Officer Jones (40 page)

“When I was a young medical student, a wise doctor told me a story. It was about a young prostitute he treated in Munich named Etta. She had been impregnated by a German soldier who’d threatened her life if she elected to have the child. The pregnancy was further complicated by Etta’s lifestyle, which included a treacherous case of syphilis.

“The doctor risked his own safety to hide Etta from this soldier and nurse her to health … and she eventually gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. It wasn’t until many years later that this doctor realized he’d helped spread the seeds of evil—a knowledge that led to his murder.”

“And this is relevant to your presence here tonight?”

“You see, that child he delivered was named Ellen.”

She tried to smile, but the muscles in her face no longer cooperated with her demands. “There are those who claim that you no longer have the passion—that you’d been diverted by your wealthy American lifestyle. But I can tell that the fire still burns deep inside you. It’s why I chose you.”

She strained through her foggy cataracts to see the surprised look on his face. But there was no time to savor small victories, so she briskly moved to the next step. She pointed sharply at the small end-table beside his chair, causing a painful tingle in her arm.

He pulled the chain on a small desk lamp and a dull light illuminated the table. The gold-cross glistened in the light.

The Nazi hunter appeared mesmerized. He was looking at a traditional Christian crucifix made of pure gold. Stretching across the crux of the T-formation, the symbol
v^988v^
was engraved. On the back was Ellen’s Apostle name of Andrew. Like the original, and more famous Apostles, there were twelve of them.

He handled the cross with the care of a newborn. “The only time I have ever seen one was when we captured Bormann in South America, almost a half century ago. He declared that if we ever saw the symbol again, it would mean the Reich was on the verge of regaining power. I thought he was just using it as leverage because…”

“You and your partner were about to kill him,” she finished his thought.

He said nothing, his silence admitting his guilt. That is, if killing a swine like Martin Bormann, the Führer’s personal secretary, could ever be associated with an emotion like guilt. Not only did he betray the Apostles, but he hurt Ellen in the most personal of ways. His Apostle name of Judas was fitting.

The Nazi hunter continued to peer at the cross. For all his “big game hunting” that took him across the globe, those he most dreamed of having stuffed on his mantle were right under his nose. But the ironies were just beginning.

“What does this symbolize?” he demanded.

“Why are you dragging this out? You came to kill me tonight—so get on with it,” she bristled at him.

“If you don’t answer me, I will not only eliminate you, but the rest of your family.”

The response was laughable. He’d already begun to “defoliate” her family, and once the gypsy moth began spreading its larvae, it wouldn’t stop until the tree had died. She did find interesting that his threat to kill her family was synonymous with the Nazi tactic called
sippenhaft
. She always was fascinated that victims who sought revenge often ended up more like those responsible for their pain.

“It symbolizes the seeds that have been planted. Those seeds grew into a tree, full of leaves. And over time that tree grew into a forest—one that would one day spread over the land. And that day is here.”

“Why would you tell me this?” he asked, still staring at the cross.

“Because I believe you’re the only one who can stop it.”

He tried to conceal his surprise. “Why would a Nazi like you want to stop the expansion of this evil forest, as you call it?”

“The struggle has led to nothing but suffering for my family. My children have been taken from me, and now with the moment so close, I fear an even worse fate for those who remain.”

“Any suffering you faced doesn’t remotely compare to what you’ve inflicted. The only way to stop another generation of evil is to remove the tree at its roots.”

“Evil is not passed on like brown hair or the shape of a nose—it is taught and nurtured. Using your philosophy, you would kill all the flowers in the garden just to ensure there are no weeds. But all you would accomplish is to steal beauty from the world. Are you saying that all those SS men were genetically inclined to murder? And if so, why did most return to peaceful lives when the war ended?”

“The evil your family perpetrates is far greater than the common SS man, no matter how vile he was. Because you have the ability to transfer your evil to others and inspire them to spread your hatred.”

