by Mario Bolduc
“I’ve got a favour to ask,” Max said to Bergamini.
“Prego.”
“In 1973 Nordopak signed a contract with Aspekt-Ziegler. I was wondering what information you might have about the agreement, the names of its signatories, the names of the employees who worked on its ratification.”
To justify his interest, Max claimed he was one of Nordopak’s retirees preparing an article for the company newsletter. Bergamini believed him but warned Max not to get his hopes up, since he might not find anything at all.
After leaving Bergamini his cellphone number, Max called the NIOD Institute for War, Holocaust, and Genocide Studies in Amsterdam. He scheduled a meeting with Simon Stern, a professor at the institute, for that very afternoon.
The institute was in Amsterdam’s City Centre on Herengracht. It taught courses on the Holocaust and genocide in general and collected documents and information on the crimes of the Third Reich, among other activities. Over the phone, Stern told Max that his organization often collaborated with the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen, north of Frankfurt, and distributed the results of its research to similar centres all over the world. By gathering as much information on the events of the Holocaust as possible, academics and curators of centres across the globe, like Stern’s institute, had made the Shoah the most well-documented genocide in the history of the world. Ironically enough, they were helped by the Nazi obsession with paperwork, as well as the Jewish community’s insistence on remembering.
Simon Stern was waiting for Max in a conference room on the first floor of the institute. “Good afternoon, Professor Harris. Welcome to Amsterdam.”
Max was playing the part of a teacher travelling through Holland on vacation, though taking a bit of time to find new ways to get his students back in Chicago interested in history. He sought suggestions on how to really imprint on his students the extent of Nazi horror. To shake them out of their torpor and reveal the truth.
Stern was entirely sympathetic to the teacher’s predicament. He wasn’t the only one seeing forgetfulness creeping in. Parents would sometimes come to the institute to speak with him, confused and distraught by their children’s indifference. Some of these parents were Jews themselves. For them, forgetting, a fading of memory, was the worst possible sin. They saw their children shrug, uncaring, at the Holocaust. Ancient history from another age. There were more recent genocides to care about.
Max thought it might just be about marketing. Old crimes in black and white lost to newer ones in colour and stereo sound. One of the NIOD Institute’s chief purposes was precisely, humbly, to preserve the memories of genocide.
Tall, his back bent, Stern had eyes that burned with energy despite his venerable age. When he offered Max his hand, the latter looked for the number tattooed on the former’s forearm. Max knew Stern was a camp survivor. The old man caught Max’s glance.
“The tattoos were only in Auschwitz. I was in Buchenwald. Yellow triangle on striped pajamas. But the result was the same.”
Stern was captured in the last few months of the war after being hidden by a German family for four years.
“Can you imagine? A typical Bavarian family. Blond hair, red cheeks, a young mother with a bright smile. They were like ad copy for the Third Reich. And yet …”
One day their neighbours turned them in for a few ration tickets. Stern managed to flee before the Gestapo came, but he was caught a few days later, famished, as he trudged toward the Allied lines.
“Did the family survive?”
“Miraculously, yes.”
Stern guided Max through the institute. They passed shelves full of documents where technicians busied themselves scanning and preserving them electronically for posterity.
“In Poland the Germans were caught off guard. The Soviet advance was faster than they anticipated. Especially near Kraków.”
When the Wehrmacht soldiers began their retreat, camp leaders at Auschwitz blew up the crematory ovens and gas chambers and took with them every prisoner who could still walk.
“Too little too late, in a sense,” Stern told Max.
When they reached Auschwitz, the Russians discovered the sheer extent of the horror, of course, but also important caches of documents, which were sent back to Moscow. Since 1991 the Frankfurt International Tracing Service and the NIOD Institute had gotten most of the documents back, which gave Stern and his team a better idea about the situation of detainees in Auschwitz and nearby camps.
“I’m looking for a German,” Max told him. “Werner Landermann. He was an officer at Auschwitz to the end.”
“Aspekt-Ziegler’s founder?”
“He was called Matthias Kluge then. I’m also looking for one of his colleagues — Oskar Müller.”
Stern put his glasses on and gestured at a young woman to come over. She smiled at Max as she neared. Clara, the computer specialist. The old man spoke a few words in Dutch, and Clara quickly found the list of Auschwitz officers.
“There he is. Matthias Kluge, an accountant at the time. Low-ranking, however. He was only a corporal.”
A young man typing away on his calculator as smoke rose over the ovens at Auschwitz.
“He probably worked on IBM equipment,” Stern murmured. He turned to Max. “IBM received through its German subsidiary, Dehomag, a contract for the registration and classification of detainees.”
“Even though the Americans were at war against Germany?”
“Not before 1941. And by then the camps had already been in operation for seven, eight years.”
Kluge working away on IBM equipment in the shadows of killers. He’d gotten off scot-free at the end of the war, hidden behind greater evil. Just like IBM, he’d never answered for his complicity in the genocide.
“The same goes for Bayer, the pharmaceutical company,” Stern said. “It used prisoners as guinea pigs.”
