'll resist every step of the way,” I continued. “Most of these Nazis do. He may be in shock right now, but part of him is already planning his strategy.”

  “What strategy?” Lynn asked. “He's totally screwed.”

  “First, he'll deny everything. He'll claim mistaken identity. He'll hire the best lawyers money can buy, and they'll keep filing legal motions to drag the proceedings out for years. He'll call on his political friends and his musical friends for support. He'll cry persecution and claim that he's the real victim. He'll launch personal attacks on me and Eric. Meanwhile, he'll keep appearing in public wherever they'll have him and behave as if he has nothing to be ashamed of. And if that doesn't work, he'll say he's a sick old man and we should all just leave him be. Tonight is just the beginning.”

  At the hotel, we joined the throng crowding into the ballroom. It was a bit like an election-night victory celebration. People were electrified, downing alcohol as fast as they could. A loud hubbub rose in the room, practically drowning out the jazz ensemble on stage playing big band music. We joined a long line snaking back from the door for our chance to shake hands with Mitch Conroy, who was greeting the guests one by one as they entered. Suddenly a beefy paw grabbed my sleeve.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Doneghan growled.

  “Nice to see you, Jack. I want you to meet my father, Jacob Cain, and my fiancée, Lynn Daniels.”

  That slowed him down. “Sir, ma'am,” he nodded politely at them. Drawing me aside, he asked again,“What's going on?”

  “Nothing,” I protested. “I just came to hear if Delatrucha would sing ‘America the Beautiful,’ seeing how it nearly brought you to tears.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “You should. By the way, Jack, I called you today, but you weren't in your office. I left a message. I also sent you some documents.”

  “What documents?”

  “You'll see. And now, if you'll excuse me….” I extricated myself from his grasp and rejoined the others.

  “So I'm your fiancée, am I?” Lynn asked.

  “Poetic license.” I blushed. “Just to get him off my back. When I propose, I promise you'll be the first to know. And if I'm accepted, you'll be the second,” I added, turning to my father.

  “Maybe I'll be the one to propose,” Lynn said.

  A sudden roar rose as Delatrucha entered the room, still wearing the medal around his chest, followed by the other award winners. Elissa trailed a few steps behind him. Conroy escorted him to the bandstand and took the microphone. Delatrucha looked pale, and Conroy practically had to drag him along.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what a night!” Conroy shouted as the room quieted down. “The president sure doesn't know what he's missing.” There were a few laughs and desultory boos from the audience. Conroy grinned and gestured for silence. “No need for that, ladies and gentlemen, no need for that. We're dealing with art here tonight, not politics. Anyway, I'm sure y'all will agree that the president's loss is our gain.” There was a large laugh from the audience. “I mean, his artistic loss is our artistic gain.” Another laugh.

  Conroy smiled again. “We're all honored to be here, and I have a special treat for you. My good buddy here, Roberto, has agreed to sing for us. I had to strong-arm him into it. He didn't want to, but he just agreed.” A cheer went up.

  “Now, some of you may not know that Roberto and I are old friends,” Conroy continued. “I've been honored to be a guest in his wonderful home down in Florida. You see, we share a love of freedom and a love of America as well as a love of music. Roberto here grew up in Argentina, but he chose to become an American, and he's made a huge contribution to our nation. I'm personally honored to have the support and friendship of such a great Hispanic American. So, ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome Roberto, and let's not forget his wonderful wife, Elissa, a great American in her own right.”

  The applause swelled again, but Delatrucha didn't acknowledge it. He stepped onto the bandstand, waving away the microphone. Lynn's hand was clutching mine. What was he going to do? Elissa walked over to a piano set up on the stage and sat down. The room went quiet. Delatrucha closed his eyes for a moment, clutching his hands in front of him as if in silent prayer. Then he spoke in a low voice that penetrated to the far corners of the ballroom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am not one for speeches. I have always been a private man. I have always let music speak for me. There is nothing I can express, no emotion I can encompass, that has not been better expressed already by, say, Robert Schumann or Franz Schubert. All of humanity—the good and the bad, the noble and the base—lies in their songs.” A few hands started clapping; Delatrucha shook his head to hush them. The crowd had gone from raucous to somber in seconds. Delatrucha glanced up at the mirrored ceiling, as though he were seeking inspiration.

  “Schubert and Schumann and Brahms and the great Richard Strauss—whom I was once honored to meet as a young man—these are the men who have spoken for me these many years, as long as God has given me the strength. The music is pure, even when we are not. Perhaps I did not do all that could have been done, but those who were not there have no right to criticize. They do not know what it was like. They do not know how they would have acted. I have struggled with this all my life, and, believe me, many times I longed to end my struggles. And still, even today, I do believe that through music I brought good to the world. I hope that is remembered to my credit.”

