The Damascus Cover

by Howard Kaplan

  “Heinneman has not been feeling well,” Ludin said. “But he promised to try and join us for a little while later in the evening.”

  The muscles inside Ari’s stomach tightened. He was not out of danger yet.

  “Splendid,” Eichmann’s thin, balding aide, Heinrich Wolff, said. “Now let’s get our guest a drink and have him tell us about the new, democratic, wet-nursing German republic.” They all laughed. Wolff took Ari by the arm and led him to a low, mother-of-pearl table serving as an outdoor bar. “The Israelis and West Germans look for me everywhere,” he said. “They accuse me, quite wrongly, of having killed Jews during the war. Fortunately, I’m comparatively undisturbed in Damascus and allowed to earn a respectable living here.”

  Ari took the Scoresby Scotch the well-known fugitive offered him. A member of Eichmann’s staff in Bureau IVB 4a, Heinrich Wolff had been responsible for the deportation of Jews from Greece, France, Slovakia, and Austria to extermination camps in Poland.

  “Why did you say comparatively undisturbed?”

  Wolff glanced at Streicher and sipped his drink. “Earlier this year we caught an Israeli spy masquerading as a Syrian banker with connections to the Krupp arms fortune in Germany. He turned out to be an Iraqi Jew. Spoke Arabic with a perfect Syrian accent, I’m told. Ludwig knew him.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Second Bureau spotted an irregularity in his cover story, did some checking, and discovered he was a fraud,” Wolff said.

  “And they arrested him?”

  “Yes. Lucky thing too. He would have escaped, but evidently his people didn’t show at the rendezvous point. They left him stranded.”

  “It was very strange,” Brunner added. “Some heads must have rolled in Tel Aviv over that one. We’re certain he sent a distress signal to Cyprus with the transmitter we found destroyed in his apartment. The Israeli’s liaison officer must have been away from his post.”

  Ari staggered back, fighting to keep his composure. Dov must have signaled for help the weekend he was in Kyrenia with Michelle. He was responsible for the ordeal the boy was undergoing. Nobody had told him!

  “You’ve suddenly turned white,” Brunner said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Ari answered quickly, understanding now why the Colonel had brought him home. He forced a cough and set his Scotch down. “A piece of ice got caught in my throat. It’s passed. I’m fine now.” He picked up his glass, took a long drink, then looked at Brunner. “Is this Israeli spy still alive?”

  “We don’t know. The Second Bureau chief, Suleiman Sarraj, has kept the details surrounding his interrogation very quiet.”

  “Has he made him talk?”

  “We have no idea. As I said, Sarraj has been tight-lipped about the whole thing.”

  Ari frowned and turned toward the tall, powerfully built Streicher. “This could have been dangerous for all of us. Heinrich said you spoke to him. Were you able to find out what the Israeli was doing here?”

  “No.”

  “But he must have said something that gave you a clue to the purpose of his mission.”

  “I’d rather not discuss the incident,” Streicher said.

  Ludin stepped between his two guests. “Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen, but dinner is about ready.” He took Ari by the arm. “And let us discuss more pleasant matters inside. Come, I want to show you the case of Weingut Erath Liebfraumilch that just arrived from Maikammer. Select a bottle for us to drink with our food.”

  ◆◆◆

  As they settled into the den after the meal Ari glanced at his watch. He felt that after half an hour or so he could claim he wasn’t feeling well, make his apologies, then scurry back to the hotel without focusing suspicion on himself or insulting his host. He should leave as soon as possible, lest Heinneman show up and betray him as an imposter. Fate and Heinneman’s health had given him a temporary reprieve, but now it was up to Ari to avail himself of it. He’d press Ludin for details about Dov’s capture and interrogation at a later date.

  Just then the doorbell rang. The sound flushed fear into his bloodstream. A few moments later Ludin’s Arab servant led an elderly man into the room. Ari felt something tighten in his throat as if a noose had been placed around his neck.

  It was Heinneman.

  Ari would have recognized him anywhere, at any time. Though he was bent now and he used a cane to steady himself, the man was the same. The eyes hadn’t changed, the monocle was still there, and so was the vein that stretched across his forehead.

