The Hunt

Jenny left the hotel before eight A.M. and took three different taxis on the way to her destination. It was a trick she learned from Avrum, paying ahead of time, jumping out suddenly, dodging through buildings, taking another taxi, then repeating the same procedure again. She did not check to see if someone was following her; she just assumed someone was, just as she had when she was passing out leaflets and circulating The Berlin Conscience. Finally she took the Boulevard Ney south around the perimeter of the city, past the Arc de Triomphe to Montparnasse and walked two blocks to a small café on Rue Long- champs. She bought the morning paper and took a table in the back, from which she could watch the door. She ordered coffee.

She was shocked when she opened the paper. The story was bannered on the front page.

HUNDREDS DIE IN NAZI MASSACRE

What surprised her even more than the lead story was a guest column on the front page by Bert Rudman. Why didn’t he call them with this news? she wondered. Then she smiled ruefully to herself, remembering that she and Kee had made love until early morning and that he had left word at the desk to hold all calls.

Bert Rudman’s commentary on Operation Kolibri was on the front page just under the main story, bordered in black and labeled Commentaire.

BERLIN, GERMANY,JULY 1.

Last night, in this land of Brahms and Beethoven, of Viennese waltzes and Dresden china, the word fratricide was redefined in a bloodbath the scope of which has not been seen in modern times.

In 1920, then university student Rudolf Hess, now Hitler’s second in command, wrote in an essay:

“Great questions of the day will always be settled by blood and iron. Hitler does not shrink from bloodshed. To reach his goal, he is prepared to demolish even his closest friends.”

How prophetic.

In one ghastly night of homicide, Adolf Hitler turned the dagger of deceit on his friend, Ernst Röhm, and the brownshirt legions that helped propel him to power. Germany’s leader ordered his personal guards, the SS, to execute hundreds of brownshirt leaders, one of whom was Röhm, the pedophile warrior he once called friend and comrade.

It has been reported that Röhm’s last words were:

“Sieg heil! (Hail victory.) Heil Hitler.”

It is hard to spare sympathy for Röhm or his decimated legions. These storm troopers were the bullies who smashed shops, beat up and murdered innocent people and became the billboard for Hitler’s anti- Semitism, one of the tenets of the Nazi party and Hitler’s Third Reich.

But the cowardly manner in which it was done during a night and day in which friend murdered friend and brother turned on brother chills the blood.

Like rainwater after a storm, blood collected in deep pools in the courtyard of Stadelheim Prison and the SS barracks as the execution of innocent SA military cadets from the training school continued throughout the day. There are reports that many members of the SS firing squads who executed hundreds of cadets became physically ill from the terrifying spectacle and had to be replaced.

Nor was the butchery confined merely to Röhm and his henchmen. Dozens of Hitler’s political opponents were murdered, some as they slept. The SS was given carte blanche in its murderous forays. Mistakes were made during this Night of the Long Knives. Several people were killed because of mistaken identity.

We have managed to compile only a partial list of those murdered during the night of terror. Estimates range from two hundred or three hundred to as many as three thousand. The actual number of people murdered in Germany in the last twenty-four hours may never be known.

One thing is obvious. With the destruction of the Sturmabteilung, the brown-shirted storm troopers who helped elevate him to dictator, Hitler’s power is unchallenged. His personal elite guards, the Schutzstaffel, known as the SS, which number fifty thousand to sixty thousand, are now the undisputed rulers of the streets. The Gestapo, the secret police, his replaced the civilian police.

In Man Kampf Hitler wrote: “Racism gives the Germans blood and soul. It identifies the enemy and gives the People a sense of self-identity and self-confidence.” Racism has now become the law in Germany.

But this was different. This was not Nazi against Jew, this was German against German, soldier against soldier, comrades killing comrades. This was power through mass murder. This was an outrageous violation of contemporary morality.

Those of us who have watched the frightening malignancy of Nazism grow within this nation recognize this purge as the prelude to the nightmare. Germany has bowed to the law of terror and Hitler has once again proven himself the master of treachery.

She folded the paper and stuffed it in her bag. As always, she was proud of Bert for being so outspoken. But she was also humiliated by the horrible news—another humiliation she as a German had to endure. The leader of their country had sanctioned mass murder, like some psychotic despot from medieval times.

She hurried to the corner and turned into Rue Fresnel, a short, bright street lined with gay shops. A flower stand dominated the center of the block. She went to the stand and looked over the freshly watered bundles of flowers, glistening in the morning sunlight.

“M’amselle?” the stand keeper said pleasantly.

“I am looking for something special,” she said in French.

“Perhaps I can help.”

