auseinander

M. S. Scicchitano
 To my friend, Vito, for the idea.
To my sister, Patricia, for her patience.

~2~
Prologue
Dachau, Germany 15 October 1944
Reveal not every secret you have to a friend,
for how can you tell but that friend may hereafter become
an enemy. And bring not all mischief you are able to upon
an enemy, for he may one day become your friend.
Saadi (1184 - 1291)

After he had spent the better part of the afternoon out-

of-doors, the guards escorted a reluctant Sergeant Meyer
back to the Bunker. He groaned as they gave him a shove;
the cell door closed with a heavy thud. Though the door
was not locked, the guards posted outside prevented him
from “wandering.” God, I hate this dump, he thought and
lit one of the cigarettes left on his floor two days earlier.
The concrete cell was windowless except for a tiny
“porthole” near its‟ top. There was a light bulb hanging
from the ceiling that did not function; in the evening, there
was not much light outside either in fear of the Allied air
raids which happened nightly. After his eyes adjusted, Ari
walked over to his dirty heap of blanket that was
substituting for a bed. He noticed a bundle on top of the
pallet on the floor. He looked back towards the cell door
suspiciously and opened the package. Inside, he found a
suit of clothes, a hat, wool socks, gloves, a wristwatch, a
coat, wire cutters, an envelope, and a note:

~3~
 Ari,
In this parcel you will find everything you will need for
your ―sortie.‖ I have returned to you the Identity Card and
passport for ―Louis B. Meckel‖ which I had confiscated at
Berchtesgaden; I have also given you a Letter of Transit…
as I told you, some men owe me very big favors. I realized
you would need money so I have enclosed 5000
Reichsmark in with the transit letter. This should be more
than enough. And better safe than sorry; one never knows
if one might need to bribe the Gestapo or some other idiot
official. I will be taking the liberty of disconnecting the
power to the electric fence at 2100; they will figure it out
eventually, so move quickly! I have arranged for some of the
least experienced guards to be in the towers tonight. And
do pay special attention to the mote, you cannot go over it;
it‘s much too wide. Just try not to splash too terribly loud.
Remember, if they catch you, I will not be able to help you,
as I will undoubtedly be in the same sinking boat. Please
be very careful.
Massel und Tschüss,
Hans

He stared at the message, dumbfounded. Wull go

figure… ol‘ Hans was for reals after all, Ari realized
scratching his head. He reached into the envelope and
pulled out 5000RM, a Letter of Transit for “Meckel, Louis
Bernhard,” his fake identity card, and passport. Looking

~4~
over his shoulder, he eyed the door once again. Swiftly, Ari
stuffed the documents and the Reichsmark back into the
envelope and hid it in the inside pocket of the suit jacket.
He was given his ration of bread and soup just after
dark. Ari had a few more hours to wait and he tried to
calm himself by pacing his tiny cell. At 2030, Ari put on
the watch and changed into the clothes Hans had left for
him. The two guards left the inner foyer of the Bunker to
prepare for a change in shift at 2100. Their relief arrived
at 15 minutes early, as was compulsory. Ari took
advantage of the fact that the four men were engrossed in
their debriefing and headcount; he slid out of his cell and
the Bunker area noiselessly.
Ari was thankful that there was little moon light, this
made his movement easier. There were searchlights in the
towers but the guards had been ordered to turn them off
out of the fear of the air raids. He stayed as low and close
to the fence as he could, quickly skirting the camp. At
2102, he took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He
tossed a small stick at the fence. Nothing. Reaching with a
trembling hand to touch the fence, he exhaled quietly
wiping the nervous sweat from his brow. Ari cut a few of
the wires that were nearest to the ground and low-crawled
out on his belly, undetected.
The two young guards in the nearest tower were
engaged in deep and detailed conversation about some
Jungmädchen from town that the one had (according to
him) skillfully had his way with the previous weekend.

~5~
They were so absorbed in their conversation and laughed
so loudly that did not even notice when Ari sank into the
foul waste-filled ditch right under their noses.
Ari did his level best to ignore the odd smells and
floating bits that inundated him. Hans had neglected to
mention that the sides of the mote were incredibly steep
making it difficult to get out. He had to swim stealthily
around a good part of the camp before he found a portion
of the trench that was mountable. Upon exiting the mote
and, without a sound dry heaving, again Ari was forced to
low-crawl. The 300 meters he slithered on knees, elbows,
and stomach took him nearly an hour; he had to be as
quiet as possible or else dead. As he reached the end of
his slog through the mud and melting snow, the sirens
went off, the searchlights came on. Herrgott nochmal! he
thought, in a panic. He ran for it. Ari made his way
through the dense forest that surrounded the camp. Then
he heard the dogs.
In his terror, Ari did not know how far he had moved
or in which direction. He hoped that as he ran he had not
veered too far off of his intended trajectory. Those stupid
fuckers don‘t give up; he thought and kept up his pace. He
felt as though his chest would explode. Suddenly, his feet
went out from under him and he was falling. He tumbled
headlong for nearly 50 meters landing in a ravine. He
rapidly inspected himself for injury and continued his
sprint. He had fallen next to a stream and wondered if the

~6~
story was true that dogs could not catch your scent in
water.
Ari ploughed into the stream. He could still hear
guards shouting and the dogs. Though they were on the
ridge above him, he knew they were getting closer. The
stream grew wider and began to turn into a full-fledged
river. He dove into the icy water, losing his hat, and tried
to swim with the current. Looking to the right, he noticed
movement on the bank. Dogs! The guards opened fire and
the last thing Ari remembered was feeling warm.

~7~
Chapter 1
New York City, 12 April 2005
The lights of stars that were extinguished ages ago
still reach us. So it is with great men who died
centuries ago but still reach us with the radiations
of their personalities.
Kahlil Gibran (1883 – 1931)

Ari woke with a start, kicking wildly.

The neighbor‟s Great Dane barked madly at passing
fire engines.
―Oy vey,‖ he said aloud. He sat up and dropped his
feet over the side of his bed, wiping his damp brow with
the handkerchief at his bedside. He felt his wife stir next
to him.
“Ari, you alright? Was it that dream again?” Rebecca
Meyer sat up, petting her perspiring husband on the back.
“Yeah, same ol‟-same ol‟. Sumpthin‟ tells me I‟ll quit
dreamin‟ about that when I‟m pushin‟ up daisies,” he
exhaled.
“I just don‟t get why ya‟ always dream it like they was
goin‟ to shoot you… you escaped, nuthin‟ like that even
happened. Did it?” she asked.
“Nah, nuthin‟ like that happened and who knows why,
it‟s just a beschissen dream. Well, I guess I‟d better get a
move on or I‟ll be late.”

~8~
 “Oh that‟s right, you‟re meeting with that nice young
man… what‟s his name?” Rebecca asked wrapping herself
in a bathrobe.
“Uhh… Sam, Sam Rosenberg. Yeah and he‟s prob‟ly
gonna have a conniption fit if I don‟t get there soon,” Ari
called from the bathroom as he shaved.
“You‟ll have coffee with Mr. Rosenberg?” Rebecca
yelled back from the kitchen over the bubbling percolator.
“Yeah, an‟ I‟ll have a nosh too,” Ari replied dressing
quickly after he had pried the sleeping cat off his shirt.
“Now, promise me you‟ll be home before dark. You
know what kinds of meshugener are out there after dark
these days,” she chided shaking a finger.
“Ach Rivka, when am I ever late for dinner?” Ari said
with a smile. He kissed his wife, petted the cat, and set off
for the deli.

Ari Meyer walked slowly up Eldridge Street to Houston

and turned the corner; he was late. He did not hurry;
spring in New York was a beautiful time and he thought it
ought to be enjoyed. On a regular basis, he would meet
his two old friends, Daniel Levin and Franco Provenzano,
at Katz‟s Delicatessen; the three octogenarians got
together there every day at precisely 10am. Today,
however, he was meeting Sam Rosenberg, from the History
Channel, for an interview. As he entered the deli, one of

~9~
the proprietors called out to him enthusiastically from
across the room.
“Mr. Meyer! How are you today? We haven‟t seen you
in… oh, say… 24 hours?”
“Yeah, you‟re a regular comedian, ain‟t cha? Why don‟t
cha get that Fratz ya‟ call a waitress ta‟ bring her Tukhes
over ta‟ our table an‟ take our order?” Ari joked completely
deadpan.
“Mr. Meyer, such a Kibbitzer!” the man said as he
walked away laughing.
“Kibbitzer? Ach,” grumbled Ari as he looked around the
deli for Mr. Rosenberg.
“Mr. Meyer! You‟re late, I was getting a little worried,”
said Sam visibly concerned.
“Oy, that damn cat escaped! My wife wouldn‟t hav‟ halt
die Schauze if I din‟t go look for the little mamzer,” Ari lied
dismissing Sam‟s reservations.
“Guten Morgen, Altvarg,” Doris, their server, said to Ari
as she approached the table, pulling a pen from her hair,
“and good morning to you, Sir,” she reiterated to Sam.
“About time you got here. I was beginin‟ to think we
was never gonna get any service,” Ari teased, poker-faced.
“Keep it up old man, you‟ll get nothin‟.”
“Yeah, yeah, be a nice little Makhashhaifeh and get us
two coffees, already,” Ari asserted.
“Herr Meyer, do me favor… un‘ geh in drerd,” retorted
Doris as she left to get the beverages.

~ 10 ~
 “Ach, don‟t rush me! I‟ll be dead soon enough!” Ari
shouted after her waving his arms.
“So, anything new? Shall we begin the interview?”
“Wull, I had a couple o‟ questions.”
“Sure Mr. Meyer, what‟s up?”
“How come yous History Channel types are so
interested in what I done? It ain‟t nuthin‟ fascinatin‟.”
“Well you see Mr. Meyer…”
“Sheesh, call me Ari!”
“Ok, Ari. We are interested because you were one of
the „Ritchie Boys‟ and we are in the process of making a
documentary. So we…”
“So, ya‟ wanna talk ta‟ us before we all take a dirt-
nap?” Ari interrupted.
“Well, if you‟d like to put that way; yes,” Sam sipped
the coffee that the server had just left.
Ari, as he did every day for the past 35 years, sniffed
the coffee and pinched his face into a scowl.
“An‟ I keep comin‟ here, why?”
Sam laughed at Air‟s disgust, “Now that‟s a good
question! So, can we get started?”
“Yeah sure, ask anything ya‟ want.”
“Well, tell me a little of your story,” Sam pulled out
pen, paper, and an undersized tape recorder.
“My story? Mine ain‟t so interesting as all that. I had
this friend though…”
“What friend is that?”
“Oh, uh… a friend what died in The War,” Ari hedged.

~ 11 ~
 “You were on a mission together?” asked Sam as he
stirred noisily.
“Um, yeah. A few actually.”
“Can you tell me about the missions and your friend?”
Sam pressed.
“It‟s a long story from a real long time ago. I don‟t
„member much,” Ari said depreciatingly; Sam would not be
dissuaded.
“A long story you don‟t remember, eh? Hmm, at the
moment, I find that just a bit difficult to believe, Mr.
Meyer. It‟s 10:45 and I have all day to help you refresh
your memory, it is my job, you know,” stated Sam with a
slurp and a suspicious squint.
“All right, you wanna hear a long sad story. Ok, but
first, I gotta tell ya‟ the joke what my buddy Daniel told me
yestiddy! See, Goldfarb was hit by this bus as he crosses
the street. An‟, he‟s lyin‟ on the ground, see, his life‟s
fadin‟ away. Ol‟ lady Toretti sees the accident an‟ calls over
Father Compitello from the church on the corner.
“See, the Priest don‟t know if Goldfarb is a Catholic or
no so, he leans over to bless „im an‟ asks Goldfarb, „Do you
believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost?‟
Goldfarb opens up his eyes an‟ says, „I‟m dyin‟ here an‟
this guy‟s askin‟ me riddles?‟” the man across the table
chuckled then reminded Ari that he could not change the
subject.
“Yeah, yeah, ok. The whole story? The ganze Megilleh?
You sure about that?”

~ 12 ~
 “Oh good grief, I only have two days, Mr. Meyer!”
Meyer sighed heavily. “Call me Ari. Not gonna let me
off the hook, huh?”
“No.”
“Ok then, hert zich ein. It starts off with these two
guys, see, Viktor an‟ Hans. Drek; it was such a long time
ago. I guess first off I oughtta try to tell ya‟ a little about
Viktor. I‟m tellin‟ ya‟, boy was he a character, and could he
beat it out on the ol‟ piano.…”

~ 13 ~
Chapter 2
Dachau, Germany 13 October 1944
In reference to the Special Security Prisoners, the following
order is issued:
If at all possible, at one of the next terror attacks on Munich
area of Dachau, ―Müller‖ has a deadly accident. I ask you
to liquidate ―Müller‖ without attracting attention after such
a situation appears... Nacht und Nebel. Also, take special
care that only a few people who are specially bound come
to know of this. The message for me then shall be
something like the following:
On _____ caused by a terror attack on _____ security
prisoner ―Müller‖ fatally injured.
Heil Hitler!
Obersturmbannführer Eduard Weiter

Special Security Prisoner Viktor Müller sat in his cell

slumped against a wall contemplating his ruined fingers.
He was glad it was completely dark and he could not see
his mangled digits; he knew what they looked like in the
daylight well enough. Welp, no more tickling the ivories in
my future, he thought wistfully. The cell was small, maybe
8‟ X 8‟, but the ceiling was high which assuaged some of
Viktor‟s claustrophobia. He could barely remember how he
had got there, but he remembered the beatings, the
traitorous Waffen SS, British Free Corps officer with the
blue eyes and the other one… the one with that little scar

~ 14 ~
over his left eyebrow. He knows everything, thought
Viktor, and all Hell‘s gonna break loose because he knows.
Viktor readjusted himself, trying to get more
comfortable, but it was a waste of time. His ribs and
ankles had been broken back in Berchtesgaden during
one of the interrogations. His right eye was swollen shut
and he felt like he was missing a couple of teeth; he
regularly coughed up blood. After they had brought him to
this place and the guards beaten him a couple of more
times, there were so many cuts, bruises, and assorted
broken bones he did not even venture to think about it all.
Everything hurt so it did not matter much anymore.
The cell smelled of shit and blood; whoever had died
there before. He had no bed or cot, only a filthy blanket on
the floor and a mess kit; that was all they gave him. He
knew they had rifled through his personal things, not that
there was anything of use to them, but the Khamsa was in
his wallet and pictures of Rosa. He was not worried about
what was coming next; he already knew. Why don‘t they
just shoot me and get it over with, he wondered.
He could hear the guards talking outside through the
heavy door. It sounded like they were passing out stale
day-old bread and water. Ah, feeding time at the zoo,
Viktor inferred. A guard, a Rottenführer (or Corporal),
came in his cell, dropped a chunk of bread in the metal
plate, and poured water in his canteen cup.
―He Arschloch, in zwölf Stunden werden Sie
Erschiessen. Wie Sie mögen das?‖ the guard laughed.

~ 15 ~
 “Jack, if they wanna shoot me in two hours I couldn‟t
care less,” Viktor answered in English.
“Was?”
―Nichts fuck-face, go blow. Verpiss dich!‖
The guard shrugged his shoulders, chuckling, kicked
Viktor in the head with a heavy hobnailed boot, and left
him alone in the dark. Righting himself with difficulty, he
thought, Damn, twelve whole hours, I wonder if that‘s
some kinda record. Nah. Remember, they made quick work
of the other guys, ‗cept Ari, the poor Nebekher. Viktor began
thinking about his wife, Rosa, and his boy. He thought
about being a boy himself, the long ocean voyage to
America, the brother that was left behind.

SS-SD Obersturmbannführer Hans Henker set the

memo down on the desk, went to the small window,
cracked it open, and shivered. He lit another cigarette off
the one still smoldering in the ashtray and thought There
will be a very long and bitter winter this year; there had
been snow since 1 October. He sat down at his desk and
rolled the piece of religious medallion he‟d found in the
Special Security Prisoner‟s personal effects in his fingers;
he wondered if that turd Weiter actually thought he was in
charge of this prisoner or of him? He looked at Marguerite
calmly lying on the floor next to him.
“Twelve hours until the execution,” he said to her.
Marguerite looked up and cocked her head dubiously.

~ 16 ~
 He tried to write a letter to his wife, Lotte, but was
unsuccessful. The Khamsa and the name “Müller” would
not leave his thoughts. Drink some schnapps, have
another cigarette, he told himself. He wondered if he
should go tell the prisoner what he surmised. The things
he said, the way he... It all reminded him of... No, he was
not going to think about it. He had spent far too long
hiding and would not admit it even to himself now. How
long had it taken him to achieve the position he held? Was
he not the youngest officer in the Schutzstaffel to hold the
rank of Lieutenant Colonel and have such great
responsibilities in the Sicherheitsdienst? Had Herr
Reichsführer Himmler not promoted him himself? Then
again, was any of that even important? Would any of it
matter soon?
Another glass of schnapps; he leaned his face on his
hand, watched the smoke rise steadily from his cigarette
and the crematoria. Cremations had been going 24 - 7
since the Americans had liberated Paris on 24 August. The
smell was oppressive when the wind shifted; Hans‟ nose
twitched at the thought. Disposal operations; that‘s all, he
reasoned. He was a loyal SS Officer (―Meine Ehre heisst
Treue‖); he was a nationalist after all, but there were
things that he had done and things happening at that
moment that deeply offended his senses of morality and
justice. If he had ever had any.
“Or maybe I am just tired,” he wondered aloud and
was abruptly jolted from his contemplation by someone‟s

~ 17 ~
assault on his borrowed office door; Marguerite barked
fiercely at the intruder.
―Herr Obersturmbannführer Henker?‖ accompanied the
beating.
―Ja…hereingekommen.‖
The guard came in, gave a sharp heel click, and
announced, “Herr Obersturmbannführer Weiter would like
to see you, Sir.”
Hans held the Schäferhund back so she would not take
a bite out of the soldier and regarded the very young man
for a moment. God, he must be 16, he thought; he nodded
his head in response and gave a half-hearted salute.
―Heil Hitler!‖ The overenthusiastic youth shouted.
Obersturmbannführer Eduard Weiter was the
Kommandant of Dachau and Hans detested him. He
thought him a base, dwarfish, pasty, and degenerate
weasel. He had been appointed Kommandant because the
two previous were considered either too hard or too soft on
the prisoners. It all reminded Hans of the Kinder und
Hausmärchen from the Brothers‟ Grimm, The Three Bears,
“This one is just right…” it was all stupid, he thought.
“‗Ah, such bugs and goblins in my life,‘‖ he recalled
from Hamlet as he and Marguerite crossed the Camp to
Weiter‟s office. He found the fat little troll sitting in his
overstuffed leather chair listening to Wagner‟s Der Ring
des Nibelungen, on the Victrola, drinking Martell Cognac
from once occupied France, his feet dangling about three
inches off the floor. Hans preferred English Whiskey and

~ 18 ~
the much lighter touch of the Italians or Hungarians when
it came to music, though he would never admit that. After
the formalities, Weiter casually handed Hans a slip of
paper. Marguerite sat at Hans‟ feet staring at Weiter,
growling softly.
“What is this?” Hans asked the troll.
“Read it.”
He glanced over the missive quickly, “Ok, I‟ve read it,
but I don‟t understand what…”
“Of course not, that is why I am the Kommandant of
this Camp…”
He was still talking; Hans could see his lips moving,
but heard only his own thoughts of ‗Thou appeareth
nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of
vapours.‘ Oh God, Hamlet again, realized Hans.
In as much as Obersturmbannführer Eduard Weiter
was an ill mannered (he had not even offered Hans a
drink) foul, miscreant, Hans was his polar opposite. Tall,
dark haired with a few flecks of grey, fair complexion, eyes
as grey as his uniform and thought to be, by most, quite
handsome although the war had made him much thinner
and aged him beyond his thirty years. Quite the intelligent
youth, he had attended the Universität Wien taking a
degree in Economics.
By contrast, Weiter was not quite so lucky. He
resembled a bratwurst, very white, and greasy; stuffed
into much too small a skin; a short, round, sweaty faced,
Himmler-esque cretin with thicker glasses and far less

~ 19 ~
dishwater colored hair. He had somehow attained the rank
of Obersturmbannführer by process of elimination; there
was no one else left.
He had never commanded in the field nor was he
bright enough to. He spoke no other language besides his
native German. Weiter was relegated to attending Munich
Technische Hochschule, not a bad school, but, far less
prestigious than the Universität Wien. Hans believed to be
properly educated one must speak French and English as
well as their native tongue. And pretentious or not, Hans
viewed Weiter as the Colonel Kraus von Zillergut character
from Jaroslav Hašek‟s novel The Good Soldier Schweik, a
complete loser.
“...So, what say you to that?” croaked the toad, very
pleased with himself. Hans, pulled back from his
imaginings, had no idea what the wee odious creature had
said.
Hans stammered a bit, “Well, I…”
“Yes, yes?”
“Well, I believe you ‗speak an infinite deal of nothing.‘
Thank you for the drink,” Hans left hastily with
Marguerite before the sausage-troll had time to protest.
He started to cross back to his office, but found
himself drawn to the Bunker; the “Special Security
Prisoner” block. Maybe I could talk with him just for a
minute, he thought. Then he stopped in his tracks,
regrouped and went back in the direction of his borrowed
quarters. Stop it, you imbecile! You have worked too long

~ 20 ~
and too hard to ruin it now. Moreover, think of Lotte, what
would happen to her, if it has not happened already, he
told himself.
Safely back in his office, Hans stripped off his
greatcoat, threw it on the tiny bed in the corner, and
pulled the schnapps from the bottom drawer of the desk
again. I had better not drink too much or, at least, drink
very slowly. Just then, there was another pounding on the
door. After calming Marguerite once more and giving
permission to enter, Hans discovered it was the youth
again.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Will you be requiring anything else tonight?”
“Tell the Sergeant in charge to ensure I am awakened
by 0600. Now, go on your way, boy.”
With another overenthusiastic salute, the overtly
respectful lad departed. Hans knew that, behind closed
doors, that same boy and his comrades made jokes about
him, his name, Henker, in particular. It was the equivalent
of “the butcher” or “the hangman.” There was also the old
expression, “Weiss der Henker‖ which meant, “Fuck
knows.” Well, thought Hans, I guess it‘s fitting; he lit
another cigarette, and poured another glass of schnapps,
too tired to care. It had begun to snow.
Hans sat at his desk thinking of the prisoner absently
petting Marguerite who had put her head in his lap.

~ 21 ~
 “I have done… questionable things,” he said to no one
in particular. He felt his throat start to tighten. He
swallowed hard and then quickly gulped the glass of
liquor. His mind began to wander and he started to replay
events and dates in his head. Was it really so long ago?
Twenty-two or was it ‘23? God, what a horrible year... and
us so young. Falling snow outside the tiny window
mesmerized him; he and his half-finished bottle of
schnapps slipped quietly back to 1922.

~ 22 ~
Chapter 3
Munich, 24 October 1922
―Our myth is the Nation; our myth is the greatness
of the Nation! And to this myth, to this grandeur,
which we wish to translate into a complete reality,
we subordinate all the rest…‖
Benito Mussolini, Speech to National Fascist Party, 1922

The speech from Rome blared from the community

radio in the Hildebrandt‟s flat. Theirs was a tall grey
building on a short grey block in one of the oldest parts of
Munich. Most of the buildings‟ inhabitants had come
down to the ground floor to listen to Mussolini or, Il Duce,
as the Italians called him, though no one understood the
Italian. He and his National Fascist Party had just
succeeded in a coup d‘état in Italy, ousting the Prime
Minister Luigi Facta. It was nearly 7pm; the children were
all playing in the hallway. Friedrich Müller was just
arriving home from his afternoon of “work.”
He had planned to kick in the door, just for the effect,
a bad joke, but it was open when he arrived. This pushed
his already ill demeanor into a tailspin. His mother-in law,
Ruth, cooking potatoes and some leftover salted, dried
beef, jumped a bit as the obviously intoxicated man
stomped into the room, yelling.
“Old woman, why is my dinner not ready yet?” Müller
slurred.

~ 23 ~
 “I am sorry, my son, but the lines were especially long
today, and I got a bit of a late start,” she replied delicately.
“No excuse!” he roared, pounding on their kitchen
table, as he sat. “I want my dinner, and I want it now!”
“If, my dear, you would like to eat half boiled potatoes
„now‟, you are welcome to them. The rest of us will wait.”
Müller, taken aback by the reply, sat for a moment
staring at his dead wife‟s mother wondering what he
should do with her, his own father‟s voice tight in his head
like a fist. You should be beaten for a remark like that, you
disobedient bitch... he heard the voice say. And so beat
her, he did.
Ruth implored him to stop. “Bitte, nein...who will take
care of the children? Bist du ein Nichtjude Goi sweinhundt!
” she cried.
He ignored her pleas and insults; he commenced with
his thick leather belt. He beat her so hard he forgot about
his dinner until it started to boil over onto the floor. Then
he beat her even harder for ruining his meal. Only when
her oldest grandson came in for some water, was Ruth
rescued.
“Bubbeh?” said the boy.
“Hans, my son,” said Müller, breathlessly, “look what
your Oma has done; she has ruined our dinner!”
“I don‟t care about the stupid dinner,” replied Hans
curtly, “you stop hitting her, now.”
“Ach, Klein Mann, are you going to make me?” asked
Herr Müller.

~ 24 ~
 Hans charged his father with all of his might, but
Friedrich Müller was a grown man and not the opponent
for an underfed eight-year-old boy. Hans received the rest
of his grandmother‟s beating while she tried to salvage
what was left of their evening meal as quickly as she
could.

“Kinder, seit brav!”

Ruth Sanger chided her grand children as she pulled
her tattered shawl close around her thin body and stepped
out of the frozen one room flat, into the waning day. Her
intention was to try to find some food for her two boys, but
more than likely, she would return empty handed. Frau
Sanger had been taking care of her grand children since
her only daughter, Raïssa, died after giving birth to Viktor.
She had never been happy her Raïssa had married a
Sheygetz, but she refused to consider her daughter dead
as her late husband, Shimon, had done and sit Shiva. Her
only living son, Efraim, also refused to acknowledge the
marriage or the fact that Raïssa had been alive for six
years afterwards and produced two healthy sons. Efraim
had not forgiven his mother for ignoring tradition. Ruth
thought, I am 72 years old, too old to hold grudges; life is
much too short for that. I will make peace when I meet our
Creator.
Along with a small pail for milk, Ruth held tightly in
her hand a small threadbare velvet bag containing about

~ 25 ~
3000DM. It was all she had and since her son-in-law had
only found sporadic work, at least that is what he told her.
It would be difficult to make it last. In a matter of a few
months, the Deutschmark had risen from 5DM for a loaf of
bread to about 700 DM. Within the year, it would rise to 2
trillion DM. Walking quickly with purpose, she noticed a
man kneeling on the corner as if in prayer. Moving closer,
she realized he had no legs and only one arm, which he
was using to panhandle. She stopped and gave him
500DM.
―Vielen dank, meine dame,‖ said the shattered heap
that had once been a man.
“From the war?” she asked him.
“Ja… That filthy shameful war.”
“I do hope this helps a bit. For ‗to give charity
according to one's means‘ is a mitzvah.”
Looking in his eyes for a brief moment, she
remembered her husband‟s war in 1870, this man‟s war in
1914, and her three sons also, of which she had lost two.
She silently prayed her grandsons never had to endure
war and suffering these men had. Wishing him well, she
went on her way. Arriving at the bakery, she discovered
that the cost for a loaf of bread had gone up to 1000DM
and she would have to wait on line for two hours to get it.
“At least my boys will eat tonight and I can still buy
them each an egg and some milk,” she sighed.
Standing in line Ruth thought about her daughter,
Raïssa. She remembered vividly the night Viktor was born.

~ 26 ~
The midwife had come; the birth was taking a very long
time. There was too much blood and someone would have
to operate. By the time the doctor arrived, Raïssa was too
weak. The doctor had managed to save Viktor, but Raïssa
was gone.
She remembered how, eight days later, they held the
Bris and baby Viktor, circumcised, given his Hebrew
name: Creator of the Universe, may it be Thy gracious will
to regard and accept this, as if I had brought this baby
before Thy glorious throne. And Thou, in Thy abundant
mercy, through Thy holy angels, give a pure and holy heart
to Barak Eliahu, the son of Raïssa , who was just now
circumcised in honor of Thy great Name. May his heart be
wide open to comprehend Thy holy Law that he may learn
and teach, keep and fulfill Thy laws.
She remembered Hans‟ ceremony four years before
that when he was given the name Yohannan Gavriel. Their
Goy father had changed their names, of course. Ruth
thought, God has many names; why should we, who are
made in his image, not have many names as well? It seems
to me that what is beyond the name will never change. To
Ruth however they would always be Barak and Yohannan.

The boys, like all children, only noticed their poverty

and discomfort when they were very hungry. Hans, the
elder of the two, had promised his Bubbeh Ruth he would
watch his little brother, Viktor, who was only four. Hans

~ 27 ~
only hoped she returned before their Papa came home
although, it happened only rarely that he came home at
all. Hans was thankful for that; he did not like his Papa.
He was a very unkind man and beat on their Bubbeh or
them whenever he got the chance. Hans thought about the
day two weeks ago when his Papa had been particularly
brutal and beaten Bubbeh Ruth until her face and body
were black and blue. He had tried to stop him, but that
only had made it worse for him.
Hans thought about running away, but then that
would leave his Bubbeh and Viktor alone. Someone had to
watch out for them, after all, he told himself. He had
written to their Fetter Efraim in America more than once.
He thought maybe, if they could only get away, it would be
better there. His Fetter, someone had said, was a big shot
in moving pictures in a place called Hollywood, California.
He had heard people talk of America and of how it was a
rich country full of rich people. They said anyone could
become rich there. He thought, at least we would never be
hungry again. He watched the Post everyday hoping his
Fetter had written, sending for them, but the letter never
came.
“Yohannan let me go outside to play!” Viktor bade his
older brother, jumping up and down.
“No, you should stay in, it‟s cold outside and Bubbeh
would not be pleased,” said Hans
“But it‟s cold inside,” reasoned Viktor.

~ 28 ~
 Hans laughed at his younger brother‟s precociousness
and allowed him 30 minutes out of doors under his strict
supervision, of course. He wrapped his little brother in his
old coat, bits of old clothing, and whatever rags he could
find to ward off the cold. Properly bundled, Viktor ran out
the back door of the building into the alley and joined
some other children in the process of slaying dragons from
atop crates that formed their castle walls. Hans followed,
slowly closing the door, listening as Mussolini, on the
radio again, continued to tell the Italian Chamber of
Deputies why they were gods among men.
As Viktor played with the other children, Hans walked
down the alley a bit, lost in thought. He contemplated his
last secret Torah lesson with Herr Silverman. The old man
had told him the story of Abraham and his wife Sara; how
they had had a child in their old age and called him Isaac.
Then one day Abraham was asked to sacrifice his only son
to God. Just as Abraham was about to do as God had
asked he was stopped by the angel Raziel. Viktor was
terribly confused. He said to Herr Silverman, “I don‟t like
that story, it‟s horrible! Why would God want that?”
Herr Silverman replied, “Do not forget that „Isaac‟
means „He laughed.‟ That is the proof we need to be sure
that the Torah speaks metaphorically. You see, Isaac is
not only Abraham‟s son; he is the child in Abraham
„himself made up of laughter, grief, rage, gentleness, fear,
and dreams.‟ And what was God really asking of
Abraham?”

~ 29 ~
 Hans shook his head in bewilderment.
“He asked that Abraham be willing to give up these
things; that he untie knots in his mind so that God may
enter. He asked Abraham to open himself up, nothing
more.”
“But why?” Hans begged.
“So that one day Yohannan, you may meet Him inside
yourself, and He will be able to hug you.”
Herr Silverman told Hans that, someday, when he was
old enough, he would teach him about Ein Sof…
Kabbalah.

As Frau Sanger started towards home she saw the

mangled man again and her mind began wander to the
way thing had been before The Great War. It was not so
bad then, was it? And oh, the waltzes. She reminded
herself it was Thursday, the day for the boys‟ dance
lesson. This was the evening when Herr Silverman came
downstairs with his violin and played music for everyone.
He always played her favorite song, Zigeunermelodien by
Antonín Dvořák. Though it was written for voice, Herr
Silverman played it in a 3/4 waltz time for Ruth and the
boys. She was teaching them to waltz, dancing on the tops
of her feet. Simply cannot have them grow up to be cretins,
she thought.

~ 30 ~
 Still in her dreamy state, she rounded the corner and
there, a man appeared from a small foul smelling doorway
and demanded the bag.
“But, this food is for my grand children!” she pleaded.
―Geben Sie mir alles!‖ he growled, foaming at the sides
of his mouth, a fine spray flying out of his lips.
He attacked the old woman, punching her in the face
repeatedly. Dropping the bag and milk can, she fell to the
ground. He picked it up hastily and kicked her in the
chest and stomach a few more times for good measure,
leaving her lying in the street, semiconscious, blood
amalgamating with milk.
Finally rousing herself, she was uncertain how long
she had lay there, but, no one had stopped and a few
people had in fact stepped over her. We all hurt, she
thought, and have no inclination to help one another. She
dragged herself, stupefied, towards the flat. Frau
Hildebrandt, who had tired of Mussolini‟s unintelligible
ranting and come outside to shake the building‟s only rug,
recognized the desperate woman and hurried out to help
her.
―Paula, Ludwig! Hergekommen!‖ Frau Hildebrandt
called for her children. The children, just coming in from
the alley, rushed to their mother.
“Paula, go and fetch Herr Doktor,” the young girl
hesitated, staring at the broken and bloody old woman.
―Jezt!‖

~ 31 ~
 “Ludwig, go to find Herr Müller and tell him Frau
Sanger is very ill.”
The pragmatic twelve year old did not need to ask
where to look. Everyone knew that Friedrich Müller spent
most of his waking hours in the Bürgerbräukeller or with
older ladies of means. Müller had made friends with the
local Schlägern and bosses of a newly formed political
group, the National Socialist German Workers Party. They
had been spending all of their time drinking in the
Bürgerbräukeller planning a Bavarian government
takeover.
Ludwig flew as fast as his legs would take him whilst
trying not to collide with anyone in the street; he thought
the “Nazis,” as they were commonly called, were mostly
idiotic and lazy. What good it does to spend all of your time
talking and none of it doing, he thought.
Just as expected, he found Müller sitting with his
friends and some wealthy, but dubious women.
None of them wanted to be bothered. They were
discussing the failure of their Beer Hall Putsch; whether or
not Von Ludendorff should go into hiding with Hitler. After
Ludwig explained the gravity of the situation, though he
was not sure that he was being completely honest at the
time,
Müller decided to go with him, albeit reluctantly
complaining drunkenly the entire way home.

~ 32 ~
 “I was speaking with Herr Generalquartiermeister Von
Ludendorff… und ein Mädchen ins Bett kriegen! Now
everything is ruined!”
They found Frau Sanger in the Hildebrandt house
hemorrhaging. They could do nothing, save keep her
comfortable and wait. Paula returned shortly thereafter
sans doctor and reported he was attending a cholera
victim and would be along soon. A quick check of her
husband‟s pocket watch signaled to Frau Hildebrandt one
hour had passed before the doctor arrived.
Doktor Weiss examined the exhausted and beaten Frau
Sanger and pronounced, “Nothing can be done; she has
lost too much blood and she is so very old and frail. We
can only pray for her now.”
The dying woman asked for her grandsons. Herr
Hildebrandt brought them in to see their Bubbeh. She
reached into her blouse and pulled out her Khamsa, an
old apotropaic amulet for protection from the evil eye.
Nearly three inches long, it was made of 22K gold and very
soft. Ruth‟s grandmother had given it to her and her great-
great grandmother had worn it before that; she had never
had the heart to sell it, everything else that her husband
had worked hard to acquire in his lifetime she had sold for
food. She bent the Khamsa, breaking it into two pieces
down the center and gave a half to each boy.
“Yohannan, meine Sonne und Barak, mien Mond, I once
gave this to your Mamma. I kept it after she‟d gone. It is

~ 33 ~
all I have left, a little piece of our faith, to protect you.
Lieblings, jetzt ihr beide werdet nie auseinander gehalten.‖
Herr Müller understood his mother in law was fading;
he almost wept. He thought of asking forgiveness for his
transgressions, but instead sat dully on the other side of
the room. Hans sensed what was happening and took his
crying little brother back to their gelid flat. According to
their Bubbeh‘s beliefs, anyone present at the moment of
death is required to tear his clothes. Though the boys had
nothing, Hans did as the Laws directed. That night, after
Herr Silverman from the fourth floor found the Minyan,
they sang Kedushah. Herr Müller did not attend. He was
Lutheran and cared nothing for his mother in law‟s
traditions or beliefs. He abided by their Jewish traditions
partly for his dead wife, but mostly out of superstition.

The next day, Rev Menken conducted the levayah;

they buried her in the Jewish cemetery next to her
husband Shimon and daughter Raïssa. The Rabbi, Herr
Silverman, Müller, the two boys, the Hildebrandts, and
their children were the only attendants. Müller could not
(or would not) afford a stonecutter to add her name to the
marker already in place; the Rabbi had an ad interim
placed in its stead.
“…ad biyas goel bimheyra biyameinu,‖ said Rabbi
Menken. “She was truly Eishes Chayil; it is a zechus to be
her grandsons. Zei gezunt, shalom.”

~ 34 ~
 Though these sentiments were of little consolation,
Hans knew he meant well. Viktor only cried incessantly
and asked for his Bubbeh. Hans took him to the fence that
surrounded the Jewish Cemetery and sat him down.
“Barak,” pleaded Hans, “you know what Bubbeh said,
Wir werden auseinander nie sein, never parted… So,
please do not cry, I will always be here for you.”
Forgotten for a few minutes, they watched the sun set
together before they were shaken back into reality by the
voice of their father calling them to come home.

The Shiva, or mourning, begins at burial. For seven

days (all but the first of which are a rabbinical institution)
a mourner is forbidden to cut his hair, wash or anoint his
body, wear leather shoes, uncover his head, wash his
clothes, do any unnecessary work, study the Torah, greet
anyone, sit on a chair, or have sex. For the remainder of
30 days he is forbidden to cut his hair, wash his clothes,
get married, participate in festivities, or travel on
business. One should never mourn publicly on the
Sabbath. There is no mourning on a festival, and the
occurrence of a festival terminates mourning that has
already begun; one is directed not to mourn excessively.
Friedrich Müller did not mourn at all.
Müller had all but forgotten his being on the verge of
tears and his mother in law five minutes after her burial.
He was neither a benevolent, loving, nor a genteel man. He

~ 35 ~
had begun within hours of her death to telegram Ruth
Sanger‟s relatives in America asking for money. He told
her son, Efraim, he was destitute and had no place for the
boys. In reality, there was no place for the boys because
they would be putting a damper on his social life, not his
pocket. He received plenty of money from the women with
whom he associated. They kept him in food, drink, and
fashion. His motto was, If you can‘t feed me, fuck me, or
finance me… fuck off. Two snot-nosed brats would
certainly not make him appealing to the ladies of the
smart set therefore they needed to go. Where they went
was none of his concern.

For four weeks after their Bubbeh died, Hans ignored

his religion‟s teachings out of necessity and scrounged so
the boys could eat. The Hildebrandts across the hall were
in nearly as bad a state as the Müller boys and could not
very well afford to feed them as well as their own two
children. Therefore, Hans begged, borrowed, or stole
anything he could get his hands on. Ludwig Hildebrandt
helped Hans in his larceny. As long as he could bring a
share back to his baby sister, Paula, who was only two
years older than Viktor, Ludwig was happy.
Both Hans and Ludwig knew they should have been in
school, but they also knew if they did not continue their
daily purloining, their siblings could go hungry. Viktor
and Paula spent their days slaying dragons and fighting

~ 36 ~
Romans when Paula was not at school; though they were
unsure who the Romans were, they were certain they
must have been very bad. On occasion, Frau Hildebrandt
would sneak Viktor a small glass of milk when she gave
Paula her lunch.
On days when Hans‟ misappropriation did not go
according to plan and he came home with nothing, he
would entertain his little brother with Hamlet, Cymbeline,
or other plays by Shakespeare. The Collected Works of
Shakespeare was the only book in the house, besides their
father‟s Bible. Hans knew Hamlet by heart and could play
all the roles, including Ophelia, without missing a line.
Viktor never ceased to be shocked, frightened, amused, or
saddened by his older brother‟s performances. Now and
again, both boys would take part; they would have sword
fights so that Viktor‟s young Prince Hamlet could defeat
Ophelia‟s brother, Laertes, before dying himself, quite
melodramatically, of the poisoned blade.
On 23 December, the telegram arrived from Efraim
Sanger in California. It informed Müller that Herr Sanger‟s
wife, Hadassah, was on her way to pick up one of the boys
and instructed him to bring him to Bremen. Only the one
passage had been booked and two tickets for the train.
There was room for only one boy, and after painful
deliberation, they had chose Viktor. Frau Sanger would be
arriving within two weeks. Müller had picked up the
telegram on his way to the beer hall and decided not to tell
the boys. Not right away. He first needed to think of what

~ 37 ~
to do with Hans. He knew any of the orphanages would
take him and he was still young enough to have a chance
at adoption from a family who might actually care, he
thought and if the family had money, all the better for him
as well.

The same day the telegram came from America, Hans

had been caught stealing a chicken. Müller was
summoned from the Hofbrauhaus to pick the boy up from
the police station. Already in a foul mood for being
disturbed, the chastisement he took from the police did
nothing for his disposition.
“We caught this one with a nice fat hen,” said Herr
Direktor Schuler as he pulled Hans from an office by his
neck.
The look on his father‟s face was enough to make Hans
want to run as far and as fast as he could, but as he
struggled to get away from the Polizeibeamte, he knew
there was no escape and he would have to endure the
beating he knew was coming. Müller‟s face was plaid with
rage.
“I can assure you Herr Direktor, he will never steal
again,” he growled as he grabbed the boy‟s ear and
dragged him towards the door of the station. He beat Hans
intermittently about the head and shoulders all the way
back to the flat. Once they arrived home, he threw Hans

~ 38 ~
through the door of their apartment sending him crashing
into their makeshift dining table breaking it into pieces.
Hans picked himself up and shouted defiantly from
across the tiny room, “You will never hurt me no matter
what you do, you will never hurt me!”
“Would you like to bet on it?” demanded the furious
and hateful man, removing his belt.
He corralled the boy in a corner near the ruined table,
and proceeded to beat him mercilessly. When he tired of
the belt, he picked up a stick of furniture, which had
broken off the table, and used that. He beat him until he
started to breath heavily from the exertion and sweat
dripped into his eyes. He was still beating Hans when
Viktor came in from playing at the Hildebrandt‟s flat.
Müller stopped for a moment looking at his youngest
son. Viktor, catching his father‟s gaze, started to protest,
but instead ran off to find someone to stop the man,
someone much bigger than he. Shortly, Herr Hildebrandt
burst into the room, nearly breaking in the door, and
pried Friedrich Müller off the boy.
“You will not tell me what to do with my children!” the
vengeful man screamed.
“Oh, but today, I think I will,” responded the larger
and stronger Herr Hildebrandt. He took the piece of wood
from Müller and knocked him out cold, splitting his head
open in the process.
They brought Hans into the flat across the hall. Paula,
once again, was sent out for the doctor; they were almost

~ 39 ~
sure Hans would not live until morning. He had multiple
cuts, bruises, and a broken nose. His eyes were swollen
shut, a molar was missing; his mouth and ears were
bleeding profusely. On the left side of his head, over his
eyebrow, there was a deep gash needing stitches and he
was lamenting the fact that he could not move his right
arm. By the time Paula returned with the doctor, Hans
was hardly able to breathe.
“And exactly what am I supposed to do for this
disgusting mess?” protested Doktor Weiss loudly and
vehemently after performing a cursory examination.
“I have no X-ray or sterile water! And in this light? Gott
im Himmel! I will need boiling hot water and very clean
sheets, torn, to make bandages!”
Instantly everyone went into action, everyone that is,
but Müller. He had recovered, wiped his bloody forehead,
and immediately left for the Bürgerbräukeller and his
women of means. Paula was on a mission to get fresh
water. Ludwig was stealing what coal he could find from
the Müller flat so they could actually boil it. Frau
Hildebrandt was set to tearing up the only sheets she had
for the bed. Viktor watched silently and after a time went
to his own house to get their bed sheets to replace the
ones Frau Hildebrandt had made into bandages for Hans.
Papa will not miss them, he thought.
“And I will need some kind of wire to join his broken
ribs!” shouted the Doktor as he set the boy‟s broken arm,
Hans groaning in pain.

~ 40 ~
 Herr Hildebrandt began to go from apartment to
apartment trying to find someone with some wire that they
might be willing to part with so that Hans‟ bones could be
bound together. The jeweler, Herr Jacob Silverman,
sacrificed his violin strings so that Hans may continue
breathing and live to see nine.
The boys stayed with the Hildebrandts for nearly two
weeks, none of which they saw their father. Ludwig
continued their past thievery so that they all would have
food. Hans‟ right arm would be useless for a while since it
had been broken and the wires holding his chest together
made it hard for him to get up and walk to the toilet
without assistance. He was just starting to feel better and
get out of bed on his own, when Müller came in the middle
of the night to retrieve Viktor.
As the children slept, he showed the Hildebrandts the
telegram from Efraim in California, collected the sleepy
little boy, and set off for Bremen in the North. The
Hildebrandts did not tell Hans until the next morning.
“But, it was I who always wrote to Fetter Efraim. Why
would they leave me here, why would they take my only
brother from me?” said Hans quietly.
The boy who had always been the strong one, the
pillar to lean on, went to the corner of the room and cried.
Hans would not be consoled. There is nothing to say, he
thought. It seemed to him he had been abandoned,
forgotten; he was devastated. He was saddened more by

~ 41 ~
knowing it would be a very long time before he would see
his beloved brother again, if ever.
Five days later, Hans was still grieving when Müller
came for him. He had brought with him a priest and a
social worker; not because he wanted to do so, but
everyone would know it was legitimate and he was not
taking the boy off to beat him again and leave him for
dead if officials were there. To Hans, Father Franz seemed
kind; he had a round pleasant pink face. When asked to
get his things together he only looked at the floor; he had
no things. He made his goodbyes to the Hildebrandts and
sedately left with this new Father; life as he knew it now
forever changed.

~ 42 ~
Chapter 4
Bremen, Germany 07 January 1923
So sehen dei polnischen Auswanderer aus,
und so werdet Ihr auch aussehen, wenn
Schlesien zu Polen kommt. Oberschleisier!
Bleibt beim neuen Deutschland!
Krieg Poster, AM, 1919

The faded timeworn poster, a Great War leftover, hung

outside the ticket office of the Hamburg-America Line
flapping in the icy breeze. Friedrich Müller stared at it for
a minute, remembering his share of The Great War, the
repeated fluttering sound reminding him of the tapping of
the barbed wire on the creaking fences in No-Man‟s Land,
come loose after a shelling. He was brought back from his
cauchemar by the ship‟s horn.
The SS Bayern sat in the port listing a slight 9 degrees
to the left. It had taken two days to get from Munich to
Bremen by train and Herr Müller was tired, hungry, and
wanted a beer. He did not really care how Viktor felt. As
passage had been booked and paid, all that was left was
for the boy to get on the ship. Müller had second
thoughts, but only for a fleeting moment. He was happy
that the boy was leaving. He will have a better life, he told
himself. And mine will be easier without the both of them.
He saw a woman who fit the description of Hadassah
Sanger, but what he really saw was a well-heeled meal
ticket.

~ 43 ~
 ―Entschuldigen Sie bitte,‖ Müller excused himself to the
female passenger, “You are a passenger on this ship?”
The woman regarded him suspiciously for a moment
and answered, ―Ja, Ich bin ein Passagier.‖
“I am looking for a woman called Frau Hadassah
Sanger. She is taking my boy to Baltimore and then on to
California… in America,” Herr Muller held tightly to
Viktor‟s thin hand in case he had the wrong woman.
The woman looked at Herr Müller, whom she
considered little more than an animal and then to Viktor
and smiled. Poor child she thought, he must be terrified;
she bent down to get a closer look at Viktor.
―Wie heisst du, mein kind?‖
“My name is Viktor Ernst Müller,” answered the small
boy proudly.
―Und wie alt bist du?‖ querried the aunt.
“I am... ummm... four years old! What‟s your name?”
She looked disdainfully up at Herr Muller who had a
deceitful and slightly uneasy look about him; That‘s right,
only four… Oy, Gevalt, she thought.
―Ich heisse Hadassah. Ich bin deine Tante.‖ she said to
Viktor. Again looking to the repugnant man, “I am
Hadassah Sanger. And you, Mein Herr, are late,” through
clenched teeth, still smiling although only out of
consideration for the boy. She took Viktor‟s baby sized
hand and Viktor, letting himself be led, was brought up
the gangway to the purser who checked them in and
directed them to First Class.

~ 44 ~
 “Oh, Herr Müller,” called Frau Sanger from the
gangway.
Friedrich Müller turned back; maybe she will still give
me something for my trouble, he thought hopefully.
“Please, do not try to contact us. You will get nothing
more from us nor will you ever hear from me or Efraim
again,” As Frau Sanger turned and walked up the
gangplank, Friedrich Müller shrugged, let go a sigh of
relief, turned, and walked away forever.

“I think you are very nice,” little Viktor told his Aunt
Hadassah, walking towards their cabin.
“Why thank you my little man, you may call me Tante
if you like.”
“Do you know I am going to live with my Fetter Efraim
in America?”
“Yes, mein kind, and me too.”
“You live with Fetter Efraim?”
Viktor, though he did not understand the
circumstances, was excited. He had never before been on
a ship or to sea. He was imagining himself a Pirate when a
seaman came through a hatch and told him if he wanted
to play, he should go out on deck. There were a few
children aboard for Viktor to play with, but, he was more
interested in the inner workings of his Pirate Ship; what
the deck hands were doing, than the games of his peers.

