

### The Tool Kit

John W. Regan

Copyright © 2004 John W. Regan

All rights reserved.

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Contents

1. Zürich, 1972

2. "My Appearance..."

3. "My Mother..."

4. "I Did My..."

5. "The Next Morning..."

6. "I Didn't See..."

7. Dublin, 1917

8. Mountjoy, 1917

9. Mountjoy, 1918-1920

10. Dublin/New York, 1920-1929

11. Dublin, 1930s

12. Bremen, 1936-1939

13. Bremen, 1939

14. Neuengamme, 1939

15. Sachsenhausen, 1939-1942

16. Sachsenhausen, Part II

17. Monowitz, 1942-1944

18. Auschwitz, 1944-1945

19. Auschwitz, Part II

20. Auschwitz, Part III

21. Auschwitz, Part IV

22. Auschwitz, Part V

23. Polish Countryside, 1945

24. Red Army, 1945

25. Berlin, 1945

26. Berlin, Part II

27. Berlin, Part III

28. Bremen, 1945

29. "Fuck This..."

30. "My Head Kept..."

31. "It's Good To Meet..."

32. "It's A Long..."

33. Giessen

34. Bonn

35. Frankfurt

36. "We Spent The Night..."

37. "Foley!"

38. Zürich

39. "We Said Goodbye..."

40. "It Was After..."

41. "I Didn't Recognize..."

42. "Wait Here..."

43. "The Cab Deposited..."

44. "From Our Vantage..."

45. "Herbert Double-Parked..."

46. "Moving Slower Than..."

47. "Leavitt Didn't..."

48. "Herbert Acquired..."

49. "When We Walked..."

50. "At 8:15..."

# 1.

### Zürich, 1972

The men in the black Cadillac are watching me.

The men in the gray Mercedes are watching them.

I'm watching the clock...

And my time is running out.

I've 'til seven to get the goods or I'll wind up in a baker's industrial oven. A dramatic supposition?

Naw, man.

Naw...and...um...

...I mean, I can't help but think: _Oh, the irony._

And then I think: _What a bunch of crap._

But I'm gonna keep cool, kay?

Yup, I'm gonna...

...all casual like...

...take a seat on this bench in Paradeplatz.

And crinkle my brow.

And drop the folded map beside me.

And stare at squirrels.

And yawn.

And stretch arms.

And side-eye my cheap Yazole...

...one minute has passed...

...and then fold arms.

Um-hmm.

Cross legs...

Watch squirrels...

...whilst I'm watched by men in the Cadillac...

...who are watched by-

Ahem.

So...

So...about those squirrels, friend.

Herr Goebbel called Zürich: _The City of Frogs._

Or...or is it... _The Ditch of Frogs_?

Strange...

I have yet to see a frog.

Granted, I've spent less than twenty-four hours in the Big Z...

But I've seen everything else here including the...eh...the aftermath of running a hand through a giant dough mixer. I'll spare the details for later...if there is a later. And if there's not a later, I hope my executioner skips the blender.

Oh, by the way, Paradeplatz's a boulder's throw from Bahnhofstrasse and Bahnhofstrasse is (according to my pal Herr Goebbel), _the richest street in the world_. He's not pulling my leg. A stroll along Bahnhofstrasse yields gaudy opulence: Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Bulgari, Prada, Ferragamo, side by side, an alluring garden party.

_Moi?_ I don't care about fashion and jewelry. Nope. My noodle's conjuring charming downtown Clontarf: abandoned buildings, a barbershop, the VFW and Ma Pete's Cafe. I spent my youth despising the simplicity of Clontarf; I could never understand why the oul fella _wanted_ to spend his life lolling in rustic western Minnesota. People waste time in Clontarf. They laze on porches with a lemonade and admire sunsets; they yap about the weather; men spit snuff, women bake pies and life meanders until you die.

Well, I've seen the light.

I saw the light when the Hamilton Beach sent Herr Fine's fingers flying across the room _._

So help me, I'll never say another bad thing about Clontarf. If I get out of Europe, Clontarf will be the first place I go. Matter of fact, I won't ever leave...

In the meantime:

I open the street map and smooth it across my lap.

Be your standard issue treasure map, minus the important _"x"_.

Instead, I stare at red circles...

Dozens of 'em...

Scattered across Zurich.

Those circles represent _protentional_ honeypots.

But if Herr Leavitt doesn't shit me _the_ honeypot...

Cue my Irish pal Ray O'Neill with the helpful reminder: _If it were up ta me, I'd own yer arse and tax the shite out yer future earnings. But Herbert and his mates don't work on credit. Ya know what I mean?_

"Man, what a bunch of crap," I answer in a whisper.

And it is crap.

I shouldn't be here but (with apologizes to the oul fella) here I _be._ Why? The collective archetype, moola...

Bad luck.

According to my uncle, the Foleys are an unfortunate bunch. _'It's in the blood,'_ Tom once confided before rattling the names of long-lost relatives and their wretched demises. Suicide, illness, alcoholism, a war casualty...you get the picture.

I'm another hapless link in the Foley chain.

But the, _'it's in the blood'_ , explanation doesn't hold water when you rub elbows with terrorists and do business with Nazis.

Naw, that ain't just _bad luck_.

That's the ole reaping and sowing maxim, you dig? And my oul fella reaped and sowed. Of course, I didn't know jack squat until Da's past slapped me senseless.

Mmm, the contented man he presented: throwing wrenches, doting on Ma, working crosswords, fussing with his roses...

_Blah, blah, blah_.

Da's secrets...he saved those gems for a special occasion. _The_ special occasion. The dirt nap occasion. After years of suffering, Da escaped this world for good...

...which meant John Foley's legacy of debt, misguided honor, and bad luck has been bequeathed to _moi._

I could've...I _should've_ ...tossed the old man's junk aside and went on my merry way. Yet, the life he endured, his plea to "right my wrongs", the last few years of his existence -time I spent avoiding him and the wild mood swings- devoured my good sense. Look where guilt got me. I'm following the old man's footsteps like a good soldier. Like he wanted. Reaping and sowing my own garden.

Right...and while it is a bunch of crap, I have a chance to square the ledger, snap the Foley bad luck, and come out of this miserable situation a few dollars richer than I began. This slog oughta be worth something. Yep, I got me a new maxim, or perhaps it's an old one...whatever...the long and short:

Money beats soul.

Money always beats-

A block east, the big clock on Fraumünster lets loose two throbbing _bongs_. The bell works like an alarm, snapping me from my trance.

Two o'clock.

Twenty minutes have passed.

Somehow, I've taken Da's single-minded pursuit and twisted it into mundane philosophical contemplation. If nothing else, I can spout gibberish as my hands are pulverized by whirling metal beaters.

So...a contrived peek at my watch, a dramatic shake of my head ( _where oh where could Herr Fine be?_ ), another glance at the Cadillac...

I work the map into a neat rectangle. Not quite perfect, but close enough...these things never fold all nice and neat after they've been opened. As I tuck the last flap and smooth the crease, I think of the tattoo -tangible proof of Da's account- and sigh. And it's not one of those, _I'm so sentimental I can't do anything but coo,_ sighs. Nada. The opposite.

_Pfft_ ...whatever.

I've done enough monologuing.

Besides, the cars are idling.

The goons are watching.

It's time to git the gittings, kay?

Mmm...I take a lungful.

Stand...

Collect the map...

And then get moving.

I amble north on Bahnhofstrasse, towards the world headquarters of Credit Suisse.

The Cadillac nuzzles its snotbox into traffic...

Red Rover, Red Rover...

The Mercedes follows the Cadillac...

Send the IRA...

I exhale while signaling the cab...

And the PLO on over...

# 2.

"My Appearance..."

My appearance in Zürich is a convoluted tale, but nothing compared to the saga my father suffered. Until his manuscript said otherwise, I assumed Da was a poor refugee from the old country. At face value, the story he curried had a few kernels of truth mixed in. It also contained a healthy dose of Irish bullshit. Da claimed he fled Ireland out of desperation and _chose_ to spend the better part of his life rotting in isolated Clontarf, Minnesota. _Why_ would be the question, and I wondered _why_ for most of my short life. What the oul fella didn't share, the answer to _why_ : the notion he was being hunted.

Da was six-two, soft spoken, and had curly auburn hair and brown eyes. His left forearm was decorated with a jagged, rectangular scar made ugly by the wrinkling of his skin as it seasoned with age. He ambled with a pronounced limp caused, he said, by a football injury suffered as a lad. Da didn't smoke, drink and seldom raised his voice...at least, not 'til the end of his life. Them "golden years" weren't so golden unless you count the britches he soaked in urine. Here's an actual factual: when somebody gets smacked by a wicked case of the Alzheimer's, dementia instigates a shitload of lunacy.

Until those awful years, Da appeared an exception to the rule, his deportment contradictory of the typical Irish temperament. Clontarf is an Irish settlement in an oasis of Scandinavians and it stuck out like a sore thumb. My spiel about the lemonades, sunset gazing and pie making is true, but the citizens also carried on as if they were in the old country with customary small-town dramas enhanced by booze and the Church. You know, _stupid shit_ : who missed Mass; who drank too much at Ma Pete's; who didn't vote for JFK.

Libya Hill shit.

_Stupid shit_ ...

Meanwhile, six miles south as the crow goes, the Swedes and Norwegians in Benson damn near walked on water (still do, I imagine, though I haven't visited Benson in almost thirty years). Those Bensonites did _a lot_ of smiling, ate lutefisk, paid homage to the Vikings (and not the football team to the east) with Yule Goats, and celebrated Saint Lucia. Don't get me wrong, this is boring shit too, but the Bensonites were pleasant and their rituals cool (Okay, I'll admit there's nothing cool about lutefisk. It tastes like crap, smells terrible and is soaked in lye. But those cheerful Scandinavians shove it down their grinning holes without complaint...which goes to show how goddamn happy they are). The Irish got chastised at Holy Saint Anthony and then ate a shitload of potatoes and boiled cabbage all grouchy-like until the liquor transformed grouchiness into slurry lamentations.

Anyhow, Da didn't care what happened in Clontarf. Nothing aroused his attention. He appeared bemused by the latest gossip and whistled or hummed while Ma harassed with earth-shattering news. Then he'd admonish the oul dear for her "bucket mouth" as he worked the crossword.

After what he'd seen and done, how could the price of potatoes or the amount a man drank the night before stir his interest? He no longer cared, and it wasn't just the trifling goings-on in Clontarf. Da's apathy encompassed _everything_. As a younger man, he spent his passion on life, death, good and evil. He made too many withdrawals from his psyche account.

John Foley was bankrupt.

He was 50 years old when I was born, 72 when he died. I know he cared for me, but never as a father. Da was more a distant relative you'd see over the holidays, minus ninety-nine percent of the good cheer. We didn't do anything together: no playing catch on a summer's day, no hunting or fishing trips, no father/son conversations about life, the universe, _Strike It Rich,_ whatever.

Okay...maybe I'm not being fair to the oul fella; there were instances when he engaged me in the real world. These encounters were fleeting but, in retrospect, provided a peek into his soul.

When I was in third grade, I came home from school bawling. Jimmy O'Connor, a no-good fifth grader half-a-foot taller than moi, took my lunch pail and pitched it into Lake Clontarf.

As usual, my father lolled on the porch and worked on his puzzle. This is where I'd find him every afternoon when I returned from school. Despite my tears, Da stayed true to form: he didn't raise his peepers from the paper while offering a curt, "Afternoon, lad."

To _really_ get his attention, I cried harder as I scaled the steps. My sniveling worked, though it took him a minute to address me...a minute I spent mustering more tears as I stood in front of him, stared at the funnies (turned upside down), and tried not to digest the hijinks of Winnie Winkle. At last, Da peered over the top of his precious crossword and regarded me like an oddity.

"What's wrong?" he asked with zero compassion.

I was more than happy to describe the episode, embellishing the bully O'Connor into something akin to Frankenstein, thinking Da could solve my problem.

For the briefest moment, I saw a hint of red in his cheeks; I recoiled when he slapped the newspaper on the arm of the chair. Quick like, he regained composure and picked up the puzzle. Then he reproached with a quiet, "Never let a lad push you around, Johnny. Both of you will get used to it."

"What am I supposed to do?" I cried. "Jimmy's bigger than me!"

"You'll figure it out sooner or later, but sooner be the best," he remarked. Then Da began whistling "Nancy Whiskey" as I trudged into the house.

_Some help,_ I thought.

But I figured it out: A few days later, Jimmy found me on the way to the bus stop and started in again. This time, I snatched his lunchbox and tossed it into the same lake. He came after me with tears on his face. Though I received a beating, I took pleasure making the thug cry. And you know what? The asskicking wasn't so bad. Yea, Jimmy got the better of me, but I learned a bloody nose hurt less than Da's shame or my humiliation.

When I came home, Da noticed the scrapes on my face and asked, "Everything be back to boutonnieres between you and your mate?" I wanted to tell him of the battle I had fought, and won, with myself. Before I could, he ruffled my hair and returned to the paper.

Short peeks into his soul...the extent of our relationship...but I wanted to learn more. Before he arrived in Clontarf in 1946, Da's life was almost a total mystery. I tried getting him to open up about his past...and I'd always receive the same generic response. He'd say life in Ireland was difficult before relating a bland account of immigrating to the U.S. in the 1930s and living in New York City with a man I would come to know as Uncle Tom. He may've been Da's cousin, but the similarities ended there; they were opposites in every aspect. Engaging and boisterous, Tom looked and sounded the part of a fancypants businessman from The Big Apple: nice cars, slick clothes, expensive hats and alluring stories of life in The City. Compared to the rubes in Clontarf, I considered Tom the most sophisticated fellow I'd ever meet.

I learned Tom came to the States in 1915. With a flair for the dramatic, Tom boasted he pursued the American Dream, wrestled it to the ground, and kicked the stuffing out of it. He first worked for others - _dead end jobs,_ he called them- until saving enough money to invest in the stock market. In the '20s, when things were good, Tom made a nice pot, started his own business and married an Irish girl. Wise investments made him rich in the '30s when others were jumping from Manhattan high-rises. After the war, Tom convinced Da to leave the bedraggled island and work with him in the textile trade.

Or so the story went.

I gathered Da didn't like the hustle and bustle of New York City. After a year of toiling with Tom, he left the East Coast and never looked back. Somehow, he stumbled upon this bucolic town in the Midwest. Da claimed he was used to the slow, lazy pace of the "old country" and found Clontarf more to his liking. I lamented the monotony but he'd chuckle and then articulate, 'Tranquility be underrated and quiet a blessing.'

More surprising than Da putting down stakes in Clontarf, the cosmopolitan Tom retired there in 1963 and built a modest house next to ours. He and his wife Ella had no children...unless you count my father. But if helping with chores or putting Da to bed bothered Tom, he never mentioned it.

By '63, Da's eccentric behavior evolved into more than an inconvenience. Every day brought another surprise. Imagine an endless foray for lost items, erratic mood swings, absurd indictments (he used to accuse me of being a Nazi, for instance), and ten-minute car rides lasting two hours with all the wrong turns. He'd leave for the garage in the morning and never make it to work. Our family was on a first name basis with the Sheriff of Swift County. A couple times a month, Slim O'Toole or one of his annoyed deputies delivered Dad to our house. 'We found him wandering the village,' the lawman would say as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Da, buckled into the front seat of the cop car, looked nonplussed. Soon, my father didn't have gainful employment and babysitting him evolved into a permanent activity. My mother, a teacher at the senior high school in Benson, struggled to take care of him. Without Tom, I don't know what we would've done. He supported our family with money and a steady presence.

One humid summer evening when I was 16, I arrived home from my job and found Tom on our porch. He had a beer wedged in his left claw; in his right, a black pork pie hat he used to fan his face. I groaned when I saw my uncle. Tom's presence meant Da had done something beyond the typical foolishness.

I dropped my bike on the lawn and then took a seat on the porch steps. Behind me, Tom supped. We sat in silence, swatted mosquitoes, and watched thunderheads blossom with carbuncles. The setting sun brushed pink across the plump, rumbling clouds. Jagged lightning zapped barren grassland. A beautiful sight...yet my stomach knotted. Kids my age worried about acne, the opposite sex, sports and music. They didn't stress because their father was losing his mind.

At last, I twisted my head and asked, "Did Slim drag him home?"

"No, I did," Tom answered in a weary voice. "He wandered into my place and wanted to know who I am and why I'm here. Took me, Ella and your mother a couple hours to calm him down. He tossed the good china, made a mess of the dining room and...well, needless to say, it's been a long afternoon."

"Where is he?"

"Sawing logs. Your mom convinced him to take a couple sleeping pills."

"It's never gonna end," I said, more to myself than Tom. "He needs to be in a hospital or something."

"I suppose," mumbled Tom.

"God damn it," I groused. "You _suppose_? This is only gonna get worse!"

"Don't curse," Tom scolded, before taking a swig.

I don't know if his apparent indifference got my goat, but I presented Tom with a menacing stare and snarled, "You're worried about me swearing? Da's turning into a vegetable and you're worried about...jeez..." I snorted and shook my head.

"Johnny...I...yeah..." my uncle hawed, looking over my shoulder with squinty eyes. "I...maybe...I'm...I've seen this before...so...um...jaded isn't the right word but I...I guess it is."

"You've seen _what_ before?"

After a long pause, Tom said: "Uh...you're old enough to hear this, so I'll let it rip. It's in our blood, Johnny. The Foleys...you know....we have one of those hereditary peculiarities doctors talk about. Your grandfather in the old country had seven brothers and three sisters. All the men died before they reached fifty-five. Compared to them, your father and I are dinosaurs."

In my teenage mind, fifty-five years old sounded ancient. Today, I shudder at the thought.

Tom droned in a solemn vein: "My Uncle John, your grandfather, got stomach cancer. My father died of what ails your Da. Uncle Michael killed himself jumping off a bridge. Uncle Paul...he fell from the roof of his house and broke his neck. God knows what he was doing. And then there's William and Sean...my poor brothers. They didn't reach forty. William...he died in The Great War. Sean...oh, the alcohol did him in. Your father had three brothers and they all died young. One drowned, one was committed to a sanitorium and the other...he disappeared off the face of the Earth. Found out later Peter came to the States and died of pneumonia. Come to think of it, your oul fella had a couple younger siblings...um...God forgive me, I can't remember their names. Influenza did them in when they were little ones. And your Grandmother Anne? Consumption. Consumption at age...hmm...I don't remember. I want to say forty. By then, I had enough. I immigrated to The City. There's a reason Ella and I didn't have children. The thought of it...look, I've seen enough calamity to last a lifetime."

I didn't know what to say because I never heard anything from my father about the Foley lineage. Based on Tom's portrayal I could understand why. They sounded like a cursed lot.

"It's a shame, your father reduced to this," Tom said. "He used to be quite the hellraiser back in the day."

"My father?" I asked in disbelief. "Are you kidding?"

Tom set his beer on the wooden arm of the chair, closed his eyes, and then said, "He used to be known as The Knucklebomber. Oh yes. He had a wicked left hook. You didn't want to brawl with John Foley. No, sir. He'd get a couple pints in him and become a man possessed."

My jaw must've hit the porch. I couldn't picture my mellow, complacent father as Tom styled. He began to say more but stopped when thunder boomed. Snapped from the trance, he opened his eyes, seized the beer and put the hat on his head. Then he outlined the wet ring the bottle left on the wood with his right pointer finger.

My uncle's revelation...it felt like unwrapping a present on Christmas Morning. "Come on, Tom, tell me more," I begged.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. Your father was quite a man way back when. Someday you'll realize what a special fellow he is."

"Special, huh? What's so special about him?"

Damp with perspiration, Tom waved a hand and closed his eyes again. He was through gossiping.

_Someday_ ...

Until _someday,_ Ma and I endured the unspectacular side of Da. At least the doctor in Benson had a name for his ailment: Alzheimer's Disease. 'No known cause except, maybe, heredity,' the doctor said with clinical indifference. 'Or trauma to the head.'

Listening to the doc tell my mom the bad news...it was like Tom explained: _It's in our blood, Johnny._ I had a glimpse of my future and shuddered. And if it wasn't shitty genetics, my love of football would doom me.

But what could I do? Friends, behold the Foley legacy in all its glory!

And if I felt guilt for leaving Clontarf when I turned 18, I had thousands of rotten memories to assuage compunction.

# 3.

"My Mother..."

My mother, Gretchen, hailed from the small eastern Minnesota town of Wilson, a community as German as Clontarf is Irish. German is spoken more than English in Wilson, which is how my parents met.

Ma graduated from the U in '46 -the first women in the Weber-Schmidt line to accomplish this feat- and arrived in Benson in '47 to teach foreign language at the combined middle-senior school. In the spring of '49, she and a coworker visited one of those travelling carnivals outside Clontarf. You know the type: rickety rides, rigged games, tatty workers and festival freaks. One of the carnies pestered both Ma and her friend for a kiss. As is her personality, Mom became angry and berated the man in German. He called her a stupid Kraut and then grabbed her arm. In her haste to escape, Mom threw a bottle of pop at him. The carnie ducked and the drink hit Da in the chest. The oul fella investigated the commotion, saw the problem, grabbed the thug by his lapels and told him to _sei auf deinem weg_. Tail tucked, the carnie skulked away...and Ma was smitten.

According to her, my father's charismatic personality and sense of humor also captured her attention. I'll have to take her word for it. Plus, he spoke fluent German, a characteristic Ma's starchy, Teutonic parents found endearing. Long story short, Mom and Da were married five months later; I entered the world on 8 June 1950, _almost_ nine months after their wedding day.

Until Da got sick, my parents had a congenial relationship. They only exchanged coarse words on a handful of occasions but when this happened, the two of them emptied barrels in German. I once asked Ma how Da knew fluent German; she claimed he mastered the language while in New York City.

Ma said: _'When your father worked with Tom, they had many German clients. He learned from them.'_ I guess the explanation seemed plausible...what the fuck did I know?

Unlike my parents, I didn't want a thing to do with the guttural language. Ma tried to teach me, but I found math and sports more interesting. Math...go figure. I might not have looked like a brainiac, but I enjoyed solving arithmetic problems. Sports, football in particular, engaged another side of my personality. Standing up to Jimmy O'Conner kickstarted a feistiness I honed to a fine point. The field, a diamond, the court...whatever the venue...I play to win. Now, this may sound like a trite cliché but I _hate_ losing. This trait propelled me to legendary status as the worst sport to _ever_ compete at Benson High School. More than a few times, my coaches warned me to, _'Reign it in, Foley, before you hurt somebody.'_

I never listened. Nope. I wanted to win. I wanted to win _and_ I wanted to hurt somebody. But if winning wasn't in the cards...well, I made certain the victor suffered for my humiliation.

My competitive nature was, is...look, I bottled a lot of anger dealing with Da and his irrationality. What of it? Shoot, as I write this -thirty odd years after the events of this narrative- I can't help but shake my head...but not from embarrassment or guilt. I wouldn't have survived what occurred after Da's death had I not been a _win at all costs_ kinda guy. And though the maxim _win at all costs_ is sometimes impossible to fulfill, you can't stop from trying, right?

So...the cat is out of the bag:

My life didn't end in an oven.

I won.

I won _and_ I hurt somebody.

You needn't keep reading. Besides, I'm writing to an audience of one. Or three, I guess: Me, Myself and I. Something about putting things in order. Letting go of the past...

...if you believe letting go of the past is possible...

...which it isn't.

These days, I don't live in Clontarf, or Minnesota, or the United States. My name isn't John Foley. Sometimes people forget, you know. Sometimes they call me John, sometimes they call me Foley, and sometimes they combine the two. I correct them, go on my way, have a pint at Madigan's and pretend the face staring back at me in the mirror behind the bar isn't John Foley.

But the face in the mirror won't stop; John Foley knows the score. And because I know the score, I feel the need to exorcise them ghosts on paper. The name Derek Tierney doesn't mean anything to you at this point in the story, but I'm not going to spend the rest of my life preaching to drunks.

Take my word, preaching to Irish drunks about the things I've seen and done never ends well.

Um-hmm...but I was waxing about Ma before the aside...

The oul fella used to tell me: 'Your oul dear is the most beautiful lady in the world.'

And the second most beautiful lady? She's where I discovered the truth of Da's life.

When I was kid, I'd work with my father in the garden. More than anything, he loved nursing his darling roses. I would tug weeds as he clipped, staked, planted and fussed. There was never conversation, except for this foolish banter:

"Ya see _that_?" he'd ask, pointing at his favorite pink rosebush. "Ya know what it is, Johnny?"

"A bush with pink roses," I'd answer every time.

"No, sir! She is the second most beautiful lady in the world. Your oul dear is the first." Then he'd wink like we were sharing a secret...

# 4.

"I Did My..."