  “Rudolf, come sit down and let me reacquaint you with an old komerad. Herr Heinneman, SS Untersturmführer Hans Hoffmann of Dachau Camp.”

  Ari leapt to his feet and saluted Heinneman, shouting, “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

  “You were at Dachau?” Heinneman asked, lowering himself slowly to the couch.

  “Yes,” Ari said.

  “Hoffmann, Hoffmann. I don’t seem to remember the name.”

  “We only met once or twice.”

  As Ari sat on the couch, Heinneman squinted, and peered at him through his monocle. “Your face looks vaguely familiar—but an Untersturmführer Hoffmann. I remember no such officer.”

  “That’s strange,” Wehrmacht Colonel Streicher said. “How long were you at Dachau, Herr Hoffman?”

  Ari fought an inner battle, struggling against the tendency to simply allow himself to be taken, to end it all: the masquerade, the game, the isolation.

  “Two years,” he said.

  “It seems very odd that Rudolf does not remember you.”

  Ari turned to Heinneman. He could not understand why he and the other inmates had never pounced on this animal and beaten the life out of him with a rock, a board, or a shovel. There had been more than ample opportunity. Suddenly Ari wanted to do it now, before Streicher closed in on him. He looked at Heinneman’s neck; he was certain he could step it and be out the front door before Streicher, Ludin, and the other two recovered from the shock. There would be no possibility of escape, but at least…

  “I was under Hauptsturmführer Frederick Gerhard’s command,” Ari said, facing Heinneman. “My detachment was responsible for the organization of the camp labor commando. Since I was of insignificant rank possibly you did not notice me, but I definitely remember you. You were a model of excellence that we younger men attempted to imitate. There was no officer so well liked, so respected at Dachau. Your ruthless handling of the prisoners in punishment block number 11 was spoken of throughout the camp. When you passed the pathetic creatures shivered in fear. I remember one particular incident when a Jew was lying in the dirt and wouldn’t get up as you ordered; you pointed a pistol at his head and made him polish your boots by licking them and then wiping the spittle off with his beard. When he finished you emptied your gun into his temple, splattering his head over the ground. Then you made two young Jews carry the body to the crematorium.”

  Heinneman smiled at the recollection. “Of course, I remember the day clearly. It was in the winter of 1944; Bitta, my German shepherd, had come down with a cold and I was concerned about her. The Jew had interrupted my thoughts. Funny you should remind me of that morning—I haven’t thought about Bitta in years.” Heinneman drifted back to the memory of his dog, then slowly forced his way into the present. “What made you recall that incident?”

  “I was standing behind the barracks, laughing. The Jew rubbing your boot with his chin just struck me as being very funny. I’ve always remembered it.”

  Ari remembered that particular killing not because he’d stood to the side laughing, but because he had been one of the two boys ordered to carry the corpse to the ovens. While holding the frail body by the shoulders, the Jew’s brains had dripped over his hands and onto his clothes.

  “In which part of the camp did you live?” Heinneman asked.

  “I was in barracks three near the little bridge and flower garden.”

  “A lovely spot. I used to like to walk there after a long, tirin
g day.”

  Streicher lit a cigarette, and blew the match out as he exhaled. He held the cigarette from underneath with the tips of his thumb and index finger, the way Germans do.

  “Rudolf, do you remember Hans Hoffmann now?” Streicher asked.

  Heinneman tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. Though technically Colonel Streicher held a higher rank than the ailing Hauptsturmführer, the SS officer privately held all Wehrmacht officers in contempt, blaming them for the demise of the Third Reich. “I’m an old man,” he said, letting his monocle fall from his eye. “And not so foolish as to believe that my memory does not fail me. Just because I cannot remember one of the komeraden after more than a quarter of a century, there is no reason to suspect anything beyond the simple fact that I am becoming senile.” He took his cane and lightly struck Streicher on the knee. “I suspect you too do not have the memory you had when the Führer was with us.”

  Ludin laughed, trying to chip away at the tension that blanketed the room. Ari and the other Nazis joined him. Whether Streicher was satisfied enough not to press his inquiries further, Ari didn’t know. But the rest of the evening passed in trivial conversations. If Streicher was still suspicious of him, he kept it to himself.