~ 45 ~
 Once outside, Viktor looked for his Papa, but did not
see him. Everyone seemed so small from his perch and he
waved to the crowd anyway, just in case Papa was still
there, when they shoved off. After they were underway,
Viktor strolled near the rail running his tiny fingers along
the cold steel stopping at the fore of the ship. He liked the
feeling of the frigid wind blowing his hair and the sweet
salt that stung his cheeks.
“There you are! I thought I had lost you.”
Viktor turned to find his Tante smiling down at him,
holding out her hand. He obediently went to her side and
promised not to go out again without her. They walked
back towards the aft and settled in for a long voyage.

~ 46 ~
Chapter 5
Dachau, Germany 13 October 1944
Now, philanthropists may easily imagine there is a skilful
method of disarming and overcoming an enemy without
causing great bloodshed, and that this is the proper
tendency of the art of War. However plausible this may
appear, still it is an error which must be extirpated; for in
such dangerous things as war, the errors which proceed
from a spirit of benevolence are just the worst.
Gen. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, 1832

The concrete cell was windowless except for a tiny

“porthole” near its‟ top. There was a light bulb hanging
from the ceiling that did not function; there was no light
outside in fear of the Allied air raids which happened
nightly. Viktor lay on his dirty blanket. His head,
throbbing from either dehydration or the kick he had
received, woke him. He had fallen asleep and had a dream
of his brother, Hans, when they were children. He did not
recognize the house they were in, but, old man Silverman
was playing the Zigeunermelodien on his violin; his
Bubbeh was there as well. They were performing Hamlet
for her and she was applauding their prowess with their
wooden swords. Overcome with a sense of angst, his chest
heaved and his eyes started to burn from tears. He made a
futile attempt to hinder them by blinking furiously. Who‘s
gonna sing Kedushah for me when I die, he thought.

~ 47 ~
 Trying to readjust himself to was too much work; he
really could not feel his feet anymore. He was sure his
ankles were turning black with gangrene after being
broken. But when? He could not remember if it was the
first, second, or third interrogation. He was so cold;
nothing he could do about it but shiver. How‘d it go so
wrong, he thought in disbelief. He agonized over the
deaths of all the men who had been with him on his
mission and cursed the man who had betrayed them with
meisseh meshina.
He started thinking about being a boy again and Hans.
Hans whom he thought never wrote until his Aunt
Hadassah had given him all those letters as he left for
Officer Candidate School. Shit, the letter! Viktor thought of
the last letter Hans had sent; the letter he could not part
with, the one he had brought with him even though he
knew he shouldn‟t. He said some silent prayers for his
family, including Hans, and himself. I wonder how much
longer I got, he contemplated as the air raid sirens started.

Sirens! Hans woke with a start. Marguerite whined a

little, troubled by the noise; he checked his watch and
discovered he had fell asleep, face down on his desk, for
two hours. Running his hands through his hair, he went
over to the bureau and poured some water into the basin.
He stared into the mirror for a minute, the searchlights
flashing his reflection in and out. Who in hell are you, he

~ 48 ~
asked himself. He washed his face and went back to the
small window; it was still snowing.
Lighting a cigarette, he reached for the radio on a
small bookcase by the window and tuned into the state
run station, trying to drown out the cacophony outside.
He threw himself back into the hard uncomfortable chair
and got in on the middle of Dvořák‟s String Quartet No. 12
in F. As a rule, he enjoyed Dvořák, but tonight the Opus
was much too bleak. He surreptitiously changed the
short-wave radio to the banned broadcast of the Voice of
America (VOA), looking around the room as if someone
were there. He heard the end of Glenn Miller‟s Moonlight
Serenade and Bing Crosby starting to sing I‘ll be Seeing
You. He thought about his prisoner, Viktor Müller, Only
ten more hours until the execution. The VOA interrupted
the broadcast to report on the Battle of Aachen, “…the
offensive of the American 1st and 9th Armies to the Rür…”
They, the Nazis, his side, were losing. The SS had begun
destroying the city so there would be nothing left for the
allies.
“So... we have come to this,” he said to the dog.
He contemplated the letter he had tried to write to his
wife. He missed her in his own way; he could think of
nothing to say. He grabbed the half-written note and
wadded it into a ball. He could only think of Viktor Müller,
the Khamsa, the letters… Müller and his perfect German.
Müller the soldier, the spy. Müller refusing to give out any
information. Drink some more schnapps, have another

~ 49 ~
cigarette, he told himself again. Same name, same eyes;
Hans knew or thought he knew, did Viktor? He poured a
glass of the strong liquor.
Hans‟ agitation grew. He tried to convince himself it
was all Viktor‟s fault. Viktor‟s fault he had not gone to
America. Viktor‟s fault that he had remained in Germany,
instead, rotting in that orphanage. Viktor‟s fault he‟d had
a hard life. Viktor, the brother who had never written him.
In truth, he was not quite so obtuse. They had been
simply a product of their time. Smashing his fists down
onto his desk in frustration, he upset his ashtray and his
prisoner‟s personal belongings; the Khamsa, two letters,
and a pair of pictures fell out of the wallet. Marguerite
went under the bed in the corner.
After calming the dog and cleaning up the temper-
induced mess, Hans picked the wallet and its contents up
from the floor.
“Hmm, lucky man. She is quite a good looking girl,” he
said to Marguerite, gazing at the two photographs once
again and showing them to the dog who again cocked her
head to the right and moaned loudly as if in agreement.
One photo was of a dark haired girl in coveralls and a
welding mask, the other of the same girl, in a dress, with a
baby. She had signed them both on the back. One was
signed ‗Con tutto il mio amore, per sempre, Rosa e il tuo
figlio, Giovanni Vittorio‘ and the other ‗Eccomi! La divisa e il
mio maschera per saldatura, ti amo, Rosa.‘

~ 50 ~
 Staring at one of the letters, he fished around in his
back pocket. From a long black leather billfold, he
produced the other half of the Khamsa. As he matched the
two halves together again, with shaking hands, he felt the
lump well once more in his throat and his eyes begin to
warm. Moving back to the window, hoping the cold night
air would help the stinging sensation in his eyes, he
watched as the snow continued to fall outside the tiny
window. Head in hands, he closed his eyes to try to
picture the way it had been, before all this.

~ 51 ~
Chapter 6
Augsburg, Germany 10 January 1923
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
Benedict tu in mulieribus, et benedictus
fructus ventris tui, Iesus.Sancta Maria,
Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.
Amen.

Hans arrived at Heiliger Gregor Berufshilfe with Father

Franz late in the afternoon. He had missed lunch and he
was very hungry. There would not be another meal until
7pm so Father Franz brought him to the kitchen for a
glass of milk and some bread. Hans had refused to speak
the entire way to the orphanage, but Father Franz was
sure that the boy would come around after a few days.
Father Johannes was the resident doctor to whom Hans
was obligated to visit upon arrival. They checked Hans for
fleas, scabies, and bathed him in hot water with stiff
brushes. In fact, they scrubbed so hard Hans thought his
skin would come off. His Pater Donatus wounds were also
examined to ensure they were healing properly.
“These metal ties will have to be removed in a few
weeks, my son; other than that you look just fine,” said
Father Johannes patting Hans on his dark wavy head.
Hans remained reticent and sullen; he was not
convinced and could have done without the scrubbing.
After having his head shaved and receiving his uniform,

~ 52 ~
pajamas, underwear, boots, and a sweater, Hans was
escorted to one of the dormitories where he would live with
24 other boys of varying age and type. Some were even
more unlucky than he and had no parents at all, though
he did not see it that way. Hans would have preferred
never to know his father than to have watched the
suffering of his grandmother and brother, what he had
done to Hans notwithstanding.
Hans put his meager belongings under his bed as
directed. Some of the other boys were curious and came
over to chat with him; Hans did not talk to anyone. He
only stared out the window in silence thinking of Viktor,
his mother, and grandmother. Dinner was called within an
hour and Hans lined up with the others to be brought to
the dinner hall. They were all assigned a seat
alphabetically which meant some of the boys had to move
down a seat. After a bit of momentary confusion on their
part, they settled down to say their prayers before the
meal was served. Hans did not know the prayers; a priest
scolded him and boxed his ears for not reciting them with
the other boys. After dinner, Father Franz came to him.
“My son, I know this is not your religion and these are
not your prayers so I will help you. In no time you will be a
good little Kadolische,” he touched Hans‟ left shoulder
affectionately and Hans watched him walk away thinking
contemptuously, I will not learn your prayers, not in a
million years will you make me.

~ 53 ~
 Hans had been there for a week before he decided it
would be better to learn everything they tried to teach him
instead of fighting them. The priests were no more loving
than his father had been and were just as quick to hit him
at the first misstep, if he refused to eat the pork sausage,
or if he got the Catechism wrong. He did not like it there,
but at least they had three meals a day and his bed was
warm. He liked learning the Latin and tried to translate it
into Hebrew and Yiddish whenever he had a moment to
himself. That is, when he was not writing letters to Viktor.
He knew Viktor was too young to read, but he hoped
his Aunt Hadassah and Uncle Efraim would read them to
little Viktor so, when he was old enough, Viktor could
write to him. What he did not know was that only his Aunt
read his letters then promptly disposed of them. Viktor did
not know that Hans had ever written a single letter.

It was Wednesday, the day they all went to confession.

Some of the boys, especially the ones that had been there
in the orphanage for a while, had to make up a few sins;
they did not think the priests would believe them if they
said they had touched themselves only once or hadn‟t any
impure thoughts. Hans did not have that problem. He was
still playing catch-up with all of his previous sins. He
thought if he spread them out a bit; he would have an
easier time. He was wrong. Not only did he say penance

~ 54 ~
for all the sins, but he was also made to say Pater Noster
thrice for having “forgot” about them in the first place.
Hans was not fond of confession. His Jewish roots told
him that the only real sin was that of being idle. Herr
Silverman taught him that the yetzer hara (force of evil) is
given to a person from the time he leaves the mother‟s
womb. However, it was something you could escape as
long as you had no ties to the material things that made
up your physical existence. In other words, free will. The
Catholics seemed to believe you could confess the bad
things, pray a little, and everything was fine again. That
there was no free will, only God‟s.
Hans remembered from Proverbs that there were there
were six things ‗that the Lord doth hate.‘ But now, the
priests taught him there were Seven Deadly Sins: Luxuria
(Lust), Gula (Gluttony), Avaritia (Avarice), Acedia (Sloth),
Superbia (Pride), Invidia (Envy), and Ira (Wrath). One so-
called sin in particular confused Hans a great deal. Wrath,
or Anger, in the Hebrew Bible, is only sinful when it leads
to things such as cruelty, murder, or persecution. As an
emotion felt by an individual, Anger is painful, but not
sinful. Though these concepts seemed strange to Hans at
first, he gradually grew to understand and accept them.

Nearly four months passed and Hans grew accustomed

to his new environment. Hans‟ grandmother had always
made sure they observed the Passover so this year, his

~ 55 ~
first Passover without his Bubbeh; he did not quite feel so
bad since the Catholics were celebrating Easter on the
same day, 1 April. On the Jewish holiday, they had the
Seder. The Catholics celebrated the holiday with lamb like
the Jews though not prepared the same way. Even with no
bitter herbs or matzah, he still found it tasty. His birthday
was in 11 days, but Hans was indifferent. He did not think
the priests would be observing the day nor did he believe
his father remembered or cared although he harbored
secret hopes of a rescue or at least a cake. Every year after
that for four years it was the same.
Under Father Franz‟ tutelage, Hans learned the
Catechism and Compendium. He grew out of his aversion
to praying to Mary or Jesus, which at first he felt was
idolatry. He gradually accepted the Catholic beliefs as his
own even though, sometimes, he secretly said his prayers
at night in Hebrew; it made him feel closer to God. Hans‟
first communion was to take place on his 11th birthday,
Easter Sunday 1925. He was older than the other boys
taking their first communion; he‟d had quite a late start.
It was in his fifth year at the orphanage that Hans‟
luck changed. His Confirmation, scheduled for the Sunday
before Easter, was for him a kind of new beginning and
appropriate for the holiday. At the same time, a couple
had been to the orphanage multiple times searching for a
boy to adopt. What Hans did not know was that they had
chosen him, sight unseen. He only knew he was to meet
them on Easter. They knew that he was not born a

~ 56 ~
Catholic and it made no difference. Wilhelm and Else
Henker had no children of their own and were growing
desperate to adopt a boy of Hans‟ age. They were already
in their 40s; Else felt she was too old for a very young
child. Therefore, Hans, at nearly 13, was perfect.
Hans met the Henkers in the courtyard behind the
visitor‟s hall. Though Hans was a bit shy at first, he
warmed up to Else quickly.
“I did not know you would be so tall, mein kind!‖
exclaimed Else. Hans smiled looking at his feet,
embarrassed.
“I guess I am, umm… baumlang for my age.”
“Oh, the girls will be knocking on the door in no time,”
said Wilhelm, embarrassed once again, Hans turned
bright red.
“I don‟t know any girls,” Hans replied, still a shade of
pink.
“You will, my son, you will,” said Wilhelm Henker,
patting him on the back.
They talked of Vienna, how beautiful it was there and
through the Henkers, Hans felt as though he had been
there all of his life. They talked of sending him to the
Gymnasium, a real school with many different sorts of
boys who all went home for lunch and at night after
classes. They told him that if he was bright enough and
worked hard, he could go to the University in Vienna...
that is, if he wanted to come live with them. Hans was
very excited at the prospect of having a new family, but at

~ 57 ~
the same time a bit mistrustful. He did not understand
why these two people would want him. After their meeting
he wondered, Why are they so keen to help me? Wo ist der
Haken? Is this one going to beat me like my father? He
went to Father Franz for some guidance.
“My son, they are two lonely people without children
who want only to do something good for someone, like
yourself, who has not been as fortunate as they,” Father
Franz reassured him.
“They are very good people. We would not let you go to
people who would mistreat you.”
Hans cheered a bit; happy with the answers he
received from Father Franz. He began to look forward to
the day in two weeks when the Henker family would
become his own.

~ 58 ~
Chapter 7
Baltimore, Maryland 1 March 1923
We must reduce our state apparatus to the utmost degree of
economy. We must banish from it all traces of
extravagance, of which so much has been left over from
tsarist Russia form its bureaucratic capitalist state
machine… Will not this be a reign of peasant limitations?
No... In this, and in this alone, lies our hope. Only when we
have done this shall we, speaking figuratively, be able to
change horses, to change from the peasant, muzhik horse
of poverty, from the horse of an economy designed for a
ruined peasant country, to the horse which the Proletariat is
seeking and must seek — the horse of large-scale machine
industry, of electrification, of the Volkhov Power Station, etc.
V. I. Lenin, Better Fewer, But Better, 1923

All passengers had disembarked the SS Bayern and

Immigration Officers made sure all papers were in order;
all were escorted to the massive waiting room. Hadassah
Sanger put down her newspaper and glanced at her
watch. She had been reading the excerpt from Lenin‟s new
book, Better Fewer, But Better, while waiting for her little
Viktor. A Russian Jew who converted and is now an
atheist; published in the Washington Post... interesting, she
pondered. After a health inspection, immigrants were
asked about where they were going, how were they to
provide for themselves, and if they had any relatives in the
United States. Frau Sanger was asked nothing; Viktor

~ 59 ~
was, after his hour-long examination for communicable
diseases, released to his Aunt.
Hadassah hired a taxi to take them directly to Penn
Station in downtown Baltimore. From there, she sent a
telegram to her husband telling them they had arrived
safely. To get to Los Angeles they would have to take a
regional train to Washington, DC, then board the Capitol
Limited to Chicago, Illinois. From Chicago they would take
the Southwest Chief, which would bring them straight into
Los Angeles (via Kansas City, Missouri, Dodge City,
Kansas, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Flagstaff, Arizona, and
across California‟s Mojave Desert). Efraim would be
waiting for them. It would take them a week to get home,
but Viktor was excited all over again to see things he had
never seen before.
Before he had left Munich, Paula Hildebrandt had
started to teach him to read. They had begun reading a
book about the American Indians and their hunt for
buffalo. He was excited to see Indians and buffalo. He was
sure they were everywhere though he had not so far seen
any in Baltimore. Aunt Hadassah had assured him he
would see buffalo when they passed through the Great
Plains. He did not know where those were, but his
excitement grew all the same.

They had a long stopover in Chicago so Hadassah took

Viktor to Marshall Field‟s on State Street to buy some new

~ 60 ~
clothes. It is the biggest building in the world! Viktor
thought. He was almost correct. Hadassah told him it was
the largest department store in all of America. He was
awestruck. There were restaurants and smoking rooms for
men and for women. There were six floors of men‟s
furnishings and clothing alone! There was a ceiling made
of blue glass that seemed to Viktor as a Bavarian sky,
glowing in the amber light of the lamps. After shopping,
they had tea in one of the salons; Viktor ate so many
cakes and finger sandwiches, his stomach hurt.
They started back to the train station after 1430 and
waited for the 1515 train bound for Kansas City, Missouri.
Viktor was sleepy, but vowed to himself not to fall asleep
until he had seen buffalo. It was spring and the sun would
be up for at least another hour or two after they departed
Chicago so he was sure he would spot one. Viktor was
asleep 5 minutes after he sat down in their compartment.
Hadassah looked fondly at the sleeping boy and
smiled, petting his wavy hair, said softly, “Mein Hartzeniu,
I think you will have to wait for tomorrow to see your
buffalo.”
He finally woke up as they pulled into Kansas City. He
was instantly upset, thinking he had missed all of the
buffalo and Indians.
―Nein mein kinderlekh, even though you have been
asleep for nearly 13 hours, you have not missed a single
thing,” laughed Hadassah.

~ 61 ~
 Viktor was relieved to hear the best was yet to come.
As they passed through Kansas, Viktor saw sprawling
wheat fields and farms, larger than any he had ever seen
in Germany. They had arrived at Union Station in Kansas
City just before dinnertime; they expected to arrive in
Dodge City at 7:15 the next morning.
Viktor awoke at 5:00 am. The Kansas plains were
splayed out before him. He had almost given up when on
the horizon he finally spotted his buffalo; an entire heard,
though a small one. His Aunt Hadassah had told him that
long ago, white men, not the Indians, had come and
hunted the buffalo until they were almost gone; they were
only now, after 50 years starting to come back. He lay
back in his couchette and imagined hunting with Indians
until he fell asleep again.
Viktor glued himself to the train window as they pulled
into Los Angeles and followed the riverbank. He was
amazed at the size of his new home. It was a vast city;
there were orange groves and oil wells on all the hills.
Viktor thought the wells looked like giant bugs, dipping
their noses into the earth; there was a massive new sign
under construction on a hill they called Mt. Cahuenga. It
was to have electric lights all around it; saying
―HOLLYWOODLAND.‖
Uncle Efraim picked them up in a studio car at the
Santa Fe station, opposite the Salt Lake Railway on First
Street; he brought them to the home he had just
purchased in an area called Beverlywood on Monte Mar

~ 62 ~
Drive. Four-year-old Viktor was to have his own room; he
cried the entire first night in it, ending up in bed with
Hadassah and Efraim. Eventually, he became used to
sleeping alone; then he wondered how he ever slept any
other way.

~ 63 ~
Chapter 8
Dachau, Germany 10 October 1944
Return to thy sober senses and call thyself back;
and when thou hast roused thyself from sleep and hast
perceived that they were only dreams which troubled thee,
now in thy waking hours look at these (the things about
thee) as thou didst look at those (the dreams).
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 167ACE

Hans shook himself out of his reverie. He lit a

cigarette, crushing the empty pack, threw it at the
wastebasket, and missed. Should have adjusted for
elevation and wind, he thought hardly amused. Billie
Holliday was interrupted by another report on Aachen. It
was the same report that he‟d heard two hours before. He
tried not to think of his SS or Wehrmacht brethren
burning one of their own cities to the ground. He stood
and stretched. Pacing, he was beginning to feel like one of
the “Special Security Prisoners.” Their doors are not locked
either. God, only nine more hours until the execution.
“I need to get out of this room,” he said to himself,
restlessly, “maybe someone will have some coffee down by
the special security block,” Shitty excuse, he thought.
All of this was chipping away at Hans‟ stoic
comportment. He‟d always thought he had self-control,
but now… Peering out the tiny window, he was happy to
see it had stopped snowing, for the moment anyway.
Closing the window, he ran his hands through his hair

~ 64 ~
once more; put on his cap and belt. He fished another
pack of cigarettes out of his kit, just in case, he thought.
Pulling his greatcoat close, he left the room without
turning off the radio or locking the door.
“Marguerite, you coming?” The shepherd jumped up
and scampered out the open door.
Striding across the compound towards the special
security block, he noticed the wind had shifted. He could
now smell the full effects of the crematoria. He gagged;
almost vomited, he swallowed hard to repress the urge.
That would look splendid, he thought, a grown man and
Obersturmbannführer throwing up from a slight whiff of an
unpleasant smell. He lit another cigarette to cover the odor
rising from the chimneys and tried to convince himself the
smell was gone.
Arriving at the block, he found an Unterscharführer
and a Rottenführer trying to keep warm next to a fuel
drum filled with scrap paper and wood. There were three
more Schützen and a Sturmmann walking around the area
making sure nothing was out of place. Marguerite sat
down behind Hans and grumbled softly at the guards.
―Heil Hitler!‖ the SS soldiers saluted their officer
ardently.
―Heil Hitler,‖ replied Hans indolently.
―Sie sind krank, Herr Obersturmbannführer?‖ asked
Unterscharführer Pfrommer.
“No, I am not ill, just tired, very tired. Should we be
lighting the way for our enemies with this fire?” responded

~ 65 ~
Hans taking off his gloves and offering up cigarettes to the
troops, hoping to distract them.
“The terror attacks happen here only once nightly,
Herr Obersturmbannführer. We are quite safe now,” replied
Sergeant Pfrommer.
The Rottenführer had indeed made some coffee and
they were all too happy to share it with one of the most
important men in the Sicherheitsdienst.
―Ich möchte den Hochsicherheitsgefangener Müller
abfragen,‖ Hans announced after he‟d finished his first
cup of coffee and taken a second.
“Well, it is not the regular hour for an interrogation
Herr Obersturmbannführer, but I am sure Herr
Obersturmbannführer Weiter would be in accord,”
responded the Unterscharführer as he hurried to let Hans
into the unlocked cell.
“I really could not give a gnat‟s ass how
Obersturmbannführer Weiter feels about it,” Hans retorted
with an acerbic smile as he entered the cell. The soldiers
laughed nervously at Hans‟ boldness.
Müller. Hans stopped to look at the weary disheveled
prisoner.
―Guten Abend, Herr Müller,‖ Hans greeted the man.
Hans shouted out to the soldiers, “It‟s quite dark in
here, someone find me a lamp… quickly!”
The Rottenführer brought Hans a small kerosene lamp.
It did not do much, but it‘s better than total darkness,
thought Hans. Closing the door, he set the lamp on the

~ 66 ~
floor of the cell between them and surveyed the tiny area
to which his prisoner had been relegated. Müller was
much thinner than the last time Hans had seen him two
weeks before. None of his wounds, obtained in their first
meeting, had healed. Marguerite seemed to remember him
and moved to sit next to Müller.
“Do you know why I am here?” inquired Hans.
―Nein.‖
“Are you sure?”
“Ja. Unless you mean to beat me again and that will
get you nowhere,” answered Müller apprehensively,
slumping in the darkness.
―Möchtest du eine Zigarette rauchen?‖ Hans offered the
pack of cigarettes to Viktor. Taking two and thanking his
captor, he added that they would not buy him any
information either.
“I‟m cheap, but not that cheap,” said Viktor.
“I see. Well, Viktor… may I call you Viktor? I think we
should speak English; the walls have ears, you know.”
“And what makes you think that I speak English, Herr
Arschficker?‖
“Ahh, very gracious. Well, Your German is too...
perfect, shall we say? It is perfect accent-less High
German. And from a man who claims to be from
Augsburg? Even I have an Austrian accent.
“I am quite sure you speak English; Italian too. You
are obviously an educated man. So please Viktor, do not
insult my intelligence,” said Hans, growing slightly

~ 67 ~
impatient; he began tapping his gloves on his palm, by
some means keeping his cool.
“OK, calm down Sport, don‟t flip your wig. You win,
lets us flap our gums in English,” Viktor responded in
perfect American jive, smirking at Hans.
“I will have to assume that „flapping gums‟ means to
talk, yes?”
“Hey, you catch on fast. On the other hand, maybe
you‟re just more of a wise-head than you let on. Can I get
some o‟ that Joe off ya‟?”
“Sorry, „Joe?‟”
“Yeah Sport. Some java, coffee... that brown juice in
the tin cup you‟re holdin‟ in your mitts.”
“In my „mitts?‟ Ah, certainly,” Hans poured some of the
coffee into Viktor‟s canteen cup.
“Yeah, you‟re all right when you wanna be. See Sport,
if you wanna yap, we‟re gonna yap my way, and that‟s the
way it is. None of these suckers knows what I‟m talkin‟
about so you‟re just gonna have to pay attention… get it?”
“Yes, absolutely, I do,” Hans nodded his head.
“Swell. So, you were gonna give me the third on
something?”
“No, no, I just wanted to talk with you,” protested
Hans.
“Well then… got a match?” said Viktor readjusting
himself and setting fire to one of his cigarettes with the
matches Hans tossed to him. He filled his battered lungs

~ 68 ~
with the tobacco smoke, and coughed. Marguerite muzzled
her way under his free hand, licked it, and groaned.
“Excuse me, Princess! Hey, you know you got a self-
petting mutt?” Viktor smiled for a moment.
“Alright, so spill it, Sport.”
“It… it‟s just that, well, I found this in your personal
belongings,” Hans blurted out, offering Viktor‟s half of the
Khamsa in his hand.
“Oh, I get it! You can‟t gimme the rap for a spy so,
you‟re gonna try to finger me for bein‟ a Jew... kinda
hinkey, ain‟t it?” trying to laugh; coughing from his broken
ribs. “Well, so long as you‟re tryin‟ to make me out a Heeb
that sorta reminds me of this joke I heard. Esther marries
Moishe, a real religious, but sexually backwards kinda
guy. So, on their honeymoon night, he climbs up on top of
her an‟ then he just lays there, like some kinda jackass.
Esther is all frustrated an‟ finally yells, ‗Daven, Moishe!
Daven!‘ Hooo, I kill me!” Viktor chuckled.
“I am not sure I understand your joke and that is not
at all the reason, Viktor.”
“So what then? What, you want my life story? Lookit,
I‟m no bunny, but guess it won‟t hurt at this point; you
gonna give me a case of lead poisoning anyhow, right
Sport?”
“„Lead poisoning?‟ Ah...Yes Viktor, I have orders.”
“Yeah, yeah, don‟t we all... an angle, a story, „orders,‟”
Viktor groaned a bit as he sat up to get a better look at
Hans.

~ 69 ~
 “Where you want me to start, Sport?”
“From the beginning, please.”
“Well, lemme see… Ok, on the square, I was born
somewhere around here, well, not too far from here
anyways, at least I think so... don‟t know where we are
exactly. The „rents kicked off when I was a kid so, I got
sent to live with an uncle who was lousy with dough in the
States. Savvy? Umm, you follow me so far?”
“Yes, I think so,” Hans replied, even though he was
having quite the difficult time understanding Viktor‟s
slang.
“Right. So, I go to school, learnt English, played
baseball, learnt the piano, go to college, an‟ join the Army.
How‟s that?” asked Viktor, taking a long drag from his
cigarette before snubbing it out on the floor of his cell.
“Not enough Viktor, I need to know more. What did
you study at University, are you married, have you any
children, would you like for me to write to them?” Hans
offered.
Growing more suspicious, Viktor challenged, “Hey…
what gives? What kinda Chinese angle you lookin‟ for?
How come you‟re so damn interested in my life? I already
told you more than I shoulda‟. I got nothing more to say to
you ‟cept maybe to shove in your clutch and fuck off!”
Hans lit a cigarette and sighed. He rose and stepped
out of the cell for a minute for some fresh air. The air in
Viktor‟s cell was stale and fetid. Hans took a deep breath
of the cold outside air and asked the soldiers on guard for

~ 70 ~
some more coffee, if it was available; it was. Viktor was not
telling him much. He had to try to get more out of him. He
filled the cup to the brim with the steaming coffee and
went back into the cell.
“I thought I told you to blow... take a powder. Get it?
I‟m not sayin‟ anything else,” said Viktor insolently,
coughing.
“Please, Viktor… anything you say to me will remain
with me only. I shall tell no one, there are things, however,
I must know,” Hans pleaded softly.
“Yeah, right! You‟re a goddam Nazi, a regular button
man, the honcho even! Why the hell should I trust you? I
don‟t believe a stinkin‟ thing you say. You‟re all full o‟ shit.
An‟ thinkin‟ you can take over the world! That‟s a laugh.
“I‟m tellin‟ ya‟ Sport, you guys are getting‟ nowhere
fast, see? The American boys are on your front porch.
You‟re all screwed, blewed, and tattooed! You‟re runnin‟
outta gas, got it Sport? Don‟t really matter if you make me
out a spook or not; they‟re still comin‟.”
Hans knelt down in front of Viktor and pulled out his
long black billfold.
“I already told you, Sport, no dice. You don‟t got
enough scratch to buy me off.”
From the billfold, Hans produced his own half of the
Khamsa and a letter; he held them out for Viktor to see in
the dim lamp light. Viktor looked at the piece of gold and
the envelope indifferently.

~ 71 ~
 “Where‟d you get them? Steal „em from some poor Yid
you put the screws to? I bet you let him have it too when
you were done with ‟em, you rotten shysty snake.”
“No,” Hans replied quietly, “the Khamsa is mine. My
grandmother gave it to me... before she died. And this
letter I found among your things.”
Viktor‟s throbbing broken fists clinched his anger and
pain causing him to tremble; through thin lips he hissed,
“You‟re a snoop and a fuckin‟ liar.”
Hans moved closer to Viktor and poured him some
more coffee. Viktor did not protest though he wanted to
throw it in Hans‟ face.
“Listen Viktor,” Hans pressed in a near whisper, “I may
be many things, none of them, to you at least, very
honorable. And you are right; for years, I have been
lying... to everyone. Lying to the party, my wife, and most
of all, to myself. I am tired of lying, Viktor…”
Regaining his calm, Viktor interrupted, “Look Sport, as
long as we‟re fessin‟ our love for each other, could I get me
another Gasper off you? A butt, Sport?”
Hans gave Viktor the rest of the cigarettes, save three
he kept for himself.
“I still don‟t trust you. Your story‟s just not movin‟ me;
I really don‟t give a shit whether you lie to your frail or
not.
“In fact, I couldn‟t care less about your dead granny or
anything else about „cha. But you gotta be on the square
with me if you wanna know more.”

~ 72 ~
 “And „on the square‟ is honest, is it not?” asked Hans
“Yep, you got it, Sport. So, give.”
“Yes, yes, I will… „give,‟” Hans took a deep breath.
“When I was very young, about 8 years old, my
grandmother died leaving my younger brother and me
alone with our father. On her deathbed, she broke this
amulet in half and gave a piece to each of us. Since our
father did not want us, he sent one of us to live with
family in America and I was sent to an orphanage.”
Viktor lit a cigarette and took a long sip of the still
warm coffee. “Well, ain‟t that a sad story. I‟m real broke
up. Sheddin‟ a tear for ya‟, Sport,” he said sarcastically.
“Please, hear me out.”
“I‟m listenin‟, keep spewin‟.”
“I wrote to my brother in America often, but never
received a reply. I spent five years in that orphanage until
I was adopted by an Austrian family and went to live with
them in Vienna,” Hans exhaled years of burden.
“So, what do you want... a cookie? What the hell does
all this crap have to do with me?”
“Viktor,” said Hans cautiously, “I believe… I believe
that you are my brother who was sent to America.”
Viktor sat in the dim light of the cell blowing smoke
rings, trying to take in all he‟d been told; he said nothing.
Hans lit a cigarette off the end of the one he had just
finished and squatted on the cell floor, hoping Viktor
would respond auspiciously.

~ 73 ~
 Viktor eyed the somber man, “Wow, you lose a screw,
Sport? Like I told ya‟, all my relations bought a farm long
time ago. But if you just gotta know, here goes. I studied
Economics and Accounting at UCLA, that‟s the University
of California, Los Angeles.
“I met a sweet twist and we got hitched. We got a kid, a
boy... cute little Schlingel. I worked for my uncle for a
while in the movin‟ picture business doin‟ the books then
you guys started raisin‟ a real stink; I figured I‟d help out
good ol‟ Uncle Sam. That enough for you?”
Hans sighed. He realized Viktor was not going to tell
him what he wanted to hear. Perhaps I was mistaken.
Perhaps he is not my…
“How do you explain these things then?” asked Hans
still holding the letter and the Khamsa.
“Oh that. Well, I musta got that gold thing from one of
the boys, uh... playin‟ cards, I think. And that letter? I got
it off one of the boy‟s that gave up the ghost,” Viktor
responded as casually as possible.
“Ah, I see,” said Hans rising, disappointed; checking
his watch, “well, I will bid you good night then and leave
you to rest. There are only eight hours left until dawn.”
“Eight more hours till I take the big sleep, eh?” Viktor
remarked; Hans looked puzzled.
“Take a dirt nap, commence to pushin‟ up daisies, you
know Sport… you throw me to the chop squad; I die. Ya‟
dim-witted jerk.”

~ 74 ~
 “A colorful way to put it, but, yes. Come Marguerite,”
said Hans tenuously, looking down at the dirty floor.
Marguerite hesitated, looking back at Viktor.
“Welp, guess I‟ll be seein‟ ya‟,” Viktor commented
evenly.
Hans hesitated, wanting to respond. Instead, turned
and closed the cell door on Viktor leaving the lamp inside.
He stood facing the outside of the cell door, staring down
at his boots for a moment until one of the soldiers asked
him if he was finished with the prisoner.
―Ja, Ich habe fertig,‖ Hans started to walk back to his
office as he heard the heavy latch click on the cell door. He
felt worse now than he had before and had nothing to
show for it. Arriving back in his office, he searched for
another pack of cigarettes in his kit. He wanted to throw it
across the room. You learned nothing from Epictetus or
Aurelius did you, he thought. Pulling off his coat and
boots, he glanced at the remainder of the schnapps.
“What does it matter?” he asked Marguerite and
poured the last of the sweet strong liquor into the glass.
Something was poking his leg through his pocket;
reaching in he found both halves of the Khamsa. He
matched the pieces together again; they fit perfectly.
“Oh Viktor, I do believe you were lying to me about the
letter and that card game…” Hans said aloud, nearly
choking; he put the letters, photos, and the whole amulet
into his billfold and began an attempt to finish the letter to
his wife:

~ 75 ~
 My Dearest Lotte,
I write you this letter not knowing if you are still alive. I
know that Munich is suffering much from daily attacks and
therefore I am not even sure, if you are still living, that this
letter will reach you. I have been in Dachau for this past
week; I will try to get home to see you as quickly as
possible. As you may know, the Allies have breached our
border at Aachen. In case of the worst, if I am taken
prisoner, and if it is at all possible, I want you to seek out
the Americans. Under no circumstances are you to speak to
or even go near the Russians. I want you to know that I do
love you, in my way, and I always will.
Affectionately Yours,
Hans, who misses you

Hans lay on the small bed unable to sleep. Well,

there‘s always the other bottle, he told himself. He kept
thinking about his prisoner. He would have to shoot him
in the morning. He always had to shoot them; the firing
squad would start the process and he would finish it.
Mostly the offending parties were dead by the time they
were turned over to him; he only shot them in the head to
be sure. Those were the rules, orders. And an order was
an order, was it not?
He sat up on the bed burying his face in his hands. He
tried to say the Ave Maria... ‗Hail nada, full of nada, nada
is with thee,‘ Hemingway or was it Chandler? Some jaded

~ 76 ~
American had written that, now Hans could not remember
the proper version. He moved to his kit where he‟d stashed
the other bottle of liquor. Ah, a nice 17 year old Johnnie
Walker Swing, more comforting than prayers, thought
Hans with a sour smile. Pouring a good bit into his glass,
he wondered how much of the Black Market Scotch
Whiskey he could drink before he passed out and missed
the execution all together.

Viktor sat on his blanket wishing Hans had taken the

lamp with him and left the dog. He could see his mangled
hands now and his black ankles. His coffee had grown
quite cold. Even with the broken fingers, he still managed
to light a cigarette with the matches Hans had left though
with difficulty. He had played hardball and lied to Hans.
Viktor knew who he was from the first moment he saw
him (or at least, thought he did), nearly a month prior,
when his Nazi captors brought him to that hotel, or
whatever it was, in Berchtesgaden for “questioning.”
“Aww, dammit. Dammit all,” he said aloud, beating his
head against the wall of his cell. He was not sure why he
would not admit what he knew to Hans. Maybe, he
thought, it‘ll be easier on Yohannan this way. He thought
of his wife, Rosa; their boy, knowing he would remember
him fondly; Viktor tried to remember his own father, but
could not.

~ 77 ~
 He thought about how he and Rosa Maria, Shoshanna
Miriam in Hebrew, had met and how happy his Aunt
Hadassah had been that the girl he chose was “a nice
Jewish girl.” Their anniversary was in December, 3 years.
Rosa and her dark olive green eyes and black hair, Rosa
and her nasty temper, Rosa bringing him coffee in the
morning before he ever left the bed. Wish I could stop
thinkin‘ about all that, he thought mournfully; reminiscing
overcame him.

~ 78 ~
Chapter 9
New York City, 12 April 2005
And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a
place toward the South, and fell on his face to the ground,
and bowed down three times; and they kissed one another,
and wept one with another, until David exceeded
‗Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the
name of HaShem, saying: HaShem shall be between me
and thee, and between my seed and thy seed, forever.‘
Tanakh, 1 Shmuel 20:41

“Just a minute Mr. Meyer, I need a new tape,” Sam

Rosenberg said, hastily digging through his bag for a new
mini-cassette.
“Sorry but, I am a bit „low-tech.‟”
“Good grief, din‟t I tell ya‟ to call me Ari? And
whaddaya mean „low-tech,‟ with your fancy-schmancy
tape recorder?”
“Oh well, most everyone has gone to digital these
days.” Sam responded.
“Digital what? Ach, I gotta go to the can anyhow so, do
whatever is ya‟ need ta‟. Be back in a flash.”
Ten minutes later Ari returned from the bathroom;
Sam expressed his misgivings about the entire dialogue.
“Well Ari, I must tell you, this is all very fascinating,
but I‟m not sure what it has to do with…”
“Aww, keep your wig on! I ain‟t even close to finished
yet. It gets worse believe me. An‟ I ain‟t even made my first

~ 79 ~
appearance! See, I din‟t meet Vik „til Camp Ritchie; he just
tol‟ me a lot of this stuff when we was trainin‟ together,
bits an‟ pieces mostly. Hans fillt in all the blanks after the
war was over an‟ he was in that POW camp.”
“POW camp? I see. Well, by all means, continue. I do
have some questions though.”
“Yeah? Wull, write „em down. Ask me when I‟m done;
I‟m liable to forget what I was sayin‟. I‟m old, ya‟ know,”
Ari said as he sipped on the newly refilled cup of coffee.
Sam laughed. “Oh Mr. Meyer, you‟re not that old!”
“Again with the „Mister‟ bit! How many times I gotta tell
ya‟ to call me Ari? Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, I was
gonna tell some more about Hans…”

~ 80 ~
Chapter 10
Vienna, Austria 18 June 1934
It is a mistake to believe that a science consists in nothing
but conclusively proved propositions, and it is unjust to
demand that it should. It is a demand only made by those
who feel a craving for authority in some form and a need to
replace the religious catechism by something else, even if it
be a scientific one. Science in its catechism has but few
apodictic precepts; it consists mainly of statements which
it has developed to varying degrees of probability. The
capacity to be content with these approximations to
certainty and the ability to carry on constructive work
despite the lack of final confirmation are actually a mark of
the scientific habit of mind.
Sigmund Freud, Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis,
1916-1917

Like most young men of twenty, Hans was enjoying the

summer and all of the girls that seemed to poor out of the
woodwork when the weather grew warmer. He was not in
the least bit shy, getting more than his fair share of
attention from the young ladies. Unfortunately, for them,
Hans took himself far too seriously; he had decided that
most of the girls he met were either silly or just not worth
the bother, in other words, not worthy of his attention. He
did know one girl, Hilde, who was interesting enough, for
now. Nevertheless, Hans, who was about to start his third

~ 81 ~
year at Universität Wien, had other things on his mind and
Hilde was about to leave on a long vacation.

The summer had begun on an interesting note. Hitler

and Mussolini had their first meeting. Mussolini was
defending his support of the Austrian chancellor,
Engelbert Dollfuss, and Hitler was denying any intent to
annex Austria. Hitler however, made it clear that he
desired to see Austria in Germany's mandated territory.
The Austrian Nazis had embarked on a more severe course
of action; they conspired against officials to force the
appointment of a Nazi-dominated government.
Dollfuss‟ administration learned of the plans before the
putsch began on 25 July, but did not prepare sufficiently.
Although the army and the Heimwehr (the armed militia
originally associated with the CSP or Christlichsoziale
Partei) remained loyal, the coup failed, and Dollfuss killed.
Mobilization of Italian forces on the border halted German
intervention.
Meanwhile, Hitler had disavowed any association with
Dollfuss‟ murder and rejected his Austrian followers. His
goal of the eventual annexation (Anschluss) of Austria
remained though. Kurt von Schuschnigg succeeded
Dollfuss as chancellor; his political survival was entirely
dependent on Mussolini‟s support for an independent
Austria, which by 1935, would not be coming at all.
Things were about to begin to get even more interesting.

~ 82 ~
 Hans was keenly aware of the gravity of the situation.
He pressured his father, over breakfast, to let him quit the
university and join the army. Wilhelm, who had been a
Colonel and a hero in the Great War of 1914, adamantly
refused. He knew that Hans was an earnest and deliberate
young man, but he wanted him to experience more of life
before he followed his father‟s example. He did not want
Hans to miss the things, the mirthful optimism, that he
had missed by joining the military at such a young age.
“Do you think I do not see what is coming?” Wilhelm
asserted. “These men are going to carve up Europe
amongst themselves. They will not stop until Austria is a
part of Germany. Hitler will never reclaim the Südtirol. His
lap dog, Mussolini, is much too important to him.”
“But Vater,” reasoned Hans, “perhaps it is not such a
bad thing to be annexed by Germany. We will have one
economy, one government, one great army!”
Wilhelm put down the morning paper and eyed Hans
for a minute before continuing calmly.
“Mein Sohn, I know what you are thinking. You think
there will be a war and you will miss it. I was a young man
once too, you know. Do you think I do not understand
your passion?
“All I ask of you is to finish your education first, maybe
see some of the world, and then, if you still feel the same,
take a commission in the army. It will be much better to
be an officer, to be with people of the same class.”

~ 83 ~
 Hans sat silently staring down into his coffee cup.
Were they truly his ―own class?‖ He knew the older man
was right and Hans respected him above all else, but he
could not help the way he felt. He was twenty years old
and did not feel like wasting any more time in classrooms.
Hans left the table without saying anything, grabbed one
of his books, and went out to meet his friend Emil at
Stadtpark. As he walked the two blocks to the park,
hoping the sun and fresh air would clear his mind, Hans
breathed the summer air deeply and thought how truly
lucky he was to live in such a beautiful city.
From his house, he had a view of St. Stephen‟s
Cathedral, the streets lined with trees and flowers, and
there was a coffee house on nearly every corner. He had
loved Vienna since the day he arrived almost ten years
ago. He found Emil in the sun near an oak, threw himself
down in a sunny spot next to the tree, and began reading
Marcus Aurelius‟ Meditations. They were there for an hour
before they had their serenity disturbed by a female voice.
―Grüss Gott!‖
Hans looked up to find two young women peering
down at him. He immediately went back to his book.
“Well, hello girls. Where have you been keeping
yourselves?” asked Emil.
“I said, hello,” the girl repeated to Hans.
“I heard you the first time,” replied Hans.
“Oh, don‟t mind him, Er ist schrecklich langweilig...
very serious,” Emil cracked, frowning.

~ 84 ~
 “It must be horrid to be thought of as a bore! But who
is this handsome friend of yours, Emil?”
“Hans Henker from Schellinggasse, you know that,
silly,” Emil said to Aliske.
“Why do you ask?” Hans said pretending to be reading
still.
“Since Emil is so rude and has not introduced us, Ich
heisse Aliske Esterházy und dieses ist meine Schwester,
Lotte. We live down the street from you.”
Hans looked up from his book, “Your point being
what?”
“My point is that I was trying to be sociable, but if you
are going to be ein unausstehlicher Mensch then we will
not bother you. Come on Lotte, let‟s go,” said Aliske
indignantly.
“No, don‟t go I am sorry. Please, sit with us,” said Hans
apologetically, finally putting the book down.
“Only if you promise to be nice!” quipped Aliske.
“I promise.”
“So what are you reading?” Aliske asked as they sat.
“Something dreadful,” interjected Emil, laughing.
“I am reading Marcus Aurelius,” Hans answered
glowering at Emil.
“Ew! Just like my sister, always with her nose in some
moldy old philosophy book,” Aliske wrinkled up her nose
at Lotte.
“You like philosophy?” Hans asked Lotte.
“Yes,” Lotte said.

~ 85 ~
 “You don‟t talk much do you?” said Hans smiling at
the honey-haired girl.
“Aliske talks enough for the both of us,” said Lotte.
“Oh, that is so true!” interrupted Aliske, “Papa says I
am a regular Schnatterliese. That I cackle on just like a
chicken. Talk, talk, talk all day and night.”
“No? That can‟t be!” said Emil, still laughing.
“Oh, Emil, you are such a tease. If you were not so
cute I‟d pinch you!” squealed Aliske.
“I see,” said Hans still smiling. Looking at Lotte in the
sunlight Hans thought he recognized her from somewhere.
“I have seen you before, have I not?” Hans directed the
question to Lotte, but Aliske answered for her.
“Well, I should hope so! We only live six doors down
the street!” she said laughing.
“And Lotte was in French class with you all last year!”
added Emil as he tried poking Aliske in the ribs causing
her to giggle more.
“French?” asked Hans. Lotte nodded her head.
“I sat behind you. You must have never turned
around.”
“I do not attend the university to stare at hübsches
Mädchen,‖ Hans said defensively.
“Obviously! And you are a most serious young man,
aren‟t you,” said the still giggling Aliske.
“I am very serious and have no time for silly girls.”
“Hey, you promised to be nice!” chided Aliske.
“I warned you!” Emil said.

~ 86 ~
 Feeling himself start to blush, Hans dropped his head.
“That I did. Again, I am sorry. I have had a rough
morning and probably not fit company. Your name,
Esterházy, is that the same Esterházy that...”
“Oh yes, the very same,” prattled Aliske, “in 1919 they
abolished the nobility and Papa had to go to work. They
took away most of our land, it‟s in four different countries
now I think, except the land over in Eisenstadt, that‟s in
Burgenland you know, and Papa‟s a banker now. He
works with Herr Rothschild,” she smiled and exhaled.
“Breathe, Aliske, breathe!” Emil jested.
Happy that Aliske had come up for air, Hans asked
Lotte, “But you studied French… English too?”
“No, only French… and Italian for my music. Papa
says they are the most civilized languages.”
“Music?”
“Don‟t you like music?” asked Lotte.
“He likes that somber old man stuff like Dvořák,” Emil
said mockingly, hitting Hans in the shoulder.
“She‟s going to be a concert pianist,” announced Aliske
“isn‟t that exciting?”
“Yes very,” Hans remarked, trying to remain matter-of-
fact.
“Do you like Debussy?” Lotte inquired.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hans
“Well, perhaps you can come and listen to me practice
sometime,” she said smiling.

~ 87 ~
 “Oh dear, look at the time! Lotte, we have to go. We
promised Papa we would return before lunch,” Aliske
twittered to the two men, both girls rose to leave.
Emil and Hans jumped up to bid the girls good bye;
Hans discovered that both Aliske and Lotte were very tall.
He was over six feet and Lotte was only a few inches
shorter. She turned to shake his hand and he noticed her
large eyes were the color of lapis lazuli.
“You could teach me to play the piano… and I… I
could teach you some English,” Hans blurted out,
instantly embarrassed he had done so.
“That would be very pleasant Hans Henker. We will see
you soon then I hope.”
“Yes, umm… soon.”
After the sisters had left, he was unable to concentrate
on Marcus Aurelius. He could only think of Lotte and her
creamy skin and golden hair. Her cerulean eyes and
Cupid‟s bow mouth; he knew than he was im Eimer sein.
“I said do you want to go have a beer?” Emil repeated
loudly.
“Oh, sorry. I wasn‟t listening.”
“Must have been those eyes, eh?” Emil joked, slapping
Hans on the back as they left the park.

That summer Hans went to the Esterházy house

nearly every day to visit with Lotte and listen to her
practice. He would sit in the music room with her loosing

~ 88 ~
himself in Debussy‟s Clair de Lune or Liszt‟s Liebestraum.
Lotte never learned to speak English very well, but Hans
was quite the quick study at the piano. Lotte had taught
him to play Beethoven‟s Moonlight Sonata in about three
months and Chopin‟s Nocturne in E Flat Major within one
year.
When her father was not home, they occasionally
would smuggle in American sheet music and play popular
songs. Although he was sure he would never be as good as
Lotte, he was impressive for starting at such a late age. If
the weather were especially nice, Lotte and Hans would sit
outside in the sun and discuss philosophy, poetry, and
politics. He liked that Lotte was knowledgeable in these
things and he did not have to explain the conversation to
her.
Lotte‟s birthday was on 22 August; Hans knew she
liked Brahms so, as a birthday present, he took her to
hear Brahms‟ Symphony No. 3 in F at the Konzerthaus.
She had invited him to her party, which was to be a formal
affair. Even though he was an educated and well-
mannered young man, he felt slightly out of place among
the former royals and their mildly pretentious friends.
Most of them talked about the past and some, fearfully, of
the future. Hans kept silent taking it all in.
Lotte had always made it clear to Hans that she was a
“good girl,” but she also made it plainly obvious that he
was the only one she wanted and he could have her
anytime. Hans hesitated though. He had been with other

~ 89 ~
girls before, but this girl was different. This girl he cared
for and respected; it seemed almost unreal.
The first time Hans and Lotte had sex, he was worried.
He was afraid she would notice his circumcision and begin
asking questions. He thought of the saying, Kratze einen
Geliebten und du findest einen Feind. Lotte was in the bed
propped up on pillows when Hans came out of the
bathroom.
“Don‟t you want me to put out the light?” asked Hans
gingerly.
“What for, mein Gspusi?‖ Lotte said and she pulled
down the covers to reveal herself. Hans stared at her
angelic white skin for a moment.
“You are very beautiful,” he said as he slowly began to
undress and climb into bed. Lotte never mentioned
anything.