“I am looking for a black lily,” she said.

His expression changed only slightly, a shift in the eyes, a tightening of the jaw.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Try deux cent cinq.”

‘Merci.”

He tipped his hat and turned to another customer. She went on down the street, checking the numbers; 205 was near the middle of the block. It was a tiny tailor and cleaning shop, cramped and hot and smelling of steam and cleaning fluid. It was empty except for a young man in his shirtsleeves pressing pants on a steam machine. He smiled as she entered.

“Picking up or leaving off?” he asked pleasantly.

“I came to see Uncle,” she said quietly.

“Uncle?”

He was tall and slender with long, shaggy hair and soft brown eyes. He looked out the window, quickly perused the street.

“Uncle Eli,” she said. “I brought a flower for him, a rare flower.”

His smile grew more cautious.

“Oh? An orchid perhaps?”

“A lily.”

“Lilies are not so rare.”

“The black lily is.”

He nodded, still staring intently at her.

“So it is. And who should I say is calling?”

“Jenny Gould. I am Avrum’s sister.”

His eyes brightened.

“Ah, yes,” he said warmly. “This way.”

He led her past the steam machine into a back room. They edged their way through racks of fresh-smelling clothes to a stairway at the back of the shop.

“My name is Jules Loehman,” he said, leading her up a narrow staircase to the second floor. “Uncle Eli is my father.”

“Thank you for helping me, Jules.”

“A pleasure and an honor. I met Avrum a few months ago when he was here. A very courageous fellow.”

“He would be pleased to hear you say that.”

“Good. Then tell him I said so.”

They reached a small hallway at the top of the stairs and Jules knocked softly on a door and then opened it and ushered her into a small, incredibly cluttered sitting room. An elderly man was seated at a roll top desk, writing in a ledger book. Every cubbyhole in the desk was jammed with papers and envelopes. A small dining room table was also stacked with books, papers, file folders. There were even files stacked on the chesterfield and easy chair that occupied one side of the room. In sharp contrast to the litter, the room itself was a bright and cheerful space, lit from above by a large skylight.

The old man was thin to the point of being frail, his white hair wisping from under a black yarmulke. His skin had the soft, almost translucent look that comes with old age and he had a shawl thrown over his shoulders even though the room was quite warm. He looked up as they entered, squinting over his half-glasses.

“Uncle, you have a guest. This is Jenny Gould. She is Avrum Wolffson’s sister.”

“Half-sister,” she said.

He stood with some effort and took her hand.

“Well, well,” he said with a wan smile. “What a pleasant way to start the day.” He kissed her hand then waved at the sofa. “Jules, make a space, please.”

He led her to the sofa as Jules stacked several piles of litter on the floor.

“I had to leave Germany rather abruptly,” Old Eli said, gesturing around the room. “This is the sum total of my possessions. I have been going over these things for almost a year and I am still on the first pile.”

“I must get back to the shop,” Jules said, excusing himself.

“You are German then?” Jenny asked.

‘Ja,” old Eli said sadly. “I taught t the university with Reinhardt and Sternfeld. I got out.” He stopped for a moment and then added: “Unfortunately they were not so lucky.”

“Yes, I know. I am so sorry.”

He studied her through gentle eyes, wise with age and faded with time.

“You have this look of. . . surprise,” Old Eli said.

She laughed. “I am sorry. For some reason I expected you to be younger.”

“Oh? Subterfuge is a young person’s game, is that it?”

“I suppose that’s exactly what I was thinking. A ridiculous prejudice.”

“Most prejudice is ridiculous,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, my dear, it takes an old head to keep young hands steady. Besides, who would have thought that at the age of seventy- nine I would become the traffic director for a subversive organization. I find it all quite invigorating. So, what can we do for you?”

“I must talk to Avrum.”

His face clouded up. He made a pyramid of his fingers and stared across the tip at her. “Very difficult, my dear. In fact, quite impossible at this moment. Have you heard what’s happening? Things are insane in Berlin right now. They are saying as many as three thousand of the Sturmabteilung and many. others may have been killed since two nights ago.”

“I just read the paper. My God, what is happening?”

“On a very basic level, it means that Hitler’s power now is absolute.”

“How can we keep putting up with this? How can the people put up with it?”

“The people?” Old Eli said with great sadness. “Why they ignore it, my dear. They look the other way. Their attitude is simple: they cannot do anything about it so they make believe it is not happening. That is why Avrum’s work is so important. He has literally become the voice of Germany’s conscience. He keeps reminding them that what is happening is morally repugnant. Not just legally wrong, morally wrong.”

He leaned back and stared up through the sunlight at the bright summer morning.

