by Alan Glenn
But he was smiling. Even through the blood and the bruises and the throbbing pain, he was smiling. He had fought back, had caused the German tattooist some serious pain. Sure, maybe someone else would be along eventually to finish the tattoo, but at least Sam Miller, Portsmouth police inspector, hadn’t been completely branded like some barnyard animal.
He tried to shift again, groaned as something stabbed in his side. So, in under two days as a prisoner, what had he learned? A lot. In remote areas of the nation, Jewish refugees were at work, clearing wood, mining ore, cutting stone. Among these refugees, one Petr Wowenstein—aka Peter Wotan—had lived and worked until successfully escaping.
The refugees—how and why did they end up here?
Another intake of breath, another moan.
Yet Sam smiled, for even though he didn’t have all the answers, he had found out a lot. He wondered if ol’ Marshal Harold Hanson would be proud of his probationary inspector. After all, not only had Sam properly identified the city’s latest homicide victim, he had also uncovered a national secret.
Damn, if that wasn’t worth passing probationary status, what would be? Maybe even help him in the Party. Who knew?
He coughed.
Damn, he hurt.
* * *
Somehow he had managed to doze, and when he woke up, he stumbled over to the bucket, aimed into it. Daylight coming through a high barred window allowed him to see that his urine wasn’t stained with blood, which was a good sign. He held up his left wrist. There. A blue numeral three. A permanent reminder of the horror he and so many others were living in. Sam lowered the sleeve and replaced the cover to the bucket and sat down, grimacing at the thudding pain in his ribs.
He looked around the small cell. Something was near the bottom of the wall. He looked closer, saw a set of initials—R.S.—and a Star of David carved in the stone.
A noise, a slight thump.
Something was on the floor. He crawled over, saw it was a hunk of bread with a string wrapped around it. He undid the string, saw the bread open up, and among the smears of margarine was a note:
From O. Good luck.
Otto. The Dutch businessman from Barracks Six. Be damned.
He ate the bread, wincing as his sore jaw worked, and then he tore up the note and ate that as well. The piece of string went into his bucket.
He sagged against the wall, feeling just a bit better, trying to think of what he could possibly do next.
Survive, he decided. Do what the Jews here were doing. Stay alive. Somehow get out and get back to Portsmouth and—
Condemn a man to death, then? Is that what you’re thinking? To escape and condemn someone, hell, maybe even Otto, who befriended you? Is that what you’re going to do? Kill him on the off chance that you can get through the fences and wire and past the guard towers and—
The door was being unlocked. Two Long’s Legionnaires came in, staring at him, wooden truncheons pulled from their belts.
One said, “Get your ass up, come with us, or we’ll beat you somethin’ awful. Got it, boy?”
Sam got up, hurting but happy he could hide his pain from these two thugs.
* * *
They escorted him to a building set apart from the rest, a wooden cottage that wouldn’t look out of place at a lake resort. About him were the sounds of the quarry at work, the growl of the cranes, the thump of the drills, the whine of the cutting tools, and—underneath—the shouted voices of the guards and overseers.
At the cottage, both men stopped. One pointed to the front stoop. “You go on up there, boy, and there’s someone to see you. You step lively, and if you run out by yourself, jus’ so you know …”
The man jabbed an elbow into Sam’s ribs, making him gasp. The man went on, “Up there, at the southwest guard tower, there’s a man with a scoped rifle, and if you come out of that there cottage by yourself, he’s gonna blow your head clear off. You understand?”
Sam said nothing, shook off the other guard’s grasp, and went up the steps. It was cold, and he could feel shivering starting in his legs and arms. He took hold of the doorknob, wondering what was on the other side.
He opened the door, stepped into a tiny foyer with stained Oriental carpeting and a bureau and lamp. Through an arched opening was a living room with a thick couch and two easy chairs, the arms covered with dainty doilies. A picture window gave a view of the distant fence line, and way beyond that, the tree-covered peaks of the Green Mountains. A man in a military uniform—it looked to be army—was standing with his back to Sam, looking out, his hands clasped behind him.
“Well,” the military man said, and turned around.
Sam stood stock-still, as if someone had nailed his feet to the floor.
Before him, in his Army National Guard uniform, was his boss, Marshal Harold Hanson.
“Sam,” Hanson said, shaking his head. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sam closed his eyes, then opened them right up. “I … I was doing my job.”
Hanson stood there, hands on his hips. “Look at you. Christ, how in hell did you end up here?”
“The dead man … by coming here, I found out who he was—”
“Dammit, Sam, you were told several times to leave that case alone. You know it belongs to the FBI and the Germans.”
“Still my case, sir. No matter what you say or what the FBI says. It’s still my case, and I found out where he came from. I know his real name, and—”
“Do you have any idea the problems you’ve caused?” Hanson interrupted. “What kind of trouble you’re in?”
Sam ran a hand over his shorn head. “Yeah, I guess the hell I know what kind of trouble I’m in. Sir.”
Hanson’s face flushed. “That’s enough of that, then.”
“What else did you expect me to say? Or do?”
