The Trial of Fallen Angels (23 page)

Amina and Ott thus became best friends, and she shielded him from his mother’s excesses. Consumed by the past and what might have been, Barratte insisted that Rabun men should make their living excavating dirt and pouring concrete, and have their fun hitting each other on fields and killing animals in the woods. Ott’s inability to live up to that standard was a constant source of disappointment to her.

The criminal indictment of Nonna Amina exploded inside Ott’s life like a bomb. In an instant, he lost his dearest companion and was forced to endure his family’s humiliation alone in a school where, as in all schools, mercy is in short supply. What little compassion that remained at home in Barratte was depleted quickly by the ordeal of defending her cousin and operating the newspaper in her stead. Ott’s only other potential source of support, his father, had remarried and was already expecting another child with his new wife. The time between visits to New Jersey grew longer and longer until there was nothing left but time.

Ott turned in on himself then, to a mostly silent world narrowed to manageable proportions and insulated from causes, effects, and accusations. He emerged from this place only as necessary, to respond to his mother when her threats became real, to scribble answers to exam questions that demonstrated a grasp of concepts and numbers that went well beyond that of his classmates, to correspond weekly with Nonna Amina and visit her once each month at a prison for women near Rochester.

But imprisonment turned Nonna Amina into a different woman from the doting godmother whom Ott had adored. Devastated by the betrayals of Katerine Schrieberg, Alice Guiniere, and nearly everybody else in her life; disgraced by her father’s Nazi past; despised by the public; scorned, jailed, and nearly bankrupted, Amina Rabun became bitter and morose, and began displaying the symptoms of clinical depression.

A small ray of hope for Amina, Barratte, and Ott appeared when the U.S. attorney offered Amina a plea bargain that would set her free in three years instead of thirty—on the weekend of her sixty-seventh birthday, to be exact. In exchange, she would be required to disclose everything she knew about the organization used by former Nazis to escape capture. This would mean handing over her close friend and advisor Hanz Stössel to the Israeli Nazi hunters.

The prospect of performing such an act of treachery appalled Amina. It was not that she believed Nazis were guiltless or deserving of special protection. Rather, Amina held the more radical belief that all people deserved compassion and somebody must start somewhere. For the sake of that naive idea, she had risked her life to help a Jewish family when they were being persecuted and, later, a Nazi family when their turn had come. Had she shown favoritism? But Amina Rabun had suffered a great deal in her life, far more than most. Spending the rest of her life in a prison was too much to ask, even to protect a dear friend to whom she owed everything. Ott was growing up quickly, and she wanted to enjoy time with him. She wanted to put her past behind her once and for all. She had paid enough of a price to protect others. It was time to protect herself. And so she accepted the plea bargain.

On the basis of Amina’s grand jury testimony, Hanz Stössel was arrested while on vacation in London and extradited to Israel. He lost his home, his family, his law practice, and his fortune. He died of pneumonia in an Israeli jail cell less than a year later.

—

ALTHOUGH HANZ STÖSSEL
preceded Amina Rabun in death, he bided his time in Shemaya. When Amina finally died, Hanz Stössel was chosen to present her soul at the Final Judgment.

I had watched the trial of Amina Rabun with righteous indignation, incensed by the obvious conflict of interest and the fact that Hanz Stössel had presented only half of her case. But my reservations about the unfairness of the trials in Shemaya faded when I was assigned to represent the soul of Ott Bowles.

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A
mong the many things I learned from rummaging around in my murderer’s memories was that it was the perceived injustice of Nonna Amina’s imprisonment that first caused him to embrace his family heritage. Strangely, surprisingly, I felt a momentary touch of empathy for him as I relived these moments of his life.

Ott Bowles’s letters to Nonna Amina in the penitentiary quickly became interviews for the story of the redemption of the Rabuns of Kamenz that he was writing in his mind. He begged her to recount in the smallest detail the lives of their fallen family, beginning with Joseph Rabun, the patriarch and founder of the company that bore his name and that had been a source of such pride and, now, disgrace. Amina resisted Ott’s inquiries at first, finding the memories too painful to explore. But Ott was persistent, and gradually Amina opened up, discovering that writing about her past was an effective therapy for the deep depression into which she had fallen.

Barratte, by contrast, was overjoyed by her son’s sudden insatiable curiosity about his heritage, deeming it the first step in fulfilling his destiny to become the savior of the Rabuns. So enthusiastic was she, in fact, and so determined to encourage and assist him in any way, that for Ott’s sixteenth birthday she arranged a ten-day trip to Germany, coinciding with the reunification of the country after the collapse of communist rule and thus allowing them the luxury of freely visiting Kamenz, Dresden, and Berlin.

