The Hunt

“Perhaps you remember me?” he whispered from the shadows. “We met in Berlin.”

Keegan was astounded to see the young German. “My God, Gebhart, of course I remember you,” he said, motioning him into the open. “Come in, come in.”

Gebhart moved quickly. They shook hands as Keegan led him through the private entrance and down the hallway to his private elevator. Gebhart looked frightened, his eyes frantically checking the street as they entered the hallway.

“Is something wrong?” Keegan asked.

“Yes,” Gebhart answered. “I am an illegal.”

“Not here you’re not,” Keegan said with a reassuring smile.

“Mazel tov,” Gebhart said, and there was relief in his voice.

When the elevator doors closed, Gebhart relaxed. Keegan remembered him as being an innocent, slender man-boy, youthfully arrogant and suspicious. He had put on twenty hard pounds and his face was ridged by hard times. He had tortured eyes, half pleading, half angry, the kind that had seen too much suffering, had lost too many friends and had seen the kinds of things that rob the young of their innocence. His black beard was already streaked with gray. How old was he, Keegan wondered? Mid-twenties at best. Looking at the toll the Nazis and Black Lily had taken on Gebhart in four years, Keegan wondered what the years had done to Avrum Wolffson.

“Avrum?” Keegan asked.

“Alive.”

“And well?”

Gebhart nodded. “He has become too hard. It shows.”

“And what of your other friend . . . ?“

“Joachim Weber?” Gebhart answered. “Joachim was murdered by the Nazis.

Keegan’s shoulders sagged. My God, he thought, the madness never ends. “I’m sorry, Werner,” he said.

Gebhart simply nodded.

“When did you get here?” Keegan asked.

“About ten o’clock.”

“You’ve been waiting here for five hours?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been in the country?”

“Since ten o’clock. I came on a steamer from Portugal.”

“Good! You must stay here. It’s perfectly safe and all my people have closed lips.”

Gebhart held up his hand. “Please, ire, that part of it is taken care of. I have a place. Someone who has worked with us for years. On Fifth Avenue. I understand there is a park across the street.”

Keegan smiled. “Central Park. Pretty fancy digs up there, Werner.”

“So I have heard.”

“You haven’t been there yet?”

Gebhart shook his head. “I came here first. It was Avrum’s wish that I see you first.”

“God, it’s good to see you again,” Keegan said finally. “I haven’t heard from Avrum for all these years. I thought. . . hell, I thought everything.”

“It is dangerous even to send out letters. But I have a present from him. And a message for you. He said to tell you it is the one you owe him.”

Keegan laughed. “He has a helluva memory. The last thing I said to him, That’s one I owe you. It was a joke.”

“Avrum doesn’t joke.”

Keegan thought for a moment before he nodded. “I had forgotten.”

He was avoiding the big question, almost afraid to ask. The elevator reached the penthouse and he led Gebhart into the kitchen. “I have a cook,” he said, “but she won’t be here until seven. I’m sure we can scrounge up something. How about a steak and some eggs?”

“Such a lot of trouble.”

“Peel off the coat and grab a chair. It’s no trouble at all. I can scramble a mean egg and burn a steak.”

Keegan opened two bottles of German pilsner and put one in front of Gebhart. Gebhart reached into his duffel bag and took out a package. He laid it on the table and slid it in front of Keegan.

“From Avrum.”

Keegan picked it up. It was flat, about the thickness, size and shape of a sheet of typewriter paper and bound with twine. He held it in both hands for a moment as if it were emitting some kind of psychic energy.

“All right, how about Jenny?” Keegan finally asked as he reached into a drawer, took out a pair of scissors and cut the string.

“It’s ... probably . . . in the letter,” Gebhart answered haltingly.

Keegan stared at him but Gebhart averted his look, stared down at the beer bottle, took a long swig of beer.

“Werner?”

His visitor stared slowly back up into his eyes.

“Is she dead, Werner?”

The moment seemed to poise in the air before Gebhart finally said

“Yes”

and stared away again.

Keegan said nothing. In his heart, he had known she was gone. He felt no tears, no numbing pain of reality. He felt only outrage and the galvanic anger which had consumed him for almost five years. He looked down at the table, nodded very slowly. There was very little expression on his face. He remembered what Beerbohm had said once about getting even. But how? There was no way to really get even. Get even with whom? That was part of the frustration, there was no one to fight, no one to take on.

