“So,” Keegan said, sitting across from him. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Are you sure you want to hear,
“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,
‘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,
“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.
