The Fugitive

  The trembling began to slowly subside, more in response to time than to the words of the frantic man working over him, although the sense of those words registered faintly. The fight to hold onto the vague shadows of the finite room about him, and not to sink into the dark horror of unconsciousness slowly sharpened his will to recover. Treat it as only a more severe presentation of the dream, he thought; and even as a hidden corner of his brain clamped onto the thought, his recovery began. At the moment, at least, this man over him was trying to help. Had it been the others, the enemy, they would have merely waited for sufficient recovery to continue the torture. And besides, he knows. What nobody knows or could know, he knows!

  Also, they wouldn’t be here in the American Embassy, nor would they have waited so long, nor kept so quiet, nor allowed him to reach this point. This man is telling the truth, his brain whispered, and I am a fool. He is here to help me, he is the one. I am truly a fool!

  He tried to roll to an erect position and felt hands aiding him. His fingers, fumbling for his pocket, brought immediate response from Da Silva. He felt the pillbox being removed, the pill being slipped into his mouth. Wilson held a glass of water to his trembling lips, but he waved it away, sucking fiercely on the pill beneath his tongue. The fixed solidity of the objects about him served as an anchor of reality in the nightmare; the placid hum of the air conditioner seemed to demonstrate the civilized nature of his surroundings. The dizziness and pain slowly passed.

  “My God!” Da Silva said wonderingly, almost to himself. “He really does have a bad heart!”

  “I’m sorry,” the small man said haltingly, catching his breath, aware that the shock he had suffered was much more severe than any in the past, secretly surprised at his own rapid recovery. “I’m truly sorry, but I thought…” He looked at them blankly, shrugged, began again. “It was the shock. You see, even in New York, our own people… They knew about the camp, of course, but nobody knew the number….”

  Da Silva straightened, heaving a massive sigh of relief. His lean, athletic figure stretched, easing the tension of his body; his dark expressive eyes were honest and serious.

  “I am on your side, you know,” he said quietly, his voice attempting to convince and soothe at the same time. “You would do me a very great favor by accepting my word for it, because I cannot stand many scenes like this if we are going to work together. I have always prided myself on my complete lack of fear, my mustache, and my family name, but you frightened me as I have never been frightened before!” A twinkle came into the steady eyes. “Please do not do it again, or I may begin losing faith in the other two!”

  The man on the couch attempted a weak smile. “I haven’t been too well lately,” he said haltingly, confidingly, “and the trip was very tiring. But I insisted on going through with it. The others weren’t too sure, but I insisted. After all, three years is a long time, and we had done a lot of work…. And it was too late to try to develop a new man, a…” He paused, searching for a name. “A Fritz Mueller, let us say, or a Karl Schmidt…” His voice trailed off.

  Da Silva nodded sympathetically, apparently understanding this ambiguous statement. Wilson had retired to the desk and was watching the scene with half-closed eyes, his face as impassive as ever. The old man sighed. “I still don’t understand about the number….”

  “Yes.” Da Silva lit a cigarette, and he paused after tossing the dead match into an ash tray. “The number. Yes. Well, when I decided to work with you, I made it my business to find out everything about you. As well as about many of your friends. And, naturally, as much about our enemies as possible, although I have a fair file on them as it is. The number… well, I have the contacts, I have the patience, and if you will, I also have the curiosity.”

  “You found out everything about me?” The old man’s voice was curious, and also tinged with wistfulness.

  “Just about everything, I think.” He seated himself beside the older man, his hand reaching out and almost touching the other’s knee, as if in sympathy. “You, my friend, are Ari Schoenberg, age sixty-one, number 2657782, released from the Buchenwald concentration camp in April of 1945 by the American Army.” He inhaled deeply and watched the curls of smoke swirl sinuously toward the air conditioner.

  “You spent three months in an American Army hospital outside of Paris. You spent another four months in a camp outside of Paris while you attempted to locate your family, or the remnants, through the Refugee Committee. My information regarding this particular period is a trifle vague, but apparently you found enough of them to manage entrance into the United States about the end of 1945.”

