“I’m telling the truth!” shouted Rosenberg. “He is Ivan the Terrible!”
C h a p t e r
6
Thirteen months later
Minneapolis
Molly Bond felt—well, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Cheap, but excited; full of fear, but full of hope.
She would turn twenty-six this summer, and was now well on her way to her Ph.D. in behavioral psychology. But tonight she wasn’t studying. Tonight, she sat in a bar a few blocks from the University of Minnesota campus, the smoky air stinging her eyes. She’d already had a Long Island iced tea, trying to build up her courage. She was wearing a tight-fitting red silk blouse, with no bra underneath. When she looked down at her chest, she could see the points made by her nipples pressing against the material. She’d already undone one button before entering, and now she reached down and undid a second one. She was also wearing a black leather skirt that went less than halfway down her thigh, dark stockings, and spike-heeled black shoes. Her blond hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, and she had on green eye shadow, and lipstick as bright red as the silk top.
Molly looked up and saw a man enter the bar: a not-bad-looking guy in his mid-twenties, with brown eyes and lots of dark hair. Italian, maybe. He was wearing a UM jacket, with “MED” on one sleeve. Perfect.
She saw him looking her over. Molly’s stomach was fluttering. She glanced at him, managed a small smile, then looked away.
It had been enough. The guy came over and took the barstool next to her, well within her zone.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
Molly nodded. “Long Island iced tea,” she said, indicating her empty glass. He motioned for the bartender.
His thoughts were pornographic. When he didn’t think she was looking, Molly could see him peering down her front. She crossed her legs on the stool, bouncing her breasts as she did so.
It wasn’t long before they were back at his place. Typical student apartment, not far from the campus: empty pizza boxes in the kitchen, textbooks spread out on the furniture. He apologized for the mess and started cleaning off the couch.
“No need for that,” said Molly. There were only two doorways off the living room, and both were open; she moved over to stand in the one that led to the bedroom.
He came over to her, his hands finding her breasts through the blouse, then under the blouse, then quickly helping her remove the blouse altogether. Molly undid his belt buckle, and they shed the rest of their clothes on the way to the bed, plenty of light still spilling in from the living room. He opened his night-table drawer, took out a three-pack of condoms, and looked at Molly. “I hate these things,” he said, testing the waters, hoping she’d agree. “Kills the sensation.”
Molly slid her palm across his hairy chest, down his muscular arm, and onto his hand, taking the condoms from him, and putting them back in the still-open drawer. “Then why bother?” she said, smiling up at him. She moved her hand to his penis and stroked it into full erection.
Five years later
Washington, D.C.
Avi Meyer sat in his apartment, mouth hanging open.
Demjanjuk had been found guilty, of course, and sentenced to death. The outcome had been obvious from the beginning of the trial. Still, there had to be an appeal: it was mandatory under Israeli law. Avi hadn’t been sent to Israel for the second trial; his bosses at the OSI were confident nothing would change. Surely all the claims filtering into the press were just clever ploys by Demjanjuk’s grandstanding attorneys. Surely the interview aired on CBS’s 60 Minutes with Maria Dudek, a skinny woman now in her seventies, with white hair beneath a kerchief, ragged clothing, and only a few teeth left, a woman who had been a prostitute in the 1940s in Wolga Okralnik near Treblinka, a woman who had had a regular john—a regular ivan—who operated the gas chambers there, a woman who had screamed in bought passion for him—surely this old woman was mistaken when she said her client’s name had not been Ivan Demjanjuk but rather Ivan Marchenko.
But no. Avi Meyer was watching all the OSI’s work unravel on CNN. The Israeli Supreme Court, under Chief Justice Meir Shamgar, had just overturned the conviction of John Demjanjuk.
Demjanjuk had now been held prisoner in Israel for five and a half years. His appeal had been delayed three years due to a heart attack suffered by Judge Zvi Tal. And during those three years, the Soviet Union had fallen and formerly secret files had been made public.