“He was one of my students, you know,” Old Eli said rather wistfully. “I’m quite proud of that. To have been a mentor to a voice of dissent, what a sweet accomplishment.”

“It doesn’t seem possible that the chancellor of our country has resorted to cold-blooded murder,” she said.

“Oh, he did that long before last night,” the old man said.

“And now we hear the Black Lily is number one on his list. That is why it is impossible to call Avrum just now. He is on the move. But I am sure he will be calling me in the next day or so. Can I give him a message?”

She shook her head and then explained why she had to go to Berlin.

“Before I left he told me I should always check with you before coming back. He said you would know if there was any danger.”

“You have to do this? Go to Berlin right now?”

She nodded. “I must tell him about my decision. He knows about Francis but he has never met him. Also I have to close up my apartment, see some family. I am leaving for America in a few days. I must say my goodbyes.”

“That can all be done for you.”

“No, I cannot leave without explaining it to Avrum.”

“So? Write him a letter.”

“Do you think I am on the fugitive list? Is that why you are so concerned about my going back?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I think we would know about it if you were on the list. But, because of your relationship, it may be a dangerous thing to do right now.”

“I know you are thinking that if I am caught they will get information out of me,” Jenny said. “Believe me, that is not possible, Uncle. Avrum told me nothing. All I did was help distribute folders and newspapers.”

“A beheading offense, did you know- that? They take news vendors of The Berlin Conscience to the basement of Stadelheim prison and behead them. Behead them! Can you believe such barbarism? It hurts my heart to see this happening.”

“Will you help me go home?” she asked, pressing the question.

He seemed to be delaying a decision.

“You must admit, it is a bit peculiar, helping someone get back into Germany,” he said, almost as if bemused by the idea.

“Uncle - . .

Old Eli shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I think we Jews put too much on family.”

“I’m not Jewish, Uncle. Avrum is my half-brother. But we were brought up as brother and sister. I admire what he is doing.

It scares me to death, but I admire him for it. The least I can do is explain why I am going away.”

He wagged his hand as a sign of submission and nodded.

“Excuse me a minute,” he said. He hefted himself from his chair and left the room. She sat quietly, listening to his muffled voice in another room. Fear started gnawing at her insides, a small thing to start with but a spark that could grow into an inferno. She tried to suppress it, but her mouth started to get dry and she could feel perspiration breaking out on the back of her neck. It was not herself she feared for, it was Avrum.

Old Eli came back in the room carrying a slip of paper.

“You will fly into Leipzig,” he said, reading from his notes. “Then you will be taken into Berlin by motorcar. It is only a two-hour drive, one hundred kilometers or so. You have a place to stay?”

“I moved into a new apartment before I left. The phone is not in my name. I think it will be safe there.”

Old Eli pulled a chair over in front of her and sat down. He leaned forward as he spoke.

“But not for long,” he warned. “If they learn you are in Berlin and they are indeed looking for you, then you must get out as fast as possible. When you are ready to leave you will come back the same way. Remember, from now on trust no one.”

“Not even Avrum?”

“Of course Avrum. But avoid anybody not involved directly with the Lily. And do not look for Avrum, he will find you.”

“I understand.”

“There is only one flight a day from here to Leipzig. It leaves in two hours. You must use your real name because of the passport. We do not have time to get you a counterfeit. Anyway, they will only be checking the Berlin flights for fugitives.”

“I don’t think they would connect Avrum and me—different last names .

“Dear Jenny, if they learn his identity, they will know you are his half-sister very soon after.”

“Hopefully they do not know who he is. He has evaded them for almost a year.”

“Good luck does not last forever,” Old Eli said.

She smiled and patted his knee. “Do not be so pessimistic,” she said.

“Ha! We Jews are all pessimists, my dear,” he said with a smile. “It is part of the diet. To be anything less would not be kosher.”

A persistent ringing at the door of his suite awoke Keegan. Half asleep, he instinctively reached over to touch Jenny but she was not there. As he reached for his robe he noticed the time: 9:45 A.M. He jumped up. They were going to miss the plane.

“Jen?” he called out.

Then he saw the note propped up on the dresser. He snatched it up and read it as he walked through the living room to the door of the suite.

Darling Kee,

You were sleeping like a child and I hate good-byes. Am taking a taxi to the airport. I will call you tonight.

Five days, my darling, and then we will be together always.

I love you in my heart.

Thank you for changing my life.

Jenny

He opened the door and Bert Rudman, as usual, burst into the room without being invited. He was waving the morning paper over his head and babbling. Keegan had never seen him quite as agitated.