“I am sorry,” Gebhart whispered.

Keegan sat down and held the unopened package tightly between his two hands, then he put it back down on the table.

“Excuse me a minute,” he said in a voice that was just above a whisper. He walked over to the sink and, holding cupped hands under the tap, splashed his face with cold water. He sat back down at the table, his hands splayed out on either side of the package, staring at it.

“I’m sorry for you, too, Gebhart.”

“Why, Ire?”

“Because you were in love with her too. It was obvious—the way you talked about her, the way you looked when you spoke her name, your concern. Your obvious dislike of me. You did love her, didn’t you, Werner?”

The German did not answer for a full minute. The lines in his face seemed to grow harder. Then he shrugged and smiled for the first time.

“Ire, I fell in love with Jenny the first time I saw her,” Gebhart said softly. “I was fourteen and she was seventeen. Her family moved to the house next door. Avrum and I became best friends but she always loved me as sister to brother, so that is what she was, my good friend. My good, good friend. But I do understand how you must feel, Ire. To hope for so long

“I gave up hope a long time ago,” Keegan said. “But I kept hanging on to a fantasy.”

He went to the stove, cracked two eggs on the griddle and threw the steak on beside them. He put bread in the oven to make toast. When it was all ready, he put the food on a plate and set it in front of his visitor.

“Coffee? Milk? Anything else?”

“This is quite grand,” Gebhart said. “The food on the ship was . . less than desirable.”

“So,” Keegan said, sitting across from him. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Are you sure you want to hear, Ire?”

“Yes. I want to know everything you can tell me.”

Gebhart ate like a starved man, talking between mouthfuls in a monotone, bereft of emotion.

“There was an attempted escape from the camp. Half a dozen of the younger men attempted to breach the fences. They used steel rods they made in the foundry to short-circuit the electricity. Three of them actually got out. The others were shot down on the wires. But the cleared area between the fence and the trees was mined. One of them stepped on a mine and … and it. . . blew off his legs.”

Gebhart put down his fork and looked away, out through the living room toward the big window. Keegan could tell it was difficult for him to talk about the incident.

“The other two were knocked down by the explosion,” he went on. “The Germans machine-gunned those two and left the man with no legs in the field to bleed to death. They left all of them, the man with no legs, the two they machine-gunned, the three on the fence, left them there until . . until their bodies rotted. Then they lined up all the inmates. Eicke, the man in charge of the camp, walked down the rows with his swagger stick, tapping every third or fourth prisoner on the shoulder, and the guards dragged them from the line. There were fifty of them and they were forced to dig a long trench and fill it with lye. They threw what was left of the six who tried to escape in the pit. And then. . . then the bastards ordered the fifty hostages into the hole and. . . and. .

“And what, Werner?”

“And buried them alive with a bulldozer. Then they planted flowers over the entire field so we cannot find the mass grave:

Jenny. . . was one of them.”

They both sat in silence for a very long time. Keegan’s face hardly changed. Except for the muscles in his jaw which jerked in endless spasms, his face was a mask.

“I’m sorry,” Keegan said finally in a hoarse whisper. “I

“It is all right,” Gebhart said quickly. “There is nothing to say. How does one speak about the unspeakable? And to bring such horrible news on this night. I am truly sorry.”

“When did it happen?” Keegan asked.

“In September. We would have tried to tell you sooner but it was quite impossible to get a message out and your friend Rudman was not in Berlin.”

“Rudman was killed in Spain.”

“My God,” he said sadly. “When?”

“In June.”

“I am really sorry, Ire. To lose two people so close together. .

“Danke.”

‘We knew I was going to come to America so Avrum decided to wait until I got out to bring you the news.”

“Why are you here? Can I help you in some way?”

Gebhart shook his head.

“I think the package will explain many things. You should know that Avrum has changed a lot. It is like a demon has him by the arm. All he thinks about is killing.”

“He’s declared his own war, Werner.”

“I do not believe in this kind of vindictive violence, Ire. I am Hasidic. This eye for an eye is against my beliefs. Even when we threatened you that time, it was an effort to hold a gun—and it was unloaded! But Avrum has the fire of vengeance in him. Finally I told him I could not take part in it anymore. He was very understanding. He sent me here to raise money and arrange for our defectors to get into the States.”

