New York-cut steaks, as thick as the Ulster County phone directory, were stacked on another table.
Roast beefs, ribs, roasting chickens were in abundance.
So were delicious apples, pears, Kadota figs; tins of cocoa; David’s old childhood nemesis, Postum. There were cold pantries and vegetable bins; a walk-in freezer with separate butter and milk refrigerators; nine flat-black gas stoves, each with sixteen burners.
“Since we’ve been displaced persons here, I’ve been cooking,” David said as he conducted the cook’s tour. “If you’re hungry, Alix, and brave, we could maybe cook something tonight.”
Alix broke into her most comfortable and natural smile of the day. Her first real smile in weeks, she thought to herself.
“I can’t tell you how much I like that idea. I might even cook for you,” she said. “If you’re brave.”
David fetched a bottle of Lafitte-Rothschild from the bar, and, drinking immoderately as they went, they fashioned boned chicken breasts, tomatoes, pommes frites, cherries, sausage, and beaucoup de garlic into a spectacular feast for two.
After which they ate like pampered royalty in the huge Sunset Lounge.
With Tommy Thompson’s Four playing “Feelings” and “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” for forty to fifty ballroom-dancing couples. With two FBI agents taking shifts sitting at one of the banquette tables, guarding David and eyeing Alix.
David ordered a third bottle of wine, and they began to listen more closely to Tommy Thompson. Sax, drums, trumpet, piano. Slightly staccato and not always together. Schmaltzy as hell. “Wonderful as leafing through old Life magazines,” Alix said.
A young bearded man was dancing with his wife and five-year-old daughter. Very touching and nice. Two eighty-year-olds performed a tango hustle.
Finally, David and Alix got up to dance. They danced to “Fascinating Rhythm,” then a fox-trot to “There’s a Small Hotel.”
The band shifted into a slow number, “Moonlight and Roses,” and David and Alix could suddenly hear the floorboards of the lounge creaking like a crowded gymnasium.
They danced one more slow song, the band’s finale, “Stars Fell on Alabama,” which segued into “Too Marvelous for Words,” and “Good Night, Irene.”
They left the moonlit lounge through French doors leading into the even more moonlit gardens.
Owls were hooting way off in the woods. Nearby cicadas sounded like a softly blown whistle. It was disturbing to David, though. He began to get obsessively paranoid as soon as they walked out into the darkness and night noises.
Alix loosely hung on to his arm. David was terribly aware of her perfume, a light, flowery, subtle smell. Her soft hip was just barely touching his.
“Three bottles of vino. Whew!” Alix shot her eyebrows up. “We should go in now, David,” she finally said. “I’m a little frightened being out here in the dark.
“You’re a wonderful host,” Alix said as they walked the long corridor to her room. “And you’re the best French cook in New Paltz, Dr. Strauss.”
“Maybe next to my mentor, Jules,” David said. “You’re the best schmaltzy waltzer around,” he added.
David then bent slightly and kissed Alix. He tasted a sweet, faint fruit he couldn’t identify. He felt slightly dizzy.
The two of them stood in the hallway for another uncomfortable moment. Alix switched her weight from one foot to the other. David brushed his hair back with his fingers.
“I’ll see you in the morning?” Alix finally said.
As he climbed the remaining two flights to his room, David caught himself whistling “Feelings,” a song he didn’t like, but which seemed pretty fantastic that night.
Inside his room, he sat on his big Victorian couch and felt a little horny. No, he felt a lot horny.
He doodled on a page in his Crapbook. He listened to the crickets and owls.
David then sketched out a fake New York Times front page, and wrote a whimsical headline, which he loved:
NOTHING BAD HAPPENED TODAY.
CHAPTER 29
Bucks County, Pennsylvania.
Something nice. Then something not so nice.
First, two bicycles, their riders in perfect control, letting their machines glide through the woods like electric-blue hawks.
Coming up behind the bikes, the Führer. Cruising along a Rockwellian country road in a black, late-model Mercedes sedan … a classic German automobile, the Engineer observed. A wealthy and powerful German’s pleasure car.