Just as Maria Dudek had said, the man who had operated the gas chamber at Treblinka had been Ivan Marchenko, a Ukrainian who did bear a resemblance to Demjanjuk. But the resemblance was only passing. Demjanjuk had been born April 3, 1920, while Marchenko had been born February 2, 1911. Demjanjuk had blue eyes while Marchenko’s were brown.
Marchenko had been married before the outbreak of World War II. Demjanjuk’s son-in-law, Ed Nishnic, had gone to Russia and tracked down Marchenko’s family in Seryovka, a village in the district of Dnepropetrovsk. The family had not seen Marchenko since he’d enlisted in the Red Army in July 1941. Marchenko’s abandoned wife had died only a month before Nishnic’s visit, and his daughter broke down and cried upon learning of the horrors her long-missing father had perpetrated at Treblinka. “It’s good,” she was reported to have said between sobs, “that mother died not knowing.”
When those words had been relayed to him, Avi’s heart had jumped. It was the same sentiment he’d felt upon learning that Ivan had forced his own father to rape a little girl.
The KGB files contained a sworn statement from Nikolai Shelaiev, the other gas-chamber operator at Treblinka, the one who had been, quite literally, the lesser of two evils. Shelaiev had been captured by the Soviets in 1950, and tried and executed as a war criminal in 1952. His deposition contained the last recorded sighting by anyone anywhere of Ivan Marchenko, coming out of a brothel in Fiume in March 1945. He had told Nikolai he had no intention of returning home to his family.
Even before Maria Dudek had spoken to Mike Wallace, even before Demjanjuk was stripped of his U.S. citizenship, Avi had known that the last name used by Ivan the Terrible while at Treblinka might indeed have been Marchenko. But that was of no significance, Avi had assured himself: the name Marchenko was intimately linked to Demjanjuk, anyway. In a form Demjanjuk had filled out in 1948 to claim refugee status, he had given it as his mother’s maiden name.
But before the first trial, the marriage license of Demjanjuk’s parents, dated 24 January 1910, had come to light. It proved his mother’s maiden name wasn’t Marchenko at all; rather, it was Tabachuk. When Avi had questioned Demjanjuk about why he’d put “Marchenko” on the form, Demjanjuk had claimed he’d forgotten his mother’s real maiden name and, considering the matter of no consequence, had simply inserted a common Ukrainian surname to complete the paperwork.
Right, Avi had thought. Sure.
But now it seemed it had been the truth. John Demjanjuk was not Ivan…
…and Avi Meyer and the rest of the OSI had come within inches of being responsible for the execution of an innocent man.
Avi needed to relax, to get his mind off all this.
He walked across his living room to the cabinet in which he kept his videotapes. Brighton Beach Memoirs always cheered him up, and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and…
Without thinking it through, he pulled out a two-tape set.
Judgment at Nuremberg.
Hardly lightweight but, at three hours, it would keep his mind occupied until it was time to go to bed.
Avi put the first tape in his VCR and, while the stirring overture played, popped some Orville Redenbacher’s in the microwave.
The movie played on. He drank three beers.
The tables had been turned at Nuremberg: Burt Lancaster played Ernst Janning, one of four German judges on trial. It seemed like a small, supporting role, until Janning took the stand in the movie’s final half hour…
The case against Janning hinged on the matter of Feldenstein, a Je
w he’d ordered executed on trumped-up indecency charges. Janning demanded the right to speak, over the objections of his own lawyer. When he took the stand, Avi felt his stomach knotting. Janning told of the lies Hitler had sold German society: “‘There are devils among us: Communists, liberals, Jews, Gypsies. Once these devils will be destroyed, your misery will be destroyed.’” Janning shook his head slightly. “It was the old, old story of the sacrificial lamb.”
Lancaster spoke forcefully, bringing every bit of his craft to the soliloquy. “It is not easy to tell the truth,” he said, “but if there is to be any salvation for Germany, we who know our guilt must admit it, whatever the pain and humiliation.” He paused. “I had reached my verdict on the Feldenstein case before I ever came into the courtroom. I would have found him guilty whatever the evidence. It was not a trial at all. It was a sacrificial ritual in which Feldenstein the Jew was the helpless victim.”
