Authors: John Katzenbach
‘What’s this mean?’ the detective asked. Then he read in a halting tone:
‘Geheime Staatspolizei Gbh. thirteen; Sec. 101.’
He looked up. ‘That’s German, right?’
‘Correct,’ Winter said. ‘That’s my best guess as the military designation for the Jewish Bureau of Investigation. That’s where the catchers worked. That was where our man got his training and discovered his vocation. I made a couple of calls too, over to the Holocaust Center and to
a historian or two. They helped out. Now, what we need to do is find someone in Germany who has a list of the men who operated that section. Because someone else still alive will remember the Shadow Man, and maybe they’ll know his name. The name may be changed, but it will be a start.’
Robinson shook his head. ‘Do you think they kept a list of the killers they had working for them?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. I’ve learned that during the war the Germans kept lists and records of just about every damn crazy thing. They created this world that was completely upside down, where the laws protected the guilty and the criminals ran the courts. And because it was so bizarre, they became devoted to organization. Organization means paperwork. Sophie told me, right before she was killed, and I didn’t hear her: ‘Even when they were going to kill you, the Nazis had paperwork.’ So, I’d guess somewhere there is a list of the men who were in charge of the catchers. All the captains, lieutenants, and sergeants that handled all that paperwork. And now that there’s no more East Germany, there are a lot of documents floating around over there. It’s worth a try.’
‘But how…’
‘Haven’t you ever made an international inquiry before?’
‘Well, sure. On that Colombian drug dealer I told you about. Contacted their police liaison …’
‘So, let’s do the same. In Germany. Same time, let’s get in touch with the office of Special Prosecutions in the Justice Department. You know, it seems like every so often an old Nazi turns up, and there’s someone who deals with it. They would likely have a contact with the Germans.’
‘I don’t know, Simon. Seems to me we should be concentrating here …’
‘Here, we’re searching for a shadow. Over there, there’s someone who knows this man as flesh and blood.’
‘Fifty years ago.’
‘But knows him, and that is something we will find valuable when we spring the trap.’
‘You’re sure? They could all be dead. And they might not be willing to talk.’
‘Always possible, but if we don’t try…’
‘Then we won’t know. Okay, I’m with you on that.’
‘Think of it this way. If you were a reporter at the Herald and you got a tip the Shadow Man was here, wouldn’t you make those calls?’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, we’re not doing anything different. And we’ve got more resources. Why not get Miss Martinez to use her weight. State Attorney’s Office will carry some impact with the German police. And remember, they’re always sending those damn German tourists over here to Miami Beach. They might be eager to help.’
Simon Winter smiled.
‘The way I figure it,’ he continued. ‘When the Shadow Man walks into our trap, the spotlight we shine on him should be bright enough so that there is no way out.’
Walter Robinson shrugged, and considered this to be an impossible idea. And then, just as swiftly, thought: Why not?
Espy Martinez worked the telephones steadily, doggedly, not altogether certain that she would find what they needed, but also not certain that they wouldn’t.
As Walter Robinson and Simon Winter suggested, she had started with Special Prosecutions at the Justice Department in Washington, only to discover that this was a misnomer at best; she’d learned that Special Prosecutions was the smallest of offices, no longer manned on a full-time basis. It was more a designation assigned to whatever career attorney happened to be given a case file about a suspected Nazi. It had once been an actual office, but now had an accidental quality to it; as the years passed, it slipped out of the mainstream, dying out with the same ceaseless erosion that time had brought to the people it was supposed to hunt. There were only two active cases being handled: an allegation that a butcher in Milwaukee had once been a guard at the Treblinka concentration camp, and another, that a priest in a monastery in Minnesota had fifty years ago been a member of an S.S. Einsatzgruppen extermination squad in Poland. Both cases had been referred to the Immigration and Naturalization Service, where, as best as Espy Martinez could determine, they
were shelved, awaiting the bureaucratic convenience that old age brings with death.