Stepping out of the automobile, the Führer was formally introduced to SS Captain Otto Kaltenmaus, supervisor of Auschwitz crematorium number 1, smuggled out of Germany in 1945 by HIAG, the organization of SS veterans set up by Martin Bormann.
Kaltenmaus had been living in Pennsylvania for almost thirty years now. He was known as Sven Hetling, a good neighbor, a very good citizen. Had anyone accused Mr. Hetling of the mass murder of innocent men, women, and children, his neighbors would have defended him staunchly.
When the Engineer had revealed to Hetling that he was once again needed by the Reich, however, Captain Otto Kaltenmaus had returned to his old form with the snap of a crisp salute. It almost seemed as if the slightly gawky-looking farmer missed the excitement of the old days.
Captain Kaltenmaus would do whatever was necessary to further the plan of Dachau Two and the Fourth Reich.
CHAPTER 30
Later that afternoon, the Führer and the Engineer sat on the warm hood of the shiny, hand-tooled Mercedes.
Four hundred yards down a rutted dirt turnoff, Otto Kaltenmaus’s ramshackle house seemed to be leaning up against a great old elm tree.
On the opposite side of the farmhouse stood the much more impressive living quarters of his prizewinning Wyandotte, Rock Island, and White Leghorn chickens.
A very necessary and potentially devastating experiment was in progress on the earnest-looking farm.
The Engineer was already well along in his final countdown. His work of the past two and a half years was on the line right now.
The Engineer’s voice was measured: a metronome, an emotionless sound that was frightening in itself.
“One hundred forty-six … one hundred forty-seven … one hundred forty-eight.”
“This little chicken house,” the Führer said. “It is something like the barracks that once stood at Auschwitz. Also, you know that Reichsführer Himmler owned a chicken farm?”
The gaunt, scholarly-looking Engineer nodded. His flat gray eyes never once left the chicken house.
“Look.” There was a slight octave change in the man’s voice. “Do you see it?”
Bright white sparks were jumping off the shack’s roof. There was evidence of extreme heat or electricity at work.
Inside the building, Sven Hetling’s chickens had begun to screech and buck. Their blood was boiling, the Engineer computed. Compounded microwaves were penetrating their bodies at an extraordinarily high rate.
Then came a low-register buzzing noise. As if a nearby high-tension tower had shorted out or fallen.
“One-eighty-nine.” The Engineer solemnly checked his five-minute stopwatch. “A little over three minutes. This is exceptionally good. It’s better than we should have hoped for.”
Eerie white sparks were sputtering over the chicken house like silver rain. The low sky was filled with black clouds, and it was the weirdest natural sight imaginable.
“Well, let’s go see,” the Engineer finally said, something like sadness coming into his voice.
The Führer and the Engineer began to walk in measured deliberate strides toward the glowing farm.
The weaving ruts were ankle deep from the tires of heavy delivery trucks. The crabgrass on the strip between the tracks had grown nearly a foot high, and it was full of rotting green apples.
The Engineer had to use a thick wet rag to open the steaming door of the blistered, peeling shack.
Terrible heat and a sharp, unpleasant odor escaped in a blast, as if from a furnace. Tiny
sparks were flying around the dark room like lightning bugs. Little droplets of silver rain seemed to cling to the rafters and overhead beams.
As they stepped farther into the smoking building, the Führer and the Engineer saw cage after mesh-wire cage filled with burned, nearly blackened, chickens.
In one corner lay the body of Captain Otto Kaltenmaus. The German man had burned to death as well. He was unrecognizable.
“The Captain served Dachau Two well.” The Führer quietly shook his head. “No need for unnecessary witnesses, I suppose. No need for an old man who might accidentally share a secret with one of his American friends or neighbors.”
On a closer look now, the upper layer of cages drew the Engineer’s attention.
Inside these cages, slightly gray hens and capons with deep, red-rimmed eyes were stumbling from wall to wall. The birds walked something like barroom drunks. As they touched the sides of their cages, the chickens sizzled and appeared to dance a bizarre step or two.