  The old man stirred. “Not relatives,” he said, as if to himself. “Friends. Or maybe a better word is ‘contacts.”’

  “Friends, then. Or contacts. Let me see, what else?” The dark head leaned back, reading the dossier printed in his memory. “Yes. In the United States, you disappeared for some years.” There was a slight tone of frustration in his voice as if vaguely ashamed of this hole in the dossier. “We do know that an Ari Schoenberg took out his final citizenship papers in the city of Denver, in the State of Colorado, in 1953….” He looked at the old man questioningly.

  “Yes,” said the other.

  There was a sigh, almost of pleasure, at this confirmation. “Then, about three years ago, Ari Schoenberg disappeared. In his place, or rather not in his place, appeared a certain Hans Busch. In the name of Hans Busch you have authored anti-Semitic pamphlets and statements. In the name of Hans Busch you have been accused by the newspapers of being active in the reorganization of Nazi activities in the United States, and financing, if not actually participating in, the burning of synagogues and the wave of swastika paintings that we are all familiar with..” He eyed the other man sideways, a faint smile creasing his face. “But the interesting thing is that nobody has ever seen this famous Hans Busch. He is only known by name….” He seemed to be awaiting a comment, but the old man sat listening, his hands locked between his legs. “We also know that in the name of Hans Busch you became the owner of the two trading companies which you are now accused of robbing.” The thin, tanned head suddenly came down. “By the way, off the record—and just to satisfy this devilish curiosity of mine—how did you ever manage to be accused of embezzling from yourself?”

  The old man smiled, an almost elfin grimace that transformed the pale face. “I took in a partner, a wonderful bookkeeper. Our group have their talents, you know, even if keeping secrets does not seem to be one of them. Any more on that list in your head?”

  Da Silva laughed. With the laugh, everyone seemed to relax, recognizing that the crisis was over. “Not too much. Your group has been after Interpol to pay more attention to the rounding up of suspected Nazis here in Brazil, because you felt the main attempt at a rebirth was not in Germany, or in the United States, but here in this country.” He paused, frowning, snuffing out his cigarette. “I agree with you on that, by the way. I have certain information that makes me certain of it; as a matter of fact, that is how I became involved in this. At any rate, Interpol turned you down. Sympathetically, sadly, remorsefully; but definitely. Not their problem, no proof, other organizations more proper for the apprehension of—and so forth, and so forth. Am I right?”

  “You are quite right.” Ari was thinking now; the shock had passed and his brain was free to study this development. The pain in his chest had dulled and his mind was clear. He studied the man before him carefully. “You are frighteningly right. If you could gather all of the facts that I have worked so hard to hide these past three years, what is to prevent the others from gathering them just as easily?”

  Da Silva shook his head slowly. “To begin with, it was not easy,” he said. “It wars not easy at all. But that is not the point. Why should they doubt you? What motive would they have? I am with Interpol, and I am familiar with all of the correspondence. When it was officially decided to refuse help to your group, I asked for leave of absence to work with you as an individual, because
I am sure you and your group are right. Of course I investigated. But why should they?”

  “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “No, no! Why should they? My dear Ari, the Nazi group here are more than anxious to believe that a certain Mr. Hans Busch, known for his sympathy to their great cause, is loose in Brazil with two million dollars. Two million dollars, I might point out, which he cannot take home again without embarrassing questions being raised. They will feel sure that they can prevail upon him to share the wealth, either through the force of their common convictions, or through any other means they feel necessary to use. Why should they doubt Mr. Busch? They know who he is; among other things, he is the answer to their constant prayers. Who questions the existence of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? In July, possibly, but on Christmas Eve?”

  He paused and looked at Ari. “No,” be went on slowly, “they will not check on Mr. Busch as a person; his cover is safe. However, they will most certainly check in great detail on his two million dollars, you may be sure of that! Although I hope that our meeting this morning helped to convince them on that score.”