The State Department had been slightly more helpful; after a half-dozen calls, shuttling from office to office, a secretary had provided her with the police liaison number at the U.S. Embassy in Bonn.
She had persisted, working through the late afternoon and into the night, and finally was connected to a pseudomilitary type with an outgoing, friendly voice, who by happenstance was a native of Tallahassee, and therefore delighted to speak with someone from his home state. The liaison confirmed for her that German authorities would probably be willing, but hardly enthusiastic, to help her in her search - but only after she provided them with a name.
‘These are Nazis I’m looking for,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am, I understand that,’ the police liaison replied. ‘The police over here are cracking down on all sorts of neo-Nazi operations.’
‘I’m not interested in neo-Nazis,’ she said, thinking that somehow the long distance and the lateness of the hour were obscuring her words. ‘These would be real Nazis. Original Nazis, World War Two Nazis.’
‘Oh,’ the liaison answered. ‘Well, that might be a problem.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, after the war the Allies, and then subsequently the West German authorities, designated a number of war criminals. But these were the upper echelon types. The guys that had stuff to do with theory and planning. The people who carried out the orders, well, they were reas-similated mostly.’
‘You mean they just went back to doing whatever they were doing before the war?’
‘Yes, ma’am. That was pretty much it. You see, if they’d tried to prosecute everybody who’d been a Nazi or worked for them, or helped in some way or another, hell, I guess they’d still be holding trials today. Now, of course, you got your exceptions to this. The concentration camp officials. People who participated in mass executions. That sort of thing. But I haven’t heard of any of those cases being brought to trial, not for some time. You go through the Bundestag votes on this stuff, and you’ll find a tangle of amnesties and pardons and redefinitions of what crimes were what. Then you’ll find all sorts of statutes of limitations. Hell, they’ve even voted a couple of times on different laws trying to define what a murder was, during wartime.’
The police liaison, paused, then added: ‘Memory’s a funny thing, ma’am. Seems like the further we get from the war, the less people want to remember. Then you got all these new fascists demonstrating in the streets about foreigners, and committing assaults and even murders and waving swastikas and reading Mein Kampf. Authorities are pretty nervous about them.’
‘But lists … memberships, all the documentation …’ ‘Oh, you’re right about that, ma’am. There’s a list, somewhere. Probably one with all the names on it that you’re interested in. But finding it, well, that’s the problem. They have a huge documents center here, but they’re still sorting and cataloguing. Big job too, now that there are millions of other papers being sent over by the Russians and what used to be the East Germans. If you came over here, and if you were real persistent, I suspect you’d find someone over in that document center who could find what you needed. You get the names, then my police contacts would find them, if they’re still alive. But that’s a big job. You got some time on this, ma’am?’
‘Not much.’
The liaison seemed pessimistic. ‘You see, ma’am, the problem is, what you’re looking for isn’t considered a police matter. Not anymore. Now, it’s a matter for historians. The world pretty much wants to get along and get ahead. Hell, you know over here it’s a big damn issue what they say about that era in the classrooms. There’s a significant percentage of people who either don’t want it talked about at all or don’t think it was all that damn bad. Except for the losing part, that is.’
Espy Martinez sighed, wondering at what point murder slipped from the province of the police and prosecutors and became something for doctoral candidates.
The police liaison, with his slow North Florida drawl, seemed to hesitate, as if thinking. .
‘Well, miss, I’m not supposed to suggest this
Martinez sat up abruptly. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, it seems to me you ought to try your questions on the only folks that are still real active in hunting Nazis. The kinda people who ain’t all that interested in what the Bundestag says is a crime or not. I mean, there are a few people who think some crimes committed back then still deserve the world’s attention.’
‘Who might that be?’
‘I’m not giving you this number,’ the police liaison said. ‘I don’t know you, and I will deny it should it ever come up. Politics, you know. We cooperate with the Germans. Best of friends about just about everything. But they get very touchy when it comes to former Nazis. Not what you’d call naturally forthcoming. Especially when the request comes from outside the borders. Don’t like to be reminded of all those things much. And they aren’t real fond of this old guy. He and his people have a way of reminding them about their, how shall we put it, uh, darker side.’
