The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  She looked at him. ‘Phoned 911.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  She smiled thinly at him as he moved away and climbed out of the car. Then he turned and leaned on the coachwork, holding the door open with his bulk.

  ‘I’m going to ask one of my men to take you home now. I’ll have a policewoman come round tomorrow; take a statement. You sure you wouldn’t prefer to come to the office?’ She shook her head. ‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he told her and closed the door gently before going back to the scene of the crime.

  ‘Well?’ he asked the doctor when he got back.

  The doctor knew what Amos wanted because they always wanted answers that couldn’t be given immediately.

  ‘It’s too early to tell. She could have drowned. There are no obvious signs of violence, no tell-tale signs of a struggle, nothing; could have been a heart attack, anything.’

  Amos thanked him, knowing that the lab report would almost certainly reveal how she died. He would just have to wait. He hoped for the sake of public relations between the department and the public that Senator Ann Robbins had died of natural causes.

  But somehow he doubted it.

  Gunter Haman stared at the computer screen unaware that his wife was standing beside him with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  ‘Gunter?’

  He was in such a concentrated state of mind that his wife’s voice startled him. He shook his head quickly and looked up at her as she leaned over his desk and placed the mug by his elbow.

  ‘Sorry, Angela, I was miles away.’

  ‘I think you’re spending too much time on that thing,’ she told him as she straightened. ‘You need a break.’

  Haman could understand his wife’s concern. Since his return from Bad Arolsen he had made it a daily commitment to find Isaac Demski. It meant hours of trawling through websites devoted to survivors of the Holocaust, and, in particular, children who had survived.

  He had tried an Israeli site called Yad Veshem. It was an online site where there were pages of testimonies from survivors of the camps, but his searches achieved nothing useful. He had tried other sites in Europe and Russia, but always found himself wandering up blind alleys, through false dawns and giving up each day in frustration. But one day he logged on to the German Red Cross and discovered that they had a tracing service for families of the Holocaust. He chastised himself for not going there in the first place, but it meant that he had at last opened up a door through which his inquiry could go.

  What transpired then was a delay of several weeks. He was only able to request a trace for Isaac Demski, having supplied the necessary information, which included the fact that he wasn’t a relative. This meant that the Red Cross would try to make contact with Demski and ask if he was prepared to accept a message from Haman.

  ‘Well?’ his wife demanded.

  He smiled and leaned back in his chair. He had a huge grin that seemed to spread across his face. ‘I’ve found him,’ he declared triumphantly, picking up his coffee.

  ‘Demski?’

  ‘His son.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘He lives in America. He sent me an e-mail. Says his father can’t respond but has asked him to. Look.’ He pointed at the screen.

  Angela came round to his side of the desk and read the message. Then she looked at Haman and put her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him gently.

  ‘After all this time,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased for you, Gunter.’ She let him go. ‘What now?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose I’ll have to pay him a visit; can’t expect him to travel over here.’

  She agreed and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Then I want you to put an end to this,’ she told him. ‘You’ve done what you set out to do. All you have to do now is tell this man what happened.’ She straightened up beside him, leaving her hand on him.

  Gunter glanced up at her, closed his hand over hers and smiled. ‘You’re right.’

  Then he turned back towards the computer screen and began typing. His wife walked out of the room and once again found herself hoping that that would be the end of it.

  ‘You referred to “many skeletons”,’ the writer asked, looking down at her notes. ‘Was that a reference to Buchenwald concentration camp?’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ Babs admitted. ‘It all began there.’

  ‘But you had no knowledge at all of Isaac Demski’s past?’

  Babs shook her head quickly. ‘No, of course not. I wasn’t born then. What happened then was, well …’ she stopped and wondered how she could explain it to the young writer. ‘This was something Gunter Haman was doing that had absolutely no connection to the business of getting my husband elected into the state Senate. He had no idea we existed.’ She paused. ‘There was no way we were ever likely to meet Demski either. He was not one of us.’

  ‘Can you explain that?’

  Babs smiled. ‘He was head of the Jewish Mafia.’

  Jack Demski stood some distance away from the arrivals door at Kennedy Airport. It was a habit; he tried to avoid standing in a crowd. The people in front of him had no such concerns, they were there to meet loved ones, friends, guests and quite possibly, business associates. But Demski was there to meet someone from his father’s past; a complete stranger. He watched as the passengers filed out, their faces lighting up in recognition as they spotted the person who was there to meet them. Some waved; some just lifted their eyebrows in recognition. Some dallied in the open door as children ran to them, flinging their arms out in joy. Other travellers piled up behind those innocently sharing the beautiful moments with sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters. Demski smiled; he’d done it himself.

  Then Gunter Haman appeared. His face showed that mixture of expectation and concern: the expectation that someone would be there to meet him and the concern that perhaps there might be no one there. But Demski’s obvious Jewish heritage was a dead giveaway, and Haman’s face brightened as he spotted the dark curls and the unmistakeable curved nose. Standing beside Demski was a giant of a man. He was dressed in black and his head was freshly shaven. Haman wondered idly if the giant had ever seen photographs of the unfortunate prisoners in places like Buchenwald who had never been given the option of whether they wanted their heads shaved or not.