  “Our meeting this morning?” Ari sat up slowly, many things clarifying. “Then that was why, at the airport, this morning…?” “That was why indeed.” Da Silva smiled delightedly, his eyes twinkling, his thumb unconsciously stroking his mustache. “I hope you fully appreciate the artistry you witnessed this morning. Yes, the stage lost a great actor when I turned to police work!” His smile faded as he recalled their previous encounter. “Did you pay any particular attention to the customs official who brought you in and searched you? You should have. He doesn’t know it, but he is an old friend of mine, that miseravel! His name is Gunther, born in Santa Catarina in the South. His father was a schoolteacher there, very pro-Hitler, and I have quite a file on the entire family! Personally, I doubt if the son knows what a Nazi is, but there is no doubt that he is one of their little boys!”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Yes, that impromptu scene was played all for his benefit. My God! The way he searched you! You could have been carrying a twenty-eight-inch television set under your coat and he would have managed to overlook it! By now you may be sure that the story of Mr. Busch and his two million dollars is going through channels!”

  “But we spoke in English,” Ari objected. “Does he speak—?”

  Da Silva snorted. Don’t worry about that one! He knew what we were speaking about! Ten seconds after he had you in a taxi, I would bet anything he was on the telephone. Mr. Busch and his millions will bring sweet dreams to many foolish people tonight!”

  Silence fell while Ari considered this information. His glance traveled from the musing expression on Da Silva’s face to the quiet watchfulness of the nondescript man. He cleared his throat diffidently. “And Mr. Wilson?”

  Da Silva shrugged elaborately. “Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson is assigned by Interpol to the American Embassy here, where, among his other activities—or nonactivities—he serves as security officer as well. Mr. Wilson is a very good friend of mine for many years. We have gotten into our share of trouble together in the past, and probably will again in the future, but I’m afraid not on this case. On this case, his interest simply seems to be seeing that you do not embarrass the American government. He will be of absolutely no help, but on the other hand, knowing him, I should say that he also will not hinder too much.”

  The nondescript man smiled at this. “Now, one moment, Zé…”

  “I know.” Da Silva raised one hand languidly. “I know. I understand your position perfectly, as well as the position of your government. You put Nazis in the same category as griffins and unicorns. Once a terrible threat, but fortunately no longer existent.”

  Wilson’s smile faded. He studied them both for several seconds, framing his reply. “Mr. Schoenberg holds an American passport issued in a name other than his own.” He lifted his hand, forestalling Da Silva’s protest. “I know that by itself this is neither too serious nor too unusual. But we have to remember, Zé, that Mr. Schoenberg is not in Brazil for pleasure. Our government certainly does not intend to have a duplication of the Eichmann mess if it can help it. Or if we can prevent it.” He thought a moment, looking at Da Silva calmly. “By not hindering you, as you put it, I am actually helping you considerably, and doing it more as a favor to you, Zé, than for any other reason. After all, we are also a part of Interpol, and there is a proper organization for handling war criminals.”

  And for peace criminals? An thought wearily. For the war criminals of the future? Nobody wants to see a duplication of the Eichmann mess, but which Eichmann mess? Argentina? Or Poland: Auschwitz, Maidanek, Treblinka? They say: Remember that the war is long over, let the dead bury the dead, let bygones be bygones. They say: Forget Buchenwald and Dachau and Gneisenau; remember that the Düsseldorf bourse is all new veined marble trimmed in bright chrome, and the Königsallee all crystal and silver between the gay awnings and the colorful canal; and where will you find funnier comedy acts in all Europe? They say: Forget Belsen and Natzweiler; remember the autobahns rushing with sturdy Volkswagens and majestic Mercedeses, happy tours earned by earnest hard-working people, guided by pleasant police in bright new uniforms. They say: Forget Ravensbruch….

  If we all sweep our memories under the rug of history, will they really disappear? We hid for two thousand years, he thought, but they always found us. Now they want us to hide again. It’s a stupid game.