  Back in his room in the hotel, Ari locked and bolted the door, then collapsed on the bed, shaking.

  15.

  SEPTEMBER 18

  In the morning, several hours before his second scheduled attempt to contact Lieutenant Barkai, Ari plodded through the marketplace on the Street Called Straight, stepping around puddles of mud covered over, unsuccessfully, by newspaper. The vegetable bazaar was cluttered with stalls piled high with tomatoes, peppers, onions, cabbages, and eggplants. Women from al-Ghutah orchards, dressed in black and ultramarine cotton, their hair and necks veiled, their eyes outlined with kohl in emulation of the gazelle, crowded between the stands offering to trade fruit for the vegetables. They were easily distinguished from the women of the desert region near Hijaneh who wore bright yellows and pinks, their foreheads circled by a series of gold discs. Passing a man sitting on a straw stool eating stuffed vine leaves sunk in goat’s milk, Ari increased his gait, trying to escape the stench of rotting food trapped in the market by the corrugated iron roof overhead. Soon he reached the Roman arch on Bab Sharki Street just outside the Haret al Yahoud.

  He skirted around the soldiers lounging on the corner of el-Amine and Tel el-Hadjara streets, casting a casual glance in their direction. If a person acts at ease in a given place, those observing him will probably assume he belongs there. Anyway it seemed everyone was allowed free passage in and out of the haret. Ari wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirt sleeve. Though it was the middle of September the eastern winds continued to blow in from the desert, daily depositing a thin layer of sand over the city, relentlessly pushing the afternoon temperature up over 100 degrees. The mornings and nights weren’t much cooler.

  Ari moved toward Rachael’s apartment—if anyone became suspicious he could always explain his presence there with lascivious innuendoes. An uneasiness had plagued him ever since Saliha’s unexpected appearance in his room. Rachael’s being arrested immediately after spending the night in his hotel was too much of a coincidence; and if there was one thing his years in the Service had taught him, it was that most coincidences were humanly engineered. If so, Ari wanted to know by whom, and why.

  The sound of a boy screaming invaded his thoughts, breaking them off fractured, incomplete. The cry for help came from an alley just ahead of him, growing in intensity as it cut through the still Jewish ghetto. At the sound of the screaming, wooden shutters on both sides of the street slammed shut. Trembling, the Jews attempted to ignore the pained plea forcing itself into their homes from the street below. But yanking the shutters closed offered no escape. The screaming flowed through the cracks in the broken wood, streaming into the hearts of whole families who sat numb, silent—wondering who would be next. Weeks, months, years ago, there had been a few who tried to fight back. They were now dead, along with their families, friends, and sometimes even their neighbors.

  Ari hurried toward the source of the screaming, trying not to run, not to appear too concerned. Turning into the alley, he stopped abruptly. The stench of burned flesh struck his nostrils. His mouth went dry and his eyes misted. Instinctively he turned away, the shrieking ricocheting inside his head. A young boy maybe sixteen or seventeen approached him, speaking in Arabic. Ari spun around and stared back to where a group of youths held a lean, scrawny-looking boy to the ground. A trash fire burned in the middle of the alley. One of the boys held a pointed stick over the glowing embers, the tip a fiery red. Blood and singed membrane dripped down the pinned child’s face. His right eye had been gouged out. Now the youthful band, mercifully deciding to spare the other eye, was busy burning a Star of David into the screaming victim’s chest. But the lines were jagged—the little Jew had squirmed, refusing to be held still. His brown skin was charred black and bloody, his chest burned repeatedly in an attempt to straighten out the lines of the six-pointed figure.

  Though Ari didn’t respond, the boy who approached him kept talking. The flow of Arabic fell unintelligibly on his ears, that is except for the repeated use of the word Yahoud.

  “I don’t speak Arabic,” Ari said gaining control of the anger churning inside him. He easily could have slammed into the crowd of boys, picked up the little Jew, and taken him to a nearby apartment building. But he dared not move or show any interest at all.