In April of 1937, as Hans was in the final preparations

of his thesis before he was to graduate with his Magister in
Economics, Franco seized power in Spain and the German
Luftwaffe bombed Guernica. A few days later Neville
Chamberlain signed his Appeasement Policy, which
meant, for Hans and the rest of the Austrians,
―Anschluss.‖ Austria was about to be part of Hitler‟s
Germany. Wilhelm broke the latest news to Else and Hans
over dinner.

~ 90 ~
 “Have you seen the papers, Hans?” Wilhelm asked in
between bites.
“Ja Vater, Ich habe es gelesen,‖ replied Hans poking at
the meat on his plate.
“You know what this means, of course... Anschluss!
Hitler will get his way after all,” said the old soldier
through his potatoes.
“And what is wrong with Herr Hitler? He is doing great
things for his country! A country Chamberlain helped to
destroy!
“Do you think they do not owe us this much? Do you
not think we could do great things if we were a part of
Germany too?” Hans expostulated.
“Mein Sohn, I am with you, you do not have to
convince me! It is the rest of the world I am worried
about... and you. You will take a commission after you
graduate?”
Hans dropped his eyes to his uneaten meal. He knew
how his mother felt about it, but he had wanted to
emulate his father since the day he had left that hateful
orphanage. His mother had returned from the kitchen just
in time to hear his response.
“Yes.”
“Hans no!” Else exclaimed, dropping the bread on the
floor, scattering pieces across the room.
“Everything will be fine Mudi, I am educated, and I
speak three languages. They will probably find me a desk
job somewhere,” he stood, embracing his mother to soothe

~ 91 ~
her; he knew it would be all right; Wilhelm was not as
sure but kept it to himself.
“What about Lotte?” Else asked mid sob.
“We will see, Mudi. If she‟ll have me, I will marry her
and take her with me.”
“But,” she sniffed, “how will you explain your, oh, you
know…”
“Circumcision, Mudi?” Hans volunteered to alleviate
her discomfort with the subject.
“We have already spoken to a doctor, Else. We have
told them he had sustained an injury as a small boy and it
had to be done. They can reverse it with few if any
complications, though they have said it might be a bit
painful. Modern medicine is wonderful, is it not? And now,
if you do not mind, Hans and I would like our coffee,”
Wilhelm said resolutely.
Hans knew that he and Lotte were not of the same
class, but he gathered the courage to ask her father for
her betrothal. Initially, Herr Esterházy, a former baron,
was not thrilled. He wanted his eldest daughter to marry
someone of wealth and stature. He relented, however,
when Hans explained he was taking a commission in the
Allgemeine Schutzstaffel. That, for Herr Esterházy, was
nearly as good as royalty. Lotte and Hans were married on
27 November 1937, just before he received his official rank
as SS-Obersturmführer, at Saint Stephen‟s Cathedral.
As the proud fiancée, she had wanted to wait until
after he had gotten his commission so that he could wear

~ 92 ~
his uniform. Though Hans was as pleased with his
achievements as Lotte, he was afraid he might be sent off
right away; he preferred to do it sooner than later. The
Nazis had given him an immediate promotion to 1 st
Lieutenant owing to his knowledge of languages; they had
big plans for Hans.

In March of 1938, after the official Anschluss ceremony

on the 13th, Hans transferred from the Allgemeine
Schutzstaffel to the regular Schutzstaffel (SS) and then,
because of his gift for languages and attention to detail,
sent to the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) which, along with the
Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo), was a part of the
Sicherheitspolizei. They gave Hans another promotion to
SS-Hauptsturmführer (or Captain). There, under the
tutelage of SS-Obergruppenführer (Lt. General) Reinhard
Heydrich, he honed his skills in the intelligence field.
For better or worse, the Gestapo and SD frequently
came into authoritative conflict with each other. This was
due in large part because Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller,
chief of operations for the Gestapo, thought the SD to be
an agency full of imbeciles. Müller was a typical middle-
rank officer; a man of limited imagination. He was a-
political, non-ideological, and his only passion lay in his
drive to perfection in his chosen profession and in his duty
to the state, which, in his mind were equal. A diminutive
man with piercing eyes and thin lips, he was a talented

~ 93 ~
organizer and completely ruthless. He lived only for his
work. Hans thought it impossible to have a conversation
with him; it was always, more or less, an interrogation by
Müller.
Müller had hoped that Hans‟ appointment, as
Heydrich‟s assistant, would lead to some sort of
competence within the SD. The SD had just been made the
intelligence organization for the State as well as for the
Party; it was supposed to support the Gestapo. The SD
was tasked with uncovering enemies, be they actual or
spurious, of the Nazi government and the “neutralization”
of any opposition. To accomplish this task, the SD created
a framework of agents and informants throughout
Germany and, later, its occupied territories.

As September rolled around, Hitler, desperately hoping

for war with the west, was setting the wheels in motion to
annex the Sudetenland on the Austrian-Czech border. He
had far exaggerated the military power of Germany at the
time, though all were convinced otherwise. Reluctantly,
Hitler was being pushed by Mussolini into holding a
conference in Munich.
Mussolini, who was as unprepared for a European or
worldwide conflict as everyone else, was also concerned
about the growth of German power. On the 29th, Britain‟s
Chamberlain, France‟s Daladier, Mussolini, and Hitler all
signed the Munich Agreement. This gave Germany control

~ 94 ~
over all the Sudetenland and over the rest of
Czechoslovakia, as long as Hitler promised to go no
further. No Czechs were invited to the conference.
Hitler, who regarded Chamberlain with loathing, had
been heard to say later, “If ever that silly old man comes
interfering here again with his umbrella, I'll kick him
downstairs and jump on his stomach in front of the
photographers.”

At the same time, Hans was introduced to Reinhard

Gehlen. Gehlen was a Hauptmann (Captain) in the
Wehrmacht and was attached to Army Chief of Staff,
General Franz Halder. Gehlen was twelve years Hans‟
senior and had been an officer in the Reichswehr since the
early 1930s. Eventually, Hans and Gehlen would work
very closely within the intelligence field and become even
closer friends. Both men shared a love of the arts,
languages, and music. Though the Nazis frowned upon
religion, he alone aided Hans in becoming one of the
catholic Knights of Malta.
Following Reichskristallnacht, Crystal Night, in
November, Hermann Göring appointed SS-
Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich as head of the
Central Office for Jewish Emigration. It was from this
position that he and Hans would help Oberste Führer
Hitler get information, frequently just gossip, on the
Reich‟s opponents. It was also from this office that

~ 95 ~
Heydrich would become one of the premiere architects of
Endlösung: the “Final Solution.”
Nazi troops moved into Czechoslovakia on 15 March in
1939. There, Hitler proclaimed the German Protectorate of
Bohemia and Moravia. Mussolini‟s forces invaded Albania;
Hitler effectively abolished his 1934 Non-Aggression Pact.
On 3 September, Britain, France, followed by India,
Australia, South Africa, and New Zealand, declared war on
Germany. Two days prior, Hitler and his troops were in
Poland; Warsaw surrendered just 26 days after its
invasion. Heydrich had no qualms about what the answer
to the “Jewish problem” was and issued a letter:

21 September 1939
Berlin
Secret!
To: Chiefs of all Einsatzgruppen of the Security Police
From: SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich
Subject: Jewish Question in Occupied Territory
I refer to the conference held in Berlin today, and again
point out that the planned total measures (i.e., the final aim)
are to be kept strictly secret. Distinction must be made
between:
I. The final aim (which will require extended periods of
time) and
II. The stages leading to the fulfillment of this final aim
(which will be carried out in short periods).

~ 96 ~
 It is obvious that the tasks ahead cannot be laid down
from here in full detail. The instructions and directives
below must serve also for the purpose of urging chiefs of the
Einsatzgruppen to give practical consideration to (the
problems involved). For the time being, the first prerequisite
for the final aim is the concentration of the Jews from the
countryside into the larger cities.
SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich
Heil Hitler!

But Hans had not been in Poland. He had been on

another mission in Berlin at number 11
Giesebrechtstrasse, by order of SS-Obergruppenführer
Reinhard Heydrich himself. Known as ―Operation Kitty,‖
the mission had been created to soothe Heydrich‟s worry
of careless security leaks in high places. With war quickly
approaching, it was crucial to identify and eliminate any
loose tongues. Though Hans did not think, initially, this to
be an important mission and balked, he gradually grew to
enjoy it.
SS-Hauptsturmführer Hans Henker was not a man to
do things halbwegs gescheit (half-ass). The orders gave
him an idea for a kind of surveillance “blanket check.” As
an alternative to using a brothel, he would completely take
one over. Hans handpicked a team, of specially trained
girls, to file reports immediately post-coitus-and-
confidence sessions with dignitaries. And, in case

~ 97 ~
something slipped the girls‟ minds, every room was
bugged, so that SD agents in a basement control room
could record every word, moan, sigh, and exclamation of
pleasure.
Kitty Schmidt had the only high-class brothel worthy
of consideration in Berlin. When she had tried to leave
Germany in June, Hans had her arrested for (mostly
bogus) crimes “against the state,” among which included:
helping Jews to escape, illegally exchanging German
marks, illegally transferring money abroad, attempting to
leave Germany without permission, and using a forged
passport. The charges meant death or an open-ended
vacation in a “labor camp.”
But Hans was more than prepared to be reasonable
and purred to the 57 year old woman, “If you can do
something for me”, he said, “perhaps I can do something
for you.”
Kitty agreed to the handsome young officer‟s
proposition; in reality, she had no room to bargain. She
handed her brothel over to the SD, asked for no
explanation, did what she was told, and signed an official
document which stated “on penalty of death” she would
never divulge a word of what went on. A number of
“decorators” moved into Kitty‟s brothel to give it an
interesting facelift. The interior was dismantled and
completely rewired, microphones in all bedrooms, lounges,
and corridors. A large cable with multiple wires ran the

~ 98 ~
length of the gutters, along a drainpipe, and finally into a
top secret bricked off subterranean vault.
Four or five desks, each with two turntables, were
installed to record the events upstairs. Everything that
went on in those ten rooms could be recorded
concurrently on wax discs. In the meantime, Hans was
searching for girls to cajole the unsuspecting into filling
the records with reckless words. The Berlin Sittenpolizei
carried out an extraordinary number of incursions into
brothels, nightclubs, and on street corners. Literally
hundreds of girls were examined, interviewed, and then
rejected as “emotionally unreliable.”
Doctors, linguists, and professors all helped Hans
reduce his list of about 90 girls down to 20 in a week of
non-stop tests and interrogations. The awe-inspiringly
beautiful girls they selected were taken to a sealed-off
wing of the officers' academy at Sonthofen. For nearly
eight weeks, they went through demanding courses of
foreign languages, hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship,
foreign and domestic politics, economics, and the use of
codes and ciphers. The girls had to memorize charts of
military uniforms and decorations; Hans and his SD
officers were on hand to demonstrate how to solicit secrets
from seemingly innocent conversation.
During this period, Hans had gone home to Austria to
retrieve his wife, Lotte. He brought her to Berlin to an
apartment that had been confiscated from a former Jewish
banker who had disappeared. Lotte did not ask questions

~ 99 ~
and was sure that whatever Hans was doing was for the
good of the Fatherland, even when he had to make
“cursory inspections.”
By March 1940, all was ready for the launch of
―Operation Kitty,‖ Hans briefed the Madame, “You will
carry on as before. You will welcome all of your old
customers and keep your existing girls, if you like. But
now and then, we will send around special clients. Under
no circumstances will you introduce him to one of your
regular staff.
“You will show him instead this album of 20 girls.
After he has made his choice, phone her up. She will
arrive within 10 minutes. Afterwards, you will not speak
with her and she will leave immediately after he has gone.”
“How will I recognize these „special‟ visitors, honey?”
Kitty asked.
Hans told her, “They will use „I come from Rothenburg‟
as the codeword.”

Two weeks later, a young SS officer on leave was used

to test Hans‟ system. The young officer did indeed come
from Rothenburg and unfortunately, for him, he became
the guinea pig. Hans and his colleagues tuned in as the
poor unwary young man prattled on about his home, his
relatives, and his devotion to the Führer. But his chosen
girl had paid attention in class! After she flattered his zeal
and dauntlessness, he began to brag of his unit's looming

~ 100 ~
transfer, adding, “If you ask me, the Führer has his eye on
Sweden.”
Hans was elated with his triumphant eavesdropping,
even if he did have to arrange for a court martial. There
were to be many more to follow since there seemed to be a
never-ending supply of “Rothenburg Romeos.”
Soon after, ―Operation Kitty‖ was handed over to
another officer. Though SD Headquarters were located on
Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin, Hans was promoted to SS-
Sturmbannführer (Major) and attached to an internal-
counter-intelligence and foreign espionage unit near
Munich; he brought Lotte along and ensconced her in
another confiscated house in Munich. He hated Munich; it
reminded him of his boyhood. He tried to stay at the Hotel
Platterhof in Berchtesgaden, the southernmost SS/SD
Headquarters in Germany, as much as possible.
After Dunkirk, and throughout 1940 to 1941, Hans
was kept busy with a steady stream of suspected spies.
Hitler had begun and ended the Battle of Britain, Romania
was invaded to “defend” its oil fields, Franklin Roosevelt
was elected President of the United States for the third
time, and Kaiser Wilhelm II died in June of „41 in the
Netherlands. On 22 June 1941, Germany began
―Operation Barbarossa,‖ the invasion of Russia. Hans‟
close friend, Reinhard Gehlen, had been attached to the
contingent at the Russian front and promoted to
Oberstleutnant (Lt. Colonel). Gehlen sent much
information and transferred many suspects to Hans.

~ 101 ~
Sometimes they were taken to Berlin and interrogated,
sometimes to Berchtesgaden. They always vanished
afterwards though. That summer, Göring ordered
Heydrich (and he in turn, ordered Hans) to help “evacuate”
all European Jews.

~ 102 ~
Chapter 11
Los Angeles, California 21 June 1937
You're really swell, I have to admit, you
deserve expressions that really fit you.
And so I've wracked my brain, hoping to explain
all the things that you do to me.
Bei mir bist du schoen please let me explain
Bei mir bist du schoen means you're grand
Bei mir bist du schoen, again I'll explain
It means you're the fairest in the land
I could say bella, bella, even say wunderbar
each language only helps me tell you how grand you are
I've tried to explain, bei mir bist du schoen so kiss me,
and say you understand...
Secunda, Jacobs, Cahn, & Chaplin, Bei Mir Bist du Schoen
(rec. by: The Andrews Sisters, 1937)

Viktor left out of RKO‟s back gate and waved to the

guard; it was closer to Santa Monica Boulevard than
Paramount‟s main entrance over at Bronson. As he walked
down North Grower, passing the movie extras in Western
attire coming from the Columbia Drugstore, his friend,
Johnny Ruggiero, screeched to halt in his old 1926 Ford
Model T Roadster.
“Hiya Heeb!” Johnny yelled over the engine noise.
“Hiya Guinea!” Viktor responded.
“Jump in the Flivver, why don‟t cha?” Viktor leapt over
the still closed passenger door. It was wedged shut,

~ 103 ~
immobile, so everyone had to, literally, “jump in.” The
convertible top was stuck in a permanent down position
and full of holes, rendering it useless.
“So where was ya‟ headed?” asked Johnny as he
ground the transmission into first gear.
“Hooo, that sounds good! I was thinkin‟ a‟ goin‟ to the
Columbia up at Grower Gulch for a soda. You ever gonna
fix that thing?”
“Nag, nag, nag. Kind of a long walk, ain‟t it? I was
headed to Butch‟s house up on Franklin for a ball game.
How‟s about we drop in at Schwab‟s an‟ I‟ll grab a soda
with ya‟?” he said turning onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
The street had just been renamed State Route 2 and
followed the Red Car tracks from Hollywood out to Santa
Monica. At North Fairfax, they rolled through the stop sign
and made a right.
“Oi Vey, it‟s Kosher Canyon!” cracked Johnny with a
feigned Yiddish accent.
“Yeah, you‟re a real funny guy. Just jealous, I figure,”
said Viktor smacking him in the back of the head.
They continued needling each other until they turned
onto Sunset Boulevard and commandeered the first
parking spot they could find near Schwab‟s. Entering the
drug store, Viktor slid onto a stool at the counter and
ordered two Cokes. A new song someone was sampling in
the back of the store distracted Johnny; he went straight
back to listen. He returned in a couple of minutes excited.

~ 104 ~
 “Wow! I got a bang outta that new Count Basie song!”
Johnny said flopping into his seat.
“Yeah? What‟s it called?” asked Viktor sipping his
Coke.
“One O‟clock Jump. It‟s solid, man! This one mine?” he
asked reaching for his drink.
“Nah, I always order two for myself.”
“Wise-ass,” Johnny said throwing a napkin at Viktor.
The cosmetics counter was directly behind them and
Johnny had spun his seat around so he could observe the
girls working and shopping. He spied a girl he knew by the
perfume and jumped up to catch her before she left.
Viktor watched Johnny, shaking his head. That boy‘s
certifiable, he thought laughing to himself. Johnny started
back to the counter with his friend, Peggy, and her
girlfriend.
Peggy was cute, Viktor thought, with her short,
marcelled, coppery-red hair, and freckles, but the other
girl… She was little, just five feet tall; she wore a red
pleated skirt with tiny white flowers, a white blouse, and
no hat. Her black curly hair, tied back with a red ribbon,
was much longer than Peggy‟s and quite out of fashion.
With dark eyes and a cleft chin, she was beautiful.
“Hey Vik, looky who I found, good ol‟ Red! Oh… uh,
sorry Peg. An‟ this is Rosa Ghirondi.”
“Hiya girls,” said Viktor.
“So, Rosa here is fresh off-the-boat, from Rome, we‟re
almost paisan‟,” Johnny gushed.

~ 105 ~
 “Aren‟t you Sicilian, ya‟ lame-brain?” asked Viktor.
“Yeah, but we‟re still fellow countrymen an‟ all. „Sides,
she barely speaks English. That makes her a real WOP,
just like the „rents! An‟… hey, what is that smell?”
“Chanel No. 5, ignoramus! And that‟s not true,” said
Peggy, “she speaks English just fine, don‟tcha Rosa?” Rosa
started to blush a little and dropped her head to the floor.
“Now lookit what you did, she‟s all embarrassed, ya‟
drip!” squawked Peggy.
“Senti, Rosa... mi scusi, eh? Nun ho volut‘ imbarazzarti,”
Johnny apologized.
“Hey, why don‟t you two girls take a load off and sit
with us for a bit?” said Viktor hoping to prevent Johnny
from saying anything else even more stupid. The girls took
the spots in between the two boys and Viktor ordered four
more sodas.
Rosa sat next to Viktor and looked him over. She
found him pleasing to look at, for a Goy. His dark sand
colored hair and golden cat eyes fascinated her. Viktor
noticed her gaze right away, but said nothing. He rather
enjoyed it, really. American girls were not quite so direct
most of the time, unless they were those kinds of girls…
and her eyes.
“You live here all you life?” asked Rosa in accented
English sampling her soda.
“Nope. Moved from Germany when I was a kid,” Viktor
answered sucking the last of the coke noisily up the straw.
“You are German then?”

~ 106 ~
 “Nope, not any more. One hundred percent American,
„cept that I still talk the lingo.”
―Come?‖
“I can still speak the language. Oh hey, nice Star, you
get that in Rome?”
“Yes, my Nonna give it to me,” she said as she fingered
the Magen David around her neck, putting it back inside
her shirt.
“That why you guys left Italy?” asked Viktor not really
wanting to know the answer.
―Sì, Mussolini, he begin to pass the laws. To be a Jew
is… contra il legge. You understand?”
“Yeah, I capisc‘. It‟s getting‟ to be like that for us all
over, I guess,” said Viktor staring into his empty glass;
playing with his napkin.
“You are Ebreo?” Rosa questioned realizing, happily,
he was not Goy after all.
“Yep, sure am. At least the good parts,” he smiled.
“And what you do here? You have a work?”
“Nah, not yet. My Uncle works over at RKO, that‟s
what I‟m gonna do when I finish up school. Go to work for
him, Sarnoff, and Schnitzer,” Viktor announced proudly.
“RKO is a studio, honey. It‟s where they make lots of
movies,” interjected Peggy, to the vigorously nodding Rosa;
she leaned on the counter, head on her hand, to get a
better look at Viktor.
“Hey, what am I... an orphan here?” demanded
Johnny.

~ 107 ~
 “No Johnny dear, it‟s just that Viktor is just so
yummy,” said the stunned Peggy, with her glazed eyes
never leaving Viktor.
“Aww geez, give a guy a break,” said the sulking
Johnny.
Viktor winked at Peggy slyly when Rosa and Johnny
were not looking, hoping she understood what he had in
mind.
“Well boys, we gotta be goin‟ anyhow. I gotta get Rosa
home,” Peggy said rising with a sigh.
“Where‟s home?” Viktor asked the tiny olive skinned
girl.
“The Fontenoy Apartment. Is on the street…”
“North Whitley, right?” said Viktor. Rosa‟s eyes lit up.
“Hey, maybe I could come over teach you some more
English some time?” Viktor suggested sheepishly.
“Hmm, perhaps. And I can to teach to you more
Italian,” said Rosa in a soft voice smiling.

A few days later, before Rosa had a chance to teach

Viktor anything, he made a date with her girlfriend, Peggy.
Though Peg was a sweet girl, Viktor‟s intentions were most
definitely dishonorable. He thought she was cute and
knew she liked him, but for him, it was “just one of those
things.” Since he had no car and did not feel like asking
his uncle to borrow the Ford, he stuffed Peggy on the front
of his motorcycle, on his lap and took her to the Santa
Monica Pier.

~ 108 ~
 They rode the carousel and had lunch. Later they went
under the pier; Viktor did not have to do much convincing.
Peggy had her sweater unbuttoned in five minutes and
Viktor was fondling what the other guys only dreamt or
talked about in the locker room. He pulled up her skirt,
was about to remove her panties, but Peg said she would
rather not, electing to give Viktor a hand job instead.
Viktor did not protest, assuming she wanted to keep her
virtue intact. He gladly reciprocated when she had
finished with him. They met under the pier on a semi-
regular basis that summer; Peggy turned out to be quite
proficient with both hand and mouth. Neither one of them
ever said anything to Johnny or Rosa.

Viktor had just completed his first year at UCLA.

Although he thoroughly enjoyed campus life, he was quite
happy it was over for the time being. Aside from working
with his Uncle Efraim in the accounting department at the
studio, he had no real responsibilities. His uncle paid him
just enough to keep a little gas in his 1930 Indian, buy a
beer, and take a girl out from time to time. Occasionally,
Viktor supplemented his income by loaning money to
Johnny‟s other Goy friends, with interest, of course.
He and Johnny would spend most days, when they
were not working, on the beach at Santa Monica.
Sometimes they would go to Schwab‟s, one of the juke
joints to play pinball, or a bar, and drink a beer where

~ 109 ~
Viktor would play the piano if they had one. Viktor and
Johnny frequently ate dinner at each other‟s houses and
Viktor particularly loved the spicy tomato sauce Johnny‟s
Mamma, Santa, would make with fresh pasta. Johnny
loved Aunt Hadassah‟s Kugel.
They had known each other for fifteen years, since
they had both arrived in Los Angeles. When they were
children, Viktor would smuggle Johnny onto the back lots
of Paramount and RKO to watch movies be made. They
never grew tired of trying on costumes and Viktor taught
Johnny parts of Hamlet so they could have proper sword
fights. Their pre-pubescent awkwardness had faded away
at about 14, revealing excellent athletes. They both had
been starters on the high school baseball team. Viktor‟s
musical talent, humor, and all American good looks made
him even more popular.
Johnny‟s father, Salvatore, owned a small produce
store on North Fairfax and Johnny was up at dawn daily,
even as a boy, to receive the new fruits and vegetables. His
parents could not afford to send him to the university so
he was being groomed to take over the family business.
Viktor stopped at the Ruggiero‟s market a few days later to
see Johnny.
“Hey Guinea, ain‟t seen you in a couple days. Been
busy?” asked Viktor stealthily removing a peach off the
fruit stand and taking a big bite.

~ 110 ~
 “Ain‟t it like a Heeb ta‟ steal a piece a‟ fruit. Gimme
that!” said Johnny taking the mutilated peach from
Viktor‟s hand.
“But I wasn‟t done with it,” complained Viktor through
a mouthful of peach.
“Yeah, I been busy. Some of us ain‟t so lucky as other
guys around here, ya‟ know,” Johnny responded tossing
the peach back to Viktor while stacking crates of lemons.
“Just wanted to say hiya. I got a date so, gotta go,”
Viktor said as he spun around to leave.
“Hey, who with? Oh wait, lemme guess… little, Italian
maybe, cute dimple?” Johnny‟s question was interrupted
by his father‟s impugnment.
―Giovanni! Basta chiacchiericcio! Sei proprio un‘
pigrone. Dobbiamo lavorare!” he barked from inside the
store.
“Si, Pa.”
“Have fun with them lemons!” Viktor called as he
jumped on his motorcycle waving and throwing the peach
pit into the gutter.
“Yeah, your sister‟s face!” Johnny shouted with an
accompanying Italian hand gesture.
“If I had a sister, I‟d tell her you said so!” he yelled
laughing, speeding off down Fairfax towards Sunset
Boulevard.
Viktor arrived at Schwab‟s and, for once, it wasn‟t
crowded. He hung out by the magazine rack in the back of
the store waiting for Rosa to show up. She arrived a few

~ 111 ~
minutes later dragging Peggy along behind her. Viktor met
them at the counter.
“Hey, what gives? I thought this was a date?” Viktor
asked dumbfounded.
“Oh Vittorio, my Papà, he do no let me go without
someone so, I am bring Peggy.”
“Don‟t worry, lover boy, I‟ll make myself scarce and sit
at the other end of the counter,” Peggy said in her best
Mae West voice, winking, as she sauntered off. They took a
pair of seats in front of cosmetics and Viktor ordered Rosa
a root beer and a Coke for himself.
“Oh! This, it taste like Italian Chinotto!” Rosa
exclaimed.
“Yeah? Be nice if we could have a real drink.”
“A real drink?” asked Rosa
“Yep, you know... liquor.”
“Ah, no. Papà is no approve of that,” she said.
Viktor, waiting until Mr. Schwab had turned his back,
produced a small flask. He poured a decent amount of
rum into his Coke and re-hid the flask in his jacket
pocket.
“What do you guys say, cin-cin?” raising the glass in
toast.
“Sì ma, it is no too early for to drink?” queried Rosa.
“Nah, it‟s after three ain‟t it? Well, it‟s five o‟clock
somewhere in the world!” he said laughing.
“Hey, I saw that! I saw what you put in your Coke,”
said Peggy from behind them, arms folded in disgust.

~ 112 ~
 “Shhh! Whaaat? You think I‟m gonna slip her a Mickey
or sumpthin‟? What, with you breathing down my neck?
Drift!”
Peggy stomped off to her side of the soda fountain he
leaned over to Rosa and whispered, “Nosy broad,” they
both laughed. After a slightly awkward moment of silence,
Viktor mustered his courage.
“Hey Rosie, umm… would you think it was corny if I
asked you to go steady with me? To be my girl?”
“Ma, what is „corny,‟ Vittorio? Is like the vegetable?”
Rosa asked perplexed.
“Nah,” said Viktor laughing, “means hairy or old
fashioned. You know, kinda silly.”
“Oh no Vittorio, I think it is no „corny‟ at all. I think I
like that and I will say yes, if you ask.”
“Aww, that‟s swell! Ya‟ know Rosie, you‟re a great gal,”
he leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head
just in time for him to get her square on the lips. Viktor
was surprised, but Rosa intended that to happen and was
not in the least bit shocked.

Viktor spent every spare minute for rest of the summer

with Rosa. The years he spent running around with
Johnny, learning a little Italian, made it much easier for
him to communicate with Rosa‟s parents. They liked the
fact that Viktor made an effort to learn their language even
as they were learning his. They were an old Roman family

~ 113 ~
of Sephardic Jews. Eliseo Ghirondi, Rosa‟s father, had
been a professor of history in Rome before Mussolini had
declared it illegal to be Jewish. Most of Signor Ghirondi‟s
fellow intellectuals had left Italy for America; some had
been sent to labor camps.
Maria, Rosa‟s mother, had been forced to leave her
piano in Rome and had saved every penny until she could
buy a used one for their new home. Rosa played the violin
and joined Viktor in mini concerts, playing her favorite I
Palpiti by Paganini or his Bubbeh‘s favorite,
Zigeunermelodien, for her parents among others.
Sometimes Viktor would burst into popular songs or jazz,
which Rosa‟s mother found distasteful, but her father
liked the rhythm. He would encourage the young people to
continue, saying the music made him feel young again
and grab Maria for a dance.

Viktor was in his last year at the university when

Johnny showed up on his doorstep one Saturday morning
in late September. They had not seen much of each other
for the past year; they both worked long hours, Johnny at
the market and Viktor at school and the studio. When he
asked Johnny in for coffee he could tell something was
bothering him.
“Hey Heeb, how‟s the Economics world treatin‟ ya‟?”
Johnny asked limply.
“Not bad, Guinea. Where you been keepin‟ yourself?”

~ 114 ~
 “Just busy, I guess, with the store an‟ all,” he
answered wearily stirring the sugar into his cup.
“So, what do you know? What‟s new? Plant!” Viktor
asked turning his chair around backwards and motioning
for Johnny to sit.
“Umm... wull, ya‟ see… I kinda decided ta‟ blow this
town,” said Johnny still standing.
“Blow? Where to?”
“I was thinkin‟ San Diego,” Johnny took a large loud
slurp of coffee.
“San Diego? What for? What‟s there?”
“Wull, they got this swell resort down there; they call it
Marine Corps Recruit Depot an‟ I was thinkin‟ it might be
kinda nice to spend about twelve weeks there.”
“The Marines! You lost all your marbles? What‟ll your
Pop say?” exclaimed Viktor almost dropping his cup on
the kitchen floor; he set it down carefully on the table.
“He‟ll say nothin‟ see, cause I ain‟t tellin‟ „im till I get
back. And neither are you!”
“What? You‟re crazy!” Viktor got up to pace the room,
but Johnny stopped him.
“Lookit,” he said grabbing the front of Viktor‟s shirt,
“I‟m sick of fuckin‟ with the cabbage an‟ makin‟ with the
bananas, see? If I ever wanna crab the world, I gotta
dangle! I don‟t wanna end up like my Pa, dirt-old before
my time!”
“Figure out what? Crab the world? You just got here!”
Viktor squirmed away.

~ 115 ~
 “Oh yeah? I been in this country for about twenny
years an‟ guess what, all I ever seen is Los Angeles! I know
there‟s gotta be more to life than what‟s in this dump!”
“Well, I guess you gotta do what‟s best for you,” said
Viktor straightening his shirt and scratching his head.
“Yeah well, anything‟s better than stackin‟ them damn
oranges,” Johnny sipped at his half-finished cup and set it
on the table.
“So… when you gonna go to read an‟ write‟?”
“Tomorrow morning. There‟s an 8 o‟clock train from
Union Station, takes me straight in.”
“‟K, well… uh, I guess…” Viktor saw he wanted to go
and walked him to the door.
“Yep, see ya‟ round, Heeb.”
“Yeah. Take care of yourself, Guinea,” Viktor called out
of the front door.
Johnny turned around at the bottom of the steps and
looked up at Viktor. He knew what Johnny was going to
say. They knew each other well enough that neither really
had to say a word.
“Um, Vik…”
“Yeah, what‟s on your mind?”
“If anything ever happens ta‟ me, will ya‟ make sure
my family‟s taken care of? They‟re old an‟ I‟m all they got
left, ya‟ know.”
“What are you talkin‟ about? Nothin‟s gonna happen to
you!” Viktor protested.
“Yeah, well if it does. Just promise me, would ya‟?”

~ 116 ~
 “Sure thing, Johnny. I promise. Don‟t worry, I‟ll take
care of „em.”
“Thanks pal, so long!”
“Be seein‟ ya‟!”

Johnny graduated Boot Camp in December of 1940.

He had been writing to Viktor since he arrived at the
recruit depot three months before. Viktor knew how
important Johnny‟s graduation from MCRD San Diego was
to him; he brought Johnny‟s parents down to San Diego
on the train so they could proudly watch their son cross
the parade deck as the Honor Graduate. After the
ceremony was over the new Marines were told to get their
sea bags and get lost for 10 days. Johnny did not have to
be told twice.
Back in Los Angeles, Johnny tried to spend most of his
time with his parents. He knew that he might not see
them again for a while since he would go straight into
training when he went back down to Camp Elliot in San
Diego and then probably overseas. Viktor and Rosa spent
as much time with him as they could; Rosa even
introduced him to her adorable cousin, Elvira. Johnny
was not too happy with the idea, until he met Elvira.
“Aw, c‟mon… I don‟t wanna meet no off-the-boat Dago
dame! B‟sides, she‟s prob‟ly a dog! A real „butter face.‟ Why
else would Rosie be tryin‟ ta‟ shove her off on me?” Johnny
protested as they were going to pick up the girls.

~ 117 ~
 “Nope, she‟s as cute as Rosie, I swear! I met her couple
a‟ weeks ago,” Viktor assured him rounding the corner at
Hollywood Blvd. and North Whitley.
“You sure? I mean, she ain‟t got „summer teeth,‟ like,
some „er missin‟ an‟ some „er not?” Johnny worried.
“What gives? You afraid of kittens or sumpthin‟? We
just thought you‟d like to meet a nice Italian girl, that‟s
all,” Viktor said as they pulled up to Rosa‟s building.
“Yeah well, I only got two days a‟ leave left anyhow;
can‟t hurt, I guess, even if she is a real barker,” Johnny
said as he gloomily marched up the stairs.
They had parked the car, borrowed from Uncle Efraim,
in front of the apartments and gone up to the third floor.
Rosa‟s father opened the door and greeted them both with
a kiss. There was coffee waiting for them on the table.
Rosa and Elvira appeared within minutes.
―Giovanni, ti presento la mia cugina Elvira,‖ said Rosa,
introducing the two.
Elvira was an inch or two taller than Rosa. She had
the same cleft chin and black curly hair, but shorter in
length; her eyes were as black as onyx. Her skin was light
and the only makeup she wore was red lipstick. Johnny
looked as though he would faint; Viktor smiled at Rosa,
pleased with their handiwork.
Viktor had thought they should go to a real nightclub
for once. He drove to the Mocambo where he had reserved
a table for them even before Johnny had graduated. They
had dinner, drinks, and danced until it was time to take

~ 118 ~
the girls home. After they had dropped off Rosa and Elvira,
Johnny said to Viktor, “How come it is that you guys
didn‟t introduce us sooner?”

The night before Johnny went back to San Diego he

and Viktor went to a bar to drink some farewell beer.
Viktor told Johnny that he was going to marry Rosa.
“No foolin‟? Wow, that‟s swell! I couldn‟t be happier for
ya‟ both!” Johnny exclaimed.
“But there‟s… aww, I don‟t know…” said Viktor, head
in his hands.
“What? I‟d think ya‟d be happier than a pig in shit!”
“I am. But…”
“But what? Whaddaya got ta „but‟ about? I‟d say
nothin‟!”
“Johnny, she scares me. She knows me, I mean really
knows me. I can‟t fool her at all. I can act like the big man,
the smartest, and the strongest, but she knows better. I‟m
tellin‟ you, she knows what I think and how I feel…
without me even sayin‟.”
Johnny sat for a minute sipping his beer. When he
finally looked at Viktor he told him, “Vik, if I had what you
got I‟d never think twice. It ain‟t often that a guy finds a
girl who knows him like that. I mean, my own mother
might know me that well, but any other dame? You just
think about how lucky you are and know that the rest of
us are still lookin‟ for the same thing for ourselves.”

~ 119 ~
 On 13 June of ‟41, Viktor graduated from UCLA
Summa cum Laude. His Aunt Hadassah, Uncle Efraim,
Rosa, and her parents were there. Johnny had finished his
training and was already on his way overseas, he could
not get leave. He asked his parents, Salvatore and Santa,
to make sure they attended and wished Viktor well for
him. They all went to dinner at the Brown Derby that
evening to celebrate.
“Anybody hear anything from Johnny?” asked Viktor
while sipping his Mojito.
“Yes, yes, we receive a letter onaly yesterday from
Giovanni!” exclaimed Santa.
“He say he is in the Arizona at the Longa Beech... he in
some boat that go now to the Pacific.” Salvatore continued.
―On the Arizona in Long Beach,‖ Viktor laughed, “And
those big Navy boats are called ships. Bound for the
Pacific, you say? Seems to me I seen sumpthin‟ about it in
the papers.”
Salvatore nodded, a bit confused.
“Hmm… prob‟ly some tropical island,” responded
Viktor, “that lucky stiff!”
“I certainly hope he is not in any danger,” said
Hadassah
“I am sure Johnny will be just fine,” said Efraim
signaling for the waiter, “he‟s a big strong Marine now.”
Johnny had been writing Elvira every two or three
days. Her parents were not thrilled that he was not
Jewish, but they were relieved he was at least Italian.

~ 120 ~
Elvira had told Rosa that Johnny would arrive at his
destination sometime in July and might be able to get
leave in January, but not before. The command wanted
him to be at his post for a minimum of six months. Rosa
relayed the information to the others.
“Damn! I was hoping he could get back here for our
wedding in December,” pouted Viktor.
“Ma Vittorio, we can wait for Johnny, if you like; is no
hurry, no?” said Rosa patting Viktor‟s arm.
“Nope doll, we said December 7th and that‟s gonna be
the day!” he expounded, grabbing her to give her a kiss.
Everyone raised their glasses to Viktor and Rosa and to
Johnny, on his post, somewhere in the Pacific.
The next morning, as they were having their coffee,
Viktor and his Uncle Efraim perused the newspapers. The
Times‘ headline read Nazis Ready to Seize Control of
Ukraine; Viktor set the paper aside and watched his uncle
read Variety for a moment.
“Yes Viktor, I can feel you staring at me, what is on
your mind?” asked Efraim.
“You know what‟s going to happen, don‟t you? We…”
“Yes Viktor,” said Efraim putting down the paper, “I
know what‟s happening. And we, as a country are not yet
involved, though I know we will be.”
“How can you say we are not involved when just three
months ago, Roosevelt signed that Lend-Lease deal? And
what am I supposed to do, sit here?” queried Viktor.

~ 121 ~
 “Viktor, you are supposed to marry Rosa and raise a
family. That is the biggest insult to the Nazis, meisseh
meshina; we Jews are still here to reproduce as He
intended.”
“And so guys like Johnny get sent over to do the dirty
work so I can stay here in a nice safe office, drive a fancy
car, and fuck my wife?” shouted Viktor throwing the paper
across the room.
Efraim paused for a moment, sighed, took off his
glasses, and began to clean them. He had hoped there
would never be another war. He had had enough in the
Great War to last ten generations. He crossed the room
and took a book from the shelf.
Opening it to a marked page, Efraim Sanger looked up
at Viktor and spoke very quietly, “Hitler, may his name be
erased, wrote in this book, „The receptivity of the masses
is very limited, their intelligence is small, but their power
of forgetting is enormous. In consequence of this, all
effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points
and must harp on these slogans until the last member of
the public understands what you want him to understand
by your slogan…they more easily fall victim to a big lie,
than to a little one, since they themselves lie in little
things, but would be ashamed of lies that were too big…‟”
He closed the book sharply, but continued to speak.
“And those, those evil men in Germany are very wise in
their use of their propaganda but we as Jews and as
Americans will strike back at those „big lies‟ with such a

~ 122 ~
flame that will burn them to ashes and reiterate for us,
day after day, night after night, a mission... a noble
mission. When the time comes, Viktor, we will not stop
you, but, for now, please wait.”
Viktor did not know that his Uncle Efraim had owned
much less read Mein Kampf and he had never heard his
uncle truly curse anyone; he sat, silent and overwhelmed.
He knew waiting was the right thing to do. He had given
his word to Rosa, after all; he would not break that
promise.
Following a week of vacation, Viktor started working
with his Uncle Efraim at RKO on a full-time basis; Viktor
was making $70 a week! He and Rosa had made plans to
move her parents in with them as soon as they had
married and could find a place big enough for all of them.
Rosa, as the youngest of nine children, had been helping
her parents around the house for years; it was only
natural that her parents would go with her.

Viktor had been working at the studio for about four

months when one of the newer contract players came in to
pick up an advance in pay.
“Hey, whaddaya know! If it ain‟t little Bobby Mitchum,
what can I do you for?” said Viktor to the large burly man
who walked in without knocking.
“Call me little Bobby once more an‟ you‟ll be pickin‟
teeth outta the back o‟ your skull. Ol‟ Effie tol‟ me to come

~ 123 ~
an‟ get my four bits from you,” he said lighting a cigarette
while leaning against the wall.
“You need four bits? Sure, here ya‟ go,” cracked Viktor
throwing two quarters on the desk in front of him.
“Real funny jackass. Nah, not four bits. I mean Four
bits, as in $500… savvy?” said Mitchum.
“No shit?” said Viktor with feigned surprise, “„Ol‟ Effie‟
already called me... jackass.”
“Well quit fuckin‟ around then, sweet pea, an‟ gimme
my dough. I‟m in a hurry. I gotta go pay a guy,” said the
restless Mitchum squashing his cigarette out in a potted
plant.
“Why, he gonna bust your knee caps if ya‟ don‟t?”
asked Viktor handing him the money.
“Har, har, har. Thanks Vik,” the beaming Mitchum
said as he counted the money, “you‟re all right, a real
white guy.”
“Not a problem. Just remember it comes outta your
check for two weeks,” Viktor jibed as the big man walked
out of his office.
Mitchum stopped, turned, smiled, and said to Viktor,
“Don‟t I know it! An‟ like you‟re gonna let me forget?”
The Sangers frequently went to parties and movie
premiers; it was not surprising to Viktor when his Uncle
Efraim announced that they had been invited to Hearst
Castle in San Simeon for the weekend of 25 October. They
were celebrating the 13th anniversary of RKO; most of the
studio‟s heavy hitters had been invited. William Randolph

~ 124 ~
Hearst was a great patron of the arts, at least he thought
so, and his mistress, Marion Davies, had been a
successful actress until her retirement in 1937. Viktor had
already made reservations at Ciro‟s and, since it was not
always easy to get a reservation there, he opted to stay in
Los Angeles and take Rosa out for the evening.
Efraim Sanger left the Ford with Viktor that Saturday;
one of the chauffeurs from the studio drove him and
Hadassah to San Simeon. Viktor picked Rosa up at 8pm
for dinner. After cocktails, dinner, and Xavier Cugat, Rosa
leaned over and whispered to Viktor, “I thought your
family went away for the weekend?”
“Umm… they did,” responded Viktor, slightly
bewildered.
“So why we are wasting the time at the Ciro when we
can to be at your house?”
Viktor had not brought up the subject of sex with
Rosa. He knew she was a nice girl from a good family and
did not want her to think he was some kind of pervert. He
could get sex from any of the girls he knew; with Rosa, he
wanted it to be special.
“Are you sure that‟s what you want?” Viktor asked
gingerly.
“Sì. It is what I want for a long time… With you,” Rosa
said.

~ 125 ~
 Viktor drove to the house on Monte Mar Drive. The
house, built in 1921, was Spanish style stucco with a red
tiled roof. In the summer, it stayed cool on the inside
when it was hot out, but in the fall and winter, it could be
far too cold in there so he lit a fire. As Rosa looked around
and found a place by the fire, Viktor went to the kitchen to
make coffee. He stopped in the middle of the process
thinking, What the Hell are you doing? There‘s a gorgeous
girl out there waiting for you! He went back into the living
room and found Rosa facing the fire taking off her dress.
“Vittorio, why do you take so long? I am cold, come to
warm me.”
In the dim light, as she took off the green gown, he
could make out the shape of her breasts, her small waist,
and heart-shaped butt. He said a silent prayer of thanks
and went to Rosa who was nearly naked by this time.
“Don‟t waste the time, silly.”
“But Rosie, baby, we have loads of time.”
Rosa‟s features darkened. She stopped undressing him
and looked down. When she looked back up, there was a
different expression on her face and her olive eyes were
nearly black. She gazed into his eyes.
“Maybe no. Sai che verrà un‘ altra Guerra… Yes, there
comes another war, tesoro, you will go, I know it, I feel it.
So we must to make the most of this time we have. Subito
Vittorio.”
Viktor kissed Rosa on her full wide mouth. He
continued to kiss her until she was no longer cold and he

~ 126 ~
could feel her warmth. Rosa was not shy and
demonstrated her passion for Viktor through touches and
kisses. His mouth found her soft round breasts, her
fingers… her neck. Viktor explored every part of her body
and Rosa did not protest. Her legs wound around him.
And then he found the warm blazing softness, cool and
coiled, pressing tightly, holding, anticipating the rigid cold
external, hot within, long sweet rounded and hollow,
gratefully smooth, chest-heaving, dizzyingly clinched love
so that they could almost not stand it.
He brought her a blanket and a warmed brandy for
each of them. He lay back down next to her so that he
could hold her tightly. His mind wandered, split, and
soared.
“Rosie, what you said earlier, about the war…”
―Sì, dimmi Vittorio.‖
“How do you know I‟ll go? I never said…”
“Because, Vittorio, I know. You will think it is your,
umm… dovere. I don‟t know it in English.”
“Duty?”
―Ah sì, duty. I want you to know this… I believe in you.
I will be here when you return. Non ti lascerò mai, amore.‖
“But Rosie, if something happens to me and…”
“No, Vittorio. Sono sempre la tua. You are the only one,
always.”
Rosa‟s family more or less insisted on following the
Sephardic customs for marriage. So. on the afternoon of 6
December, there was a pre-wedding dinner, according to

~ 127 ~
her family‟s customs. Hadassah felt that the bride and
groom should not see each other for 24 hours before the
wedding, but gave in. The Avram Siz was to take place on
the Shabbat after. The next morning they were married at
9am.
At about 11am, as they were beginning the reception,
a young man who had been parking cars outside the
Country Club came running in to the hall, out of breath,
shouting that Pearl Harbor, Hawaii had been bombed.
Santa and Salvatore Ruggiero both paled. Someone ran to
find a radio. The entire place had been thrown into a state
of confusion. The radio found, they tuned it to stations
until they finally found NBC in the middle of giving a
report. Everyone silently listened to the broadcast:

―… Japanese planes attacked the United States Naval

Base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii Territory killing more than
2,300 Americans. The U.S.S. Arizona was destroyed and
the U.S.S. Oklahoma capsized. The attack sank three other
ships and damaged many additional vessels. More than
180 aircraft were destroyed. A hurried dispatch from the
ranking United States naval officer in Pearl Harbor,
Commander in Chief Pacific, to all major navy commands
and fleet units provided the first official word of the attack
at the ill-prepared Pearl Harbor base. It said simply: AIR
RAID ON PEARL HARBOR X THIS IS NOT DRILL.”

~ 128 ~
 “Ma, Giovanni is in the Arizona,” said Salvatore sitting
down at an empty table, in stunned disbelief.
There was not a soul who felt like a party after that.
Everyone went home to stay near his or her radio,
thinking Los Angeles or San Francisco may be next. Rosa
knew Viktor was worried about Johnny and his family;
she suggested they spend some time with the Ruggiero‟s
instead of going on their honeymoon. Viktor semi-
reluctantly agreed.
The next morning nearly everyone in America again
turned on his or her radio to hear President Roosevelt‟s
speech:

―Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the

Senate and the House of Representatives: yesterday,
December 7th, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the
United States of America was suddenly and deliberately
attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
The United States was at peace with that nation, and, at
the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its
Government and its Emperor looking toward the
maintenance of peace in the Pacific.
Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had
commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the
Japanese Ambassador to the United States and his
colleague delivered to our Secretary of State a formal reply
to a recent American message. And while this reply stated

~ 129 ~
that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic
negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of
armed attack.
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from
Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately
planned many days or even weeks ago. During the
intervening time, the Japanese Government has
deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false
statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused
severe damage to American naval and military forces. I
regret to tell you that very many American lives have been
lost. In addition, American ships have been reported
torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and
Honolulu.
Yesterday the Japanese Government also launched an
attack against Malaya. Last night Japanese forces attacked
Hong Kong. Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.
Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.
Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island. And this
morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.
Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive
extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of
yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of
the United States have already formed their opinions and
well understand the implications to the very life and safety
of our nation. As Commander-in-Chief of the Army and

~ 130 ~
Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our
defense.
But always will our whole nation remember the
character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it
may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the
American people in their righteous might will win through to
absolute victory…‖

A week after the President‟s speech, as Rosa and

Viktor were helping Salvatore stack fruit, they received the
telegram from the War Department:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore Ruggiero,

The Secretary of War regrets to inform you that your son
Corporal Giovanni PierAntonio Ruggiero was killed in action
in defense of his country on 07 December as a result of...
Stop Letter follows Stop The Adjutant General, United Sates
Marine Corps

They learned that a bomb from a Hiryu Kate hit the

starboard of Turrets 1 and 2. The explosion that followed,
which destroyed the forward of the Arizona, was due to the
ignition of the ammunition and black powder magazine,
under the deck in an armored section. Santa fell to pieces.

