Dreams Bigger Than the Night (6 page)

Avery smiled broadly and commented that as a matter of fact he personally believed in “separate but equal treatment,” an approach that worked in American schooling and public facilities and athletics. What was good for America was good for the Olympics.

The night before Mr. and Mrs. Brundage were to leave Berlin for the United States, they had dined well at the hotel restaurant, Elizabeth having ordered ginger glazed salmon filet with wasabi cream. An especially pretty waitress, Heidi, had been assigned to their table, and had been particularly attentive to Avery. After dinner and toasts and appreciative speeches, von Tschammer and von Halt announced that the German government, fearing for the safety of the Brundages, had arranged for Rolf Hahne to accompany them on their boat trip to the United States. More appreciative words followed. Rolf merely bowed, silently.

As Elizabeth Brundage prepared for bed, Avery stood expectantly looking out the hotel window. Before he had left the dining room, von Halt had slipped him a note. Now he waited. Soon there was a light tapping at the door. Elizabeth had already climbed into bed and reached for a book. Avery, still dressed, opened the door just a crack, enough to see standing before him the pretty blonde Heidi, who had served him liver dumpling soup, duck with
spätzle
and red cabbage, and a bottle of Chardonnay. She smiled and bent her index finger in a gesture of “Follow me.” Avery nodded and told Elizabeth that von Halt wished to see him.

“Don’t tire yourself,” said Elizabeth, “and if you return late, please don’t turn on any lights.”

Avery closed the door behind him and followed Heidi to an upstairs room, which shed an amber light from a small chandelier. Without so much as a word, she suggestively undressed. Brundage watched as she sat on the edge of the bed and removed her stockings, revealing a small patch of black between her legs. She slid under the comforter and smiled. He asked would she mind if he dimmed the lights. She shook her head no. Darkness.

At the dock, Rolf looked after the luggage. The Brundages had a stateroom and he a cramped single. No matter, he had space enough to review his instructions and plot a course of action. A feeling akin to pride suffused his body. The SS authorities had entrusted him to find a means to silence the loudest voices of boycott and to dig into the relationship between Axel Kuppler and Arietta Ewerhardt, whom they suspected of being in the employ of a “moral pervert,” whose pro-boycott links reached from New Jersey to California. He had come well equipped for his mission. One of his two bags held the three dental picks, a pistol, a vial of cyanide, and a small photograph of Fräulein Ewerhardt. Arrangements had been made in Germany for Axel to meet him at the dock in New York. He would soon find out whether Axel had transmitted secrets to Fräulein Ewerhardt and whether she had transmitted her information to others. To occupy his time during the ocean crossing, he lifted weights in the men’s gym and rode a stationary bicycle. Passing the women’s gym, he saw an attractive blonde woman, Francesca Bronzina. He nodded, she smiled, but he refused to follow up, focusing on the Brundages and their welfare. The German SS Intelligence Service had assigned Rolf to guard the Brundages not only to insinuate Rolf into the country for their own murderous purposes but also to see that Avery Brundage landed safely in New York. The SS had received unconfirmed reports that two Jewish commandos, dispatched from Haifa with false passports, might be boarding the boat at Bremen to assassinate Avery Brundage. Although the ship’s manifest had been carefully screened, the police found no suspicious passengers.

The first day at sea, Rolf haunted the ship trying to identify any would-be killers. Two men were sitting in deck chairs, with an empty chaise lounge between them. After several minutes, one of the men stood, dropped his newspaper on the empty chair, and departed. The other man casually reached for the paper and studied it. Were these the two? Perhaps the first had merely been doing a crossword puzzle that he failed to complete; and the second took up the challenge. Rolf watched. If the second failed to write in the paper . . . but what if he were equally stumped? Rolf needed more proof than a discarded newspaper retrieved by another.