“This is not acceptable!” The Engineer spoke in a disturbed whisper. “Some of the birds are still alive!”
The Führer, meanwhile, had already turned away and was walking down the rutted dirt road. …
Not the least bit displeased with the work of his brilliant Engineer. Quite awestruck and shaken, in fact.
The ovens were ready.
CHAPTER 31
Las Flores, Brazil.
Heading for the beautiful island of Las Flores, 250 miles north of São Paulo, Brazil, were an expensive, blue-and-white Corniche sedan, a golden Cessna Skyhawk, and a sleek Chris-Craft Corinthian yacht.
From the dazzling white yacht, the unsettled Brazilian coast appeared to be lush, impossible jungle.
From the sun-splashed airplane, it was jungle, with a thin ribbon of virgin beach winding monotonously alongside the sea.
From the sports car, the crystal white sand, rather than the jungle, was the thing: the creamy beach itself was the only road to Las Flores and the exotic Hotel Mercedes Bleu.
By four that afternoon—teatime—the occupants of the sports car, the plane, and the yacht were seated on a palm-and-umbrella-shaded terrazzo at the spectacular resort hotel.
On the rattan table in front of them were spread several newspapers outlining the curious events of the past few days. The New York Times. The Washington Post. London’s Daily Mail and Times. Le Monde. Suddeutsche Zeitung, which came all the way from Munich. In the background, a big-band version of 1923’s “Yes, We Have No Bananas” played from stereo speakers hidden in the palm trees.
“Well, so what does anyone make of all this sudden madness?” asked Dr. Ludwig Hahn, former chief of the Warsaw Gestapo, now a retired banker in São Paulo. “Wealthy Jewish families terrorized in America. Adolf Hitler on American television.”
“I have no idea myself. Shall we contact any of the others?” The second speaker was Richard Glucks, former SS general of all German concentration camps, a respected financier in Rio since 1947.
“Perhaps a meeting of ‘the Spider’ is in order?”
“What about Martin Bormann? Back in America, I hear?” asked Hahn. “Or Mengele?”
“Bormann is sick. Bormann is going to die soon. Mengele is senile. He’s always been senile.”
“No. You’re wrong there. Mengele has made a career out of being a creative child; Mengele is no fool, though.”
Walter Rauff, number 2 man in the Fourth Reich’s Latin arm, La Arana, was speaking now. At Nuremberg, this same Rauff had been charged with the premeditated murder of 106,000 human beings.
“Bormann seems to get sick and die every three years or so.” Ludwig Hahn laughed into his glass of gin. “Every time Mossad or Michael Ben-Iban comes sniffing around.”
Gold teeth sparkled all around the table. Glasses of whiskey and Strega were tipped.
“Well, what do we think about this?” Rauff pointed at the pile of foreign newspapers. There were Storm Troop or neo-Nazi headlines on every one of them.
The number 1 man in La Arana, the yachtsman, calmly and thoughtfully answered the question posed by Walter Rauff.
“Personally, I propose that we drink a toast to them,” said Heinrich Muller, former chief of the Gestapo, the most wanted Nazi of all. “Whoever they are!”
CHAPTER 32
On her fourth afternoon at Cherrywoods, Alix Rothschild sat on a sun-drenched boulder half-submerged in softly rippling, silver-blue Lake Arrow.
She thought that the setting would be just right for a sappy Tricot perfume commercial. The lake was covered with stars and sun spirals. Her hair was gleaming.
Alix was thinking that her life had gotten much too confusing and out of control in the past several weeks. Out of control even beyond her nightmares.
For one thing, there were heavy, lingering thoughts about the terrible murders of Nick and Elena Strauss. Especially Elena, who had been a patient advisor to Alix since she’d been a little girl. Elena had understood the special problems of being a survivor better than anybody else.
For another thing, though—Alix had begun to fall in like with Dr. David Strauss. Very strong like, she had to admit to herself. More tenderness and concern than she had ever felt for David before.
And that wasn’t providential or even possible, she was thinking to herself.