“Was my grandson transferring evil when you murdered him? He was an innocent victim—a father … a husband—just like those you claim to seek justice for.”

His tone remained unyielding. “Once I learned of his heritage there was no other option. He was a scorpion.”

“A scorpion?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the fable of the scorpion and frog, in which the scorpion asked the frog to carry him across the river. The frog was afraid of being stung during the trip, but the scorpion argued that stinging the frog would cause them both to drown, convincing the frog to give in. But halfway across, the frog felt the scorpion’s stinger lodge into his back. With his final breaths, the frog asked, ‘why you would do that?’ To which the scorpion replied, ‘I couldn’t help it—it’s my nature.’”

Ellen didn’t have time to advance the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. It had been going on long before they arrived on this planet and would rage on long past their deaths. Besides, her plan wasn’t to dissuade the Nazi hunter from his beliefs—there was little chance of that—what she wanted was his assistance in crossing the river.

She pointed to the drawer of the end-table. He was now under her spell, following orders like an attentive student. But he looked disappointed when slid out a piece of paper from the drawer. This object was not gold, nor did it have historical significance. It was an amateurish invitation to her great-granddaughter’s presentation of her Heritage Paper for her sixth grade class.

He looked quizzically at it. “If you want to protect your family, as you claim, why would you provide me such access to them?”

The irony caused the smile to finally appear on her face—likely her last. “Because if you’re going to stop the Reich from returning to power, you will need Maggie’s help.”

“You will use any lie or tactic to save yourself. How else can you explain how you’ve hidden out all these years under the cover of being a persecuted Jew? As if the actions of you and your fellow Nazis were not depraved enough!”

“I’ve lived many lies throughout my life, many of which I’m ashamed of. But I never lied about being Jewish.”

“More lies! Your deception can’t save you anymore!”

“My mother’s name was Etta Schwartz—a
Jewish
prostitute from Munich. Perhaps your doctor friend failed to mention that part in his story. History tends to pick and choose the truth, depending on whether it fits the narrative of the author. Without a father around, I took her surname of Schwartz—the name I used upon coming to America, and until I married. While many of my fellow Apostles took aliases to survive, Ellen Schwartz was my given name.”

Good thing the Nazi hunter was sitting, or he might have fallen and broken a hip. They spent the next moment in a stare-down. He searched her face for a lie, but the deep lines told an ugly story that couldn’t be hidden. She spoke the truth and he knew it

“But if you’re Jewish…”

“Then it’s the great ruse of history.”

As the Nazi hunter tried to wrap his mind around the bomb she just dropped, Ellen bit down on the glass vial she’d hidden behind her dentures.

The room turned hazy and began to spin. She never used drugs, so she finally was getting to experience the ’60s, a time her children were so enamored with.

The Nazi hunter screamed out in a whisper, “No!” But his voice seemed miles away. He was too late.

A beautiful painting filled the canvas of Ellen’s mind. She was back on her first date with her late husband, Harold Peterson—he’d taken her to Central Park for a picnic lunch. It was November and a stiff wind was blowing the fall foliage off of the surrounding trees. The leaves looked like a rainbow as they floated to earth.

She focused on one large oak tree with a stout trunk. The vision was so clear that she felt she could reach out and touch it. But slowly the picture turned blurry, as if she was looking at it through the steamed glass of a shower door.

She prayed to the god she found later in life. Not for herself—she knew her judgment would be harsh—but for understanding when it came to the actions of those she loved, like her father, and Heinrich. And she prayed for Josef and Harry Jr.—the innocent children who were handed burdens they couldn’t handle—along with her grandson, Frederick. All taken too soon.

But most of all, she prayed to give Maggie and Jamie the strength they’d need to end the cycle, and that the Nazi hunter would be able to guide them with his experienced eyes.

Her mind flashed back to the tree in the park. The stiff wind picked up, continuing to blow the leaves off the branches until they were almost bare. She watched them float downward in slow motion, and when the last leaf hit the ground, everything went dark.

