now, they were probably safe, but not for long. Incandescent with rage, Wiley would probably now be mobilising the CIA’s considerable forces: command and control centres in US embassies around the world; trained killers of questionable background fluent in German, accommodated in boarding houses and motel rooms and kept on the payroll for just this type of emergency; international intelligence agencies; as well as foreign police forces and security agencies.
O’Connor resolved to get off at Kassel-Wilhelmshohe and hire a car.
O’Connor scanned the surrounding fields with his binoculars. He had found a quiet farmstay on the outskirts of Bad Arolsen. There was only light traffic on Route 252, which connected Bad Arolsen with Mengeringhausen to the south, and the dirt tracks around the farm were deserted. The trip into town took them no more than ten minutes and O’Connor found a car park on the leafy Grand Avenue. The World War Two Waffen-SS barracks housing the twenty-six kilometres of Holocaust files had been renovated and a new headquarters constructed. The more friendly livery of the International Red Cross and the International Tracing Service fluttered in the garden outside the reception area.
‘Frau Weizman, welcome to Bad Arolsen. We’ve been expecting you. The documents you’ve requested have been extracted from the archives. If you will just sign the register and follow me please.’ The efficiency of the reception staff matched that with which the Nazis had recorded every detail of their savagery, although the purpose of the International Tracing Service could not have been more different.
Aleta’s face was almost as pale as the gloves that had been provided for them to handle the files containing the pink Gestapo arrest warrants, the records of incarceration, die Kontrolle Karten recording in obsessive detail everything down to the number and size of any head lice on the prisoners, and the sinister Totenbuchen – the Death Books.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this?’ O’Connor asked.
‘ I have to know what happened to them,’ Aleta said. She opened the first file and began the awful task of scanning the names. They worked side by side in silence for nearly an hour, until O’Connor suddenly paused.
‘There’s an arrest warrant here confirming your grandparents and your father and his sister were taken to Mauthausen. The date is April
1938.’
Aleta scanned the four warrants: Levi Ehud Weizman. Ramona Miriam Weizman. Ariel Levi Weizman. Rebekkah Miriam Weizman. The place of arrest was Judengasse, Vienna.
‘The commandant of Mauthausen was a young SS officer, Karl von Hei?en. One of Himmler’s favourites. Levi worked with him in Guatemala,’ Aleta said.
‘Your grandfather worked with the Nazis?’
‘He didn’t have a choice. It was before the war. Himmler was convinced the Aryan master race had established some of the great civilisations of the world, including the Maya, and my grandfather was one of the few people who had been to Tikal and worked on the Mayan hieroglyphics. Himmler ordered him to join a Nazi expedition to the jungle highlands as the consulting archaeologist, and von Hei?en was personally selected by Himmler to lead the expedition. My grandfather was very careful about committing anything to paper, though there are cryptic clues in the back of the notebook I showed you. But something happened between my grandfather and von Hei?en on that expedition, and I have a hunch von Hei?en had my grandfather marked out for special treatment when he arrived at Mauthausen.’
‘Being on the Nazi payroll didn’t count for much,’ O’Connor observed. ‘Von Hei?en would have been quite young to be a concentration camp commandant.’
‘Young, sadistic and brutal – just some of the qualities that no doubt impressed Himmler. I suspect Levi would have been less than cooperative on the expedition, and if he found anything of value, I think he would have made every effort to conceal it from the Nazis, as he did with the figurines. I know my grandfather tried to get the family out of Vienna when he returned from Guatemala, but by then it was too late.’
‘Did your father talk about it much?’ O’Connor asked gently, conscious of Aleta’s enormous loss, a loss that was compounded immeasurably by the murder of her father at the hands of the Guatemalan government and the CIA.
‘Only once. We were fishing on Lake Atitlan in the little native canoe we had. My father didn’t say too much. It’s hard to imagine what they went through… and even harder to work out why.’ Aleta shook her head and wiped away a tear. ‘It’s still one of the great unanswered questions, isn’t it? The Nazis finished up with enormous power, but how was it that so many ordinary Germans got into the sewers with them and behaved like animals? My father always suffered from terrible nightmares, but he was one of the few to escape from a concentration camp. He was one of those children saved by Archbishop Roncalli when he was papal nuncio in Istanbul.’
Aha, O’Connor thought. ‘Forged Catholic baptism certificates?’
Aleta nodded. ‘The Vatican has had its fair share of corrupt and power-hungry cardinals, but every so often they elect someone like Roncalli to the papacy.’
‘Pope John XXIII,’ O’Connor agreed. ‘One of the truly great Popes. Was that the reason your father converted to Catholicism?’
‘He never forgot Monsignor Roncalli’s kindness when he reached Istanbul, and it was his way of repaying him.’
They turned their attention back to the Death Books. The books had been prepared with one name to every line, the columns recording prisoner numbers, names, the precise time and date and place of the murders and the method of killing. Aleta opened a book that was inscribed meticulously in black copperplate Totenbuch – Mauthausen
1.1.37 – 31.12.38.
‘Bastards,’ Aleta swore, as half an hour later, she came across a long and significant list of names.
O’Connor came around to her side of the table. ‘Each of them murdered on the same day… but two minutes apart,’ he said, noticing the regularity of the executions.
‘There was a reason for that.’ Aleta struggled to control her bitterness. ‘It was Hitler’s birthday, and as a present to the Fuhrer, von Hei?en gave orders that for an hour and a half, a Jew would be shot every two minutes.’
The Nazis obviously didn’t believe in cakes, O’Connor thought darkly.
Aleta turned the page and gasped, her hand trembling over her mouth. O’Connor stood behind her. At the top of the page, were two names inscribed in copperplate:
20.4.38
1402hrs
Executed
21.4.38