The institute professor told Max that Siemens, BMW, Thyssen, Daimler-Benz, Krupp, and IG Farben were all companies that had used prisoners for test subjects or forced labour without any consequences after the war. Most of those firms were still in existence today.
“The Allies didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of 1918,” Stern continued, “when they humiliated Germany with the Versailles Treaty’s conditions. As early as June 1944, when it became clear the Nazi defeat was inevitable, the Allies began working to ensure that Europe would recover as quickly as possible, Germany first in line.”
And so Kluge and other lower-ranking Nazis had been able to walk away from the destruction unscathed. And some, like Kluge-become-Landermann, made a fortune in postwar Europe.
“Why did he open his company in the Netherlands?”
“Europe was in ashes, but in some places the ashes hid fertile soil, while in others there was only salted earth. Warsaw, Dresden, Frankfurt, Rotterdam were all in ruins. But Kraków, Prague, and Amsterdam remained relatively unscathed. Kluge found willing and qualified labour in the Netherlands and discovered infrastructure that was relatively intact.”
“Did he build his company on riches pillaged from the camps’ prisoners?”
Stern shook his head. “It’s possible, but I doubt it.”
By the time they reached the camps, detainees had nothing on them except for the clothes on their backs and, rarely, jewellery they’d managed to hide. Theft occurred earlier in the process, when the poor men and women had been arrested. Once they reached the camps, the kapos were first in line, especially those who unloaded trains, as at the Judenrampe. A man like Kluge, confined to the offices of the Kommandantur, didn’t have access to the prisoners.
Stern led Max to a shelf and asked him to pull out a book — a photo album with a leather spine. It had been seized by a Russian soldier from an SS officer and contained portraits of the garrison, much like every other army in the world would have. Soldiers standing at attention, looking serious. Ot
hers relaxing, playing cards, drinking schnapps. Women, as well, among them Christina Landermann, at the time married to Oskar Müller.
Max looked through the pictures. What had they thought would happen? That they would meet for pretzels and beer two decades later to laugh and joke about the good old days? Such delusion, such cruelty. It revolted Max.
“A number of officers lived outside the camp in homes confiscated from Poles when Birkenau was constructed. That’s probably where these pictures were taken.”
“Is Matthias Kluge in any of these photos?”
“In this album, no. Probably elsewhere.”
“And Oskar Müller?”
“The conductor …”
Max glanced at Stern, confused.
“There were orchestras in Auschwitz, several of them, really. Led by detainees, except for one. Müller’s orchestra.” Stern leafed through the last few pages. A group picture, musicians in black coats. “There he is. Oskar Müller and his orchestra.”
Max scanned the picture.
Stern continued. “They were unlucky, these poor musicians. The day before the camps were liberated, Müller gathered the orchestra in one of the Stammlager’s blocks. He pulled out his service weapon and killed them one after the other. Then he shot himself in the head.”
The old man pointed out the accordion player. A frail young man behind a huge instrument, all patched up. “The only one who survived was Emil Rosca. Have you heard of him?”
The name meant nothing to Max.
“A Romanian Rom, a descendant of the famous Rosca family.”
Another Rom. Once again Max’s search returned to them.
“What happened to him?”
“He was arrested by the Soviets and sent to a gulag in Vorkuta. He was freed by Nicolae Ceauşescu.” Stern sighed. “Later the dictator got him, anyway, and Rosca disappeared in his jails.”
Hitler, Stalin, then Ceauşescu. That man had suffered through an unenviable life.
“Perhaps you’ve heard about his son? Ioan Costinar? A leader of the Romanian Romani community. He, too, was killed. It was a few years ago now.”
Max looked up.
Emil Rosca interned at Auschwitz, father of Laura’s husband. Member of Oskar Müller’s orchestra, Christina Landermann’s first husband …
Back at the Renaissance Hotel, two messages were waiting for Max. The first was from Marilyn Burgess. Max called her back immediately.
“Bad news. Your fixer’s apartment was ransacked.”
“And Boerescu?”
“We’ve got no idea.”
Max sighed. Peter Kalanyos wasn’t the sort to make an empty threat — that much was clear.
The second call was from Italy. Guido Bergamini, the archivist. He’d left his home phone number for Max, who returned his call right away.
“The agreement was signed in Granada,” Bergamini explained. “In Werner Landermann’s house.”
It had been signed in the summer. Landermann had been spending his holidays there. Raymond had gone to that house, just as Kevin would years later to find his own son. Three generations tied to the same home in the shadow of the Alhambra.
“Among the signatories on the Canadian side there’s a Gérard Lefebvre. And on the Dutch side we’ve got Landermann, Frank Woensdag, and Lars Windemuth.”
Woensdag again.
Mr. Wednesday.
The other two were Landermann’s colleagues, Bergamini explained, at least according to the company’s own papers.
And where might Max find Mr. Windemuth?
“He’s retired near Zutphen. There’s something else, as well. The document makes it clear that the agreement will only take effect on November 12, three months after its signing, which is a strange detail that doesn’t really make sense to me.”