Avi stopped the tape, deciding not to watch the rest even though it was almost over. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth.
But he’d accidentally pushed pause instead of stop. After five minutes, the tape disengaged and the TV blared at him—more of CNN. He returned to the living room, fumbled for the remote—
—and decided to continue on to the end. Something in him needed to see the finale again.
After the trial, after Janning and the other three Nazi jurists were sentenced to life imprisonment, Spencer Tracy—playing the American judge, Judge Haywood—went at Janning’s request to visit Janning in jail. Janning had been writing up memoirs of the cases he was still proud of, the righteous ones, the ones he wanted to be remembered for. He gave the sheaf of papers to Haywood for safekeeping.
And then, his voice containing just the slightest note of pleading, Lancaster again in full control of his art, he said, “Judge Haywood—the reason I asked you to come. Those people, those millions of people…I never knew it would come to that. You must believe it. You must believe it.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Spencer Tracy said, sadly, softly, “Herr Janning, it came to that the first time you sentenced a man to death you knew to be innocent.”
Avi Meyer turned off the TV and sat in the darkness, slumped on the couch.
“Devils among us.” Hitler’s phrase, according to Janning. Back in his wooden storage cabinet, next to the blank spot for Judgment at Nuremberg was Murderers among Us: The Simon Wiesenthal Story.
Echoes, there. Uncomfortable ones, but echoes still.
Once these devils will be destroyed, your misery will be destroyed.
Avi had wanted to believe that. Destroy the misery, let the ghosts rest.
And Demjanjuk—Demjanjuk—
It was the old, old story of the sacrificial lamb.
No. No, it had been a righteous case, a just case, a—
I had reached my verdict before I ever came into the courtroom. I would have found him guilty whatever the evidence. It was not a trial at all. It was a sacrificial ritual.
Yes, down deep, Avi Meyer had known. Doubtless the Israeli judges—Dov Levin, Zvi Tal, and Dalia Dorner—had known, too.
Herr Fanning, it came to that the first time you sentenced a man to death you knew to be innocent.
Mar Levin, it came to that the first time you sentenced a man to death you knew to be innocent.
Mar Tal, it came to that…
Giveret Dorner, it came to that…
Avi felt his intestines shifting.
Agent Meyer, it came to that the first time you sentenced a man to death you knew to be innocent.
Avi got up and stared out his window, looking out on D Street. His vision was blurry. We’d wanted justice. We’d wanted someone to pay. He placed his hand against the cold glass. What had he done? What had he done?
Now the Israeli prosecutors were saying, well, if Demjanjuk wasn’t Ivan the Terrible, maybe he’d been a guard at Sobibor or some other Nazi facility.
Avi thought of Tom Robinson, with his crippled black hand. Shiftless nigger—if he wasn’t guilty of raping Mayella Ewell, well, he was probably guilty of something else.
CNN had shown the theater that had been turned into a courthouse, the same theater Avi had sat in five years previously, watching the case unfold. Demjanjuk, even now not freed, was taken away to the jail cell where he’d spent the last two thousand nights.
Avi walked out of his living room, into the darkness.
Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin’.
But not even the ghosts stood to mark Avi Meyer’s exit.
C h a p t e r
7
Pierre Tardivel became a driven man, committed to his studies. He decided to specialize in genetics—the field that, after all, had turned his life upside down. He distinguished himself at once, and began a brilliant research career in Canada.
In March 1993, he read about the breakthrough: the gene for Huntington’s disease had been discovered, making possible a simple, inexpensive DNA test to determine if one had the gene, and therefore would eventually get the disease. Still, Pierre didn’t take the test. He was almost afraid to now. If he didn’t have the disease, would he slack off? Begin wasting his life again? Coast out the decades?
At the age of thirty-two, Pierre was appointed a distinguished postdoctoral fellow at the Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory, situated on a hilltop above the University of California, Berkeley. He was assigned to the Human Genome Project, the international attempt to map and sequence all the DNA that makes up a human being.