I did my best to avoid Da's madness by moving to the Twin Cities in the fall of 1968 to attend the University of Minnesota. Your old pal majored in accounting, gained a walk-on role as tackling dummy on the Gopher football team, and worked part-time collating statistics at Northwestern Bank. Plus, I started dating a pretty brunette named Sandi Hinger and things were getting serious. Sandi had a striking resemblance to Mary Tyler Moore and wore a miniskirt like a champ. And just so you know I'm not the superficial type, she had a thousand other attributes I could spend reams describing. Smart, sassy and sweet about nails it, but she also housed both the stubbornness of an Irish soul in her small frame and a well-defined sense of right and wrong. But not too right: in 1972, Sandi and I weren't living together in sin, but she spent more evenings at my place than hers.

By the way, I had Uncle Tom to thank for college. He helped with tuition and turned a deaf ear when I protested his generosity.

"I've seen what war does to people," Tom said. "Better to get an education than have your mind ruined...or worse."

_The War_ , of course, was the one in Vietnam. I didn't have an opinion one way or the other...which sounds hard to believe given the time, but I embraced the notion ignorance is bliss.

I was also a cynical bastard: the hawkish politicians touting _The War_ struck me as dishonest fanatics; the hippies presented as addled, idealistic slugs.

_Shenanigans,_ pronounced I.

See, being a 2-S allowed me the leisure to view both sides with unadulterated eyes.

And being a 2-S motivated me to mash the gas.

Everybody else could wring hands about commies

Everybody else could drop out and join a cult.

Not me.

I had plans.

• • •

Sandi and the other activities were necessary distractions but, you know, complete dislocation is impossible. My sophomore year at the U, I took two semesters of 20th Century American Lit. Hemingway, Dos Passos, Du Bois, Plath, Morrison...a couple other authors. Boring, kay? Not my speed. But something Thomas Wolfe wrote stuck with me: in the denouement of _Look Homeward, Angel,_ George Webber embraces a sudden, misty-eyed desire to return to his childhood home.

On my drives to Clontarf, I chewed over the prose until fashioning the few sentences into a succinct poem:

You can't go back home to your family,

back home to a young man's dreams;

back home to your childhood;

back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.

Wolfe might have been channeling wistfulness, but I chanted the words like a despondent convict. I _didn't_ want to go home. Friend, I'd ramble southeast every other weekend and then chastise myself for going. I wanted to support Mom but my efforts were halfhearted. I'd walk Da like a dog at the park or take him on long, quiet drives. On rare occasions, we worked in the garden. The lousy chores -bathing, using the toilet, whatever else required a "loving" touch- weren't anything I wanted to, or could, handle.

I saw him for the last time during the summer break before my senior term. Mid-July, Sunday supper: Mom attempted to feed Da between bites of her meal but he scowled, wrenched his head left and right, and refused to open his mouth. Meanwhile, my mother chatted to him in a wheedling voice.

"You remember Denny at the hardware store," she said, sticking a spoon laden with mashed potatoes in his face.

Da puckered lips and swatted imaginary flies.

"He's building a new display in the front window," continued Ma. "A big one full of hammers and wrenches and...come on, dear. Open your mouth. Eat your potatoes."

He shook his head and grunted.

Back to the conversation she went -Denny and his assortment of tools- holding the stupid spoon while Da compressed his mouth into a grim line. She'd coax him to eat, he refused...over and over and over...

I watched this sad display for what seemed like an eternity and finally said, "Mom, you can't go on like this."

She stared at me like I stabbed her in the heart. "I can't abandon him," she said. "What would he do without-"

"Johnny," my father interjected, "there you are!" He cycled between eccentricity and sanity without warning. One second, amicable; the next, nonsensical. You never knew what would come tumbling from his mouth when he felt like speaking.

I dropped my fork and mumbled, "Yeah, I'm here."

"I want to take a trip with ya."

Rolling eyes, I asked, "Do you?"

"Aye...and guess where we're going."

"I have no clue."

"The Potemkin Steps, of course!"

I glanced at Mom and snorted.

"Liebling," she fussed, "you need to eat. Not another word until you have some supper."

"Phooey," Da jeered. "I don't want food! Aren't you listening? Johnny and I are going to the Potemkin Steps! I need a shamrock to put into my tweed coat. The Major won't know it's me unless I have a shamrock." He didn't own a tweed coat, never did as far as I knew, and I had zero idea where the Potemkin Steps were located.

"Sure, a shamrock," I said. "I'll get right on it."

"Now, Johnny, this is important," he claimed, leaning forward in his chair and waving a finger. "Ya know what _that_ is?"

"What?"

He looked baffled and barged, "Over there! In the garden!"

"Mmm...do you mean the bush with pink roses?"

"Aye! She is the second most beautiful lady in the world. Your Ma's the first!" Then he laughed like a manic and slapped his knee. He didn't stop laughing until the Valium Ma shoved down his throat worked its wonderful, tranquilizing magic.

This was how I left him. A few weeks passed and he landed in the hospital. Pneumonia, the doc said. A month later he was dead. _At last,_ I thought. _At last, he's done suffering. Our collective misery is over._

• • •

I got the news from my position coach, Ray Werth, before practice on 19 August 1972, at 2:20 PM. I committed the date and time to memory because Coach Werth made me.

"I'm sorry, son," Coach said as he laid a hand on my shoulder. "There's...there's no easy way to say this but...a Tom Foley phoned, he said he's your uncle, but he's too upset to talk. Your-"

"I know what you're gonna say," I interrupted.

Werth nodded and then whispered in my ear, "This moment, two-twenty on the nineteenth of August, you became the man in your family. Now's the time to show everyone you're up to the task. Go home and take care of your affairs."

He went on for a spell, giving me a quasi-pep talk overloaded with coachy colloquiums, until the locker room filled with my noisy teammates. They dressed for practice and joked; I loaded my duffel bag with dirty laundry.

Head Coach Murray Warmath sauntered from the office and killed the racket with an ear-splitting whistle. "Yawl gather 'round, grab a knee and bow yore heads," he ordered in a lax drawl. As the players settled, Warmath removed his ballcap and said, "Our teammate, John Foley, suffered a loss today. We suffer with him. We suffer with his family. We suffer with his friends. God, give them our collective strength to weather the storm. Let our brother see the brightness and beauty of the coming dawn. Amen."

After the prayer, every one of my teammates approached with condolences and words of inspiration. I was a fringe player on a team of recruited athletes; I'm certain three-fourths of the guys didn't know my name before 19 August 1972. For a moment, though, I was one with those in the room. I left the annex feeling dazed but not overwhelmed. The next few days would be an emotional grinder and the kind words helped dampen apprehension.

• • •

Despite how serious our relationship had become, Sandi had never been to Clontarf or encountered my father. She met my mother a couple times, but these were brief lunch dates at some greasy spoon between Clontarf and Minneapolis. Though Tom and Ella were capable caregivers, Mom hated leaving Da. Agreeing to meet me and Sandi in Wilmer or Litchfield wasn't easy for Ma and she always kept lunch short. A half-hour, an hour at most, stilted small talk and little emotion...Sandi thought my mother hated her. On the drive back to Minneapolis, Sandi peppered with questions. The conversations went something like:

"What's wrong with me, John? Did I say or do something? What if I _blah blah blah_? Or _blah blah blah_. Should I _blah blah blah_?"

And I'd answer, "It's not you, honey. Mom has her hands full with my father. She's distracted and _blah blah blah_. You know, _blah blah blah. Blah blah freakin' blah_."

I don't mean to infer I didn't care about Sandi's trepidation, but I knew the time would come when Mom wouldn't be saddled with the burden. Things would be different then, I reasoned. Sandi didn't seem convinced.

When it came to my father and his condition, I offered snippets of information: dementia (not pleasant to be around); problems using the toilet (not pleasant to be around); forgets to put his pants on (not pleasant to be around); eats like a toddler...you get the picture. The quick math? The _not pleasant to be around_ addition equals _the rudimentary conduct of a crazy person_. Nothing would be gained if the two rubbed elbows and I made it clear this was _never_ happening.

An hour after learning Da passed, I phoned Sandi. Of course, she wanted to come to Clontarf, pay her respects, support me during this _difficult_ time. I told her it wasn't necessary; there were a million things to do at home and she'd get in the way. Words to this effect...and words she didn't want to hear.

"I should be there, John. If not for you, then for your mother. I want to be there, okay? I _blah blah blah. Blah blah blah_ ..."

I said, "Clontarf, and its 200 people, isn't worth visiting on a good day, never mind coming for a funeral of somebody you don't know."

We sorta bickered about it but I cradled the handset thinking she got message. Loud and clear, by the way...which goes to show you what I know about strong-willed, stubborn women. Did I mention Sandi is German? What she heard coming from my mouth was a string of _blah blah blahs_. _Blahs_ into perpetuity.

Anyway, I left the Twin Cities on this note and arrived in Clontarf to support my mother. She looked put together and fashioned a stoic expression, but her heart ached.

"I knew this was coming," Ma said, "but it doesn't make it any easier."

What could I say? Though accurate, _'You're free to live your life now'_ wasn't acceptable. Instead, I hugged her and said, "We'll get through this, Mom."

Head buried in my chest, she replied, "Oh, I know. At last, he's found peace. I suppose I should be weeping but I'm...relieved."

• • •

Over time, many of the customs brought to Clontarf by the original settlers were replaced by new and better practices or forgotten altogether. For example, bonfires were no longer lit and danced around on All Hollows Eve. In the late 19th Century, the molding Father Martin had branded the practice "too heathenish". The Church banned this activity in Ireland but, with so many Irish and so many bonfires, the priests couldn't keep up with the revelers. No such problem in Clontarf. There wasn't a place for the modern-day Druid to hide. Thus, there were zero fires.

One practice hasn't died, forgive the pun: _The Irish Wake_. In principle, it afforded the repressed community a chance to let loose. The women no longer keened over the dead body, but tears were shed by those who had little knowledge and no affection for the dead man. Meanwhile, the menfolk took to the bottle. The Irish don't need an excuse to drink, but an Irish wake lets them partake with impunity.

Da's wake was no different. As his open coffin sat on a block of ice in the front room of our house, I received condolences and shots of Irish from the men. Meantime, the ladies retired to the kitchen to console my mother and make lunch.

Each shot was accompanied by off-color anecdotes describing some bit of Da's personality.

Sheriff O'Toole went first. Tall and lanky, dressed in uniform khakis complete with his gun hanging from a lopsided utility belt, ole Slim cleared his throat, lifted the shot glass and then said, "I'm sorry for John's passing...but I won't have to be his personal taxi service anymore so... _ahem_ ...God rest his soul." Laughter followed and then consumption. Long, lost coworkers of Da took turns; their tributes became slurry as the alcohol worked its magic.

Uncle Tom sat near the front window stealing glimpses outside. He grunted and sipped with every toast, but just wet his lips from the glass. Tom appeared tense, not his usual gregarious self. Not even his usual drinking self, which meant he must've been upset. I understood his sentiment, but even my mother had accepted Da's end with aplomb.

I strolled to him, ruffled his tuft of white hair, and scolded, "Come on, Tom. I know it's a wake, but you're not the one who died."

"Sorry, but reality is sinking in. John...he was my touchstone and I...I-I feel at sea, cast adrift. I'm not sure what's next."

"What's next? You've been to plenty of these, right? You drink until you forget why you're here."

"Yeah, Johnny, sure," he said, forcing a smile.

"At least he's in a better place. Heaven, Hell, purgatory...anyplace is better than Clontarf. I mean..." I jerked my head at the bumpkins in the living room and then shrugged shoulders.

Tom started to respond but a bang, followed by drunken hooting, sealed his mouth. The sheriff had fallen on an end table and reduced it to a pile of jagged wood. Magazines and old newspapers littered the floor.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I complained. "I've never had to throw a cop out of my house. You see what I mean?"

Tom scowled and snapped, "Your Da loved it here! He felt safe among these people. You can bash Clontarf, but your father thought of it as sanctuary. His sanctuary!"

Sanctuary? _Great,_ I thought, _now Tom's losing his mind!_ Before I could ask what he was yapping about, Sheriff O'Toole threw his arm around my shoulder and shoved a drink in my hand.

"Sorry 'bout yer table," he slurred. "It...it's a _act-c-dint_."

I raised my glass and declared, "Well, shit, let's give the table a proper sendoff, Slim. All right lads, bow your heads. 'Twas a good table, its legs built to last, until it met its match, the rear end, of the local jackass. Amen and God bless." Though my improvised elegy deserved a hearty _hear, hear_ or a chuckle, the boys had passed the point of giving a fuck. Down the throat the Irish went. When I peeked over my shoulder, Tom's chair was empty, the front door stood open and...

...and to my surprise, Sandi and her parents, Norm and Doris, stood in the entryway looking...bemused? Amused? Frightened? They had arrived at the perfect time; a second later and the Hingers would have missed my drunken prayer for the deceased piece of furniture. Jeez, what a scene to stumble upon: a well-oiled cop (among others), a broken end table and Da's coffin in the corner of the living room.

Norm shook my hand, expressed sympathy, and then said, "We had to come. I just didn't think we'd be walking into a Tennessee Williams play." Doris mustered a half smile on her haggard face but glared at the proceedings with pitiless indifference. I'm being warm when I say Doris Hinger was frosty. It boggled my mind she had the capacity to bear children.

Sandi kissed my cheek and said, "Don't be upset we're here. I couldn't let you go through this alone."

I wasn't angry but I felt overwhelmed. "Let's get some air," I told her. We walked out of the house, leaving the foolishness behind, and stood on the porch holding hands.

"Oh, boy," I said after collecting myself. "It's getting out-of-hand in there."

Sandi started to giggle as she said, "It looks like you're throwing a party."

"What you're about to experience is a tradition known as an Irish wake. And in keeping with tradition..." I raised my other hand, the one holding the Irish, and continued, "...you know, there tends to be a little boozing. Gets the crowd on the same spiritual plain as the guest-of-honor. Tomorrow morning, everyone will feel like they're dead. Probably wish they were, too."

"Everyone, huh? Looks like you're well on your way."

"When in Rome, love."

"Uh-huh."

"Hey, it's a big celebration! In fact, we need to get your mom set up with a whiskey, _schnell_. She'll be dancing with my father's corpse by the end of the night."

"John!"

"Ahhh...I'm jokin'! What happened to your sense of humor?"

Sandi rolled her eyes.

"I told you it's a big celebration," I explained. "Drinks, smiles and bad jokes around a corpse. Welcome to the party, honey."

"Mm, I get it. You're mad at me."

"Mad?"

"For showing up."

" _Pfft._ Do I sound mad?"

"You sound...don't take this the wrong way, but I've never seen anyone so happy at a wake."

I filled my mouth with booze and shrugged.

"You know, you're allowed to grieve," she whispered. "It's _healthy_ to grieve."

I wanted to tell her Da's death was a relief, but she wouldn't understand. Or, to put it another way: Sandi shared a relationship with her father _I_ was unable to appreciate.

"Look, it's...complicated," I hawed. "But, no lie, I'm glad you came. It means more than you can imagine."

"You're not upset?"

"No! I mean...you didn't have to bring your mother but-"

She dropped my hand and punched me in the shoulder.

"There you go!" I cheered. "Violence is another tradition of the Irish wake."

"When in Rome," she said with a laugh.

"I joke but I'm glad you didn't listen to me. How'd you find my house?"

"It wasn't difficult. There are two Foleys listed in the phonebook and both live on the same street."

"Yea, right...my Uncle Tom lives next door. He's around...somewhere...but he'll turn up. There aren't many places to hide in good ole Clontarf."

"This town doesn't seem so bad. The way you described it, I expected to find a shack next to a dirt road."

"The shack burned down last year."

"Oh?"

"So did the dirt road."

"The road, too?"

"The sheriff in there...the drunk guy with the gun? We call him Slim. You can blame Slim."

"I'm serious. We drove along Main Street and it's...quaint. Quiet. Charming."

"Get outta here! Clontarf and charming? Those two words don't belong together. I bet you're mistaking Benson for Clontarf."

"Where's Benson?"

"Ten miles south, but the people there are strange. Buncha Scandinavians settled the village."

"What's strange about them?"

"Nothing...except...see, I went to high school in Benson and..." I sniffled and made a show of wiping tears from my eyes.

Sandi put a hand on my arm and asked, "What happened in high school?"

"Those people," I whispered. "Cheerful and optimistic and always smiling. Sandi, I swear, something's wrong with 'em."

"And here I thought you were being serious," she grumbled.

"I am!"

"Wow, you're quite the ham. Do you have an off button I can push?"

"Never fear. The booze will do the trick."

She hugged me and rubbed my back. Maybe she was looking for a button to shut me up, but it felt nice to be in her arms...and then Tom's tense face materialized in my head. Typical...I should've been enjoying the moment. Instead, Tom's hassled voice echoed, _'His sanctuary. His sanctuary. His sanctuary. His san-'_

Sandi interrupted my thoughts: "Dad's a rock during tough times. He's been through this rigmarole more than I can count. We'll be there for you and your mom. Whatever you need, okay?"

So, I flushed Tom and his voice into the great beyond. In a few days, I'd be finished with the business of burying my father. Time to wipe hands and move on, right? Forge ahead into the next chapter of my life...

• • •

For the next twelve hours, until Da's body found its way to the church, Mom and I sat with him. Sit Shiva, like a pair of Jews, except the Irish do it before the burial. Yes, it's creepy. I tried not to stare at my father's slack, ashen face and wondered what ancient Irish masochist considered this a suitable way to grieve.

Sandi wanted to stay with us, which was fine. And Ma...she turned into a chatterbox after a few pops. On and on she worked her tongue, talking about life with Da as the ice block dripped into the catch basin. I had heard all her stories, but Sandi listened without interruption. The two women bonded with the shadow of death hanging in the room.

"I don't know if I'm going to stay in Clontarf," Mom confessed. "Tom's been helpful with the bills, but I need to work again. I _want_ to work again. But I'd miss your uncle and Ella. With your father gone, Tom-"

"You wouldn't be moving to the moon," I interjected. Then I glanced at Da's face and said, "You need to do what's best for you, Ma. Other than Tom and Ella, what else is keeping you in Clontarf?"

"I suppose...nothing. I tried to get your father to move when you were little, but he wouldn't entertain the idea. After Tom arrived, I didn't bring it up again."

The mourners thinned as night grew long; by ten, the living room was empty save for the three living and one dead. Around midnight, Ma fell asleep in her rocking chair, Sandi found her way into my old bedroom and I, drowsy but not bushed, gathered the remains of the end table and dumped the junk in the garbage can outside. As I scaled the porch, I saw the approaching headlights of a car. I thought it might have been Tom returning home from wherever he had gone, but the vehicle passed without stopping.

I went inside, stacked the magazines on the coffee table and then collapsed onto the couch. Splitting attention between _Time_ and Da, I fell asleep...

• • •

A rattling on the screen door roused me...sorta. It took a few seconds to put the pieces together: magazine on my lap, Da in the coffin, Ma snoozing...I yawned and checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The little hand pointed at "two"; the big hand rested on "six".

Then the rattling again, a little more forceful, followed by an accented voice: "God bless all who be present."

I tossed _Time_ aside and then ambled to the door. Two men, dressed in brown suits wrinkled from sitting too long in one spot, stood in the glow of the porch light. One tall and beefy; one short and stout; both squinty and grinning. A flock of moths (or whatever a shitload of moths is called) fluttered around their heads. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and then blinked. Nope, I wasn't dreaming.

"We're here ta offer condolences," the short man said in a guttural Irish lilt.

Too weary to argue about the time, I opened the door and stood aside. As Ma snapped to useful consciousness, the visitors strolled in and took positions in front of the coffin. The short guy cocked his head; his partner grunted.

Like a good hostess, Ma rose from the rocker and asked, "Can I get you gentlemen something to eat?"

The short guy spun around and directed a question to yours truly: "Would the deceased be the John Foley from Dublin, Ireland?"

Ma opened her mouth to respond, but I waved her quiet and said, "Mom, why don't you prepare a plate for our mourners. They look famished. Travel a long way, did you?"

The big man grunted; the short man cleared his throat.

She nodded and departed for the kitchen.

When she was out of earshot I answered, "I shouldn't have to tell you who's in the box, right? If you knew him, you'd recognize him."

The big guy grunted.

But the short man said, "It be a number of years."

"Yeah? How long?"

"I not be a personal acquaintance of John Foley, but a mutual friend who couldn't make the trip asked we pay our respects if, in fact, it be the same John Foley our mutual friend once knew and respected."

I had a hard time following the accent, never mind the convoluted statement, and squawked, "What?"

"If it be John Foley, our friend would like ta pay respect."

"Your friend is where?"

"I just told ya, boyo."

"No you didn't."

"He be in Dublin."

"And he sent you to pay respect?"

"Aye."

"You flew in from Dublin?"

Again, the big man grunted.

I ran a hand over my face and stifled a groan. Tired, and dealing with an Irish headache, the conversation had the charm of a root canal. The previous day saw a swarm of strangers invading the house, but they were local bumpkins. These two international travelers threw me for a loop. But...whatever. My father's old buddy from Dublin wanted to _pay respect_? _Fine,_ I thought, _but for the love of God, please be quick._

"Like ya mentioned," the little man said, "we be travelling a spell. A shame ta come over hill and dale ta pay respects ta the wrong fella."

"Well," said I, nodding at Da, "John Foley it is, in the corporal sense."

"John Foley of Dublin what had a Cousin Thomas?"

"Has. Tom lives next door."

"Aye...aye, it makes sense. The two of 'em, eh? Be thick as thieves."

"Something along those lines," I garbled, as my butt found the sofa cushion.

"And who be you, boyo? A friend of the departed?"

"I'm his son."

"Ah, the progeny. Be there more of John Foley's kin?"

"Nope. My parents took one look at me and decided they were through making babies."

"Might I ask what ended yer oul fella?" the little guy asked as the joke flew over his head.

"My...what?"

"Oul fella. Yer Da. Be an Irish expression."

"Oh...he...a long illness."

The small guy rubbed his chin and then asked, "Yer oul fella not mention his time in Ireland?"

I yawned and then shook my head.

"Yer oul fella be known throughout the Dominion," the little man said. "Even some in the States heard of he."

"What Dominion?"

"The Dominion what became the Republic of Ireland."

"My father?"

"Aye. Even today he be a topic of conversation in The Pale."

"The Pale?"

"Dublin," the little man said through a tight smile.

"Huh...this is news to me. Maybe you're at the wrong wake after all."

"Naw, I think we be at the right one."

The big guy grunted.

"Known throughout the Dominion," pondered I. "So...are you talking Elvis fame, or more a Ken Berry-type following?"

The little man nibbled on his bottom lip as a smudge of red lit his cheeks. For a second, I saw Da's reaction after woeful me blubbered about Jimmy O'Conner and my lunchbox.

But, like my dad, the little guy's florid skin tone faded to pasty white lickity-split. "Ah, I understand," he said. "You're quite the daft puck. For...call it future reference...Ireland be a Republic today, not a Dominion. A fella should know his history, don't ya think? Then perhaps ya wouldn't sound so daft."

Before I could respond, he spun around and addressed the deceased: "John Foley, ya were a man among men. Yer old pal says goodbye. Now, how 'bout a wee hint before I go?" He paused as though expecting an answer and then concluded, "I thought not."

Eulogy over, they walked to the front door. As he passed, the little guy said, "Tell Thomas his friends from the Republic say 'ello. We tried earlier, but it appears he ain't in his gaff."

"His what?" I asked, as the screen door slammed.

• • •

An unremarkable funeral for an Irishman is rarified air. There's always drama of one kind or another. By now, you'd have thought my people would realize death and booze don't mix. However, I had high hopes. The service was early; I figured most mourners would be too hungover to make a fuss. _Thank you, God Bless, now back to bed you go._ Tom arranged everything with the least amount of fuss. My father wasn't a religious man; he wouldn't have desired a Viking-like sendoff to the afterworld. The service was window-dressing. Ah, but now the rub:

The church was made available by Father Ernst as a personal favor to my mother. Like Mom, Father Ernst spoke German. They forged a bond out of their shared passion for order and neatness in the tsunami of Irish absurdity. _But_ ...his benevolence couldn't bridge the spiritual chasm separating Da from the Church. My father's body could enter the vestibule, but his immortal soul would not be present for the mass and sacraments. Instead, the short version of the service was offered. The crusty priest said a few words, using Da as an object lesson to all. To paraphrase: _'When death comes, as it will, it is best to be in the bosom of Christ'._ I believe he was going to wander further down this road until I stood, coughed, and presented the good Father the most baleful glare one could imagine a sinner giving God's right-hand man. The priest got the message and the service ended minutes later.

Both the burial at St. Malachy Cemetery and then lunch passed without a hitch. I tried to corner Tom in the church, but he seemed determined to evade me. I wanted to ask him who in Dublin was concerned enough to send those characters to pay their respects. Even stranger, Tom beat feet after Da was planted. No words, no handshake, nothing. I chalked the behavior to profound grief and assumed I'd catch him at home later. Sandi and her parents also left after the burial. She had a job to return to and I needed to help my mother organize Da's items...which we did the next morning.