It made no sense to Bergamini, but to Max the date was familiar: Kevin Dandurand’s birthday.
37
Kevin was born on November 12, 1970. His birthday had been used as a symbolic date for an agreement that would make his father rich. Had it been a moment of vanity for Raymond? A wink by an enthusiastic new father? Or did the date have deeper significance? Kevin at the heart of a deal between Nordopak and Aspekt-Ziegler. And Sacha, too, through his father. What role did the two of them play?
Max drove to Zutphen along a forest-bordered highway that eventually led to Germany. His mind returned to Kevin’s role in Raymond’s sudden prosperity. As if Kevin had been part of his father’s deal with Aspekt-Ziegler somehow. But in what context? And why?
Roxanne was from Romania.
Kevin told Max one day how Raymond had met his mother while travelling through Europe on one of his many business trips abroad.
Don’t be mad at him, don’t resent him for anything. Ever.
Roxanne’s words to her son when he revealed to her Raymond’s infidelities, Sharon and Josée’s existence.
Roxanne vowed eternal gratitude to Raymond.
Why?
Zutphen, capital of Achterhoek, a roadside sign informed Max as he crossed the Ijssel River. He found a room at the Berkhotel in Kloostertuin before going out for breakfast at Gastenhuys de Klok, following a suggestion by a gas station attendant just outside Amsterdam. Max was to meet Lars Windemuth in front of Sint Walburgiskerk, the old city’s most impressive monument. He’d told Werner Landermann’s former colleague the same story he’d given Guido Bergamini.
It was much colder here than it had been the day before in Amsterdam. As he danced from one foot to the other in front of the church among a sprinkling of tourists, Max regretted not having worn warmer clothes.
“You’re a journalist?” Lars Windemuth asked.
“Sort of.”
White hair that used to be blond, thinning. A healthy old man, though his ruddy nose betrayed his affection for spirits — brandy, he’d later admit. Max gave him his spiel.
“You visited headquarters? Met anyone there?”
Max gave an evasive answer, turning the conversation back to what he was after. “I’m interested in a very specific period — Aspekt-Ziegler’s deal with Nordopak in the early 1970s.”
Windemuth smiled. “It was a wonderful time. I was young, the whole world was ours. Everything seemed possible.”
“So why Nordopak? Why did Aspekt-Ziegler choose such a small company in Montreal?”
“A business decision like any other. Why so curious?”
He looked sideways, hesitant; he was hiding something.
“I’m not as confident as you are,” Max said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not so confident it was a business decision like any other. Other factors were taken into consideration, weren’t they?”
Windemuth looked around them. “Why don’t we go have a drink?”
A noisy bar near the church filled with patrons finding refuge from the cold. The place was warm and comfortable. After ordering a beer for Max and a brandy for himself, Windemuth described the work he used to do for Aspekt-Ziegler: he sought market opportunities, attempted to diversify product lines. At the time the future was in America, not Asia, as it was today.
“We dreamed of opening offices on Madison Avenue! Branches in California. To make Americans believe in our products, our ideas, our methods.”
“The alliance with Nordopak was your idea?”
“Frank Woensdag’s idea. He convinced Landermann to give the contract to the Canadians.”
“Why?”
Windemuth shrugged. “Dandurand’s company seemed exactly the sort of business we’d want to partner with.”
“Come on now! The company was treading water.”
“Exactly. Dandurand was easier to negotiate with.”
“And what about Landermann? He didn’t object? It was an important decision.”
“By then Woensdag was
the one at the helm, really, and the old captain was mostly left with a symbolic role. That would be the best way to describe it. Landermann hung around, signed on the line at the bottom of the page, but held himself far from the spotlight.”
“Because he was a former Nazi?”
“Among other things. And he drank a lot. And spoke loudly. And shared his opinions. Which were …”
“Controversial.”
“That would be one way to put it.”
Woensdag had convinced him to stay in the shadows, Windemuth continued. Especially since at the time the hunt for former Nazis was on. Everyone dreamed of putting their hands on the collar of Josef Mengele, for example. Though no one could find him.
Windemuth furrowed his brow. “One day, in a meeting with Israelis, Landermann began boasting how he’d supervised the doctor’s spending allowance in Auschwitz. Can you imagine?” He sighed. “No, you couldn’t bring Landermann anywhere.”
“And Christina in all of this?”
“His wife? She was discreet, but a hard worker. And she held something over her husband. She never set foot in the factory or at headquarters, but you could tell she cared how the company fared.”
“Did she know anything about Aspekt-Ziegler’s expansion plans?”
“Thanks to Woensdag she did. She’s the one who got him into the company in the first place. In 1963, I think.”
“And so he felt like he owed her something.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Christina put the pieces in motion for the Nordopak deal, didn’t she?”
Windemuth took a long swallow of brandy, giving himself a little courage. Clearly, the question embarrassed him.
Max waited for him to put his glass back down. “Did Landermann know about the child?”
The old man’s eyes widened.
Max had hit the nail on the head.
“What child? What are you talking about?” Windemuth acted surprised, obviously trying to hide the truth.