~ 131 ~
Salvatore was silent. Rosa tried to calm Santa, but they
eventually had to call the doctor.
After Doctor Hirsch had come and given Santa a
sedative, Salvatore broke out his special bottle of
Limoncello he had been saving for Johnny‟s return.
Johnny‟s remains would have to stay at the bottom of
Pearl Harbor with all of his fellow Marines and Sailors.
The ship had sunk next to its berth; it could not be
moved. He was to be awarded a posthumous Purple Heart
and Silver Star. This was of little consolation for Salvatore
or Santa.
“Medals? Ma, vaffanculo va! What he want with medals
now? Tu sai Vittorio, Giovanni was the onaly son I gotta
left,” the old man lamented as he popped the cork and
poured three tiny glasses.
“Yes sir, I know.”
“All the others, six of them, they die in Italia. Five, sì,
five boys I bury in Sicilia, one more, my Salvatore, the
oldest, is someplace in North Italy. È vicino Asiago credo,
near the Alpi, from the Grande Guerra… the first war. We
think to bring Giovanni here we do something good. We
think there no be no more war, there no be no more killing
here. Siamo in America, no? I was so, how do you say,
orgoglioso?”
“Proud, Signore,” Rosa said softly, smiling.
“Ah, si grazie, proud with him. My Giovanni, a United
State Marine, United State! Now, me and Santa, we are

~ 132 ~
old, we can no to have no more son. Now, who gonna be
Ruggiero when I die? Who gonna care for Santa?”
“Noi,” said Rosa.
“Yes, we will always be here for you both,” Viktor
agreed grabbing Salvatore and Rosa‟s hands.
“Ma perché Vittorio, perché… they take away my onaly
boy I got left?” Salvatore began to sob.
Rosa moved to put her arms around the old man to
comfort him. He cried so hard it physically hurt Viktor to
watch. Viktor knew then he could not prolong his
enlistment date and he would have to tell his new wife.
Rosa knew she would not be able to keep Viktor at
home much longer. She knew he would be joining one
branch of the military or another very soon. She could see
it in his face as he watched the old man. She told herself
to be strong; they would have time later. She did not really
believe it though.

In March, they all went to Union Station to see him off.

Viktor was going to be at Fort Benning, Georgia for 3
months. They called his kind “90 day wonders,” officers
who had very little training except for the basics. He was
expecting to be sent to the infantry since that is where the
officers were needed most, though he said nothing so they
would not worry.
Salvatore gave him some homemade Vino Russo, Santa
gave him cheese sandwiches, and oranges for the long

~ 133 ~
train ride. Hadassah had smuggled a pile of papers into
his pocket and told him not to tell anyone or read them
until he was safely on the train. Efraim gave him a book of
poetry by Herman Hesse. Rosa waited until the others
were finished. Her gift she simply whispered in his ear. He
was going to be a father. Viktor was too shocked to say or
do anything except hold his beautiful Rosa.
After he passed through San Bernardino, Viktor took
out the pile of paper his Aunt had given him. They were all
old letters, nearly 50 of them. Very old letters from his
brother Hans. Viktor set them aside turned his face to the
window and cried for the first time in more than twenty
years.
Nearing the desert, he picked up the letters again. All
of them had been opened and most were dated between
1923 and 1930. There was one though that was recent; it
was dated October 1937. He decided to save that one for
last. He put them in chronological order and began;
Viktor‟s Yiddish was still good, he had no trouble reading
them. The first from Hans was news, after he had gone to
an orphanage near Augsburg, Germany. Viktor could see
how forlorn and despairing he was in those letters from
the orphanage. He read how Hans was learning to be a
good little catholic boy and how he had made a few
friends. He also learned of the beatings Hans got from the
Priests, not unlike the ones they used to get from their
father. One of the letters from 1928 told of how he was
adopted by a nice family with money and position from

~ 134 ~
Vienna, Austria. Viktor felt as he had been holding his
breath the entire time he had been reading and finally
exhaled, relieved.
Hans had kept writing, Viktor thought. Though I never
got any of these letters, he kept writing. The tone of the
letters changed again in 1929. Hans had become an
unhappy and bitter young man. His new family was kind
enough, but expected much of him. He was dejected and
angry he had never received a reply from his little brother
whom he was sure was still living. By Viktor‟s birthday in
1930, the letters had become very angry and morose;
Hans had vowed not to write again. Only one more left,
from 1937.
Viktor sat holding it for a minute. He was becoming
very angry himself. He wondered why his Aunt and Uncle
had kept these letters from him all these years. Why
would they not want me to know my own brother? How
could they have done this, and why give them to me now,
he thought. The train stopped in Kingman and he got out
of the car, stretching his legs and smoking a cigarette, a
recent habit. They picked up the new and dropped off the
disembarking passengers. The conductor shouted for all
aboard; they were underway again.
He opened the last letter. The handwriting and prose
were not much changed from the young man who had
written seven years earlier. But this one was different...it
was in English. He set it aside. He had been reading
letters for some time and decided to save it for after

~ 135 ~
dinner. Might be easier to swallow on a full stomach, he
thought. Once Viktor had finished dinner and done his
pre-bed wash up, he changed into his pajamas and settled
into his berth for the night. He pulled the letter from his
pocket, took a deep breath, and began to read:

Dearest Viktor,
It has been a very long time since I have written. I am
sure you are surprised I am able to write to you in English. I
have studied the language for some years now and I
thought perhaps you had forgotten your German. The last
time I wrote to you I believe I was a bit harsh in my words.
But we both understand now how it is to be a 16-year-old
boy with so much passion for life. One can be so
unforgiving at that age.
I have much news so I will get to it directly. I have just
finished my Master of Economics at the University here in
Vienna. I am sure by now you are nearly finished with your
University as well, that is, if you went to University, which I
hope you have. I will be getting married in November. On
the 27th to be precise. Her name is Lotte Esterházy; she is
from a very good family, as you may know from history
classes. I will be taking a commission as well this year in
the Allgemeine Schutzstaffel.
Though I do not necessarily seek a military career,
taking a commission is likely the only way a foundling like
myself would be able to marry an Esterházy. I am not sure

~ 136 ~
what they will have me do exactly, but I am sure because of
my education it will be nothing too dangerous. That is what
I am trying to convince Mother, anyway. She does worry so.
I hope this letter reaches you. I am not sure if you have
ever received my letters. I do not know why Efraim and
Hadassah would not let you see them though. I would ask
if you are well, but I think, as usual, I will not receive a
reply so I will close and wish you all the best.
As ever, Your Loving Brother,
Hans

Viktor put the letter back in its envelope and turned

out the light behind his head. His mind was reeling and he
did not know what to think or feel. So much time had
passed; now Hans was a Nazi. His own brother. How does
that happen, he wondered. He thought about his Bubbeh.
He had not thought about her for a long time. He
wondered what she would say if she knew that Hans was
one of Them. Then he remembered she had always told
them to forgive, it was a requirement. Joseph had forgiven
his brothers for selling him into slavery, after all. The
sound and rhythm of the train lulled him to sleep, still
thinking of Joseph, his brothers, and Egypt.
A few days and couple of train changes later he arrived
in Fort Benning, Georgia. He in-processed with 120 other
men and immediately began his Officer Candidate School.
Eight weeks later that 121 candidates was whittled down

~ 137 ~
to about 82. There was a high attrition rate at the school,
but it was necessary to weed out those who would not be
able to take command later. They found out they no longer
had any rights and they were all considered “turds” or
“dirt bags,” There was marching, combat training, more
marching, “sterilizing” or generally cleaning the barracks,
and then they marched again. As the men marched, one of
their Drill Sergeants always called cadence for them,
usually a “Jody Call:”

―Ain‘t no use in goin‘ home,

Jody got your girl an‘ gone.
Ain‘t no use in feelin‘ blue,
Jody got your sister too.
Ain‘t no use in lookin‘ back,
Jody got your Cadillac…‖

They drilled until they thought their feet would fall off.
They cleaned and polished until it was perfect; their Drill
Sergeants always found some flaw in their work and so,
after four hours of scrubbing, they did it all over again.
They stabbed, jabbed, shot their carbines, and learned to
use a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle). They did
considerable amounts of physical training. When one of
the candidates wrecked a Jeep, they learned it was to be
sent “back to the taxpayers.” They were told that there

~ 138 ~
were SNAFUs and that they were FUBAR. They learned so
many things in those first weeks; Viktor thought he would
never remember it all.
The first Sunday evening they had off, or “down time”
as they called it, they all went to the Recreation Room set
aside for candidates to shoot pool and relax. There was no
alcohol there; they were not officially allowed to drink until
they had finished training. So they all had Cokes with a
bit of “unofficial” rum, courtesy of one of the more
sympathetic Drill Sergeants. Viktor walked in and
immediately made a beeline for the piano.
“Aw, ain‟t it nice of the Army to leave me a piano!”
Viktor exclaimed. There was already a candidate playing,
but Viktor was determined.
“Move over, Pal! You‟re not doin‟ any kinda justice to
this bee-yoo-tee-ful instrument! Watch the master set „er
on fire!”
Viktor shoved the candidate off the other side of the
bench and started to play Beat me Daddy Eight to the Bar
as fast as his fingers would let him. The other candidates
stopped what they were doing to watch Viktor. When he
had finished they all clapped, whistled, and shouted for
more. Viktor thought for a second and then played Boogie
Woogie at the same high rate of speed he played the
previous song.
Some of the guys tapped out the beat on the tables
and trashcans. Some of them tried to dance with each
other, since there were no girls, but found it difficult to

~ 139 ~
keep up with Viktor. After he finished, he slowed down
and played Lazy River for them and then Liszt‟s Hungarian
Rhapsody because it reminded them of a Bugs Bunny
cartoon. He kept on playing whatever they asked him to
play until it was time for them to all go back to their
barracks. They were all much happier that night and
dreamed pleasant things. Viktor thought, Only four more
weeks. Lemme see, that‘s 84 more trips to the mess hall…
and promptly fell asleep.
Upon graduation, all 82 men received their orders.
Some men had orders to Quartermaster School, some
Aviation, and still others had Intelligence. Viktor had
orders along with 51 others to Infantry School; he was not
surprised. As an Infantry Officer, he would be allowed to
take ten days of leave before his training started. But
before he could get off the base in his purloined Jeep, his
orders changed dramatically.
“You… Lieutenant! Sir... stop!” called an MP at the
front gate.
“Sure thing buddy, but can I ask what for?” Shit,
thought Viktor, he knows I swiped this thing!
“Sir, you are Lt. Sanger?”
“Yep, that would be me. You‟re a regular genie-ass,”
Oh boy, here it comes...
“Uh, gee thanks. Sir, umm… I‟ve been ordered to send
you back to the HQ. Something to do with your orders,
Sir.”

~ 140 ~
 “What? Ain‟t this some poor bean eatin‟ shit!” Viktor
griped; he started to turn the Jeep around.
“Yes Sir, completely FUBAR! Welcome to the Army,”
said the MP with a snappy salute.
“Aww, your sister‟s face!” responded Viktor giving the
MP the finger.

Arriving at the HQ, Viktor was escorted to a room and

left alone. Fifteen minutes later a Colonel, a Lt. Colonel,
and a Major entered. They looked serious; Viktor looked
uneasy. The Colonel, whose name was Charles Y. Banfill,
told Viktor how they had found him after digging through
their files of candidates who could speak another language
and how his brain was going to be used, instead of his
brawn. They told him they knew he had been adopted and
his previous name was Müller. He would use that name
from now on.
“We just got Camp Ritchie back from the National
Guard. We‟re using it for Intel training,” Col Banfill
informed him.
“Your leave is cancelled. You will be taken immediately
to Camp Ritchie, Maryland and start your training. You
may write your family, give them your address, but you
cannot tell them what you are doing. That‟s Top Secret,”
the Major said.
“Why am I gonna use my old name? What‟s wrong with
Sanger?” asked Viktor with a hint of defiance.

~ 141 ~
 “Look Lieutenant, we‟re not asking, we‟re telling. We
have a special mission planned. None of the others chosen
for this program, so far, is a US Citizen; we need you. And
we need you as Müller,” stated the Lt. Colonel.
“I suppose I have no choice in the matter?” queried
Viktor.
They all answered with a resounding, “No.”

Training at Camp Ritchie, MITC (Military Intelligence

Training Center) was to begin on 22 June and last for
three months. He was getting the high-speed course, they
told him. They tested his German and tested it again. He
worked with a dialect coach so that he had no accent at
all. He was interrogated, beaten, and interrogated again.
He never faltered. German Prisoners Of War (POWs)
captured in North Africa became his guinea pigs and
sparring partners. One afternoon he ran into a ghost from
his past in the mess hall.
“Hey Meyer,” Viktor nudged the shorter man in line
with him for potatoes, “That German cat over there keeps
lookin‟ at me… Like he knows me or sumpthin‟.”
“How should I know, why don‟tcha ask „im? Me, I try
not to know any Nazis,” said Sergeant Ari Meyer, a Jew
who had emigrated from Germany ten years before the
war. Viktor tried ignoring the POW for a couple of days.

~ 142 ~
 “Meyer,” Viktor nudged the shorter man in the chow
line with him, “That Kraut POW is still lookin‟ at me
funny, and now he‟s wavin‟ his arms.”
“Jeeez… like I says before, why don‟tcha ask „im?
Poisonally, I don‟t wanna to know none of „em!” said
Sergeant Meyer,
Viktor set down his tray with Meyer and crossed the
Mess Hall to the POW side to chat with the man.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte,‖ Viktor said to the German
soldier. The man smiled broadly at Viktor who said
nothing; he did not recognize the German soldier at all.
“I am sorry for disturbing you, but, you have been
staring at me for days now and I was wondering… what‟s
your fucking problem?”
The man only smiled; Viktor began to feel uneasy.
―Ach, Du spinnst… völlig bekloppt,‖ Viktor said, very
annoyed.
“No, I am not „batshit crazy‟… I thought I recognized
you the other day… you look just like a neighbor of mine,
though he was just a boy when I last saw him.” The man
said. Viktor stared, trying to place the face.
―Ich heisse Ludwig Hildebrandt, from Munich! Do you
remember me?”
“Oh… now I remember,” Viktor said though he was not
quite sure he did.
Ludwig smiled; he jumped up with open arms and
hugged Viktor until he thought his eyes would pop out of
their sockets.

~ 143 ~
 “Mein Gott, it has been so long and you were so very
little when you went away,” Ludwig gushed. He was still
holding on, when an MP came over and told Viktor he
would have to leave.
Viktor assured Ludwig he would see him later and
went back to his own side of the Mess.
“So, you know the Heinie?” asked Meyer jerking his
thumb over his shoulder in the POWs direction, stuffing
green beans in his mouth with a spoon.
“Yep, a neighbor of mine when I was a kid in Munich
or so he says.”
“Oh, lucky you. You want I should throw him a
welcome party?”
“Meyer, anybody ever tell you you‟re a wise-ass?”
“All the time, mein Oberleutnant, all the time.”

In the weeks that followed Viktor and Ludwig played

catch-up whenever possible. Viktor found out that Ludwig
had been conscripted, never a party member, and whether
he‟d liked it or not, sent to Africa. He had been taken
prisoner at Halfaya in January 1942 when his tank was
destroyed and sent to England, then to the US, and the
Camp soon thereafter. Viktor asked about his family; how
his sister Paula was doing. Ludwig told him Paula had
married and had three children. He told him about Herr
Silverman from the fourth floor. He had been taken away

~ 144 ~
in the middle of the night shortly before Ludwig left for
Africa; no one had heard from him since.
Viktor also asked him about Hans.
“Your father took him away a long time ago, just after
you left; I never saw him again,” Ludwig told him.
“You never heard from Hans? Your own brother never
wrote you?”
“No,” Viktor lied.
At the end of his training, Col. Banfill came to him and
congratulated him on being one of the first to graduate the
course successfully. Then he told Viktor they had a
mission for him and he would be told more, in time.

Hadassah was livid.

“You cannot name the baby after someone who is
dead!”
“I am Sefardi. It is our custom to do so. I understand
how you are feel, but I am sure Vittorio understand,” Rosa
responded casually.
“It‟s just not done this way!” Hadassah exclaimed.
“Senti please,” Rosa lowered he voice just above a
whisper, “I see what you give to Vittorio when he go away.
We both know his brother is alive and write to him for
many years. Why you do this thing to Vittorio, I do not
know…”
Hadassah squirmed in her seat, nervously playing with
her coffee cup. Rosa continued.

~ 145 ~
 “… allora, if he is a boy, I will name this baby after my
dead grandfather, Vittorio‟s dead best friend, and his living
brother. He will be Yohannan. Yohannan Barak, Giovanni
Vittorio. After the living and the dead. It is, for us, lucky
they all have the same name, no? We will both have what
we want and I will no to tell Efraim what you did.”
Hadassah nodded her head silently. She thought it
best not to argue with Rosa.

The baby was born at Cedars of Lebanon on Fountain

Avenue in Los Angeles, California at 0535 on 4 October
1942. Rosa‟s family was there as well as Viktor‟s. After
everyone was satisfied that the new arrival was a healthy
7-pound boy, they went home to rest and let Rosa do the
same. Salvatore and Santa Ruggiero came to see her and
her baby later that afternoon; they were as proud as if he
were their own grandson.
They held the Bris eight days later. The boy was
circumcised, given his Hebrew name: Creator of the
Universe, may it be Thy gracious will to regard and accept
this, as if I had brought this baby before Thy glorious
throne. And Thou, in Thy abundant mercy, through Thy
holy angels, give a pure and holy heart to Yohannan Barak,
the son of Shoshanna, who was just now circumcised in
honor of Thy great Name. May his heart be wide open to
comprehend Thy holy Law that he may learn and teach,
keep and fulfill Thy laws.

~ 146 ~
Chapter 12
Camp Ritchie, Maryland 15 October 1942
...Thus only those farsighted rulers and their superior
commanders who can get the most intelligent people as
their spies are destined to accomplish great things.
Intelligence is of the essence in warfare – it is what the
armies depend upon in their every move.
Sun-Tzu, The Art of Warfare (400-320BCE)

The newly promoted Captain Viktor Müller strode

across the parade field to Colonel Banfill‟s office. He was
supposed to be briefed on the all-important “Top Secret”
mission that he still knew nothing about even after three
months. Gotta love this place. Camp Ritchie, MITC (Military
Institute of Total Confusion), he thought. Arriving in the
outer office, he was asked by the Sergeant at the desk, to
wait for Lt. Colonel Wofford and Major Oldham. When they
appeared ten minutes later, they all went into the
Colonel‟s private office.
“At ease, gentlemen. Please sit down,” the Colonel
began.
“So, Captain, I hear your wife just had a baby.”
“Yes Sir, earlier this month, a boy.”
“Great. Healthy and all I hope. What did you name the
little guy?”
“We named him Yohannan, John, in English.”
“After your father, I suppose.”

~ 147 ~
 “No Sir. After my wife‟s grandfather and my best friend
who was on the Arizona,” and my brother Hans…
“Oh, I am sorry about your friend,” the Colonel cleared
his throat and continued.
“As you know, gentlemen, Captain Müller, here has
been training these three short months for a special
mission. This mission is probably one of the most
important of this entire war, at least so far.
“It‟s going to be very dangerous and if you are
captured, we, as in the Army and United States
government, will disavow any knowledge of you or your
actions. I know we are asking a lot. But it‟s got to be
done,” the Colonel emphasized his point by beating on his
desk as officers often do.
Viktor smiled wryly out of sheer amusement.
Since the Army had seen fit to let him not go home for
the birth of his first (and perhaps, only) child, Viktor had
become a bit jaded. He realized that the “brass” was just
that. They had no purpose and did nothing, but talk, a
meeting so they could have a meeting to have a meeting.
He was happy to be at the “bottom of the shit pile,” so to
speak, in the officer world, at least. He noticed them all
looking at him.
“You find something I said entertaining, Captain?”
asked Col. Banfill.
“No Sir,” uh oh...
“Fine, then secure that smirk and pay attention. Here
it is; your mission is to get into Germany by way of

~ 148 ~
Holland. In Holland, your team of eleven men will meet
you. Some of these men will be our guys, whom you know,
and some will be Dutch L.O. Resistance. We don‟t know
much about the Dutch operatives, but HUMINT and
SIGINT have checked them out, and said they are on the
up and up,” the Colonel paused to ask for some coffee to
be brought into the room and they all took a smoke break.
The Sergeant at the desk out front had the coffee in there
in less than five minutes.
“I tell you Captain, if we had any other choice we not
have picked a man with a family,” the Colonel said to
Viktor.
“Yes Sir,” right, I love the fuckin‘ Army and the Army
loves fuckin‘ me.
“Now, we will transport you to England. From there
you will travel on a small boat to the middle of the
Channel, changing to a Dutch boat mid-way. It‟s going to
be rough. The seas in the English Channel in November
are nasty. We will give you the rest of your orders before
you leave for England.”
“Plan to leave for Holland on the night of 8 November,”
said Lt. Col. Wofford.
“8 November, Sir?” asked Viktor smashing his
cigarette into the filled ashtray.
“Just between us, that will be the eve of the invasion of
North Africa,” said Maj. Oldham
“And no one will be paying attention to one small
fishing boat in the Channel, they‟ll all be looking at

~ 149 ~
Tobruk,” the Major finished. He put out his cigarette as
well and picked up his hat and coat.
“I guess I‟d better get started packing for cold weather
then,” said Viktor.
“Oh, I forgot Captain; you will not be wearing a
uniform. You will wear only civilian clothes. See the
Adjutant for an advance so that you can go find something
suitable, meaning inconspicuous and ordinary,” Colonel
Banfill stated and dismissed them all.

Viktor decided since it was early, only 1000, he would

wait until after noon chow to see the Adjutant, one
Captain Julian Henry. He did not much like Henry
anyway. Viktor thought he was one of those drips who was
beat up and had their lunch money stolen in school so,
Henry joined the Army after college; now the rest of the
poor Schmucks had to salute and eventually, someone
would have to respect him. That someone was not Viktor,
however.
At 1300 when everyone was back at work, Viktor
headed over to see his favorite Captain at the S-1, finding
a choice mud puddle on the way. Good ol‘ Admin, he
thought. How‘d them guys get so lucky? When he walked
in, they were all busy typing away. To Viktor, they
resembled an entire coop of chickens pecking at food. He
found Henry in his office.

~ 150 ~
 “Hullooo Lunch Money Victim! How‟s it hang these
days?” Viktor sniped as he flopped onto the sofa muddy
feet and all.
“I would appreciate it if you used my proper rank and
name, Captain Müller. And could you please see fit to not
put your filthy shoes on my sofa?” Lunch Money Victim
said.
“Actually, I thought we‟d have a little psychotherapy
session. No? Ah well, you could use it!”
“Please state your purpose here Captain Müller.”
Viktor spun around to sit up and look at the man.
LMV, whatta Jerk! Glasses, receding hairline, runny nose.
Ahh, God bless his pointed little head and help me too
please, Viktor told himself and Whoever might be
listening; he lit a cigarette because he knew it bothered
Henry immensely.
“Welp, it ain‟t a social call, Bub. Ol‟ Colonel B told me
to come see you about an advance o‟ some sort,” he said
blowing smoke directly into LMV‟s bespectacled face.
Henry got up and opened the window behind his desk.
“Yes, I was informed you would be coming about that.”
“Then why‟d ya‟ ask me for, ya‟ knob!”
“I am required by section...”
“Aww, shut the fuck up about your stupid regulations
and gimme my dough, would ya‟?” it struck Viktor he‟d
had a similar conversation with an actor about a year ago;
he chucked to himself.

~ 151 ~
 “There is really no call for foul language in my
presence. Your money will be available from the Pay
Sergeant in a few minutes. Sign here,” Henry said flatly,
took out a handkerchief, and wiped his nose.
Rising from the sofa, “See, now wasn‟t that easy? Be
seein‟ ya‟ Lunch Money!” he left, dropping his smoldering
cigarette into Henry‟s half cup of coffee on the way out.
The door slammed behind Viktor; he was glad to be out of
there. Henry was just wrong.
“So which one o‟ you poor slobs has my graft?” Viktor
announced.
“If you‟re Captain Müller, then I guess it‟s me, Sir,”
said the Sergeant at the last desk.
“Well, shell it out, Jackson! I got places to go, people to
see, and things to do!”
Money in hand, Viktor went to the cable office and
immediately wired half of the money to Rosa. Major
Oldham had told him it was a “wardrobe allowance,” not
an advance; therefore, he did not have to pay it back. He
figured he could buy cheap clothes. Rosa, little Johnny,
and the Ruggieros needed the money more than he did. He
did not think he would need a whole lot of anything where
he was going. What I really need is to have my head
examined, he thought.
He scrounged a jeep and set off for Pennsylvania.
There were closer towns, but he wanted to get as far from
Camp Ritchie as possible for a while. Once in Gettysburg,
he picked up a paper at a newsstand and headed over to

~ 152 ~
Shuman‟s Cut Rate Store. There he bought some
inexpensive clothes, a civilian knapsack, and a few
provisions the Army would not be providing. At the lunch
counter at Shuman‟s, he skimmed the headlines of The
Gettysburg Times; Clark Gable had become a Second
Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps, 40 men in Gettysburg
were drafted, some kid had his leg broken when a car hit
him, and McSherrystown had netted 28 tons of scrap;
Prob‘ly from the midnight auto supply, he thought.
He flipped to the classified ads where they hid the
comics; he noticed that in one “Lost” ad, Mr. C. E. Davis
had, sadly, lost his 35 pound black and white spotted pig.
How in fuck do you lose a pig? Shit, no real news. I out
rank Gable, the world‘s goin‘ to Hell on a red-hot poker, and
these people know from nothin‘, he thought. It was almost
midnight when he decided to return to Camp Ritchie. He
thought about staying the night, no one would miss him,
but then thought better of it.
Back in his barracks room, he threw his gear in a pile
next to his bed nosily, waking his roommate. Captain Saul
Bergman had been a PhD student of psychology in Vienna
just before the war. He had immigrated with many other
Jews to the US in 1939. After he had started teaching at
University of California, Berkeley, the US entered the war
and he was asked, or told, to come to Camp Ritchie.
“You must to be so obstreperous when you are coming
in?” asked Saul.

~ 153 ~
 “You must to be using such big words so late at
night?” responded Viktor.
“Ah Viktor, always joking,” Saul turned over to face the
wall, “Wo hast du bloss gesteckt?”
“Aw, I just thought I‟d go to some clip joint an‟ take a
gander at the scaggy dames.”
“Always joking…” Saul said sleepily.
“Hey, what makes you think I‟m jokin‟? A guy‟s gotta
have some kinda entertainment!”
Viktor threw himself rigidly onto his bed and stared at
the ceiling, hands behind his head. In less than a week, he
would be sailing for England; a few days later, he would be
in enemy territory. As he started drifting into sleep, he
reminded himself, Ask the Colonel if they would tell Rosie if
anything happened to him...

SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker sat on the train

staring out the window, smoking. Ordinarily, he would
have had his own car and driver, but he was not in a
hurry to get to Marseille. He had quite a lot of time and
preferred to observe and analyze les Françaises. He‟d gone
to Vichy via Munich and Geneva. Lotte had asked him to
buy her shoes in Paris. He had lied and said yes, but knew
he would be nowhere near the city. He had other projects
that required his attention.
They stopped to take on passengers in Montélimar;
rain beat against the glass in waves. It had rained the

~ 154 ~
entire first two weeks of October; it showed no signs of
stopping. He was tired of the rain, but it suited his mood,
grim and cold. Someone had entered his compartment and
sat down. He did not take his eyes from the window, but
he could smell her perfume. Not until the train started to
move did he bother to look at his new travel companion.
She was an agreeable, if soggy, young dark haired girl.
She spoke only French; her name was Pauline, she was
from Cassis, east of Marseille. In the way she smiled at
him, he assumed she found him charming. He offered her
a cigarette, lit one for himself, crossed his legs, and
relaxed into the seat. In no time, Pauline had moved next
to him. She found him most fascinating, and though she
was no collaborator, she did rather like, want, this
handsome aloof young man with half-closed eyes, grey as
the clouds of Provence beyond the window of the train.
She peeled off her hat and coat, anticipating the two-hour
ride to the coast.
Hans was firmly convinced he would have his way with
her before they arrived in Avignon.
Just before Orange, he locked the compartment door.
Pauline was willing; he did not have to persuade her. On
the banquette, he removed her culotte and unbuttoned her
blouse. After a few minutes, he decided he it was not as
enthralling as it might be so he heaved her against the
window and continued. When she protested, he slapped
her twice, callously leaving large red handprints on both
sides of her face. He threw her back onto the banquette,

~ 155 ~
face down, making use of the other orifice muffling
screams of protest with his gloves.
When he had finished with her, Pauline did not speak
to him for some time nor did he acknowledge her
presence. She sat, tears streaming down her cheeks,
staring into her lap. Hans lit a cigarette; this time he did
not offer one to her.
“That was very cruel,” she said realizing she had been
an easy mark; she felt ashamed.
“Well, who did you think you were fucking?”
Pauline grabbed her hat and coat; hastily changed
compartments. SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker sat on
the train staring out the window, smoking.

It had stopped raining as he arrived at Gare St.

Charles in Marseille. He started down the 104 steps
leading to Boulevard d'Athènes. Two men in dark coats
and though it was dusk, sunglasses, met him half way
down. They ordered Hans to go with them; there was no
option.
“Wer sind Sie, zum ich ungefähr zu bestellen. Wissen
Sie, wem ich bin?‖ demanded Hans.
“We know you are SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker;
who we are is of no concern of yours.”
―Hau ab! Ich gehe überall nicht mit ihr beide,‖ Hans
replied and started to push past them.

~ 156 ~
 One of the leather-clad men grabbed Hans‟ arm and
poked a gun to his ribs stopping him cold.
“Tell us to fuck off all you like, Herr Sturmbannführer,
it changes nothing; you will go with us. Just to know that
we were sent from Headquarters should be enough for
you,” the other man responded curtly as he disarmed
Hans in a masterly fashion.
Hans went with them though reluctantly. He felt
somewhat apprehensive walking in front of these two
Gestapo men. He frequently employed these types of men
to make people disappear; these were the Nacht und Nebel
men. They escorted Hans to a parked car at the bottom of
the steps on the Boulevard and instructed him to get in
the back. The car drove off in the direction of the Vieux
Port, specifically the north side of the Passe de la Joliette;
the Phare de Sainte Marie.
“So, Headquarters has sent you for me, how nice of
them. It must be something quite interesting and
important for me to have an escort of two such esteemed
gentlemen as yourselves. And from which Department did
you say you come from?” Hans‟ vitriolic tone apparent.
“We did not say. But if you must know, Department
E.”
For a split second and for the first time, Hans felt
fearful. Department E was his own: Counterintelligence. If
his own department had sent the Gestapo for him,
something was amiss or he had done something terribly
wrong.

~ 157 ~
 ―Sollte betrachten mich als verhaftet?‖ Hans queried
with feigned disinterest.
―Nein Herr Sturmbannführer, you are not under arrest.
The Department just wants to make sure you are...
delivered, shall we say, to the right place.”
He tried with some difficulty not to let his trepidation
show; turning his face to the window, he swallowed hard.
Nimm dich zusammen… Just keep calm, he told himself. In
his head, he went over a laundry list of things he might
have done, but could think of nothing. It was dark when
they reached the Old Port; instructing him to exit the
vehicle, they told him to say nothing. He stood staring out
at the Mediterranean Sea. The air smelled magnificent.
Owing to their dark glasses, he could not tell if they
were staring at him or something else. Hans found this
unsettling as well; he fidgeted. He thought they might
have at least removed them, but courtesy did not appear
to be their strong point. In what seemed like an eternity
but in reality was only about 10 minutes, a car pulled up
next to them. Out stepped the third replacement for SS-
Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich in as many months.
Heydrich was wounded in an assassination attempt on
27 May; he died on 4 June. This was the SS-
Oberstgruppenführe und Generaloberst der Polizei Kurt
Daluege, now, with Heydrich dead, responsible for Moravia
and Czechoslovakia among other things. With him was
Oberstleutnant Reinhard Gehlen, Hans‟ closest friend. In
May, Gehlen had been made Chief of the Fremde Heere

~ 158 ~
Ost (FHO or Department of Foreign Armies) and brought
back from Russia.
Hans was incredibly relieved to see his friend. He was
even more relieved when the two Gestapo thugs gave him
back his pistol. After the typical military customs had
been fulfilled, Hans shook hands with Gehlen heartily;
they were both happy to see each other. The
Oberstgruppenführe admonished the two younger men
saying they could “kiss and make up” later, after they had
taken care of the business at hand.
“I will assume we are here and not at Headquarters for
a reason?” asked Hans.
“We are. Herr Sturmbannführer Henker, it has come to
my attention that a spy of grand proportion is on his way
to Marseille,” the Oberstgruppenführe huffed.
“Seems he was nearer to my area; he escaped,” said
Gehlen, “he then went on to Moravia.”
“And escaped again? Reinhard, what were you doing?”
Hans interjected in disbelief.
“Yes, yes, again,” replied Gehlen shaking his head.
“So, your job will be to find him here in Marseille.
We‟ve had a tip that he will be arriving shortly. We can
take no chances on anyone informing. It is why we are
here at the lighthouse, no ears, you see,” said the
Oberstgruppenführe looking out towards the sea.
“Name?” asked Hans.

~ 159 ~
 “Theriault. Étienne Theriault; Mouvement de Libération
Nationale and the Conseil National de la Résistance. He
was helping the Russians and then the Czechs.
“I was in hospital when they let him slip by. So, my
fault partially. I know what he looks like perhaps I can be
of some help to you,” Gehlen offered.
―Nein! Ihre Einsatz ist eine kurze Pause machen..oder
du wirst dich nie erholen,” protested the zaftig
Oberstgruppenführer.
“What do you mean by „never get well,‟ sir?” Hans
inquired of the Oberstgruppenführe.
Hans turned to Gehlen, “And what do you mean
„hospital?‟ You‟ve been ill?” a bit shocked is friend had not
told him.
“It‟s nothing really, just an ulcer,” Gehlen feigned.
After he had been brought back from the front and
made FHO Chief, he had fallen ill; he was sent directly to
hospital for bleeding, possibly perforated, ulcers. The
doctors thought he might die; Gehlen surprised them. He
was now on furlough for a few weeks to recover
completely.
“Herr Sturmbannführer Henker, diese wichtige Mission
könnte schwierig werden,” warned the
Oberstgruppenführe, shaking a sausage-like finger at
Hans.
“Yes Herr Oberstgruppenführe, I know it could become
difficult, but I do believe I am up to the task. I also think
that, had I been alerted sooner, you might not be standing

~ 160 ~
here,” Hans said raising an eyebrow at the
Oberstgruppenführe for what he thought was a schoolboy‟s
lecture.
“We know; that is why I have come all this way to give
you this mission myself. Now, do not disappoint us,” said
the Oberstgruppenführe as he turned to leave. The large
man got back in the car he came in and departed along
with the two Gestapo men who had conveyed Hans to the
Vieux Port.
“Don‟t let him fool you; the fat bastard came here to
buy perfume for his wife,” Gehlen smirked.
“So, on our own?” Hans asked Gehlen, smiling
mischievously.
“Hmm, this could be dangerous,” said Gehlen with a
grin, “What say we start our spy-watch tomorrow, you
think? But tonight, ce soir mon ami…”
“Hmm… right you are... ce soir, des bières, la bouffe...
les filles françaises?‖ said Hans.
“Ahh mais oui, French girls... peut-être,” Gehlen winked
and with a half smile slapped Hans on the back; the two
men jumped into the back of the other car and directed
the driver back toward the Boulevard d'Athènes.
They found a small café at the corner of the Rue des
Petites Maries and Rue Longue des Capucins. Gehlen, still
recuperating from his ulcer, ordered some bland food and
a beer; Hans was determined to try the local fish soup
(with six types of fish) they called Bouillabaisse du Ravi.
They drank beer and shared some jokes while they ate.

~ 161 ~
After ordering a fourth round of beer, Hans asked Gehlen
about the Russian front; Oberstleutnant Reinhard Gehlen
turned ashen and was silent.
“Hans, we are losing,” Gehlen said staring into his
beer.
“What! That‟s not possible. We have the…”
“Stop, my friend,” Gehlen cautioned the younger man,
“It‟s very possible. We have shit. Our troops have shit. Do
you understand?”
“No I… well I thought…” Hans fumbled with his
cigarettes, he offered one to Gehlen; taking one and
thanking Hans, he continued.
“Ahh, you thought. Everyone thinks. Even Herr Hitler
thinks… sometimes.”
“Really, I don‟t understand how this can be,” Hans
stated and turned away in disbelief.
“It‟s very simple. Last winter, we had bullets and no
winter equipment. This year, we have the equipment and
no bullets. A bit ironic, is it not? Mein Gott, Hans... it‟s
bad.
“The men, they are starving and have to eat the mules.
They are wounded and have no medical supplies; they die
like... like flies; Herr Hitler says „push on. ‟ Ha! Well, fuck
him und das ist mir scheissegal. Let Hitler push! Hans,
mein freund, we need to start planning for an eventual
defeat. The allies are landing in North Africa, but you
know that, and they will keep coming… through Sicily,
France, and eventually through Germany.”

~ 162 ~
 “Your fatalistic attitude disturbs me,” Hans said
lighting another cigarette.
“No, not fatalistic, realistic. This war cannot be won;
like the last one, we will be made subordinate to our
enemies, we will be made to suffer for our idiotic leaders.
Better to plan now, for our future, than to suffer later at
the hands of the Russians.”
“The Russians? But what have they to do with…” Hans
turned to look at Gehlen with narrowed eyes.
“What? Surely, you see Hans. Retribution, of course.
When we withdraw, and we will, they will follow us all the
way back to Poland, back to Germany.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. They will not let this go,”
Hans reflected.
“And it will be brutal, my friend, it will be pitiless and
brutal,” Gehlen dropped his head to stare into his beer
again, sighing heavily. Hans gazed at Gehlen in a mild
state of shock.
Les filles françaises forgotten, Hans sat drinking his
beer, taking in all that his friend had told him. He was
completely astounded. He had no idea things had gotten
so bad in Russia, but then, why would he? Those in
command told a different story. And, worse, Hans had
believed it. Hans knew nearly every spy network there
was. He knew who the double agents were. He knew
secrets no one had ever dreamed of; this news unbalanced
him.

~ 163 ~
 He was not quite sure what to think; he took a deep
breath. Remember, Aurelius‘ Meditations ―do not be angry
at the weakness of those who try to hinder you when you
are proceeding according to the right reason,‖ he told
himself. Hans believed his old friend, but he also wanted
to believe in Germany, in the Reich, in what they stood
for, or what he thought they stood for. Now he was
questioning himself. Do not over-speculate on these things,
he told himself. There was no time for uncertainty; he still
had much work to do.

The SS Mariposa was pulling out at exactly 1800 on 20

October. Viktor could faintly hear the Ink Spots singing
I‘m Getting Sentimental Over You from a radio in a nearby
warehouse as he leaned over the rail watching the Sailors
and Merchant Marines work. He would be sailing with
General Hospital 21. The unit was bound for Liverpool,
England. They were to follow a zigzagging course through
the violent U-Boat-infested North Atlantic. From Liverpool,
they would be sent to bivouac near a suburb of
Birmingham, Pheasey Farms Estate. The hospital was to
be a part of ―Operation Torch,‖ the Allied offensive to
establish control of North Africa, landing at the port of
Mers-el-Kebir, near Oran. The voyage would take about 12
days.
Viktor, however, would not be with them in Africa. He
was to go on to Dover and from there to Sluice, Holland

~ 164 ~
where his men would be waiting... with any luck. He had
received the “new and improved” version of his orders from
Colonel Banfill before leaving Camp Ritchie. There‘s such a
thing as ‗new and improved?‘ Hmm... change 12 to change
12, Viktor thought, staring down into the oily water. His
primary mission was to “capture” (or kidnap, really) Dr.
Wernher Magnus Maximilian Freiherr von Braun, one of
the leading figures in the development of the V-2 Rocket,
from the “secret” Peenemunde facility and bring him
across the border into Switzerland, depositing him in
American Office of Strategic Services (OSS) hands.
His secondary mission was, according to Colonel
Banfill, “to wreck as much shit as humanly possible.” He‟d
been ordered to wear his uniform as far as England. Once
he had arrived in Liverpool, he was told he was to get rid
of it and any other personal effects that might identify him
to the enemy, including his dog tags. Viktor had already
disposed of most of his personal items or otherwise sent
them home to Rosa. He pulled out his wallet and fished
out two letters, two photographs of Rosa, and the piece of
Khamsa he had kept for so long. He held them all in his
hand for a moment. This thing ain‘t nothin‘ but an old
sentimental chunk of gold, he thought. He was about to
throw it all overboard, but had second thoughts; he
decided he could not part with any of it. It was all he had
of his Mudi, his Bubbeh, of his brother Hans. He stuffed it
all back into the wallet and hoped no one found them, at
least not until he was dead.

~ 165 ~
 Most of the men were already onboard; they had been
ordered to man the rails as the ship left the harbor. Once
at sea, life would be a bit hectic for those twelve days.
There were more men than beds; the ship‟s Captain had
also ordered them to “hot-rack,” meaning sleep in shifts,
one after the other sharing the same miniscule pull-down
births. Ain‘t so bad unless someone gets seasick and you
happen to be the unlucky bastard in the bottom rack, Viktor
had thought as he deposited his gear near one of the
births. At this point in the war and as a Captain in the
Army, Viktor rated no special privileges; not until one
reached the rank of Field Grade Officer did one get one‟s
own cabin or even one‟s own bed.

After a few days at sea, some of the men‟s seasickness

had subsided and most had settled in. The North Atlantic
was dark, rough, and foggy this time of year; a good
number of the men never got their seasickness under
control. It took Viktor the better part of a week to get used
to the heave and pitch of the ship. During the majority of
the crossing, no convoy protection was provided the
Mariposa, despite imminent danger of attack. They had a
few narrow escapes, but made it to Liverpool unscathed.
Their equipment, however, did not. Sent on another ship,
it rested at the bottom of the North Atlantic somewhere.
In Liverpool, the men were stuffed onto trains and
trucks, with as much gear as they could carry, to

~ 166 ~
Birmingham. Viktor had been ordered to wait at Pheasey
Farms Estate for three days and then move on to Margate
on 4 November. Viktor noticed that, for some reason or
another, the Medical Corps seemed to not separate the
Officers from the enlisted men. Not that he minded, he
just thought it was odd. A Captain who happened to be a
doctor explained it was due to “unit cohesion.” Evidently,
Med Corps thought that since they worked so closely
together, Officers and men should share everything, until
they became Field Grade Officers, anyway.
Viktor shared a “house” in the newly built area of
Pheasey Farms with sixteen enlisted men and three
Officers of varying ranks. The house, as it was not quite
finished, was in essence a squad bay; an open area with
20 to 40 beds in it depending on the size of the house
itself. The men did put up a sort of curtain for the Officers
to afford them some semblance of privacy. Viktor did not
care one way or another.
The night before he left, there was a formation of the
troops, both British and American. The Pipes and Drums
of The Queens Own Cameron Highlanders 1st & 2nd
battalions, The Liverpool Scottish, played the Drum Salute
and Gathering at Inverness for some miscellaneous
General and the American and English national anthems.
The troops heard a “stiff upper lip” speech, which received
many cynical comments (“I got somethin‟ good an‟ stiff fer
that bloke!”) from both sides. After the parade, a large
amount of the soldiers had gathered in the makeshift All

~ 167 ~
Servicemen‟s Club. A “Limey” was playing Gary Owen on a
guitar and a “Yank” who had brought with him a photo of
the “Love Goddess” herself, Rita Hayworth, was passing it
around the club. The men ogled, gape-mouthed, at that
infamous silk nightgown and the auburn headed
temptress it covered.
“Aww yeah, there‟s my post-war plan!” someone
shouted.
“You said it, Mate!” shouted someone else from the
back of the crowd.
After grabbing a pint from the bar, Viktor noticed a
piano in the back of the room. Well, ain‘t that swell! The
Army‘s always thinkin‘ of lil‘ ol‘ me, he thought as he raced
over to join in with the Englishman on the guitar and then
give the men his version of Boo Woo and Rug Cutter‘s
Swing. Another British soldier grabbed a pair of cocktail
stirrers from behind the bar and kept time on one of the
tables; yet another played a makeshift xylophone with
beer glasses. One American soldier requested Viktor play
Gershwin‟s Rhapsody in Blue; all 16 minutes of it, that is,
if he knew it. A few more of the boys made other curious
requests, a song they danced to with their girl, a song that
reminded them of home, their friends, or mother. Most of
them just wanted to feel normal. A young Highland soldier
asked for Loch Lomond; when Viktor and the Englishman
with the guitar started to play it, the words transformed,
more or less, into another song altogether; every
Highlander sang:

~ 168 ~
―Oh, I'll take the tripod,
You take the gun and,
You'll be in action before me!
And if you get shot,
I will take the bloody lot,
Then I'll eat your ration in the morning!‖

At the same time, as Viktor and his bar band played

and sang a diverse assortment of songs, there was a craps
game going on somewhere near the back left corner of the
club. One American soldier, a Corporal, had nearly
cleaned out half of the Medical Corps of their month‟s pay;
he kept playing. Never making another point, he‟d lost it
all by the end of the evening. But the soldier took it all in
stride; he didn‟t think he would need the money in where
he was going. And not one of them ever complained about
the musical selections.
Most of the men were still sleeping when Viktor pulled
out of Pheasey Farms at 0400 that Wednesday morning.
He made it to Birmingham in plenty of time to catch the
0520 train to London. He changed trains at London
Euston, then again at Victoria at about 0815, continuing
on to Margate in county Kent. He spent four days billeted
at a British Army Officer‟s home in Kingsgate. The city,
only about 70 miles from London, had become a popular
tourist town in the 1840s with the coming of the railroads.

~ 169 ~
 Margate, Dover, and Canterbury had been bombed
and shelled by cross-channel guns on a regular basis
since 1940. Operations of their glorious fleet of Kent
Leyland Tiger Coaches had halted with some of the
beautiful red busses being used as military vehicles and
24 converted into ambulances. A series of underground
railroad tunnels, leftover from the 19th century, were
organized as air-raid shelters; Margate and Ramsgate had
been part of the coordination of ―Operation Dynamo,‖ the
evacuation of Dunkirk, whose ships landed at Dover. Kent
became a wartime symbol as part of England‟s eastern
“Hellfire Corner;” it was on the Luftwaffe‘s path to London,
held large RAF airfields, and notably bore its share of the
load of the Battle of Britain.
On the night of 7 November, after leaving the Northern
Belle Pub, Viktor checked and rechecked his gear. He had
to be sure; there was no room for mistakes. Before he left
Camp Ritchie, he had been given a pistol and
ammunition, some maps, and money. A lot of money.
Viktor was convinced there was enough money to bribe
every Nazi in Germany into quitting. Forget fighting, let‘s
just buy the whole damn joint, he considered. He was
briefed that the men meeting him would have more guns,
rifles, ammunition, and explosives.
The boat was to pull out of the port near high tide at
2345 on the 8th ; there was a new moon so there would be
no light except for the stars. There would be a high tide in
Holland at 1320 the following afternoon, which meant they

~ 170 ~
had about six hours to cover the nearly 62 miles to the
halfway point in the channel and another 6 to complete
the crossing. It would have been a short and easier 15.5
miles (31 miles in total) had they gone from Dover to
Calais. Smoking a cigarette on the dock as he waited to
shove off, Viktor brooded, Ah well, the Army never has
liked things to be too easy, but Holland is closer to
Germany. Damn, this gonna stink. He threw the butt in the
water as the rest of the crew of six came up the mooring.
Most of the men carrying Viktor to the halfway point
had been part of the Little Ships armada that had rescued
men from Dunkirk in May and June of 1940. They were
well acquainted with the channel and the danger; they
had been specifically chosen for this mission. The Mary
Irene, built in 1935, was a 32 ft. registered fishing boat
originally from Poole. She was one of the Little Ships that
had made it to Dunkirk and back. She went back more
than once to get another load of the stranded men.
Out at sea, Viktor became keenly aware of the motion
of the small boat. It reminded him of his Aunt Hadassah‟s
favorite aria, Barcarolle, from Offenbach‟s Tales of
Hoffman, only much more intense and disordered. Viktor
had been out on a boat many times in the Pacific Ocean; it
was aptly named. The Channel, however, was a completely
different animal; it took all of Viktor‟s resolve not to
deposit the many pints of beer he had drunk at the
Northern Belle into the icy water beneath him. They had
been at sea for about two hours or so when one of the

~ 171 ~
crew, a man named Findlay, came topside with hot tea for
Viktor.
“‟Ere ye‟ go, Yank. Thought ye‟ might be wantin‟
sumpthin‟ warm „bout now,” Findlay said with a nearly
toothless grin.
“Thanks pal, I needed this, and how! I got a little
sauced last night,” Viktor said grinning back at his
benefactor, “How much longer ya‟ think to the half way
point?”
“I reckon „bout four hours, „at‟s if the seas „old and
Jerry don‟t come a lookin‟ fer us.”
“Gravy, Mack! Then I guess them Flying Dutchman‟ll
pick me up off the water an‟ we can dust out to where “X”
marks the spot,” he said to Findlay. Then I‘ll pick up my
droppers, whoever they are, and commence with the
commencin‘, Viktor thought taking a gulp of the still
steaming tea.
“It might get nasty for a time; sea‟s a good bit rough
t‟night.”
“Nah, it‟ll be eggs in the coffee! Army‟s got it all ribbed
up, or so they told me, even ordered us some great
weather,” Viktor said as he reviewed the thickening cloud
cover; the sea was rough indeed and getting rougher.
“Well, ifin‟ it don‟t go so well, we‟ll be „avin‟ to take it on
the „eel an‟ toe!”
“Huh?”
“I said, we‟ll „ave to leave, Yank.”

~ 172 ~
 “Ahh, why didn‟t ya‟ just say ya‟d have to go climb up
your thumb? Sheesh, I wouldn‟t want you guys to make a
trip for biscuits. Umm, by the way, you wearin‟ iron?”
“Wot‟s „at?”
“You know, gats, heaters, rods, umm… you guys got
firepower?” Viktor asked the sailor.
“Owww, why didn‟t ye‟ say so in the first place? Yeah,
we got a few Tommies! Ye‟ know you Yanks are a funny
lot; oughtta learn the King‟s English, ye‟ should!” he said
with a wink that Viktor could hardly see in the dark and
went back below.
Viktor finished off the last of his tea. With an empty
cup rolling around his index finger, he stood at the prow
of the Mary Irene letting the cold with blow through his
hair. He scanned the sea as best he could in the dark; he
hoped there were no U-Boats out in the Channel that
night; he hoped that the Major had been right about
Tobruk. Viktor just wanted to get where he needed to go
as uneventfully as possible; it was going to get interesting
soon enough and he could wait.