There wasn't much in the way of personal effects: old clothes he never wore, newspapers and books he once read, paycheck stubs, timecards...at face value, a whole bunch of nothing. But dumping his stuff in the garbage and boxing the clothes and shoes for Goodwill triggered a nostalgia I wasn't ready to embrace. The smell of his deodorant on shirts, his neat handwriting on crossword puzzles, even the underlined passages in novels reminded of a tangible existence now gone. _Gone forever_. The worst part? I felt closer to these intimate things than I ever felt with Da.

After lunch, I decided to tackle the shed in the backyard -Da's home away from, full of tools and assorted junk- while Mom ran errands in Benson. Plus, I wanted to pay Tom a visit...maybe drag him to Ma Pete's for a few beers. Yep, we'd plant our butts near the tv and watch the Twins get walloped. After four or five cold ones, I'd say, _'Hey, these two guys from Ireland stopped by the other morning...'_

I swung open the shed doors and pulled a hanging frayed cord. A single light bulb sputtered to life and tinted the inside of the shed in a jaundiced glow. Three saws, two levels, hammers, wrenches, shovels, rakes, hoes, stacked flower pots, a push lawnmower...so much shit. Then I saw Da's toolbox sitting on the work bench. He referred to this old hunk of metal by its Irish description: _tool kit_.

The unattended tool kit triggered a startling reaction. I wanted to back away, slam the doors shut...but I couldn't move. I felt pressure in my chest. Tears dribbled from my eyes. Of all things to send me over the edge, Da's tool kit.

The stupid thing was a symbol of our stilted relationship. It's childish, but I used to think he cared more about the box than me. Da had a handy excuse for why he babied it so: the tool kit would someday be mine. His promise sounded like punishment. I'd give this paint flaking prize the hairy eyeball and wonder what I'd do with a cruddy toolbox.

"Keep my kit in tiptop shape," my father would say. "You don't want me coming back from the dead to reclaim it."

And I'd mutter, "Whatever, Da."

"I'm serious. Keep it clean, Johnny. It's yours after I go, but for a price."

For a price.

Whatever, Da.

But as I wept, a strange thing happened: a voice in my head -Da's scratchy, Alzheimer's infused voice- demanded, _'Keep it clean, Johnny_. _'_

"All right," I sobbed. "Fine. I'll clean your kit."

I watched Da perform this boring ritual every Sunday afternoon until his dementia took full control. Though years had passed, I could've accomplished the task blindfolded. First, I went into the house, took yesterday's _Minneapolis Tribune_ from the kitchen counter, and returned to the shed. Next, I opened the lid of the tool kit, removed two metal trays and then emptied the various compartments of Allen wrenches, nails, screws, wood glue, lubricants and the rest. Third, I lifted the tray partitions, peeled out the faded newspaper liners and then used those as a pattern to cut new inserts from yesterday's _Tribune_ with a box cutter. Last, I grabbed the paper from the bottom of the tool kit, crushed it into a ball, and tossed it aside. The final liner required two layers of newspaper; after I folded and cut the sports section into the shape of a rectangle, I went to lay the masterpiece in the tool kit...

But the bottom wasn't empty: an unsealed white envelope, the size of a birthday card, had been secured to the hull with masking tape. I cut the strips of adhesive with the box cutter and then raked the envelope out of the tool kit. The flap hadn't been sealed, no writing decorated the front...I grunted, shook out a single piece of paper folded in thirds, and opened what turned out to be a message. The words, inscribed in my father's neat script, were addressed to me:

Johnny,

Go see the second most beautiful lady in the world and make things right.

Dig deep, son.

I reread the letter several times...and then shoved the note into my pocket. _Make things right?_ Did he want me to water the flowers? I chewed on the odd request while filling the box with the trays and tools. By the time the two metal fasteners were secured, I decided I wouldn't obsess over the letter. My father committed thousands of eccentric acts as his mind went to mush. I wouldn't have been shocked to find other Easter eggs like this stashed here and there.

As it turned out, there were no more oddities to be discovered...but I lost track of time deciding what items to keep, donate or sell. A florid sky greeted when I emerged from the shed, covered in dust, with a stomach growling for food. No light shone from Tom and Ella's house, and their car wasn't in the driveway. I considered rapping on the front door, but the smell of something enticing wafted from our kitchen window.

I found Ma standing over the stove, stirring a pot, humming to herself.

"Smells good," I greeted.

"Eintopf," she said. "And I have bread in the oven. Should be ready in twenty minutes."

"Wonderful. I've worked quite the appetite."

"You were out there for hours, Johnny."

"Sorting through Da's tools took longer than I expected. Say, have you talked to Tom or Ella today?"

She stopped working the wooden spoon and asked, "No, have you?"

"Uh-uh. Doesn't look like anyone's home, either."

"Hm...I suppose Tom needs some time."

"Yeah...maybe...but he left after the burial and hasn't called or stopped by. Seems kinda strange to me."

"Everyone grieves in different ways," Ma said, before returning attention to the soup.

If Mom wasn't alarmed, then I wouldn't be. Anyway, I wasn't alarmed so much as puzzled. After a couple beers, I forgot about being puzzled. I also forgot Da's note until late in the evening. Emptying my pockets before bed, I found the crumpled paper and gazed at it through half-lidded eyes:

Johnny,

Go see the second most beautiful lady in the world and make things right.

Dig deep, son.

"Sorry, Da," I whispered, "but I don't think I'll be visiting the second most beautiful lady." Then I wadded the note into a ball and tossed it at the trash. I missed, of course, and my father's request from the Great Beyond landed on the kitchen counter. Too boozy tired for a follow up shot, I blew a raspberry and turned out the light.

# 5.

"The Next Morning..."

The next morning, I took Da's clothes to the Goodwill in Benson and then returned to find my mother packing a suitcase. She wanted to visit her sister in Wilson for a few days, which sounded dandy to me. I also desired to am-scray, but without my uncle around, and even though my mother appeared right as rain, I would've felt guilty leaving her alone so soon after the burial.

While waiting for Mom to gather belongings, I called Sandi and told her I'd be in Minneapolis by dusk. She had to work (Sandi graduated in the spring of '72 with a degree in Political Science...meaning my girlfriend was the smartest waitress at the restaurant she waited tables on in Dinkytown) until midnight, but said she'd stop by my apartment after her shift. I joke about her degree, and Sandi's a smart cookie, but it wasn't my cup of tea. At some point, she planned on earning her Masters, dive into teaching...her career ambitions were defined and didn't pay well. I harbored ambitions, too: I wanted to make moola. I don't care who you are. Growing up in a household where cash is tight generates sufficient motivation to become a dirty, money grubbing capitalist. Or maybe it's just me.

As I hung up the phone, I noticed Da's crumpled note on the kitchen counter. _Into the trash you go,_ thought I. But...look, I've replayed this moment _a lot_ in my life. No fooling, the clouds parted and a ray of sunlight shone through the window and spot lit the paper. Serendipity, a bizarre coincidence...it struck me as a combination of both. Even though I don't believe in Providence, I decided I had no choice but to do as Da instructed. I suppose a smidge of guilt also bullied me into action. So, like a man pressed into labor, I trudged to the garden to attend this _final_ task.

Once there, I scrutinized the single pink rose bush with hands on hips. Between lack of rain and temperatures warmer than normal, the garden presented as a ghost of its former self. Wooden stakes leaned like tombstones, weeds sprouted (something Da would have never allowed), and the dirt took on the consistency of moon grit.

What did he want from me? What was I supposed to _make right_? Did he expect I'd devote my life to primping his prized roses? I had a future to plan. I _wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't,_ waste time digging in my father's garden.

Da's voice echoed, _Go see the second most beautiful lady in the world._

The pink roses, droopy and shedding petals, looked mournful.

"I'm here," I said.

Dig deep, son.

Under my breath, I grumbled, "Fine," and retrieved heavy gardener's gloves and a trowel from the shed. Then, kneeling next to the _second most beautiful lady in the world_ , I began brushing dirt from around the crown. Perhaps he wanted me to water the thing, throw some plant food in the hole...okay, I'd do it this one time.

"But no more than once," rasped I.

Working faster, I mined a large crater with the trowel and hit rich, dark soil. Sweat rolled down both cheeks and collected in my armpits. Dirt flew left and right. I would've looked the fool to an observer.

"Screw it!" I cried. He wanted me to _dig deep_? Watch this, Da: I'd sever the anchor and feeder roots of _the second most beautiful lady in the world_ , yank her from the ground, toss her out of the garden, and stomp on her corpse for good measure. She wouldn't look so beautiful all crushed and withered.

I didn't see it at first -the black plastic blended with soil- but the trowel struck something firm. I assumed I hit a stone and tossed the tool in frustration. An annoyed gander, however, revealed something bunchy...perhaps a garbage bag; curiosity compelled closer examination. Incorporating the trowel again, I defined a rectangular border and excavated the dirt around the item. It took some time but, at last, I squeezed the trowel under the buried treasure and freed the object.

My prize: a light package the size of a shoebox, both ends secured by masking tape. I brushed dirt off the plastic, shook the box but didn't hear anything.

"Johnny," Ma called from her bedroom window. "I'm ready to go."

I set the parcel aside and answered, "All right, Mom, I'll be there in a jiff."

"What are you doing?"

"I...uh...I'm taking care of Da's favorite rosebush."

"Oh...how sweet of you."

Scooping dirt into the hole, I eyed this newest Easter egg and decided to crack it later. Besides, I didn't expect anything of consequence stuffed inside.

• • •

After dropping Ma at Aunt Gertrude's home in Wilson, I drove two hours north to the Twin Cities. Except for occasional glimpses of the Mississippi River, the trek on US61 is unremarkable until reaching Red Wing. Worse, radio reception is spotty through the hills of southern Minnesota. Crackling static spliced with music until I had enough and mashed the power button. Silence allowed my mind to go slack; I contemplated naught. As if operating on autopilot, I stepped into my apartment with zero recollection of arriving there.

I unpacked my bags, tossing clothes into a messy pile on the living room floor, and placed the dusty, plastic-wrapped parcel on the coffee table. I didn't feel an urgent desire to discover what Da had buried...at least, not until I consumed a few adult beverages. Plan in hand, I walked (humming Da's favorite melody, "Nancy Whiskey") three blocks to Manning's -a dive bar with a neon "Hamm's" light buzzing in the window- and bought two six packs. Itching to do some serious drinking, I drained three beers on the stroll home.

Sandi materialized around eleven and found me stacking can number nine atop an unsteady pyramid of dead soldiers. She beheld the heap of dirty launder, my booze inspired creation and the dirty package on the coffee table, and frowned.

"Ta-da," I said after balancing the can.

"Ta-da?"

"Whadda think? Betcha I could fit the last three without making it fall. O'course, they're gonna have to be empty..."

She sat down next to me and pointed at the package. "What's that?"

"Oh... _pfft_ ...you know...just some crap..." _I found buried in my parent's backyard. You know, the usual. Can we go to bed?_

"Okay...but what is it?"

"What it is, is... _ugh_ ...it's a long story."

"I'm all ears."

So, in a slurry voice, I recounted the tale of Da's note and my subsequent discovery of buried booty. As I talked, she ran a hand over the bag and touched the masking tape.

When I finished, she asked, "Are you going to open it?"

"Yeh...I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'm motivated to do other things at the moment."

"Stacking beer cans?"

"Drinking _and_ stacking," I corrected with a raised finger.

"Your father buried something and then directed you to dig it up. Aren't you curious?"

"It's not going anywhere."

Without a word, Sandi stood and walked into the kitchen. I heard a drawer open, the clatter of silverware, and then she returned with a steak knife. "If you won't do it, I will," she said.

"Now?"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't feel like it."

"I do."

"Jeez," I whined, "Da's garbage can wait."

"What if it's, like, old coins or something?"

"Wrong."

"You don't know," she said, waving the knife in my face.

" _Argh_ ...fine, but I'm tellin' you, it's nutin but crap."

"We shall see."

"Uh-uh, _you'll_ see. Scalpel, please."

"Ah, nope. Doctor material you are not. On your best days, you can't handle a scissors without hurting yourself."

"I'm not gonna remove a finger. And if I do, I won't feel anything. Hand me the knife."

"John, let me-"

"Don't argue," I said in a beat voice. "If you want to see what's inside...which is nothing, by the way...I'm gonna handle the honor."

She dropped the utensil on the table and crossed arms, no doubt hoping I'd injure myself. Then she would lecture, ' _I told you so'_. But the joke would be on her...

I severed the tape and, like gutting a fish, sliced the bag lengthwise. While she held the plastic, I removed the guts: a shoebox coated with layers of melted wax. The name on the cardboard lid, _Florsheim,_ looked distorted beneath the congealed coating.

"Wow!" Sandi gasped. "I wonder how long it's been underground!"

"Calm down. Glad trash bags have been around...like...ten years or something."

"Maybe your father buried a time capsule. What if-"

I raised a hand to quiet her as I worked the knife through the wax. Once scored, I lifted the box top and tossed it aside. Several items were crammed into the shoebox, arranged just so, starting with a thick manila envelope.

"All right, here we go," I said, unwinding the red string binding flap to clasp. Voilà! Like I suspected, there wasn't anything tantalizing inside the envelope...unless you count a ream of papers adorned with single-spaced, typewritten words.

Sandi leaned over my right shoulder -I could feel her breath on my neck- and whispered, "It looks like a manuscript. I think your father wrote a book."

"I never saw him write anything except letters into crossword puzzles."

"Do you have a typewriter in your house?"

"Yep, but I never saw him use it."

"Hmm..." she droned.

"What?"

"You never _saw_ him use the typewriter isn't the same as he never _used_ the typewriter."

I slipped the pages into the envelope, refastened the clasp, and set the packet on the table.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Sandi asked.

"Not after nine beers."

"But-"

"No," I interrupted, as I plucked the next item from the shoebox: a small glass petroleum jelly jar. The cap spun off with little effort. Inside: another piece of paper, folded over and over on top of itself, forming a compact rectangle. "What the hell is with all these notes?" I griped.

"Open it," Sandi implored.

With the dexterity of a drunk, I unwrapped the paper and watched a shriveled piece of what looked like beef jerky fall to the floor. I swept it into my hand and examined this...thing...between pinched fingers.

About two inches long, a half inch wide and thin as paper, the _thing_ felt like leather. And there was something written on it in blue ink. I squinted, saw a string of faded numbers, but didn't bother with a closer examination. Instead, I dropped the article on the table and considered the paper in which it had been wrapped:

Tiny rips formed in the creases where it had been folded; smudged, typed writing I couldn't read...and not because I bordered on the three sheets stratum. The script was in a foreign language...German, by the look of it. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw the small black swastika stamped on the upper left corner of the letter. The Nazi insignia threw me for a loop. I traced the disgusting symbol with my finger, smearing ink, and wondered what the paper proclaimed.

So did Sandi. "What the heck?" she cried. "Your father wasn't a Nazi, was he?"

"Are you kidding?"

"What's he doing with this?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Let me look at it."

"Naw...it's messy."

"John-"

"Jeez, we'll look at it later."

"Hmm...I bet your father's book will shed light."

"It's not a book," I pooh-poohed.

"What else would you call it?"

I ignored the question and rewrapped the mysterious object before dropping the paper into the jar and securing the cover.

She flicked my left ear and asked, "Aren't you interested in learning _why_ your father has a document decorated with a swastika?"

"I bet he found it...or...you know, some people from Clontarf fought in the war. One of his buddies from the garage gave it to him...or...... _or_ , it could be something he made for the hell of it."

"Why?"

"Because Da lost his mind is why."

"But-"

"Look, I don't know, but we can come back to it later." Truth be told, I didn't want to _come back to it later_. Both the document and the desiccated _thing_ gave me the creeps.

One item remained in the box: another envelope, the kind used to mail a first-class letter. Across the front, in Da's handwriting, these words: _Johnny Foley._

I lifted the envelope from the box, raised the unsealed flap, and removed a folded sheet of paper.

It said:

Johnny, you and your mother brought joy into my life, a joy I thought impossible to find. After you read my story, you will appreciate what a miracle it is.

_I started the enclosed document in Bremen. Needing to record my thoughts while the memories were fresh, I began at the end and worked backwards, finishing after I arrived at Tom's house in New York City. I_ _was_ _a lost soul and this is my route to salvation, if such a thing exists._

_No one has seen these words. Your Uncle Tom has_ _some_ _knowledge of my past life, but your mother does not._ _This is the complete kit, and it's for you. Every man deserves to know where and what he came from, Johnny._

I hope you understand this isn't a story I'm proud to tell. The sorrow I carry for the things I've done cannot be described, but there's a feeling worse than grief. I swore an oath of fidelity and will be unable to clear my name. This is a hard fate for a proud man.

Take care of your mother. She's an angel, the most beautiful woman in the world.

I love you,

Da.

"This is nuts," I muttered.

Sandi, chin resting on my shoulder, asked, "Who did he swear an oath to?"

I thought of the two Irish visitors at the wake, Tom's disappearance and...what had the stocky guy said? Da was known in The Pale...something else...

' _A fella should know his history, don't ya think?'_

"I'm going to bed," I answered (both to Sandi and the Irish voice in my head), as I folded the paper.

"Who did he swear an oath to?" Sandi repeated.

"If I knew, would Da have written this note?"

"You have no idea what-"

"No."

"Hmm..."

"It's nothing, okay?"

"Hmm..."

Her pensive hum drove nails into my skull, the beer had done me in, and I lacked the enthusiasm to venture into Da's past. Whatever happened... _if_ it happened...

_If_ ...

See, here's the problem I confronted: when you've lived with someone suffering from dementia, you've seen the nasty consequences of a short-circuiting brain. I'd already done twenty rounds in the perceptible world; I couldn't (or didn't want to) deal with shenanigans from the spiritual plain. At least, not until I grabbed some sleep.

"You aren't interested in reading more?" Sandi goaded. "He went through a lot to keep this hidden. There must be a reason."

"Eh...I doubt it."

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

I stood, stretched and then glanced at the shoebox.

' _A fella should know his history, don't ya think?'_

"Whatever," I told Sandi (and the gruff voice in my head, again). "You wanna claw thru my father's crap? Have fun. Just don't wake me when you come to bed."

• • •

I felt a nudge and then Sandi whispered, "John, wake up."

"Huh?" I croaked.

"Wake up."

My right eye tried to focus on the alarm clock; the left refused to open. _3:11_ ... _in the morning._ I pulled a pillow over my head and groaned. Getting roused by Sandi in the middle of the night was usually a good thing but I wasn't in the mood for funny business. I needed sleep, and I said as much into the pillow:

"I need sleep."

"Wake up."

"John's not awake."

She poked me in the arm until I tossed the pillow aside. Her dark form, framed by light from the living room, hovered above me.

"What?" I growled.

"You have to read your father's book."

"It's not a book. And it's three in the morning. I can't, nor do I want to, read _anything_."

"John, your father killed over a dozen people."

I thought she was joking and replied, "Were they at least Lutherans?"

"I'm serious! According to what he wrote-"

"If Da wrote he dated Ann-Margaret, would you believe him?"

"Well, no, but this is different."

"Wrong, Sandi. You've never lived with a delusional person. Everything they say is one crazy yarn after another."

"When did he become delusional?"

"I don't know...about ten years ago, I guess. I didn't mark the day on the calendar."

"His book predates the illness."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"What if it's true?"

" _What if it's true?"_ I squawked like a parrot. "What if it's not? What if you're getting worked up over nonsense?"

"I think it's true," she asserted in an icy voice.

"Listen, if you're so interested in the truth, ask your father to write a letter about life with your mother."

"John-"

I rolled over, made exaggerated sighs, and then closed my eyes.

When I crawled out of bed a few hours later, Sandi was gone.

# 6.

"I Didn't See..."

I didn't see Sandi again for two weeks.

At first, I assumed my sleepy tantrum rubbed her the wrong way. I'd have to get on the proverbial knee, beg forgiveness...you know, the usual.

It soon became apparent she was ditching me. She'd often meet me outside the locker room after practice. We'd walk to my apartment, I'd need a shower...you know, the usual. After the fifth no-show in consecutive days, I realized I might've twerked her last nerve. When I phoned, her roommate told me, _"Sandi's at the library."_ Or, _"Sandi's at work."_ Or, _"She's busy with school."_ Or, _"She's sleeping."_ On the rare occasion I snagged her on the blower, our conversations were short, almost non-existent. And always, she'd be too busy with _work, school, sleeping or the library_ to meet later, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. When I apologized for making a snide remark about her mother, Sandi snorted like I had something hanging from my nose.

I went sorta batty, concluded she was seeing someone else and decided to follow her. _You have no choice,_ my brain reasoned. But something resembling common sense bonked me on the head before I could look the fool. What would I do if I caught her with another man? Beat the guy up? Break down and cry? With no alternative, I had to wait for her to tell me _what's-what_. Let me tell you, the waiting drove me mad.

Meanwhile, I gutted through grueling football practices and the first quarter of my graduate year. Our first game of the season was against the Hoosiers in Bloomington, Indiana. I was allowed to dress for the first, and last time, in my illustrious college career. The coaches claimed I earned the honor, but I thought they felt sorry for me...which amounted to me feeling sorry for myself. Regardless, I wanted Sandi to share in the moment, but no such luck. On the plane back to Minneapolis, while my teammates dwelt on defeat, I suffered the loss of Sandi. _Pitiful_ described my state of mind. Losing her seemed a million times worse than losing my father or a stupid football game.

The next afternoon, I slouched on the couch, stared at my apartment décor (a couple music posters, a Twins pennant, and a lava lamp on an end table), and tried to make sense of her behavior. Everything changed the night we opened the box from my father. I wanted to blame him for this mess. Him and his stupid package. In fact, I decided to pitch the shoebox in the trash.

I rooted through the closet, my bedroom and then the kitchen, but couldn't find Da's garbage. Like a miracle, it had disappeared into thin air. _Good riddance,_ I thought. Feeling better, I walked to Manning's determined to tip a few and spend the remainder of the afternoon in a boozy stupor.

Several hours later I stumbled into my apartment. Surprise! There she was, sitting on the couch, dolled-up and sunny.

"Fancy seeing you here," I said with contrived stoniness. I wanted to appear angry, not melt into a puddle of tears. "What's the special occasion?"

"Don't you remember? We're supposed to go to Jack and Jayne's tonight?"

I scratched my head and groaned. Jack and Jayne were our married friends, sans kids, and liked to host parties once a month. Jack used to be a hell-raiser, a fun guy, but his wife had neutered him. He did her laundry, for crying out loud! And he pulled the parachute after a few adult beverages. Worst off all, his eyes seemed vacant...like he survived a forced march or stared into the sun.

The other couples in attendance -strangers, for the most part- engaged in highbrow, political conversation. I'd down beers while everyone else sipped fancy concoctions Jack made from a bar book he consulted. They'd bitch about Nixon, William Buckley and Robert McNamara. Halfway through the evening, Jayne would drag out _Facts In Five_ or another insufferable parlor game. Once-in-a-while, I'd swirl my bottle and interject a pointless joke: ' _Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon? It has great food but no atmosphere._ ' Most of time, though, I kept my mouth shut and listened to the insufferable chatter. Point being, I didn't enjoy these shindigs. And I wouldn't lose a wink if we didn't attend.

"I figured you didn't want to go," I said, working an acceptable amount of regret into my voice. "Which is a shame, you know, because I love talking about Hubert Humphrey."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're torn up. Anyway, I cancelled. We have things to do here."

My libido perked up.

She saw the look on my face and said, "No, nothing frivolous."

_Frivolous?_ "What's with you?" I crowed. "I don't see you anymore and then poof, all a sudden you're here. No phone calls, no explanation...I'm going crazy, Sandi."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy to grab lunch or see a movie? I dressed yesterday, not like you'd care. I even played a few downs on special teams. It would've been nice to see you after we landed."

Her response? She pulled a stack of papers from her book bag and set them on the coffee table. The summit of this pile: the manila envelope from Da's shoebox.

"Oh, not this crap again!" I howled.

"Yes, and you're going to pay attention. These are my notes," she explained, jabbing the papers. "I researched most of the events in your father's document. It's taken me weeks of investigation combined with hours of phone calls. I'm not leaving until we've gone through this page by page."

"The whole thing?"

"The whole thing."

"Then what?"

"Then you're going to convince me none of it is true."

"How 'bout I skip the middleman?"

"I'm not kidding, John. This isn't a joke. I wouldn't have gone to this trouble if I didn't think it was important. I did this for _you_. The least you could do is listen."

"Jeez...you're laying a guilt trip on me."

"If it gets you to read what your father _wanted_ you to read, a guilt trip is warranted."

I blew air out of my lungs...and then said, "Fine, tell me what you've found."

Sandi had gone through my father's manuscript -breaking down his story into several sections- and vetted facts and statements. To begin, she used public records to find a John Foley, age 17, sentenced to three years of confinement in Mountjoy prison starting in 1917. According to the archives, he was released in 1920.