  The big man beside Demski leaned forward slightly, bending down to say something. ‘This him?’

  Demski nodded. ‘Just like his picture.’

  He stepped forward as Haman cleared the throng and held out his hand.

  ‘Welcome to America, Herr Haman. Did you have a good trip?’

  Haman dropped his suitcase on to the floor and shook the offered hand. ‘Yes, thank you. Jack? Do I call you Jack?’

  ‘Jack’s fine,’ Demski nodded and turned to the big guy. ‘Take Mr Haman’s suitcase.’ Then he pointed to the exit doors. ‘This way. We have a car waiting.’

  ‘Please, call me Gunter.’

  Demski looked at him. ‘Sure thing, Gunter.’

  And so they walked out of the airport; the German, the Jew and the big, shaven-head American.

  Babs had just showered and changed after her morning run down by the lake. She had carefully avoided the route where Ann Robbins had been found. The police were still there although the forensic team had departed, and Babs preferred to keep her distance. She walked through to the front door in response to the chimes from the doorbell. As she passed by the open door of her lounge, she could see the police car at the end of her drive. She frowned as she pulled the door open and found it difficult to suppress a gasp at the sight of the black guy standing there.

  ‘Morning ma’am,’ he said pleasantly, showing her his police badge. ‘Lieutenant Amos, New Jersey Homicide Division. Mind if we talk?’

  Babs stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her. She glanced up and down. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  Amos noticed the door had been shut in a very deliberate way. He preferred to interview people at first in their own homes.
He always felt it gave him an opportunity to study the person in their own surroundings. It gave him a clearer perspective. But the act of closing the door was almost like a statement from Babs Mason. He shrugged mentally and began the interview where he stood.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Senator Ann Robbins. I presume you have heard that she died.’

  Babs nodded. ‘Yes, very tragic. Quite young too.’

  ‘You knew her, I believe?’

  ‘Not really. She wasn’t a friend of mine.’

  ‘But she was an acquaintance?’

  Babs nodded, her face almost expressionless. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She came to your house for dinner one evening?’ he asked. ‘Couple of weeks ago?’

  Babs frowned. ‘Yes, about three weeks ago. How did you know that?’

  ‘Were Senator Robbins and your husband good friends?’ he asked, ignoring Babs’s question.

  Babs shifted the weight, moving from one foot to the other. ‘Their paths crossed at times, but I wouldn’t have called them good friends.’

  ‘But they did know each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you last see Ann Robbins?’

  Babs considered the question for a while. ‘Must have been the night we had dinner together. Yes,’ she decided, ‘it would have been then.’

  ‘I believe you go jogging down by the lake?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her reply was drawn out slowly.

  ‘Did you ever see Miss Robbins while you were out jogging?’

  ‘I might have done,’ she conceded.

  Amos pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. He thumbed the pages.

  ‘Miss Robbins was seen in conversation with a woman that morning. Could that have been you? Could you comment on that?’

  Babs shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I meet so many like-minded people down by that lake. I may have seen Miss Robbins, but I don’t remember having a conversation with her. I might have said “good morning”, but that hardly constitutes a conversation, does it?’

  Amos agreed. ‘No, of course not.’ It wouldn’t have been the first time a so-called witness had embellished a story. It was quite possible that a simple ‘good morning’ had been turned into an entire conversation.

  ‘I understand that your husband has put himself up for election to the state legislature, and that Senator Robbins was opposed to his admission. Were you aware of that?’

  Babs felt little prickling sensations round her neck and her cheekbones. She swallowed hard and continued to stare at the lieutenant.

  ‘Are you implying something?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘Just asking questions, ma’am, that’s all. Were you aware of it?’

  Babs tried to relax. ‘That was politics, Lieutenant; something we prefer to keep “in house”. Whatever Senator Robbins’ opinion of my husband was, he never mentioned it.’

  ‘I understand your husband is highly regarded in legal circles,’ Amos told her. ‘If Senator Robbins had blocked his admission to the Senate, it would not have helped his career, surely?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was an obstacle that needed to be overcome. No politician enjoys a clean run; there is always opposition.’

  Amos flipped the notebook shut and put it back in his jacket pocket. ‘I think that will be all for now, ma’am. I might like to speak to you again, but if I do, I would prefer to speak to you in the house. Otherwise we can do it down at the Precinct.’ He tapped his forehead lightly with the tip of his index finger. ‘Good day to you, ma’am.’ He spun on his heel and walked down the drive.

  Babs watched him go, standing by her doorstep with her arms folded until his car had pulled away from the house. Something had happened during the conversation to change the lieutenant’s mind, and she couldn’t figure out what it was. But something had definitely happened.

  The drive from Queens down to Brooklyn where Demski lived was uneventful and gave Haman a chance to study the buildings, the traffic and the people and whatever else took his fancy from inside the reasonable comfort of the car. He made the usual comments to Demski, admitting it was his first time in New York and found it quite exciting. Demski acknowledged Haman’s comments, but his mind wasn’t on the eulogies tripping off Haman’s tongue. All he could think of was that he was sitting next to a Nazi; one who had actually been in the bunker when Hitler and his wife, Eva Braun were shot.