  “He’s a Jew,” the young Arab said, switching to French. “We caught him stealing food from the apartment of a Palestinian. Not only do they seize our land, but they enter our homes and take the bread off our tables.” The boy spat on the ground.

  Ari hoped they would not adhere to the Koranic injunction, followed literally in Saudi Arabia and Libya, that demanded a thief’s hand be chopped off as punishment for stealing. Suddenly the child’s screaming stopped. He had passed out. The boys let go of him and dropped their sticks; evidently it was no fun poking at an unconscious body.

  Ari looked at the young Arab and spoke softly. “He’s been taught a lesson. The Jew will not be so foolish as to attempt to take your food again.”

  The boy smiled, baring white teeth. Ari turned and walked back to the street, the smell of burned flesh lingering in his nostrils.

  The haret was deserted and quiet. While Jews in other parts of the world gathered to protest their persecution, here there was only waiting, a treading on time; not life, but merely the absence of death. Ari walked up the dark stairs inside a building at 21 El Boustana Street. He held onto the rail because the wood underneath his feet swayed with his every step. As he slowly inched his way toward the third floor, the stairwell grew darker. There were no windows, no light. “Ouch,” he said suddenly. A splinter from the rough railing had jabbed his fingers. He pulled it out and sucked at the tiny wound. In the dark he couldn’t see if he had gotten the sliver all out or not.

  The third-floor corridor carpet was faded and worn. The hallway itself was dark, musky, and heavy with the odor of stale air. It brought a chill to his bones, despite the heat. Ari knocked lightly on number seventeen and waited. There was no answer. He banged harder. Nobody came to the door, but he thought he made out a faint noise inside the apartment. He turned the handle and pushed. It wouldn’t budge—the door was locked. Ari hammered at the wood until his knuckles hurt. Finally he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps.

  A matronly woman opened the door. She was short and wrinkled, with mousy brown hair pinned back in a braided bun.

  “Madame Khatib?”

  She nodded feebly, too tired to use words.

  “I just want to ask about Rachael.”

  She slammed the door shut; but Ari caught his foot at the base, wedged it there, and forced his way inside.

  Hate lodged in her small eyes. “Haven’t you done enough? You’ve taken my husband away and destroyed my daughter. Can’t you leave her alone. What can you possib
ly want with her now?” She shot a glance toward the closed door in the far corner of the room. Ari followed her gaze and moved across the apartment.

  “No!” she shouted, clutching at his sleeve. “Don’t take her away again. Don’t do this to me.” A stream of tears ran down her cheeks.

  Ari stopped. “I’m a friend of Rachael’s,” he said, trying to reassure Madame Khatib. “I’m not going to hurt her or take her away. I haven’t touched her. I wouldn’t touch her. You must believe me.”

  She stood there: frail, vulnerable, confused. The tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

  Ari opened the door to the tiny bedroom. Rachael sat looking out the window, her back facing him. She didn’t move when he entered.

  “Rachael,” he whispered softly.

  No response.

  Ari stood in place. “Rachael,” he called louder. His voice echoed hollowly off the walls.

  Her mother pushed past him, grabbed the chair and turned it around. Rachael stared through them, offering no sign of recognition.

  Ari bent near her. “Rachael, can you hear me?”

  She didn’t blink.

  He rose, a look of horror impressed on his face. The fury cutting through him was matched only by his anguish.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Ever since they brought her back.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “They can’t find anything physically wrong with her. It’s her mind. She’s been …” Her voice broke; she couldn’t go on.

  “What did you do to her?” he shouted, venting his misplaced anger on Madame Khatib.

  “I don’t know. A neighbor found her wandering in the street. He brought her up. She hasn’t spoken a word since.”

  Rachael continued to stare at them, a glazed look of catatonia in her eyes. Ari took the girl’s head and held it against his chest. It was like touching a mannequin; she didn’t respond, she just allowed herself to be moved. He stroked her dark hair, and looked out the window, wanting to cry and not wanting to cry at the same time. Her visit to his hotel room had not caused this, it couldn’t have. Bending down, he looked into her vacant eyes, then brought his lips to her cheek. It was dangerous for him to be here, to have anything to do with her when it was obvious he could no longer claim his intentions toward this girl were purely carnal.