Approximately four hours later the Dutch boat,

Opperdan, was signaling the Mary Irene to cut her
engines. Pulling alongside each other, off loading Viktor
and his gear were going to prove tricky in the violent seas.
The Opperdan had towed a dinghy along with her, lest this
be the case. Two of the Dutch fisherman rowed next to the

~ 173 ~
Mary Irene; Viktor‟s gear was loaded into the boat and
then Viktor. Unfortunately, for Viktor, just as he boarded
the dinghy, a large swell came upon the three vessels and
Viktor, launched off the side of the Mary Irene, went into
the North Sea. The two oarsmen pulled the cold, gasping,
waterlogged young man from the freezing water joking in
Dutch about him being the oddest fish they ever caught.
As Viktor boarded the Opperdan, the engine was
already starting. They gave the dinghy to the crew of the
Mary Irene; no longer needed, it would only be dead
weight; they could not afford to lose time. Viktor stood
shivering on deck. One of the fishermen came to Viktor
with a cup of hot broth. Though Viktor‟s Dutch was
limited, the language was close enough to German for him
to understand and make himself understood. The man
handed him the cup of broth and asked him if he needed
anything.
―Nein danke,‖ Viktor answered, still trembling from the
cold.
―Hier, u zult warme en droge pullover nodig hebben, Ik
heb een andere,‖ the fisherman said to Viktor as he pulled
off his sweater and handed it to the benumbed man.
“Are you sure?” Viktor asked the man, hoping he
understood German.
―Ja, ja, te nemen gelieve het,‖ answered the man in
Dutch.
“Well alright, as long as you have another one,
thanks,” Viktor said taking off his nearly frozen sweater

~ 174 ~
and replacing it with the Dutch man‟s dry one. The
fisherman took Viktor‟s soaked sweater and went below
leaving Viktor on deck alone. He was still wet underneath
the sweater, but having a dry layer on top helped
considerably. So far, so good. Well, sort of. Six more hours,
thought Viktor. Then it started to rain.

Zeebruge, Zomerdorp Het Zwin, and Oostende were

the ports from which the Army had chosen. Zomerdorp
Het Zwin, the smallest of the three, was nearer to Sluis
where he was to meet his men; it was the logical choice.
The other two, which were larger and closer to England,
would be under more scrutiny by the Germans.
At 1330 on the afternoon of the 9th, the Opperdan
pulled into the port of Het Zwin. None of the German
soldiers guarding the port questioned a fishing boat
coming in at the high tide. Many fishing boats returned
every afternoon following 12 hours of fishing. After they
had tied down, Viktor gathered his things and began his
unhurried walk to Sluis. Guards stopped him as he was
leaving the port. Viktor had Dutch papers, very good
forgeries, saying he was one Pier Roosevelt, a fisherman
from Sluis. Viktor found it ironic, having the same name
as the President of the United States and no one else
getting the joke. He followed Kanaalweg for nearly three
miles; a farmer offered him a ride on his oxcart the last

~ 175 ~
mile to Sluis. It was not quite 1500 when Viktor arrived in
the town.
Since Viktor looked like a fisherman in his sweater
and cap, with his knapsack, he was able to enter the city
yet unmolested. The Wehrmacht soldiers thought him a
simple fisherman and after thoroughly checking his
papers, they let “Pier Roosevelt” pass. The house he was to
locate was on the opposite side of the village next to the
Damsche Vaart. He knew it would be completely stupid
and probably suicidal to be seen anywhere near the house
in the light of day; Viktor opted to go to a café on a side
street and get something to eat given that it had been
almost 24 hours since his last meal.
Viktor sat at the Café Joos eating, drinking, trying to
read the news in Dutch, and observing the Wehrmacht
officers strolling through town. Most of the soldiers were
on posts in the high walls that surrounded the oldest part
of the city. He thought, since no one had questioned him,
he was not going to press his luck. He decided to wait
until it was fully dark before he set out for the safe house.
At 1800, Viktor decided it was dark enough for him to
get close enough to the house without endangering
himself or its occupants. He walked back up Jaagpad and
made a right where Sint Annastraat met Kaai. At Kaai,
there was a traffic circle, which he looped around and
found himself going in a southwesterly direction. The
street he was walking on soon turned into Sint Donaes; he
was looking for the last house on the left. He had been

~ 176 ~
told it was painted blue though in the dark he could not
tell what color it was. He moved through the side gate
silently, found the cellar, and gently knocked on the door.
“Die is er?” someone asked from inside.
Viktor answered with the one of the only full phrases
he knew in Dutch, their password.
“Rode tulpen bloem in de voorjaar.‖
The door opened slowly. Inside he saw eleven men,
four of whom he knew, seven he did not, and eleven
assorted loaded weapons pointing straight at him.

When Hans entered his outer office in the SS

Headquarters in Marseille on 8 November 1942, everyone
was crowded around the radio listening intently. The
Führer was speaking from the Löwenbräukeller in Munich
declaring, ―Stalingrad wird besiegt!‖
Hans, who had spoken with his friend Gehlen on the
Russian campaign in detail only weeks ago, knew better;
Stalingrad was far from being “defeated;” Vichy had been
captured earlier that morning. Though they were about to
start ―Operation Anton,‖ the occupation of Southern
France, everyone was still reeling from the effects of
―Operation Super Charge‖ on the 5th where British troops
(commanded by General Montgomery) had broken through
during the Battle of Al Alamein, defeating Rommel's Afrika
Korps.

~ 177 ~
 ―Jeder geht zur Arbeit zurück,‖ Hans said loudly; the
office workers scattered, moving back to their desks
quickly.
No wonder things are not being done properly, all this
standing around, he thought as he strode into his office.
As he took off his coat and hat, he noticed the täglicher
Bericht was not yet on his desk.
“Becker!” Hans shouted for the young
Untersturmführer.
―Jawohl Herr Sturmbannführer.‖
“Ah, Lieutenant Becker.”
“Ja mein Herr?‖
“Becker, where in fuck is my morning report? Unless
it‟s become invisible, it is not on my desk. How can this be
when I have told you at least, oh… a thousand times? Ich
will meinen Scheissen Bericht. Ist es Klar?” Hans was
getting very tired of telling everyone what to do more than
once.
“Ja Herr Sturmbannführer, es ist Klar! Excuse me, I‟ll
get it now,” the 2nd Lieutenant ran out of the office to find
the errant report.
Since his friend Gehlen had gone back to Germany
and he had no one to entertain him, Hans had thrown
himself into his work. He was almost finished in Marseille.
Hans sat down at his desk and pulled a file from the
center drawer. The spy he had come to Marseille for in the
first place had been located, forced into confession, and
executed all within a week. Hans was still working on his

~ 178 ~
second assignment, Étienne Theriault. Though he had
located and captured the man, Hans was still trying to get
a confession or any information, for that matter, out of
him. Theriault‟s dead counterpart had implicated
Theriault and 26 others, telling all he knew, just before
Hans shot him. I‘ll go see Monsieur Theriault again after I
get my damned report, Hans told himself, closing the file.
Someone was knocking very softly on his door.
―Herr Sturmbannführer?‖
―Ja, kommen Sie herein.‖
―Herr Sturmbannführer, here is your report and I... I
would like to apologize for…”
“Ach Becker, das ist mir scheissegal. Now, get out.”
“Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer.‖
The morning report was, in all actuality, not that
important. It simply gave the number of troops on hand:
who was sick, wounded, on leave, and their basic tables of
organization and equipment. But Hans was determined
that these new officers would have discipline. He had
trained with Heydrich, the best; now these young SS
troops would have their chance to train with the youngest
Sturmbannführer in the SS-SD; him. Just because things
may not be going exactly as the Führer had claimed, this
was no reason to lay discipline aside or to give up, Hans
reflected.
At 1100, Hans left his office for the basement of the
building. There chained, hanging from the ceiling, was his
prisoner, Étienne Theriault. Hans stood, hands on hips,

~ 179 ~
looking over his métier, smiling. The Frenchman had been
turned into a sarcocarp. A sort of massive bruised peach,
a bloody pulp. He was missing most of his teeth, his right
eye, and the skin off his legs. Hans‟ Nacht und Nebel
associates had helped him break every bone in the man‟s
body. He was nearly liquid. But in spite of it all, Theriault
had not told Hans anything he did not already know; Hans
was very sure Theriault would that morning. Either that or
he would never tell anyone anything ever again.
One of Hans‟ Gestapo men came in with a bucket of
ice-cold water and threw it in Theriault‟s face to revive
him. He started back into consciousness. He saw Hans
and immediately spit blood and what appeared to be a
couple of teeth in Hans‟ general direction.
―Très agréable, Monsieur Theriault. I would like to
thank you for consenting to be our guest. Je crois que
nous n'avons aucun besoin de vous.‖
―Va te faire foutre, salopard!‖
“Ah, again with the pleasantries. Please, call me what
you will, but it is you who is ‗foutu‟ and hanging from my
ceiling, Monsieur.”
“You fucking Nazi cochon! You think because you
learned a little French in school you understand the
French people? You will never understand us! You may
kill me now, but there will be hundreds more just like me!
Perhaps thousands, espèce de salaud!‖ Theriault slurred
through broken teeth and bloody lips.

~ 180 ~
 Hans had to roll his eyes. “How very… cliché. So, you
are saying that you will never tell me a thing, correct mon
ami?”
“I am no friend of yours! Go piss up a rope you vile,
disgusting sore on a dog‟s ass.”
“Ahh, well then, I will have to assume by that
statement that you mean no. But let me ask you this,
have you ever thought about what makes pain
unbearable?”
Theriault did not respond.
“No? Well, I shall tell you,” Hans stated as he paced
around his prisoner.
“To paraphrase a great book, it is the brain, Monsieur.
If we put the brain to sleep then, voilà, no more pain.
Awaken the brain; one feels the stab of the knife, the
crack of the whip, the burn of the flesh… and fear.
Consider then what you fear most.”
Hans turned as if to leave the cellar, but stopped just
short of the door. After a moment of deliberation and
without turning around he spoke.
“Set Monsieur on fire, bit by bit. If that does not help
loosen his tongue, I will shoot him myself.”

Hans did not go to lunch at his usual restaurant that

day. He went to the café neighboring the restaurant and
had a few drinks instead. He hated to shoot people after
eating. It ruined the whole meal. At least that was what he

~ 181 ~
told himself. The drinks were to stave off the hunger
pangs, he told himself that too. He knew what it was or he
thought he did. I am losing my touch. No, must be a slight
case of nerves, he ruminated.
Hans stood at the bar drinking. A thin, ugly, young girl
had been playing the piano in the corner stopped to take a
break. Hans asked her if he might play a while; she was
too scared to respond and no one else cared. He sat down,
setting his drink on the top of the upright. A moment of
thought and he proceeded to play Beethoven‟s Sonata No.
23 ―Appassionata.‖ He took his frustrations out on the old
piano, beating Opus 57 out in the key of F until a
commotion outside distracted him. He went to the door of
the café for a closer look. A ship was offloading casualties
from the Africa campaign. Some of them were in pieces,
some of them walked off the ship. Their rate of progress
followed the rhythm of a death march.
Hans thought, for a fleeting moment, he saw a
boyhood friend of his from Vienna, Emil Webber. He was
sure the man had seen him as well; a glimmer of
recognition had come into his eyes, but instead of going
out to see the wounded officer Hans remained at the bar.
He did not want to know anyone who had been out-
flanked, out-maneuvered, and out-fought by a few paltry
English mongrels. As Hans stood at the bar, he glanced
back out at the ship and saw a dog limping down one of
the gangplanks following a body. His curiosity getting the
better of him, he went out to see what was happening.

~ 182 ~
 The sailors set the covered body down on the dock and
the dog lay beside it.
―Hier, das, was los mit diesem Hund ist?‖ hans asked
the nearest sailor.
“Well Sir, its master was killed at El Alamein. We can‟t
get it to leave the body. It just growls and tries to bite us.”
Hans knelt down and offered the back of his right
hand to the grieving animal.
In a calm soothing voice he said, “Beautiful girl, you
don‟t want to bite me, do you? You know she is wounded?”
Hans noted to the sailor, as he looked her over.
The dog licked her lips and the back of Hans‟ hand. He
looked into her cheerless brown eyes. I understand my
lovely, he thought, you miss him; he will always be a part
of you, but you must carry on, as we all must. The dog
cocked her head to the right, flicked an ear, and blinked at
Hans as though she understood.
“How then, if I call you Marguerite, in honor of our
host country and take you with me?” Hans softly asked
the injured canine. The Deutscher Schäferhund sat up
with some difficulty and licked Hans face in approval.
Toting the wounded dog, following Hans‟ hour and a
half at the café, he walked back to his office. He left
Marguerite near his desk calling to one of his Lieutenants
to find a good veterinarian. Upon entering the basement,
Hans found nothing had changed except the condition of
the prisoner. Theriault looked at Hans with his one nearly
blind eye and cursed him, Hans, obdurate, dispassionate,

~ 183 ~
and saying nothing, pulled out his pistol; he shot him in
the middle of his forehead. Theriault‟s burnt hairless head
snapped back splattering les français cerveaux on the wall
behind him.
As he left the cellar, without turning to look back at
his completed assignment, Hans quietly gave an order to
the Gestapo men, “Clean this shit up.”

There was a wire from Gehlen on his desk and a man

in a chair, kept there by a growling Marguerite, waiting for
him when he returned to his office.
―Heil Hitler,‖ Hans said to the SS Lieutenant who tried
to rise, but was hindered by the dog‟s snarling glance.
Hans only smiled.
“Heil Hitler. I am Untersturmführer Roy Courlander.
You sent for me, sir?”
Hans petted the newly bandaged shepherd and
glanced at the wire briefly. It asked if he had gotten any
more information out of Theriault. Hans had to chortle
quietly for a second. Not anymore, he thought. He looked
up at the young Lieutenant as he sat down at his desk,
studying him for a second. He was not quite as tall as
Hans, of medium build, with startlingly blue eyes and
blond hair. He also appeared to be quite nervous, twisting
his cap in his hands.
“Yes, I sent for you Untersturmführer Courlander. I
have a special project for you.”

~ 184 ~
 Hans did have some information for Gehlen, nothing
earth shattering however. Just a report that a master spy
was heading into Germany, from the Netherlands, or so
Hans believed, for an important mission. He was going to
place Lieutenant Courlander, a man of New Zealand and
German citizenship, in the Dutch L.O. Resistance just in
case and, after Courlander had infiltrated, have him report
back whenever possible.
“So Untersturmführer, how‟s your Dutch?”
After explaining the mission and dismissing his new
protégé, he sat pleased with himself for a minute.
Everything was coming together nicely.
“Becker!”
“Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer.‖
“Becker, I want you to send a wire to Herr
Sturmbannführer Reinhard Gehlen at the FHO. It is to
read, „Soon to have a man in place. All under control.‟ Do
you understand, Becker? Exactly like that.”
“Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer.‖
“Good. Now go.”
Hans hoped this would get him back to Germany,
sooner rather than later; he was looking forward to that
day. This so-called ―master spy‖ will be an interesting
mouse for this cat to catch, he thought, smiling a
nauseating and inhumane smile that might have curdled
milk.

~ 185 ~
 As Hans prepared for his new project, the Allies were
coming closer and closer. In January 1943, as the British
and Americans began air raids on Dusseldorf, Germany,
Hitler‟s 6th Army was floundering in Russia. The capture of
Stalingrad was very important to the German High
Command for many reasons. As a major industrial city on
the banks of the Volga River (a crucial route between the
Caspian Sea and northern Russia), capture would secure
the left flank of the 6th and 10th Armies as they tried to
advance into the Caucasus where there were substantial
oil deposits; something in very short supply in the German
army.
The mere fact that the city bore the name of Hitler‟s
most hated adversary, Joseph Stalin, would make its
capture a propaganda and theoretical triumph. On 2
February, the just promoted Generalfeldmarschall
Friedrich Paulus surrendered in Stalingrad; ignoring
Hitler‟s order to commit suicide he said, “I have no
intention of shooting myself for that Bohemian corporal.”
By May of 1943, the Allies had launched ―Operation
Mincemeat,‖ with a floating corpse designed to dupe the
Germans into thinking there would be an invasion of
Sardinia and Corsica; the war in North Africa was over.
Rommel fled to Germany on 12 May; his forces
surrendered the next day. The Allies were about to invade
Sicily and begin heavy bombing of the German city of
Hamburg. A maneuver they named “Operation Gomorrah.”

~ 186 ~
Chapter 13
Bremen, Germany 23 July 1943
In all that, in the fear that dries your mouth and throat, in
the smashed, plaster dust and sudden panic of a wall
falling, collapsing in the flash and roar of a shell burst,
clearing the gun, dragging those away who had been
serving it, lying face downward and covered with rubble,
your head behind the shield working on a stoppage, getting
the broken case out, straightening the belt again, you now
lying straight behind the shield, the gun searching the
roadside again; you did the thing there was to do and knew
you were right.
Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls, 1940

On 4 June, Viktor‟s British counterparts had received

the first detailed intelligence about German rocket work. A
scientist from Luxembourg working at Peenemünde
reported that rockets, ten meters long, with range 150-250
km, fueled by bottles of gas were nearly in their trial run.
Viktor knew they had to get to North Eastern Germany
before the Nazis could have the rockets functioning
properly and do any more damage to England (and the
other Allies) than had already been done.
They moved from Wildeshausen on the River Hunte to
Bremen. There were many railroads, bridges, and other
optimal targets along the way, but Viktor was more
concerned with their primary mission and chose to forego
the mayhem ordered by his Commanding Officer. Nearing

~ 187 ~
Hamburg on 23 July, they took refuge under the eaves of
an old barn as, predictably, at 1600, the clouds rolled in
and the downpour started. In summer, it happened nearly
every day. They could almost set their watches by it; they
both complained.
―Ach! De kloot van de Geit, deze verdomde regen,‖
muttered Ludger Van Der Zee as he tried to relight a
waterlogged half-smoked cigarette in the deluge.
“Hey! You forget again? We speak only German, my
friend!” cautioned Viktor quietly.
“Right, sorry. Ist nicht diese die Eier von einer Ziege,
diese beschissene Regen. How‟s that?”
―Besser viel. Hey, gimme one of those,” Viktor said as
he reached for one of the damp cigarettes. He shook his
head, but had to smile at the use of “goat‟s balls” as an
anathema.
Ludger Van Der Zee, one of seven L.O. Dutch forces
that had been assigned to Viktor, spoke four languages.
Though he was Dutch, from Zeebruge, the part of Holland
he came from was an amalgamation of Dutch, Flemish,
French, and German people as was the case with most of
the men in Viktor‟s company.
After crossing the border near DeLutte, they had
decided to stick to the roads in pairs reasoning two men
traveling the road with German papers would appear less
suspicious than 12 men moving cross-country. Upon
leaving Holland and Belgium, there would be no more
“safe-houses” for them for a while; they were on their own,

~ 188 ~
for the most part. Before they reached Springbiel, every
man burnt his Dutch papers and pulled out his (forged)
German documents (complete with German-ifications of
their Dutch names) saying they were from Bremerhaven,
Hamburg, or Wilhelmshaven. All, except for Viktor; his
documents read he was Viktor Müller from Augsburg, a
munitions worker. At Osnabrück, they were to head
northeast through Bremen and Hamburg towards their
objective. Somewhere around Greifswald, they would
attempt to carry out, at least, part of their secondary
mission: destruction.
“Perhaps we could steal a car?” suggested Ludger,
sucking madly on the wet tobacco.
“Sure, they‟d never notice a missing car! „Specially one
with a couple of Nazi flags flyin‟ on the fenders. Nah, that
wouldn‟t draw any attention to us. Are you nuts?” asked
Viktor.
“And walking on the road like this does not draw
attention?”
“Listen, as soon as we can, we‟ll hop on a train. For
now though, mein freund, it‟s our feet.”
All of the men had been briefed where in Hamburg to
rendezvous. Viktor decided they looked like any other
refugee or traveler if they stayed on the roads; this made
them less likely to be harassed. Each man carried
explosives hidden in their valises or packs so no one
wanted to be searched, if they could help it. Each one also

~ 189 ~
carried poison in case they were caught. Viktor could not
take a chance on any of them jeopardizing the mission.
Viktor and Ludger entered Hamburg that evening just
before sunset via Elbchaussee. They continued down
Breite Strasse towards the Saint Pauli-Gebiet district.
Hungry, tired, and thirsty they found the café, their
rendezvous point, near the Fischmarkt and ordered beer
and sausages. Determined not to spend another night in
the woods, Ludger found them a hotel room while Viktor
was drinking his third beer.
“Und so... it has two small beds; better than the
ground!”
“Yes dear,” Viktor replied.
He downed the beer and the pair left for their hotel,
keeping their eyes open for anyone who may follow. After
washing and reading a bit of the local news, it was nearly
midnight; Viktor‟s eyes felt gritty, he knew it was time for
bed. Just as they drifted into sleep, at approximately
0057, the first bombing started by the RAF; it lasted
almost an hour. Viktor and Ludger, awakened by the air
raid sirens, hurried to the hotel‟s bomb shelter, the
basement.
“So doll, ya‟ come here much?” Viktor, tired and feeling
contemptuous, threw the old pick-up line out to his friend.
“Only when I am tired of sleeping in a nice warm bed,
sweetheart,” Ludger answered.

~ 190 ~
 It appeared as though they might not get out of the
city as planned; the next day a second (daylight) raid by
US Army Air Corps was carried out at 1440. Still another
raid was conducted on the morning of the 26th . On the
night of 26 July, there was a violent thunderstorm over
the North Sea so at 0020 it was extremely light; only two
bomb drops were reported. There was no day raid on the
27th; anyone who was able to walk or crawl tried to leave
the city. Viktor thought they may possibly make it out, but
the other men had not arrived and he was hesitant to
leave without contacting at least one of them.
On the night of 27 July, as midnight approached,
about 740 Allied aircraft attacked the city of Hamburg. A
number of factors caused the massive destruction that
followed. Unusually warm weather, the concentration of
the bombing in one area, and the fact that the city's
firefighters were unable to reach the incipient fires all
played a part. High explosive “Cookies” used in earlier
raids had prevented the firefighters getting into the center
of the city from the outskirts where they were working on
the devastation resulting from the first nights bombing.
The bombardment on the 27th culminated in the
generating of the Feuersturm (or firestorm). This event
created a massive outdoor Hochofen (blast furnace) with
winds of up to 150 mph and reaching temperatures of
1500°F. Asphalt on the streets to burst into flames, air-
raid shelters were turned into giant pressure-cookers, and
pedestrians were sucked off the sidewalks like dust balls

~ 191 ~
into a vacuum. Eight square miles of the city were
completely incinerated. Most of the 40,000 casualties
caused by ―Operation Gomorrah‖ happened on this single
night; it was aptly named.
On the night of 29 July, over 700 aircraft again
attacked Hamburg. The last raid of ―Operation Gomorrah‖
was conducted on 3 August.
Upon leaving their shelter, happy to have escaped
almost certain death, brushing dust and ash from his
clothes, Viktor noted derisively to Ludger, “Those guys
sure know how to throw a party.”
“I think I would have preferred not to have been
invited,” Ludger responded.

By evening of the 30th, two of Viktor‟s men had entered

the city. One of the men was Ari Meyer, a Sergeant and
friend from Camp Ritchie. The other was a replacement for
a man killed early in the mission. He called himself Roy
Courlander. None of the Dutch men trusted Courlander,
but Viktor decided he and his men had no other option.
They went to the café near the Fischmarkt, their pre-
designated rendezvous point, and found it had
miraculously survived semi-intact and was open for
business.
“Damn convenient, wouldn‟t you say?” Viktor said to
Ludger as they sat and ordered beer.

~ 192 ~
 “Oh yes, quite decent of the Brits and Americans to
leave us someplace to drink.”
An hour later Meyer and Courlander arrived.
―Rottler! Und wo bitte schön bist du gewesen?‖ Viktor
exclaimed hugging the two men.
“Ah, we‟ve been around; avoidin‟ bombs mostly. I see
Them Guys made mincemeat of this place. What a dump!”
answered Ari as he looked around and tried to clean a
chair well enough to sit.
“Hamburg used to be a nice city,” said Roy looking
around.
“How would you know?” queried Ludger suspiciously.
“You think because I am Dutch I have never been
anywhere else? Fisherman travel quite a bit, you know.
And Hamburg is a port…” Roy responded tersely as he dug
through a pile of broken and burnt chairs.
“Shut it, both of you!” Viktor interrupted, “This is not
the time to argue like a couple of twelve year old girls.
What‟s the latest, Meyer? And where is everyone?”
“The latest is this,” Ari Meyer pulled a letter out of his
breast pocket, made sure no one was watching, and
handed it to Viktor, “and they‟re all safe and sound.”
“What‟s it say?” asked Viktor as he slid it carefully
between newspapers.
“Beats me, it‟s addressed to you. I don‟t open other
people‟s mail.”

~ 193 ~
 “I guess I‟ll have to read it later in the hotel room,
then. Hey, let‟s get something to eat, if they still have
anything edible.”
The café only had beer, sausages and some hard four-
day-old bread; to the four men, it was manna. They ate
and drank until they were full, staying at the café until
almost midnight. After securing another room for Ari and
Roy, which the windows had been completely blown out,
Viktor and Ludger retired to their own room.
―Es ist gut, dass nicht kalte Aussenseite ist,‖ said
Ludger as he poked and picked at the shattered glass on
the floor that had once covered the windows with his foot.
Viktor sat down on his bed and read the message that
had been delivered to him. It was from an officer in his
command, Major Oldham; there were new orders. Well,
change fucking thirteen to change thirteen! thought Viktor.
“Yeah, well I‟m sure the US Army could order you up
some cold weather in a jiff,” said Viktor curtly, tossing the
letter on this pillow.
―Schlimme Nachrichten?‖
“You bet your ass it‟s bad news. Our orders have
changed AGAIN.”
―Ach so, Anschliessend?‖
“Hell if I know. I guess we just follow the directions
we‟re given.”
―Und was sind diese Aufträge?‖
“The orders are to fall back to Bremen and wait for
further instruction.”

~ 194 ~
 ―Scheisse!‖
“My sentiments exactly.”

Before the last bombs dropped on 3 August, the four

men had departed, beginning their journey back to
Bremen. Ever cautious, Ari and Roy left in the morning of
31 July, Viktor and Ludger left after sunset. On the return
to Bremen, they had to cross the River Elbe, Oste
Tributary, the Wieste, Wümme, and the River Weser.
There was a particularly nice bridge over the Weser. Viktor
and Ludger set booby-traps on the bridges, whenever (and
as carefully as possible), as they crossed them.
Crossing the Kleine Wümme into the city center, to the
Schnoor they stopped into the first café they saw and
ordered beer, it had been a long warm 75 mile, four day‟s
walk to Bremen. Viktor had the feeling they might be there
for a while so he asked Ludger to scout out a place to stay
in the city.
As it turned out, on 17 August, they discovered the
reason they had been sent back to Bremen. The Allies
began ―Operation Hydra,‖ the bombing of Peenemünde,
from an altitude of 8000 feet. To distract and divert the
Germans, a group of de Havilland Mosquitoes in tandem
conducted the small ―Operation Whitebait‖ air raid on
Berlin. At 2256 British time, the first Mosquito of
―Operation Whitebait‖ was over the city. Each Mosquito
dropped eight marker flares and a minimum bomb load.

~ 195 ~
 Approximately 1,800 tons of bombs were dropped in
Peenemünde. However, the United States Strategic
Bombing Survey (USSBS) concluded that the attack of 17
August was “not effective.”
“Doctor Thiel and Chief Engineer Walther were buried
in one of the trenches. People were still digging for them
when I left,” said an assembly workshop overseer.
Many victims were at Trassenheide, a popular resort.
They were killed as they climbed fences to escape the
bombs; the main gate was too far away. Additionally,
plans for several German V-2 facilities were changed after
―Operation Hydra.‖ The nearly operational V-2 Production
Plant was moved to the Mittelwerk (Central Works), a
mining tunnel near Nordhausen; they called it Dora.
Generaloberst Hans Jeschonnek, Luftwaffe Chief of Staff,
shot himself in the face over his “failure” in the whole
incident on 19 August.

Sitting in the Ratskeller the two men read the latest

news and shared a bottle of Rotwein.
“So, maybe your officers know what they are doing
after all,” suggested Ludger quietly.
“Huh, not likely! I think it was prob‟ly just dumb luck,”
Viktor scoffed.
“I presume this now means more waiting?”
“You do presume correctly, mein freund. Hurry up and
wait.”

~ 196 ~
 They were still waiting three months later.

Viktor woke with a start, kicking wildly.

“Brother… What a crazy dream,” he said to himself.
Ludger, who was awake and shaving at the small
washbasin looked at him sideways and asked him what it
concerned.
“Well, I was a little kid again and there I was, riding
this horse. „Cept, I never rode a horse, not ever. And the
horse was running across water, really on it, a nice calm
ocean someplace, mountains in the background an‟ all.
Then all of a sudden, there was water everywhere, walls of
it! Massive waterfalls. My brother and father were there
too; we lost the horse, but I heard an ox bawling so I went
to look for it. When I found it, it had drowned in one of the
waterfalls. When my brother and I finally made it out of
the water, we couldn‟t find our father. The only thing we
did find was a trail of human guts stretched out for as far
as we could see; we were stuck in them, tripping and
falling around. That‟s when I woke up.”
“That is an odd dream. Too bad Annika isn‟t here; she
could tell you what it means.”
“The wife good at that sort of thing? My Rosie is too.
Strange, sehr seltsam.‖
“Ja, es ist seltsam. So, we will change “houses” again
today?”
“Jawohl! Harder to hit a moving target, richtig?”

~ 197 ~
 In the middle of October 1943 they received the final
word from the now Lieutenant Colonel Oldham to proceed
in a southerly direction and “destroy at will, and whenever
possible, any and all enemy targets.” So, Viktor sighed as
he set the letter aside, if it moves, kill it, and if it doesn‘t
move, blow it up in place… ―whenever possible.‖

For the time being, Hans (in Marseille) and Gehlen (in
Berlin) were preoccupied with the attack on Kiev, Russia
and the Russian spies that came along with it. The
Germans lost Kiev, however, on 6 November of 1943 for
the last time to the Red Army; there was no getting it
back. By Christmas Eve, the 4th Panzer Army was in full
retreat when the First Ukrainian Front struck at them in
their harborage at Zhitomir. Then, on Christmas Day, the
German battleship Scharnhorst and several destroyers,
under the command of Konteradmiral Erich Bey, put to
sea with the purpose of attacking Russia-bound Arctic
convoys north of Norway. Regrettably, for the Germans,
the British code breakers had decoded their orders; the
Admiralty was able to target their forces to interdict.
The next day, in extreme weather, unable to locate the
convoy, Bey detached the destroyers and sent them south,
leaving Scharnhorst alone. HMS Duke of York, HNoMS
Stord (Royal Norwegian Navy), HMS Scorpion, and the
Jamaica located the companionless Scharnhorst and open-
fired. At 1928 and 1937 respectively, they fired their final

~ 198 ~
salvos at Scharnhorst. After 77 previous direct hits, these
were the final paralyzing blows. Scharnhorst sank at
approximately 1945 on 26 December 1943 with her
propellers still turning. The German hold on Europe was
deteriorating, though very few Germans actually knew it.
In January 1944, the British dropped 2800 tons of
bombs over Berlin. Six days later, the Führer sent 270
aircraft to Southern England of which 96 actually reached
their targets. The mission was yet another failure for the
Reich. As such, it allowed 700 British planes to escape
destruction and bomb Berlin, Magdeburg, and Kiel.

SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker transferred to Paris

in January 1944; he was assigned to one of the three
houses used by the SD on the Avenue Foch. His contact in
the Dutch resistance had kept him informed of their
movements and things seemed to be moving very slowly,
not at all how he had envisioned it. Hans was convinced
there was a larger plan in the works. Why else would they
risk sending them into Germany? he thought. In March, his
operative finally contacted him with the information he
had been waiting for. The „plan‟ was to kidnap Dr.
Wernher von Braun and hand him over to the American
OSS.
Dr. von Braun, however, had been under SD
surveillance and was sitting in a Gestapo cell in Stettin. It
took Hans, with the help of his friend Gehlen in Berlin,

~ 199 ~
two weeks to get him released. In the months that
followed, the Abwehr was dissolved and made part of the
Sicherheitsdienst (SD), 75000 Germans were killed at the
Dnjepr in Russia, the Allies began daylight bombing over
Berlin, Monte Cassino fell to the Allies, and by 2 June,
they had broken the Nazi grip on Anzio and were steadily
marching north. The same day the Americans marched
into Rome, the first stanza of Paul Verlaine's poem
―Chanson d'Automne‖ was transmitted signaling the
beginning of ―Operation Overlord:‖ D-Day.
The first lines of the stanza ―Les sanglots longs des
violons de l'automne‖ was broadcast over La Résistance
―Ventriloque‖ network and heard all over France. This
ordered the attack on all rail targets within the next few
days. The second part, ―Bercent mon coeur d'une langueur
monotone,‖ transmitted late on 5 June, meant that the
invasion was imminent. Verlaine had originally wrote,
―Blessent mon coeur;‖ the BBC replaced Verlaine's original
words with the slightly modified lyrics of a song entitled
Verlaine (Chanson d'Automne) by Charles Trenet.
Hans entered the office west of the Arc de Triomphe
looking for one of his co-workers, Dr. Josef Götz. Götz, the
head of the Signals Intelligence (SigInt) department of the
SD in Paris. Though he called himself, ―Doktor,‖ to Hans,
this merely suggested academic superiorities that the
provincial Götz did not have. Hans did not approve of
those pretentious Germans that called themselves
―Doktor,‖ For what, he thought, we are all paid the same.

~ 200 ~
 Götz was a sticky faced, bespectacled, tall, yet over-fed
man, a pencil pusher. Hans had long ago lost patience
with the slow moving and stupid; he did not like Götz, but
knew he had to tolerate him for a short time anyway. The
dog did not like him much either and, for Hans, that
meant he was probably not entirely trustworthy.
―Heil Hitler,‖ Hans said to the fleshy blue-eyed officer
at the desk.
―Ah Herr Sturmbannführer Henker, Heil Hitler! So how
do you like being back in the SD?” asked the smirking
myopic man. Hans shrugged, doing his best to appear
unmoved.
“It‟s all the same to me.”
―Gut dann, haben wir etwas Arbeit zu machen, ja?‖
Götz said enthusiastically.
“Yes, I suppose we do,” Hans thought Götz seemed
just a bit too excited about the whole project.
He slouched into a chair, Marguerite on the floor next
to him; across from him stood Götz‟ massive desk. Since
his arrival in Paris, six months ago, no one had had any
idea what to do with him; this SD-turned-(former) Abwehr
officer who outranked most of his counterparts. His
particular department of the Abwehr had been absorbed
by the SD in mid February of ‟44; Admiral Canaris was
fired by the Führer himself. Hans, though his specialties
lie in Human Intelligence, had been helping Götz with
SigInt for about a month. Hans had been monitoring Free
French Radio on a lark when they heard the poem.

~ 201 ~
 “Have you discovered anything else?”
“Nein. They are not listening to us anyway.”
“Do not be so... so negative, Hans! They will have to
listen. They will have to!”
Hans and Götz had discovered the meaning of the
poem, and some 15 other executive orders heard 5 June.
Götz‟ SigInt section had correctly interpreted the orders to
mean that invasion was imminent or underway; they
alerted their superiors and all Army commanders in
France.
Unfortunately, Götz had issued an identical warning
the month before, when the Allies had begun their
invasion preparations and alerted La Résistance, but the
operation had been scrapped because of foul weather.
Having given this previous false alarm, Götz‟ genuine
alarm was completely ignored except by the very few.
Fifteenth Army HQ did pass the information on to its
units; Seventh Army disregarded it.
As early as 1943, even Generalfeldmarschall Erwin
Rommel, just back from Africa, toured Normandy. He
found the defenses to be of poor quality, and understaffed.
Rommel had tried persuading Hitler and the commanders
in France, but all pleas fell on deaf ears. They were all
convinced the Allies would only land at Pas de Calais.
So, on 6 June, while Rommel was on leave for his
wife‟s birthday and the Führer was sleeping, the reigning
confusion among the officers in France led to either

~ 202 ~
hesitation or unwillingness to release their Panzer
reserves.
This grave mistake let the Allies gain a beachhead and
some 24 days later, an absolute foothold in France. The
Germans were playing a losing game and they knew it.
Since they had not brought their infantry to the front of
the field, they would have to use their Panzer divisions in
defensive battles of attrition. This, combined with their
failure to overpower Allied air forces, meant that they
could not conduct the sort of fluid skirmishes for which
they were famous.
Late on 6 June as the 7th Army was defending French
beaches, Hans was packing. He had no orders, but he
knew if the Allies made it past those beaches they would
be in Paris shortly. There was no time to waste. He tried
calling Berlin, but was unable to get through; the lines
were all down. He hoped a letter, sent by special
messenger, would get through to his friend Gehlen in
Berlin; he shoved his belongings in the trunk of his car,
grabbed Marguerite, and headed for the German border.
Gehlen was right, Hans thought, this is going to get even
worse.
Arriving in Munich on 10 June, Hans intended to go
straight to the house he thought Lotte was living in, but,
his friend Gehlen met him at the SS headquarters at
Burgstrasse; he was cut off at the pass. Hans
congratulated him on his promotion to Oberst and the two
men drove to the Maxvorstadt district to have a beer and

~ 203 ~
schnitzel at the Alter Simpl, a bar near the University, still
operational and usually populated by students.
“Can you please tell me why we have come out of our
way, and drove no less, to the Maxvorstadt to have a beer
when there were closer places we might have walked to?”
asked Hans, more than slightly annoyed.
“It‟s not out of the way! And I wanted to drive; it gave
the appearance as though we were going much farther
away. Besides my dear friend, there is someone I want you
to meet; privately, more or less,” Gehlen said with a grin
that caused Hans to question his friend‟s reason.
They sat at a table near the back of the Wirtshaus and
ordered a round of beer. They had not quite finished their
first beers when the “someone” in question entered the
bar.
Oberst Claus Philipp Maria Schenk Graf von
Stauffenberg immediately saw Reinhard Gehlen and made
a beeline for the table. Hans and Gehlen rose to greet the
newcomer. Hans looked him over for an instant. Though
he was missing his right hand and wore a patch over his
left eye, he was quite striking. He was the same height as
Hans, but a larger, more powerful build. He also wore the
Deutsches Kreuz (which Hans privately liked to call
“Hitler's Fried Egg” or “party emblem for the nearsighted”)
in gold on his left breast pocket.
“Claus, my friend! I was not absolutely sure you would
make it,” Gehlen exclaimed while heartily shaking the
man‟s left hand.

~ 204 ~
 “Yes well, I had to think of a very good excuse to come,
but it appears to have worked,” Graf von Stauffenberg
answered looking over his shoulder.
“Claus, this is my very good friend SS-Sturmbannführer
Hans Henker,” Gehlen introduced the two men.
“I have heard much about you,” Graf von Stauffenberg
said to Hans.
“Most of it was most certainly lies,” Hans responded
blithely. Count? I thought royalty was against the law now,
thought Hans as the three men sat and ordered more
beer; they began to discuss some pressing business.
Oberst Graf von Stauffenberg glanced at Gehlen.
“Have you told him anything?”
“No, nothing yet,” said Gehlen.
“Herr SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker, I am going to
tell you something that cannot and will not leave this
Wirtshaus. Do you understand?”
“Yes of course. I, above all, can keep a secret,” Hans
said a bit chagrined.
“So it would seem,” Gehlen said lighting a cigarette.
Hans gave him a sideways look.
“Ah, but those are State Secrets. This is a secret from
the State,” Graf von Stauffenberg cautioned.
He proceeded to explain, quietly, ―Operation Walküre‖
(Operation Valkyrie) to Hans. The plan was designed
initially for use in the event that the destruction and
chaos caused by Allied bombing of German cities incited a
breakdown in law and order. Graf von Stauffenberg went

~ 205 ~
on to explain that they, meaning he and the rest of the
Opposition, had decided to modify the plan in order to
take control of German cities, disarm the SS, and arrest
the Nazi leadership; once German dictator Adolf Hitler had
been assassinated, that is. They were doing this to free
German soldiers from their Reichswehreid (loyalty to Hitler
in person) and to save the people of Germany from further
suffering. He told Hans of the previous attempts; Hitler
always managed to change his plans at the last minute,
foiling their efforts. He added, regardless of the yearlong
preparation, the plan was to be carried out on 20 July.
Hans was astounded and terrified at the same time.
He looked from von Stauffenberg to Gehlen back to von
Stauffenberg. He did not know how to respond. This Graf
von Stauffenberg has just told me he plans to assassinate
the Führer, Hans deliberated. He was brought back from
his excogitation by the cigarette burning his index and
middle fingers; he quickly snuffed it in the ashtray.
“Why are you telling me this?” Hans asked
apprehensively.
“Because Hans, when the time comes, we will need
men like you to help… help run things,” Gehlen said
reassuringly.
“Your old boss, Herr Admiral Canaris, is in. He is one
of us. So is Herr Generalfeldmarschall Rommel,” von
Stauffenberg told Hans.
―Wenn alle Stränge reissen?‖

~ 206 ~
 “It cannot fail. For Germany‟s sake, it cannot!”
answered von Stauffenberg.
“But if it does, what then?”
―Dann werde ich elendig sterben…‖ von Stauffenberg
said, “the war will continue, we will lose, and Germany will
also die miserably. Or perhaps it will only be a wretched
bloody mess.”
―Es ist Landesverrat! Nein, Hochverrat... high treason,”
Hans reminded the two officers.
―Ja mein Herr SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Henker, gehen
wir in medias res, and I tell you, now, what I told a dear
friend once, I will commit high treason with all my might
and means,” von Stauffenberg answered passionately.
As Hans and Gehlen drove back to the Headquarters,
Hans was too worried to talk. Gehlen broke the silence.
―Hans, du weisst dass dies alles für das Beste ist. Wir
können diesen Krieg nicht gewinnen! Zu viele Leute sind
gestorben.‖
“Yes, I know it‟s for the best and I know you keep
saying we cannot win, but I am not so sure.”
―Bist du sicher, mein freund, be very sure. I am now in
the process of putting important documents on microfilm.
I will need your help later to hide them.”
―Wo?‖
“In your old stomping grounds. Austria, of course!”
Gehlen slapped Hans on the back and the two men parted
again. Hans started up the steps of the building; he
stopped and watched Gehlen speed off for a moment.

~ 207 ~
Where and when will all this end, he brooded; the
command never did give him the chance to go look for his
wife.
Gehlen fell seriously (and conveniently) ill, his ulcers
again, on 1 July, three weeks prior to the attempt on
Hitler‟s life. On 21 July 1944, Oberst Claus Philipp Maria
Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg was executed for the
attempted assassination of Adolf Hitler. He implicated no
one else. He is reported to have said, ―Es lebe unser
heiliges Deutschland!‖ (“Long live our sacred Germany!”).

The Allies closed the Falaise Gap one month later, on

21 August. Generals Bradley and Montgomery cut the
Germans off at Mortain; later that night after a French
priest pleaded with the German field commander, he
ordered the rest of his troops to surrender. On 25 August,
despite repeated orders from the Führer that Paris “must
not fall into the enemy's hand except lying in complete
debris” General der Infanterie Dietrich von Choltitz,
commander of the Paris garrison and military governor of
Paris, surrendered. Hitler, upon hearing of the surrender
allegedly asked, ―Brennt Paris?‖ (“Is Paris Burning?”).

While Hans plotted with Gehlen in Germany, Viktor‟s

men had mostly all come together in Bad Cannstatt on the
Neckar River near Stuttgart. Stuttgart, an important

~ 208 ~
industrial area, had already been subjected to more than
45 Allied bombing raids. Viktor and his men had spent the
better part of 1944 booby-trapping bridges and railways.
They were still waiting for the orders to “pick up” their
target, Dr. Wernher Magnus Maximilian Freiherr von
Braun. The men had passed within a few miles of the
Nordhausen facility on their way south. It was
impenetrable; they waited.
As the Allies were preparing for ―Operation Market
Garden‖ on 16 September, Viktor received word from his
commander. The coded message was delivered to him by
his former bunkie from Camp Ritchie, Saul Bergman, and
Saul‟s partner, Frans DeWitt. The two were the last of the
men to make it into Bad Cannstatt.
That evening, after a meager dinner of beans and
bread, one of the men made coffee for them and they
relaxed a bit in the cellar of the abandoned house, where
they had been hiding; Viktor and his comrades at arms
opened the letter. In the dispatch, they were told Dr. von
Braun would be having a secret meeting with Hitler and
Dr. Albert Speer near Berchtesgaden at the Berghof, the
Führer‘s favorite residence on 20 September. Dr. von
Braun was supposed to travel by train to Berchtesgaden;
this was intended to avoid any undue attention from the
Allies.
“Well boys, here we go,” Viktor lit a cigarette.
“Where do we start, Herr Kommandant?” asked Frans
smiling slyly.

~ 209 ~
 “Oh yeah, I forgot you and Meyer are the funny ones.
We start by finding out which train and stopping it, that‟s
where, mein kleiner Soldat.‖
―Sagt es uns nicht, welche trainieren, wird er auf in den
Brief reisen?‖ asked Ludger.
“The letter? Aww, nothin‟ really. It just gives me a date
and a guesstimate on the time, that‟s all,” answered
Viktor.
“Well, as long as we got a “guesstimate,” what more
could ya‟ ask for from the Army?” said Meyer.
The men, again travelling in pairs, arrived in
Bischofswiesen the day before their mission was to take
place. That evening they received another letter. Eddie
Sonnenblume, one of the Camp Ritchie boys, had picked
up the letter outside of the village. Upon seeing it, Viktor
had a great deal of difficulty controlling his temper. There
was to be no train; Dr. von Braun would be travelling by
car after all.
“What the fuck? Change fourteen to the change! This
shit is getting monotonous!” Viktor said much too loudly,
throwing the missive across the small kitchen of the
deserted chalet. Meyer immediately tried to quiet and calm
him.
“Bitte Herr Kommandant, kein Problem! We just shift a
little. Track or roads, what is the difference as long as we
get our target, no?” said Saul.
“Yeah, but I‟d like to know where this came from and
who dreams this shit up?”

~ 210 ~
 “Quit your kvetchering; we all know it‟s a steamin‟ pile
of horse shit,” Meyer asserted.
―Ja, ja, wir können das Ziel von der Strasse aufheben,
kein Problem. Wir können uns Strassenblöcke setzen!‖
interjected Roy. All eyes turned to Courlander.
“Blondie! You been oh-so fuckin‟ quiet all this time;
now you got big ideas?” said Meyer warily.
“I... I‟m sorry. I was only trying to help.”
“Yeah wull, you‟re still suspect ta‟ me an‟…” Meyer
started to argue.
“Button your lips, you two! He‟s right anyhow. The
only way we can make contact with the target is to stop
the car. One of you bust out a map; I gotta think about
this for a bit.”
―Sie wissen, Kommandant, sie werden mehr als ein
Auto haben,‖ said Saul.
“Yeah, I know. They‟ll probably have two or three cars,
like a convoy, the target will be in the middle.”
“What I still don‟t get is how did They know where to
find us, to give us the letter, I mean? Kinda hinkey ain‟t
it?” Meyer asked anyone listening as he bedded down for
the evening.
“They always know where to find us,” said Eddie
drowsily.
“Wull, if They do, then them Nazis do,” said Meyer as
he turned over on his side to sleep then flipped over again.
“Hey, ain‟t a road block gonna be kinda suspicious
lookin‟?”

~ 211 ~
 All the men groaned.
“No Meyer, wrong time of year; no tourists. Now, GO
TO SLEEP,” answered Viktor. He looked up to the ceiling
raised his hands and asked quietly, “Lord, can You make
them shut up? Please? „Cause I can‟t.”
The men spent the entire morning of 20 September
felling trees, dragging logs into the road, and setting
explosives. That afternoon, watches synchronized and all
roadblocks set on Alpenstrasse, the main road from
Munich to Berchtesgaden, twelve heavily armed men lay
waiting next to the road for the car carrying their target.
At precisely 1630, their target arrived.
As Viktor‟s men tried to detonate the explosives, the
first car pulled up to the roadblock, an officer appeared
from the back of the vehicle and surveyed the area.
“What the fuck is wrong with the charges?” Viktor
hissed to Eddie.
―Hier, holen Sie diese Scheisse aus der Strasse
heraus!‖ The officer called back to the second and third
cars. A few soldiers jumped from the first and third cars to
help pull the trees from the road.
Viktor‟s men were about to envelop the vehicles when
it suddenly occurred to Meyer to whisper,
“Hey, anybody seen Blondie?”

The men popped out of the woods and opened fire,

surrounding the convoy, the contingency plan. Another

~ 212 ~
vehicle, a truck, full of soldiers sped up to the three
blocked cars and came to a screeching halt. The men leapt
out of the back barking orders, firing machine guns;
killing two of the men outright. A tall officer appeared from
the second car and shouted for them to stop. He wanted
them alive.
Viktor, hands raised, had his back turned to the
officer. He could feel the man breathing on him though.
The last thing Viktor saw was his boots as the butt of a
weapon met with the back of his head.