  “I appreciate what Mr. Wilson is doing,” he said wearily, forcing his thoughts back to the comfortable room. “I assure you both that I am not here to kidnap anyone. I have no desire or intention of embarrassing either the American or the Brazilian government. I am here quite alone, as Captain Da Silva must know. I am here only to try and get some proof that the Nazis are building a new organization, and that the center of that organization is here in Brazi!.”

  He looked at them both coldly, the strength of his purpose flowing into his body and his voice. “This new wave of anti-Semitism is no accident. It is organized and directed. From here, we believe. I am here to try to get names, figures, facts. I am here to try and get enough ammunition to interest some government, or some agency. Some group other than our own.”

  He clasped his hands tightly. “In the three years that Mr. Hans Busch has existed, there have been letters; many of them, but mostly from cranks. I heard vaguely of Brazil, always Brazil, but nobody from Brazil ever contacted me directly. So we dreamed up this scheme. We reasoned that a sum of two million dollars in the hands of a Nazi sympathizer in Brazil illegally would be tempting enough to eventually lead to the top people here.” He stared at the two silent men who were watching him. “You may think: that I am imagining all this; that any wave of anti-Semitism that exists is nothing compared to what existed a short time ago. But this is not true; it is here, waiting for an impetus to break loose.” He shrugged. “The impetus may be money. If it is, that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Da Silva questioningly. “I believe that Captain Da Silva must have known this.”

  The tall man rose and wandered to the windows overlooking the Avenida Wilson. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and stared in silence at the buglike cars passing below, and the blue bay beyond. “Yes,” he said finally, turning back to the darkening room. “I knew it. It is not a bad idea. It may work.” He leaned on the back of a chair, frowning. “I have always been puzzled that they never contacted you seriously in the States. After all, you had a reputation from your pamphlets. But I imagine they had no idea that your trading companies were so lucrative.” He shook his head. “I even thought at one time that possibly they knew who you really were.”

  Ari raised his eyebrows. “When you called me by that number,” he said, “I thought you were one of them, and that you were playing with me.”

  “My confounded sense of the dramatic,” Da Silva said, flashing a swift smile that immediately faded. “You’ll have to forgive me for that. No; I’m convinced they don’t know who you are. They are an odd organization, th
at’s all. In fact, at times it seems they aren’t organized at all, but just splash signs on walls, or set their bombs, out of blind hatred. I shouldn’t imagine they are overwealthy, so if anything has a chance of bringing them out in the open, you and your illegal millions ought to do it.” He sighed. “Plus, of course, the fact that they will have to get me out of the picture. Between one thing and another, we may be able to piece something together that makes sense.”

  “Get you out of me picture?” Wilson asked.

  “Certainly. After all, I promised—or threatened, if you will—to keep Mr. Hans Busch under very close surveillance. You can scarcely expect them to lead him by the hand up to the head man if they think I may be about three feet behind with a minicamera.” He smiled. “No; besides courting our friend Ari here, they are going to have to face the problem of what to do about Da Silva, nosy scourge of evildoers. The combination of problems may well confuse the little men, and we shall try to be there to pick up the pieces.” He paused and took out a cigarette, but instead of lighting it he studied it absently, his mind elsewhere.

  “Just one thing puzzles me.” He turned to the small figure hunched on the couch. “Tell me something,” he said gently, his eyes warm with compassion. “How did a person like you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger deal like this?”

  Ari stared at his clasped hands, as if the answer lay imprisoned between the veined trembling fingers. “How?” He looked up at the gaunt form above him. “I am a Jew,” he said simply. “I am also German; I have the language. I am also completely alone and unknown. I am old now, and fat, and comical, maybe; but in 1931 was already on my way to becoming one of the leading criminal lawyers of Germany, only thirty-one years old. I had a great career, they said.” He tried to find the memory amusing, but his eyes were flat as he looked at the other two. “I was not always old, you know. Or comical-looking. Or fat. Especially I was not always fat….” The dull eyes turned inward, dark and unfathomable.