They began their tour by paying their respects at the poorly maintained grave sites of the Rabuns in the churchyard outside Kamenz. Here they found Ott’s grandmother, great-grandfather, aunt, and uncles who had been murdered by the Soviet soldiers, and here they stood in awe before the oversized monument to little Helmut Rabun, made from the mangled girders of his school destroyed by the Allies’ bomb.

As heartrending as this visit was for Ott and his mother, it paled in comparison to the sheer agony, and terror, that overwhelmed Barratte when they reached the ruins of the once grand estate where the Rabuns had lived���and where such unspeakable atrocities had occurred. The anguish of his mother deeply affected Ott. He vowed at that moment to right the wrongs of the past and restore the dignity and glory of the Rabuns, for the first time openly accepting his mother’s mission for him as his own.

Ott returned home from this excursion a different young man, having discovered the world to which he believed he truly belonged. Unfortunately, most of this world existed only in the past. The silent world into which Ott withdrew himself began filling with voices: the pleas of impoverished German workers after the humiliation of World War I in the 1920s, the empty hypotheses of German intellectuals and the broken promises of German politicians in the 1930s, the strategic decisions of field marshals and the brutal commands of concentration camp guards in the 1940s. While Ott’s classmates raced home from school to watch television or go out to movies, Ott raced to the library to read more about the history of the German people. Like a man starved for food, he gobbled down Germanic texts, histories, biographies, and novels.

When written words alone were not enough to locate him in the world for which he longed, he began filling his bedroom with its objects: silvery family photographs from Kamenz, a brick from the sandbox built for Amina and Helmut by their father, brittle yellowed papers from the business records of Jos. A. Rabun & Sons. Soon the collection expanded to include memorabilia from the gigantic days of the Third Reich—a red flag with its mighty slashing crosses, maps of Europe depicting what was and what might have been, a highly coveted Hitler Youth armband and cap. When Ott’s room overflowed with these and similar items, he freed the birds and enclosed the aviary, converting it into a small museum and shrine. Instead of going to libraries, he started attending gun shows, where word of a young, well-heeled collector interested in authentic German military gear and weaponry spread rapidly. Soon brokers and dealers were offering their wares, and Ott was arming a small platoon of Aryan mannequins with German bayonets, pistols, rifles, and even some disabled German submachine guns and grenades—all war booty brought home by American troops and sold to the highest bidder.

Barratte, driven by her own demons, had no possibility of distinguishing family pride from what was becoming, for her son, a dangerous romantic fanaticism. She happily endowed Ott’s hobby, and with it the revival of her early childhood, using the dwindling but still considerable resources of the Rabun family fortune. She also became an active participant with Ott, repairing torn military uniforms, taking Ott to World War II conventions and shows, purchasing rare items as gifts for him, and assuring gun dealers that his purchases were made with her complete consent and fully backed by her credit. Amina, also, to whom Ott presented the entire collection as a welcome-home gift upon her release from prison, could find nothing wrong with her godson’s passion. “How many thousands of boys are fascinated with such things?” she reasoned. “And besides, was it not time to embrace the past and stop running from it?”

—

OTT’S COLLECTION OF
German war memorabilia, and the notoriety of Amina Rabun, gave him a certain celebrity status as his high school graduation approached. With Amina’s encouragement, he entertained occasional visitors to the mansion—normally just curious teens, but sometimes serious collectors and even museum curators looking to expand their collections. By means of these interactions, and with Nonna Amina’s return, Ott emerged slowly from the fantasy world into which he had withdrawn.

It was during one of these encounters at the mansion that he met Tim Shelly—a stocky brute a year older than Ott with thin lips, pale blue eyes, and a wire brush of dark hair cut close to his scalp. Tim arrived at the mansion one afternoon with his father, Brian, who resembled his son in nearly every detail except age. They explained that they were passing through New York on their way home to their mushroom farm in Pennsylvania from a hunting trip in Canada. They had heard about Ott’s collection and wanted to see it. They were willing to pay for admission.

Ott was apprehensive. Tim looked like the kind of kid who would have knocked him to the ground and kicked him in the side for fun. He tried to think of a quick excuse to say no and send them on their way, but his mind went blank and he reluctantly led them around back to the aviary. He soon learned he had nothing to worry about.