  “What the hell's he talking about?” someone asked.

  “And so tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Delatrucha continued, “I wish to sing you a little song. Speaker Conroy asked for ‘America the Beautiful,’ but I have chosen instead a song by my namesake, a song that has followed me throughout my life.

  “I have sung
this song in circumstances none of you can imagine, and yet, only now, only tonight, do I suddenly see that strangely, it encompasses my whole life. Tonight Roberto Delatrucha dangles at the end of the hook. I did not choose my fate. It chose me. When all is said and done, I am just an ordinary man with an extraordinary voice.” He paused and then repeated,“Just an ordinary man.”

  A hum formed in the room as people turned to their neighbors, asking what it all meant. Delatrucha whispered a few words in Elissa's ear and kissed her lightly on the back of the neck. Then he took up position in front of her, one hand on the side of the piano.

  “‘Die Forelle,’” he announced.

  “‘The Trout,’” Lynn whispered.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Elissa bent her head and began to play the introduction, transforming the piano into a gently flowing brook, the water rippling softly over a stony riverbed. A man stands on a riverbank watching a beautiful fish gliding through clear waters, darting about as swift as an arrow. A fisherman on the other bank casts his line, but the fish evades it. You can hear the fish splashing in the sparkling stream in the rippling piano chords. The narrator watches the contest between fish and fisherman, hoping the trout will win. “So long as the water stays clear, the fisherman will never catch the trout,” he thinks to himself. But the fisherman is crafty and stirs up the water with mud from the streambed. A second later, the beautiful creature hangs on the hook, bloodied and dying. The piano murmurs out its final breaths and grows quiet.

  It is a short song, barely two minutes, a work of miniature perfection, but it deceives. The melody is cheerful, conveying unclouded delight, but the words speak of trickery, treachery, and death. “My blood was boiling as I beheld the victim of deceit,” the narrator says in the final line of the song. But of course, he can do nothing but watch.

  His eyes half closed, Delatrucha seemed fully immersed in the words and melody. The song ended, there was a moment of silence, and the hall erupted in applause. It washed over him, his arms outstretched as if in benediction. He bowed deeply and acknowledged his wife, who stood by the piano and curtsied gracefully. Then he pulled a gun from his inside breast pocket, put it to the side of his head, and pulled the trigger.

  27

  The bad old songs, the bad and evil dreams, Let us now bury them, bring a large coffin.

  —“THE BAD OLD SONGS” BY HEINRICH HEINE, MUSIC BY ROBERT SCHUMANN

  PANDEMONIUM OVERTOOK THE ROOM; frightened and screaming, the audience stampeded for the exits, shoving each other aside in the rush to get out. Some took cover behind chairs or under tables. I charged forward to the stage, but Lynn pulled me to the side of the room, where it was safe. “Mark, you can't help him. He's dead,” she shouted. “His skull exploded.” She was so calm. She might not fold her clothes at night, and she would never fold in a crisis, either.

  To his credit, Conroy stood his ground, bending down to Delatrucha, who was lying facedown in a spreading pool of blood. Doneghan, his face a pudgy mask of revulsion, pulled his boss away, pointing at the cameras. A gaggle of photographers approached, snapping furiously. The speaker's face was splashed with blood, and his white shirt was stained red. A group of security agents, weapons drawn, rushed forward, surrounded him, and pushed him to the ground, shielding him with their bodies.

  “Where's my father?” I bellowed.

  “I don't know,” Lynn shouted back. “He was standing just behind me.” I looked wildly around the room but couldn't find him.

  Christine Sanford had stepped forward and picked up the microphone. “Please calm down, ladies and gentlemen. Please exit the room in an orderly manner. We are not under attack. I repeat, we are not under attack,” she pleaded. As people realized no further shots had been fired, her words started to calm the ballroom.

  I felt an arm on my sleeve and turned around. It was Dad, apparently none the worse for wear. I hugged him fiercely, feeling his whiskers against my cheek. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine,” he reassured me, patting me on the back.

  Elissa had collapsed in front of the piano. Sanford, still holding the mike, called out, “Is there a doctor here? We need a doctor.” I wasn't sure what to do next. The scene kept replaying in my head.

  Turning to Lynn, I muttered in a daze, “I killed him. Now I'm a murderer, too.”

  “Nonsense,” she snapped. “He killed himself.”

  “I pushed him to it. I did everything but pull the trigger.”

  “You made him face the past. Suicide was his own choice.”

