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surf.

Why hadn’t I thought of it before? During that era, Sanibel was an ideal location to drop an intelligence officer. Infiltrate the local social structure, find the sort of job that allowed him to eavesdrop on conversations. Rifle personal papers and appointment calendars while his powerful employers swam or fished. Perfect. A smart operative could blend in for years, generating a quality of intelligence worthy of a diamond pin. How the German military got the medal into the agent’s hand was problematic. But not impossible.

Chestra was silent for a moment, her expression troubled—her godmother’s lover was a Nazi?

“I’ve always thought it was extremely unlikely that Frederick worked for the Germans. Quite the opposite, in fact, from what Marlissa wrote about him. Which is why I never gave it serious consideration until…now. Until Tommy told me what you’d found. Medals and diamonds and coins, all from that time period. It’s too coincidental.”

I asked, “What did you read in your godmother’s diary that made you believe he wasn’t a Nazi sympathizer?”

Chestra gave me a sadder version of her I told you, it’s romantic look. “Because Marlissa was doing something else that wasn’t considered proper during the time. Particularly for a wealthy young woman of her class. Frederick Roth was a Jew. He didn’t advertise it—working for Henry Ford? But it’s there in her writings.”

20

Bern Heller sat in the marina’s business office, still queasy from being seasick, looking at a computer screen in the late-night quiet, his condition not improved by what he had just read:

At the request of Swiss authorities, Nazi Adolf Eichmann required that all Jewish passports must be stamped with a large red letter “J.” It was not only to restrict Jews from emigrating to Switzerland. The infamous red “J” was also a way of identifying Jews who wanted to leave Germany, so they could then be diverted to death camps…

Bern couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe. He read the same paragraph several times.

He’d brought a few items from the briefcase, including the old man’s earliest passport, the one with the swastika embossed on its green cover. He had Googled a few key words, then opened an Internet article that included a photo of a German passport that also had a swastika embossed on its cover.

The passport was identical to his grandfather’s: Nazi eagle, and the word REISPASS on the inside cover. Stamped on the word was an oversized J. J for Jew. The passport had been issued to a woman, but everything else was the same.

Bern opened his grandfather’s passport and checked again. There it was, a big red letter J on the page opposite the old man’s name and photograph. Frederick B. Roth, issued 1938, Berlin. Just like the passport on the computer screen. Hard to believe that the J didn’t stand for jerk, knowing his grandfather. But Bern couldn’t argue with history, which was right here staring him in the face.

A Jew? My grandfather was a Jew?

Bern thought: Perfect. I spend the day puking, wanting to die. Now this.

Shock and self-pity, his first reaction. A dizzy unreal feeling. Then he began to think about it.

His grandfather was a Jew? No way. There had to be another explanation.

The Internet article contained more photos—peasant faces with graveyard eyes; skeletons covered with skin. There was also an article. Bern reread portions of it now, hoping to find something that would hint at another explanation. Had to be one: Nobody hated Jews more than Grandpa Freddy.

…Hitler was determined to solve what he called the “Jewish problem” (Judenfrage), and put Eichmann in charge of Zionist Affairs. On August 17, 1938, legislation forced German Jews to adopt the middle name of either “Israel” or “Sarah” if the bearer did not already have a very distinct Jewish name—

Bern paused to look inside the passport again, seeing Frederick B. Roth written there, signature below. He didn’t know what the B stood for, but at least it wasn’t Israel. Was there a distinctive Jewish name that began with B?

Bern sat thinking about it. There could be hundreds of them, for all he knew. He’d never had reason to keep track.

He said it again, whispering: “The old man was a Jew.” Thinking: Finally, something that explains why he was such a world-class asshole.

He spun the passport onto the desk, as if the thing was poison, and stood. He ran a hand over his bald head, and looked out the office window toward the bay where, for no reason he could think of, someone had started the bulldozer. He could hear the irritating bleep-bleep-bleep the machine made in reverse. Probably that retard Moe out there doing extra work to make up for puking all over his boss who had every right to rip the Hoosier’s head off—and he would, when the time was right.

Not now, though. Bern was dealing with something a lot worse. He felt dazed. This was about the most shocking thing he’d ever experienced. It was right up there with the first time he went a little too far; felt a woman—a stranger—go limp in his arms, breathing stopped, heart silent…which he wasn’t going to think about…no, he wasn’t going to revisit that nightmare again. Not right now.

He shifted thoughts to a more pleasant shocker, the Packers sudden death win against Chicago, tied 6–6, at Lambeau Field, when the Bears blocked a field goal attempt. But their kicker, this little Polack rocket, recovered the ball and somehow managed to run twenty-five yards without tripping or stopping for a cigarette. Packers win one for Bart, 12–6.

No…this was far more serious and shocking because it meant that if his grandfather was Jewish, then…then his mother was Jewish, too, and …Wait a minute.

Damn.

How’d he missed that? Bern began with a B.

Was Bern a distinctive Jewish name? Or Bernard, which he was sometimes called. He’d never been told that it was Jewish, but think about it: Who in their right mind was going to walk up to a guy his size and say, “Hey, what’s the deal with the Hebe name?”

Evidence was stacking up.

Son of a bitch.

Some situations, profanity was appropriate, and this was one of them because there was no dodging the implications.

Bern spoke aloud again, not whispering: “Shit! This means I’m a Jew, too. A Jew?”

Talk about a brain zap. Meant that as a kid, that’s what he was, even though he didn’t know. Riding his bicycle, giving punks a pounding when he felt like it, working around the farm—pigs? Playing college ball, then two years in the pros, same thing. The whole time, he was a Jew but acted normal like anyone else because his grandfather had hidden it from them all these years.

Bern felt as unsteady as he had that morning banging out into the Gulf of Mexico, Sanibel Lighthouse off to the right, into waves as high and gray as March snowdrifts back in Wisconsin. Who would know about this stuff? A doctor? Maybe there was a test you could take to find out for sure…

On the computer, a timeline from that era was included. Bern took the time to read it, thinking he might be able to think better if he was calmer.

1938

April 26: Mandatory registration of property owned by Jews inside the Reich.

August 1: Adolf Eichmann establishes the Office of Jewish Emigration and increases forced emigration.

August 3: Italy enacts anti-Semitic laws.

August 8: Concentration camps open in Austria.

October 28: 17,000 Polish Jews expelled from Germany, 8,000 stranded.

November 9–10: Night of Broken Glass: Anti-Jewish demonstrations destroy 200 synagogues; 7,500 Jewish shops looted; 30,000 male Jews sent to concentration camps (Dachau, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen).

November 12: Jews forced to transfer retail businesses to Aryans.