The Hunt

“Thank you, sir.”

“Perhaps I might even have you elevated to Aryan status. It is done, you know, in cases of special merit. You cannot vote or marry an Aryan woman, but those are minor things. If your success keeps up we can make arrangements for you to move to something a little bigger, more comfortable, maybe get you another shop, eh, even throw a little party business your way?”

Adler closed his eyes. He had heard that the Germans sometimes destigmatized Jews but this was the first official confirmation that it was possible. My God, he thought, to have my own shop again, a decent house, to have the ‘J’ removed from my ID. To have a sense of freedom again. It was too much to hope for.

“That would be most generous, Herr Professor,” Adler said, his voice trembling. His heart began beating faster.

“I offer you another challenge, Herman,” Vierhaus said, standing and walking around the desk. “Herr Himmler would like to bring back some rather influential Jews who have. . . left Germany. These are people who, for many reasons, we would like to have back here. Traitors. Troublemakers in other countries. They are scattered everywhere.”

He waved his hand flamboyantly.’

“Italy, France, Egypt, Greece, America. Any leads you might get for us would be an even bigger feather in your cap. You would not only earn my gratitude, but Reichsfuhrer Himmler’s as well. I can provide you with a list of names. You keep your ears open, hmm?”

“I will get on it right away, Herr Professor.”

Vierhaus patted the Jew on the shoulder,

“Would you like a cigarette?” He took out the package and

shook a cigarette loose. “They are French. Gauloises.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” Adler said, taking it with a shaky hand. When it was lit, Adler opened the briefcase and took out a sheaf of documents.

“I have something here, I think you will be very excited by this.

He laid them very precisely on the desk in front of him. Almost as an afterthought, he then put the case on the floor beside the chair.

“These are family records,” Adler said. “Birth certificates, some interviews with family members, friends. This man Oskar Braun has a bank near Coburg. Very successful.” He shuffled through the papers and stopped at a chart. “I tracked back four generations, four, Herr Professor,” Adler said proudly, holding up four fingers. “His maternal grandfather was a Jew Joshua Feldstein. He was a cantor in the synagogue and he actually started the bank. I have a list of all the descendants, including nephews and cousins. Forty-six in all.”

“Yes, yes, that’s quite ingenious. The Schutzstaffel will take care of Herr Braun. But,” Vierhaus said, picking a note from the folder, “it says you have information for my ears alone. What is that about?”

“Yes, Herr Professor. It is regarding the memorandum you sent around about a month ago.”

“Adler, I write a dozen memoranda a day.”

“This one concerned the Black Lily.”

Vierhaus looked up sharply.

“You have information about the Black Lily?” he said, making no attempt to conceal his sudden interest.

Adler nodded.

“Well ...?“ Vierhaus wiggled his fingers toward Adler as if to coax the information out of him.

Adler shuffled through more papers. “Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Uh, you know about the connection with Reinhardt and..

“Yes, yes, we know all that,” Vierhaus said slowly, taking off his glasses and placing them on the desk. His eyes narrowed to luminous slits, but his voice never changed. If anything, it became more controlled. He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “We arrested Reinhardt, that is past history. I need names, jeweler, names!”

“I have names for you, sir,” Adler stammered fearfully. “And charts.”

He fumbled nervously through his papers and as he did, Vierhaus suddenly and radically changed his mood. This was what he called a “neutral interrogation.” Non-adversarial. But he used the same methods he would have used in less friendly encounters, employing subtle changes in temperament combined with equal doses of cruelty and generosity, designed to keep his prey off balance and intimidated. Methods he had learned from the master of the technique, Adolf Hitler. The difference was that Vierhaus, unlike his volatile and psychotic boss, was a study in serpentine control.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked abruptly, with a smile. “It is imported from South America, an excellent brew.”

“Oh, that would be very kind,” Adler said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face. He had been reduced to ersatz coffee months ago. He couldn’t specifically remember the last time he had a cup of real coffee.

Vierhaus got up and went to a corner of the room and turned on a floor lamp. A pot of coffee simmered on a hot plate.

“Cream?” he asked.

“Yes sir.” Cream. Real cream.