As the second day passed into the third, Rolf decided to use Brundage as a lure. Until now, Avery had stayed well away from the deck rails, where an unseen assailant could shove him overboard. Rolf suggested that Avery, without Elizabeth, stroll to the outside railing, pause a minute, and then return to the glass-enclosed deck. If anyone made a move to follow, Rolf would of course be at Avery’s side to protect him—and might have a better idea of the persons assigned to harm Brundage. But nobody followed, and Avery returned to his wife. Standing by himself in the stern of the ship, admiring the great propellers leaving a wake behind the liner, Rolf heard a dog barking in the distance. Around a corner came a German shepherd running toward him. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. The dog playfully sniffed Rolf’s leg and turned its head, as if looking for its master. At that moment, Rolf leaned over, scooped up the dog, and threw it overboard. A few seconds later, the owner came scurrying around the corner looking for “Schatzi.” He was an elderly gentleman, well attired, and sporting a monocle. Had Rolf seen a dog? Yes, but it took off down the other side of the ship. The man had spoken in German. He thanked Rolf, bowed slightly, and disappeared.

After dinner, Rolf accompanied the Brundages to their stateroom. As always, he entered first, looked around, and then, seeing there was no danger, stepped aside to admit the couple. Outside the door, Rolf saw a young cabin boy coming his way carrying a tray of food. He stopped the young man to ask if any of the passengers had been inquiring about the location of the Brundage stateroom. The boy hesitated. Rolf flashed his SS badge and handed him a ten spot.

“As a matter of fact, since we left Bremen several passengers have asked me that question.”

“Old or young?”

“Mostly old, except for one person, who never leaves the cabin. But I don’t think . . .”

Rolf interrupted. “What about meals?”

“Good question. I have no idea.”

“Perhaps a friend . . .”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Room number?”

“It’s . . . it’s 218.”

“Not a word about this matter,” said Rolf. “I am here as a representative of the German government. Secret business.”

The cabin boy’s eyes grew as wide as portholes, and he shook his head vigorously. “Not a word, sir, I promise.” And then, still balancing the tray of food, he hastily left.

That same evening and the next day, Rolf shadowed Room 218, but no one entered or exited. So he descended below deck to the kitchen, where he found his way blocked by a small, cadaverous man who belied the belief that all cooks are fat.

“No passengers allowed,” he said in German.

Dozens of people were dashing about: cooks preparing food, scullions scouring pots, pans, and dishes, and waiters and waitresses carrying plates in and out of the kitchen. Once again Rolf flashed his SS badge. The skeletal cook forced a smile, revealing a mouth of bad teeth.

“A word, please,” said Rolf.

The cook wiped his hands on his apron and walked to one side. “Be quick, the diners are waiting.”

“Are you in charge?”

“I am the head cook, Benedict Strassen.”

“Herr Strassen, do any of the passengers require a special diet, for example, a kosher one?”

“Why do you ask?” said Benedict suspiciously.

“I am looking for a man . . .”

“For this you interrupt me. No, we don’t serve kosher.”

Rolf thought twice before he spoke again, wondering whether Herr Strassen could be trusted. “A Jewish killer. Perhaps two of them.”

Without replying, the cook waved his hand to a meat cook preparing pork chops. As the man approached, Benedict greeted him as Friedl and repeated Rolf’s question.

Friedl looked at Benedict. The head cook wiped his perspiring face with his apron. “Tell him,” said Benedict. “He’s with the SS.”

“Some rooms, not many,” said Friedl, “have dumbwaiters. We can put the food on a tray and hoist it directly to the passengers.”

Benedict added, “The shaft for the dumbwaiters was built to guarantee a person’s privacy, like royalty and diplomats and high government officials.”

“And a Jew who doesn’t want to be seen.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Benedict.

Rolf was convinced that one assassin occupied Room 218, but where was the other? Unless the cable from Palestine was in error, and only one killer, directed to kill Avery in New York, was on ship. He would have to be sure, lest he put himself and both Brundages in danger.

“Do you serve anyone else using a dumbwaiter?”

“No, only the one—who paid handsomely for the service.”