She concluded: "His story begins in Mountjoy. Once I confirmed he spent time in prison, it lent credence to the narrative."

"You're sure it's him? How many John Foley's live in Ireland?"

"Based on other events he describes, I'm positive."

I glowered at the envelope.

' _A fella should know his history, don't ya think?'_

"Go ahead," Sandi prodded.

Before I could change my mind, I snatched the envelope, dumped the sheets into my lap, and then started on page one...

# 7.

### Dublin, 1917

This be what I remember, though there are moments I can't believe these events occurred. I think: I must have made them up...but they're real. Confession won't help and absolution can't eliminate me debt. I can't tell me mates in the movement because they want me dead. All I can do is put me story on paper.

The conversations are true although the words aren't always exact. I've done the best I could. Sometimes the nature of the dialogue be fuzzy and I'm forced to take liberties. Other conversations be clear as glass; they stand out because of the situation. Believe me, I'd like to forget, but I don't think it possible. Mayhap it be better I don't.

I was a friend of the Reich because they were an enemy of my enemy. We in the IRA realized we had the chance of a lifetime: Boot the pasty English arse out of Ireland for good.

The Army Council knew Germany would soon be at war with the United Kingdom. Whilst the Krauts rearmed and expanded east, the doddering fools in London wrung hands and fashioned weak promises from a man what wiped his arse with accords. The policy of appeasement, what the old ladies on Downing Street espoused, be a policy of fear. Baldwin, Chamberlain...the obnoxious lot of 'em be too scared to look Hitler in the eye.

When it came to our movement, however, the Brits had no fear. They treated the Irish like roaches, kept our men unemployed and our children in poverty. They'd taken to favoring the Prods at every turn and throwing us in prison for the least offense. Why? They weren't afraid of us.

The English be bullies, Irish tormenters for hundreds of years, and used manufactured pretexts to justify their conduct. At last, they'd run into an aggressor of their own. The Brits, along with their pansy allies in Paris, were terrified. The Republican Army ached for the moment the fight be taken to English soil. I'm not speaking of nuisance assassinations and bombings of police stations. Our petty acts be tantamount to child's play. When the Krauts came to claim their pound, the IRA would be a partner to the fight. And it would be a holy show. In the beginning, some in the Brotherhood (meself included) pictured a future what be the Starry Plough flying over Belfast and even Buckingham. Grandiose fancy, it turns out, for grandiose fanatics. But we be desperate, and we believed our Nazi mates would stop marching whence they reached London.

Besides, we needed something big to unite the crusade.

Recent times had been brutal. Instead of engaging our sworn enemy, the IRA spent almost two decades fighting ourselves. We'd won the battle for our Republic but disengaged before the war be over. The North had the Union Jack flapping over their soil and Republicans in gaols. The South, governed by Free State politicians with the bob in pockets, were shills for the Crown. In the mid-30s, the IRA numbered a few thousand members. Me lingering brethren believed abandoning the battle be a blasphemy on our brothers and sisters what gave their life for the cause. Aye, and like a miracle, it appeared perseverance would pay dividends.

I could begin me story with the characteristic Irish violin: me oul fella, a drunk miller; me oul dear, dead after bearing the Foley clutch; three older brothers, God knows where they went other than the bottom of a bottle; an older sis married off to a grower in Ratoath; two other siblings dead before five of the consumption; a single room gaff in Dublin's Broadstone (be a stone's throw from The Black Church); primary education for a spell and then no education after Mum died; I avoided the Church and its cloth-wearing buggerers (me oul fellas words), and stayed clear of the Reformed Prods (The Church of King Henry's Pecker -me oul fella, again). So, there be the snippet of me dismal beginnings. And when it be just me and the fluthered oul fella sharing the gaff, I kept outta his way and he outta mine.

_But me actual story starts at the Joy in 1917 when I, a seventeen-year-old hooligan, was sentenced to three years for theft by swindle. In those days, John Foley be a petty criminal and con man what cared for no one but hisself. I believed it be fools work to make an honest living. Those what parted with their money were me targets. I got sloppy, though. Duped by the_ _Gardaí, I was tossed into to a place what changed me life._

The day before my sentencing, I was visited at the gaol by me best mate Frankie McMahon. I knew Frankie as long as I knew meself; I couldn't remember a time when we weren't stirring a ruckus. Bitter best described me, and I blamed everyone but meself for the predicament; you'd not find an ounce of repentance in my littlest toe. But I was also nervous. I had no idea what to expect from prison other than it wouldn't be a sunny jaunt. Frankie listened to my incessant bitching and bellyaching. Towards the end of the visit he whispered, "Look up Noel Slattery when ya get to the Joy. He'll show ya the ropes. When Mike did his turn, Noel made sure he was left alone by the guards and pervs."

Now, I knew Mike McMahon's political reputation and I wasn't impressed: "Isn't your brother a parcel to the Brotherhood racket?"

Frankie snickered and then asked, "Aye, and yer point be?"

" _Not be me interest, be the point."_

" _Jaysus, Johnny. Yer not swearing Sinn Féin Amháin. I'm givin' ye a name to help the stretch. If yer jittery or need advice, Noel can help."_

I told Frankie I'd think about it. My experience on the streets taught me nothing was free, and I worked hard to make sure I owed nobody anything. A debt to a stranger in the Joy seemed a bad play.

By the be, Frankie and his kin were Republicans. Every time there was anti-British action on the north side of The Pale, the Brits turned out the McMahon place and hauled somebody off. Me oul fella warned they were dreamers; they'd rather chase a free Ireland than get off their arse to pursue a job. Hisself cautioned me to steer clear of them and theirs. Trouble be, I liked the whole lot of them...all eight brothers and three sisters. But it be one sister I aimed me eyes: Claire. She was two years younger than Frankie and followed us like a pup from the time she could toddle. As a wee bit, she was a nuisance; I tossed stones to shoo her away. My conduct changed when she took on the look of her oul dear: slim, dark haired, blue-eyed, a fine thing. Then I took the role of lovesick pup.

Though me courting be clumsy, Claire and I became a ripe item. Hand holding, peekaboo, scrabbling with hands...she be the first bird I pecked and beheld in sharp linen. It be a matter of time before I rode her pedals. Alas, before we could get to the lickity split, I got pinched by the coppers. The oul fella chastised my 'dim judgment' as he guzzled the Irish, but I paid no mind to his opinion. Naw, I worried Claire would drop me like a hot stone. Turned out she didn't care, but try telling this to a besotted fool like meself. I wasn't facing a short lay, either. The thought of someone getting next to Claire whilst I lazed in the gaol drove me batty.

Before Frankie left, I made a desperate request: "You've to promise me something, mate. You'll keep the peepers on Claire, aye? And tell her to visit. Be nice to see a face other than yer own or the oul fella."

Frankie mulled the request and then said, "Claire's business is her own, Johnny. I can't stake herself to the ground. But, um...you don't have to worry. She wrote you a letter, mate."

" _A letter? What kind of letter?"_

" _You know, one full of the smoochy-smooches. I read a portion of it on me stroll here. Hand over heart, it made me blush."_

" _Jaysus, why didn't you say so?"_

" _I like watching you squirm."_

" _Feck off and hand it over," I demanded with a snap of fingers._

" _The guards took it from me, Johnny. Contraband or something. If you ask me, those Lymie bastards are wanking to me sissy's prose, he-he. You'll have to take my word Claire's crazy for ya. There be a passage what she says..."_

As Frankie prattled, my apprehension dissolved quick-like. I imagined Claire waiting for me with carillons and all the rest. What be a stretch for John Foley? Ain't nothing, be the answer.

So, at the sentencing, I was given an unappealing choice by the magistrate: join the British Army and fight the Krauts in France or whittle three years in Mountjoy. It be an easy decision for me. I was no patriot. The last thing I wanted to be at 18 was a war vet with a missing limb, forced to beg for coins on O'Connell Street. I saw those dismembered lads daily. Of course, there were worse fates. I could be pushing up poppies in some strange place.

" _The Joy for me, my Lord," I told the judge._

My home for the next three years be a cell. I had only me dreams: survive the Joy, get my release, get on the right side of Claire McMahon and leave this forsaken place for New York City where my cousin Tom resided.

• • •

I set the manuscript aside and rubbed my eyes.

"Keep reading," Sandi encouraged.

"Hold on," I said, trying to connect one thought to another. "So... _ahem_ ...you may be hooked, but I'm not convinced this isn't the work of a crazy man. The background story is interesting, perhaps true-"

"He never shared his Irish past?"

"God no. My Uncle Tom told me a little when I was in high school. Depressing stuff. I figured Da left because Ireland's a dump, but he never talked of his past. For good reason, I guess, but...he swings for the fences with the Nazis."

Sandi frowned.

"I mean... _he was a friend of the Reich_? What the hell? If Da's trying to get my attention, it worked. But he coulda picked something more charming than Nazis to build a fantasy world around."

"John, you have to keep reading. I know it _sounds_ insane, but this isn't a joke." She pointed at her bundle of research and added, "It's _all_ true."

"He didn't cry when Kennedy was shot," I mumbled. "My father didn't have a political bone in his body."

"Turns out he did."

"Maybe, but I'm having a difficult time attaching these words to him."

"There are lucid details in this account. If he is snowing you, he went to a lot of trouble, don't you think?"

She was right but I was uneasy, afraid of other confessions lurking in the letter. Against my better judgement, I continued...

# 8.

### Mountjoy, 1917

A tall, skinny, middle-aged man with a sharp beak and pinched face, Noel Slattery looked like a bookkeeper, not a criminal. He was inconspicuous in appearance, but looks didn't mean a toot. Noel was tough, if not the toughest, as any in the Joy.

Being hard meant Noel be a con to avoid. I was counseled on the first day by me old fag cellmate to keep clear of hisself, lest I enjoyed being a target for harassment by the guards.

" _There's Slattery," my mate whispered, pointing him out across the yard. Sitting by hisself, pitching crumbs to a flock of birds, Noel Slattery appeared harmless. "He's known as a special case," my cellmate added._

" _What's so special about him?"_

" _Special? Blimey, he's a fierce fella! He showed up 'bout a year ago, he did. Has a cell to hisself. Guards treat him like filth. Call him a traitor, they do. I've seen him end a man. Stabbed him with a fork in the throat during mess. The queenie was a loudmouth, so I guess he had it coming, he did. Noel took a thumping from the guards and a month in the hutch for his trouble."_

I couldn't picture this studious man ending anybody. "You're pulling me leg," I scoffed. "He doesn't look like he'd touch a fly."

" _A'ight, go test him if you'd like. Don't say I didn't warn you. Me, I'll stay clear and mind me business, I will."_

His "business" be serving the older cons; he was their errand boy, a slave. I wasn't keen on being queer, nor did I desire to catch the ire of the guards. I had to keep my nose clean, feel out the system and connive a way into the gun metal.

_Several weeks later, I witnessed Noel attack another inmate. The bugger was buying and selling the chiselers as sex objects. Slattery pounced and almost ended the drudge in the yard. I wasn't shocked by the viciousness; in my neighborhood, violence be commonplace. I'd seen people beat, stabbed, and shot over trivial matters. I be more surprised the guards didn't strew the scrum. Instead, they milled until Slattery was done. It took a spell, too, long enough for me to smoke two ciggys to the nub. Then Noel stood, brushed himself clean, and waited to be detained. For this act, he spent three months in isolation._ _When he was released from the hutch, Noel appeared none the worse for wear and fielded handshakes and backslaps from a number of inmates._

But me...despite what Frankie said, I kept me distance from Noel. Or I tried. One evening, as I walked to me cell after supper, I passed Noel's compartment and heard, "Hey, lad, might I have a word with you?"

Reputation being what it be, me canes got a wee unsteady. Noel, though, sat cross-legged on his rack, mending a hole in his shirt with needle and thread.

Careful not to broach the sanctity of his cell, I peeped, "You wanna talk to me?"

" _Bang on. I've seen you around but I haven't caught your name."_

" _My name?"_

" _I presume you have one."_

I pictured Noel bashing the skull of the buggerer on the yard concrete and then cheeped, "John Foley."

" _Foley," Noel mused, winding the thread around the spool. "Might you be a mate of Jamie O'Rourke of Ranelagh?"_

" _I don't know a Jamie O'Rourke."_

" _Hm...perchance I'm thinking of another Foley from Ranelagh."_

" _Me brothers might run with an O'Rourke, but I've not seen those fellas in years. They could be dead for all I know."_

Noel glanced at me and said, "Aye, I should've guessed. You don't look like a Ranelagh fella. They're soft lads. I peg you as a...a Bohernaglogh mate."

" _Broadstone," I corrected._

" _Broadstone," Noel said, as he returned attention to his shirt. "I hear there're Republicans in the Broadstone. Would you be one?"_

" _Naw, I don't pick a side. I look after meself."_

" _You're one of those lads, eh?"_

" _One what?"_

" _One of those lads what doesn't know the side to pick."_

" _Me own side works fine."_

" _What's your lay?"_

" _Three years."_

" _Three years," Noel echoed, head down, working the needle. "Three for what?"_

" _Theft."_

He grunted and continued mending.

Figuring the conversation had run its course, I took a step backwards. But Noel pushed his shirt aside and said, "Heavens, where are me manners? Noel Slattery, lad."

" _Aye, I know who you are."_

" _It's a wee world in the Joy, isn't it?"_

" _And outside. Matter of fact, me mate Frankie McMahon-"_

" _Ah, the McMahon coterie. Goodness, there's a knot of those fellas. Frankie, Mike, Tommy, Riley...and the rest. A couple lassies, too. Mikey and I rubbed elbows in here 'bout a year ago. Keen fellow, but a talker. Always with the stories. How's he gettin' along outside the Joy?"_

" _As to be expected, I guess. Truth be, Frankie told me to look you up."_

" _Oh? Why didn't ya?"_

" _I watched you end a man in the yard and I...you know..."_

" _You keep your distance from the wet work," Noel concluded._

" _It ain't me thing."_

" _Sometimes a man can't help what his thing be, John Foley. Like you, thieving and such."_

" _Thieving isn't the same as ending a man."_

" _Everything is a matter of perspective. Now, the piece of shite what I smacked? It needed to happen. But don't let it scare ya. I'm a cordial fella in most circumstances. And if you're a mate of Frankie McMahon, then I've no problem with ya. You ever want to chat, stop by me cell or find me in the patch."_

Me legs were less rubbery when I walked from Noel's cell. The next morning, I took a seat next to him in the mess. Soon, Noel and I were strolling the yard perimeter, killing a ciggy, chatting about the weather, Dublin, quim, or whatever the mind found fascinating. Unlike so many others in me life, Noel seemed to care about me and my future beyond the walls of the Joy. Or so I believed. Truth be, Noel played me from our first encounter, but I was too thick to see his scheming.

We were standing in the yard one afternoon when he turned to me and asked: "What do you believe in, John?"

" _A good time with my mates," I answered without hesitation. "Good times and a few bob in me pocket."_

" _Aye, what boy does not want the bob and craic mhaith? At some point, though, boys need to become men. John, you have yet to grow up. Being a man means you have beliefs. And beliefs give value to your life."_

Noel mentioned I worked the black-market. Prison has its own set of mores and codes. It's a closed society dependent on a hierarchy. He remarked I was tolerated because I was needed in this society. However, Noel chided I wasn't, nor would I ever be, respected.

" _I don't care about respect," I claimed._

" _Oh, I know. You're perfect for hustling because you're interested in money. This is your value in the Joy. But if you can't deliver, you cease being useful."_

" _What importance does your life have in here? Look around. We're all worthless."_

" _Whatever value I make it," Noel alleged. "I tell you one thing, boy. My worth is not based on the price of a few fags." He ended our chat with a smart pat on me cheek. Noel insulted me, in a subtle way, calling me a boy when I considered myself anything but. I was annoyed, but he'd given me something to ponder when I returned to my cell. What did I believe? What had substance?_

It wasn't God. After the life I had, I didn't have time for dreams or fantasies. Superstition didn't pay for my clothes or food. Survival be on me. God was a word desperate suckers uttered at the worst times. Was Noel trying to convert me? He didn't affect a religious streak, but mayhap time spent in the hutch after beating a man to death allowed the bright light to shine down. The malarkey of the convert be sweet for some, but if Noel was interested in saving me soul, I wanted no part.

The next morning, I challenged him about such a calling.

Be the usual: I found Noel in the yard watching birds, sidled next to him, and whispered, "Listen, I like talking to you but I'm not going to believe in fairy tales."

" _What fairy tales am I peddling, John?"_

" _God, the Church, Holy Ghosts and Virgin Mums._ _The mystical shite."_

" _Eh?" Noel snorted. "You have me wrong. I'm no Holy Joe," he said, putting an arm around my shoulder. "I believe in tangible things. I can't get comfort from the intangible. I have no love for the church, whichever one it be. I'm talking about country."_

Ah, I should've known. The McMahons...the contempt of the guards...Noel's yapping about belief and value...in other words, The Brotherhood. I'd seen these men throughout my life: Rabid fanatics instigating trouble by insisting we true Irish drive the English out of our backyard. After the Easter Rising, I witnessed what their foolishness triggered. The men responsible for the rebellion suffered, as did their innocent families and mates. My drunken, no good Uncle Sean, never sober to know the time of day, counseled me to stay clear of this crowd. Even his addled brain recognized the trouble these people stirred.

But forget me uncle and me oul fella. I gave no thought to the Brotherhood because I was a con. The one thing I knew: people always be trying to thieve something, be it money, skill, or your soul. Thus, my first thought on Noel's statement about country? What did he want to steal from me? Whatever it be, I didn't care enough to find out.

" _I understand," I said, shrugging off his arm. "Thanks for the thought, but I'm not interested in your club, Noel. I'll see you around."_

" _Do you know why I'm in the Joy?"_

I was a split second from taking a step when he asked the question. One step woulda turned into two, and then three, and then I'd be halfway across the yard as Noel stood with birds and talked his country malarkey to them. But, he asked the question and I turned me head. Like a good salesman, Noel kept me from leaving. The rule of a con is to keep the mark engaged.

" _Do you know why I'm in the Joy?" Noel needled._

" _No, but seein' as the guards call you a traitor and what with the other talk, I have a better idea."_

" _Bein' what?"_

" _Bein' you pissed in some Englishman's pot. Or shagged his oul dear."_

" _Is this what you think the Brotherhood's about?"_

" _This and the other."_

" _What's the other?"_

" _The occasional feather rufflin' what gets fellas like the McMahons, and you, in the soup."_

" _Well...the McMahons may feather ruffle, but my story's a wee bit more complicated. Aye, too convoluted for a boy like you."_

" _Jaysus, Noel," I spat with contempt. "I ain't a boy."_

He leaned towards me and whispered, "What I'm about to tell you isn't meant for the ears of a youngster."

" _I ain't a boy," I repeated, sticking out my chest._

" _Eh...you've the posture of man but...um...I'm not sure you can handle what I have to say."_

" _Try me."_

Noel looked around, as if we were in a crowded room. Then he shrugged and said, "This isn't codswallop, Foley. I expect you'll tell nobody."

I raised my left hand and put my right one over me heart.

" _Hear me out before you run your mouth," Noel said. "It's important I have your attention."_

It felt like he was stalling and tapped my foot.

Satisfied, Noel began his tale: "I've been part of the Brotherhood since aught and one. My cousin, Matthew, got me involved. Like you, I was a thief. Matty told me we were going to rob a high stakes card game in the mounds. The take would be huge. O'course I was in. It was me, Matty, and a couple lads. We grassed to a cottage outside Cork.

" _Our luck, the game we interrupted was attended by a constable, a judge, and several men with influence. Matty and the others stormed the place while I stood watch outside. They robbed 'em, beat them bloody. I got me cut and thought nothing of the evening. What did I care? I had enough bob to last a fortnight._

" _Turns out these men were working for the British. Matthew neglected to mention he and his mates were part of the Brotherhood. This was a punishment beating for British sympathizers. Through complicity I became entangled in the reprisal._

" _The Gardaí busted into my place the same morning Matthew and the others were arrested. The priggish cops demanded to know my whereabouts the evening before last. I told the investigator I'd been drinking with a few friends. By a few friends, did I mean Matthew Slattery? No, of course not, I said. He asked if I knew my dear cousin was a member of the Brotherhood. I told him no, which was the truth. I got punched around and thrown in the gaol with the others, including Matty. I wanted to murder him for dragging me into his Brotherhood shite. However, Matty had an easy way about him. He and his mates slapped my back, told me I'd done well. I felt...proud. I've never belonged to anything before. I enjoyed this moment of acceptance._

" _I was a loner, like you. In my quiet moments, I was ashamed of how I lived. My cousin and his crew held their heads high. They were not bowed by the situation or the beatings they endured. They had pride. Me? I slept snug, eyes glazed, indifference coursing through my blood. Getting the piss kicked out of me by those Limies woke me up. What gave them the right to treat me, an Irishman in Ireland, this way? This was the question I asked myself."_

Noel's story was interesting but not one I cared to repeat. And I told him as much.

But he countered with a question: "What does your old man do for a living?"

" _Why does it matter?"_

" _I'm curious, is all."_

" _He works at the mill in Malahide."_

" _Is he a happy man?"_

I never asked me da if he was happy because I already knew the answer. Moreover, I didn't fancy a cuffing for posing such a foolish question.

Anyway, the question be a rhetorical because Noel asked, "Are you happy?"

" _Me?"_

" _Are you content being a thief?"_

I never thought in terms of happy or unhappy. I equated my sense of well-being with how much money be in me pocket. I didn't enjoy being a thief; it be a matter of necessity. I didn't have an education and the uneducated in Ireland became farmers, soldiers, filchers, or priests. I'd be miserable doing anything else, but I didn't enjoy scurrying around like a rat, either. Still, it beat working fourteen-hour days.

I didn't answer, but Noel had me figured. He said, "I suppose you could go to the mill, work the rest of your life doing menial labor and die bit by bit like your oul fella."

" _Naw, you'll never find me in a mill."_

" _You're smug now, but let's see where you be in five years."_

" _I won't be in the mill, and you can lay money on me vow."_

' _Then it'll be some other lousy job. Did ya ever wonder why the British have all the nice jobs? Why are Irish boys doing the lifting of the British bags? John, look around. We are not British! We are Irish! Yet we're forced to spit and shoeshine the English like servants!" The anger in his voice, the narrowing eyes...Noel was a live wire as he gripped my wrist and growled, "What's your plan after you're cashiered?"_

" _I don't know. I'm thinking of going to New York and-"_

" _Of course! I should've known! Be the typical answer for the unimaginative. Flee to America," he sneered. "Why make Ireland a place of opportunity for the Irish when it's easier to leave? I'm tired of hearing this shite. It disgusts me!"_

" _Jaysus, calm down. I said-"_

" _I heard you. New York. And then, uh? You desire to build bridges and buildings? Work in a factory? Or will it be, like I presume, a return to thievery?"_

" _Hell if I know, but it'll be something better than what's here, which be nothing."_

" _Listen to me, boyo. There's another way to conduct yourself. I spent thirty months in the gaol. When I was released, I went to work in the Brotherhood. We were quiet for most of those years. Our organization is better today than in the early part of the new century. Back then, there were several groups battling the British, each working alone. Now we're one Brotherhood, working together to free the poor and prosper under our own rule. It's a far cry from the days of the past. Years ago, we could afford wee acts of terror against the occupiers, nothing widespread. I worked hard with others to forge something larger."_

" _How is it better? You're sittin' in a cell like you were in 1901."_

" _Fair enough, but the story is complicated and...let me pose a question: Do you know what it's like to harbor grand dreams, only to see them squashed?"_

Watching Mum pass and Da lose to the drink left me harboring no fantasies. However, I kept my mouth shut.

" _Aye, you do," Noel said. "We all do. I was part...I helped plan the Easter Rising. The Brotherhoods hopes, visions and hard work were poured into this endeavor. Years of work, John. Years. The plan was suicidal, but I realized this far too late. Nonetheless, Patrick Pearse, James Connelly and the others, like me, believed in the cause. This is what I'm preaching. Belief."_

Perplexed, and dubious, I asked, "You helped plan the uprising?"