The Berkeley campus was exactly what a university campus should be: sunny and green and full of open spaces, precisely the kind of place one could imagine the free-love movement having been born at.
What was less wonderful was Pierre’s new boss, crusty Burian Klimus, who had won a Nobel Prize for his breakthrough in DNA sequencing—the so-called Klimus Technique, now widely used in labs around the world.
If Professor Kingsfield from The Paper Chase had been a wrestler, he’d have looked like Klimus, a thickset, completely bald man of eighty-one, with a neck half a meter in circumference. His eyes were brown, and his face, though wrinkled, showed only the wrinkles that went with a contracting body; there were no laugh lines—indeed, Pierre saw no signs that Klimus ever laughed.
“Don’t worry about Dr. Klimus,” Joan Dawson, the Human Genome Center’s general secretary, had said on Pierre’s first day at his new job. Although Klimus’s full title was William M. Stanley Professor of Biochemistry—about a quarter of LBL’s eleven hundred scientists and engineers had teaching duties at either the Berkeley or San Francisco campuses of UC—Pierre had been told up front that the old man preferred to be called “Doctor,” not “Professor.” He was a thinker, not a mere teacher.
Pierre had immediately taken a liking to Joan—although it felt strange to be calling a woman twice his own age by her first name. She was kind and gentle and sweet: the gray-haired and bespectacled den mother to all the absentminded professors as well as the UCB students who did scutwork on the Human Genome Project. Joan often brought in homemade cookies or brownies and left them for everyone to enjoy by the ever-present pot of Peet’s coffee.
Indeed, shortly after he’d begun, Pierre found himself seated opposite Joan’s desk, munching on a giant butter cookie with M&M’s baked into it, while he waited for an appointment with Dr. Klimus. Joan was squinting at a sheet of paper. “This is delicious,” Pierre said. He gestured at the plate, which still had five big cookies on it. “I don’t know how you can resist them. It must be quite a temptation to keep eating them.”
Joan looked up and smiled. “Oh, I don’t eat any myself. I’m a diabetic, you see. Have been for about twenty years. But I love to bake, and people seem to like the goodies I bring in so much. It gives me a lot of pleasure seeing people enjoy them.”
Pierre nodded, impressed by the self-sacrifice. He had seen earlier that Joan wore a Medic Alert bracelet; now he understood why. Joan went back to squinting at the page on her de
sk, but then sighed and proffered it to Pierre. “Would you be a dear, and read that bottom line for me? I can’t make it out.”
Pierre took the sheet. “It says, ‘All Q-four staffing reports are due in the director’s office no later than fifteen Sep.’”
“Thank you.” She sighed. “I’m starting to get cataracts, I’m afraid. I guess I’ll have to have surgery at some point.” Pierre nodded sympathetically—cataracts were common among elderly diabetics.
He looked at his watch; his appointment was supposed to have begun four minutes ago. Damn, but he hated wasting time.
Although Molly had toyed with trying to get a job at Duke University, which was famous for its research into putative psychic phenomena, she instead accepted an associate professorship at the University of California, Berkeley. She’d chosen UCB because it was far enough away from her mother and Paul (who was hanging in, much to Molly’s surprise) and her sister Jessica (who had now been through a brief marriage and divorce) that they were unlikely to ever visit.
A new life, a new town—but still, damn it all, she kept making the same stupid mistakes, kept thinking that, somehow, this time things would be different, that she could take spending an evening sitting across from a guy thinking piggish thoughts about her.
Rudy hadn’t been any worse than her previous sporadic dates, until he’d gotten a couple of drinks into him—and then his surface thoughts devolved into nothing more than a constant stream of pornography. Boy, I’d like to fuck her. Eat her pussy. Split ’em wide, baby, split ’em wide…
She’d tried changing the topic of conversation, but no matter what they were talking about, the thoughts on the surface of Rudy’s mind were like washroom-stall graffiti. Molly observed that the Oakland A’s were doing well this season. Fucking want to hit a home run with you, babe. She asked Rudy about his work. Work on this, babe! Suck it down all the way…She mentioned that it looked like rain. Gonna shower you, babe, shower you with come…