“Which I tried and failed to do

“You didn’t know the right organizations,” Gebhart said. “And they didn’t trust you. I know the people to contact and how to achieve my mission. Avrum has something more important for you to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Open the package, please.”

Keegan tore off the wrapping. Inside was a primitive sketch of an old man in the humiliating striped uniform of Dachau prison, staring with burned-out eyes through the barbed wire. Keegan remembered that man. The vision of his hopelessness was burned into his memory forever.

“I remember this man,” he said.

“He is dead now. The painting was smuggled out. You will notice the signing.”

In the lower right hand corner was written: “Jennifer Gould, Dachau Prison, 1937.”

Keegan drew in a sharp breath. His hand trembled as he turned the painting over. There, on the back, was a letter.

My dearest Kee:

I hope this letter will eventually find its way to you. Just imagining that you might hold this slip of paper in your hand one day makes my heart sing.

How sad that we never said good-bye. How many times I have said it over and over to myself and hoped that perhaps my love for you would be strong enough to carry the message across the miles and through the air and into your heart.

I wish we had lived in a different time when there was love in the world instead of hate, when there was caring instead of cruelty. Such wishful thinking!

My days with you were the happiest time of my life. You shared the world with me and what a splendid world it was! In this misery, that memory makes me smile, makes my heart beat faster, brightens these awful hours.

And I think of Bert, too, and how serious he is and how hard he tries to tell the rest of the world what is really happening. Give him a kiss for me. But save the rest for your lips.

I love you, my darling. Please remember me as someone who gave her heart freely and gratefully and who was rewarded with joy and love and happiness.

My heart’s love, sweet Kee. Stay well.

Jenny

September 23, 1938

There was a note attached to the painting:

Keegan:

Werner has a story to tell you. When last we saw each other, you said “I owe you one.” Werner will tell you how you can pay it. I am sorry about Jenny. If her blood had been the same as mine, I could not have loved her more. Avrum.

There was one other item in the package. It was the list of the hostages murdered by Eicke. Jenny Gould was the first name on the list.

Keegan felt only cold wrath.

“You have a story to tell me,” he said.

Gebhart found it difficult to tell the story. Raised within the strict religious confines of the Hasidim, that most disciplined of Jewish sects, he so detested violence that to consciously relive the night he was about to describe was a painful experience. But he had promised Avrum he would take the message to Keegan and he was a man of his word.

“Before I start, I must tell you that I cannot see you again after tonight. I think you understand why. I must trust that you will not give up my identity.”

“I might be able to help you.”

Gebhart shook his head. “You will understand when I finish.”

Keegan nodded. “Whatever you wish. I’m just sorry we can’t be friends, but I agree.”

Gebhart took a swig of beer, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and then began:

“A Spion infiltrated our group in Berlin. He was friendly and very clever, very quick. A young man named Isaac Fish. He was planted by Vierhaus and he came to us very roundabout. Munich, Düsseldorf, Essen, finally Berlin. He worked his way slowly to get next to Avrum. His mission was to kill Avrum. Supposedly he had escaped from Dachau. They have begun now to tattoo numbers on the arms of the prisoners and this man had such a number.”

“Tattoo numbers on their arms?” Keegan said incredulously.

‘ja. It has become so bad now, everyone is paranoid. So Avrum decided to double-check Fish. We got the list of Dachau prisoners and sure enough, there was Isaac Fish and the correct number. The only thing wrong was that the real Isaac Fish was one of the hostages killed with Jenny.”

He pointed to the name on the list in Keegan’s hand.

“Avrum went crazy! I have never seen him like that before. He howled like an animal when he realized we were being betrayed. We took Fish to a farmhouse outside Berlin. It was supposed to be an important meeting of the Lily. Avrum had gone out beforehand and set up a torture cell in the smoke cellar.