“Where have you been? Why was the phone turned off? I’ve been trying to call you all night!” Rudman jabbered, running all the sentences together.

Keegan stared at him sleepily, then looked back at the note.

“Where’s Jenny?” Rudman asked, looking around the suite.

“She left already,” Keegan said, handing the slip of paper to the journalist.

“Left? For where?” Rudman asked as he read the note.

“Back to Berlin.”

“And you let her go?!”

“Let her go? I don’t own her. Besides, I’m picking her up Thursday and then we’re off for London. What’s the big deal?”

“You don’t know what’s going on?”

“Where?”

“In Germany! Where do you think, on Mars? Goddamn, Kee, the Nazis have gone berserk!”

He handed Keegan a copy of the morning edition of the Paris Gazette, reprinted from his Times story.

“Christ!” Keegan said when he’d finished reading Rudman’s story. He looked up at his friend and his eyes revealed admiration. Admiration mixed with fear.

“I’m going back to Berlin on the afternoon plane for a follow-up.”

“You’re going to Berlin after writing this? They’ll kill you, you silly bastard.”

“I keep telling you . .

“I know, I know, they won’t mess with the American press. Let me tell you something, if they’ll knock off three thousand people in one night, your press pass ain’t gonna mean bopkes. You’re worried about Jenny and you’re probably number one on their hit parade.”

“That’s very flattering.”

“No, what it is is very true. Look, Dick Daring, I don’t like funerals, okay? Particularly when my best friend is the guest of honor.”

“I can take care of me. But you’ve got to get Jenny the hell out of there.”

Room service arrived. Keegan signed the check and doctored his coffee. Rudman sat down heavily on the sofa, took a long pull at his drink and sighed.

“You taking the four o’clock plane?” Keegan asked.

“Yeah, four-ten.”

Keegan sipped his coffee thoughtfully. A sudden jolt of fear stabbed his chest. Was she really in danger? he wondered. She wasn‘t political. But the whole country seemed to be going crazy. Maybe Bert was right. Maybe he better get Jenny out of there. Abruptly he snatched up the phone.

“I’ll try to locate my plane,” he said to Rudman. “We can fly over together.”

A few minutes before noon the phone rang.

“Francis?” the familiar voice said. “It is Conrad.”

“Conrad! Are you here in Paris?”

“No, I am in Berlin.”

“Is it crazy over there?”

“Only if you read the papers. Francis, I am calling you because Jennifer is in serious jeopardy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have heard through sources that the Gestapo plans to arrest her if she returns to Berlin.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I can’t tell you but believe me, it is most reliable. I am taking a great risk to even call you but I feel I contributed a little to your romance. You must be very careful.”

“But why Jenny? She isn’t.

He stopped, remembering her explicit instructions. Don‘t give my address or phone number to anyone. And she had moved just before coming to Paris. Maybe she was mixed up in something.

“She’s over there now, Conrad,” Keegan said and checked the time. “She should be arriving home about now.”

“Where does she live? I’ll warn her.”

Could he tell Conrad? He had taken a great risk just calling Keegan. Certainly he was safe. And yet she had said not to give the information to anyone.

“It’s all right, Conrad, I’ll call her. I’m sure she can find sanctuary somewhere until I can get over there and bring her out.”

“Please, forget I made this call, understand?”

“What call? Listen, Conrad, thanks. I owe you a big one.”

“You owe me nothing. It’s the least I can do.”

In Berlin, Conrad Weil cradled his phone and dropped heavily into a chair. His tall, elegant body seemed to collapse, like a punctured balloon. Across the room from him, Vierhaus sat with his chin resting on the handle of his cane. He smiled.

“There, see how easy that was, Conrad?” said Vierhaus.

“What did you do? Nothing. Warned a friend. Did him a favor. And because of that generous gesture, the Führer will permit your club to continue performing its . . . degenerate show every night—without harassment.”

In the years to come, Keegan would sometimes reflect on the little things that alter our lives forever. Snap decisions. Hasty moves. Something as simple as a phone call. On this day, Keegan immediately flashed the operator and gave her Jenny’s Berlin number. It rang a dozen times while Keegan silently urged her to pick up. But there was no answer.

The fear began to mount.

Perhaps he should call Conrad back and ask his help, he thought as he hung up. He looked at his watch again. In two hours the plane would be there. By four o’clock he would be at her door. By five they could be on the way back to Paris. He would wait.

In the switchboard office, the operator who had placed the call for Keegan took off her headset. She handed the phone number to the tall businessman with the German accent.

Von Meister smiled his thanks and handed her two hundred-franc notes. Two hundred francs. Less than fifty dollars. Even in Paris life was cheap.