  My eyes filled with tears. I took off my glasses, trying to blink them away. She grabbed me by both arms. “Listen, Mark, this is no time to go wobbly. Put your glasses back on, and look at me!” I tried to focus on what she was saying. “You need to call Eric. Right now. The department has to respond to this.” She started pulling me from the room.

  “Tonight? It's nearly ten o'clock.” Sirens were already blaring outside. Scores of police and emergency personnel had converged on the hotel and were streaming into the lobby, clearing a pathway through the crush of terrified people.

  “This can't wait until tomorrow,” Lynn said. “You need to get the facts out quickly. The story's going to probably run on CNN in less than ten minutes.”

  She was right. I scanned for a pay phone, fumbling for a quarter. No more than five minutes could have passed since the shooting. It seemed like an eternity. Conroy, surrounded by bodyguards, was being hustled out of the building. He had wiped most of the blood off his face, but spatter remained on his neck and collar. Doneghan stumbled by as I dialed Eric's number.

  “Delatrucha shot himself,” I said without preamble.

  “Where? When?”

  “In the hotel ballroom, a few minutes ago.”

  “Fuck. Is he dead?”

  “He blew his head off. TV cameras caught the whole thing. Lynn thinks we need to issue a statement about our investigation.”

  “Christ, I don't believe this. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “He made a long, rambling speech about how he's just an ordinary man; next he sang ‘The Trout’ and took a bow. Then, all of a sudden, he pulls out a gun, and bang! It happened in a flash. One minute he's standing there, the next…”

  “Okay, don't panic, keep calm. How did he know we were on to him?”

  “It's a long story. I'll tell you later.”

  “Mark, what the hell have you been up to? Never mind. Was anyone else injured?”

  “I don't think so. Conroy got splattered with gore. There was a rush for the exits, but no one was hurt.”

  “Okay, good. Listen, Lynn's right. We need to put out a statement. Here's what we'll do. I'll call the communications director right now. We'll write up something brief and get it on the wires. Where are you now?”

  “Still at the hotel, at a pay phone in the lobby.”

  “Head back to the office. We'll meet there in half an hour. I'm going to call the attorney general. The White House needs to know, too. Don't talk to anyone before you talk to me. We'll go through the sequence of events.”

  I hung up the phone and found myself face to face with John Howard, his face whiter than usual. “What the hell are you doing here?” he gasped. “Did you see what went on in there?”

  “Yes.” I turned to go, but he clutched my sleeve.

  “Cain, you didn't have anything to do with it, did you?” I didn't answer. “You did, didn't you? I knew it.” I ripped myself clear of him, shoved him out of the way, and found Lynn and my dad.

  We started walking down Pennsylvania Avenue. The night was colder than ever, a bone-piercing cold. “Dad, you must be exhausted. Let Lynn take you back to the apartment in my car. It looks like I'm going to be in meetings for a while, maybe all night.”

  “Yes, I think maybe I have had enough excitement for one night,” he said.

  I gave Lynn my car keys. “Come back to the office as soon as you've got him settled,” I told her. “I'm going to need you.”


  “I'll be there in an hour.”

  “Sorry about all this, Dad,” I said.

  “Ach, don't worry so much. I'm tougher than I look. You're the one always preaching about justice. Now you got it.”

  But I hadn't.

  The department was buzzing with activity when I arrived. Eric hustled me into his office. “Okay, what did you do?”

  I explained about the flowers wrapped in Rachel Levitas's image and the envelope under his door. Eric looked grim. “Why couldn't you just have gone by the book, for Christ's sake?”

  “I didn't want him to enjoy another night of triumph.”

  “Well, you succeeded in that. Unfortunately, now you'll have to face the consequences, too. There's no way to keep your role hidden. The police will find the material in his room and figure out where it came from.”

  “I'm not ashamed of what I did. I didn't know he would kill himself.” I decided not to mention my encounter with John Howard.

  “There may be disciplinary measures. If you start to take a lot of heat, I won't be able to defend you. I've told you before, I will always protect the office and the mission above any individual.”

  “Yes, Eric, you've always been clear. What do you want me to do now? Am I suspended?”

  “Are you kidding? This is the biggest story to hit this department for years, probably ever, and you're at the heart of it. The boss wants to see you right now.”

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the attorney general's suite, helping Eric brief the top brass. Eric did most of talking. As he spoke, I found myself reliving the experience as if it were a video clip looping in my head. The music ends. He bows. Arms out, right hand into pocket. The gun appears against his head. Bam!

  “Mark, Mark…” I blinked and returned to the present. “Are you sure you're all right, young man?” the attorney general asked. “Perhaps you should see a doctor.”