“I hope those sons of bitches, rot in hell for bringing that shit to America.”
“Nationally, the Center for Disease Control says we are talking 26,000 additional deaths this flu season. And that’s with 21 of them caught or killed before they could infect anyone.” Bill had just read that report a few minutes earlier.
“Even so, I’d say we dodged a bullet.”
Both men uncharacteristically sat in silence, each dwelling on what could have been.
“Well, I better be getting back to my office.” Ray got up and looked at the game ball behind Bill’s desk and noticed what was written on it in white paint. “Stanford 27, Penn State 3? Bill, I watched you on three consecutive New Year’s Days win all kinds of bowls. What was so special about this mid-season snorer?”
“That was the best game of my life, Ray.”
The quizzical look on Ray’s face begged for more clarity.
“That was the first game that Janice came to. I got in trouble talking to her on the sidelines during the game, but I didn’t care. Right in the middle of the third quarter, I knew she was the one, and that I loved her.”
“So that solves a mystery that’s bugged me for a while.”
“What’s that?”
“How, with all the awards trophies and souvenirs you’ve collected in your football career, the only trace in this office that you even threw a pass was this one game ball. I though scientists were supposed to be cold and unsentimental.”
“Only the ones who never meet Janice, Ray.”
“Touche, my friend.” And with that he was off.
Bill picked up the phone. He scribbled something on a pad as he dialed home. “Janice, let’s stay in tonight. I don’t know. Just hang a little… maybe get to bed early. Yes and get to sleep late… you got it!”
Bill smiled to himself as he hung up the phone. He checked his calendar and called out to the outer office. “Cheryl, can I have the summary for my eleven o’clock?”
Cheryl came in with the summary and said, “I have a Mr. Remo on the phone?”
“Remo? From where?”
“He says he’s an old friend.”
Bill’s mind whirled. “Peter Remo? Yeah, I’d say so. Okay, put him through.”
Cheryl went outside and a few seconds later Bill picked up. “Peter, how the hell are you, man?”
“Hey, Bill; thanks for taking my call.”
“Don’t be silly. How ya been, buddy?”
“I’ve been okay, but something’s come up and I need to sit down with you.”
“This doesn’t sound too good.”
“I wish it were good, but Bill, I’m scared, and I need help.”
“You got it. Where and when?”
“Not in your office. Can you meet me in twenty minutes, at the Lincoln Memorial?”
“Little dramatic, Pete, ain’t it?”
“Bill, please.”
“Okay, twenty minutes.”
Bill hung up the phone and called to Cheryl. She wasn’t fond of the “scream intercom,” and her expression showed it.
“Cancel the rest of my morning and my two o’clock.”
“Huh?”
“There’s nothing cabinet level and you can cover the eleven and two o’clock for me if you want.”
“Oh, okay. Where will you be?”
“On my cell.”
“No, where? The Secret Service is going to want to know.”
“The Lincoln Memorial.”
“Why?”
“Dramatic interlude.”
Cheryl shrugged. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
— BOOK II -
CHAPTER ONE
It was the best knockwurst in the neighborhood. In fact, his little stand was a six-sided, umbrella faceted jewel in the gastronomic crown of Hungary. Claude’s traditional preparation in his humble kitchen in Kivorst held the secret. He stewed the meat in three kinds of sauerkraut from earlier the previous afternoon. Each of the krauts brought out the individual flavor of the beef, pork, and veal that was knockwurst. He also added a dash of molasses, apple vinegar, and wine to the pot to compliment each. As was happening more and more, a businessman from the area was proudly buying lunch for a visiting client. He was spouting praise for Claude claiming, as many others had, that the knockwurst was just like his mother’s. The anticipation on the faces of those who knew what awaited them, with many actually rubbing their hands together like children expecting a treat, made Claude proud. And he had little to be proud of since the war.
There was a time when he owned one of the best restaurants in Budapest. It involved thirty-three years of toiling everyday, getting up before the chickens, and going to sleep after the cows, but he loved it. Those were truly the good old days. His whole family worked in the restaurant, which kept them close and caring for each other. It provided a good life for all, obviously there was always enough to eat, and his sister, Mary, even met a doctor. It wasn’t too bad a life.
Then the Nazis came, the dream ended, the nightmare began. Now, he was the only one left. His wife, mother, father, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, all shipped off to the camps, never to be seen or heard from again. He had a different fate because of his cooking skills. The Germans found Claude, emaciated and near death, when hunger forced him to leave his hiding spot in the root cellar of the restaurant. The Nazis had taken over the place to be an officer’s mess. He didn’t get as far as the front door when they caught him. A sniveling coward of a Nazi captain, left behind to secure the phone system of Budapest, ordered him carried off to the street to be shot. However, when the captain overheard Claude protesting that this was his restaurant, he ordered his men to halt.
“Can you cook?” the captain asked.
“Yes… I was… the… chef,” Claude said, coughing.
The Nazi turned his head as he ordered, “Take him to my house, clean him up, and see if he can boil water.”
Claude became the captain’s personal cook. It was barely survival, but again where there was food there was life. Claude stayed alive by feeding the fat Nazi officer like he was the Archduke. While the Hungarian people starved under Nazi occupation, “the Pig” always had fine butchered meats and fresh vegetables for Claude to prepare every day. Many times Claude thought of adding a dash of lye to the soup or iodine to the sauce, but that would only kill Hans, the lowly private who served as the pig’s credenza, tasting everything before the swine ate.
During one of the final days of the war, when the battles outside the city were looming closer and closer, Claude and all the servants and workers who had evaded death by becoming slaves to these “Aryan Supermen”