‘The number?’
‘In fact, that’s all they do. Remind people. Seems like an honorable thing to me, but then, anybody who’s ever been a victim of any crime, much less the greatest crime ever committed, has a long memory.’ ‘Who is it?’
‘In Vienna. There is a place called the Simon Wiesenthal Center. Really just the old guy, who thank the Lord has a memory that will go on forever, and a few dedicated folks that work for him. But if anyone knows who operated that section in Berlin in 1943, well, they might. And they’re gonna be a whole helluva lot more likely to help you when they learn what it is you’re looking for. Then, maybe you get lucky, get a name or two, get back to me, and I’ll get my police friends to provide us with an address before they get too suspicious.’
The police liaison gave her a number and then disconnected the line. Espy Martinez thought, We all have memories of nightmare, and wondered why it was that the world was so eager to forget them. For an instant she was reminded of her murdered brother, and told herself that she would never forget what happened to him, no matter what arrived in her life. Then, just as swiftly, she wondered whether that was a wise thing. Then, because she did not like to examine herself as much as all that, she stared down at the number and picked up the receiver.
As with most international calls, it took her some time to get through, and then she was forced to leave a message, so that it was nearly an hour before someone returned the call. The someone was a young woman, who sounded to be the same age as her, although the woman spoke in English tinged with education and a distinctive accent that Espy Martinez could not categorize. It was not German. She identified herself as Edie Wasserman, and said she was
a worker at the center. The center’s namesake, she said quickly, was receiving an award in Israel, and unavailable.
‘But what is it that you are interested in, Miss Martinez?’
‘I am trying to find someone who worked in a particular section in Berlin, during the war.’
‘Do you have the section number?’
‘Yes, as best as we can figure it out. Section 101, Geheime Staatspolizei…’
‘The Gestapo. They were better at destroying records than many other groups. The S.S. for example. Their cruelty sometimes seemed matched only by their arrogance. Yes. So, you are interested in the Gestapo in Berlin in 1943. This is curious. A prosecutor in Miami today wonders about the Gestapo in Berlin long before she was born. Most unusual. What is this particular section?’
‘The Jewish Bureau of Investigation,’ Espy Martinez answered.
There was a pause from the young woman on the end of the line so distant. When she replied, it was slowly.
‘Yes, we know of this section,’ she said. ‘The catchers?’
‘Yes.’
‘A prosecutor in Miami, Florida, in the United States of America calls us one day, how do you say? Out of the blue? Interested in the catchers? This is most intriguing, Miss Martinez. What is it that you wish to know?’
‘I am seeking information about an individual who was called the Shadow Man …’
‘Der Schattenmann is dead, Miss Martinez.’
Again silence slipped into the air in front of her.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because when a woman named Kubler who had been known as the Blonde Ghost, who did much the same as Der Schattenmann, was arrested and tried, she was asked
what became of some of the other catchers, and she said they were shipped east on the last few transports. You know what that meant, do you not, Miss Martinez? It meant you were dead.’
‘But you know of that section?’
‘Yes. Much information came out of the records of Kubler’s trial, which were only recently available, because she was tried and imprisoned in East Germany. Many names that we did not know. Some other documents are given to us privately. But Gestapo records are quite precious, Miss Martinez. And therefore, alas, not complete. But why is it that you are interested in this man who is by all accounts dead today? You are not a historian or a journalist?’
‘Because I don’t think he is dead.’ ‘Der Schattenmann alive? You have proof?’ ‘I have deaths, Miss Wasserman. People who believe they saw this man here, and then were killed.’
‘People? Who could recognize Der Schattenmann?’ ‘A handful of survivors.’
Espy Martinez could hear the young woman’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a long silence, before she said: ‘I must know more. I will help you however I can, but we must know more. If this man is alive, then he must be found and punished. This is important, Miss Martinez. Critical’