“I expected you to be smart, for one,” Hanson said. “And you’re lucky I’m here.”
Sam said, “How did you know where I was?”
His boss said, “Allow me some intelligence. One reason I became marshal is because I keep my ears and eyes open. You don’t think I knew about the deal you cut with Kenny Whelan to get a false FBI ID? He called me just after you left his apartment. Pat Lowengard sold you out, too, the minute you went out the door. That’s our world. Spies and snitches everywhere. It was a simple matter of tracking you from Portsmouth to Boston and then to Burdick, Vermont. Knowing what’s in Burdick, I knew you were going to get into serious trouble.”
Even in this pleasant room, Sam could still hear the thudding of the stonecutting equipment, could still smell oil and stone dust. “Why are they here? All these Jews? Here and New Mexico and other places across the country? There must be thousands, am I right?”
Hanson said, “You don’t need to know what’s going on here.”
Something sharp sparked inside of him. “The hell I don’t!”
“Sam, look—”
“No,” Sam insisted, “I’ve been beaten, stripped, and worked as a slave. I came close to getting a tattooed wrist like the rest of the poor bastards out there. I’ve got a right to know, and you’ve got to tell me. I demand it.”
Hanson folded his arms over his uniform. “You don’t look like you’re in a position to demand anything.”
“Maybe so, but I think this would prove embarrassing for you, sir. After telling people in the Party you’re sponsoring me for bigger and better things, having me imprisoned in Burdick wouldn’t look good for you. But tell me, and you’ll be thrilled at what I’ll do for the Party and you if I get out.”
Hanson stared at him, and Sam wondered what was going on behind those evaluating eyes. Then the marshal said, “What makes you think I know anything?”
“You’re here in full National Guard uniform in order to gain access. That means you have pull in a place that doesn’t officially exist. Which means you must know why it’s here.”
That brought a thin smile. “Than
ks for your vote of confidence.” Hanson waited, let a breath out, and said, “It’s a couple of years old. It started small and then grew once it became apparent it was a deal that worked to everyone’s advantage.”
“Must be one hell of a deal,” Sam said. “How did it start?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I deserve to know, that’s why. And you know I’m right.”
A pause. “It began in occupied Paris, with a trade delegation led by the secretary of the Treasury, Morgenthau. Probably the smartest Cabinet officer Long’s got. He’s also done his best since the war to get more Jewish refugees here, with no success. Too much resistance from Congress and everybody else. Nobody wanted them here, competing for jobs and housing. But in Paris, Morgenthau and some businessmen came upon a train shipping French Jews out to the east. There was a confrontation, and the ranking SS officer said to Morgenthau, ‘Fine, you’re so concerned about the Jews, take them.’ Which is what he did. They got off the train and found their way here.”
Sam said, “The news I saw before I came here said Morgenthau couldn’t get any more Jews into the country. He’s been trying and trying.”
“Sure, publicly,” Hanson said. “But he and his friends in industry have been doing it secretly for years. All that stuff you hear on the radio or see in the newsreels about him fighting Congress is all a lie. He makes a fuss in public, while in private, he makes it happen.”
“How do they get here?”
Hanson said, “After England was defeated, the Germans took possession of one of the largest merchant fleets in the world. English ships, crewed by Germans and a few American overseers to make sure the Jews arrive here alive, bring them over. They land in military ports, so security is maintained.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Sam said.
“When you get right down to it, the Germans want the Jews out of Europe, by either expelling them or killing them,” Hanson explained. “Hell, even the guy running the SS, Himmler, said something like that in a book a year or two back, about sending all the Jews overseas. They’re only doing worse to them because they can’t ship them out easily.”
“But the expense …”
“Sam, the Germans are locked in a death struggle with the Soviets. Once the offer was made for us to take the Jews, what made sense to them? To use their army and their train systems to ship Jews to concentration camps out to the occupied east, or to use their army and their train systems to supply the eastern front against the Russians?”
“And the secretary of the Treasury went along with this?”
“Morgenthau eventually came up with the arrangement, as tough as it was. The Jews would come here secretly, not as refugees but as labor. The Nazis get their Jew-free Europe, and we get workers.”
“Slave labor, you mean.”
“They get paid.”
“A dollar a week!”
Hanson said, “Which is more than they got back in Europe. A few thousand came out here at first, to work in some copper pits in Montana, and it started succeeding. They’re hard workers, Sam, happy to be here and not there. They clear lumber, work in mines, quarries, and even some scientific facilities and shipbuilding. So money was made, and you know how President Long operates. He gets a kickback on everything, just like when he was governor. Donations were made to his campaign funds as well as the program grew.”
“Money? This is all for money?”
Hanson nodded. “Yes, money, as crass as that might sound. For Christ’s sake, this country is broke. It’s been broke for years—even with Long’s nutty wealth confiscation and redistribution plans and everything else, we’re broke. We’ve been in this Depression for over a decade. So the country needs money. These laborers make money for exports. Hard currency. Money we couldn’t get if those jobs went to the regular workforce at regular wages.”
“Why can’t the money be used to put people back to work?”
