Excerpts A wounded city bleeds rubble and takes a long time to die. In the half-light of dawn two dusty military vehicles thread cautiously over and around the ruinous aftermath of another night’s bombing. SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Josef Hauptmann’s large frame fills the passenger seat of the lead car and he hunkers down against the early morning cold, cocooned within the folds of his greatcoat, pulling hard on a Russian cigarette. Hauptmann, recently withdrawn from fighting on the Western Front, still wears the effects of combat etched on his face and in his hooded eyes. A well-worn dispatch case rests on the floorboard next to his feet. Every few minutes he reaches out with his boot to touch it, like a nervous man on a crowded streetcar checking to be sure his wallet hasn’t been lifted. Hauptmann snuffs out his cigarette between a calloused thumb and forefinger; places the butt behind his ear, wipes his hands across his coat, reaches down to unlatch the leather case and withdraws an envelope, one of many. He lets it rest on his broad palm, examining the graceful calligraphy of the address. The script is a personal touch, which Hauptmann feels is effeminate and at odds with the letter’s serious content. The signature alone has the power to give the letter its authority. He turns the envelope over and runs a thick finger across the hardened wax seal. It’s deeply impressed with the official emblem of the Reichstag, a clear iconographic warning: None save the addressee should dare to break it. The letter is short, a single page, and Hauptmann knows every word by heart. He sighs deeply, almost reverently, then replaces the envelope with the others and secures the case, retrieves the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it. There are twenty-four such letters, each addressed to a different Concentration Camp Commandant. Other than the address and salutation, their content is identical. The letters direct each recipient to turn over to SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Hauptmann all the diamonds confiscated from arriving prisoners. And to do so by order of Hermann Goering  It was a pleasant voice. "I'm free. But who are you? What about David?" "Let me assure you, Mr. August, everything is fine. You see, I run a large company that becomes deeply involved in complicated medical matters for...er, certain..." he hesitated and seemed to search his vocabulary for the right words, "...a certain stratum of the population." "I'm not sure I follow." "Oh, my, my. I'm sorry, Mr. August, please let me apologize. I can never adequately explain my own company over the phone. I have long since stopped trying. Let it suffice to say," Pomerantz lisped, "that what we do will be of great interest to you and possibly be beneficial to your son, David. "Would you do me a great service," he continued, "by meeting with one of my people? Then you can hear about the details of our service and..." "Look, Doctor..." "Pomerantz. Seth Pomerantz." "Yes, well. I don't know what you have in mind, Dr. Pomerantz, but if this is some sort of insurance thing, I have an agent and all the insur..." "Mr. August! Please! This is not insurance." Pomerantz's voice took on a much more serious and authoritative tone. "I promise you, this will be of vital interest to you. You have nothing to lose. Just name the time and place you'd like to meet and I'll arrange it." Les Champs is one of the more popular East Side Lunch restaurants in New York. I sat sipping vermouth, still puzzled by the call from Pomerantz but also curious and a slight bit apprehensive. I had told Mandy about the strange phone call, and she agreed that I should follow through with the meeting and see what it was all about. I didn't even know whom I was supposed to meet or what he looked like. Well, Rodger at the door would keep an eye open and take care of that part of it. "Your luncheon guest has arrived," Rodger, the owner, said as he stood over me. I stood. "Thanks, Rodger." Then to the woman just behind him I said, "I'm Mike August." Her tiny, gloved hand touched my arm as she sat down. "Would you care for a drink?" I asked her. "Sherry." Rodger nodded and left. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. August. You're much younger-looking than I'd expected. The busy life you executives lead tends to play havoc on the body. But then you jog, isn't that right?" "Why, yes, I do, as a matter of fact. But excuse me, I don't know your name..." "How silly. I was so overwhelmed by the lovely restaurant that I simply forgot. Margaret Friday," she said. If Seth Pomerantz was trying to sell anything he had certainly disarmed me by sending Margaret Friday. Who the hell could say no to a grandmother, for God's sake! |
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