  His father had spoken often about the Holocaust and what it meant to be a survivor of the camps. For young Jack it was more than just a history lesson; it was a living testament to the atrocities committed against his race. Jack understood that America was controlled by a culture driven from within; a political class system that was dominated by white Anglo Saxons. They despised Blacks and Jews as well as Hispanics and any other race that did not fit their bigoted vision of what made America the country it is today, despite the powerful, Jewish presence in Congress. The irony was not lost on Jack as their driver negotiated the traffic on the beltway.

  Haman, however, was now thinking of nothing other than the anticipation of meeting Isaac Demski. Even though it meant brief flashbacks to the Chancellery and his dream, he knew that soon it would be over. He will have completed his mission; his task to tell Isaac what part his mother played in the final moments of the Third Reich.

  The house was in Bridgeport, overlooking the Hudson River. From the approach to the front gates the house was not clearly visible, but once inside the outer perimeter, Haman was able to marvel at its colonial elegance. It had the mark of a wealthy resident; a man of influence who would be a pillar of the community. The drive from the entrance gates to the house was only about fifty yards, but nonetheless it was impressive with its short avenue of American elms. These served to hide much of the house and grounds from the road and lend an air of privacy to the place.

  The car stopped outside the tall colonnades that supported the Georgian porch. Haman glanced at the big double front doors, one of which was partially open, and saw someone standing there. He could see he was wearing a yarmulke, the small cloth skull cap worn by many Jewish men. As the driver of the car opened Haman’s door, the man standing in the porch stepped out on to the gravel. Jack Demski walked across to him and greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. Then he turned towards Haman and urged him to come forward.

  Haman felt nervous and excited at the same time. This was the culmination of hours of searching that somehow seemed to go all the way back to the Reich Chancellery. He stopped a few feet from Jack Demski.

  ‘Gunter, this is my father, Isaac.’

  Haman felt quite emotional as he looked at the face of the man whose mother had perished in such a way, knowing that his search was finally over and that he could close the chapter on his life that he had lived with and kept secret for so many years.

  Isaac Demski shook his hand. ‘Shalom.’

  ‘Guten Tag,’ Haman muttered. Then he apologized. ‘I’m sorry. Shalom.’ He bowed his head slightly as Demski released his hand.

  Demski shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. I speak German if it would be easier for you.’

  Haman thanked him. ‘That would be a great help.’

  ‘Willkommen.’ He turned to his son. ‘Jack, take Herr Haman’s case, then join us on the terrace.’ He put a hand on Haman’s arm. ‘This way,’ he told him. ‘We’ll have a beer or coffee or something; whatever’s your poison. Then you can freshen up and we’ll go out and eat.’

  ‘Yes,’ Haman mumbled, ‘that sounds good. But now we have a lot to talk about.’

  ‘When Jack is here,’ Demski told him. ‘I want him to hear what you have to say. He should know about these things.’

  Haman shuddered mentally and hoped that his story would not be too harrowing for either Isaac Demski or his son, but he knew only time would tell. He followed Demski around the outside of the house until they reached an old, but tastefully refurbished terrace overlooking the busy waters of the Hudson River where they would ta
lk about the terror that stalked the earth over half a century ago.

  When they were settled on the terrace, and Jack Demski had joined them, his father held his hands open towards Haman.

  ‘So, why don’t you begin at the beginning?’

  Haman made himself more comfortable. It was an unconscious gesture, really; a kind of nervous reaction to the story, as short as it was, that he was about to relate.

  ‘Well, we all know what happened in the Reich Chancellery at the end of the war,’ he began. ‘At least, the world believes it knows what happened. But I was there.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably the only living witness to what took place. Hitler had been given a sedative. People believe it was poison, but they are wrong; it was a potion given to him to make him relax. His senior officers were all very nervous. His personal valet was in tears.’ Haman shook his head. ‘It was very emotional.’

  ‘What about you, were you emotional?’ Demski asked.

  Haman smiled. ‘I was barely seventeen years old. These men could have crushed me as they would an insect and think nothing of it. I was petrified just being in their company. I don’t think I should have been there, but I had been ordered by my commanding officer, Hauptmann Lörenz to remain with him at all times. He told me he had a special task for me.’ Haman paused for a moment and recalled the moment he had told his wife on the morning she had persuaded him to talk about the dream.

  ‘Go on,’ Demski prompted.

  ‘Hitler was taken out of the room by his valet. I will never forget the expression on those faces; the officers in that room. When the Führer had gone, they just filed out. It was over. I didn’t know what to do. Lorenz told me to wait there until he came back. So I waited on my own in the place where Hitler had conducted his war; a 17-year-old boy.’

  He paused again, recalling those moments. The noise from the water traffic drifted up from the river, and he could hear the cry of the gulls as they weaved overhead. The earlier warmth from the sun had been lost behind drifting cloud and rain threatened.