" _Indeed."_

" _You?"_

" _Aye."_

" _I heard the British executed everyone responsible."_

" _Rule number one is don't believe anything vomited from a British hole. Aye, I should've been shot. I was arrested at Magazine Fort with stolen munitions. Asquith made short work of the planners. However, me cousin Matty was rehabilitated after his release in aught and four. He's now in the Irish Fusiliers. Matty whisked me from where the Brits were holding the organizers. I didn't want to be separated from me mates, but Matty said the Brotherhood needed someone to lead us for the next battle. Instead of the firing squad, I got this sentence at the Joy."_

" _Matty fights for the British? Why did he save you?"_

" _John, you gotta use your head, lad," Noel scolded. "No wonder you're in the Joy."_

" _Bad luck is why. Wasn't because I was dumb."_

" _Calm down. I'm not insulting your sensibilities. I can teach you to be smarter. No, I didn't say he's a loyalist. I said he's rehabilitated. Matty's able to work behind the scenes with other reformed Fusiliers to keep me protected. Do you get me point? We have big things planned. Most of the Fusiliers are with us, as are these guards. Let me put it this way: The ones who beat me are keeping me safe. The Brits believe I am being punished to their standards, but look at me after I've suffered a beating. Do you see many marks?"_

" _I...I wasn't aware the Brotherhood had such influence."_

" _We do, but we're waiting for the right moment to strike again. We're not pulling another Easter Rising until we have the details hashed."_

Noel's words had an effect hard to describe. I had no Mum, not much of a father, and a family splintered in a million directions. I led a solitary life until my confinement in Mountjoy. Noel became a surrogate father and mentor. In the succeeding years, I wondered if he recognized and exploited this hole in my soul. I'd like to think not. I want to believe Noel cared to strengthen me, turn me into man with values, through the cause.

• • •

"When do I get to the Nazis?" I asked.

"Where are you?" Sandi countered.

"So far I've deduced my father's not the brightest bulb. Meanwhile, he's being seduced by this Noel Slattery to join his brotherhood."

"The Nazis come later. What do you know about the IRA?"

I shrugged my shoulders. Had I heard of the IRA? Sure. The national news plastered snippets of bombings in Belfast or wherever, and Walter Cronkite or whomever would stare serious-like into the camera and lament the bloodshed between Catholics and Protestants or whatever. But to me, Belfast or wherever might as well have been on the moon. There's a reason I majored in accounting. I liked dealing with numbers, not imperceptive philosophies and irrational people.

"You've never heard of the IRA?" Sandi asked in astonishment.

" _Ahem_ ...I don't live under a stone, dear. The IRA is...like...an army of Catholics in Ireland. They're Republicans too, like Da wrote. Nixon and Barry Goldwater and...you know...Lincoln. He was a Republican, wasn't he?"

"It's not the same thing. The IRA is a terrorist group, John. They kill people."

"So? Da was in a terrorist group. He wasn't the brightest bulb, and he admits as much in his own words. I play football. Maybe in fifty years my kids will wonder what was wrong with me. Or is wrong with me. Whatever the case."

"You aren't in a terrorist group."

"What I mean is, people do stupid things when they're young. Yes, running with the IRA and this stuff about Nazis doesn't put my father on the right side of history but...this can't be true. Terrorist organizations? Nazis? He's swinging for the fences, don't you think?"

"I know how it sounds, but you don't know the half of it. Your father had...I don't know what to call it. Bad luck peppered by good luck...or it could be the other way around. You have no idea what he endured, John. Your father served with the First Belorussian Front in World War II."

"Huh? The what now?"

"The First Belorussian Front."

"This an Irish outfit?"

"The Red Army."

"Uh...hold on a sec. Are you telling me he marched with the Russians?"

"Yes."

"Was this before or after he was a Nazi?"

"He wasn't a Nazi, he just talked to them."

"Did he at least rub elbows with Uncle Adolf?" I asked with sarcasm.

"Be serious."

" _Be serious,_ she says. Be serious? I am serious! The IRA, Nazis and the Red Army? And I'm the one you're telling to be serious? Give me a break."

"I understand your skepticism-"

"Good, but I don't understand your _lack_ of skepticism."

"Can you listen without interrupting? I'm trying to have a conversation with you."

"Fine," I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"Thank you. Now, you asked what Nazis your father rubbed elbows. Are you familiar with Reinhard Heydrich?"

I blew a raspberry and then said, "I'll give you one guess." I could recite the names of Minnesota Gopher football coaches dating back to 1882...which left scant room in my noodle for stuff like Nazis. I'd heard of Hitler and a few others: Heinrich Himmler; the skinny, rat-faced bastard with a clubfoot; the fat man in charge of the German air force; the General called the "Desert Weasel" or something. In school I learned about Austria, the Sudetenland, appeasement, "lightning warfare", and the Blitz of London. I remembered enough to get by, pass the test, whatever. But did I care? No way, Jose.

She said, "Heydrich was Himmler's...you've heard of Himmler, right?"

"Yes, I've heard of Himmler," I scoffed.

"Good. So, Heydrich was Himmler's right-hand man and the head of the SS secret police, the SD. Your father met with him in 1935. It appears he, Heydrich, approved Nazi funding of the IRA. But there's something else about Heydrich: he played a large role, perhaps the largest role, in organizing the Holocaust. Why would your dad claim to have met such a reprehensible creature unless he did?"

This unpleasant news instigated a serious case of the squirms. The extent of Da's insanity seemed limitless. "What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, pushing the pages aside. "True or not, I can't handle page-after-page of dreadful shit."

"First, read it. Then we can make sense of it."

"Oh, I've made sense of it all right. John Foley was a thief who went to prison for three years. I don't need to read another word." I rose from my chair, paced the kitchen, shook my head.

Sandi let me have a moment. Then she said, "Sit down, John."

"Why? What for?"

"Why? I love you. I'm trying to help you through this. What for? Your father had a reason for writing this. You need to help correct some wrongs he made."

Spewing oaths under my breath, I ambled to the kitchen table.

# 9.

### Mountjoy, 1918-1920

Whatever Noel's motivation, he made me his pupil. He exposed notions I'd never considered and it begin with a simple maxim: Our system of life was corrupted. Slavery was outlawed, but the Brits kept the Irish as servants. In fact, Ireland was dependent on the British. Noel taught me how the Crown manipulated our economy to keep us under their gritty thumb.

He described the Great Hunger of the mid-19th century and the callous disregard the English nobility and lawmakers had for the Irish. As ours starved or fled the famine, the English were exporting our livestock and stealing our farms. The sight of the dead and dying didn't stop the Limies from their gruesome agenda.

The effect of the famine went beyond the decimation of families and communities. Many Irish packed their belongings, fleeing to far shores, leaving a void the Brits exploited by sending British immigrants, Protestants of course, to "repopulate" Ireland. I wasn't religious, but hearing this information opened my eyes to why the Catholics hated the Protestants beyond the normal 'my faith is better than your faith' attitude. I understood what fueled this feud. This knowledge compelled me to learn more.

Noel spoke of other subjects. He cultivated integrity, loyalty and sacrifice. I realized Noel wasn't different from me. However, he believed in Ireland and I believed in myself. Noel insisted there was more to life than petty thievery.

Noel was persuasive, but he wasn't perfect. I wasn't convinced the Brotherhood would work for me. Once I left the Joy, without his hand to guide me, I could fall back on me old ways. As luck would have it, I had something else working on the side. For the first year, I was getting monthly visits from Claire McMahon. She told me her life belonged in Ireland and she wanted me to be a part of it. But there be a catch: she didn't want to be associated with a dosser. I would've said anything to keep her interested.

So I took the bait and told her, "Alright, I'll give it up. Thing is, I shouldn't be hanging around these climes. There's nothing here but bad memories. I was thinking of going to New York after I'm released. If you came with me we could-"

" _My family is in here," she interrupted. "I won't leave them. Besides, I hear New York is no better than anything in The Pale."_

" _Claire, I'll do anything for you but I'm not sure I can do it here."_

" _You're asking me to leave everything."_

" _I'm asking if you want to start a new life."_

" _Johnny," she muttered, shaking her head, "I...I have to think about it. This isn't an easy decision."_

As me time in the Joy whittled down, my talk of New York became constant. I had a one-track mind. Claire humored me and I thought she was onboard with my idea. One Saturday I saw Frankie sitting in the visitor's room instead of Claire. I stared at him until he spotted me and smiled. I was afraid something happened to Claire until I saw his smile.

" _Well, what do we have here?" I asked. "Put a dress on and mayhap I'd mistake you for your sissy. By the be, where is herself?"_

" _I'll leave the dress wearing in here to yew," Frankie replied. "Claire's out of town for a bit."_

" _Where is she?"_

" _You'll have to ask hisself. It's not for me to say."_

" _Hisself? Who do you mean?"_

" _Yer fella I told you to talk with."_

" _You mean..."_

Frankie cut me off and grunted, "Aye."

" _What say does he have where Claire goes?"_

" _Ya need to hear the story from him. You'll understand. I'll talk to ya later, Johnny." Then Frankie got up and walked away, leaving me fuming._

I found Noel was in his cell reading a book. I knocked it from his hands and told him to stand. He looked at me, removed his spectacles and replied, "I gather you've talked to Frankie. Now you want to know what happened to Claire. You aren't going to like the answer. If we're going to go to blows we might as well get it over with. But I'll tell you ahead of time, you're interfering in my work and I have no mercy for any man who does. So, choose but be wise. Will it be talk or fists?"

I wasn't convinced I could take Noel in a scrap, but I was angry enough to try. Yet, he'd thrown me a bone and I was wise enough to accept. I lowered fists and cocked my head.

" _See, you're getting smarter already," Noel said, as he put on his glasses._

" _I'm ready to go to blows over a woman. I don't know how smart I am."_

Noel laughed as he put his arm around me. "Claire is a part of the movement, as is Frankie and nearly everyone in the McMahon clan. She's been going on missions for the past six months. Nothing dangerous, but she's doing her part for Ireland. She wanted you to know, but I wouldn't let her tell you. I couldn't risk you acting the fool. What happens next will either affirm my belief or it won't. Time to find where we stand."

I wondered if my entire relationship with Claire had been orchestrated. Did she do Noel's bidding to con me into the Brotherhood? What was true about what she said to me?

" _I don't know where we stand until I talk to Claire," I said._

" _Aye, I understand. But I wouldn't want Claire to be put in danger because of informers."_

" _Jaysus, Noel. I'm not an informer!"_

" _Sometimes a man doesn't know what he is until he is. And this talk of New York doesn't darn with Claire's dreams." He pushed me out of the cell and concluded, "She may turn up next week, or the week after. You can talk about your plans then."_

After Claire didn't turn up the following weeks, I stopped going to the visiting area. I was beside myself, but I wouldn't let the old bastard know. With a few other lads, I would listen to Noel as he preached about this and the other. I played along to keep his confidence. I thought I could dupe him by becoming an ardent nationalist. My old con ways had returned. Years later he told me he knew I was working him, but he'd win out because he held the trump.

On a Sunday afternoon a month before my release, I was summoned to the visiting room where I saw Claire leaning against the wall. Snug in a slim green dress, black hair stacked on her head...it took all my self-control to remain aloof; I wanted to run my hands through her mop and kiss her mouth.

" _I thought you forgot about me," I said._

" _I had business, Johnny."_

It felt like I had awakened from a nightmare -first awareness and then relief- and I vowed nothing would get between us again. Of course, if this meant I had to join the Brotherhood, so be it. I even rationalized my behavior: 'Men have done dumber things for love than swear allegiance to a revolutionary group,' I thought whilst staring into her eyes.

She cocked her head and then said, "I expected you'd be flapping a serious tongue what with Frankie claiming you wanted to see me."

I could muster nothing but a pathetic: "I missed you, Claire."

" _Don't be dramatic, Johnny."_

" _This be the true heart speaking."_

" _Ah, I'm giving you a hard time. I missed ya, too, but I had business. You shoulda heard I got called away."_

" _Aye, I got the story."_

" _Not a story."_

I nodded and then said, "I'm heaving in a month. Are you gonna be in The Pale, or are you running another errand?"

" _I expect I'll stay a bit. However, with this crowd you can never be sure."_

" _And will you be staying with this crowd for a while?"_

" _It won't be another way, Foley. Me family, friends...it's the group I run with. You aren't gonna convince me to go."_

" _Then..." I swallowed a lump and then continued, "If I were to stay...is there room for me?"_

" _If you're so inclined. But no more talk of New York," she warned, shaking her finger._

Though my stomach rumbled with dissatisfaction, I promised, "No more."

And to frost the vow, I swore the fraternal oath to Noel in his cell that evening and became a member of the Brotherhood:

" _In the presence of God, I, John Foley, do swear I will do my utmost to establish the independence of Ireland, and I will bear true allegiance to the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Government of the Irish Republic. I will obey the constitution of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and my superior officers and I will preserve inviolable the secrets of the organization."_

I figured, 'in for penny, in for a pound.' I was ready to march side by side with Claire until this thing be done or she be done with the thing. How long could it take?

• • •

I didn't want to read about Da's love life. I also didn't like how he'd been manipulated to be with the _third_ most beautiful lady in the world.

"How many pages would you say this manuscript is?" I asked Sandi.

"One hundred and five pages."

"I'm a slow reader."

She took the hint: "Why don't we take a break? It will give you a chance to run out and grab a six pack."

I shipped off for Manning's on an agreeable Sunday afternoon: the birds were singing, people were walking hand-in-hand, the vibrant green leaves on trees, puffy clouds in the sky. I tried to find distraction in these mundane things but my mind raced. How could I make sense of my father's words...if they were true? I wasn't convinced, not yet, but then I thought of the two men at Da's wake, showing up like lost family. The little man with the hard eyes told Da's corpse, " _Noel says goodbye."_

It had to be the same Noel. The small fellow also declared, " _How 'bout a wee hint before we go?"_ A wee hint of what? Some long-lost secret? Did Da reveal the workings of the Brotherhood?

The revelations, Da's alleged past...I wanted, _I hoped,_ to poke holes in the story. And I would because my father lost his mind. Hell, everyone from Ireland was nuts. Mm-hmm, all of 'em, a bunch of loons.

While I procured the booze, Sandi ordered pizza from Valli's...but there was one problem: the pie was the way she liked it, meaning no meat. I shoveled a couple of cheese slices into my mouth and lamented the lack of peperoni.

For dessert, she served up aged yellow manuscript. It left a sour taste in my mouth.

# 10.

### Dublin/New York, 1920-1929

Claire met me at the gate of the Joy but she didn't come alone. Beside her stood a pugnacious fella in a bowler hat, expensive suit and polished stompers. I learned he be Derek Tierney, the quartermaster of the Dublin detachment of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Tierney had been with the IRB too many years to count, but he kept out of the limelight and, therefore, out of prison. His job: stock detachments with the tools to undertake their tasks. If money defines worth (and it did in our operation), Derek was the most important man in the unit.

Because of my background, Derek took a shine to me. He introduced me to silent supporters, vulture funding and money laundering. It be a pat scheme Derek Tierney developed: working with Republican brokers from the Bank of Ireland, we'd purchase debt ridden businesses and pump money into them to plump feathers. Sometimes the investments didn't pan, but when they did the money be flush. The earned coin be siphoned through the Irish Relief Fund, a legitimate charity organization, and distributed to both the Brotherhood and the downtrodden.

I might not have been all in when I swore the oath in Mountjoy, but I realized the Brotherhood be a lucrative ascent from me days of petty thievery. Plus, the cause gave legitimacy to my illicit temperament...or what Noel dubbed "value" to my life. Of course, the difference between street hustling and riffling pockets for the Brotherhood be one of perception, but I swallowed the pill and tangled meself in the life. In short order, John Foley became a well-dressed, well-spoken bag man. And in November '24, my aptitude earned promotion: Derek sent me to New York City to raise the big guilt money from those what fled the Auld Sod for greener pastures.

Before I left for the States, Claire and I enjoyed a period of cohabitation. We rented a gaff in Booterstown, roosted like a married couple, carried on like two regular Dubliners with mundane occupations. The '20s be a volatile time for the Brotherhood, as I'll explain later, but there be a divide in the hierarchy between the Irish Free State supporters and the Brotherhood Republicans, or what be known as 'Irregulars'. The Brotherhood always worried about Constabulary and Gardaí infiltrators, but the Irish Civil War fashioned traitors within the ranks of the Irregulars. Republican leadership decided to regionalize the movement; Supreme Council members (Harry Boland, Liam Lynch, Joe McKelvey, Frank Aiken, Andrew Cooney, and Moss Twomey) split to different sections of the island and conducted autonomous guerilla operations against the Brits.

_In Dublin, under Noel's leadership, the Dublin Guard engaged in their own paramilitary operations. The Guard hassled the Free Staters, bombed establishments and assassinated politicians; in 1922, Rory O'Connor led a force of two hundred and captured Four Courts. The English used artillery to dislodge the insurgents and levelled_ _North King and North Brunswick Streets. A portion of the Four Courts was obliterated, but the goal wasn't to hold the building. We wanted the Provisional Government to know Republicans would strike whatever, whenever, and whoever we desired._

I never participated in armed action, but this be by design. At Derek's behest, I kept a low profile and handled the most important aspect of the struggle: fiduciary solidity.

Jimmy McMahon, Claire's oldest brother, ran a pub in Booterstown. Inside, money be passed by those sympathetic to the cause of Irish independence. I had gainful employment as a tap monkey and Claire worked the tables, but the real business be the packets of cash we collected and then disbursed to the regional headquarters. An additional responsibility Derek entrusted to me be the allocation of sweetener dosh to coppers, judges and journalists.

As stated, I embraced my role as a vital contributor to the movement. Claire, on the other hand, believed her involvement began and ended at the door of Jimmy's pub. She carped about being "misused" and lobbied Noel for greater responsibility. Women weren't excluded from combat, but I couldn't stomach the thought of Claire in battle. Noel also connived a better use of her talents: posing as volunteers in the Catholic Poverty Relief Association, Claire and other lasses worked the greenbelts to acquire truceileers and public support for the Republican movement. Aye, the Brotherhood had the Church in its pocket and clergy in its purse. Pots of money be spent, but cash procured loyalty: in the early '20s, the Republican cause numbered close to 72,000 adherents across the Free State and the North.

But there was never enough money to bribe officials and keep the rank-and-file fed, fortified and faithful. This reality necessitated my dispatch to the United States. 'You'll be gone no more than a year,' assured Derek Tierney. 'Ruck a pleasant pan and keep the donators motivated.' I didn't want to leave Claire, but what choice did I have? Begging off would've lessened my esteem in both her and Noel's eyes. So, off I went.

My first assignment in New York, after settling in with me cousin Tom, was to contact an old customer who tried to detach himself from the movement. The American branch of the IRB, the Fenian Brotherhood, couldn't get through to this man and asked Dublin for support. My orders from Tierney were explicit: corner our oul fella and make him understand the importance of his contributions. If lexis failed to open the purse, then muscle would motivate. Our slogan, 'Once a donor, always a donor...or else!', contained a proviso: Derek never considered ending fellas with the deep pockets an acceptable remedy. Destroying a man severed a source of income. However, making him hurt...

This charitable fellow went by the name James Davin. Born in Carlow in the 1870s, he immigrated to the States, found a job on the docks, became a labor organizer and then moved into politics. He had asked for our help with "sticky" situations in the past and repaid our assistance with fundraisers at the local pubs. With the politics came a sense of respectability. For some reason this didn't include the likes of us. Tierney assumed Davin still collected but used the money for his new career. We were used to being left behind as the local paddy made good, but if you wanted us to stay behind you had to pay. Davin thought he was above our demands.

_Liam O'Reilly, my man sent to help me in the States, resembled a dolmen: squatty, thick, expressionless. He was a hard man, forged in battle, lacking compassion and patience. To call him an enforcer would be like labelling Glenn Miller a street busker; Liam took the art of intimidation to the highest level. Even amongst the Irish rabblers on the East Coast, his reputation preceded hisself. He be a man of few words. If you got Liam talking it meant you were a second from pain._ _And he didn't waste time with instruments of malice. His fists and boots worked well enough. Make no mistake, we collected from all our donors._

But this first dosser, Davin, set the precedent for what our fundraiser campaign became: a fruitful enterprise. The official story be Liam lost his head. The fact be I made a blunder.

I cornered Davin at the Three Harps in Queens on a Friday night. First, I attempted cordiality: "Mister Davin, I need a moment of your time."

He must've judged me another down on the heel constituent and brushed past. I followed him around the pub, pestering and pulling his sleeve, until Davin swung his head around and rasped, "What the fuck do you want, kid?"

I said, "Me pal in The Pale has sent me to discuss the dearth of donations to the Fenian Brotherhood. A mistake on your part, no doubt, and one I'm sure we can remedy with a sit-down."

" _Your pal in The Pale," Davin mused. "How 'bout you tell your pal what I told the fucker from the Fenian horde: I've done enough for the cause."_

" _I can't tell hisself without something to show for my efforts."_

" _I know how you beggars work but I have responsibilities here, in this country. Let Tierney know he's pumped enough from my well. Now, leave me the fuck alone."_

" _I'm sure you know this isn't an acceptable answer."_

Davin jabbed a finger in my chest and said, "You fuckers and your bad manners. Go back to your shithole island and don't let me see your face again. Consider yourself warned." With these kind words, he stormed past.

I left the pub and told Liam we'd have to work on this one, but we expected trouble before heading to Queens. Liam knew a spot to get rough and put Davin in order. In theory, a straightforward shakedown, nothing personal.

Liam stood near the front door of the Harps, smoking a ciggy, when Davin emerged an hour later. I drew Davin's attention with a shout while Liam snuck from behind and bashed the man's head with a blackjack. Then we hustled his slack body into the back of a panel truck. I slid behind the wheel; Liam jumped on Davin, cinched his hands and fashioned a rag around his mouth. In silence, I drove to the dockyards in Flushing.

I'd never been involved in wet work. I was a pointer; I'd single out a fella and someone would sort out the problem without me being in the room. God's honest, I wasn't thrilled to be a party to this situation and I wanted to give Davin a chance to change his mind before Liam went to work.

We dragged Davin to the back of a warehouse and tied him to a chair. Liam then roused the slumped man with a few slaps to the face. Davin stared at us with contempt and tried to spit out the gag, but I held up me hands and said, "Consider this our sit-down. Let's handle our business before you get another knot on your head." Doling a cordial smile, I reached over and pulled the rag from over his mouth.

" _Fuck you," Davin gnashed._

Liam whacked him upside the head a couple times, but Davin didn't seem fazed. "You're both dead men unless I walk from here," he snarled. "I have the ear of people who can let you live or die. I'm leaning toward the latter."

" _You ain't making much of an argument on your behalf," Liam chided. "You're supposed to be talking us out of hurting ya."_

" _Fuck you, mick. I'm gonna make sure you and your queer friend are knotted up the next time we meet."_

Liam chuckled.

I said, "After what me mates have done for you in the past, thumbing your nose be taken as an insult. But there be a way to square the kitty: you toss a donation to the Irish Relief Fund and we forgot your bad manners."

Davin spat at me feet and then said, "Fuck. You."

I don't have a good explanation for what happened next, but his insolent tone rubbed me wrong. Here Liam and I be, holding the advantage, attempting to negotiate, and Davin refused to listen. I spotted a grappling hook sticking from a crate behind his head. Davin's eyes followed mine; he twisted his neck and then snorted.

" _What ya think you're gonna do?" he asked. "Did ya hear what I said? If I don't walk from here-"_

I didn't let him finish the statement. In one motion, I snatched and then jabbed the hook into his thigh. Davin thrashed and screamed as I dragged the hook down the inside of his leg, ripping his slacks, and...and I took it a mite further than planned. Or mayhap I didn't. Mayhap I intended to end him. Whatever the case...

Before I knew it, I was covered in blood. I took a couple steps back and watched Davin's life spurt and bucket down his left thigh. Liam howled in glee; I thought I was going to be sick. In the meantime, Davin stopped squirming.

" _Bang on," Liam said, sidling next to me. "I couldn't take another second of his mouth."_

" _Jaysus," I moaned. "I think I killed him."_

" _Aye, he's deader than Henry Wilson."_

" _I wasn't trying to kill him," I protested._

Liam side-eyed me and asked, "Whadda expect would happen?"

" _I wasn't trying to kill him," I repeated, perhaps pleaded, to my indifferent partner._

" _What's done is done. We don't need him. Besides, it won't hurt our collecting if our pals know what the alternative to giving be."_

" _What do we with him?"_

" _Leave him," Liam said, grabbing me left arm. "Come on. You gotta lose the clothes."_

On the trip to Five Points, I continued to lament my actions until Liam told me shut me hole.

" _It's over," he said. "Done and all the rest."_

" _Derek's gonna skin me," I said, feeling my blood-soaked britches stick to me legs. "No killing be his words."_

" _Aye, he might be angry, but I'll take the burden. Everybody knows I got a short fuse. And...let me tell you why this guilt your feeling is useless. Fellas like Davin would do the same to you and then some. Stick by my motto: there's no point making another enemy when God knows I have enough of them already."_

I stared out the window and said, "He's the first man I ended."

" _No fucking way," Liam scoffed. "I couldn't tell."_

" _The first and last. I'm never gonna rub the image from my head."_

Liam punched me in the arm and said, "After me first time, I got sick...and I said I'd never do it again. But we do what the cause compels, Johnny. I know you're a campaigner...nothing wrong with it...sometimes, tho, the cheeping doesn't stimulate. Like I said, we do what the-"

" _Cause compels," I finished._

So, there's the story of how I killed me first man. And this also be the moment I embraced a rigid mentality. It didn't happen overnight...but it happened. Good or bad, if I hadn't made me mind tough, I wouldn't have survived the misery I later encountered.