~ 213 ~
Chapter 14
Berchtesgaden, Germany 20 September 1944
All that hate me whisper together against me,
against me do they devise my hurt:
‗An evil thing cleaveth fast unto him;
and now that he lieth, he shall rise up no more.‘
Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted,
who did eat of my bread, hath lifted up his heel against me.
But Thou, O L.O.RD, be gracious unto me, and raise me up,
that I may requite them.
By this I know that Thou delightest in me,
that mine enemy doth not triumph over me.
And as for me, Thou upholdest me because of mine
integrity, and settest me before Thy face forever.
Tanakh, Ketuvim, Psalm 41

“Sit him down over there,” Hans told the two SS

soldiers.
They dragged Viktor, still unconscious, over to a
wooden chair in front of a table centered in the middle of
the room, sat him down, hard, his hands tied behind him.
“Wecken Sie ihn,‖ Hans said as he sat on the edge of
the table lighting a cigarette. One of the soldiers fetched
some ice-cold water and threw it in his face, causing
Viktor to wake with a jerk.
“Sprechen sie Deutch, Spion? Überreissen Sie?
Verstehen?‖

~ 214 ~
 “What... Spy? Wie... Wer ist der Spion? I... I don‟t know
what you are talking about. Ich heisse Viktor… Viktor
Müller. I was a munitions worker... von Augsburg,” Viktor
responded incoherently, head bobbing.
There was a light above his head shining directly in his
face; he could not see his interrogator.
―Augsburg, Spion? Ja, ja, ein Munitions-Arbeiter; Sie
hielten mein Auto in der Strasse an, warum beleidigen Sie
meine Intelligenz? Offensichtlich glauben Sie, dass ich diese
Position für meine Blödheit erlangte,‖ Hans said arms
folded.
“Sorry, I can‟t see you. I can‟t tell if you look stupid,”
Viktor answered still addled.
Hans turned to one of the other soldiers and softly
gave him instructions the unsteady and disoriented Viktor
could not hear. The soldier walked directly over to Viktor
and slapped him twice, with front and back, of his right
hand. He hit Viktor hard enough to spin his head like a
top.
Hans went to the table and leaned quietly, lighting a
cigarette, petting Marguerite. He wondered how he was
going to proceed with this one. He was not like the others,
militant, defiant, or rude. This one was a well-educated
gentleman, Hans decided. So Hans remained quiet and
observed the man; the confident young man who was
trying to shake off the braining he had received on the
road.

~ 215 ~
 After nearly an hour of quiet, Hans ordered the
soldiers to untie the confused prisoner and open the
shuttered windows. After he stretched his arms, Viktor
noticed at once, what looked to be an old upright piano in
the corner of the room covered with a sheet.
“Sie möchten eine Zigarette?‖ asked Hans.
“No,” Viktor said. Hans caught Viktor‟s gaze.
“Ach so, spielen Sie das Klavier?”
“Yes a bit,” Viktor affirmed.
―Gut, mein Herr, spielen Sie uns etwas bitte.‖
“No.”
“Oh, but I insist,” Hans went to the piano and ripped
off the dusty white cover.
“Jezt!” Hans said as he charged the pistol he‟d pulled
from his holster.
Viktor wiped his dry lips, breathed deeply, and rose
shakily; he weaved his way towards the piano. It was the
first time he got a good look at his captor. As he slowly
passed the officer, for a split second, he thought he truly
recognized the tall, grey-eyed man and all but tripped over
his own feet. Oh my God, I have seen those eyes before…
he thought. Sitting at the piano, he asked Hans what he
would like to hear.
“Something pleasant, something fröhlich.”
Viktor ran through some scales, discovering a C sharp
that did not function properly, thought for a moment, I
have missed these things; he began to play Liszt‟s
Schwanengesang. It was certainly not “fröhlich” by any

~ 216 ~
means, but the sad song was one of his favorites and fit
the occasion, he thought.
As Viktor played, Hans could not help but think that
for a minute, he recognized the sandy haired young man
at the piano. His manner, the way he brushed that piece of
hair from his eyes! Nearly gold cat eyes, just like... then
Hans lost himself for a brief time in the beautiful serenade
played on the slightly out of tune old instrument.
Marguerite left Hans and went over to lie next to the piano
as Viktor played. One of the first songs Lotte taught me to
play, Hans thought. Subsequently, Franz Liszt turned into
something decidedly mournful and Russian. Tchaikovsky‟s
None but the Lonely Heart; written in 1869 for voice and
piano, the melancholy piece sounded fine on its own.
Hans listened as the beautiful somber music filled the
basement of the former hotel, now hospital, and let his
mind wander, something he rarely had occasion to do.
Viktor continued to play. This time it was the banned
Rhapsody in Blue by the American composer, George
Gershwin. Hans did not stop his prisoner; he let him play
the entire composition. When Viktor had finished, Hans
rose and clapped, slowly, loudly.
“Very nice, Herr Müller; is there anything else you
might like us to hear?”
“No. I just didn‟t want to stop for a while.”
“Well, in that case,” Hans motioned for the guards to
take Viktor back to his original seat.

~ 217 ~
 “What do you want with me?” asked Viktor as he sat
down, trying to play dumb.
“Hmm… let me see, as I said before, you stopped my
car in the road. What do you want with me? I am not as
important as all that. Und so, what could you have been
after? A very important question, do you not think, mein
Herr?‖
“I wasn‟t after anything.”
“Ah, but you were. And I think I might know what that
could be.”
“I wasn‟t aware that anyone thought at all these days,
but what do you think?” Viktor asked recalcitrantly.
Hans, sensing Viktor‟s irritation, “None of your fucking
business, really. But I think, as a rule, of my duty.”
Hans once again quietly asked one of the guards to do
something Viktor could not quite make out. The soldier
left and re-entered the room followed by someone who
looked familiar to Viktor; so familiar in fact, Viktor wanted
badly to kill him and had no problem showing it.
―Sie erkennen diesen Mann?‖
Viktor recognized him. The man in question was Roy
Courlander; only this was not the Roy Viktor knew. This
particular Roy was wearing the uniform of Waffen SS,
“British Free Corps” clearly marked on the left sleeve; this
Roy saluted the Sturmbannführer with the customary ―Heil
Hitler‖ and had nothing in his blue eyes but contempt for
Viktor. The Roy who had shared their beans, bullets, and

~ 218 ~
Band-Aids was gone. Viktor began to shake violently with
rage.
“You?”
“Yes Herr Müller, it‟s me.”
“You... you deceitful perverted... du bist ein
Scheisshaufen! It‟s a good thing you‟re here and protected;
I‟d kill you. I will kill you if I get the chance.”
“But you will not get the chance Viktor. You will never
get the chance.”
“We shall see. Schläfst du nicht, Arschloch,‖ Viktor half
whispered to Roy.
Hans walked to the piano and tapped on some of the
keys.
“You two know each other, good. So, to make
everything polite, I am Sturmbannführer Henker; the
guards really do not matter. And now that we are all
acquainted...
“What to do with you, that is the question.
Untersturmführer Courlander, what would you suggest?”
“Shoot him,” Roy answered with a sneer; Viktor tried
to stand up, the guards slammed him back into the chair.
“No, no, no I might need him later. And,
Untersturmführer Courlander, I had no idea you had such
a limited imagination. Why don‟t you beat him instead;
until I am tired. Perhaps he will tell us something then. In
his very lovely perfect German.
―Von Augsburg,‖ Hans chuckled and shook his head as
he walked back to the piano.

~ 219 ~
 “I play a bit myself you know. Would anyone like to
hear anything special? No? Fine then, Herr von Beethoven
it is.”
Hans motioned for the beatings to commence and
started to play. Marguerite enjoyed music, not beatings;
she came over to lie near the piano stool as he played. He
began with Beethoven‟s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op.
13 “Pathétique.” After about 20 minutes, he stopped
playing to smoke and observe his prisoner. Courlander
paused to look back at Hans who gestured for him to stop.
―Und So, Herr Müller, anytime you would like to share
something with us please, let us know. I will gladly stop
the beatings. The truth is best, you know. The truth, and I
can be kind.”
“I have told you the truth. I am Viktor Müller, a
munitions…”
―Ja, ja, You are quite the convincing liar. Ein
Munitions-Arbeiter von Augsburg, ich weiss! Aber wenn Sie
mir die Wahrheit sagen…‖
“Children and fools speak the truth,” said Viktor
through bloody lips, “Aber glauben Sie, was Sie wollen. Ich
glaube, dass es alles gleiche für mich ist... it‟s all the
same,” Viktor said softly, sniffing the blood in his nose.
―Und Der Klügere gibt nach. I would like to stop this,
but, as you like. Gut dann Untersturmführer Courlander,
you may continue to beat him,” As Hans turned to resume
playing the piano with Beethoven‟s Piano Sonata No. 17 in
D Minor, Op. 31 ―Tempest.‖

~ 220 ~
 Viktor then said something that made Hans‟ hair
bristle.
“Wissen Sie was sie sagen... ‗Assume a virtue if you
have it not.‘”
Hans turned, volte-face, to Viktor and stared at him.
Hamlet?
“Ah Shakespeare. Hamlet, ist es nicht?‖ Hans asked
with a forced calm; Viktor nodded his head wearily.
―In diesem Fall... ‗Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat
thee,‘” quote Hans.
“So you‟re a fan of Shakespeare... Cymbeline?”
responded Viktor. Now I am sure. Oh God, it can‘t be...
Please God, do not let this be my Hans, he thought sadly.
Hans turned back to the piano to continue, unhinged
a bit; their last exchange had shaken him. His hands
trembled as he started to play again. Untersturmführer
Courlander however was not shaken in any way. In fact,
he was so unmoved; he put out his cigarette on Viktor‟s
right thigh and punched him in the mouth. Another fifteen
minutes or so went by and Roy was getting bored with
beating Viktor. He asked two of the men to fetch a piece of
wood and a sledgehammer. Roy centered the wood
between Viktor‟s ankles and brought the hammer down
with all of the force he could gather on the right ankle;
Viktor screamed.
Hans stopped immediately and jumped up from the
stool, knocking it over; Marguerite tried to crawl under the
piano.

~ 221 ~
 “Gott verdammt es! I said beat him not kill him!” Hans
bellowed.
The guards had never heard Hans shout; they were
shocked enough to back away from Viktor completely.
“But Herr Sturmbannführer Henker…” Roy started.
Hans flew across the room and grabbed him by the
throat, squeezing with both hands until Roy‟s eyes began
to turn red and his face purple.
“Listen to me you contemptible traitorous bastard, you
English fuck, the only reason you are still alive is because
you have been useful to me. Sie machen mich krank. I
would kill you myself, but I do not want to dirty my
uniform with the blood of a foul degenerate rat. Jetzt
gehen Sie, bevor ich meine Meinung ändere,” Hans threw
Roy, gasping for air, on the floor, ordering everyone out for
the night. He untied Viktor‟s hands and brought him a
cup of water.
“This will not help, you know,” Viktor told Hans.
“Yes, I know. Gute Nacht, mein Herr.”
Hans crossed the hall to the room where he held the
other prisoner who almost seemed promising: Louis
Meckel.
“So, your documents say you are from Lüneburg and
your name is Meckel, Lou…” Hans started to ask the man.
“That ain‟t my real name.”
“No?”
“No.”

~ 222 ~
 “Where did this come from then?” Hans asked showing
the man the false document.
“Musta got it off a dead Heinie.”
“Truly? What is your correct name then, may I ask?”
said Hans just about to lose patience with the man.
“Ari Meyer.”
―Meyer? Ein Jude?‖
“Yeah, that‟s right, Nichtjude Goi Drecksau, a Jew! Die
Amerikaner don‟t have a bunch o‟ issues „bout who They
deal with.”
“How benevolent of them,” Hans replied sarcastically.
„Nichtjude,‘ he had not heard that word for a very long
time…
“Your German is odd, you know,” Hans said turning
his back to the prisoner.
“Wow! You‟re a sharp little pencil. It ain‟t German, it‟s
Yiddish. I‟m sick ta‟ death o‟ German.”
“Oh well, pardon me sir,” Hans turned and responded
with a fake bow. “Why are you the only one who is talking
to me; the only one to give me his proper name?”
“Dunno. Maybe I‟m smart or maybe not. I figure you
guys are gonna finish me off no matter what, richtig? It‟s
Beshert,” Ari shrugged.
―‗Beshert,‘ mein Herr?‖ queried Hans. I‘ve heard that
word before…
“Yeah you know, Schicksal, you Sheygetz moron.”
“Ahh well, yes. No man can avoid his destiny. And
Viktor?”

~ 223 ~
 “Who, Vik? Aww, he‟s smart too. I heard „im playin‟ the
piano. Real pretty. I also heard „im screamin‟; you guys
doin‟ a real number on „im over there, ain‟tcha?”
“That was not my doing.”
“I‟ll just bet.”
“So, Viktor Müller is his real name?”
“Ever since I knowed „im an‟ that‟s been oh, lemme
see, „bout a year or so,” Ari fibbed.
“So, let me try to understand this correctly, you are
both Americans and these are your real names?”
―Heilige Scheisse! Hey, you‟re quick. I bet you was ein
genialer Junge before you put on that Nazi monkey suit.
„Cept, uh… neither one of us is really Americans.”
―Nein?‖
―Nein. See, we‟re both immigrants von Deutschland.
So, the jokes on you, Drecksack!”
Viktor tried to sleep a bit, but the cold concrete floor
was not exactly comfortable. The doors and windows were
locked; he could not escape anyway with a broken ankle,
he knew he would not get far and it would only make
things worse for the others. He limped to the piano and
started to play Bethana by Scott Joplin, an old ragtime
song, but his heart was not in it. He tried a couple of other
popular songs; he ended up playing Beethoven‟s Moonlight
Sonata. As Viktor was about to start on Debussy, he was
interrupted by the entrance of his former comrade
Untersturmführer Courlander.
“Back for more?” Viktor asked the Lieutenant.

~ 224 ~
 “Did you think I would not finish what I started?”
“No. I‟m surprised it took you this long to get back
down here.”
“I had to wait for Herr Sturmbannführer Henker to go
to sleep. He does not sleep much and that fucking dog
hears everything. The worthless mangy mutt.”
“I like that „fucking dog.‟ She‟s beautiful.”
“If I could shoot that thing in the head without
repercussion, I would.”
“That tells me exactly what kind of man you are.
Anyone who would shoot a dog…”
“And what kind of man is that, mein freund?”
“A sadistic piece of shit. A Godless heathen. Not worth
the powder it would take to blow you away.”
“Hmm… well, godless isn‟t so bad. You keep thinking
that, macht nichts,” Roy told the guards to bring Viktor
back to the chair and the tools as he turned on the light.
The blond man picked up the sledgehammer, leaning
on it as the guards dragged Viktor back to his seat. Roy
slowly circled around Viktor like shark.
“Now, where did I leave off? Oh yes, now I remember,”
Roy waited for the guards to place the wood back between
Viktor‟s feet and tie his hands.
He swung the hammer, this time it was the left ankle.
Viktor howled in pain.
“Scream as much as you like. Your protector is on the
3rd floor and can‟t hear you. I just want to ensure you will
not be trying to leave us anytime soon,” Roy said hatefully.

~ 225 ~
 The brutal Untersturmführer then had the guards untie
Viktor‟s hands. He proceeded to break every finger on
Viktor‟s right hand with pliers. Viktor cried out in agony
as Roy started in on the left hand.
“We can‟t have you playing the piano and keeping the
rest of us up all night, now can we?”
Roy beat Viktor until he was unconscious again
leaving him slumped in the chair. Deciding that he‟d done
enough work for one night, Roy left with the guards,
turning out the light.

Marguerite woke Hans at dawn for her morning stroll.

Hans ordered up some coffee and sat, half dressed in his
room, thinking of his prisoner. The evening prior, he had
wired Obersturmbannführer Weiter, the Kommandant of
Dachau, he would be bringing some Special Security
Prisoners, and they should prepare a couple of cells. He
already regretted the wire; Hans had begun to look
through his prisoner‟s belongings. He had found some
photos, identity papers (forgeries, of course), a piece of a
religious medallion, and two letters. One letter was from a
woman. The other letter was from him. Ach du lieber Gott,
it cannot be. Please God, haben Sie verlassenen mich
haben? Let it not be true.
After breakfast and a walk outside with Marguerite,
Hans received a telegram. It was from Herr Reichsführer
Heinrich Himmler. Hans was to be promoted to

~ 226 ~
Obersturmbannführer the next morning, 1 October;
Himmler would be coming to Berchtesgaden for a meeting
with the Führer and would perform the ceremony himself.
Hans set the wire down on his bedside table and stroked
his shepherd‟s head with a shaking hand.
“Well my dear, someone has seen fit to promote me. I
suppose I deserve it. Do I not?” he asked the dog
unenthusiastically. Marguerite sighed loudly.
“Ah, it is like that, then; you are so quick to dissent?
At least I‟ll be able to keep you in bones a bit longer, yes?
Come, we need to check on our friends downstairs,”
Marguerite barked softly in accord.
Upon his arrival at the basement door, the guards
appeared nervous. They seemed reluctant to let Hans in
the room.
―Hier, was ist los? Was ist mit Ihnen? Have you lost all
your good sense? Let me in this instant!”
The guards opened the door. Hans immediately
observed what they had tried to prevent him from seeing.
Hans walked hesitantly to his prisoner and looked him
over. Viktor was conscious, but barely. Hans ordered the
guards to bring water and something they could use to try
cleaning Viktor up a bit; he bent over to get a better look.
Marguerite whined and sniffed at the broken man.
“I want you to know, Herr Müller, I did not order this.”
―Ja, ich weiss,‖ Viktor wheezed, “your Lakai,
Courlander, decided to help you out with your precious
„duty.‟”

~ 227 ~
 The guards came back with some water and old rags to
wash the blood from Viktor‟s face and ruined hands. Hans
turned his back, finding it hard to breath, agonizing and
pacing the room. I will send that disloyal bastard to the
front, Hans determined. It took quite a bit of Hans‟ resolve
not to show his anger or misery. After the guards had
finished, Hans ordered them to fetch a doctor and leave
the prisoner alone; he was not to be disturbed unless it
was the doctor calling or else to bring him food and water.
“I‟m not hungry,” Viktor gasped.
Leaving the basement, Hans went back up to his room.
He stripped off most of his uniform and lay on the single
bed, hands behind his head. Marguerite hopped up next
to him.
“You know, this bed is not big enough for the both of
us,” He announced to the dog. She only groaned and
pushed him closer to the wall. He meditated on his
prisoner. Oh, God help me. I do not think I can do this, I
must tell him what I believe to be true.
“There is something I can not quite comprehend,
meine Gänseblume, how did it happen? For years, I heard
nothing. And now this? Why do you suppose? Is it
Beshert, as Herr Meyer says? Have I lost my mind? I don‟t
want to say, even to you, what I am thinking,” Marguerite
looked into Hans‟ eyes and poked her nose into his ear,
nuzzling him.
The next morning, after his promotion, Hans, resolute
in showing himself he had not mislaid his intestinal

~ 228 ~
fortitude, executed the men remaining from Viktor‟s
group, save one. He needed one of them to tell him what
they were about and he realized Viktor probably never
would; Ari Meyer was spared execution for the time being.
Meyer was obliged to watch the seven men, Jan Van
Buren, Frederik Verdonk, Andries Verbeek, Frans De Witt,
Ludger Van Der Zee, Saul Bergman, and Edmund
Sonnenblume, taken one by one, to the back of the
hospital, put against the wall, and shot. Hans shot each
one of them in the head, for good measure; again, it was
his duty to do so.
“You like shooting innocent ginks in the map, I see,”
the bound Meyer sneered. Hans, splattered in blood, spun
around with a look of pure loathing pointing the pistol
directly in Meyer‟s face.
“You sir, have no fucking idea! And from my
observations, no man is entirely innocent.”
“You get that outta some book, Herr
Obersturmbannführer? I‟m real impressed; I didn‟t know
you Nazi types could read,” Hans hit Meyer in the mouth
with the butt of his pistol breaking his top front teeth and
splitting both lips.
Early that afternoon, it started to snow. Special
Security Prisoners Viktor Müller and Ari Meyer were
loaded into a truck and with four men to guard them,
moved to Konzentrationslager Dachau, about 10 miles
northwest of Munich. Hans followed in a car with his dog.
Though it was dark as they arrived in the camp, Viktor

~ 229 ~
noticed the words on the courtyard gate, ―Arbeit Macht
Frei.‖
Meyer saw them as well commenting, “I don‟t think the
people in here are too bent on buyin‟ what they‟re sellin‟.”
This resulted in one of the guards bashing him in the
side of the head with his rifle, rendering him unconscious.
As they pulled up in front of the Special Security
block, the two men were pulled from the truck and thrown
into separate cells. There was very little light and the air
was putrid. The men were left in the unlocked cells with
no water or food. The soldiers came later with dirty
blankets and mess kits, though they left nothing to fill
them. Viktor was not sure how long he had been there
when the guards he remembered from Berchtesgaden
came in to beat him again.
“Darling, we really need to stop meeting like this,”
Viktor cracked to one of the guards.
“But it‟s such a pleasure,” the soldier replied
scornfully as he kicked Viktor in the head.

Hans had not seen his prisoners for nearly two weeks
when he received the note from Weiter ordering the Nacht
un Nebel execution. I have not yet gotten any information
from Meyer really; I wonder how long I can put this off, he
pondered. As it turned out, just five days later,
Obersturmbannführer Weiter summoned him to his office
to let him know the executions were to be carried out

~ 230 ~
immediately. That evening he had paid Viktor a visit and
was lamenting it now.
Lying on the bed in his small office, Hans realized he
had been thinking about Viktor far too much. And I have
been drinking too much, he noted to himself, looking at the
bottle of Johnny Walker. Better to save the rest for
tomorrow. I will need it I am sure. He rose, capped the
bottle, and tried to lie back down. Marguerite had jumped
in the bed as soon as he had vacated it; he had to shove
her next to the wall to make room for himself. Six more
hours until the execution, Hans thought.
“You‟re lucky I am a patient man, my dear,” He quietly
said to the Schäferhund, falling into a deep sleep.

At precisely 0600 on 14 October, the soldier in charge

of waking him beat on Hans‟ door. Marguerite was
instantly up and ready to tear him apart. Hans quieted the
dog and thanked the man without opening up or giving
permission to enter. He slowly washed and dressed, let the
dog out for her morning romp, and wiped the dust from
his boots. After his coffee, it was almost 0630; the sun
would be rising just after 0700. He quickly checked his
pistol and locked Marguerite in the room, took a deep
breath, and stepped out into the cold clear coming day.
Starting across the camp, he stopped abruptly,
turning back to face his quarters. I cannot do this. I
cannot. ‗Oh God, My Father, if it be possible, let this cup

~ 231 ~
pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou.‘
Hans thought; squeezing his eyes shut. His throat was
tight, his mouth dry, and breathing shallow. He turned
again and could see the guards dragging Viktor from the
Bunker towards the Kohlenhof where they usually shot
prisoners. Let this cup pass from me, let this cup pass from
me, Hans thought repeatedly.
Crossing the camp, he stopped to watch some
commotion at one of the barracks closest to him. It
appeared that a few of the Kapo, the guards in charge, had
started an odd sort of game with some of the prisoners.
Hans walked over to where he could get a better look.
“What is this?” he asked one of the guards as he lit a
cigarette.
“We call it Jukebox, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” The
guard responded cheerfully. To Hans, the game did not
appear to be going well; there were five dead or dying
prisoners lying on the ground around the group. The
prisoner who had been next in line to take up the violin
made the mistake of playing a composition by Dvořák
from Rusalka. One of the Kapo picked up a lead pipe and
bashed the prisoner in the head, killing him instantly.
Hans blinked.
“I will assume that means you do not care for Dvořák,”
Hans said to the Kapo.
“What is Dvořák?” asked the man. Hans only stared
and raised his eyebrow in disbelief.

~ 232 ~
 The next prisoner in line was a very young man. He
nervously took the violin into his hands. He hesitated,
which caused another Kapo to make ready for another
deathblow. The young man could see what was coming; he
started to play, gently at first, then more fervently. The
song was An Der Schönen Blauen Donau by Strauss. The
Kapo looked to Hans expectantly, but Hans was enjoying
the music; he knew the Kapo wanted to hit the boy.
“Can I kill him now?” the agitated Kapo asked Hans
when the prisoner had finished.
―Nein, lassen Sie ihn leben. This game is now officially
over,” Hans replied. The Kapo looked decidedly
disappointed.
“Boy, come here,” Hans ordered the prisoner. The
young man came running over to Hans and removed his
cap.
―Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer.‖
“What is your name?”
―Ich heisse Sandor Braun.‖
“Well Sandor Braun, I happen to like Strauss and
Dvořák, unlike our comrades here. Do you know the
Zigeunermelodien?‖
“Yes sir, I do; very well, sir.”
“Good. Follow me,” Hans strode off in the direction of
the Kohlenhof with young Sandor running behind, violin
in hand.

~ 233 ~
 There were seven SS-Totenkopfverbände guards
waiting for Hans in the Kohlenhof when he arrived with
Sandor. Since Viktor could not stand, the guards had put
him on his knees; his hands tied behind him.
“Am I late?” Hans asked the SS-Unterscharführer in
charge of the detail.
―Nein, Herr Obersturmbannführer. We are a bit early.”
“Well don‟t be so fucking eager!” Hans responded
tersely.
He walked over to Viktor who was bent forward in an
awkward position, knelt down, and spoke to Viktor in
English.
“I am going to untie your hands, you look very
uncomfortable. Would you like a cigarette?”
“Since when has my comfort been a concern? And
yeah, I‟d love one,” Hans lit two cigarettes for them,
handing one to Viktor.
“I deserve that,” Hans said in sullen acquiescence.
“Nah, you don‟t. You‟ve… well… An‟ besides, they say
„all‟s fair in love and war,‟ right?”
“Viktor, there are things that have not been said…”
“And should stay that way! C‟mon, use your head,
Sport. You wanna live don‟tcha?” Their eyes met. Viktor
knew he understood. Hans rose and turned to walk away;
the sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon.
“But Viktor, I…” as Hans turned back again and
started to speak there was a minor fracas in the camp.
Marguerite had somehow escaped Hans‟ room. She ran

~ 234 ~
through some barracks, the toilets, and the cantina
looking for Hans. Upon finding him, she skirted the
guards and sat down in between the two men staring at
Viktor.
“Aww, she‟s gonna miss me,” Viktor said reaching out
to pet the dog.
“Du, Schütze! Come, take my dog back to my quarters,
and do not let her out of that room. Do not let her out of
your sight! Ist das Klar?‖
The young guard immediately slung his rifle over his
shoulder and went for Marguerite. Only Marguerite was
not cooperating. The dog dodged and ducked the poor
Private for nearly five minutes. Always returning to sit in
front of Viktor.
“Stop! We haven‟t time for this. Marguerite, sitz!‖ The
dog instantly sat and the guard was able to grab her by
her collar and drag her back to Hans‟ room.
“We should begin now, Herr Obersturmbannführer,”
The Unterscharführer told Hans.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. Get the men in position,”
he took a few steps closer to Viktor.
“Viktor, I was wondering if you remembered this.”
“Sandor,” Hans called to the young prisoner.
―Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer?‖
“Play it now; I want you to keep playing until I tell you
to stop.”
―Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer,‖ Sandor began
the sweet moving song.

~ 235 ~
 “Now isn‟t that sweet, the spy gets music,” One of the
guards commented with a smirk.
“Shut your fucking hole or you‟ll trade places with
him,” Hans said viciously.
―Chargen, Positionen!‖ The guards put out their
cigarettes, stopped talking, and lined up in their positions.
“We are one man short now, Herr
Obersturmbannführer,‖
“It makes a fucking difference? Six men can‟t kill as
well as seven?” demanded Hans bitterly.
―Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer.‖
As the men jostled around a bit and adjusted, Viktor
called out to Hans in a quiet voice barely audible over the
guards and the violin. Hans had to come very close to hear
him.
―Achtung, Aufrüsten!‖ The men charged their weapons.
“Yohannan, I remember everything. I always have, you
know. ‗Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet; mine
and my father‘s death come not upon thee nor thine on
me.‘”
Hans blinked and was, for a split second, unable to
answer. Oh God, Viktor knew the whole time, he thought.
He felt his throat tighten again and his eyes sting.
“Yes, ‗Heaven make thee free of it… I follow thee,‘”
Barak, mein lieber Bruder.
“Write to Rosa. Tell her... well write her anyhow. Same
address you wrote to for years, right, Sport?” Viktor smiled
weakly and tried to wink.

~ 236 ~
 “Yes, I will. I will.”
―Richten Sie Ihre Gewehre, Legt an!‖ The guards aimed
their rifles; Hans turned and moved out of their sights; he
closed his eyes.
―Feuer!‖ All six guards fired their weapons upon
command. Sandor jumped, but continued to play. Hans
gasped, he felt as though it had been him in front of the
firing squad, a sharp pain shooting through his chest.
Viktor‟s body hit the wall of the Kohlenhof then fell
forward, face down, into the gravel. Hans waited for the
smoke to clear and walked over to the body of his brother.
Sandor is still playing our Bubbeh‘s song, he thought. He
un-holstered his pistol; when he was sure no one was
looking, he shot directly into the ground next to Viktor‟s
head.
“‗Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince;
flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,‘” Hans said aloud to
Viktor.
Elohi, Elohi, lama azavtanu? God, oh God, why have
you forsaken me, Hans thought, somewhat amazed that
the phrase had come back to him after so many years.
“Sandor, you can stop now. You have made me very…
content.”
“I have Herr Obersturmbannführer? How?” the puzzled
youth asked. Hans wanted put his hand on the boy‟s thin
shoulder, but folded his arms instead.
“Music, Sandor. You have brought back many
memories. Now go; come find me if those guards give you

~ 237 ~
any more trouble,” Sandor puzzled, thanked Hans, and
ran hastily in the direction of the barracks.
Hans found one of the guards from the detail and told
him to bury the body in the cemetery; it was not to go in
the ovens. Then he slowly walked back to his room.
Instead of dinner that evening, Hans finished off the
Johnny Walker. He decided later to visit Meyer at the
Bunker. Arriving at the block, he found the
Unterscharführer and a Rottenführer next to the fuel drum
burning, what looked to Hans, to be important
documents. The Schützen and a Sturmmann, from the
mornings‟ execution were walking around the area trying
to keep warm by moving and flapping their arms.
―Heil Hitler!‖ the SS soldiers saluted their officer
eagerly.
―Heil Hitler,‖ Hans said half-heartedly and with a slight
slur.
The Unterscharführer looked Hans over a bit, not sure
what to make of an obviously pie-eyed officer hanging
around the Bunker.
“Is there something we can do for you sir?” The
Unterscharführer asked Hans, stifling a laugh.
“You could tell me why you are burning all these
papers,” Hans answered trying to light a cigarette and
missing.
“Orders, sir. Herr Obersturmbannführer Weiter‟s
orders.”

~ 238 ~
 “Ah, Weiter‟s orders. You suppose he knows something
we don‟t? No. No, that‟s not likely. He doesn‟t know shit,”
Hans said acrimoniously, took a step sideways, and nearly
fell over the Rottenführer, who caught him.
“Oh, thank you. I am not quite myself, you see,” Hans
said with a princely flourish.
“Yes, we see. Would the Obersturmbannführer like to
sit?”
“No! The Obersturmbannführer would like to talk to the
prisoner Meyer,” Hans said wrenching himself free of the
Rottenführer.
“Now, Sir?”
“Yes, now you fucking moron, or is he indisposed?
Shall I come back after you‟ve all had tea?” Hans raved
sarcastically.
“Um... no, sir! Absolutely, sir. Right now, sir,” The
Unterscharführer stammered and quickly took Hans to
Meyer‟s cell. Hans pushed the door open and found Meyer
atop his blanket on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
“Meyer! My old friend.”
“Whattha? Geez, you‟re plowed. Go away, ya‟ putz!
Come back once ya‟ slept it off,” Meyer turned over to face
the wall.
“Oh, now is that any way to treat a friend?” Hans said
leaning on the wall.
“Who in blazes says we was friends? And who was it
that busted me in the choppers, huh? I never met a Nazi I
liked ‟cept maybe a dead one, you included!”

~ 239 ~
 Hans lurched across the room and landed on the floor
next to Meyer. He began to speak to Meyer in English.
“Get offa me you meshug…”
“Shhh! Meyer, listen! I am going to tell you something,
but you can‟t tell anyone.”
“Oy, adeliger Herr, the secrets of a Farshikkert Heinie!
Just what I always wanted, some gowed-up Nazi tellin‟ me
his troubles. Listen, do I look like a bartender ta‟ you? And
what‟s with the English talkin‟, Bub?”
“The ignorant cretins outside don‟t speak English,”
Hans giggled.
“Wow, you are soused; to the scalp! But I get it. It‟s
secret like that, huh? Ok wull, spill it Fritz.”
“Fritz? But my name is Hans…”
“Yeah, yeah, the Americans call all you Heinies „Fritz‟.
Kinda like callin‟ all the WOPs „Guido‟, or all the Micks
„Paddy‟, savvy?”
“Oh, I see.”
“Wull? What‟s this big secret you wanna lay on me?”
“Secret?”
“Why ya‟ drunk bastard, ya‟ just tol‟ me ya‟ had a…”
“Oh yes, the secret. You do promise…”
“Yeah, I already said so, din‟t I? So, c‟mon, give!”
“I have to tell someone, I… I can‟t... Meyer, I have to
tell you… Viktor was my brother.”
Meyer sat staring at the officer next to him on his dirty
blanket. He did not know what to say or how to respond.
His first instinct was to murder him.

~ 240 ~
 “Why you… you rotten fuck,” said Meyer coldly. He
lunged at the officer, trying to throttle him; after wrestling
on the floor for a minute, Hans broke free with some
difficulty.
“Please Meyer, you must understand…” Hans said
trying to straighten his uniform.
“Yeah, I understand. You‟re a rotten fuck!”
“You think I don‟t know that?” Hans exclaimed.
Meyer stared at the man. There is a different look to the
guy now, he thought, not so smug, not so confident.
Beaten, dejected, alone.
“So uh, you know Vik was a Yid, right? That‟d mean…”
“Yes. That what it means.”
“Hoh-lee-shit! Are you kiddin‟ me? Damn, what a
revoltin‟ development! Ya‟ gotta gimme a sec to let this all
sink in,” Meyer leaped up to pace his cell leaving Hans
slumped on the blanket.
“Come ta‟ think of it, I thought yous guys was kinda
hinkey. I mean, I thought you was way too, um… alike. Ya‟
walked the same, ya‟ both had the same kinda gestures.
Did Vik know?”
“Yes, I think he knew before I did, perhaps all along. I
realize that now. And… and he forgave me. At the last
moment, he…”
“Well, no shit asshole! Vik was a good man. Of course
he forgave you! You know it says in the Torah, „It is
forbidden to be obdurate and not allow yourself to be
appeased. On the contrary, one should be easily pacified

~ 241 ~
and find it difficult to become angry. When asked by an
offender for forgiveness…‟”
“„…One should forgive with a sincere mind and a
willing spirit… forgiveness is natural to the seed of Israel.‟
Yes, I remember,” Hans answered quietly.
“Oh wull,” Meyer sighed, shoved his hands in his
pockets, and dropped his head. Hans was silent. He lit a
cigarette and offered one to Meyer who accepted.
“Never thought I‟d see the day when I‟d be smokin‟
with a Nazi-Jew in some shithole in a country I hoped ta‟
never see again. Sheesh. So uh, what‟s all this mean ta‟
me?”
“I… I am not sure, perhaps nothing. But Weiter, that
little fucking Herpe, has forgotten about you. That means I
can forget about you, as in I do not have to, how do you
say it, give you ‗poisoning?‘ And that means I can help
you... to escape.”
“Ain‟t that just fine. And if you‟re gonna talk jive, talk
it right! It‟s “lead poisoning” ya‟ drip. So, you wanna help
me escape. What for? I got nothin‟ you want or need;
Blondie blew the whistle on us, far as I can tell, so you
know the caper.
“Escape… Ha! My ass. I trust ya‟ as far as I can throw
ya‟; you‟re still a Nazi. An‟ how the fuck you planin‟ on
gettin‟ me outta this dump, smart guy? ”
“Please Ari, I am serious. It is because I am a „Nazi‟
and SS Officer that I can get you out of here! There are
men, important men, who owe me favors and I have

~ 242 ~
connections. You can call it... repentance. A kind of
atonement or reparation.
“Listen, I know the Americans are winning. Those
guards outside are burning important documents. Do you
think they would have been ordered to do that if the war
was not coming to an end and not in our, well, their favor?
If I help you escape, you can find the Americans, you‟ll be
safe and you can tell them things. Tell them whatever you
like about me, but tell them what‟s happening here! Here
and at Mauthausen, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, and Dora...
“That‟s where your precious Dr. von Braun is, you
know, at Dora. I will have to assume the Americans are
not too particular about murderers. No, he‟s not a
murderer, he‟s worse. He sees everything and says
nothing. To me, that‟s worse than doing the killing
yourself. Surely, the Russians or the Americans will hang
me when this war is over. I must do something good; I
have done so many malevolent things.”
“You know, Vik wouldn‟t want ya‟ ta‟ be thinkin‟ that
way. I don‟t think he would have ever thought you was
„malevolent‟. The rest of „em maybe, but you, no. You was
brothers after all an‟…”
“Ah, but you do not know even the half of what I have
done. And yes, we were brothers. Like Cain and Abel…
auseinander.”
“Nah, don‟t say that! Not like them, it‟s just…
circumstances. Differnt „cause yous grew up separate an‟
all. There was some ol‟ Greek what said, „When brothers

~ 243 ~
agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life‟ so, I
guess that…”
“Why Mr. Meyer, you are a philosopher.”
“Nah, not really. But I just… I just think yous guys
wasn‟t so differnt as ya‟ think.”
Hans sat quietly, exhausted from his confession, the
scuffle, and too much whiskey. Meyer stared at him,
wiping his nose on his sleeve, unsure if he should kill
Hans or put his arm around the disheartened and
conquered man. Before he had time to deliberate, the
Unterscharführer poked his head in the door.
“I came to make sure Herr Obersturmbannführer was
alright. It‟s been some time…”
“Herr Obersturmbannführer is quite alright! And if you
help my ass up off of this fucking floor I will be on my way
you imbecilic son of a whore!” Hans interrupted.
Meyer watched as the Unterscharführer helped the
drunken man out of the cell and shut the door. Chuckling
silently to himself. Yep, I see it now for sure! Boy, them
two, they get bent and they turn into jackasses! Kinda
funny, them guys growin‘ up apart an‘ all. He found Hans‟
cigarettes and his lighter on the floor next to the blanket
and wondered.

Hans stumbled over to Weiter‟s office. The cold was

beginning to sober him up; he did not want that at all. He
barged in the door without knocking or announcing

~ 244 ~
himself, flinging the door open wide. Weiter was at his
writing desk scribbling furiously.
“What is the meaning of this?” Weiter shouted in a
mild state of shock.
“Shut up you feculent little toad. Where do you keep
your liquor?”
“My liquor?”
“Are you deaf or retarded? Yes, your liquor.”
“Over there, in the cellar. Why?” Weiter pointed to a
door to his right.
“I am going shopping,” Hans careened towards the
cellar door, “don‟t try to stop me!”
Weiter watched as the besotted officer nearly fell down
an entire flight of stairs. He merely shook his head,
snickered, and kept writing. Hans returned in a few
minutes with four or five bottles, that Weiter could see,
stuffed in various pockets.
“Planning on having a party, Hans?” Weiter chortled.
“That‟s Herr Obersturmbannführer to you! And yes, I
am having a party! Me, my-fucking-self, and I… we‟re
having a party. I being the guest of honor, of course,”
Hans bowed ceremoniously, nearly falling over, and left
the Kommandant‘s office.
Back in his room, he pushed back his cap and began
pulling liquor bottles out of his pockets and from his
pants. There were eleven in all. A good haul, he told
himself.

~ 245 ~
 “Well, Liebchen, this should last me until the end of
the war. Or maybe not. Well, for a few days anyway,” He
said to the dog. He uncorked a bottle of Martell, and filled
a glass. Marguerite only groaned and covered an eye with
a paw. He turned on the BBC and flopped onto the bed
without removing his cap or coat.
He had finished half the bottle and was bordering on
passing out when he finally let the tears fall that he had
been holding back since he was eight. Marguerite was
confused and was not sure how to comfort him so she sat
by his side with her head in his lap. He sobbed,
convulsively, for not quite two hours. When he had
finished, a classical guitar piece by Zanetti or some other
miscellaneous Italian was playing on the radio. Hans
could think of only one thing. He lit a candle and covered
his head.
“Creator of The Universe, forgive me. Forgive me for all
of the wrong I have done, forgive me for saying these
prayers for my brother without the Minyan, and forgive me
if I say the wrong words; it has been far too long,” Hans
very slowly, quietly began to sing the words in Hebrew.
―May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified in the
world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to
His kingship in your… in your lifetimes and in your days,
and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly
and soon. Amen. May His great Name be blessed forever
and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled,
mighty, upraised, and… and… and lauded be the Name of

~ 246 ~
the Holy One, Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song,
praise and consolation that is uttered in the world. Amen.
May… may… may there be abundant peace from Heaven.
Amen. He Who makes peace in His heights, may He make
peace, upon us and upon all Israel. Amen.‖

Six days after Viktor‟s execution, on 20 October, the

Soviet forces invaded Prussia and Ari Meyer had gone
missing. Since this was Hans‟ first “escape” Herr
Reichsführer Himmler decided not to punish him. Instead,
Himmler summoned Hans to Berlin and gave him a
special mission. Hans was to be part of ―Operation Greif.‖

~ 247 ~
Chapter 15
Berlin, Germany 22 October 1944
On the occasion of every accident that befalls you,
remember to turn to yourself and inquire what power you
have for turning it to use. If you see a fair man or a fair
woman, you will find that the power to resist is temperance.
If labor be presented to you, you will find that is endurance.
If it be abusive words, you will find it to be patience. And if
you have been thus formed to the habit, the appearances
will not carry you along with them.
Epictetus, Enchiridion, 55 – 135ACE

Hans arrived at the headquarters building on Prinz

AlbrechtStrasse a little after 1000; he was late. Though
Hans was normally punctual if not, at least, 15 minutes
early, he had managed to polish off another one of the
bottles he had “shopped” for in Weiter‟s cellar and missed
his wake-up call. Reichsführer Himmler and
Standartenführer Otto Skorzeny were in the office waiting.
Hans was hung-over; Himmler was furious.
“Nice of you to join us,” Skorzeny remarked, stabbing a
cigarette into an ashtray.
“What is the meaning of this? I was not aware that it
was our policy for an Obersturmbannführer to keep the
Reichsführer waiting!” Himmler screeched.
“I apologize, Herr Reichsführer. It will not happen
again,” At least not for the next day or two, Hans looked
down at his un-shined boots.

~ 248 ~
 “See that it does not! Now, down to business. The
Führer himself has assigned a special mission to
Standartenführer Skorzeny. I am assigning you to help
him. I know you speak English, very well I am told, and
that is precisely what we need at the moment.”
“What is the mission Herr Reichsführer, if I may ask?”
“You may. Standartenführer Skorzeny, will you explain
it to him, please?”
“Gladly, Herr Reichsführer.‖
Skorzeny described ―Operation Greif‖ as a “special
covert op” to be commanded by none other than himself. It
was to take place during the Allied offensive in the
Ardennes forest in Belgium. The operation was the
brainchild of the Führer and the basic premise was to use
specially trained Waffen-SS soldiers, outfitted in captured
American uniforms and vehicles, to cause confusion in the
rear of the Allied defense. He went on to explain that Hans
and the other chosen men had less than two months to
prepare. That meant learning to speak perfect American
English with no discernible accent and learning everything
about the American popular culture that they could before
16 December.
“So, we know exactly when their offensive will take
place?” queried Hans.
“Yes, they have been very careful, but we have
intercepted some of their radio transmissions,” responded
Himmler.

~ 249 ~
 “Ah, and we know these are the real thing. They have
been known to…” Hans began.
“The Americans will not make fools of us! They have
neither the will nor the capacity to fight!” Reichsführer
Himmler interrupted immediately incensed.
“Yes Obersturmbannführer Henker, they are accurate
transmissions. We also have some aerial reconnaissance
reports,” Skorzeny broke in as the Reichsführer was about
to go off on a tangent.
“I see. Well, then I suppose we should get started
turning me into a good little American,” Hans said
trenchantly.
“This is a very serious matter Standartenführer
Henker. You are advised to take it as such!”
―Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,‖ Hans said as he rose with
a salute, confused as to how Himmler could have
mistaken his rank.
“Oh, I almost forgot... you are promoted
Standartenführer. You will be second in command for this
operation. Do not disappoint the Führer. You are
dismissed.”
―Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer. Heil Hitler,” Hans closed
the door behind him. So, I am promoted again. Lucky me.
We must be in very serious trouble, Hans thought and
smiled bitterly at his observation with the left corner of his
mouth as he put on his cap to leave.
Hans‟ training started early the next morning. Since
Standartenführer Skorzeny was in command, he would be

~ 250 ~
in close proximity to the rear of the operation and so it
was un-necessary for him to go through all of the same
training as his men. Hans, however, was to be the Officer
in Charge. This meant he would be with the men every
step of the way; he would have to commit to memory
everything they learned and more.
Hans sat through classes with, typically, university-
educated men who had spent time either in the United
States, or in Britain; they frequently argued about the
vernacular. Hans, never having been abroad, was more
interested in working with the vocal coach in order to rid
himself of his German accent than anything else; his
conversations with Viktor and Meyer still very fresh in his
memory.
During their training, the men addressed each other
by the American equivalent of their German ranks and
names. Hans was known as Colonel John Henker, though
his name was sure to change when he finally received his
American dog tags. A month into their training a
disagreement ensued that caused quite a bit of hilarity.
“I tell you, that‟s not how it‟s said!” cried the
Lieutenant as Hans entered the room.
“Not how what‟s said?” asked Hans setting down his
cap and greatcoat.
―Mein Herr, mit allem gebührenden Respekt, um…‖
“English, dammit. Now, NOT - HOW - WHAT‟S -
SAID?” Hans repeated.

~ 251 ~
 “Oh yes, sorry sir. Well, um... „Go fuck yourself‟ uh…
sir,” the Lieutenant responded quietly; everyone giggled.
Hans cocked his head and smiled.
“Ah well, there are a number of ways to communicate
this… command. But you know, Lieutenant, it has been
my experience that when an American tells you to fuck
yourself it is usually just said, „fuck off‟ or „go fuck
yourself.‟
“But fuck is one of those words that can be interposed
into any part of the sentence, as in „Fuck me running!‟ or
„What‟s your fucking hurry?‟ or „Who the fuck are you?‟
and then, there is the ubiquitous „mother fucker.‟”
Everyone burst into peals of laughter that continued
for five minutes. They stopped only when the vocal coach
came in and chastised them all for stupidity.

One week before their training was officially over and

the operation‟s scheduled opening, the men received their
American uniforms and dog tags. Hans, being an officer
and a gentleman, waited until all of his men had gone
through the line. When it had at last become his turn to
pick up the issued items, he was shocked and amused at
the name inscribed on his dog tags.
“Something is funny, Herr Standartenführer?” asked
the Scharführer in charge of Militärbedarf.
“Actually, there is. You see, I was born with the name
Johannes Gabriel. This dog-tag has a very similar name

~ 252 ~
“Miller, John G.” imprinted on it,” Hans said with a
chuckle.
“I fail to see what‟s funny in that,” the supply
Sergeant commented flatly.
“And I fail to see why I should explain it,” Hans sighed
in mild annoyance at the Scharführer‘s inanity.
It took the 500 men a full 48 hours to travel to their
positions near the Ardennes. The night before the battle
was to commence they were briefed one last time by
Standartenführer Skorzeny. He reminded them that
capture was to be expected; in the event of capture, they
would likely be shot. He told them again that under no
circumstances should they reveal anything about the
operation. They were to continue their mission of
spreading disinformation, to say that Standartenführer
Skorzeny was on his way to kidnap General Eisenhower
from Paris. The next morning, 16 December 1944, the
Battle of the Bulge and ―Unternehmen: Wacht am Rhein,‖
its German counterpart (implying a defensive posture),
began.

Of the more than 60 captured American Jeeps sent

behind the lines, 40 actually made it through. Even
though the Germans had undergone a grueling training
process in order to speak and act like proper American
soldiers, many were captured after inadvertently botching
the colloquial American expressions. One entire Jeep load

~ 253 ~
of undercover Waffen-SS men was captured at a “fuel
farm” when the driver asked for “Petrol” instead of “Gas.”
Yet another German officer was captured because his
forged identification card was too good. All American
servicemen carried an ID card that said ―Not a Pass - For
Indentification Only.‖ The German forger had spelled
“identification” correctly on the fake card; this ended up
costing the Lieutenant his life.
Checkpoints established by the MPs (Military Police)
slowed all movement of soldiers and equipment and grilled
passing servicemen on all things American; things they
were expected to know. For example, the identity of
Mickey Mouse‟s dog, the latest popular songs, pin-up
girls, or the capital of their home state. The latter question
resulted in the arrest and brief detention of General Omar
Bradley himself. Though he actually did give the correct
answer, Springfield (Illinois), the unfortunate GI who
questioned him evidently believed that the capital was
Chicago.
Even General Patton was disturbed, in describing the
situation to General Eisenhower, he said, “Krauts…
speaking perfect English, raising hell, cutting wires,
turning road signs around, spooking whole divisions, and
shoving a bulge into our defenses.”

Hans was lucky, for a while. As one of the 40 crews

who made it through, his basic mission was to change

~ 254 ~
signposts, misdirect traffic, generally cause hate and
discontent behind the lines and to get back to the German
side as quickly as possible. His crew had a secondary
mission, however: To destroy a nearby supply depot. At
0500, on the road near Bastogne, his Jeep was stopped at
one of the checkpoints by two soldiers.
“Morning, Sir!” the Private shouted cheerily over the
engine.
“I guess it‟s morning, Private. Still a little dark for me,”
said Hans without saluting.
“Hate to ask ya‟, Colonel sir, but I need to see your ID
card, orders, whatever ya‟ got.”
“Yeah sure, what‟s goin‟ on?” Hans asked as he fished
his paper work out of his breast pocket.
“Aww, wull we got this report sayin‟ there‟s Nazis
comin‟ behind the lines dressed like us. Ain‟t that
sumpthin‟?”
“I hadn‟t heard that, but then we‟ve been on the road
for a while. So, do your duties, gentlemen!”
“So, where ya‟ headed sir?” the Corporal asked as he
approached the Jeep to help the Private check IDs.
“Just up the road to Bastogne. We were out on a sort
of a recon. Gotta get back to the boys before the fun
starts. Can‟t miss the first pitch of the game, right?” Hans
answered casually.
“Yeah, wull be careful. Lot‟s a funny stuff goin‟ on.
Uh... since ya‟ mention the game, you wouldn‟t mind me

~ 255 ~
askin‟ ya‟, sir what was Joe DiMaggio‟s batting average in
„41, would ya‟?”
“Nope, not a bit. Now lemme see, in 1941... is that
during his streak or after? During the streak, it was…
um… .409, that is until July, I think. It‟s been a while,
you know,” Hans said confidently.
“Yeah! Hey, you‟re right on, sir! Jolt‟n Joe, what a guy!
By the way sir, that‟s a nice dog! Where‟d ya‟ get it?” the
Corporal asked as he checked the other‟s ID cards.
“Oh, I found her hanging out with some dead Heinie
back down the road a piece. I thought I‟d bring her along
for company. I guess she likes me, hasn‟t left me yet,
better than my wife!” Marguerite barked, as if on cue, her
concurrence in the matter. The Private, Corporal and the
German agents in the Jeep all laughed as the Corporal
waved them through.
“Sir?” Hans‟ driver stared to ask after they had passed
through the checkpoint.
“What, Joe?”
“Uh… what exactly is a „Heinie,‟ sir?” Joe asked.
“What? Were you absent the day we talked about that?
It‟s just an American expression for the likes of you and
me. More or less applies to all persons of the German
persuasion. Savvy?”
“Uh… „Savvy,‟ sir?”
“Oh, forget it. Less talk, more drive!” Hans said tired of
explaining.