When Brian and Tim Shelly entered the gallery and saw the first display—a Nazi SS officer in full dress uniform—they became immediately solemn and reverential, as though they were entering the sanctuary of a church. Ott realized they were as fascinated with Nazi memorabilia as he was. With eyes wide and mouths agape, father and son pointed in fascination and whispered their amazement as Ott explained each item’s significance and how it had been acquired.

Ott rewarded these gestures of respect by allowing Brian Shelly to handle his most prized possession—a Luger pistol bearing the initials “H.H.” that was said to have been taken from Heinrich Himmler when he was captured by British troops. Brian bowed his head and cupped the gun in his large hands, like a supplicant receiving the holy sacrament. Then he said something completely unexpected: “I just want you to know, Ott, that we think what they did to your godmother Amina was a crime.”

Ott’s heart leaped. It was the first time a stranger had expressed any sympathy for what had happened.

“Lies,” Brian said, operating the smooth action of the handgun with an expert flick of his wrist. “And it starts with the biggest lie of all . . . the lie of the Holocaust.”

Brian pointed the pistol at his son and ordered him to raise his hands. Tim responded by quickly knocking the gun upward and in one powerful motion yanking it from his father’s hand, reversing the weapon on him. Not to be outdone, Brian responded with equal speed and force by grabbing Tim’s wrist, twisting it behind his back and freeing the gun, then placing Tim in a choke hold with the gun pressing against his temple. Ott was amazed, and amused.

“Okay,” Tim gasped. “You win . . . this time.”

Brian squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing pin with a hollow click.

“No mercy,” he scolded his son. “You should’ve finished me off when you had the chance. You hesitated. How many times have I told you?” He gave Tim a violent jerk that made him gag, then released him and smiled at Ott. “There were never any death camps,” he said. “The Jews made it up to take control of Palestine, and they’ve been using it ever since to take control of the world. We’re under attack and we don’t even know it. If we don’t wake up and do something about it, it’ll be us in the Jews’ death camps.”

Ott could hardly believe his ears. His dream had been to exonerate his family by proving that Friedrich and Otto Rabun hadn’t knowingly participated in the gassings, but here was Brian Shelly claiming that the gassings had never even taken place!

“How do you know the Holocaust was a lie?” Ott asked, fearful the answer wouldn’t be convincing.

“A friend of mine has been working on a documentary about it. He says there’s no evidence of any gas chambers. It was all a fraud created by the Jews to justify the State of Israel, and the Allies and Russians used it to demoralize and pacify the German people after the war. When the documentary is finished, he’s going to expose the Jews for the liars they are.”

Ott invited Brian and Tim to stay and have a German beer with him and tell him more about the documentary. They accepted the invitation, but Ott ended up doing most of the talking, thoroughly enjoying himself recounting for Brian and Tim how Jos. A. Rabun & Sons had built Dresden and, embellishing here and there, how his grandfather and great-uncle had helped Hitler build the Third Reich.

Brian and Tim hung on Ott’s every word. They said they had never been so close to a genuine Nazi family. In their excitement, they even asked Ott to speak in the fierce syllables of German to make the conversation more authentic. As the beer flowed, Ott was more than happy to show off his skills, engaging in outright fabrication to impress his guests, saying:
“Mein Großvater, Otto Rabun, war Mitglied der SS und kannte Hitler gut. Er beriet mit Hitler auf Operationen in Osteuropa und empfing persönlich das Eiserne Kreuz von dem Führer.”
And then back in English: “My grandfather, Otto Rabun, was a member of the SS and knew Hitler well. He consulted with Hitler on operations in eastern Europe and personally received the Iron Cross from the Führer.”

This all greatly impressed Brian and Tim. They, in turn, revealed to Ott that they belonged to a secret, exclusive group in the United States that considered people like the Rabuns to be heroes and martyrs. A fellow like Ott, they told him, with Aryan breeding and blood, might be just the type of person who could become an important member of this group, a leader even.

Ott was flattered and astonished. No one had ever spoken to him like this before. Their words reached down to soothe all the injuries and injustices of his life. In the warmth of Brian and Tim Shelly’s wide embrace, Ott opened his heart to receive and be received.

It was a glorious evening for Otto Rabun Bowles, one he would long remember. When Amina came down to say it was time to close up the house for the night, Brian and Tim greeted her like royalty and begged her to pose with them for pictures. Being in her bedclothes, Amina refused.

Walking them out to their car, Ott said to Brian, “You’ve got to tell me more about this group you keep talking about. The people who are going to fight back. How can I join?”

Brian extended his hand. “We’re called Die Elf,” he said. “And you just did.”