She and David had made love one afternoon at the hotel. Then another afternoon and night. The lovemaking had been unexpected, an accident of time and place. All right, Alix thought to herself. Fine. Fantastic, to be honest. David had a very strong, healthy body. She was attracted to him in other ways as well. His mind was quick. He had a sense of humor. He was gentle, and that was rare.
But that wasn’t for right now. Not under all the circumstances twisting and turning around the two of them. Not when her mind was so perilously close to overloading.
Alix took her size 10s out of the rippling lake water. She shook them off, then tied on leather thongs from the Stitching Horse in Manhattan. Ninety-five-dollar thongs, Alix thought in passing.
Anyway. So what exactly was going on now? What was her heart’s point of view on this matter? Alix jumped ship to shore from her rock. She ducked down and disappeared into low-hanging pine and spruce branches.
She had come to Cherrywoods for three reasons: one, she had badly needed to get away—both from theater people and from herself; two, she’d been in California during Elena’s funeral and she wanted to pay her personal condolences to the family; and three, she’d simply wanted, needed, to be with David for a while during the Nazi terror—her old friend for more than thirty years, and a survivor now himself.
Instead of leaving Cherrywoods after a day or two, she’d stayed on with David, though. Unfortunate mistake number one. Just for a few more days, right? Just until they both could think straight? Until she could come to grips with the neo-Nazi trauma and danger.
She’d subjected herself to the Peeping Tom-ish media—who were choreographing the Fourth Reich story with a flair for melodrama not seen in America since the kidnapping of Charles Augustus Lindbergh, Jr., and who were already composing those wonderfully familiar tabloid headlines: DR. STRAUSS AND ALIX TOGETHER; ALIX A SURVIVOR; $$$[MS PAGE NO 188]$$$NAZIS IN STRAUSS AND ROTHSCHILD PAST.
Well, she didn’t see how she could stay on with David, Alix decided for the third or fourth time that afternoon.
It was too complicated, too messy, and emotionally loaded. It was difficult to see how it could possibly work out for the best. Maybe it’s because I’ve stopped working that I’ve become so vulnerable to my emotions. That must be it! An idle mind. …
On her way back from the lake, she did pick some Queen Anne’s lace for David. …
Damnit all! How could this be happening now? “Out of my way, little gray squirrel! Out of my way, tree branches. Ouch. Shee-oot.”
That afternoon Alix felt that things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. There were things she wanted to say to David, but she didn’t know if she knew how. She wasn’t
sure if she could ever tell David all of her secrets.
She purposely dropped the little bunch of Queen Anne’s lace at the edge of the woods.
A minute later she came back and snatched it up again.
Shee-oot.
CHAPTER 33
That evening, Alix and David had a light supper served on the porch of Alix’s suite.
After the meal they talked. They talked in a way that they hadn’t since they’d been back together again.
The two of them sat over the scant evidence of their dinner. Outside the screened porch, an orchestra of crickets and cicadas was tuning up. Inside Alix’s bedroom, the Eroica played softly on WQXR.
“When I was out on the lake this afternoon, I was thinking about everything that’s happened,” Alix said. “The very strange, very awful, last few months.”
“I went for a walk up in back with Callaghan.” David’s fingers were drumming the lip of his coffee cup as he spoke. “I was doing pretty much the same thing that you were. Reviewing everything. I’m not sure exactly what I figured out … But I like Harry Callaghan a lot. A nice, quiet gentleman.”
As they listened to the mountain noises and Beethoven, David and Alix held hands lightly and each waited for the other to speak.
Alix dropped her eyes. “I’ve been having … these awful dreams, David. … I mean, I’ve had them since I was a little girl. I see these very horrible scenes from the death camps. Very, very vivid scenes.”
Alix looked up to make sure David wanted to listen. She didn’t usually talk about her nightmares. People never seemed to understand, which Alix supposed was natural. How could anyone but a survivor comprehend a death-camp nightmare?
“When I used to ride the New York Central into the city, when we were kids, I always pretended that the train was going to Dachau. …” Alix stopped. She looked away from David. “I’m sorry, David. I don’t usually talk about it. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”