We made a good team, Liam and I. So pat, Noel and Derek decided I should stay for a spell. Twelve months in New York City turned into five and a half years; Liam and I raised close to ten million U.S. I delivered every penny, never taking a cent for me own, and channeled the money through the IRF and my cousin Tom's fabric company. Tom wasn't a Republican and he wanted no part of the cause...but he didn't have a choice. This isn't to suggest he wasn't compensated for his services; Tom made out well and stomached uneasiness when the coin hit his hands.

_Meanwhile, Claire and I maintained a semblance of a relationship. Once a quarter, I'd return to Ireland for a few weeks and we'd get reacquainted, but I realized our relationship wasn't one of genuine affinity. In retrospect, we didn't have a rapport beyond the thing what brought us together. Claire chased the fantasy of Irish independence; I chased Claire. The more she immersed in the struggle, the deeper I sank. But nothing I did or said would win her hand. I'd seen lovestruck mates abandon commonsense over women, but they lacked a sufficient outlet for the perceived slight. I had a method to deal with frustration and it be labor._ _I still loved her...or I loved the idea of her. But, like so many couples, we grew apart in incremental stages._

In 1929, the Depression hit the United States. Our money sources went dry and no amount of squeezing could wring the duster. Prohibition added another wrinkle Derek Tierney exploited, and liquor made us a healthy pot, but other members of the Brotherhood were capable of handling the bootlegging game. I asked to return to Dublin and received Derek's approval in the summer of 1930.

Those in the know rewarded me efforts with a seat in the Dublin headquarters. In less than two years, I'd be the quartermaster of the Guard division after Derek lost his head...fell into the bottle...be a typical story...

But I'm getting ahead of meself.

• • •

I looked at Sandi, dumbfounded, and said, "This can't be real."

"I'm afraid it is."

"Okay, try this on for size: I don't believe it," I said, crossing arms. "Uncle Tom laundering money? Da murdering this Davin character? Uh-uh. No way."

She rifled through her papers, handed me Xerox copies of _New York Post_ articles and ordered, "Read."

The articles were dated from the time of Da's purported events. The murder of James Davin in a Flushing warehouse...front page news. Method of execution: a hook to the left thigh. The police theorized a hit by organized criminals. No arrests had been made.

"Chilling, isn't it?" Sandi asked.

"This doesn't prove my father's responsible," I argued. "He could've read, or heard, about Davin's death. He was in New York at the time, living with my uncle, right?"

"I thought the same. But tell me what you believe after you've read more."

# 11.

### Dublin, 1930s

Here be some history to clarify the mindset of me mates:

The IRA was born out of the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921, a treaty what ended the recognized Irish War of Independence and created the Irish Free State; a treaty what be a triumph but also a defeat; a treaty what allowed Northern Ireland the choice of joining the Irish State or remain subjects of the Commonwealth. Those in the North decided to remain British slaves. This decision didn't sit with the men and women what sacrificed so much in the fight against the Crown. The Brotherhood had, through much toil, twisted the arm of the British into submission. But for the effort, the treaty gained nothing but a continuation of the English footprint on our land.

There be several factors for the post treaty haggling and hand wrenching: a pinch of political posturing, a dash of religious differences, a mess of contradictory personalities and the insulting notion a single (let alone thousands) of Irish men and women settled for British rule on any part of the Isle. Despite Eamon de Valera's opposition, the Third Dail ratified the AIT in 1922. The subsequent split between those in favor and those opposed fractured the IRB, created the IRA, and led to the Irish Civil War.

And it be a brutal Civil War. Michael Collins, once upon a true patriot, found himself on the wrong side of the argument with his good friend Arthur Griffith. Most in the Brotherhood -Noel included- were Michael Collins supporters until Collins endorsed the truce. Years after the fact, I believe Collins thought he did the "right" thing seeking peace. The problem be, Collins spoke with a tongue of fire during the fight for independence; he provoked and instigated, sent men and women into battle. These people, or their relations, wouldn't accept compromise. The adage of reaping what ye sow...Collins reaped his when Irregular assassins pumped a couple bullets into his head at Béal na Bláth.

The Civil War lasted a year and a half, but more people died during this period than during the rebellion preceding the AIT. Many of the Republicans best soldiers were killed: Boland, Lynch, Mellows and O'Conner, to name a few. When the country tired of the bloodshed, politicians threw money at our leaders and enticed them to lay down their weapons. The 1923 cease fire may have brought an end to the infighting, but our ranks and stakes were decimated by the Civil War. The Army Council decided we would maintain a low profile, allowing the movement to rearm, fatten the pot, and train new recruits.

_In my opinion, the period of amity was deserved and the Council's decision be sound. However, when I returned from the States I didn't find a contented Claire. I wanted to enjoy our time together without conflicts and entanglements. But she lamented, without respite, the Council's softness. She wouldn't listen to reason; she listened to anger:_ _Claire lost two uncles, three cousins, and a nephew in the Civil War; her brother, me mate Frankie, received a twenty-fiver in the Curragh for transporting a dozen pilfered British shotguns. It be an unreasonable term given the crime and Frankie wouldn't set a toe outside prison until age forty-eight...but this be the risks and he knew the consequences._ _We_ _knew the consequences. I explained to her the Republicans would remedy these wrongs, and a thousand more, but it wouldn't happen overnight._

Claire, though...she wanted blood to be spilled even if it meant her own; she wanted to rescue Frankie; she wanted to engage without prudence; she wanted and wanted and wanted...

Claire started to unravel.

I'd seen the same happen to others. The cause be more than a movement to some; it be a method to purge personal fury. These Irregulars made prodigious soldiers but they didn't last long in battle. Objectivity and sanity vanished. You couldn't talk 'em down. And in a time of peace, they instigate violence.

Noel corralled her with flimflam projects, more of the CPRA shite, but she started running with a rowdy crowd of women in the Cumann na mBan. I had long stopped thinking of life as precious. You live, you die, death ends it. In the meantime, you exist. Grim as grim gets. But to think of an ended Claire...it made me sick. What could I do? She'd never leave the cause, not like I would, either. 'Once a member, always a member' wasn't a glib expression.

Derek Tierney be an example of the maxim. I ended him in '32 after the drink waylaid his judgment. Intemperance wasn't frowned upon, but spinning woolen yarns to strangers...it didn't matter who you be or what you did for cause: cheepers weren't tolerated. Noel began keeping peepers on Derek after stories made their way to him. Though they were comrades, Noel decided Derek had to go.

' _He gets pissed and then he gets loud," lamented Noel. "The fool leaves me no choice.'_

I volunteered for the job because Derek be a mate and I'd be quick. I shot him in the head as he put a pint to his lips. Seemed the least I could do be to give him a final splash of the black stuff.

By 1939, I had nicked eleven: eight were the enemy, two were me mates turned traitor by money, and one be an innocent man.

On 18 April 1934, I attempted a weapons collection near Giant's Causeway when me crew were set upon by British troopers. I shouldn't have been there, but we lacked experienced men. Noel allowed me to oversee the arms pickup so it'd be done by the book. Our new blood had been less than professional in previous exchanges and Noel worried we could compromise our dealer.

I escaped but lost the cash, the arms, and the contact. I knew we were ratted; there be just two men, besides meself, who knew of the Causeway assignment: Bobby O'Dolan and Tommy Tighe. Skirting troopers, it took me six days to make it from Bushmills to the safe house in Cill na Seanrátha. Over a shot, I told a livid Noel my suspicions. He nodded and said an example had to be made. We didn't know if Bobby or Tommy talked, but Noel decided both would be executed, trussed and displayed in a public place.

One at a time, Bobby and Tommy were summoned to a safe house in Dublin City Centre and brought to the third floor. From this location, you can see the common area of Trinity College, the one spot in the Republic of Ireland where the English could still hang a man. Bobby O'Dolan arrived first; I stuck a gun in his face and he pissed hisself, but Bobby didn't snivel. Tommy Tighe showed a few minutes later. He saw O'Dolan's body and then gawked at me.

" _Sorry, Tommy," I said, "but one of ya talked."_

" _I had nothing to do with it!" Tommy cried. "I have three wee ones, Johnny! You know me! I'm not working with the English!" Tighe was a Meath man from Mullingar, a solid paddy; Bobby, a Leamhcán lad, had always been trustworthy. One of em be a liar. Both of 'em be ended._

When midnight came, the coppers looked the other way whilst meself and a couple mates hung the bodies from their heels at the corner of Dawson and Nassau Streets. Attached to each corpse be this placard: "These men are traitors to the people of Ireland!"

Nonsense like this be a constant refrain, but government infiltrators were a portion of the problem. In the early '30s, in the vacuum of IRA activity, splinter groups of the independence movement sprang like weeds. Eoin O'Duffy, a former soldier of the Monaghan Brigade, founded the Blueshirt and Greenshirt brigades. Whilst their ranks numbered only a few hundred, the Shirts tried to assert control over IRA neighborhoods and plunder our recruits. O'Duffy claimed the IRA be archaic; the Shirts promised action and change. As a consequence, the Army Council felt obligated to resume the campaign in the North. I hassled to deliver funds, lifted every stone, checked the arse of every rainbow. The international depression be a burden I thought impossible to crack.

Noel's responsible for what happened next. Turning to foreign governments for aid had been a strategy used in the past: during World War One, the Kaiser supplied the Irish resistance with munitions. With this in mind, Noel advocated soliciting the Germans. The Nazis, he argued, were a group we aspired to be. He didn't support the mysticism and fascist shite, but he admired how they wrestled their country from those what misused power. Like the IRA, the Nazis were composed of the common man, the downtrodden, and Noel identified with their struggle. In addition, they produced money from their once worthless economy, an amazing feat during the Depression of the 1930s.

Though some in the Army Council harbored reservations (Moss Twomey being the loudest voice), the Council permitted Noel to open a dialogue with the Germans. He sent a phony freelance journalist to Berlin; our lad secured an interview with a paramilitary officer in the Third Reich. According to the message Noel received from Berlin, the Nazis were willing to entertain a partnership. And because John Foley be a well-spoken bag man, John Foley received orders to cement the relationship.

From what I understand, we didn't get Hitler's attention. However, an SS officer named Reinhard Heydrich -a strategic thinker in their organization- recognized Germany would, sooner or later, have to deal with Great Britain. I'm certain Heydrich didn't care about the IRA or our struggle. Our crew was a splinter of the Nazi clout, but we could serve a purpose. Before I boarded the ship in Dublin, Noel sent me off with a stern message: Secure a deal in order to keep the IRA in business. 'Tell him whatever he wants to hear,' Noel said. It was beneath me to grovel, but it be clear I'd have to lay it thick.

In August 1935, I met Heydrich for the first and last time in a Dachau beer hall. Heydrich was the prototypical tall, angular, blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan. He was also drunk and eager to drink more. I got the rough pat down as Heydrich eyed me like a roach. Between his stony expression and the phalanx of thugs, I desired to be on my way with whatever kick-in-the-pants this man saw fit to give. As a money man, I learned to be confident and cocky. John Foley be all of this and the clover, but Heydrich's stoned, malevolent deportment cuffed me into my britches. I wanted him to feel like he needed the IRA more than we needed the Nazis, but I presented more a beggar than a businessman.

Speaking in accented English, Heydrich began the summit, "I'm told we can help you with a problem at home. I had to hear for myself what the fuss is about. What do you want?"

I gave him a pat answer: "Money and weapons."

" _You Irish are fond of the drink," he slurred. "Convince me you won't be pissing away our Reichsmarks in your commodes."_

Ignoring the snorts of Heydrich's goons, I said, "Irish patriots have harassed the Brits for centuries, but those fellas didn't work together. At present, our movement is solidified, yet we lack the hardware to conduct a meaningful campaign. When, not if, the time comes-"

He cut me off with a flick of his wrist and a voice saturated with indifference: "I'm aware of your border war. It's a protracted nuisance to the English. What makes you think your army, so-called, will be useful when the time comes."

" _Our men are hungry and full of desire. The Council's worked a strategy: relentless terrorist attacks in the North; assassinations..." Then I plastered the thick coat: "We've rooted operative in the United Kingdom. They'll work from the inside. Spies, you understand? We'll gather intelligence and pass it along."_

Heydrich studied me for a wee tick before returning attention to his stein. A minute later, he stood and walked away.

Meeting over.

I didn't feel like I impressed him. Heydrich hadn't dazzled me, but I wasn't the one doling merchandise. After a protracted trip home, I arrived at headquarters expecting to natter excuses for failing to seal the partnership. Instead, a beaming Noel handed me a warm pint, gripped my shoulder and gushed accolades.

" _Our money man," he declared, raising his glass in tribute. "I spoke with our oul fella in Berlin. He says everything is pat. The Germans will accommodate."_

I made short work of the black stuff and then crowed, "Be there a doubt? I had the Kraut eating out of me palm!"

" _Aye, you wag the silver tongue, Johnny. So long has it been since the Joy."_

The next months passed in a flurry of organizational minutia. The good news: I wouldn't have to deal with Heydrich. Our oul fella in Berlin be saddled with this onus. Meanwhile, I could handle the party clown the Nazis sent to make the drops.

# 12.

### Bremen, 1936-1939

In order to facilitate the hefty transfers, the IRA needed to construct a legitimate business presence in Germany. Unlike New York City, there wasn't a benevolent organization of Irish businessman in Berlin; donations from the Third Reich to Auld Sod charity organizations would've raised eyebrows in London and invited scrutiny. In addition, Heydrich and his ilk in the SS desired to keep our arrangement concealed from Abwehr, the intelligence faction of the Wehrmacht. According to our fella in Berlin, the SS believed Abwehr could or had been compromised by British moles.

Using a whiskey distributor sympathetic to the cause and purchasing carriage aboard Spanish-flagged freighters, the IRA sent thousands of empty liquor crates from Dublin to Bremerton. The Germans filled those containers with machine pistols, ammunition and miscellany ordinance. But we also needed money, and moving coin be a tricky enterprise.

We couldn't use German banks because the Nazis restricted the monetary size of transfers and deposits. These laws were beyond bending. Hard cash had to be passed...a lot of hard cash...and Noel entrusted me with the operation. I delivered the bundles to a Republican sympathizer in the Irish Bank; he turned the mound of Reichsmarks into Saorstát and Irish pounds. Some of the dosh be siphoned through the Durstiger Witz, a Bremen pub/inn (known as a gasthaus in Germany) owned by Irish expatriates; some be tapped by our oul fellas in Berlin. In the spring of 1936, Liam O'Reilly arrived in the German capital to become the IRA liason to the SS. He presented as another Irish journalist, a laughable cover, but the Summer Olympics added validity to the story.

The other "legitimate" enterprise, the pub in Bremen named Durstiger Witz, allowed a base of operation what we could coordinate exchanges. In addition, should a customs official at Poolbeg get meddlesome, my forays across the Channel could be described as occupational transactions. Considering most of the Levy Agents were on the take, the likelihood I'd have to explain meself be almost nil...but the wee tick you drop pretense be the wee tick you get pinched.

Tommy McMahon (the youngest, meekest and most sensible of the McMahon brood) purchased the tavern in Bremen. According to Tommy, the owner of Durstiger Witz was a Jewish fellow what sold his business below market price. Arnold Isack remained as a barman and lived on the premises...or so the story went. I didn't care about the particulars, why Arnie took a loss (tho I harbored a suspicion), or anything about the Durstiger. And, I swear, Claire had nothing to do with my indifference.

By '36, she and I stopped pretending we mattered to each other. I mentioned her histrionics, but I had irrational flashes too. There were moments I wanted to bash her head into the floorboard. I can't tell you how many nights we mussed the gaff with shattered glass, flung clothing and fractured furniture. Aye, we were both to blame for what came to pass. Seeing her leave for the last time be bittersweet, but I couldn't deal with Claire anymore. 'Good luck to the next fella what lands her,' I thought.

Days after Claire slammed the door, Noel told me, "She's a passionate lass. God's honest, I didn't want her joining the Cumann na mBan. The McMahons, though, up and down the line...they've been Republicans going back to the Socialist Party. Nobody twisted her arm. I promised her oul fella I'd keep her like a fine fiddle, but she's...she's-"

" _She's headstrong," I finished._

" _With good reason, Johnny. With what her family endured during-"_

" _The Civil War."_

" _Aye. You remember her before she-"_

" _Knacked her head?"_

" _She needs to be involved is all."_

" _Is all? Mate, the woman I fell for isn't the woman what exists today."_

" _Mmm..."_

" _What?"_

" _We should be so blessed with passion."_

" _There's passion and then there's insanity."_

" _I'll find her a pat spot."_

" _You've tried, mate. She's too-"_

" _Headstrong?"_

" _You said it."_

" _Nay, you did."_

" _Jaysus, Noel, ain't you been listening? Claire doesn't wanna do Catholic Relief, pamphlet writing, recruitment-"_

" _I'll find her a pat spot," repeated Noel as he squeezed me shoulder._

Aye, he found her a 'pat spot': Bremen. Perchance he thought she'd be satiated in Germany working with her brother. This be, after all, a vital undertaking for the cause. But I didn't think I could work with her, and I told Noel as much. Hisself said: 'You can't allow personal history get in the way of the job.' The statement be ludicrous. Plenty of me mates had rubbed me wrong and yet I set enmity aside. Noel didn't understand what I knew: Claire would lose her head at a critical moment. For a time, Claire proved me wrong. And then she proved me right.

In the meantime, I bit me tongue and did the job: on twelve occasions between 1936 until 1939, John Foley collected around 1,000,000 Reichsmarks, per trip, in Bremen. The Germans never asked anything in return, not yet, but we knew the day would come. Until then, me green mates honed skills. With an abundant coffer and weapons aplenty, the Army Council declared war against Great Britain in January 1939. This be a symbolic vow -the cause had always been at war with the Crown- but IRA Chief of Staff Seán Russell elucidated this decree for what followed: an unrestrained bombing crusade against both military and civilian targets in the United Kingdom.

During this period, the IRA achieved a level of success not sniffed since Michael Collins and the fight for independence. We always knew the effectiveness of feather ruffling by the severity of the English response. Thus, we must've been potent. The Royal Ulster Constabulary hunted us and our Republican brothers in the North whilst the Irish government suspended due process. Those what claimed ownership of Ireland and its people tried to bleed those what opposed subjugation through forced evictions, metropolitan partitions and work suspensions. The Crown, and its puppets in Dublin, didn't understand one simple fact: the life of an average Irishman already be dismal. Draconian measures added an ounce to a thousand-pound burden. This puny weight hurt enough to make people angry...and angry people be ripe for action.

It was no surprise we were able to recruit and conduct operations in the United Kingdom; it was no surprise the Irish community protected and helped us. When Germany beckoned and the time came to assemble all of Ireland, we knew the English had no chance.

Yet, in spite of our achievements, there were problems with the Nazis.

Some in the Army Council continued to question the logic of siding with fascists; they fretted we were selling our cause to the devil. For three years this argument raged, and for three years I faced queries when I returned with a parcel. I knew enough about authoritarians to perceive the Nazis weren't run of the mill whip crackers. If every member of the German military were clones of Reinhard Heydrich, then whomever got in the way would be swept aside without compunction. But the IRA's resurgence compelled me to tender bland answers. Likewise, Liam's dispatches were vague; he dressed Berlin in a shiny veneer. Both of us recognized the Nazi treatment of minorities flew in the face of IRA beliefs but...we did what the cause compelled.

To Liam and meself, there were worse crimes than slapping Jews around and affixing them with yellow badges. Skimming Republican money, for one: someone on the German side be fattening their purse with Auld Sod funds. In the spring of '39, Liam gave me an accounting of what the Nazis claimed they sent. According to the receipts, we were short 2,000,000 Reichsmarks. Twisty math wasn't needed to identify the culprit: the thief be our intermediary, a corpulent SS officer named Herman Mayer.

" _It's either him or you," Liam said with an elbow jab and snicker. "You two be the only fellas what have hands on the bob. Eh...recollect the proverb, Foley? Once a thief, always be."_

I knew Liam be bumping me, but I'd gone through the trouble of keeping things straight in case something gammy came up: Tommy McMahon always tagged for the drops. He helped with the money count and reported the total to someone in The Pale. When I arrived from Germany, me bag be reconciled against the expected sum. I never swiped a pfennig, let alone a few million Reichsmarks. Aye, the fat fuck Mayer wiggled light-fingers. Liam and I reported our suspicions to the Council...along with recommendations to solve the problem.

This thieving issue didn't have a simple solution. Liam wanted to complain to Heydrich, but I doubted the German would have been a receptive audience; I foretold of him blaming drunk Irishmen for the missing coin. Therefore, I suggested a permanent fix. The Army Council said they'd study the situation.

Months later, Noel dropped in at me gaff and announced the Council had reached a decision: they'd taken my advice...to an extent.

" _We are done with Nazi handouts," Noel said. "This is the end."_

" _The end?" I cried. "Whadda mean?"_

" _The Army Council's voted to cut ties with the Krauts."_

" _Noel...Jaysus, we're banking a hunk. The Germans are keeping us in business!"_

" _I've no voice in the matter. Seán Russell says: 'no more'. The Army Council agrees."_

" _We don't gotta end the bundles, we gotta end what be lifting from the bundles."_

Noel snapped: "Quit arguing! It's settled. Everybody's being brought home."

" _Everybody?"_

" _Aye, and we'll need to be shifty. I'm brainstorming the details and-"_

I interrupted: "What about Mayer?"

" _Huh?"_

" _The fucker what stole two plus million from us!"_

Noel scratched his chin and said, "The Council's looking the other way."

" _The other way! What kinda shite is this?"_

" _Ending Mayer isn't a pat play, and neither is walking from funds. But walking is easier than ending a Nazi official in his homeland."_

" _Buncha old ladies in Belfast," I muttered._

" _Johnny, simmer down. In almost all situations, I'd agree with you: Mayer should be ended. But it isn't worth the risk. So...here's what will happen: Liam's trying to wangle a big purse, make our last collection worth the trouble. Enough coin to keep the Republican Army rattling for a spell. Liam will arrange a meeting; you will go to Germany, take what Mayer offers and smile. Then the operation is over. Finished. Kaput. No argument."_

What could I do?

Months passed; at last, I got word: Liam worked a monstrous exchange. On me last trip to Bremen, I'd make the largest collection to date: 4,000,000 Reichsmarks. Then I'd return to Ireland and continue the fight. I promised I wouldn't end Mayer...but I dreamed of killing him. I dreamed of sticking a knife in his gut and hissing, "Compliments of the IRA."

• • •

I reread the section three times -it must've taken an hour- but Sandi remained rooted in her chair. After examination numero three, I sighed and then said, "I suppose you have proof."

She extracted more Xerox copies: a story in the _Irish Times_ , dated 21 April 1934, reported _"a well-organized military raid foiled a gun pick-up at Giant's Causeway";_ a second article from the same edition described two men, suspected Free State informers, found shot and hung by their heels in central Dublin; a third story, from the same paper dated two years earlier, announced the murder of _"prominent businessman Derek Tierney"._

The latest round of verifiable evidence didn't even register one of my sarcastic chortles. I tossed the papers aside and laced hands behind my head.

"What do you think?" Sandi asked.

"I don't know," I hawed. "There are too many coincidences to discount Da's story but...I don't know."

"John, the names, dates, your father's knowledge of the IRA...the information wasn't pulled out of thin air."

"But it's not a big secret. You found newspaper articles."

"Yep, but I spent _hours_ spinning microfiche and getting motion sickness. I also spent hours making phone calls and talking to historians. Your father doesn't skim the surface, he offers _specific_ information. And this stuff about the Nazis blew my mind. The meeting with Heydrich...like I said, he was high in the Reich."

"Did you find anything tying the Nazis, or this Heydrich character, to the IRA?"

"No, but it's reasonable to conclude only a select few knew of the arrangement."

"I take it Heydrich isn't talking."

"Czech partisans assassinated him in 1942."

"Wonderful. We have no proof the IRA and the Nazis worked together."

"Except for your father's story."

"I need more than Da's word."

Sandi jerked her head at the pile of evidence.

"He also called me a Nazi devil," I argued. "Is this proof I'm a Nazi?"

"I know your dad was out of it, but I don't believe he concocted this story. It's too involved to be a hoax."

"Then look at it from my point of view. This isn't the man I knew. Killing people...working with Nazis. Look at what he wrote! He didn't care about Jews being _slapped_ around? It makes me sick."

"I know it can't be easy, but you need to keep reading."

"Why? What's so important you keep shoving all this down my throat?"

"I went to _a lot_ of trouble vetting your father's story. If I didn't think it's true, I wouldn't be shoving my _meticulous_ research down your throat."

"You don't know what truth is to a crazy person. Truth doesn't exist. It's a different reality and here's the consequence." While Sandi watched, I flipped through the manuscript...found the end...and then paged back to where I left Da's tale.

"You can't stop," Sandi urged in a soft voice. "At the least, read the next chapter."