~ 256 ~
 Nearing the supply depot, Joe cut the engine of the
Jeep and the men grabbed their rifles, moving the rest of
the way on foot. The depot was heavily guarded. The men
were silent enough, however, to sneak in undetected. They
approached the barbed wire, crawling through the snow
and mud. Hans pulled out a set of wire cutters and
clipped the barbed wire as quietly as he could, letting the
others pass through the hole. Since they were to blow up
the depot, Hans and a Sergeant placed the satchel
charges. The fuzes were supposed to be set to ignite the
explosives 50 minutes later. But the Sergeant was
nervous; his apprehension caused him to make a grave
error. He set one of the fuzes for 15 minutes.
As the four men and the dog moved away from the
depot, the Sergeant‟s incorrectly timed fuze detonated one
of the satchel charges he had placed, giving their presence
away to all who were near enough to hear or see. The men
stopped in their tracks then immediately took cover.
“We are going to have to separate. We will be less
conspicuous. Now, get going and try to get across the
lines. Good luck to you,” Hans ordered over the din and
whiz of bullets.
The men moved out, carefully low crawling in four
different directions. Hans and Marguerite moved directly
east, towards the center of the Ardennes and the German
line; getting to the depot had been relatively easy, getting
back across was going to prove to be a bit more difficult.
As an officer, he was armed with only a single standard

~ 257 ~
issue M1911A1 .45 pistol; Hans and the dog cautiously
advanced through the forest. He thought for a moment
that he might be able to make it before daybreak; just
then, the Wehrmacht started firing their 88s.
Officially called the 8,8 cm FLAK 18, 36, or 37 (a
German acronym of Flug Abwehr Kanone), they were built
in colossal numbers and, in the anti-tank role, mounted
on an adaptable base from which it could be fired without
removing it from its gun carriage. The 88 was able to
penetrate about 200 millimeters of armor at approximately
1,000 meters, allowing it to crush any armored vehicle of
the period. Though they were less effective in the dense
woods, the guns did severe damage to the Allies.

The Germans began shelling continuously. The rounds

made a screaming sound as they neared and hit the trees
in front and behind him, shattering them and sending
wood splinters flying in all directions. Hans was not dug in
and struggled to find any kind of depression in the snow
he and Marguerite might use for shelter. The ground was
frozen to such a depth that he could not dig in past the
first eight inches. At approximately the 8-inch mark, Hans
hit something hard. He dug around it, with Marguerite‟s
help, and found it was a dead American soldier. He
recoiled for a split second; he pulled the body up at an
angle and used it for cover, burrowing deeper into the
snow.

~ 258 ~
 His heart pounded in his chest as the 88s kept
coming. He tried to cover Marguerite with his own body.
He could hear men screaming in pain, shouting for a
medic or their mothers only yards away. A metallic taste
came into his mouth; he started to pray, got confused,
started again, and was interrupted by an 88 hitting the
ground approximately 100 yards forward of his position,
burying him in snow, dirt, rocks, and wood. Then, as
suddenly as it began, the shelling stopped. Hans decided
to use the lull in the action; We can lay here and freeze to
death, be blown to bits, or we can die trying to make a
dash for it, he thought.
Though he was cold, Hans was fortunate enough to
have been issued winter gear; most of the American GI‟s
were not so lucky. They had been digging into the frozen
ground with nothing but their entrenching tools, in their
regular fatigues. Nearly everyone there had been at
Normandy; they had modified their boots, cutting holes to
ventilate and to let water pass through. Now, six months
later, those same alterations were allowing in the snow;
this would cause more than 15,000 of them to contract
frostbite.
As man and dog neared the German lines, the barrage
began again, this time from the opposite direction. The
rounds screamed in all around him, splitting trees,
sending wooden projectiles in all directions. Again, Hans
could hear the screams of the dying, but in German.
Crawling through snow, mud, and human remains, taking

~ 259 ~
cover every chance he got; he eventually dragged himself
right on top of two Schützen, hiding in a foxhole. They
immediately changed their direction of fire and pointed
their weapons directly at him and Marguerite.
A slight break in the action gave the two soldiers a
minute to think and, judging Hans to be an American spy,
though his German was faultless, the Schützen took him
directly to their Scharführer who, after a bit of questioning,
took him directly to the Command Post and
Standartenführer Skorzeny. He was very pleased to see
that Standartenführer Hans Henker had made it through
unharmed; Hans was relieved. Though Hans‟ part of the
mission was successful, “Operation Greif‖ itself was a
failure. This was due to lack of material and support from
other Wehrmacht divisions. Because total penetration was
not achieved on the first day of battle, Skorzeny had to
use most of his Panzer brigade as ordinary infantry, in
German uniform of course.
A few days after Hans‟ incursion into Bastogne,
General Anthony McAuliffe and the 101st Airborne
Division arrived to counter-attack; after heavy fighting,
they were surrounded in the town. On December 22,
German messengers asked the Americans to surrender, to
which General McAuliffe‟s response was a quite brief
―Nuts!‖
The weather cleared on the 23rd, allowing retaliatory
air strikes and a parachute drop of much needed “beans,
bullets, and Band-Aids.” On Sunday, 24 December, P-47s

~ 260 ~
and P-38s flew over at daybreak. More supplies came by
air; except for the freezing weather, they were in fine
spirits and self-possessed. The Christmas vigil began on a
rather ugly note; on Christmas Eve, the Luftwaffe bombed
Bastogne twice. Even then, an unforgettable mass took
place in town; wounded American soldiers sang “Silent
Night” and cried; German POWs, visited by General
McAuliffe himself, wishing them a Merry Christmas, sang
the same song, ―Stille Nacht.‖ On December 26, the troops
of General Patton broke through; the 101st Airborne
Division never admitted to ever needing help.
The battle officially ended when American forces met
up on 15 January 1945; Hans was summoned to Berlin
that same day. Though all the forces‟ losses were
significant, German losses in the battle were momentous
and staggering: the last of the German reserves were gone,
the Luftwaffe nonexistent, and the Wehrmacht in the West
was driven back. Ultimately, the Eastern Front was now
up for grabs; the Germans were unable to halt the Red
Army. German forces were sent reeling, never to recover.

On 27 January 1945, the Russians liberated the

Konzentrationslager Auschwitz in Poland. The number of
people murdered at Auschwitz is still a debatable and
well-known question. It is estimated that over one million
died there, nearly 90% of them Jews. The Russians
reported four million victims. It is impossible to determine

~ 261 ~
the exact number of people that were in Auschwitz for
multiple reasons; no records were ever kept of people
murdered after “selections” at the train station; some were
never assigned a number; most vanished according to
what the Nazis themselves called ―Nacht und Nebel.‖ The
Nazis destroyed most all records before abandoning the
camp.
From 13 through 15 February 1945, the Allies
conducted an aerial area bombardment on the city of
Dresden in Eastern Germany. The firestorm peaked at
over 2700°F. Nearly 80% of the urban area was completely
destroyed; approximately 130, 000 people were killed,
many of them refugees. These two points promoted much
unease in intellectual circles; most feeling that Dresden
might not have actually been important enough to level.
Winston Churchill himself said in a memo for the British
Chiefs of Staff:

―It seems to me that the moment has come when the

question of bombing of German cities simply for the sake of
increasing the terror, though under other pretexts, should
be reviewed. Otherwise, we shall come into control of an
utterly ruined land…
―The destruction of Dresden remains a serious query
against the conduct of Allied bombing. I am of the opinion
that military objectives must henceforward be more strictly
studied in our own interests than that of the enemy. The

~ 262 ~
Foreign Secretary has spoken to me on this subject, and I
feel the need for more precise concentration upon military
objectives such as oil and communications behind the
immediate battle-zone, rather than on mere acts of terror
and wanton destruction, however impressive.‖

On 7 March 1945, the American forces captured the

last standing bridge over the Rhine during “Operation
Lumberjack.‖ The strategic importance of the bridge at
Remagan was debatable, but it gave the Allies a
psychological advantage in that crossing the bridge in hot
pursuit of the fleeing Wehrmacht gave the Americans a
sorely needed moral boost. The WWI era span collapsed 10
days after its seizure. The last V-2 rocket was launched at
England on 27 March; throughout the war some 1050 V-
2s were fired, 2754 people were killed and 6500 wounded.
An SS soldier, on Hitler‟s orders, slowly strangled
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Hans‟ old boss, the spymaster
and former head of the Abwehr, in a concentration camp
on 9 April. The Allies liberated Buchenwald and Dora on
11 April. The next day, President Franklin Roosevelt,
elected to a third term in office in October of 1944, died;
Harry Truman succeeded him. The Russian forces
captured Vienna and British Army troops liberated the
concentration camp Bergen-Belsen; mounds of corpses
had to be buried by bulldozers and most of the barracks
had to be burned down to prevent the spread of typhus.

~ 263 ~
Exactly one month after Remagan, the Allies took the city
of Nürnberg.

In February of 1945, the Allies had begun a 36 night

(and day) bombing campaign on the city of Berlin. They
stopped on 20 April, Hitler‟s birthday, after the Russian
army was in position outside the city. By the morning of
30 April, the Russians had solved most of their logistical
issues and with artillery support at 0600; they launched
an attack on the Reichstag. That afternoon, Hitler (along
with Eva Braun) committed suicide. Admiral Karl Dönitz
became the new, albeit temporary, Reichspräsident
(President of the Realm).
The hand-to-hand combat in Berlin was ferocious.
Though the forces defending the city were composed
mostly of the Hitler-Jungend (Hitler Youth) and the
Volkssturm (former soldiers mostly from WWI), the fighting
was fierce. National pride made them bitter as well as the
Allied demand for unconditional surrender. Foreign units
of the SS fought particularly hard. Though they were
ideologically inspired and determined, they also believed
that they would not live if captured. Two days after Hitler‟s
suicide, Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels and his family were
dead, by their own hands, as well; General der Artillerie
Helmuth Weidling surrendered what was left of the
German armies to the Russian General Vasily Sokolovsky;
unconditionally.

~ 264 ~
 As the entire Nazi war machine was grinding to a
screeching halt, Hans, Gehlen (now a Generalmajor or
Major General), and a few other officers had fled Berlin on
19 April in vehicles “borrowed” from the Reichstag to
Füssen, a small town on the Austrian border, with the
drums of microfilm that the foresighted Gehlen had
prepared months in advance. Early in the morning, after
spending the night in the town, the officers drove east
towards Garmisch. Halfway to the ski resort they stopped.
“Ahh, this looks like a good spot,” Gehlen said as he
climbed from the car to stretch and walk around a bit, the
dog and Hans slid out behind him. Hans accidentally
kicked out the bottle of Remy Martin they had shared
during the ride sending it bouncing and shattering into
the road.
“A good spot for what?” one of the other officers asked.
“Digging, my friend, digging! Everyone grab a shovel.
We‟re having a burial!”
Hans almost asked if they should sit Shiva when they
were finished, but he bit his tongue.
“Do they get last rights?” he asked instead as he pulled
off his holster and uniform blouse in preparation for the
excavation.
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Gehlen exclaimed as he
undressed to the waist.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost, te absolvo,” he said making the sign of the cross.

~ 265 ~
 The six men immediately went to work burying nearly
20 barrels of Nazi records on spies (living and dead),
Eastern Europe, and Russia. It took them the better part
of the day to complete their task, even with Marguerite‟s
help. By the time they arrived back in Füssen, it was 1900
and they were famished. The six officers all ate together
that night and celebrated their success to some extent.
The party broke up very early; they were leaving in the
morning, all were going their separate ways. As Hans and
Gehlen staggered back to their rooms, Gehlen tried to
convince him to go with him to Regensburg.
“But why should I go there? You know my family was
in Austria; my wife was in Munich. Now, God only knows.
Maybe they are all dead,” Hans said sitting down on a
curb. Marguerite sat, groaning loudly, and leaned on him
almost causing him to fall over.
“Exactly my friend. We both can start fresh. The
Americans have not touched Regensburg and, though they
are sure to show up at any time now, at least we will be
somewhat safe there.”
“No. Even if they are all dead, I must still try to find
them. I think Marguerite and I will have to take our
chances in Munich,” Hans responded rubbing the dog‟s
ears.
“Well, suit yourself. But they always say there is safety
in numbers,” The two men and the Schäferhund rose with
difficulty and continued on to the hotel.

~ 266 ~
 At dawn the next morning they left in the stolen
Reichstag auto; Gehlen dropped Hans and Marguerite off
in the country just south of Munich. Man and shepherd
walked the rest of the way into town.
Though the destruction was broad, it was not as bad
as Hans had thought it was going to be, or so he thought.
The closer he came to the city center he realized how very
wrong he had been in his assumption. He saw people
homeless and starving, subsisting in buildings reduced to
dust; there was nowhere else to go. Hans and Marguerite
finally arrived at the ruined Bahnhof just before dark and
crossed over the tracks to Arnulfstrasse. Having no food to
speak of in his kit bag, mostly purloined alcohol, and
cigarettes, they found an open Fleischer who still had
some smoked dry sausage and a Bäckerei that, by some
great miracle, had two old bread rolls left.
They continued on their way, passing a corner of the
Hirschgarten, and on to Romanstrasse. Hans by now had
prepared himself mentally for what he might find. When
the pair finally arrived at their destination on
Zuccalistrasse, Hans was not surprised. There, just down
the street from Reinhard Heydrich‟s former residence at
No 4, where Hans‟ house had once stood, was a giant pile
of rubble. The outside walls were still standing, but the
roof, front, and interior had all but disappeared. Hans
went inside the crumbling heap to inspect. It was too dark
to see anything so he sat down in a corner with

~ 267 ~
Marguerite and took out the meager rations they had
acquired.
“This is it, my girl. Hard dry bread and a sausage,” he
said to the dog.
He took out his pocketknife, splitting the sausage
between them, and broke one of the rolls in pieces for her.
Marguerite ate her share without even tasting it and went
off on her own to inspect the damage. He took a bottle of
cognac out of his kit bag, lit a cigarette, and settled in for
the night. When Marguerite decided she had roamed
enough, she came back to lie next to Hans and keep
warm.
“I am sorry, no fire tonight, Liebling. We will just have
to sleep very close,” he said putting an arm and part of his
greatcoat around the dog who groaned her satisfaction
with the arrangement.
In the morning, Hans resumed his search for any
trace of Lotte in the debris. He found pieces of furniture,
dishes, and a few singed photographs, but nothing to
indicate what happened to his wife. The only thing left
partially unscathed in the entire house was their old baby-
grand piano. It had been against the back wall where
there was the least damage. Though falling bricks and
concrete had broken the top and one leg had cracked so
that it sat at a cock-eyed angle, when he opened it, the
inside, all the strings, and pegs were perfect. Along with
the disappointment and guilt he felt at not finding Lotte,

~ 268 ~
he felt a pang of joy finding their piano semi-intact, albeit
out of tune.
Hans piled up enough debris to make a seat and
started to play. He and Marguerite stayed in the ruined
house for roughly 10 days, Hans playing every song he
ever learned for his public of one extremely contented
canine. On 30 April 1945, Der Führer und Reichskanzler
Adolf Hitler committed suicide by shooting himself in the
temple while simultaneously biting a cyanide capsule. The
Americans at last appeared a few days later on 5 May. Two
days later Generaloberst Alfred Jodl would sign the
unconditional surrender of all German troops at Reims.

Staff Sergeant Ari Meyer and his squad wound their

way through the streets of Munich rounding up any
stragglers they could find. On a particularly bright
morning, the squad, having passed through the
Nymphenburg area, came upon some destroyed houses on
the Zuccalistrasse.
“Hey Sarg, ain‟t you from around here?” PFC
Syzmanski asked.
“Nah, we was closer to Augsburg. Sorta more ta‟ the
west o‟ this place.”
“Oh. Hey Sarg…”
“WHAT, Syzmanski!”
“Uh, nuthin‟ Sarg. Never mind.”

~ 269 ~
 “Syzmanski, I ever tell ya‟ that you‟re a real pain in my
ass?”
“Yes Sarg, all the time.”
“Oh, ok. I‟s just makin‟ sure ya‟ ain‟t forgot.”
“Um, Sarg…”
“Still he‟s talkin‟,” complained Meyer looking at the
sky.
“You hear music, Sarg? Sounds like cartoons. Like
Bugs Bunny „er sumpthin‟,” PFC Syzmanski volunteered.
“Shhh! Shaddap, ya‟ dope an‟ keep still,” Meyer
motioned for all of his men to stop, take a knee, and
listen. The only sound was the faint music emanating
from one of the bombed out buildings.
“Ahh, it‟s the Hungarian Rhapsody. Ol‟ Franz Liszt, I
think,” whispered Sergeant Meyer.
“What‟s he, some kinda Nazi piano player?”
“Sheesh. You know from nuthin‟! He was a Bohunk
composer from a hunnert years ago, ya‟ dumbass.”
“Umm… wull, uh… shouldn‟t we go get the guy whats
playin‟?” asked another eager soldier.
“Nah, let „im finish. Kinda reminds me of somebody I
usta know,” Meyer said as he rested his weapon on his
knee and lit a cigarette, listening to the piano.

When Hans had finished, four men from the squad

tentatively approached the building, not knowing who or
what they might find inside. Two of the four men entered

~ 270 ~
the demolished wreck, one hooking to the left and one to
the right. The other pair entered straight on just after
them. Hans instantly jumped up from his pile of bricks at
the piano.
“Put your fucking hands up! Get „em up where we can
see „em. NOW!” screamed the first two soldiers pointing
their rifles directly at him. Hans immediately did as he
was told.
Marguerite, however, was incensed at the intrusion
and without delay went for the throat of soldier on the left.
―Marguerite, HALT!‖ Hans screamed trying to catch
her; he was not quick enough.
PFC Syzmanski shot Marguerite in the chest just as
she pounced on the Corporal, knocking him to the ground.
He squirmed out from under the dying dog.
“Jesus H. Christ, Syzmanski! You could‟a got me!”
yelled Corporal Whitley. All rifles went back to Hans who
was on his knees staring at his dog.
“We said put up your fucking hands, Fritz,” the Private
said as he approached Hans, rifle rising for a butt-stroke.
“STOP!” Meyer roared, “Don‟t yous fuckin‟ dare touch
him. He‟s a Colonel. Nobody touches a hair on his head,
yous guys got me?” he yelled out for all the soldiers to
hear.
“But Sergeant Meyer…” PFC Syzmanski started. Meyer
kidney punched him with his rifle.
“I said NO, dammit. And WHY did ya‟ have ta‟ go an‟
shoot the dog?”

~ 271 ~
 “It was tryin‟ ta‟ kill me!” the Corporal responded.
“Aww, she wouldn‟t „a hurt you dammit! He was callin‟
her off!” Meyer yelled as he walked over to look at
Marguerite, distressed.
“Aww, damn. Aww, drek. Aww, Nafkeh. You worthless
piece o‟ rat shit, lookit whatcha done! Poor little dog... poor
little Bubeleh,” he reached down to pet the nearly dead
Schäferhund who, struggling to breathe, was bleeding
profusely from the wound in her chest.
“How was I ta‟ know that, Sarge? An‟ how do you
know?” demanded the Private.
“Cause I know everything, Drekschtik! That‟s why I get
paid the big bucks.”
“Um... Sergeant Meyer, we gotta disarm the guy,”
interrupted the Corporal.
“NO, yous bunch o‟ maroons! I‟ll do it,” Meyer walked
over to Hans, knelt down, and set aside his rifle. Hans
appeared to be in a state of shock. Meyer spoke to him
quietly in German.
“Hey, Hans. It‟s me, Ari. Ari Meyer. You remember?” he
softly asked the bewildered and disheveled man, touching
his shoulder. Hans blinked his eyes a couple of times and
slowly looked at the Sergeant.
“Ari? Is it really you? Why did they shoot my
Marguerite? She was only trying to… to…” his voice
started to crack. Ari gently took his pistol and helped him
stand.

~ 272 ~
 “Ok assholes, the first guy what lays a finger on this
officer is gonna get my knife in his chest! Are we all clear
on that?” The men all nodded and acknowledged the
order.
“But Sergeant Meyer, this fucker‟s a…” Corporal
Whitley started. Meyer immediately grabbed Whitley by
the collar and slapped his face.
“Shaddap! This „fucker‟ is an Officer, got it? You need
another reason? Ok, how‟s about BECAUSE I FUCKING
SAYS SO,” Meyer released the Corporal and took Hans‟
arm.
“C‟mon Herr Standartenführer, the war‟s over. We gotta
go now,” Ari said.
Silently, Hans looked around picking up his kit, cap,
and coat. He stopped to pet Marguerite one last time and
with shaking hands bid her farewell. The Corporal took
the kit from Hans and searched the contents taking the
remaining liquor and cigarettes. Staff Sergeant Ari Meyer
made him give it all back.
“He‟s gonna need that later, trust me,” Ari said to the
soldier.
And may God protect you, he thought as they marched
Hans back to their Command Post.

~ 273 ~
Chapter 16
Camp King, Oberursel, Germany 16 April 1945
―The betrayer of military secrets is a pariah, despised by
every man and every nation. Even the enemy whom he
serves has no respect for him, but merely uses him. Any
nation, which is not uncompromisingly unanimous in its
condemnation of this type of treachery is undermining the
very foundations of its own state, whatever its form of
government may be.‖
Admiral Karl Dönitz

“Sit him down over there,” The Captain told the two
MPs.
They brought Hans over to a wooden chair in front of a
large desk and sat him down, hard.
“Well, well, hullo Fritz,” The Captain said to Hans as
he sat on the front of the desk.
―Sprechen sie Englisch, dickhead?”
“My name is not Fritz, Captain. Nor is it dickhead,”
Hans murmured in accent less English diffidently.
“Cute, this one,” the Captain said, looking at the MPs
and motioning with his thumb.
“Hungry, Fritz? How‟d you like a knuckle sandwich?”
Hans wanted to roll his eyes at the stale anecdote, “As
I said, my name is not Fritz and…”
The Captain punched Hans in the mouth, splitting his
bottom lip, knocking Hans over, chair and all. Blood

~ 274 ~
trickled down the front of Hans‟ chin onto his uniform
blouse.
“Pick ‟em up, dammit. Now listen, you Nazi piece of
shit, you‟re gonna tell me what I wanna hear or I‟m gonna
beat it outta you,” Captain John Bokor said casually while
lighting a cigarette as the MPs picked Hans up from the
floor.
“I am not sure that I know exactly what you want to
hear. Perhaps you should, how do you Americans say it,
‗clue me in?‘” Hans said through the hand holding his
bloody lip.
“Oh I will, Fritz, I will. Why not let‟s start with who you
are. And don‘t tell me you‟re an officer, Colonel, General, I
can see that for my damn self. How is it that you speak
such good English? American English even! And what the
fuck is this?” Captain Bokor sat back down on the front
edge of the desk throwing the two halves of the golden
Khamsa on the floor in front of him.
Hans wanted to laugh hysterically. God, is this how I
looked for all those years? he thought.
Hans had neither the energy nor the inclination to be
defiant. The war is lost; there is no purpose in
rebelliousness or bravado now and I am ever so tired, he
thought. So, Hans gave enough information for the
Captain to be satisfied for one afternoon. They brought
him to his cell at the old agricultural school turned POW
camp and locked him in. His greatcoat and cap were on

~ 275 ~
the cot; his kit bag, nowhere in sight, had been
confiscated when he arrived.

After three or four days of interrogation and a few

more beatings, (the Captain had insisted they were for
“GP” or General Purposes) Ari Meyer paid a visit. The two
MPs guarding Hans were reluctant to let him in, but Ari,
being a master Handler bribed the guards with a bottle of
Hans‟ appropriated liquor. When he walked into the cell,
Ari was not prepared for what he saw.
“Hello Ari,” came a soft voice in the dark.
“Oy Gevalt… Lookit what they done to ya‟,” Meyer said,
as he got closer to the man on the cot.
Hans was a bruised and bloody mess. Both of his eyes
had been blackened, one of which was swollen shut. His
lips were both split; his right ear had dried blood all over
it. On the left side of his head, there was a deep gash,
likely needing stitches, and he was trying very hard not to
move his right arm.
“Anything broke?”
“Not sure. But not as far as I can tell. I have been
through this sort of thing before, you know; though I do
feel vaguely like I‟d been run over by a truck,” Hans said
recalling one particularly severe childhood beating he‟d
received.
“Yeah, you kinda look like it too. Here, I broughtcha
sumpthin‟,” Ari handed him a bottle of Johnny Walker, 3

~ 276 ~
packs of cigarettes, his lighter, 2 letters, 2 photos of Rosa,
and the Khamsa. Hans sat upright with some difficulty; he
noticed some extra stripes on Ari‟s uniform.
“That‟s the last of it so, go easy. You shouldn‟t drink so
much o‟ that crap anyhow.”
“Thank you and congratulations on your promotion.
Oh, this is my lighter. I thought I‟d lost it... and my...
where... how did you…”
“Nah, the lighter weren‟t lost, ya‟ left it in my cell at
Dachau. I thought I‟d save it for ya‟. Never know when
you‟re gonna need sumpthin‟ like „at, but I did smoke all
them butts ya‟ left. The other stuff and the Khamsa, I just
had to finagle a bit. And thanks but I think they just ran
outta guys to promote,” he said matter-of-factly. Both men
laughed.
“Um... so, uh… Hans, can I do anything for ya‟? Ya‟
need anything?”
“No thank you, Ari. You have done more than enough.”
“‟K wull, I‟m gonna get goin‟. Like I says, go easy on the
hooch. It‟s a pain the ass ta‟ get around these parts, ya‟
know,” Ari turned to leave, but Hans stopped him at the
door.
“Ari?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I‟m only tryin‟ to give back what I got, verstehst?
Besides, it‟s what Vik woulda‟ wanted me to do, simple as
that,” he shrugged without turning around.

~ 277 ~
 “I don‟t deserve it, but, thank you again.”
“Deserve‟s got nothin‟ ta‟ do with it. Be seein‟ ya,” and
before Hans could say good-by, Ari had left and the door
locked once more.

“Sir, I am here on behalf of a prisoner,” Ari Meyer said

as he stood on the carpet in front of the massive oak desk.
The Colonel continued to scribble and without looking
up asked, “And which prisoner would that be, First
Sergeant Meyer?”
“A certain Standartenführer Hans Henker.”
“Henker?” the surprised officer dropped his pen and
looked up at last, glasses slipping down his nose.
“Yessir.”
“Meyer, you do know who he is? Damned murderous
Nazi Abwehr and SS...”
“Yessir.”
“I see. Well what would you like for me to do with him
Sergeant?”
“Wull first of all sir, I‟d kinda like ta‟ see them MPs
quit beatin‟ on „im! I mean, sheesh, he looks like crap! An‟
then maybe we could find sumpthin‟ for him ta‟ do; like,
you says sir, he was in the SS an‟ all. I know he was one o‟
them Intel Schmos, maybe he could be... uh, useful?”
“Perhaps. Well, I‟ll see what I can do. You are
dismissed.”

~ 278 ~
 Meyer saluted and turned to leave; the Colonel stopped
him.
“Uh, First Sergeant, may I ask why you are so
interested in this particular Nazi?”
Meyer spun around back to the rest position.
“See, sir, he‟s… wull, he may be a Nazi an‟ all, but
he‟s… he‟s a Jew. This guy saved my life when I was at
Dachau. He is the only reason I am standing here; the only
reason I ain‟t some pile o‟ ashes like the best of „em.”
“He‟s a Jew? I am sorry, Meyer, but I find that
extremely difficult to believe.”
“It‟s true sir. He‟s the brother of one of the guys what
come over here with me from Camp Ritchie. They was
separated a long time ago…” Meyer elaborated a bit on the
brother‟s story.
“And you know all this because, why?”
“They told me. They told me all separate like; they both
told me the same story.”
“Meyer, I think this is a first. A Nazi-Jew, eh? Well, as I
said, I‟ll see what I can do.”
“Please sir, it would mean a lot ta‟ me... an‟ ta‟ his
brother if he was still livin‟.”
“I said I‟ll see what I can do Sergeant Meyer. That‟s all.
You‟re dismissed.”
The next morning Captain John Bokor received a
memo from his Commanding Officer. It read to the effect
that Standartenführer Hans Henker was not to be beaten
again, if he were, someone would find himself at a Court

~ 279 ~
Martial. It also said that he was not to be locked down,
allowed to go to the mess, and allowed visitors. Captain
Bokor was furious.

Two weeks after Hans was brought to Camp King,

Meyer strolled into his cell with two suits, ten packs of
cigarettes, and another bottle of liquor. Hans thanked
him, but refused the suits.
Meyer insisted saying, “Can‟t have you walkin‟ around
the mess hall lookin‟ like some kinda Nazi; people might
talk! „Sides, the HMFsIC are getting‟ antsy, they wantcha
ta‟ lose the Hitler getup and try looking more American or
normal, anyways.”
Hans understood. This was part of his “De-
Nazification” process. The suits were too big, but Hans
thought he eventually might fill them out. He had no other
shoes so he pulled the trouser legs of one of the suits over
his knee boots. He rather hoped no one would notice.
At the mess hall that afternoon, Hans noticed that the
Americans had brought in an old upright piano. It had
been in a one-time classroom that was now being used as
an office for some miscellaneous officer. Hans asked one of
the MPs if he might play for a while. The MP could not
have cared less so Hans seated himself and began to play
Beethoven‟s Piano Sonata No. 15 in D Major, ―Pastorale,‖
Two minutes into the piece, and without much warning,
there was a hail of peas, mashed potatoes, and dough-

~ 280 ~
balls flung his way. He was hit squarely in the back of the
head with an apple core.
“Hey! Quit with the long-hair crap, Bub!”
“Damn Krauts... don‟t you know any American
music?”
“Fuckin‟ Nazi intermelectuals!‖ The soldiers-cum-
hecklers shouted.
Luckily, for Hans, Meyer happened to walk in just in
time; he raced across the mess hall to block the barrage.
“HEY! Yous guys knock it off! Give „em some leeway! I
ain‟t seen none o‟ yous doin‟ any better! Everyone‟s a
critic, sheesh!” Meyer leaned in close to Hans, who had
stopped playing, and said, “Quick! Play sumpthin‟ more
American like before they adjust fire and I get it too!”
Hans nodded his head, thought for a split second, and
started playing the Maple Leaf Rag. Though it was an early
1900‟s work by Scott Joplin, within three minutes and
twelve seconds he had won over almost every soldier and
officer in the mess. He played Avery Parrish‟s After Hours
and finished off his recital with the Arlen and Mercer
composition One for My Baby.
Hans actually sang the song in English and, though no
Frank Sinatra, Meyer commented later, “Hey you sounded
pretty good, not like Vik! Boy, that guy could play, but he
couldn‟t carry a tune in a bucket!”
The soldiers actually started asking about Hans on a
daily basis after that.

~ 281 ~
 “Hey, when‟s that Heinie piano player gonna serenade
us again?” was the usual question.
It almost became a ritual. Hans would go to the mess,
eat, and then play the piano for an hour or two every day.
He had a captive audience; neither party minded a bit. He
played an especially rousing version of Mercer‟s 1941 Strip
Polka one afternoon and had everyone singing along; the
soldiers more often asked him to sing for them. He had
been playing for them for almost two weeks when he
decided to try the old WWI song Lili Marlene.
“I am sorry. I only know the words in German,” Hans
apologized.
No one threw food that day; they only listened to the
sad words of the soldier going to war and leaving his
sweetheart behind by the lamppost, they understood the
sentiment even if they did not understand the words.
Hans knew many American late 19th century works; that
is what his Bubbeh had liked; what Lotte had first taught
him to play. From time to time, he would sneak in an old
song like the 1869 composition by Cooper and Tucker
Sweet Genevieve and the Joplin piece Bethana. The
soldiers never minded; the boys who knew it simply sang
along. Eventually, they did not even object to a little
classical music. They seemed to enjoy Liszt‟s Hungarian
Rhapsody the most; they said it reminded them of
cartoons.

~ 282 ~
 Hans had been at the camp for over a month when
Gehlen showed up in the mess; he had been picked up
near Regensburg on 22 May and sent to the camp a week
or so later. The two men shook hands vigorously and
caught up on the latest news. They spoke in German,
which garnered quite a few ugly glances.
“Perhaps we should speak English,” Hans suggested
peering around the room nervously.
“I would love to oblige you, but my English is fairly
non-existent, only Russian and a bit of French. I am not
as linguistically inclined as you are, my friend.
“And I see you seem to have found your calling,”
Gehlen said motioning in the direction of the piano.
“Well, no... I just… they like it and it makes everyone
feel better, including me,” Hans squirmed awkwardly.
“I am happy to hear that you will not be making it a
career; I have a project for you.”
“Ah, do I want to hear this? What kind of „project,‟ may
I ask?” Hans asked suspiciously.
“You remember all those barrels of microfilm?”
“Yes, I should. I helped bury them!”
“Good. Well, now the Americans are very interested in
them. Just as I said they would be. They have asked me to
work for them; I am going to tell them I want you to work
with me.”
“Dare I ask, doing what?” Hans crossed his arms
giving his old friend the once over.

~ 283 ~
 “The same thing we did before, Intelligence.
Intelligence for the new Germany, Hans!”
“NO!” Hans replied too loudly, “Absolutely not. I have
had enough of…”
“Oh, do shut up!” Gehlen hissed, “You think I want to
do this? You think I want to spy on the Russians, look for
Germans who are still loyal to Hitler and the Nazi regime?
God, no. But I do not want to starve either and that is
precisely what will happen if they let us go. IF they let us
go. Most likely, they will hang us if we stay here, if we say
no; you understand that, don‟t you?”
“I do not care one way or the other if they hang me,
shoot me, or throw me from a moving train,” Hans said
flatly.
“Dammit, Hans! You have to care! The new Germany
will need you!”
“Like a hole in the head,” Hans answered in his
perfected American English. He bid his friend good- by
and left the mess hall followed by an MP.
After dinner that evening, Hans decided to take a walk
around the prison compound, shadowed as usual by his
MP guard. He ran into Meyer coming back from a patrol
and told him of the day‟s events; what Gehlen had said to
him in the mess at lunch.
“Lookit, don‟t be a Schmuck,” Meyer said, “The
Americans wanna use you for sumpthin‟, let „em! „Sides, it
might turn into sumpthin‟ kinda lucrative.”

~ 284 ~
 “Ah yes, money. I guess that is something we will all
need. Something I suppose I should think about; perhaps
I can find out exactly what happened to Lotte.”
“Yeah see, now you‟re thinkin‟ straight! Actually, you
should ask one o‟ them officer types, they can prob‟ly help
ya‟ with that or maybe I can. Last name Henker, like
yours?”
“Yes, Lotte Esterházy-Henker. She was living in the
house where… where you found me.”
“Got it! Now listen, just play the game for a while then,
who knows. Just don‟t let „em Yentz ya‟!”
Meyer bid him good night and set off towards his
barracks. Hans went back to his cell and shut the door.
He pulled out the last bottle of whiskey Meyer had brought
him and drank a bit. Just play the game, he thought, I
wish I knew the rules to these American games. He lay
back on his cot and tried to sleep.

Three weeks later, he was summoned into Captain

Bokor‟s office.
“It seems that your buddy, Gehlen‟s cut a deal with us
and you‟re part of it. I don‟t like it, but this is the only way
we‟re gonna get what we want so I‟m goin‟ along with it.
“We‟re sending you, Gehlen, and another guy,
Wünsche I think is his name, to The States. You‟ll be in
training there. Don‟t fuck up. We‟ll be watching every
move you make, verstehst?”

~ 285 ~
 “Yes, I understand.”
An offering of secret Nazi documents about the
Russians was too good to be true for Bokor. He ever so
quietly removed Hans, Gehlen, Wünsche, and most of
Gehlen‟s command from official lists of POWs and
managed to transfer several of Gehlen's senior officers to
Camp King. Bokor had Gehlen's barrels of film picked up
from their burial plots in the Alps and brought to the
camp secretly; the Army‟s Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC)
was not informed. Towards the end of the summer,
Captain Bokor had gained the support of Brigadier
General Edwin Sibert, the head of Army Intelligence (G-2)
of the 12th Army.
General Sibert made contact with General Walter
Bedell Smith, General Eisenhower's “hatchet man” and
the highest-ranking U.S. Army intelligence officer in
Europe, who worked with William J. Donovan and Allen
Dulles, the chief of Office of Strategic Services (OSS) in
Bern, to make arrangements. On 21 September 1945,
Reinhard Gehlen, Hans Henker, and Max Wünsche were
flown from Wiesbaden by special plane via the Azores to
Washington, DC (and then to Camp 1142) to begin their
training.

~ 286 ~
 Hans woke with a start, kicking wildly.
“Oh God, Viktor,” he said aloud; he leaned over the
side of his bed and vomited, for the fourth time in as many
days.
He swung his feet over the opposite side and sagged a
bit, sweating. He went to the tiny bathroom and grabbed a
towel to clean up his mess. This is getting ridiculous, he
thought. There was a piano playing somewhere in the
camp. It was Debussy‟s Claire de Lune; there was no moon
though, in fact, no light shining at all. The dilapidated
(though “improved” by US Army standards) barracks room
reminded him of his office at Dachau except that the
window was bigger and he had his own toilet with a
shower.
He went to the window and lit a cigarette. The
anonymous piano player finished with Debussy and
started on Chopin‟s Nocturne in E Flat. He thought of
Shakespeare, All‘s Well That Ends Well, ‗Thou art a most
notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly
promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality…‘ Yes,
that I am, he reflected. The radiator had gone off at about
2300, leaving it very cold in the room, but he was still wet
with perspiration from his dream. Hans shoved the
already opened window up a bit more to let in more of the
icy air; it felt bracing on his hot face.
They were into the third month of their training,
which, according to the CIC officers they had been
working with, was going well. Gehlen and Wünsche had

~ 287 ~
actually learned enough English to be understood, even in
Alexandria, Virginia. Hans had been told that they would
be leaving the United States before the end of the summer,
but that was far away, in Hans‟ mind. Another six or seven
months here, at least. All these people, definitely not
Vienna, he thought. He closed the window and crawled
back into bed. He lay staring at the ceiling for a while
thinking of Lotte, Viktor, Marguerite and finally closed his
eyes as the anonymous pianist began a Schubert tune.
Though they were constantly watched, the three men
did have some freedom. When their training day was over,
they would walk around Alexandria, go to a bar, or
occasionally see a film. Gehlen was in his element; he
loved the bustling life, all the Politicos, and eating steak
dinners with his American “connections” in Washington
DC. Max Wünsche however, could not wait to get back to
his more pastoral Bavaria; Hans did not care either way.
Though the American way of life and Americans in general
fascinated him, it was more a kind of morbid curiosity. He
tried to envision the life Viktor must have led; the life that
he wished he could have been a part.
Their work, designated ―Project B‖ or ―Bolero,‖ was
supervised by Colonel Lowell of the War Department and
1st Lieutenant Waldmann, a German speaking American
CIC officer and the three men‟s contact with the Pentagon.
Hans had been assigned the Chief of Collections position
and Wünsche the Chief of Evaluation; Gehlen was to be in
charge overall. Other former FHO officers were flown in to

~ 288 ~
Virginia by March of 1946, given SIGINT training, and
duties. Most of the Signals Intelligence personnel had
been “eradicated” by the Gestapo or the SS during the last
stages of the war making these former co-worker‟s of
Gehlen indispensable.
At this point, Hans was beginning to have second
(even third) thoughts. He had started to contemplate
actually staying the US. He was sure, because of his
language skills among other things, he would be given the
proper visa and eventually citizenship. His American
supervisor, Waldmann, had explained all of this to him.
Gehlen received word of Hans proposed “defection”
and was beside himself with rage. He knew he would get
nowhere with threats; he needed Hans, if for nothing else,
but to help create a comfortable position for the rest of the
former FHO and SS officers in Germany. Gehlen, though
he considered Hans his closest friend, decided on
blackmail at dinner one evening in May of 1946.
“So, now that you know how I feel about you staying
here, what have you to say?” asked Gehlen lighting a
cigarette.
“What do I have to say? I say, I don‟t care how you feel
about it! I have some family here, the government will not
protest and I can go to…”
“Not protest, eh? But I protest. And you forget my
friend, I know more about you than the government, than
anyone,” Gehlen interrupted.
“What are you saying?” Hans challenged.

~ 289 ~
 “Only this, if you even try to stay here, I will tell the
American government about the „deportations‟ and every
single murder you committed. Oh yes, I did say murder! I
will tell them about everyone, everything. They will try you
for war crimes and then… then they will hang you. You
will be sorry for the day you ever set foot in this country.”
“I only followed orders! I will claim self defense…
self…”
“Preservation? Why? Because you‟re a Jew?”
Hans sat with his mouth agape not knowing what to
say. The man across the dinner table from him was a
complete stranger. This was not the man he had first met
all those years ago.
“But where did you… how do you…”
“I told you, Hans, I know everything. Canaris knew, he
told me more or less accidentally. He found out while
investigating you when you first began working for him; he
never told the Gestapo idiots.”
“And you have been saving up that bit of information
all this time, eh? Waiting for just the right moment to use
it. To think, I actually believed us to be friends. You… you
are just like all the other overly ambitious fools. Ha!
Former Nazi makes good; is that what you want the
papers to say in Berlin, in Munich? You scheming
duplicitous Bastard, go to hell.”
“Hans, we are both well on our way. And it‟s really not
what you think. I do need you, you see. None of the others
is exceptionally brilliant, trustworthy, or shrewd and I

~ 290 ~
need someone that the Americans actually find, oh…
likeable. You see, they find you charming and I find you
necessary. So,” Gehlen looked about and leaned in rather
close to Hans, whispering very slowly, “DO NOT fuck with
me, friend.”
“What has the war done to you, Reinhard?”
“Better to ask, what has it done to you?”

Around 1 June 1946, their training completed, the

entire group was sent via train to Mitchell Field, Camp
Shanks, on Long Island. Since he was near New York City,
Hans thought he would try to contact his friend Ari Meyer
hoping he was out of the service and back in the US. He
called the number Ari had given him before he had left
Germany; he was somewhat surprised when Ari actually
answered the phone. They made an appointment to meet
each other in Long Island at a bar. Since Hans was not
allowed to go into the city, Ari had to come to him.
“Ain‟t this sumpthin‟!” Ari squawked as he entered the
bar and saw Hans. The two men embraced each other for
a moment and went about the business of ordering
drinks.
“So, how‟ve they been treatin‟ ya‟?”
“Not so bad. They don‟t use me for a punching bag
anymore.”
“Yeah and looks like they been feedin‟ ya‟ good too!” Ari
exclaimed looking him up and down.

~ 291 ~
 Hans had put on weight, nearly 25 pounds. He had
been far too thin when he had been captured and the
added pounds almost made him a normal size for his 6
foot 3 inch frame.
“I am happy to see you finally acquired enough points
for them to let you out of the Army. And got your teeth
fixed.”
“Yeah, me too! Fake choppers, ain‟t that swell? An‟ I‟s
beginin‟ ta‟ think I‟d never get outta there!” Meyer
exclaimed. Hans smiled for a second and then turned
serious.
“We‟ll be leaving soon.”
“Back to Kraut-land?”
“Yes,” Hans uttered softly staring into his drink, “I
wanted to stay. I thought, since I know you, perhaps I…
Rosa and the baby… Well, he‟ll be needing a… But
Gehlen, he… Well he…”
“I gotcha. You are gettin‟ Yentzed; just it‟s by your
own. Ain‟t that the shits?”
“Ari, I wrote to Viktor‟s wife. I was wondering if you
would mail the letter for me. They don‟t let us send mail to
anyone in the US, only to Germany and well,” Hans said
with a pained look.
“No problem Sport, gimme it. I‟ll make sure it goes out
first thing in the mornin‟.”
“Hmm… that‟s funny; Viktor called me „Sport,‟” Hans
recalled fondly.

~ 292 ~
 “Yeah, I know,” Ari said sadly. “So, whatcha gonna do
back in Germany? Work for them Schwachköpfe?”
“I suppose I have to. I am needed in some perverse
distorted way.”
“You gonna be happy doin‟ that?”
“Happy? I can‟t even imagine being happy, what it
must be like, or if I was ever truly happy. Perhaps there is
no such thing. I guess I will just have to wait and see,”
Hans lamented.
“Speakin‟ of… um, I found out what happened to
Lotte.”
“Don‟t please, I already know. I guessed it long ago
when I stopped getting letters.”
“I‟m sorry. I really am. Hans, I…”
“No, don‟t be. Time, place, „circumstances,‟ as you said
yourself. Nothing else to say.”
They changed the subject; the two men finished their
drinks, ordered more, and discussed Ari‟s plans to take
over his soon-to -be father-law‟s dry cleaning business.
They talked of Ari‟s fiancée, Rivka, and the Lower East
Side, where they would live, a mostly Jewish
neighborhood. Hans listened to Ari‟s plans and schemes,
forgetting his own problems for a while. Too soon, it was
time for Hans to leave; he still had a curfew. The two
friends bid each other goodbye and promised to keep in
touch. As Hans turned to walk back to the bus stop for
Mitchell Field, Ari wished him luck waved, and was gone.

~ 293 ~
 The ―Gehlen Organisation,‖ as they were known,
departed from New York City for Le Havre, France two
weeks later. From there they were trucked to Paris and
then on to Frankfurt by plane. It was not clear whether
they were POWs or “scientists” so they were required to
change from civilian clothes to their PW uniforms
regularly. Once back in Germany the group divided in two;
Gehlen, Hans, and Wünsche were sent to the Blue House;
the rest sent to the Swiss House, KISC, and Oberursel.
The Army CIC controlled Gehlen‟s group completely
from 1945 through 1948. It was taken over and controlled
directly by the newly formed CIA until 1956 when the
group was released on their “own recognizance” to the
Federal Government of West Germany. They renamed it
the Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND or State Intelligence
Service).
Despite being occasionally the victims of moles and
counter-espionage, the Gehlen Organisation was
successful in discovering SMERSH, the ultra-secret Soviet
assassination unit. They also assisted with the Berlin
Tunnel, dug successfully under the newly constructed
Berlin Wall to monitor the East German and Russian
electronic communications. However, the Gehlen
Organisation also happened to employ hundreds of former
Nazis, Alois Brunner being one of them. Brunner was
responsible for the Drancy internment camp at Paris and
for the deaths of over 140,000 Jews. Hans protested the
hiring of Brunner and his ilk. Gehlen over ruled him. The

~ 294 ~
CIA chose to overlook this as well and in fact
enthusiastically participated in several cases, claiming
pressures of the Cold War.

~ 295 ~
Chapter 17
Solln, Germany 10 October 1957
―Do not grudge your brother his rest.
He has at last become free, safe and immortal,
and ranges joyous through the boundless heavens;
he has left this low-lying region and has soared upwards
to that place which receives in its happy bosom the souls
set free from the chains of matter. Your brother has not lost
the light of day, but has obtained a more enduring light.
He has not left us, but has gone on before.‖
Seneca (4 BCE – 65 ACE)

Hans stood over the kitchen sink, finishing his coffee.

He had just watered his plant and left a dish of milk out
for the stray cat that stealthily came into his apartment
when he was gone, usually leaving him a gift of dead
mouse or bird, and sometimes staying for dinner. He
contemplated the fact he had been working for the BND for
eleven (or was it twelve?) years while he listened to
Johnnie Ray on the radio.
As Johnnie finished Cry, the news reporter announced
Sputnik I was “doing fine” since its launch 6 days prior. I
told them the Russians were launching that thing. Nothing
changes, still, no one listens, he thought. They also said
that the finance minister of Ghana was refused service in
a Howard Johnson‟s restaurant in Delaware in the United
States. So not everything is perfect there either, Hans
reflected laughing softly at the irony.

~ 296 ~
 Hans walked over to the small round table and picked
up the latest letter from Ari Meyer. He had received it the
previous afternoon and read it twice when he had come
home from work. Ari chided him in the letter for drinking
too much and “not finding a nice girl” to take care of him.
And little John, it appeared, was no longer little. He had
recently celebrated his 15th birthday and, in the letter, Ari
had enclosed a photo of Rosa, beautiful as ever, and John
behind a large cake full of candles. Just then, the black
cat squeezed in through the partially open window, began
mewing at Hans, and rubbing her face on the radio.
“Ok Lena, my little Staubflocke, I leave you with Duke
Ellington; I am off to work,” He stroked the cat a couple of
times, rinsed out his cup, and set off for work in the cold
October morning wishing he were someone and
somewhere else.
He took the S Bahn from Solln to Pullach. It was a
short 10-minute walk from the station to his office on
Heilmann Strasse. From his window on the third floor he
could see the Isar River and, lately, he had spent more
time than he should staring out the window at the green
flowing water below. At 1800, as he did every day, Hans
left his office, bought a bottle of beer or liquor from the
Gasthaus across from the S Bahn station, and set off for
Solln; his little apartment and the cat he had named Lena.
Once home, he began his nightly ritual. He had a bath,
made a small dinner, listened to the radio (he had no
television), or played his piano. Lena appeared for her dose

~ 297 ~
of evening affection and jumped into Hans‟ lap as he read
Ari‟s letter again. Stroking the little black feline, he was
beginning to think Ari was right; perhaps he did need to
find a nice girl. I am not too old yet, he thought, and I am
so tired of being alone.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, mein Schatzerl, our free day. I
think I might go to the park, maybe out for dinner,” Hans
told the cat as Edith Piaf sang about La Vie en Rose. Lena
blinked her large emerald eyes once and purred. Hans was
not quite as enthused as he tried to sound, however. And
at 2200, after a few drinks, he went to bed, alone, except
for the cat at his feet.
Eleven years later, Reinhard Gehlen died of natural
causes; Hans retired. Though it was offered to him, Hans
had no desire to take over Gehlen‟s position as President
and despite the fact that he was not old enough for a
pension, he felt the BND no longer needed him. After 22
years working for them, he thought it best to let the young
men take over where the “old guard” left off. Let them save
the world, he thought, haven‘t I ruined it enough?

