a pocket watch and put it on the desk, opened the folder and leafed through the contents, stopping occasionally to read something, nodding and murmuring approval to himself as he scanned the contents.
Finally he lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair. His flinty eyes fixed on Adler, who remained seated on the edge of his chair clutching the satchel.
“So ... may I call you Herman?’’ He said pleasantly.
“Oh, yes sir, please do.”
“You may call me Professor,” he said, looking back at the file.
“Thank you,
“You have been remarkably successful working in our Genealogy Program, Herman. I have been wanting to meet you personally but . . . these are busy times.”
“Of course,
Vierhaus had learned that the more one did, the more Hitler demanded. First it had been the intelligence unit, then the Black Lily and now this Genealogy Pro gran-1. He was determined to make the experiment work. While Himmler and Heydrich were busy with the major problem of dealing with the Jews, Vierhaus was quietly performing his own service with mixed- blood subjects, half, quarter, and one-eighth Jews. It was difficult to ferret them out. Adler had turned out to be an invaluable ally in this project.
“I see we share a mutual interest in opera,” he said without looking up. He was not in the slightest interested in Adler’s love of opera; he simply wanted the Jew to know that the SS knew everything about him.
“Yes, it is my first love. When my wife was alive we would take all our holidays in Italy. We went to La Scala every night.”
“How nice. Well, as I was saying, yours is a most impressive record.”
“Thank you,” Adler answered, his head bobbing nervously.
“What is it now, twelve, thirteen families?”
“Fifteen, sir,” Adler said modestly.
“Hmm. Are any of the Jews in your c’3mmunity aware that you are doing this work?”
“No, no, Professor,” Adler said with a look of alarm, “nobody would speak to me.”
“Of course.”
“That is why I come at night to make my reports.”
Vierhaus peered intently at Adler again. He was fifty-four years old, a short man, chunky although not fat, with dimpled hands and soft eyes. His graying black hair was receding and his face was lined and chalky. He was wearing a blue serge suit worn shiny at the elbows and his shirt collar was frayed. A thin line of sweat glistened on his upper lip. Neat but tawdry, thought Vierhaus. Grateful—no, indebted—for the smallest favors.
“I am curious about something, Herman. Does it bother you? Turning up other Jews this way?”
Adler did not have to think, he shook his head immediately.
“It’s the law,” he said. “I think I am lucky to have the opportunity.”
For an instant, Vierhaus’s eyes glittered and his eyebrows rose with surprise. “I must say, that is a most practical point of view,” he said slowly. He looked back at the papers. “You are a jeweler by trade, yes?”
“Yes. I had my own shop.”
“Was it nationalized?”
“Yes.”
“And your home?”
“Yes.”
“You live at 65 Konigsplatz now. Is that a flat?”
“Yes,
“No family, I see.”
“My son was killed on the Western Front in 1916. My wife died three years ago.”
“Yes, a heart attack, I see.”
“And you also have a heart problem?”
“Minor. I had a small attack a year or so ago. I have my pills just in case. I am quite fit.”
“Good. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You understand, Herman, there are people in the party who disagree with this department’s mixed-blood policy. They feel only full-blooded Jews should be involved in repatriation and emigration. Bureaucrats, mostly. They are slow to come around, bureaucrats thrive on the status quo. That will change with time, of course. In the meantime, the Fuhrer has given me the responsibility of starting this experiment. But you do understand the confidential nature of this work, don’t you, Adler? You don’t even discuss it with other SS personnel.”
“I understand,
“Personally I think four generations is far enough to go back. Eventually the numbers will be overwhelming. So, Adler, there will always be plenty of work for you.”