Sighing, I willed my eyes to the "next chapter": _Bremen, 1939._ The title, printed in Sandi's neat handwriting and underlined in blue ink; Da's words, typewritten, blurred and bursting with a mysterious past, cascaded down the crinkled, yellowed page.

Again, I sighed...but I kept reading...

# 13.

### Bremen, 1939

The transit was routine: I traveled on a Spanish flagged freighter from Dublin to Bremerhaven using Swedish papers under the surname Gustaffson. As usual, Ordinary Seaman Pieter Gustaffson spent the voyage holed in the XO's cabin sipping scotch. There was so much traffic in the Bremerhaven port one more OS -even a tall, pasty-skinned, redhead on an Argentinean freighter- raised no eyebrows. Besides, I wasn't worried about this portion of the trip. Although I was in Germany for "unofficial" government sanctioned business, if I found meself in a tight spot, I'd drop the appropriate names. Then, I'd wait for the problem to solve itself.

From Bremerhaven, I took a train to Bremen; in Bremen, I rented a bicycle at the bahnhof and pedaled to Propsteikirche St. Johann. After turning in the bike, I walked to Goethe Strasse and checked into the Adlon Court Hotel. Later, I strolled to a gasthaus called the Lemon Lounge, took a seat next to the third pillar from the door, ordered a stein and, sneaky-like while the waiter fetched me mug, penciled the initials of me inn and room number on the column. Slaked after one draught, I returned to the Adlon before dusk.

I could expect Tommy in two or three days. Sometimes he brought Mayer, sometimes not. Sometimes Tommy took me to a park, or a coffeeshop, or a zoo...and Mayer would show his face not long after we arrived. The exchange took seconds: I'd give Mayer a nod, lift the case, and beat an exit. Nothing chancy.

Until Tommy's knock, I kept a low profile. I didn't leave the room, not even for vittles, and practiced me German. In five years, I had fashioned a pedestrian command of the language. To think Johnny Foley, a hoodlum Jackeen lacking institutional smarts, could learn a second language...aye, I impressed meself.

Tommy's signature three-by-four-by-one rap came the next afternoon. He, like all the menfolk of the McMahon clan, was stocky and square-faced. But Tommy wasn't a twisted nose bruiser, and he often appeared jittery. Thus, I wasn't surprised when he pushed into me room looking off his pleat and glassy-eyed. Straight-away, he went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peeked the street.

I shut the door and hailed, "What's the word, fella?"

" _The word," he mumbled to the window, "is the Durstiger Witz be less an employee and a couple residents."_

" _Eh?"_

Tommy dropped the shade and spun his blockhead to me. "Níl mé ach ag magadh," he said in Gaelic.

" _Who?"_

" _Our barman, the Jew. He and his were hauled out this morning by the Gestapo. We had them SS bastards crawling through every nook. Guess the fat piece of shite what participated in the raid?"_

" _Mayer," I pronounced._

" _Bang on. Claire gave him a good lashing but Mayer shrugged his shoulders. Jew rousting is a sport for these fellas. By the be, he wants to meet tomorrow at me gaff. Seven bells."_

" _Your gaff?"_

" _Mayer's request."_

" _What's wrong with the Oslebshauser or Wallanlagen?"_

" _He wants to do the deed in a secure clime, not at the gardens._ _Claims he's carrying a big bucket."_

" _Aye, it's a big one."_

" _How much?"_

" _Four."_

Tommy whistled.

" _A big bucket," I confirmed. "A big, final bucket."_

" _Final?"_

" _This is the end of it, Tommy. The last exchange. I've English passports for you and Claire under Mister and Missus Baldwin. You're to take the train from Bremen to Berlin. Liam will be waiting and then the three of you will make for home. He's working the particulars."_

" _Baldwin?"_

" _My guess is you're traveling via Paris to London."_

" _London?"_

I put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Tommy, you gotta trust Liam's not a chancer. Nothing's going direct from Berlin to the Isle given the state of things."

He tugged his ear but relented, "Aye...aye, I understand. What about you?"

" _Since I'll be holding, I leave the same way what I arrived. Me ship, from Bremerhaven, on the first of September. So...say goodbye to Germany, mate."_

" _Thank the Good Lord," he whispered._

" _Thank the Council, not the Almighty."_

" _I'll thank who I want. This can't come any sooner, Johnny. After today, I'd polish the King's nob if it got me out of Bremen."_

" _Bah. You're being dramatical."_

" _Feck off. You weren't there. I thought the SS were coming for us. I know we have stony mates, but these Germans lack any emotion. And Claire...she didn't endear to them maggots. She's not holding a full purse after Isack's arrest."_

" _Who?"_

" _Our barman. Arnie Isack. I think she's sweet on him."_

I shouldn't have cared...but I did...and I felt the blood rush to my face. Tommy saw the scarlet and chuckled.

" _Listen, mate," I argued, "we're old news."_

" _No offense, but yer face begs to differ."_

" _I don't...never mind about me, you gotta keep her from acting the fool until we bunk off."_

" _Easier said. You should try talking to her."_

" _I'll take the pass. I've enough passion to suppress when I see my fella Mayer tomorrow. Keep her away from me, Tommy. She can grouse to Liam on the trip home to her hearts content."_

Tommy left my room a mite relieved. And though I would've felt finer making Mayer a corpse, I felt fine enough with things as they stood.

Of course, the next evening everything went to bags.

I walked into the Durstiger Witz a half-hour before the exchange and took a seat at a table. The pub was populated by a couple sots chatting at the bar and a busty server, but no sign of Claire or Tommy.

Casual-like, I knocked back a stein, wiped my mouth, and then made for the jacks. The stairs ran next to the w.c. and I scaled them to the third floor of the inn. Both Claire and Tommy had rooms on three: her, at the end of the hall; he, first door on the left. I didn't bother with a knock, but twisted the knob, opened the door and...

... _and found Tommy and Claire staring at me from the other side of the room._

I musta shot Tommy daggers because he lifted his hands and said, "Mate, don't get mad."

" _What's she doing here?" I asked, as if Claire wasn't present._

" _I've a name, Foley," Claire snapped._

" _You and your name ain't supposed to be in this room," I responded. "So git. Tend to your pub. It'll be your last night to work this hole."_

" _It's true?" herself asked. "We're leaving?"_

" _Didn't ya tell her?" I asked Tommy._

He shrugged and said, "She didn't believe me."

" _Then here it is, straight from me mouth, love," I said, motioning her to the door. "The operation is kaput."_

But Claire didn't budge.

" _Crying out loud," I squawked._

" _What's changed?" she challenged._

I said, "The Council's strategy. We'll deal with the Brits on our own terms from here on. The Nazis don't fit into our plan. We'll take this last bit of their dosh for our trouble and be on our way."

Claire studied me for a moment and then said, "You're willing to take Nazi money and forget they've arrested Arnie Isack and his family."

" _Claire," Tommy scoffed, rolling eyes, "we've been over it."_

" _I have to talk to Mayer," she said, closing the distance between us._

" _No," I responded with a chin jut._

" _John, we gotta help him," she pleaded, touching me on my forearm with her fingers. "All his money, furnishings...everything was seized. He'd been living here, working, doing nothing wrong. His family...kids..."_

" _His wife?" I asked, pushing her hand away. "The Nazis take her too?"_

" _I know what you're insinuating and it's none of your business."_

" _How can I help them," I told her, more as a statement than a question. "I wouldn't know where to begin. Even if I knew what to do, I don't have time to do it. Mayer isn't going to hand a key to a cell and tell me to free the Isack clan."_

" _Can you ask him?"_

" _Are you deaf? We're leaving tomorrow. We can't stay an extra minute. I'm sorry for him, them...but I have a responsibility beyond this Isack fella."_

I recognized she was looking for any straw, but I had none. Next, the begging, pleading, and the threatening would follow. She was once my lover and friend; I knew all her tricks. Yet, for the most part, we shared the same mind when it came to the IRA and the grand plan. I hoped she'd remember.

Herself didn't and rammed the gamut in a shrill voice: 'What kind of a man was I? How could I work with people who would do such things? How could she have misjudged a person? How I could live an entire life without a friend or kind thought?'

Claire, bordering on hysteria, working me last nerve...

I couldn't help meself and slapped her across the cheek. I might as well have shot her based on the screaming and bawling what followed.

Tommy attempted to intervene, but I stared him back into the corner. Then I turned to her and hissed, "Shut your hole, Claire. Isack is not my problem. If you think I would compromise the Brotherhood for a million people, let alone a family of German Jews, you're bats."

" _You're scum," she sniveled._

" _Me?" I jeered. "At one time I tried getting you to leave. But you...you were hellbent on fighting the good fight. We could be in New York City, not Bremen. How can I work with people who would do such things? Well, why don't you look in the mirror, love. I'm certain you'll see the answer."_

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Tommy sighed.

Satisfied, I hustled her to the door and said, "Git outta here, go to your room, stay put, and wait for Tommy. Understand?"

And it might've worked as planned...except Herr Mayer arrived as I opened the door. The fat fuck, squeezed into a charcoal suit, stood in the hallway, right arm raised, hand closed, ready to rap. I peeked the satchel tucked under his left and then the smile on his face.

" _Ach, gerade noch rechtzeitig," Mayer rattled...which meant 'I'm here on time' or words to the effect._

I lacked the energy to hone my German and told him, in English, "Let's make this quick, fella."

" _Quick like a canary," Mayer chirped. "I have the goods but..." his eyes appraised Claire, then found their way to me._

" _She's leaving," I said, pinching Claire's arm._

" _No, no," Mayer fussed. "She should stay. The Fräulein and I didn't finish what we started yesterday."_

" _Du meinst wie viel von einem arschloch du bist," Claire retorted._

I didn't know the exact translation, but Mayer's faltering smile offered a rough idea.

" _She gave me her tongue yesterday, too," Mayer said, squeezing past us. "Full of...eh...what you English call pejoratives, I believe."_

" _We aren't English," I said._

" _Yes, yes, whatever," said Mayer. "Irish, I know. Same thing, is it not? Same island, same speech, same awful food." He tossed the satchel on the bed, took a chair, and kicked out his feet. "Your boy can tally while I wait," he added, checking his watch. "Ich habe zeit zu töten...er...I've time to kill."_

Claire opened her mouth to blab something else, but I pushed her into the hallway and slammed the door. Meanwhile, Tommy went to work on the satchel. He dumped the contents -bundled Reichsmarks piled on the bed- and started the laborious act of counting.

" _The Fräulein," Mayer said, shaking his head. "Ahem...make her understand other men of the Schutzstaffel, even the Wehrmacht, wouldn't handle her abuse with composure."_

" _She's had a rough day," I said._

Mayer continued as if I hadn't spoken: "Obdachlose Juden. Homeless Jews. Jews living in the basement of this place. This is not allowed. It's not personnel but the law is the law. She...she's lucky, you see? I could've taken her for harboring the Obdachlose. And speaking the way she did to me? Tsk, tsk."

Attempting to change the subject, I asked, "You brought the agreed amount?"

" _I could tell the woman has a connection to the Jew man," Mayer said, almost to hisself...but loud enough for me and Tommy to hear. "He's married, you know. Frau Isack...whatever her name...ignored the foolishness because she had a place to squat. Can you see what lengths the Jews go? The demeaning measures of self-preservation? Your Fräulein's been duped by the man. This is the Jew way."_

I glanced at Tommy. He was doing his best to riffle through the cash in an efficient manner, but he wasn't counting fast enough. A second later, I stood next to the bed and lent a hand.

" _But...she appears smitten," Mayer mused. "Hm...there is a way...I think...to make things pleasing for all parties. If you're inclined, for a small fee, I can secure this man's release. For a bigger fee, I can free the brood."_

" _I'm not interested in barter," I said._

Again, Mayer ignored me: "For the family...I'd say half of what's in my bag would sway. Of course, they'd need papers and...and this would be a cost. Not easy to procure but-"

" _Mayer," I interrupted, "consider the Reichsmarks you've helped yourself as payment for the Jews. Or don't. But you're not getting any of this, fella."_

He screwed up his face, snorted...mannerisms of a deceiver, the oul fella used to say...and then mustered tepid outrage: "What an offensive statement! I stole nothing from you!"

" _Come on, mate," I chided. "I know our bags have been short. A few bob here, a few there. If the mathematicals be correct, it adds to a couple million."_

" _Whose math? Yours? Pfft! Idioten mit zahlen machen zahlen idiotisch."_

Tommy sniggered.

I caught enough of the insult: idiots and numbers make numbers idiotic. Irritated, I dropped a bale from me hands and gnashed, "Me mate in Berlin wanted to bring your light-fingered exercise to a man in a high place, but I talked him out of it. Mayhap I'll tell me mate to reconsider."

" _Bah," Mayer sneered. "Sure, tell my boss. Tell his boss, too. You'd have to tell everyone all the way up to the Chancellor before you'd find someone who gives a shit. Even then, taking your word against mine...how do you think the situation would resolve, hm?"_

On top of asking for a bribe (and using Claire's infatuation as motivation), Mayer's audacious attitude added a barrow full of coal to me fire. Deviating from the script never ended well in these situations. Davin, and a few others, came to mind...and I might have done something I'd regret later had Tommy not played peacemaker:

" _Er...we're pat, Johnny. Sixty bundles with-"_

Mayer stood, brushed his suit pants, and announced, "I'll be leaving now. I'd order, not suggest, you keep a muzzle on your Fräulein before-"

-before she does something stupid...I wonder if Mayer had these ironic words on his tongue. Ironic...because what happened next: Claire yanked open the door and did something stupid.

She had murder in her narrowed eyes (at least it looked like murder), a blade in her left hand (fifteen centimeters, give or take), and kicked the door closed behind her.

" _Setz dich," she barged, pointing the knife at Mayer._

" _Das ist nicht schlau," Mayer croaked, as he fell to his arse._

I tried intercepting her, shuffling forward with arms raised, but she jabbed the knife at me and snarled, "Get back, Foley, or I'll cut ya!"

" _Claire!" Tommy bellowed. "Put the cutter down! Throw it on the bed!"_

But she ignored Tommy and fixed her eyes on Mayer. "Du wirst Arnie Isack und seine Familie freilassen," she whispered. "Du wirst-"

" _Nein!" Mayer spat. "Das ist unmöglich!"_

Once again, I be a step slow on the back-and-forth, but I got the kernel. She wanted Isack freed. Mayer said no. Whilst I finished untangling Mayer's last exclamation ('It's impossible!'), Claire looked at me and said, "I'm gonna end him."

Mayer half-rose from his chair, but the creak of floorboards drew her attention to him. She be less than a meter from me; a swift, precise swat would've disarmed her. But if I wasn't swift, or precise...she looked crazy enough to take a slice out of me.

" _Höre auf deine freunde," Mayer said, trying to form a smile. I saw the sweat pebbling on his forehead, arms shaking. In a moment he'd wet hisself._

" _Lass sie gehen," said Claire._

" _I told her to listen to her friends," Mayer explained as his eyes darted from me to Tommy._

" _Claire-" Tommy began._

" _She wants the Jews," Mayer intoned. "She wants me to free them. I say it's impossible...eh...unless..."_

I could see where he be veering and groaned.

" _Es sei denn?" Claire asked, cocking head and lowering the weapon a wee bit._

" _Das geld," Mayer said, jerking his head towards the bed and its sixty bundles. "Sie bezahlen, ich arbeite einen deal."_

Before Claire could get the words out of her mouth, I said, "No, Claire. It's not happening. The dosh is for the IRA."

" _Then I do it the hard way," herself said, giving me the side-eye._

" _Komm jetzt," Mayer blubbered, now erect with raised arms. "Ich bin SS. Weißt du, was passiert, wenn du mich tötest?"_

Claire glared at Mayer; he gawked at her; Tommy looked at me; I considered the money and then gazed at Tommy. This be a tough spot and I wondered, for a tick, if the episode be contrived. On Mayer's end, for certain: he wanted the exchange here; he wanted to see Claire to 'finish what they discussed yesterday'...or words to the effect; he dangled Isack's release with a parting gift. I concluded the raid to arrest the Isacks be orchestrated for this moment.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and closed eyes.

And now Claire had made a bag of everything. Threatening the man meant we had to give him something. We couldn't let Mayer walk, after holding him at knifepoint, and not expect repercussions. But I wouldn't give him anything. Not a Reichsmark, let alone two million...

I opened my eyes. Tommy had crept into the far corner and stared at his stompers. Claire, with the knife...she'd make a holy mess of the room. A mess worse than my Davin episode. Mayer...his girth, squeals, bodies banging into walls. The racket be capable of drawing attention.

As if reading my thoughts, Mayer said, "You have to be reasonable."

" _Sit down," I told him._

" _What?"_

" _Sit down. I want to talk through what happens after I give you two million Reichsmarks for the Isacks."_

" _She puts the knife away?"_

" _Claire," I said, "give me the knife."_

She dropped the blade; it clattered on the floor next to her right foot. Mayer slouched in the chair and wiped his brow with a hand.

Quick-like, I kicked the blade under the bed.

" _There," Mayer sighed, "now we talk like reasonable people."_

I approached him as he dabbed, placed my hands on the arms of the chair, leaned forward and then said, "Tommy, get his dosh together."

" _But Johnny-"_

" _Put it in the satchel, mate. Mayer, what happens next?"_

" _Eh...I'll find die fehler...a mistake...in the paperwork and have them returned here."_

" _A paperwork mistake will free them?"_

" _Of course. The law is enforced to the letter. Errors in legality are remedied in an expeditious manner."_

" _When?"_

" _They'll be released in the morning. Or...perhaps the afternoon. It will take a few hours. The detention station is on Am Wall. Of course, they may have been moved to another site but it will not be a problem locating them."_

" _Your people won't be back to haul them away?"_

Mayer shook his head.

Needless to say, I didn't believe him. But it didn't matter because I wasn't giving Herr Mayer anything but a knock to the nose.

He started yapping again as I stood and exercised my right hand. Counting under his breath, Tommy raked bundles into the satchel. Then I peeped Claire: she leaned against the wall, a hand on her forehead.

There's a moment you reach before action, a surreal calm as the mind grapples with untold futures. The trick be to zero on the one future you want, not the future you deserve.

Mayer talked, eyes on mine, and never saw the palm strike. A perfect blow can kill a man. Alas, I'm not perfect, but I bashed him hard, driving me palm upwards, against the nose; the chair tipped backwards; Mayer pinwheeled arms and slammed against the floor.

Flat on his back, legs kicking, he gurgled, "Oft," and tried to raise his head. Blood emptied from the crooked beak.

Hand aching, I jumped on him, full weight, as he hastened to sit. I had him stunned, pinned, but not secure. I delivered another palm strike and heard a crack. Mayer groaned.

As I brought my hands around his throat, Claire cried, "What are you doing?" Then she was on me, pulling me shirt, grabbing hair, raking her nails along the back of me neck.

" _Tommy," I grunted, "get her away from me."_

Out of my periphery, I saw Tommy scramble over the bed. Whatever happened between the two of them...I couldn't see, but seconds later, Claire's claws were gone. I heard the water closet door slam and then the sound of running water. Claire continued her bellowing, now somewhat muted, but I turned full attention to the German fella.

Strangling a man is the most intimate of all ends. Face-to-face, I be referring. Face-to-face, eye-to-eye, body on body, breath on breath until no breath be exhaled. Mayer's arms flailed, he tried to find my eyes, nose, mouth, but I whipped my head and squeezed. I squeezed hard. He bucked; he tried to roll. The big beast, though, coughing blood and panicky, couldn't find leverage. I brought a knee into his giblets, felt him shudder.

And I squeezed.

" _Was," he wheezed._

Harder.

Both thumbs dug into his Adam's apple; I felt his throat pop. His eyes, dripping tears, blinked.

" _Tell me I'm English again," I whispered._

I don't know how long it took to end him. I'd wager a minute. The lessening of resistance -bulging eyes displaying burst blood vessels, mouth working like a fish- be the customary evolution of termination. At last, Mayer slackened.

" _Feck off," I told his corpse._

Like he be responding, Mayer emptied bowels.

" _Tommy," I called. "I need your assistance."_

I be straddling Mayer when the McMahon siblings crept from the jack. First came Tommy, looking the ghost. He froze and started coughing. I thought he'd empty his stomach.

" _In the jacks if you gotta heave," I told him._

" _The smell," Tommy rattled between hacks._

Pushing her brother aside, Claire deadpanned, "He soiled hisself."

I snapped fingers and said, "Forget the smell. We've to wrap and then move the trash."

" _This is a fine clutter," Claire said with disgust._

" _One you created," I said. "Coming at him with a blade? What'd you think would happen?"_

" _I wanted to talk. I wasn't gonna hurt him."_

" _Jaysus, Claire, you're a fine one. The fat piece of shite be working you. And even if he wasn't, we're leaving tomorrow. What happens to your fella Isack after you're gone? I can tell ya. The Nazis would be rolling him in short order."_

She hemmed and hawed, mumbled a hackneyed plan to get Isack and his family out of Germany...it made zero sense to me, but I be half-listening. Moreover, I was filled with the urge to smack sense into her. Lending both ears to her nonsense woulda sent me over the edge...or further over it. I had me hands full as is.

I shut her up, at last, by directing the two of them to drag Mayer to the center of the room. Then I searched his pockets, found a key ring, id and party card, a picture of a fat frau and some coins. Tommy said he knew the car Mayer drove, a black Mercedes roadster, and left the room to see if it be parked outside the pub. I hoped it be, or moving Mayer's body would prove impossible. Leaving him in the room be one prospect; by the time Mayer be discovered, I anticipated we'd be legging to Ireland. But this be a gamble I desired to avoid.

Tommy returned with good news: Mayer's car sat in an alley behind the Durstiger Witz. We rolled the body into several bedspreads and I sat with the parcel while Claire and Tommy closed the pub downstairs. After midnight, with Claire keeping watch, Tommy and I dragged the heavy linen down three flights and dumped it in the deep Mercedes boot.

I wasn't keen on driving the Bremen streets in a stolen vehicle with a dead SS officer in the boot, but what other choice be available? Were party vehicles stopped by the coppers? I assumed not. However, if we smacked into a nosy cop, I could use Mayer's badge and the stern voice of authority. Aye, a thick plan but the only one I could muster.

I didn't want Claire tagging along and sent her back into the Scherz. And I told her, 'If we're not back in two hours, you have to make for Berlin, without the money, and locate Liam.' I gave her his phone connect and mentioned to be discreet over the blower. I'd let Liam handle the business of getting Claire to safety, perhaps salvage the money, and mayhap find whatever hole the Orpo be keeping Tommy and me.

But did I think it would come to this? No. No, because John Foley would keep his wits.

With Tommy in the passenger seat providing directions, I steered the Mercedes south along Tiefer through a crowded slice of the city. Even after midnight, vehicles cruised and people crowded the sidewalks.

" _Altstadt," Tommy whispered. "City center. Pubs and dance halls."_

" _You don't have to whisper."_

" _I'm nervous, Johnny."_

" _Aye, but keep your head. We need to ditch Mayer in the Weser. Lead me to a nifty cranny."_

" _The car?"_

" _Gonna leave it on the street."_

" _Aye...aye, stay on Tiefer until it turns into Osterdeich. There's a quay be...three of four kilometers away. I ride me bike there. Should be empty this time of night."_

" _We do quick work, drop him in, let the current take him for a ride."_

Tommy was silent until we joined Osterdeich and thinning traffic. Then he asked, "Why don't we call Liam?"

" _Because this is my holy mess. Liam has enough to handle."_

" _He could explain to somebody, eh, you know...this is an accident or...or self-defense."_

" _Have you met Reinhard Heydrich?"_

" _Who?"_

I snorted and said, "He's SS, near the top of the tangle, and the hardest mate I've ever met. It doesn't matter what Liam says if Heydrich finds out if we ended our contact. We're dead men."

" _You, you mean."_

I peeled me eyes from the side mirror and peeked Tommy. Head on the passenger window, he said, "You ended him. Not we."

" _We're dead men," I articulated. "We're dead men until we reach Ireland. Even then...I'd always be looking over me shoulder, mate."_

Tommy shut his hole until we reached a sign directing traffic to a park area. I turned right onto a wide gravel road and followed it to a parking square. A stone quay, bathed in yellow stanchion lights, jutted a hundred meters into the Weser. While we lugged Mayer's body, Tommy told me the waters beneath the dock be swift.

" _No swimming's allowed and nobody fishes here," he explained. "Seems like a good spot to cast him."_

It sounded pat to me. We reached the end of the quay, arms sore and tongues hanging, and then gave Mayer's wrapped body a weak one-two-three heave. He hit the water like a load of bricks. Quick-like, he cruised down river, a white smear shrinking to itty bitty atop the turbulent black surface.

We drove back in silence and ditched the Mercedes in a residential area. Scuttling several blocks to the Durstiger Witz, we passed a few fluthered stragglers but encountered no police. I shoved Mayer's personal effects and car keys down a sewer grate. Arriving at the pub at a quarter after three, I marveled at our good luck. It seemed we accomplished an impossible task.