“When Avrum accused Fish, the Spion went crazy. He pleaded for his life. Avrum laughed at him and the more Fish pleaded for his life, the harder Avrum laughed. Avrum . . attached electrodes from a twelve-volt battery to . . . to . . . his testicles. The screaming. . . it was the worst sound I ever heard in my life. We had a woman with us, one of our members, who is a trained secretary, and she took down every word Fish said. He identified three other agents. One of them in Zurich had set up the trap for our friend Joachim. They had ambushed him in the street and cut his throat. He lay there.. . he could not scream from the pain. He could not . . . cry . . . for help

He paused for a moment. His lips were trembling as he continued.

“Another one had infiltrated our group in Vienna. When it was obvious the man who called himself Fish had nothing else to tell us, Avrum shot him in the head. And then he swore to kill the other three. He killed the man in Zurich and the one in Vienna but the third one was out of his reach.

“After we interrogated Fish, Avrum told me to memorize all the shorthand notes so I could give the information to you. Only three people know about this, Ire. The woman who took the notes, Avrum and me. You will make four.”

“I’m listening.”

“Fish said that when he was in training in the Bavarian Alps there was another agent there. A very special man who was kept separate from the others and known only as Siebenundzwanzig..

“Twenty-seven?”

‘Ja. This agent was being trained for something very special, a mission in America.”

Keegan perked up. His eyes came to life.

“He’s here? In America?”

“Please, let me continue.”

“Sorry.”

“Fish did not know the nature of the mission—according to Fish only Hitler and Vierhaus know what he was being trained to do. But he said this assignment could neutralize America if England and France go to war against Germany.”

“Neutralize America?”

“It would force the United States to stay out of the war.”

“What could that possibly be?”

Gebhart shook his head. “I do not know. We speculated on it for months, imagining every possibility, but nothing made any sense.”

“One man is going to pull this off?”

Gebhart nodded. “According to Fish, he will have some help but basically it is to be a one-man job. The other members of Vierhaus’s group call him the Gespenstspion.”

“The ghost spy?”

‘ja. Siebenundzwanzig is a lone agent and his true identity is known only to Hitler and Vierhaus. We have no description and no name. Only that he is very, how do you say it, gefahrlich?”

“Dangerous?”

Gebhart nodded. “And he is an expert at Verkleidung.

“Disguise

Werner nodded vigorously. “Also an expert skier. He first came here in late summer of 1933. But the following spring something happened—he was caught up in some kind of FBI inquiry and he had to run.”

“But he’s here now? Has been for . . . Jesus, almost five years!”

“If the information is correct.”

“And this Twenty-seven, he got in trouble with the government here in 1934? You’re sure it was the FBI?”

‘Jo. But it was not exactly that way. It was more like . . . he was involved in something as a bystander, a “Witness?’’

‘Ja, a witness. But because the government police were also involved he could not risk an investigation.”

“What the hell Keegan stood up and started pacing the kitchen. His energy had suddenly skyrocketed. A superspy, here in America, to perform a job so insidious it could force America to remain neutral in the event of war with Germany? Well, he thought, whatever it is, his time is running out. Events in Europe were escalating. The whole continent could be at war before the next New Year. But what could it be? And how could he find this man? He had no description, no name other than Siebenundzwanzig, no location. And why did Avrum want Keegan to pursue him?

“Avrum wants me to try and catch this Twenty-seven?”

‘Ja’

“Why me?”

“So you get him first, before the police. So there is no chance he would be tried and perhaps sent to prison instead of · · of. .

“I’m not an investigator, Werner,” Keegan cut him off, ignoring for a moment Gebhart’s last remark. “I have no experience at such things.”

“He says you can do it because you are as tormented by what they did to Jenny as he is.”

“There are many, many others far more qualified to do this than me, Werner. The FBI for one. They are trained for this.”

“They do not have the obsession . .

“Avrum learned a lot about me in a few days.”

“Also they would probably not believe you. Also, Ire, you cannot tell them that I brought you the message or they will come after me.”

“Yeah, the FBI and I have hardly been bosom buddies anyway. Our problems go back aways.”

“When you were a gangster?” Gebhart asked innocently. Keegan laughed. “Yeah, Werner, when I was a gangster.”

Then he stopped. “Wait a minute, you said he doesn’t want him to be tried in a court?”

Gebhart shook his head.

“Then. . . ?“

Gebhart said one word under his breath, a whisper, barely breathed: “Töten

“He wants me to kill the spy?”

Gebhart looked down and nodded.