Hanson had a grim look on his face. “What’s worth more to Long and the Party? Free Americans working at real jobs, or Americans on the dole who have to sign a loyalty oath to get relief money, who’ll vote the right way when the time comes?”
“Sweet Jesus,” Sam muttered.
“Some of the money goes to other things as well. You’re a smart fellow, Sam. Look around your hometown, you’ll see where it goes.”
Sam didn’t know what Hanson was getting at, and then it came to him. The Navy Yard. The fleet expansion. The new buildings, cranes, docks …
“For the military? That’s it?”
“Mostly,” Hanson said. “But it goes to other places as well. Some relief. Road and bridge work. The President and his boys get their cut, as well as the Party. Sam, Long is a fat, drinking, whoring criminal who happens to be our President and will be our President for the foreseeable future. But the future has something else waiting for us, and it’s a man with a funny mustache and an army uniform. Once Hitler crushes Russia and takes a breath, he’s going to look across the Atlantic. Maybe his slant-eyed friends in Tokyo will look across the Pacific at the same time. So we need to be ready.”
“This summit deal coming up with Long and Hitler,” Sam said. “There’s more than just money being made. We’re going to get our aircraft and arms factories up and running so we can be ready down the line—is that it?”
Hanson said, “True. And these poor Jews, they’re our seed corn. Our way of funding what we can … and there’s the humanitarian side.”
Sam laughed. “Humanitarian! Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m not. Every Jew here is a Jew that’s saved.”
“Some saved,” Sam said. “Worked hard, barely dressed, barely fed—”
“But saved nonetheless, compared to what awaits them in Europe,” Hanson insisted. “Morgenthau doesn’t like it much, either, even though he’s running the program, but … it’s better to be here, overworked and underfed, than to be back in Europe, slaughtered.”
Sam kept quiet. He didn’t know what else to say. Hanson sighed. “Look, Sam. You’re in a very dangerous position. You now know one of this country’s deepest and darkest secrets. And you need to tell me: What do you plan to do about it if you get out?”
Sam said, “Nothing.” He waited, then added, “For the moment.”
Hanson said sharply, “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” Sam said, not liking the smooth way Hanson was talking, how comfortable and clean he looked in his uniform. Sam was sure his boss had eaten a good breakfast before coming here. Sam went on. “Maybe I’ll keep quiet. Maybe I won’t. Maybe the American people need to know what the hell their government is doing and how they’re treating refugees here. Maybe they have a right to know these poor bastards are being worked nearly to death.”
“Who gave you that right to say anything?”
Sam said, “I’m a free American, that’s all the right I need.”
Hanson shook his head. “Maybe that was right years ago. But not now. And you’re making an assumption. That you’re getting out of here.”
“You didn’t put on your dress uniform and travel a couple of hours by train to just to have a talk with me, did you?”
“That’s exactly what I did. To have a talk with you and see how smart you are. Let’s say Sam Miller, crusader of the truth and defender of whatever, convinces the Boston Globe or New York Times or New York Herald Tribune to break this story. What happens then?”
“I don’t know.”
Hanson reached into his uniform jacket, pulled out a sheaf of black-and-white photographs. “I’ll tell you what happens then. Chaos. Violence. The camps are discovered, and maybe some of our jobless, they break into these camps and beat up or kill the Jews because they’re stealing jobs at slave wages that they feel belong to true Americans. Maybe the ghettos in California and New York and Miami are attacked, and there’s a pogrom here in the United States. That’s one thing. The other is that the deal between Hitler and Long to ship the Jews here, the de
al is dead. It only works if it’s kept a secret, and with the secret out, Long will drop it like the proverbial hot potato. Then the Jews stay in Europe. No more cargo ships across the Atlantic. This is what awaits them. Look. I got these photographs from a friend of mine in army intelligence.”
The first photo showed a country landscape, a hillside overlooking a ditch. There were German soldiers, laughing, rifles in hand. The next photo showed a line of people herded into range. Men with long beards, young boys, grandmothers, women, some of the women carrying children, and young girls as well.
They were all naked.
Another photograph, Hanson silently dealing them out as if they were some obscene set of playing cards. Most of the men, desperately trying to be modest, cupped their genitals with their hands. The women held one open hand below their bellies, others holding an arm across their breasts, some of the women using the infants to shield them.
Another photo. Sam forced himself to look. The Germans had lined up in good military order, rifles up, and were shooting at the line of naked men, women, and children.
Shooting at them all. The rustling sound of photo paper was all that Sam could hear. Most of the naked men and women had fallen forward into the open ditch, but others had crumpled to the ground. An officer holding out a service pistol was standing in the pile of bodies, aiming down to shoot the nearest ones in the head.
The final photo. One German soldier, grinning widely, was kicking at the body of a bloody infant, as if kicking a football.
Hanson held that last photo out the longest, then put the photos back in his pocket. He wiped his hands together as if they had been soiled.
Sam looked away, bile in his throat. Hanson said softly, “We can’t save them all, Sam. But we can save a lot, and we can continue to save a lot. This truth gets out about the camps here in the United States, and the deal is done.”