Rolf was silent.

“Ask the purser,” said Benedict. “
Ach
, look at the time. I have wasted precious minutes talking to you. If the passenger is a criminal, arrest the person. Don’t bother us.”

The cooks returned to their work. Rolf decided that the steamy kitchen, with its chopping block and pots and pans suspended overhead, was an uncongenial place to glean any more information. He would confront the purser about the man in Room 218, and try to learn his name, his country of origin, his special arrangements. But he knew that the man was unlikely to be traveling on an English passport, even though Palestine was a British mandate. If the man knew German, then he probably came from an Eastern or Central European country. He would know in a minute, once he heard the man’s accent.

Bernd Fuchs shook Rolf’s firm hand when Rolf introduced himself. Having worked as a purser for German cruise liners since he turned twenty, he thought that he knew the characteristics of passengers and their schemes. But he had never before met anyone like Rolf Hahne, who had materialized in a black shirt and black suit, and had assumed a stiff, resolute, and menacing posture. Fuchs always dressed in white for Atlantic crossings, even in winter: white gloves and a white hat with a black beak. He spoke several languages and particularly prided himself on his fluent English. Trained to be discreet, Fuchs was disinclined to reveal the identity of the passenger in Room 218, even when he saw Rolf’s SS badge and diplomat’s passport. Besides, he had no special love for the Nazis and, in fact, despised their arrogance and presumption of superiority.

“A person is entitled to his privacy,” said Bernd.

“Not when he intends to assassinate Mr. Avery Brundage.”

“Where is your proof?”

Rolf could hardly produce a cable that indicated some commandos
might
be aboard ship. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Power is a trust, and I don’t intend to abuse mine.”

Rolf glanced around the purser’s office. He took note of the filing cabinets, the combination safe in the corner, the desk strewn with papers, and the lock on the door. As part of his SS training, he had been schooled in breaking and entering. The lock on the purser’s door was a Schlage, difficult to work the tumblers but not impossible. Perhaps his dental picks could serve more than one purpose. His only fear was that the papers he wanted were in the safe and not in the filing cabinets. But . . . German officials were famous for putting the combinations of locks in files labeled “Snuff.” Why they had selected that name, he never could fathom.

Fuchs felt uneasy in the presence of this SS man. To break the impasse, he suggested that he would call the ship’s main office in Bremen for instructions bearing on this matter. His superiors would know what to do.

“The matter is secret,” said Rolf.

“Then I can’t help you.”

At that moment Rolf was tempted to choke the man to death. It would have taken no more than a minute or two. The two were alone. No witnesses. But he chose to pursue another course of action. That evening, when he could try the door and the safe, he would know how to proceed.

After midnight, Rolf made his way to the purser’s office and found to his raging impatience that he could not pick the lock. Had the purser shown up at that instant, Rolf would have killed him. The door to the purser’s office had a small window, fitted with thick smoky glass. Rolf went to his room and returned with a blanket, which he wrapped around a fire extinguisher that he used to break the window. Reaching inside the door, he disengaged the lock and entered. He would have to work fast, before someone reported the break-in. Every time he heard footsteps in the corridor, he gripped the pick and feared what discovery would mean. Unequipped with a flashlight, he had to risk turning on the lights. He moved quickly, rifling through the cabinets. No file marked “Snuff.” What did his SS trainers know? They were all working from manuals printed during World War I. The safe was locked. He had often heard it said in jest that all the safe combinations in Germany were set to Hitler’s birthday: 20 April 1889. He tried 20-4-89; it didn’t work. He tried 20-4-889. No luck. Then: 20-4-1889. His last attempt was equally unsuccessful: 4-20-1889.

He entertained the idea, but only for a second, of taking a fire axe to the safe. But the noise would awaken the ship’s crew. After rustling through the papers on the purser’s desk and in his drawers, he knew that the information he wanted was in the safe. But if he had no way to access it, he would just have to assume that the man in Room 218 was an assassin—and kill him.