“Avrum reasons that the only chance Germany has is if America, England and France go to war with Hitler. If England and France declare war on Germany do you think America will follow?”

“I don’t know,” Keegan said. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Why? They are your allies.”

“I don’t know whether you can understand this, Werner, but I have a hard time getting emotional over the plight of one hundred thousand people. Or even fifty people, for that matter. It shocks me but it doesn’t touch me personally. But when it became one-to-one, when it was somebody I knew, somebody I loved, when it was Jenny, then finally I understood. I think most Americans are like that. Until it hits home, until people they know start dying, they will stay away from war.”

“Do you believe this story Fish told?” Gebhart asked.

“Do you?”

“I told you, Ire, I was there,” he said nodding. “And I will tell you, this man did not lie or make it up, I assure you of that. What he said he said out of pure terror and pain.”

“If you and Avrum are convinced, then I believe it.”

“And will you pursue him?”

“Yes,” Keegan said without hesitation. He stared at the German sitting across the table from him and saw great sadness in his young face.

“And kill him?” Gebhart asked.

It was not an easy question to answer. For all these years Keegan had been frustrated, filled with anger because he was powerless to help Jenny. He could do nothing. He owed one to Wolffson, now Wolffson had called in the marker and he could do something about that. The thought of it excited him. If the security of the country was at stake, that alone was reason to track down the agent known as 27. If he were doing it purely out of need for revenge that was all right, too. And if tracking this dangerous superspy gave his own existence a new purpose, all the better.

“Yes, if it’s possible I’ll kill him.”

“Vengeance is mine,” Gebhart replied. “The Lord said that.”

“You have to get even before you get well,” Keegan snapped back. “Ned Beerbohm said that.”

Gebhart looked confused by the remark.

“I cannot give up the things I have been taught. It even troubles me to give you a message which might cause violence.”

“Let me tell you something, Werner, I used to have this recurring dream. In the dream I would find Vierhaus tied up in different places here in New York. I would be carrying a cage full of hungry rats and I would spread cheese all over him and then I’d let the hungry rats loose on him and watch them literally gnaw him to death. I had that dream a lot for a while and whenever I had it, I’d wake up all sweaty and out of breath. Then as time went on, I had it less and less and finally it went away and I started dreaming about Jenny. Nice dreams at first but then they went sour, too. The Nazis had her and there was this great pane of glass between us and I couldn’t break that glass. And what they were doing to her was even worse than what I did to Vierhaus. Pretty soon I started having the rat dream again. It was like waves in the ocean. For five years it’s been either one or the other. When I start to get complacent, the rat dream comes back. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have mixed feelings about all this. I’ve never killed anyone, except in the war. I have no compulsion to kill anyone, not even this Siebenundzwanzig, so other factors enter into it. I respect your religious beliefs, Werner, but you have to respect the way I feel.”

Keegan stood up and motioned Gebhart to follow him.

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

He led Gebhart through the apartment and pulled open one of the French doors. They went out on the balcony. The cold air stirred them both. Keegan turned up the collar of his jacket. His steamy breath was whisked away by the wind. He felt a sudden rush of relief. Now finally, he was shed of the fear of not knowing. Now that part of it was over. But with the relief came a great burden of guilt and there was nothing he could do about that. He would have to learn to live with it.

He pointed to the street below.

“I grew up down there,” Keegan said with obvious pride. “That was my front yard, that street right below you. I went to what you call upper school, we call it high school, right up the street about four blocks. A very hard place, Werner. Down there, if some guy does something to you, you do back to him only twice as bad. The reason is simple: he won’t bother you anymore, he’ll go pick on somebody else. You might call that an eye for an eye or two eyes for an eye or whatever you want to call it, Werner. I call it survival. And if you want to survive down there, you learn three things real fast. You never squeal on a pal. You never go back on your word. And you always pay your markers—your debts. I suppose that’s the closest thing to a religion I’ve got. So I’ll tell you right now, I’m going to find this Twenty-seven. I don’t know how, I don’t even know where to begin, but I’ll find him and when I do. . . then I’ll decide.”

But in his heart, Keegan knew that if he found 27 he would most certainly kill him. Not because he was a threat to the U.S. or because he was a Nazi superspy. Keegan would kill him because he owed Avrum. And Jenny. And, in the end, because he owed it to himself.