~ 298 ~
Chapter 18
New York City, 20 November 1984
It seemed to him that he knew exactly what it felt like
to sit in a room like this, in an armchair beside an open
fire with your feet in the fender and a kettle on the hob:
utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody watching you,
no voice pursuing you, no sound except the singing of
the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock.
George Orwell, 1984

Ari Meyer walked up Eldridge Street to Houston and

turned the corner; he was meeting his two friends, Daniel
Levin and Franco Provenzano, at Katz‟s Delicatessen as
usual. But today was special. This morning he was also
meeting Rosa and her son John. As he entered the deli,
one of the proprietors cheerfully called out to him from
across the room. Ari responded with his customary
caustic remarks and the men occupied a booth in Lillian‟s
section as they always did.
“Wull?” Daniel and Frank said nearly in unison.
“Wull what, ya‟ bums,” Ari responded as he sat.
“Lemme park my Tukhes before yous start squawkin‟.
Sheesh!”
“Good morning, Herr Farbissener,” Lillian cheerfully
exclaimed to Ari as she approached the table, “and good
morning to you two,” she reiterated to Daniel and Frank.
“Service… That‟s what we need around here!” Ari
teased, beating his fists on the table, poker-faced.

~ 299 ~
 “Yeah, yeah, three coffees, Mr. Meyer?”
“Nah, we‟re havin‟ guests today! Maybe we‟ll take our
chances an‟ eat sumpthin‟,” Ari said, grabbing at the
menus on the back of the table.
“Mr. Meyer, if you‟d ever had anything to eat here, I‟d
be surprised,” retorted Lillian as she left to get the
beverages.
“Ach, little Makhashhaifeh!” Ari shouted after her.
“So, when they comin‟?” demanded Frank.
“They‟ll be here in a minute. You in a hurry?”
“We‟re anxious, that‟s all,” Daniel said wringing his
hands.
“I told „em 1030, keep yer shirt on!”
Five minute later, Rosa Ghirondi-Sanger and her son
John walked in the door. John held his mother‟s arm,
looking around the deli. Ari spotted them and waved them
over.
“Here she is! Look atcha‟, you‟re still a beaut‟!” Ari
exclaimed hugging Rosa.
“Oh Ari, you are a silly old man,” Rosa laughed. After
introductions all around, Ari pulled a chair from another
table and placed it at the end of the booth, making a place
for five.
“Mr. Meyer, you know you‟re violatin‟ the fire code
blockin‟ the isle like that?” remarked Lillian when she
returned with coffee.
“Yeah? Wull, if there‟s a fire, I‟ll be the first one outta
here so, quit bustin‟ my chops.”

~ 300 ~
 “Is he always like this?” quipped John.
“Every day o‟ my life. Thank goodness I‟m retirin‟ soon,
an‟ then he‟s somebody else‟s worry!” Lillian exclaimed,
“Would yous like some coffee too?” she asked John and
Rosa who nodded their heads and thanked her.
They chatted about the weather, Daniel‟s nephew‟s
impending wedding, Franks recent retirement, and John‟s
lack of a girlfriend. Lillian arrived with the coffees; Rosa
changed the subject.
“Ari, we want to go to Germany and find Hans.”
Ari spit his coffee back in the cup out of sheer surprise
and gasped.
“What for? An‟ why tell me? What makes you think I
know where he‟s at?”
Rosa sighed, “Oh stop it Ari; I know you have been in
touch with him for 40 years.”
“Oh, but… but he‟s older than we are an‟ prob‟ly more
decrepit! An‟ what‟s „at gonna do for yous „cept stir up old
memories?” he protested anxiously.
“I need to see him,” Rosa responded calmly. “I need to
see the man who… well, I would like to see him.”
“Good grief, Rosie! I „splaint all this to yous a thousand
times! He din‟t hurt a hair on Vik‟s head! It was them
other guys what did it. Hans made sure that, afterwards,
they buried „im an‟ marked the grave,” he defended.
“I still want to see him,” Rosa said defiantly.
“So, I guess there‟s no changin‟ your mind?” Ari asked
tentatively.

~ 301 ~
 “No,” John answered.
“Wull, alright then. I‟ll give yous his address an‟…”
“No Ari,” Rosa interrupted, “you are coming with us,”
she presented him with an envelope.
Opening it, Ari discovered one roundtrip ticket from
New York to Munich on Lufthansa; it left in ten days.
“What? Yous guys lost your marbles? My wife‟ll flip her
wig if I tell her I‟m goin‟ ta Germany!”
“No she will not, because I have already talked with
her,” Rosa said with a little smile.
“She knows everything,” John added. Ari took out his
handkerchief and wiped his brow. Frank and Daniel,
noisily stirring their coffee, stared at Ari expectantly.
“So, I guess it‟s all in the bag then. To Germany I go,”
said Ari shrugging his shoulders.

John and his mother spent the next week and the
Thanksgiving holiday with Ari and his wife. On 30
November, at 1745, Ari, Rosa, and John departed from
JFK to Munich. They were due to arrive in Munich at 0800
the next morning. John informed them that they would
probably not be able to check in to the hotel until at least
1200, but a quick phone call to the hotel by Ari convinced
them that anytime would be fine for their American
friends.

~ 302 ~
 Upon arriving at the Hotel Torbräu, Ari remarked,
“Hey, I thought we wrecked this joint back in „44. Nice
they rebuilt it!”
In fact, the hotel, built in 1490, was more or less
destroyed in a 1944 bombing raid. But Meyer was right,
they had rebuilt and by 1946, they were open for
business. After dropping their bags and resting a bit, Ari
suggested they have lunch. John proposed the restaurant
at the hotel, but Ari had another idea. He directed them
on a long walk along the streets he had patrolled 40 years
earlier. They had walked more than half a mile to the
intersection of Hackenstrasse and Hotterstrasse when Ari
suddenly stopped.
“Yeah, this should be about the place. I „member this
now!”
“Now? After we walked all the way over here?” John
laughed.
“Yeah wull, Munich looks a little different now; I wasn‟t
sure the place would still be here. What with the way we
flattened the joint, an‟ all. But there it is! I been wantin‟ ta‟
eat here for 40 years!”
Ari pointed to an old building at 18 Hotterstrasse; the
Hundskugel. Ari had brought them to oldest restaurant in
the city. They had an excellent lunch of roast veal, duck,
potatoes, cabbage, and red wine. Over coffee, Ari asked
John what his plans were.
“My plans? Oh, you mean about Hans?”

~ 303 ~
 “Hey! He‟s your Fetter Hans, your Uncle. You should
give „im some respect.”
“Respect? Respect for an evil, cruel, Nazi asshole?”
“No. Respect for an old man who has lived his life with
nuthin‟ but grief and guilt,” Ari said quietly.
Rosa touched John‟s arm gently.
“You were a baby, Giovanni. Perhaps you do not
understand how the world was then.”
“Really? Mamma, I think that after living for 40 years,
I understand the world.”
“Nah, you‟da had ta‟ been around then. I mean, I was
there an‟ I still don‟t understand! Nazis in Germany,
Fascists in Italy, an‟ collaborators in France! Sheesh, it‟s
enough ta‟ make you upchuck your dinner! An‟ „member,
your Ma an‟ me, we was off-the-boat immigrants. We seen
the whole thing firsthand.”
“Yes, exactly! You both saw firsthand what those
people were capable of, what they did to our people!”
“Amore, please, listen to Ari. He is right. It has been a
very long time; Hans is all that is left of your father‟s
family. And besides, the Torah says, „It is forbidden to be
unbending and not allow yourself to be appeased. On the
contrary, one should be easily pacified and find it difficult
to become angry. When asked by an offender for
forgiveness…‟”
“„…One should forgive with a sincere mind and a
willing spirit… forgiveness is natural to the seed of Israel.‟”

~ 304 ~
Ari finished her sentence, recalling a conversation he had
with Hans in a cell at Dachau so very long ago.

On Saturday morning, 1 December, Ari made a

telephone call. His heart was pounding.
―Allo?‖
“Hullo? That you Hans?”
“Ari?”
“Yeah, it‟s me!” Ari exclaimed, relieved.
“Ari, what‟s wrong?”
“Nuthin‟, why does sumpthin‟ gotta be wrong for me ta‟
call ya‟?”
“Well, it‟s been some time since I have heard from you,
other than letters, of course. I thought perhaps
something… well, I thought. So, what‟s on your mind?”
“Yeah wull, uh… see, I‟m here.”
“Here where?”
“In Munich, stoopit! Where‟d ya think, Flatbush? I
come ta‟ see you.”
“You came all the way over here to see me? Oh God,
whatever for? Ari, even I don‟t want to see me.”
“Be that as it may, I‟m here an‟ I ain‟t leavin‟ til I seen
ya‟.”
“I figured as much,” Hans sighed.
“So how do we get there?”
“We? Who is ‗we,‘ Ari?”

~ 305 ~
 “Uh, me an‟… an‟ a friend. Boy, ya‟ sure do sound
good,” Ari hedged.
“Ari.”
“Yeah?”
“WHO IS ‗WE?‘” Hans demanded.
“Aww, cripes. I guess I spillt the beans. Wull see…
aww, dammit. I‟m here with John an‟ Rosie,” Ari squirmed,
deafened by the silence on Hans‟ end.
“Uh… you there? Hans?”
Silence.
“Hans?”
“Yes. I‟m here.”
“So, uh… be a sport, right? They…”
“Ari, I…” Hans began to object.
“C‟mon, we come all the way over here! Ya‟ can‟t say
no, ya‟ just can‟t! It ain‟t right.”
Silence.
“Hans?”
“Alright Ari. Bring them. You have my address; just
take the S Bahn to Solln. You can take a taxi from the
station, though it‟ not a long walk.”
“Still ain‟t bought a car, eh? We‟ll be there this
afternoon, ‟bout 4 o‟clock, K?”
“That‟s fine. I‟ll be here.”
“Better be! Be seein‟ ya‟.”
“Yes. At four.”
They hung up, Ari exhaled. He went to find John and
Rosa in their rooms.

~ 306 ~
 “Welp, he knows you‟re here,” he said sighing heavily.
“What did the fiend have to say?” asked John.
“Giovanni!” Rosa swung to slap him; he dodged it.
“Aww, c‟mon! Hans ain‟t no fiend. Like I says, he‟s an
old man whats down in the dumps. He‟s got nuthin‟ but
neglected an‟ now you… you gotta say Drek like that! I
oughtta clobber ya‟, but your Ma might get sore at me.”
“Clobber away, Ari,” Rosa muttered crossing her arms
angrily.
“I‟m sorry, but I just don‟t see things the way you two
do. I‟m not sure that I can sit there and listen to some
Nazi, old or not, talk about my father. A man he killed or
helped to kill.”
Ari spun around, taking a step closer to John, stuck a
stubby finger in his face.
“Listen, ya‟ ungrateful little Pischer, all them times,
them birthdays, I sent yous guys a little dough, it weren‟t
me, see? It was Hans! He sent me the money an‟ I sent ta‟
you, ta‟ you, ya‟ ingrate! He knew I din‟t have nuthin‟ ta‟
give; he knew that ya‟ wouldn‟a took nuthin‟ from him, so
we letcha think it was me.
“They wouldn‟t let ‟im stay after The War; he wanted
stay an‟ help yous. I even went so far as ta‟ ask Them
what was keepin‟ tabs on „im if They‟d let „im stay! No dice,
see? Request denied. He‟s always been tryin‟, all these
years, to help yous. So don‟t gimme no kinda shit about
him bein‟ evil, or cruel, or any other stinkin‟ thing!”

~ 307 ~
 “You are coming with us or not?” Rosa posed. John
looked from Ari to his mother and back to Ari again.
“I suppose. Who knows what might happen if I don‟t,”
he shrugged.
At 1500, they boarded the S Bahn and after a couple of
changes, arrived in Solln.
Disembarking, Ari mentioned, “I ain‟t been ta‟ this
neighborhood before. Kinda nice.”
They decided to walk the few blocks to Hans‟
apartment on Springerstrasse. Ari took a deep breath and
looked at Rosa. She smiled at Ari and gripped his hand.
“Ari, everything will be fine. Now, ring the bell.”
Hans opened the door and found three faces looking
up at him.
“Hans!” Ari shouted, the first one through the door,
grabbed Hans and hugged him.
Hans smiled; not knowing what to think at first, he
hugged Ari until Ari let go. They looked each other over;
they determined nothing much had changed except for the
ever-diminishing amount of hair on Ari‟s head. Ari next
introduced Rosa. Looking at Hans, she immediately saw
the resemblance: the shape of his face, the wave in his
now grey hair, the shape of the entire man. Rosa thought
she might cry.
“I… I have… I‟ve wanted to meet you for so long,” Hans
stammered.
“And I you,” Rosa said softly. He was more than a foot
taller so, she hugged his waist.

~ 308 ~
 “You look the same as you did in the photos that…
well, you look the same,” said Hans looking down at the
diminutive woman. She smiled and pulled away to
introduce her son.
“This is you nephew, John. We named him after three
different Johns, Vittorio‟s best friend who died at Pearl
Harbor, my grandfather, and of course, you. At the Bris,
he was called Yohannan Barak. So, you see, he has both
of your names.”
Hans reached out his arm to shake hands; John said
nothing. Hans could see only anger, revulsion, and
distrust in his eyes. He could see it because he saw the
same thing every morning in the mirror. Because he saw it
in all the faces of the past, in his nightly dreams.
He asked everyone to sit and excused himself to the
kitchen to make coffee; Ari followed while Rosa wandered
around the living room looking at the photos Hans had set
on the piano. Most were of him in happier days, a young
blonde woman, a German Shepherd, a black cat, one with
Ari taken after the war, and two photos she recognized.
“It‟s been a long time, Ari,” Hans said as he scooped
coffee into the pot.
“Yep, sure has. You ain‟t changed a bit; still glum as
ever! Hey, these are tasty,” Ari said, munching on a
cookie, he had found in a jar. A Siamese cat appeared
through the window, making a grand entrance with a gift
of dead bird.

~ 309 ~
 ―Heilige Scheisse! My wife‟d scream bloody murder if
our cat did that.”
“Oh, Violette just likes to let me know that she loves
me,” Hans smiled disposing of the avian fatality. He petted
Violette‟s dark heart-shaped head; she jumped off the
counter and went to the piano, parading across the keys.
When the coffee was finished, Hans put it on a tray with
four cups, sugar, cream, and Ari‟s cookies. Rosa remarked
that men do not usually do that.
“I have always felt it was necessary to be… civilized,”
Hans said.
“Whaddaya got to put in this motor oil ya‟ call coffee?
Got any o‟ that hooch you usta drink lyin‟ around?” Ari
proposed.
“Ari, I told you… civilized,” Hans flung open the doors
of small cabinet. It held five or six different types of liquor
inside.
“Name your poison, my friend,” Hans laughed. Ari told
him to grab the brandy. The both put generous amounts
into their coffee. Rosa and John politely declined.
“„At‟s better!” Ari chirped. “With all the sauce he usta
throw back, I‟da thought his liver woulda gave out years
ago,” he cracked, gesturing to John and Rosa.
“I suppose I have a strong constitution,” Hans lit a
cigarette, offering one to all.
“My doctor‟d kill me! Made me quit smokin‟ cigars too!”
“That‟s because they are not good for you, Ari,” Rosa
interjected.

~ 310 ~
 “Why Herr Meyer, you‟re not even trying,” Hans
announced smiling slyly.
“Gimme a butt then, dammit! I‟m on vacation anyway,”
Ari joked taking the pack away from Hans.
“I was admiring your pictures, Hans. Is the lovely
young woman your wife?” Rosa questioned.
“Yes, that‟s Lotte, she was my wife; the dog was
Marguerite; Ari remembers her I am sure. Lotte and
Marguerite… well, they both died in The War.”
“Yeah, don‟t remind me o‟ that dog. That was a bad
day all around.”
“Oh yes, I forgot. I am sorry. And I see you have a
violin. Do you play?” she asked.
“No, not well. I have been trying to teach myself, but I
am afraid I am not very good. I am much better at the
piano.”
“Yeah, I „member yous guys… I mean… uh, yeah.
„Member when ya‟ usta play in the Mess? Boy, I tell ya‟. I
thought them mugs was gonna tear the place down! They
loved „im!” Ari exclaimed.
“Hey, why don‟tcha play that Bohunk song? The one
the boys usta say reminded „em of cartoons?”
“Ah, Liszt‟s Hungarian Rhapsody.”
“Yeah, that one!”
Hans crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and went to
the piano. He ran through some scales then began the
song Ari had first heard him play the day he found him in
Nymphenburg. It seemed to Ari as though it had been

~ 311 ~
yesterday and, as he smoked his cigarette, he was there
again, listening to the Hungarian Rhapsody next to a
bomb-shattered building, holding his rifle.
When Hans finished, Rosa asked if she could play with
him.
“Why yes, please!” He was delighted. “Let‟s see, do you
know Dvořák‟s Zigeunermelodien?”
“Yes, of course! Vittorio used to say it was his
grandmother‟s favorite song.”
“Then you play; I will accompany you,” Hans directed.
The music continued for the better part of two hours,
with nearly every song they both knew. They played,
talked, and laughed until John, at last, spoke after
finishing his fourth cup of coffee.
“So let‟s cut the crap and get to the point,” the recital
and conversation ceased.
Ari cleared his throat and Rosa fidgeted with the violin.
Hans rose slowly and walked back to his chair, collecting
Violette who had been napping on the cushion.
“Exactly what is the point, dear John?” Hans inquired
stroking the purring cat.
“Don‟t call me “dear” and you know what the point is,
you deceitful old bastard. You are the reason I have spent
my life never knowing my father, the reason my father
isn‟t here.”
―Giovanni, basta…‖ Rosa attempted to interrupt.
“No Rosa, let him speak; let him have his say,” Hans
held up a hand, deferring to John.

~ 312 ~
 “You are nothing but a Nazi war criminal! Somehow,
you escaped being tried for it, I don‟t know how, but you
did. Some kind of shitty deal with our government, I
guess.
“I‟m not surprised; it seems to be the way it worked
back then. And I probably shouldn‟t even think about it
anymore; it‟s been over 40 years. But, how could you?
Why?”
Hans set the cat on the floor and reached for the
brandy this time, pouring a copious amount into his
empty cup.
“Oh John, there are so many unanswered questions,”
Hans took a long drink. “I will tell you anything you wish
to know. And yes, it was a „shitty deal‟ with your
government. One I did not ask for, nor want. It was forced
upon me.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“Wull, believe it!” Ari chimed in. “I told yous both, he
wanted nuthin‟ ta‟ do with it!”
“Yes, Ari. You have lied very skillfully. Why do you
protect him? Him!” John shouted.
“I ain‟t protectin‟ nobody! You wasn‟t there dammit!
You know from nuthin‟, see!”
“Ari please,” Hans tried to quieten his friend. “let me
try,” Hans poured more brandy for himself and for Ari.
“You see John… oh, God… It had been so long and I
think neither one of us were truly sure until the end. It is
quite difficult to explain. Even when we both thought we

~ 313 ~
knew who the other was, we were on opposite sides of the
fence, so to speak.
“An American journalist once said, ‗War makes strange
giant creatures out of us little routine men who inhabit the
earth.‘ Viktor and I, well, neither of us had any choice.”
“Bullshit! You had a choice! You could have let him
escape!”
“He would have died anyway. He was badly hurt by
one of my men. Ari was lucky…”
“I weren‟t lucky. You saved my ass! They woulda beat
the crap outta me too if you hadn‟a stepped in!” Ari
declared. “An‟ Hans tried, he really did. He tried ta‟… aww,
skip it. Hans, he ain‟t gonna listen,” Ari left his chair and
moved toward the kitchen; he stopped in front of John.
“I got one thing ta‟ say ta‟ you, the same thing I told an
ol‟ Colonel some 40 years ago. If it weren‟t for this guy
here, I‟d be a pile of ashes right now. I wouldn‟t be havin‟
this conver-fuckin‟-sation. He‘s the reason that I‟m still
breathin‟. Yeah, HIM, the ‗Nazi,‘ the ‗criminal.‘”
John peered at Hans, eyes partly closed. He looked at
the grey-eyed 70-year-old man, wondering what could
possibly have gone through his mind. A minute later, he
spoke again.
“You know what you really are? A coward. You could
have saved him, but you were too afraid. You were
terrified they‟d shoot you instead! I wonder, what would it
have been like if my father had lived and you died, you
craven, ignoble, heartless worm.”

~ 314 ~
 “You are correct, a degenerate coward. And it would
have been much better for all of us if he‟d lived, I am
sure,” Hans said reaching for the brandy again.
“That‟s right, have some more. You worthless old
drunk.”
“John, you asked me how and why? This is how. I
spent most of the war in a semi-intoxicated state. It‟s how
I got through… through all of the death and destruction.
This is how I have gotten through the last 44 years of my
life. If I stop to think… it… it weighs so very heavily. So, I
do not think. I try not to, anyway.”
“Hey, knock it off. You‟ll get stewed and we‟ll get
nowhere,” Ari took the bottle away from his friend. Rosa
had been quietly sitting at the piano; head down, for some
time.
“We should go. Perhaps, another day…” she said
softly.
“Yes perhaps,” Hans repeated into his cup.
“Yeah. You look like you could use a nap,” Ari said. As
they left, Ari clasped both Hans‟ hands.
“Don‟t worry; I don‟t think you‟re a coward. He just…
wull, ya‟ know. I‟ll be back so save me some o‟ that booze.”
Hans tried to smile. “Of course, Ari. I hope you will
come back.”
Alone again, Hans decided Ari had been correct in his
assertion that he needed a nap and lay down on his bed,
Violette on his arm. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of
Viktor again, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

~ 315 ~
 Rosa made up an excuse; she wanted to go shopping
and did not think the men would like to come along. She
met Hans at the Kaffeehaus near his home. They ordered
coffees and Hans lit a cigarette.
“Those are not good for you, you know,” she reminded
him.
“And I am an old man; I do not think it matters much.”
“Not so old,” Rosa said; they both smiled.
“Hans, I wanted us to have a chance to speak…
privately,” Rosa explained.
“I understand. I am very happy you still want to talk to
me at all.”
“You know, I recognized those pictures on your piano.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I did not say anything, John was already… upset. I
thought he might…”
“Yes, better that neither of us said anything. Would
you like to have them back?”
“No. I would like to know how you came to have them
though.”
Hans explained the old military procedures of
processing their prisoners: search, silence, segregate, and
speed. Prisoners of high intelligence value were
interrogated by him personally.
“I am not very comfortable talking about it,” Hans
fidgeted apprehensively. “Would you mind terribly if I
ordered something a bit stronger than coffee?”

~ 316 ~
 “Not at all. You should be careful though; you stoic
types are prone to drink,” she smiled. Hans had to laugh
at that. The waiter delivered a Brandy to Hans; he raised
his glass in toast.
“To you, the most beautiful woman I have had had the
pleasure of spending the afternoon with in over 40 years,”
he said grey eyes flashing.
“Why, thank you, Hans.”
Rosa watched the man sip his drink. After a he had
finished his cigarette and few minutes of silence, Rosa
spoke again.
“Hans, I want you to know something. I know what
your Aunt Hadassah did all those years ago. I know that
she kept all of those letters you wrote to Vittorio; she hid
them. I know that she is the reason you stayed apart.
“It was not his fault, you have always understood that,
I hope. Hadassah gave Vittorio all of your letters the day
he boarded the train for Officer Candidate School. He…
well, he…” Rosa dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Yes, I know. I figured as much. When I was a young
boy, I thought he had just forgotten me. But then, it
struck me; how could he? We were far too close as
children. So I continued to try. I had hoped he would see
the letters someday.” he sighed. Rosa grasped his hand
from across the table.
“Hans, I want to see where Vittorio is buried.”
Hans paused, the glass at his lips, and looked at the
determined woman across the table.

~ 317 ~
 “Oh Rosa, I have not been there in… in some time and
I am not sure I…”
“I am sure he has not moved. He is still in the same
place, yes?”
“Well, yes. But…”
“Will you take me or must I find it myself?” she asked.
“I will… I will take you,” Hans said reluctantly.

Ari steered the rented car slowly north along

Münchner Strasse through Karlsfeld and towards the
town of Dachau. A new BMW flew past them on the left
causing the Volkswagen to shake.
“Must you drive like the old man you are?” Rosa
complained from the backseat.
“Sheesh, everyone‟s a critic. Ya‟ know Rosie, ya‟ bring
new meanin‟ the expression „backseat driver!‟”
“Very funny Ari, but if you cannot make this heap of
metal go any faster, I will throw you out of the window and
drive it myself,” she sulked crossing her arms.
“Ahh Ari, she‟s crossed her arms! I do believe she
means it,” Hans joked.
“Ok peanit gallery, just you read the map, would ya?”
Ari begged.
Viktor was buried in Leitenberg, north of Dachau.
Officially named KZ-Friedhof auf der Leiten, it was the old
town cemetery; the Nazis had buried over 7600 prisoners
from the Dachau camp in mass graves until it became too

~ 318 ~
full in 1944. The graves were exhumed in 1955 by a
French association searching for war victims. Most all of
the identified victims were sent to their homelands, the
other bodies were buried again on the Leitenberg hill.
Forgoing the left turn for Dachau, they turned right at
the Freisinger-Konrad AdenauerStrasse intersection.
Another few kilometers took them to a gravel road.
“Turn left here,” Hans directed.
Ari stopped the car in a small parking lot surrounded
by oak trees.
“This the place?” he asked Hans as he left the
Volkswagen.
“Yes,” Hans answered quietly, “this is it.”
John had been silent for the entire 45 minutes they
had spent in the car. He looked over at Hans
contemptuously.
“How many people from Dachau, besides my father,
are here because of you?”
“Too many,” replied Hans.
“Aww, now that ain‟t true an‟ you know it. You wasn‟t
nowheres near that Scheissladen til…” Ari began.
“Ari,” Hans interrupted. “It doesn‟t matter.”
They walked down the path and past the Monument at
the Memorial Hall. Dedicated in 1951, the Memorial Hall
is an 8-sided building approximately 30 feet high. It
contains the emblems of all the countries from which the
Dachau victims came. It was designed by two architects

~ 319 ~
from Munich, Professor Harald Roth, and sculptor Josef
Hiller.
In front of the Memorial Hall was a narrow path to a
low gate that led into the cemetery. The area of mass
graves was surrounded by a 3 feet wall; the path followed
along the wall. On one short section, there were plaques
with names of the Jewish victims who were buried here.
To the left was a monument in the shape of the Magen
David (Star of David).
“Oh God,” Ari gasped, feeling short of breath at the
sight of all the plaques and mass graves.
Tears stung Rosa‟s eyes; John put his arm around his
mother. Hans walked slowly near the wall looking at all
the names until he found Viktor‟s plaque; he stopped and
knelt down. Softly, he spoke to the plaque.
“Shalom Barak, it‟s me again. Since I have not yet
found where they put you, I suppose I will have to keep
talking to you like this. I have brought Rosa, John, and
Ari with me this time.
“You know, we all… we… Oh little brother, I know I
say this every time, but why could it have not been
different? The pain hasn‟t gone away, Barak. Perhaps, in
an odd way, our Bubbeh was right.”
Ari knelt next to Hans. “That Vik‟s plaque, eh?” He
looked at the inscription.
“Yes. I come here often, du weisst.”
“I kinda figured you did when you didn‟t need the map
to find it. Sheesh, I sure miss him. Think he knows it?”

~ 320 ~
 “Yes, Ari. I think he does,” Hans rose and walked away
in the direction of the Magen David.
Ari sat and stared at the wall. Rosa and John
approached tentatively and inspected Viktor‟s plaque. A
tearful Rosa sat down next to Ari.
“Oh my Vittorio,” she sobbed. Ari put his arm around
her shoulders and offered his handkerchief.
“You know Ari; he has never had a proper funeral. Oh
Ari,” she sobbed again.
“Hans mentioned sumpthin‟ to me that he sung the
Kedushah way back then. Course, he was by „imself so, it
maybe din‟t count. But I think that Vik‟s ok with it; I
think, maybe, Him What‟s Upstairs understands too.”
“I seem to remember when we received the news, they
sang Kedushah for Vittorio at Temple, but I was so
heartbroken, perhaps I am mistaken.”
“Nah, you‟re prob‟ly right. Let‟s find ol‟ Hans, eh?”
“I want to stay here for a while longer,” John said.
While Ari and Rosa went off to look for Hans, John sat
down on the damp ground in front of the wall. His mind
wandered. He thought of all the things his mother had
told him about his father. He tried to imagine him, as he
once was, all smiles and jokes. He tried to envision what it
must have been like for him during the war, what it must
have been like to discover his only brother was a Nazi. Did
he hate him, was he angry, or did he feel only pity for
him? On the plaque were inscribed the words ‗Wir werden
auseinander nie sein.‘ John made a mental note to ask Ari

~ 321 ~
what it meant. He stood up and left the wall to find the
others.

Ari was in the driver‟s seat again and Rosa was

complaining.
“I dunno what you‟re kvetchering about; you ain‟t even
got a license!” Ari answered.
“In any case, I know I can drive faster than you!” Rosa
grumbled as she crawled into the back seat.
Driving back towards Dachau, Hans indicated to Ari
that, not only he had missed their turn, but he had turned
in the wrong direction.
“Yeah wull, I thought we‟d have a look at the ol‟ camp.”
“What?” Hans said in a soft stunned voice; Rosa
popped forward over the seat.
“Are we going to the camp, Ari?”
“Sure, why not? I wanna see where I was a guest for
about a month.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Hans protested violently. He had
not been to Dachau since 1944 and had no intention to
see it now.
“Calm down, Hans! Ya‟ gonna give yourself an
aneurism. Sheesh, you ain‟t gotta go inside!”
“I do not want to go anywhere near it!” Hans cried.
“Well, Ari looks determined. Besides we‟re here aren‟t
we?” John said looking out the window at the parking lot.
Ari pulled in and stopped the car. Hans was ashen.

~ 322 ~
 “Relax Sport; we‟ll just have a quick look around. It
ain‟t like I wanna spend a whole lot o‟ time in this joint,
anyhow,” Ari reassured him.
Hans was colorless and looked as though he would
faint as they left the Volkswagen.
“Do you not feel well?” Rosa asked him.
“Yes, I… I will be fine in a moment,” Hans wiped his
brow with his handkerchief as they walked the gravel path
to the entrance.

Approaching the Jourhaus, Ari stopped. He thought for

a moment and then recalled.
“Seems ta me like this is where the truck stopped. We
climbt out and was taken ta some crappy little building.
And there was this ditch here, I think, about three or four
yards wide, with water an‟ shit floatin‟ in it, yeah… the
mote. Guess I‟ll never fergit that mote. Barbed wire was all
over, all across the other side. There was this bridge what
led over the water. On the other side of the bridge was a
building an‟ in the middle there was this big ugly gate. I
„member that on top of the gate, comin‟ out o‟ the roof o‟
the building, there was this square tower. An‟ there was
all these guards standin‟ up there. There was
machineguns stuck outta the window.
“An‟ I „member them guards what was with us
laughin‟. An‟ one of „em says ta me an‟ Vik: “All the barbed
wire is electrified. You see the big space and all them low

~ 323 ~
barracks, that's where everyone lives. But yous two are
“Special Security Prisoners,” so yous get ta live in the
Bunker.” I can see them barracks now, boy.
“They had this weird green glow ya‟ could see through
the barbed wire. The whole joint was bigger but kinda like
any other Army barracks I ever seen. But ya‟ could tell
there was sumpthin‟ just not right about this place. There
was sumpthin‟ what just loomed over everything,
sumpthin‟ awful, sumpthin‟ frightening like. Then they
stuffed us back in the truck an‟ threw us out over at the
Bunker.”

Hans hesitated at the massive gate; it was emblazoned

with the words Arbeit Macht Frei. There were two plaques
hung just inside dated 29 April 1945. Ari pointed out to
John and Rosa the irony of the German words.
“See that, „Work makes you free.‟ Yeah, right. Call me
a skeptic!”
Inside they were confronted by a colossal monument.
The monument designed by a Yugoslavian camp survivor,
Nandor Gild, was dedicated in 1968. On the monument, in
five languages, the words “Never again” were carved. They
continued on to the right and found themselves in front of
the Schubraum (shunt room) which was used for
processing prisoners, and another building. Ari said that
he and Viktor had not been in these particular buildings

~ 324 ~
since they were, for the most part, Hans‟ prisoners; there
was no need to go through “processing.”
“Hey Hans, what‟s this building?” He asked the wan
and stricken looking man.
“I believe it is the Häftlingsbad, the bathhouse,” He
answered quietly. Hans opted to remain outside as Ari,
John, and Rosa went in the brightly lit room where they
could still see hooks on the pillars that divided the room.
“Did they really “bathe” here or was it gas?” John
asked as he looked around.
“I dunno. But I‟m guessin‟ them poor slobs prob‟ly did
get a bath here, once in a blue moon.”
“Yes, no one ever wanted you to feel too normal in
those days, did they?” Rosa offered contemptuously.
As they left the bathhouse, Hans rejoined them only to
tell Ari that he could not possibly continue.
“What are you talkin‟ about? C‟mon, it‟s been so damn
long. „Sides, I need me a tour guide.” Ari said as he
grabbed Hans‟ arm dragging him into an open space
between buildings.
“Hey, this looks kinda familiar.”
There between the rear of the maintenance building
and the Arrestbauten, more commonly known as the
Bunker, they wandered into the Bunkerhof (or courtyard).
This was the main area where punishments were inflicted
and executions carried out. Hans started to pull away
from Ari, recoiling in fear or despair.

~ 325 ~
 “Ari, please don‟t make me go in there. Please. In forty
years, I have not… ”
“Exactly. In forty years, you never came back here and
it‟s time you did. You think you‟re some kinda monster
„cause o‟ what happened to Vik. But what about me? You
saved me.”
“Yes, but only you! Ari, I could have left the country as
you did… I could have joined the Dutch and resisted… I
could have done a number of things, but I stayed. I stayed
and… and almost enjoyed what I did… to people like… like
Theriault…”
“Who?”
He shook his head, “It doesn‟t matter now, but I…”
“Yeah, shoulda, coulda, woulda. Knock it off an‟ let‟s
go in,” Ari said pulling on Hans‟ arm. He dragged the man,
still objecting, into the Bunker. Inside the dimly lit
building, they found themselves standing on the red
bricks they had both walked 40 years before. Nothing, not
the rooms, the paint, the lock-less doors, had been
changed. Ari walked further inside, down the hall, and to
the left.
“Hey! I think was my cell,” He called out to Hans.
“No Ari. You were in the one to the right.”
“Oh, oh yeah. You got a good mem‟ry. Which one was
Vik‟s?” Ari asked.
“This one,” Hans said. He stood in front of the tiny
room.

~ 326 ~
 The cell was small, maybe 8‟ X 8‟, but the ceiling was
high which had likely assuaged some of Viktor‟s
claustrophobia. The concrete cell was windowless except
for a tiny “porthole” near its‟ top. There had not been any
light outside in fear of the Allied air raids which happened
nightly. His conversations with Viktor came crashing back
into his mind. Why did I not know for certain he was lying
to me? Why did I not at least try to save him? Tears began
to roll down Hans‟ cheeks before he could stop them.
“Oh Ari. He wanted me to live… he knew what was
happening, he knew who I was,” Hans sobbed, “at the last
minute, he… he asked me, „Don‟t you want to live?‟”
“It‟s ok, Hans. It‟s ok, I know.” Ari tried to comfort the
miserable desolate man.
They remained for a few minutes until Hans had
regained a modicum of composure. Rosa and John
entered after them and Ari explained to them where they
would find Viktor‟s cell. Once outside Ari spoke to Hans
again.
“You alright now?”
“Yes, I think so. One thing though Ari, I will go to
neither the Kohlenhof nor the Krematorium.”
“Ok Sport, ok. No Kohlenhof, no Krematorium, I got it.”
The four of them left the Bunkerhaft area and
proceeded through the Appellplatz (an old military parade-
deck and the area where roll call was held) towards the
barracks. John noticed all of the 34 barracks had been
torn down; there was one left, a reconstruction, standing

~ 327 ~
as an example of how the prisoners had been forced to
exist.
Horror-struck, John commented, “I cannot imagine
how so many people, how anyone, could have lived in
this.”
“They didn‟t „live‟ in it, they died in it,” Hans said
embittered, lighting a cigarette.
John looked at Hans out of the corner of his eye. “I
suppose you would know.”
“Hey, quit it! Ain‟t it bad enough?” Ari interjected.
They walked through the barrack slowly; Hans trailed
behind. They wandered down the poplar lined
Lagerstrasse (Camp Road) which served as the main
street, in the direction of the hospital and crematoriums.
Rosa declined to go to the crematoriums and decided that
she and Hans would wander through the archive or
library; the others could meet them later.
Though they did not have an appointment, Rosa
persuaded the curator to let them in. Inside, there were
over 6000 photos, plans, relics, and written documents.
They both found it an arduous task to look through the
material.
“This has been a difficult day for you,” Rosa observed.
“No more so than for you,” Hans replied.
“I suppose it has been for all of us,” She sighed.
As the foursome left the Memorial Site and walked
back down the gravel path to the parking lot, Ari pointed

~ 328 ~
out the SS Training Camp off to the side and wondered
aloud why they were not allowed to visit.
“I believe it was given to the government for Army
training,” Hans said quietly.
They drove back to Munich in silence, each of them
lost in their own thoughts. Ari pulled the car over in front
of Hans‟ building in Solln; he had wanted to say
something, but before he had the chance, Hans
murmured thanks and left the car for his apartment and
cat. John watched to old man disappear into the building
and suddenly remembered the words he had seen on
Viktor‟s plaque.
“Ari, what does the phrase ‗Wir werden aus…
auseinander nie sein‘ mean?”
“Hmm, lemme see. That means, „we will never be
separated‟ or divided, but ‗auseinander‘ means sumpthin‟
more. It‟s kinda like „torn apart,‟ so it‟s prob‟ly better if ya‟
ask your Uncle Hans.”
“Auseinander…” repeated Rosa, “Oh Ari, how sad for
them. Sad for all of us.”
“Yeah. I heard the story 40-some years ago and it still
gets me, right here,” Ari poked at his chest.

On Tuesday, 18 December, Ari made another phone

call.
―Allo?‖
“Hullo, Hans!”

~ 329 ~
 “Ari?”
“Yep the one an‟ only!” Ari exclaimed.
“Something wrong, Ari?”
“Now why does sumpthin‟ always gotta be wrong for
me ta‟ call ya‟?”
“Well, I suppose it doesn‟t. But I thought perhaps
something… well, there I go thinking again. So, what‟s on
your mind?”
“Yeah wull, uh… see, Chanukkah starts tomorrow.”
“Yes and?”
“Wull, we was thinkin‟ ya‟ might like some company.
We can light candles an‟ say the blessing an‟…”
“Oh Ari, I don‟t think so. I am not fit for company.”
“What? Ya‟ can‟t be alone on Chanukkah! You‟re
supposed ta‟ be with family an‟ friends. An‟ since we‟re the
only ones ya‟ got, ya‟ might as well spend the holidays
with us!”
“But…”
“I ain‟t takin‟ no for an answer!”
A heavy sigh passed through the receiver.
“If you insist, Ari,”
“Yep, I insist. We‟ll bring all the stuff so ya‟ don‟t gotta
worry about nuthin‟!”
“Alright Ari, tomorrow then.”
“Be seein‟ ya‟!” Ari hung up the phone and exhaled; he
went to find John and Rosa in their rooms.
“Sheesh, he‟s a hard one to convince,” Ari lamented.

~ 330 ~
 “It‟s a good thing then that you are a master
negotiator,” Rosa smiled, “we can get all of the things we
will need this evening and then…”
“… Tomorrow it‟ll be a regular feast!” Ari agreed
merrily. John said nothing, but he was happy to see his
mother and Ari excited.

The trio arrived at Hans‟ apartment just after noon.

Rosa had said she wanted plenty of time to prepare
everything and for Ari to set up the Menorah and fill it
with oil. Since John had brought only a small travel-sized
Menorah with them from California, Rosa had gone
shopping early that morning and found Hans a proper
silver Menorah (along with olive oil, and cotton wicks) for
his home. Ari had brought Hans his spare Kippah to cover
his head, in case he did not have one of his own. They had
also brought some sufganiot from a bakery, some
artichokes, and potatoes for frying, and other food that
Rosa was determined to cook for Hans.
“But this is too much, you should not have gone
through so much trouble,” Hans said.
“Nah,” said Ari smiling, “it ain‟t no trouble! We woulda
done it anyhow; you just got the bonus plan, that‟s all!”
“Exactly!” Rosa agreed from Hans‟ kitchen.
Ari decided, since Hans‟ apartment was not more than
30 feet off the ground, they could put the Menorah in the
window. John had thought to ask a Rabbi in Munich the

~ 331 ~
exact time of sunset so everything would be ready; just
before sunset, the Menorah was prepared. Ari gave Hans
his spare Kippah.
“I thought ya‟ might be needin‟ one o‟ these.”
“Thank you, Ari. I have not worn one of these in… well,
a long time.”
At the precise moment of sunset, they all gathered
around the Menorah; Ari began the first night‟s Blessing
in Hebrew:
―‗Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe,
who has sanctified us with His commandments, and
commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe,
who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days,
at this time.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to
reach this occasion.‘‖
They lit the Shamash and the candle for the first night
when they had finished the Blessing and sang Haneirot
Halalu. Hans remembered neither the Blessing nor the
hymn though; it had been too long ago. He listened as the
others performed the mitzvah and enjoyed his first
Hanukkah in 61 years. After the customary half hour
period, Rosa went into the kitchen and brought out
countless dishes of food. Ari and John immediately
jumped into the fried artichokes and potatoes. Hans

~ 332 ~
disappeared into his room for a bit and came back bearing
gifts for all.
“What is this?” Rosa asked. John stared at his small
box and said nothing.
“Well, it is a holiday, is it not? Gifts are appropriate on
holidays!” Hans grinned.
“Aww, ya‟ shouldn‟t „ave!” said Ari. “I din‟t even get ya‟
nuthin‟.”
“You are all here. That is more than enough for me,”
Hans replied putting his arm around Ari‟s shoulder.
“So? Open them!”
Ari tore into his first; inside the box was a silver money
clip engraved with the symbols of the Twelve Tribes of
Israel. Inside Rosa‟s box was a silver and red rope
Kabbalistic bracelet.
“Sheesh, I dunno what to say. This is the nicest thing I
ever got,” Ari said as he stared at the gift, swallowing
hard.
“Oh Hans, it‟s beautiful!” Rosa exclaimed requesting
his assistance in putting it on.
John sat staring at the opened box in his lap.
“What is it, son?” Rosa asked and moved in for a closer
look. She looked up at Hans, wide-eyed.
“Is that the…”
“Yes,” Hans answered sitting down next to John. It
was an old apotropaic amulet for protection from the evil
eye. Nearly three inches long, it was made of 22K gold and
very soft.

~ 333 ~
 “This Khamsa belonged to my Bubbeh. Before she
died, she broke it in half and gave one piece to Viktor and
one to me. We both carried those pieces around with us
for years. He had it with him when… well, when we found
each other.
“I have kept it all these years… and… and I am not
sure why I never had it fixed. I suppose I wanted it to
stay… apart. So many times, I thought of throwing it in a
river; I am sure Viktor thought the same. I knew it was
dangerous to keep that with me; it was a death sentence
for both of us. Yet, we kept it… both of us.”
“I can‟t accept this,” John said quietly.
“Of course you can and you will. It was passed down
through our family for generations before you. It‟s not
much, but it‟s your right,” Hans insisted.
“I remember Vittorio had that with him always. In his
wallet, he kept it,” Rosa recalled.
“Yeah. I „member him showin‟ it to me back at Ritchie.
He said “if them jerks catch me with this” well, you know,”
said Ari.
“Please John, take it. Someday you will give it to your
children. And you will tell them an incredible story of two
brothers…”
“… Auseinander?‖ John interrupted, looking Hans in
the eye. Hans sighed and looked down at his hands in his
lap.
“No John, never. We have always been and always will
be miteinander… do you understand? Together always,”

~ 334 ~
Looking back at John, Hans thought he saw a glimmer of
understanding in the man‟s eyes.
Eight days later, Hans went with the trio to the airport
to see them off, back to the US. As they moved to the gate
and prepared to board the plane John pulled Hans aside.
“I wanted to tell you that, while I still do not
understand everything, I… I am coming to terms with it.
Trying to, in any case.”
“Well John, I think that is more than I could have ever
asked for.”
“I want to thank you… for the gift and… well, thank
you Uncle Hans.”
“Not at all, mein liebes Kind, not at all,” Hans reached
out to hug John; this time John did not pull away. The
two men remained, locked in embrace, until the flight
began to board.
“I hope you will come to see us in California, Hans,”
Rosa said teary eyed, holding him tightly at the waist.
“I will do my best, Gspusi, I promise,” Rosa let go
quickly and followed John onto the plane.
“Sheesh…”
“Yes, Ari?”
“I din‟t think Johnny would ever come around.”
“He just needs time.”
“Wull, he‟s had 40 years!”
“Ari, don‟t be so hard on him. After all…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. So uh, you gonna come see us,
for reals?”

~ 335 ~
 “I‟ll try.”
“I mean before we all commence to pushin‟ up daisies.
Don‟t wantcha showin‟ up to my funeral or nuthin‟; you‟ll
just end up sittin‟ Shiva and it won‟t be no kinda fun.”
“No Ari, I promise. As soon as I can, I will come visit all
of you,” Hans laughed.
“Wull, alright then. So, take care o‟ yourself, eh?” Ari
leaned into hug Hans.
“I‟ll miss you, Ari.”
“Dammit, knock it off. I‟ll start bawlin‟ or sumpthin‟
embarrasin‟ like „at!”
Hans laughed and released the little man and walked
him to the gate.
“Be seein‟ ya, Hans.”
“Yes, be seeing you,” Hans watched his old friend
board the plane. He waited until after the plane had taken
off and slowly walked out to catch the bus back to Munich
and Solln.

~ 336 ~
Chapter 19
New York City, 12 April 2005
The memory should be specially taxed in youth,
since it is then that it is strongest and most tenacious.
But in choosing the things that should be committed to
memory the utmost care and forethought must be exercised;
as lessons well learnt in youth are never forgotten.
Arthur Schopenhauer (1788 - 1860)

Sam Rosenberg sat staring at Ari with his mouth open.

“That‟s, uh … quite a story, Ari,” Sam said alternately
looking from Ari into his empty coffee cup.
“Yeah. I told ya‟ it weren‟t pretty. So uh, din‟t ya‟ say
ya‟ had some questions?”
“Well, yes I do. But I think it might take another entire
day to get them all answered.”
“Wull, time‟s a wastin‟; shoot!”
“I think I would like to know first, did Hans ever come
to visit and where is he now?”
“Oh yeah, he came visitin‟ a few times! One time him
an‟ me went out to California, „bout 12 years back, John
was gettin‟ married to Rachel. We went to the wedding,
had loads o‟ fun too. Another time, we drove ol‟ Route 66
all the way out to Barstow. We seen the „Giant Ball o‟
Twine,‟ even! But Hans died about a year ago.”
“I‟m sorry to hear that.”

~ 337 ~
 “Cripes, what for? The guy was ninety years old! You
should live so long! B‟sides, he was so tired. Tired o‟ bein‟
sad, tired o‟ bein‟ alone. He was ready to go.”
“It‟s still a little sad.”
“I ain‟t sad for „im, not one bit! He‟s with Vik now,
where he always wanted to be. „Member, miteinander, like
he said? And he‟s with Him What‟s Upstairs, of that I‟m
sure!”
“What about John and Rosa?”
“Aww, Rosie‟s doin‟ swell! John and his wife, Rach, had
a little boy. Uh, maybe 10 years ago? They named „im
Barak Yohannan; ain‟t that sumpthin‟? An‟ since Rosie
still lives with „em in the old house on Monte Mar, she
takes care of the little Kerl whilest they‟re workin‟. It gives
her sumpthin‟ to do, at least; makes her feel useful.”
“Well Mr. Meyer… Ari, it‟s getting late and we can talk
more tomorrow, if you have time,” Sam said as he put the
tiny tape recorder and notes in his bag.
“Yeah sure. I got nuthin‟ but time; I‟m retired.”
Sam paid Doris for their coffee and the men rose to
leave.
“You know Ari, I‟d really like to know what happened.”
“Whaddaya mean, what happened? I told ya‟, din‟t I? ”
“I mean with you! When do I get to hear your story?
And by the way, did Hans ever remarry? And what about
Rosa? I‟m wondering… why didn‟t those two get together?”
Sam asked; Ari patted him on the back.
“You got more questions? Sheesh!”

~ 338 ~
 Sam laughed at Ari‟s feigned exasperation.
“Nah, Hans never did get himself a girl. I think he was
always kinda sweet on Rosie, but he‟d never let on like he
was. An‟ Rosie‟s still all for Vik, ya‟ know. Hey, maybe I‟ll
get all ambitious like an‟ write the whole thing down.”
“Mr. Meyer, I think that‟s an excellent idea. But I‟d still
like to hear more about you.”
“Yeah? Wull, maybe I‟ll write that down too.”

~ 339 ~