Chapter 2

“Maggie, c’mon, you’re going to be late,” Monica Peterson shouted up the stairwell to her twelve-year-old daughter. She waited a moment, but still no reply.

But there was no time to dwell on it. She swooped into the kitchen and caught nine-year-old Jamie about to top-off his sister’s cereal with some jalapeño sauce. She grabbed the jar out of his stunned hands on her way to the toaster.

“Haven’t you poisoned enough food this week?” she asked, while hastily buttering a piece of toast.

Jamie smiled his “can’t be mad at me” smile. Her former husband used to say it was like Mariano Rivera’s cut-fastball—you knew it was coming, but it would still get you every time. She wasn’t a big baseball fan, but understood the power of Jamie’s smile. And it worried her.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I thought it was sugar. You know how Maggie likes sugar on her cereal … and with her project this morning…”

Yeah right.

The Maggie reference served as a reminder to check on her again. While Jamie was impossible to remain mad at, Maggie was quite the opposite. Monica was convinced that she thrived on it—acceptance was the enemy.

Maggie had worked so hard on her Heritage Paper, trekking over to her Oma’s place a couple times a week to interview her about the family history, or at least Ellen’s version of it. Monica was so proud of her effort, and thought she was finally starting to integrate into her new school, but on the day of the presentation she wouldn’t even get out of bed. She was such a mystery.

“Maggie—I’m not kidding,” Monica yelled again up the stairs. “It would be a shame for you to put all this work in and then not show up.”

No response.

All she could hear was Jamie crunching his cereal.

“What did I tell you about closing your mouth when you eat?” she asked on another walk by.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Yeah right.

She practically ran up the stairs to Maggie’s room. She stared at the unfamiliar door and plotted her next move. The house was a lot different than their apartment in the city. It’s not that Monica disliked it; it’s just what it represented.

She wanted to knock the door down like one of those TV cop shows, but she figured with her luck that she’d end up breaking her foot. And on top of that, Maggie never responded to threats. She perpetuated a stubbornness that always made Monica’s mother make snide comments about acorns falling near trees. There were some prevailing rumors about Monica having a similar stubborn streak during her youth.

She lightly knocked, then waited … nothing.

Maggie was likely playing her music too loudly through her headphones, in defiance of Monica’s warnings about teenage deafness. Maggie mentioned something about looking forward to it, since she could just turn off her hearing aid during Monica’s many lectures.

Passion for music was another handed-down trait, although their tastes differed greatly. Maggie had recently converted from bubblegum pop to a mishmash of loud and angry, which corresponded with her most recent personality twist. Monica preferred the classics. That is, if 1980s hair metal was considered to be classic.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her mother’s intuition began screaming that something was wrong. She twisted the door-handle, but it was locked. As panic set in, she ran to her room and found the master key buried in the bottom of a desk drawer. She dashed back and opened the door.

Maggie was nowhere in sight. Monica performed a quick reconnaissance mission, her focus settling on an art easel in the center of the room. Maggie was a talented artist—better than Monica ever was, even though she was no slouch with the brush.

It seemed like a different lifetime ago when Monica was the fresh-faced art history major at NYU, back before Frederick Peterson swallowed up her life. But now Frederick was dead, and she needed to find the old Monica.

She checked Maggie’s latest masterpiece, which was as angry as her music. A mother cradling a bloodied child as bombs burst around them in a war-type depiction.
Was it concerning the loss of her father, the looming war, or maybe both?

Monica snapped back to reality. She couldn’t believe with her daughter “missing,” she slipped into a daze. As a single mother, she had to think for the three of them, but sometimes wondered if she could even care for herself.

She noticed the cracked window—the same one she once caught Maggie sneaking out once before, by shimmying down the gutter. She ran to it and felt immediate relief upon spotting her daughter. But what was she doing? Maggie, wearing her typical ponytail and
Kingston for President
T-shirt, was digging a hole in the backyard with a rusted shovel.