Claire was pacing Tommy's room, chewing on a fingernail, when we returned. She peppered with a thousand questions, none of which I answered. Instead, I sat them down and explained what would happen next: travelling via rail as the Baldwin couple, they'd transfer in Hamburg for Berlin. If all went well, they'd be in Germany's capital by the evening. I'd call Liam and let him know they were in transit. From there, it be Liam's job to get them home.

They threw together a couple of suitcases while I inspected Tommy's room for physical evidence of Mayer's life and death. Other than a few nicks on the floorboard from where the chair slammed, and the blade under the bed...and the missing linen...a chip in the alabaster wall...a few droplets of blood...in fact, every time I did the "last" once over, I found something incriminating. This be a mind trick, I suppose, but a paranoid mind be impossible to calm. I scrubbed the blood, replaced the bedsheets, lifted the knife...I dolled the room until it sparkled. Then I dolled it again. I was in the midst of a third dolling when it occurred to me an employee or patron might've seen Mayer enter the pub the previous evening. And it wasn't like Mayer went unnoticed. I'm certain the average German knew, either by repute or appearance, what business men like Mayer were involved. But what could I do? An exhaustive scrubbing of Tommy's quarters would have to suffice. Everything else but our strategic escape be out of me paws.

Daybreak arrived; the three of us left the pub and went to my hotel room. I doled the passports and a couple thousand Reichsmarks from the kitty. We ran through the scheme several times but I worried a hassled Tommy wouldn't keep it together. He didn't look pat: skin gray, bloodshot eyes rimmed in dark circles...we hadn't slept a wink and our overnight activities had taken a toll on his condition.

I took Claire aside and told her she needed to get Tommy tight on the train. Not pissed, but enough so she'd be the one answering questions should anyone in authority get nebby.

" _You can't be daft," I told her. "If the coppers sense dishonesty, it'll be a bad day for the both of you."_

But she had a single thought in her thick skull: "Poor Arnie," she bemoaned.

And I responded: "What is wrong with you? Feck off with the Arnie shite! We gotta worry about ourselves!"

We went back and forth and the argument escalated until I felt like we were back in our gaff fighting about a broken plate or what channel to tune the radio. The Gestapo made people vanish, she argued. I told her they'd make her and Tommy vanish if she didn't get unscramble her brain.

" _Nothing can be done for your Jew friend and his kin," I said. "You gotta stop being dense and think about Tommy. He's depending on you. And if you get in a pinch, don't tell the Gardaí anything. Not one word. You git Liam on the blower, I don't care how, and have him talk to his man in Berlin."_

She got the message...or she said as much. I had no choice but to trust her because...what were the options? I concluded our talk by passing her Liam's digits.

At eight, the Baldwins departed the Aldon in a taxi. Then I phoned Liam and told him two old friends were inbound from Bremen via Hamburg. Might he have time to show them Berlin? He grunted and killed the connection before I could mention the Baldwins visit to Bremen hadn't ended well. I assumed it didn't matter; Liam would get the details in short order.

Perhaps I should've left for Bremerhaven straight away, but I didn't want the three of us hanging around the bahnhof. Instead, I found a beer hall near the Durstiger Witz and got tight. Stumbling back to the Aldon at dusk, I loitered across the street from the pub but saw no coppers or well-dressed detectives. Despite the absence of Claire and Tommy, it appeared business carried on like normal.

I phoned Liam before me head hit the pillow, but he didn't answer. After a restless kip, I rolled out of bed an hour before sunrise and tried Liam again. Like before, there be no answer. Suspecting Liam and company had legged from Berlin, I decided it'd be wise to leave Bremen.

On 1 September 1939, I went to the bahnhof (toting a sea bag stuffed with a few dungarees I never wore and almost four million Reichsmarks) expecting to board the 0900 nonstop to Bremerhaven. I didn't make it to the front door of the station. Looking like peacocks in their shakos and green uniforms, a handful of Gardaí gathered by the entrance. The Germans called them Grüne Polizei, Green Police, but I wasn't nervous. Aye, I was a seaman on leave, returning to me boat. But they had other ideas about who I be and where I be going. As I approached, one of the coppers whispered to his mates. Then, in tandem, they moved to block my path.

" _Excuse the intrusion," one of the coppers said in German, "but we need to check you travel papers."_

The contrived cordiality raised my eyebrows; lawmen always play nice for a reason, and it wasn't because they desire pat conversation. With a steady hand, I passed the passport, employment chit and travel voucher and watched the coppers eyes peruse the documents. Then they scrutinized me. I didn't fidget, grimace, or get loud. 'Be calm,' me brain said. 'Be calm and stick to the story.'

Even as I watched one of 'em tuck me documents into a pocket and say, "I'm sorry, Herr Gustaffson, but we require a further word."; even as three more coppers flanked me on all sides; even as one of 'em hefted my bag and dragged it to the boot of the wagon; even as I crawled into the backseat...even then, my head lectured, 'Be calm and stick to your story.'

The coppers remained pleasant during the drive. The one what took my documents sat next to me in the backseat and apologized at least a dozen times for the intrusion. I nodded, smiled, and listened to the voice in my head repeat, 'Be calm'. And I was calm except...I wondered if Claire and Tommy had been nabbed. What did they say? How much did the Gardaí know?

' _Be calm and stick to the story.'_

Aye, calm I be. Tranquil. The lack of cuffs around me wrist suggested Tommy and Claire hadn't jabbered. And if something be hinky with me papers, I'd talk my way out of the situation with some well-placed names. Of course, this would require a lengthy explanation, but it'd get me out of the pot and back to Ireland.

Me tote and I parted at the police station; escorted into a nondescript room (white walls, two chairs, a large oak table, glass sunk into the wall on my left), I was told 'it won't take long to sort the problem'. Trying to appear indifferent, I twiddled thumbs, walked the chamber, studied my reflection in the glass. 'It won't take long' wasn't a truthful statement. Enough time passed for breakfast to digest before I received a visitor.

A tall fella, dressed in black suit and black tie, entered the room and tossed a file on the table. He had a pinched, pale face and presented a sullen expression. "You claim Swedish citizenship," he said in German. "Do you require a translator?"

I answered: "No, I speak German, but you might have to take it slow."

" _Perhaps English would be better suited?"_

This be the instant I knew the copper had a good idea I wasn't the man what me documents claimed. But I crossed arms, leaned against the wall and said, in an even voice, "English is fine."

" _Good," the copper said, as he took a seat and opened the folder. "I find the cat and mouse nonsense a waste of time. My name is Kohner and I'm from the Criminal Police, Bureau Five, Economic Misconduct. And your name is..." Kohner glanced at a paper and then pronounced, "John Foley. Would you care to guess how I came about this information?"_

" _I've an idea."_

" _What would it be?"_

" _I don't enjoy the cat and mouse any more than you," I said, sliding from the wall. "Me mates, Tommy and Claire, aye?"_

" _Like you, travelling under forged passports. Unlike you, they didn't have four million Reichsmarks in their possession. But the couple thousand they carried, along with incongruent stories, brings us to this situation."_

" _There's an explanation I-"_

" _I'm certain there is," interrupted Kohner. "First, you're going tell me the Reichsmarks in your possession come from the gasthaus on 23 Sugerstrasse. Next, you'll say...oh...you're attempting to skirt both English and German banking laws. What you won't tell me is what happened at this gasthaus..." Kohner shot another look at his notes and then said, "the Durstiger Witz."_

I felt me stomach whirl. How much did Kohner know? Had Claire or Tommy blabbed about Mayer? Then I remembered the coppers introduction: Economic Misconduct. He wasn't a murder constabulary...

" _You look pale," said Kohner. "Have I summarized the situation, Foley?"_

Attempting to sound annoyed, I said, "I can explain the Reichsmarks."

" _Yes, you will."_

" _A'ight, the-"_

" _I'll get to the money in a moment. First, you should know the forged documents are enough to warrant incarceration, but I'm not concerned about those. I have to admit, however, I had hoped you were involved in...what's the word? I think...cloak and dagger. Are you familiar with the expression?"_

" _Jaysus, I'm not a spy."_

" _If you are, I can assure the last place we'd be talking is here. No, I believe you and your friends are involved in a smuggling operation. The gasthaus is a front, is it not? At one time, the dump was owned by a Jew named Isack. In 1936, he sold the property to an Irish expatriate named Thomas McMahon. Since then, you and your colleagues have been siphoning Jewish money from Germany. Keeping it safe in England or...somewhere abroad, yes?"_

" _You think I'm smuggling Jewish money?"_

" _I know you are."_

" _Look, the dosh-"_

" _Dosh?"_

" _Coin, currency, whatever you call money."_

" _Which you claim was earned from the gasthaus?"_

" _In a manner of speaking."_

" _In a manner of speaking," echoed Kohner. "Hm...in a manner of speaking, I don't believe you. The Gestapo raided the Durstiger Witz days ago and arrested Isack. You've decided to shutter your doors and take the Jewish money with you."_

I couldn't help but laugh.

" _This is no joke!" Kohner barked. "For three years, you've run countless funds across the Channel. This money belongs to the Reich!"_

" _The money was given to me by the Reich."_

Kohner snorted.

" _From your government," I said, drumming the fingers of me right hand on the tabletop._

" _I don't doubt you've had help, but those days are over. The Main Security Office has made malfeasance and economic sabotage a priority, and it is my job to stop corruption. Tell me who you're paying to look the other way. Your participation will lessen whatever punishment the court deems appropriate."_

" _If you want answers, phone your man Heydrich. Let him know John Foley is in Bremen, please and thank you. Oh, and tell him you've tied up his money."_

" _Heydrich?" jeered Kohner. "You claim Gruppenführer Heydrich is involved?"_

" _Aye. Call him. He'll clear this up."_

Kohner pushed from the table and paced the room whilst rubbing his chin. At last, he leaned across the table, fixed me with a frosty stare and said, "Fine, insist on playing games. You have yourself to blame for what happens next." Before I could respond, he exited the room and slammed the door.

I suppose years of success imbued a cockiness into me soul. And the Nazi copper hadn't asked about Mayer, which I considered further proof of blessing. Fact be, I expected Kohner would contact Berlin and get orders to release me and the money. Claire and Tommy? Also freed. The three of us, skipping to Dublin, with a fantastic story to share.

Kohner returned holding a single piece of paper in his right hand. He whacked the sheet on the table and said, "These are the charges against you, Foley. Do you require a translation?"

Typed in German, a single paragraph proclaimed several "warrants" for my detention: possession of stolen property, forged identification, verbal mendacities and insolence tendered to law enforcement. Underneath the passage, a blank line awaited me mark.

I said, "I'm not signing this."

" _Then tell me who is assisting you. Gestapo, SiPo, Kripo...an officer in the Orpo? Give me names."_

" _I gave you a name."_

Right eye twitching, Kohner tossed a pen on the table and exclaimed, "I'm through bickering! Sign!"

" _When do I see a judge?"_

" _Sign!"_

I shouldn't have, but I scratched my signature because...what did it matter? My logical mind assumed someone in Ireland would make inquiries about me absence. Days from now, a week at most, Liam O'Reilly would retrieve me from whatever Nazi dungeon John Foley called home.

Later, I learned these signed charges were presented in court as proof of guilt. I wonder, often, what would have happened had I demanded to use the phone...or made a ruckus...or something other than what I did. But this be a futile daydream: one way or another, everybody signed.

Kohner departed with my confession and I sauntered again for a stretch. At some point, a copper arrived and escorted me to the jack. I asked if I could get a spot of fresh air after me tinkle, but hisself ignored the question and returned me to the same room.

More waiting beget rumination: how were Claire and Tommy making out? What did Liam do when the Baldwins failed to arrive in Berlin? Had the Nazis arrested Liam? The money...my delivery...did Kohner seize it? How would the Army Council handle the loss of four million Reichsmarks?

I sat, gnawed at fingernails, tapped me feet...

Once more the door opened; in swaggered a short, bald, big-eared, fella carrying a leather-bound ledger. The little fool made a presentation of sitting at the table, rolling neck, flipping the book open, thumbing leaves, pulling writing instruments from his breast pocket...

" _I'll be processing you, prisoner," he said, scribbling six numbers on a square of paper. Then he slid the slip to me and said, "Your identification number. Commit it to memory."_

Five days in a cell at the Bremen constabulary, staring at cinderblock walls, and the number stuck in me head: 217949.

Day 6: Loaded into the back of a lorry with two other prisoners and four guards. I wasted the hours in transit reciting the number:

217949.

The guards talked of confrontation: whilst John Foley slouched in the gaol, Hitler invaded Poland. England and France declared war on the Nazis. And here be I, stuck in Germany with 217949.

The transport stopped at a wretched encampment: squat, peak-roofed buildings, barbed wire, milling sentries, the smell of latrines.

" _Ah, welcome to beautiful Neuengamme," a cynical guard told me and the other prisoners. "Your destination."_

The three of us were hustled from the truck and directed into a barracks where we joined other "inmates" in a common room. Tatty men, women and children; old and young; frail and fit. I counted the group a hundred times. Fifty-five of us. The women sat on benches. Men stood. Children clung to parents. Conversation be conducted in whispers and gestures.

Most of the bedraggled displayed the Judenstern, the Jew Star, on their clothing. One of me mates from the lorry elbowed my ribs and said, "They threw us in with the Jews. What a fine mess."

I didn't care enough to comment. Jews, hardened criminals, whatever the situation...John Foley took solace in the notion hisself be a short timer.

• • •

My legs were numb. I had been sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the pantry door, for almost an hour. After exercising toes, I asked, "Did you find anything on their arrest in Bremen?"

"There's nothing about their arrests," Sandi said. "I contacted the JIWCA for information but they-"

"JIWCA?"

"The Jewish International War Crimes Association, located in Giessen, West Germany. The JIWCA have records on almost everyone who spent time in one of the concentration camps. Your father's name doesn't appear until 1942, when he was a prisoner at Auschwitz."

"Auschwitz?"

"To be accurate, he was in a sub-camp of Auschwitz, Monowitz, for two years. Then he was relocated to the main camp."

"Auschwitz?" I repeated. " _The_ Auschwitz? You're certain?"

"I'm certain. The JIWCA has access to the internee catalogue. John Foley, identification number 217949, appears on the list in 1942."

"The Nazis made lists of these people?"

"And they took pictures."

"Do you have Da's photo?"

"No, the archival information is kept at the JIWCA, but the center is in Germany. The best I could do is a verbal confirmation."

"Why isn't there any information about Da before 1942?"

"It's hard to say. The researcher at the JIWCA said those records might've been destroyed or lost during the war. But there's no doubt your father was at Auschwitz until the Soviets liberated the camp in 1945."

"What about after?"

"The Russians were pushing into Germany and didn't bother identifying the survivors. However, I discovered Arnold Isack's name on a registry for a resettlement camp in Bergen-Belsen."

"So?"

"Arnie didn't survive Auschwitz."

"Then...uh...what are you telling me?"

"Remember when I said your father joined the Red Army? From Auschwitz, he travelled with them to Berlin. Once there, he found the Americans and assumed Arnie Isack's identity. The reason becomes clear when you reach the end of the story."

I exhaled and then stood to stretch legs.

"Convinced?" asked Sandi.

"There has to be an explanation," I said, but the statement amounted to an impotent protest against mounting evidence.

"There's no explanation except one. This is the truth, John. Disregarding the material from the JIWCA, your father knew intimate details about the people in the concentration camps."

"Like?"

Sandi burrowed through a stack of her papers and pulled out a dozen pages. "Fact one," she trumpeted. "There are prisoner testimonials about a minister named Denni Albert who prayed for every soul he sent into the Auschwitz crematoriums. Your father claims to have known Albert." She handed me the wrinkled sheet (a fuzzy copy from a book about the Holocaust) with the pertinent details underlined in red ink. I took a moment to skim several sentences and then offered a lame rebuttal:

"Da could have stolen his account of Albert from this book."

"Not if the book was published in February of this year. Was he doing a lot of reading in February?" Before I could respond, she continued: "Fact number two: your father describes a crematorium explosion at Auschwitz in late 1944. What was supposed to be a controlled demolition obliterated most of Krem Two and killed prisoners and guards."

"Common knowledge," I argued.

"Yes, but the Nazis didn't release the names of those who died."

"So?"

"Arnold Isack and Denni Albert were among the casualties. Your father saw their bodies."

"But you said the Cream blew up and-"

" _Krem_. Slang for crematorium."

"Krem, then. It exploded, right? Boom. Body parts everywhere. Is anybody recognizable after an explosion?"

"Keep reading."

Again, I scrutinized the copy Sandi handed me. Further down the page: _...how much the Death Head's tolerated the endless sanctification, but the missionary Albert is believed to be one of an estimated seventy Sonderkommandos killed during the destruction of Krematorium Five on 31 December 1944."_

" _Believed_ to be killed is a lot different than _was_ killed," I argued.

"At some point you're going to have to accept your father's knowledge is more than a coincidence."

"Enough," I said, raising hands. "I can't read anymore tonight. I need to get some sleep."

"I agree. Now's a good time to stop. We can get back to the story tomorrow."

I mustered a phony grin and said, "Boy, I can't wait."

• • •

It was dark when I awoke from a vivid dream of slit throats, men shot in the back of the head and a horde of corpse-like figures milling about concentration camps.

I untangled myself from Sandi's arms, went into the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror. The oul fella's face reflected back: crumpled brow, muddled expression, trembling lower lip. Da in his last years. How much of his babbling had I ascribed to dementia? _Everything._ Yet, those memories simmered in his ruined brain. The hell he endured...the hell Ma and I endured...I thought it ended when he kicked the bucket. Now here I was (or _be_ , in Da's unpolished vernacular), unable to escape my father's insanity. The worst part: what he wrote _appeared_ to be the truth.

Boy, did it piss me off. I didn't want to be saddled with his baggage for the rest of my life!

_He wanted you to know,_ Sandi's voice nagged.

_Make things right,_ said Da.

"Fuck," I whispered, blinking eyes. The oul fella's face vanished from the mirror as my haggard expression materialized.

When I stumbled into the kitchen, Sandi was making coffee.

"I had the worst dream last night," I said.

"About?"

I hovered over the table covered in Da's papers and stared at them with contempt.

"What did you dream?" Sandi pestered.

"Um...just...you know, nothing pleasant."

"I can make some eggs and toast."

"Food's not gonna help. I need the high test."

"Coming up."

"All right," said I to the pages, "time to get at it."

Sandi delivered the mug of hot joe and said, "You stopped at the Neuengamme chapter."

"Yea, I remember. Just keep the coffee coming, okay? Maybe I can plow through this thing today."

# 14.

### Neuengamme, 1939

John Foley wasn't a stranger to prison, or whatever this place be, and knew what came next would be lengthy and humiliating: processed, put through the wringer, introduced to rigid order...those in charge would establish dominance by breaking down the self-esteem of prisoners. Judging by the faces in the waiting room, the Nazis wouldn't have any difficulty setting boundaries -the mousy rabble looked frightened by their shadows- but somebody would be singled out for a small transgression and given the switch.

Needless to say, the Nazis found their man in short order. We had been stuck in the waiting area for several hours. No food, water, use of the jacks...I saw wee ones and their oul fellas piss in the corner of the room. The couple windows were sealed and the temperature rose. Babies be crying, flies be flying...the room stank of pissings, body odor and s perfume. Dusk arrived and with it came an administrator and his goons: hisself, dressed like Kohner (be in a suit and tie); the guards in beige military uniforms, strapped with sidearms, swinging batons from leashes.

The dandy bloke stood at the front of the room and gave a pat speech chastising the Jews for 'violating the Nuremberg Laws'. But, he added, Neuengamme was a holding spot until 'permanent locations are found for you people'.

" _This relocation," he said, "is a work in progress. We have many of you to move and, for the moment, few places to put you. Thus, you'll be required to exercise patience and follow commands. Failure to do as asked will result in punitive measures."_

A scowling Hasidic parted the horde and marched to the suit-and-tie fella whilst waggling a finger. Me mate from the lorry jabbed with another elbow and whispered, "He's asking for trouble."

" _I have broken no laws!" the Hasidic cried. "I'm a German, like you, and this is how you treat us? You give us no water or food! Do you not see there are children?"_

What be the answer to the gruff query? A baton bash into the beak from the nearest thug. Reduced to a heap on the floorboards, the Jew moaned and held his shattered nose. Not only had the fella been thumped, but he'd also been marked for life as a "troublemaker".

As the Hasidic made a mess of the floor with his blood, a guard bellowed identification numbers from a clipboard. Five groups of ten were paraded out the door (including the Jew with the bloody nose) until five of us remained: meself, me mates from the lorry, and two other rough looking fellas.

" _Non-Jews are processed last," the guard explained. "Get comfortable. You will be waiting a while."_

So, we lounged on the benches and made idle chatter; we were even fed, though the food be lousy: broth and a piece of bread. At last, we were collected and escorted to another building. It be the usual processing nonsense: we stripped and tossed clothes into baskets; our cavities were inspected; hair be shorn; a quick rinse, delousing powder, and then a visit to a desk staffed by a woman indifferent to our nakedness. She recorded names and identification numbers and then distributed the camp uniform: an all burlap outfit (including underwear) what itched and reeked of perspiration. Once we finished dressing, another woman sewed our identification number onto the left shirt sleeve.

From there, we were taken to another barracks filled with men. Only two dozen racks were provided to accommodate fifty; unless you desired to sleep with another fella, the floor became your cradle. Most of me barrack mates futzed about their predicament and two rumors made the rounds. The first: Nazis were carving Poland into settlement spots for Jews. Those fellas what carped about the separation from spouses and children took consolation in the notion they'd be reunited with their relations in short order. The second: England and France would have their way with Germany and liberate the camp. Some even claimed this could happen in a manner of months.

I paid no mind to the chatter. One, I wasn't a Jew and resettlement didn't interest me. Two, what was to happen to the Jews in Poland? Though it shouldn't have been, the reality of the situation proved difficult for many to grasp. There weren't enough slabs for people to sleep on. What made anyone think the Nazis would find these Jews a parcel to plant their families? And the gossip trumpeting the English and French as saviors be fantastical gibberish. For starters, the Brits couldn't handle the IRA. I didn't know anything about the French army, but I assumed they and their English allies wouldn't be marching into Germany before 1940.

But the mind of the frantic knows no limits, and I harbored a derisive superiority to the Jews and the crackpot theories. But John Foley be a hopeless piner, too: I was certain people were working to gain my release. Aye, I imagined meself strutting from captivity whilst the Jews and whatnot bandied fairy tales.

# 15.

### Sachsenhausen, 1939-1942

A week progressed...then two...and yet, I remained a prisoner. Rudimentary living conditions, meager food, constant whining from the fellas...it reminded me of the Joy but with one difference: I resigned meself to a long stretch there. At Neuengamme, I reveled in the fantasy of impending release.

Though Neuengamme be a far cry from a pat situation, the treatment wasn't terrible. The guards intimidated and thumped those what ran their mouths or failed to muster in an efficient manner, but cruelty for the sake of it be rare. We were assigned menial tasks during the day: constructing barracks, cleaning latrines, sweeping and laundry. Women and children, segregated to another portion of the camp behind fences, tended gardens and knit...among other things. In the evenings, the partition be opened and comingling occurred.

I can't deny my spirt dampened mid-way through week three, but then I was pulled from the ranks of morning muster and escorted to the mess hall by a trio of guards. Passing the assembled prisoners, I stifled a smile and thought, 'I'm going to be freed'. I even imagined a stuffy administrator issuing an apology for the imprisonment.

Aye, and to confirm my rosy thoughts, guess who awaited me in the mess? Hunched on a bench, elbows on the table, me grim pal Kohner noshed rouladen and perused a newspaper. He didn't raise his head when I entered and told the guards, "Leave us," before returning to his meal.

There I stood watching Kohner eat at a snail's pace knowing the action be contrived. The time he took to knife and fork the meat, the bread he used to soak gravy, the licking of his fingers when the dish be empty...he prolonged the situation because apologies from men like him were never gained without some display of authority.

When the plate was clean, Kohner cleared his throat and then asked, "How do you find the accommodations at this shithole?"

" _No worse than Dublin. Better, in some respects-"_

" _Shut up," he interrupted. "I didn't travel three hours to hear you run your mouth. I've a final matter of business to conclude before I never see you again."_

And this be the moment I knew Kohner hadn't made a special visit to pardon John Foley. Me face must've displayed surprise, or angst, because Kohner smiled for the first time since our introduction in Bremen. "Listen, fella," I reasoned, "did you contact Heydrich?"

" _Heydrich isn't in country, not like I'd bother him with this matter. But I do have another name you'll recognize: Obersturmführer Herman Mayer."_

Quick-like, me blood went cold, but I maintained an indifferent façade and blinked peepers.

" _You had a business relationship with him," Kohner proclaimed. "Don't bother denying, shithead. I've already received confirmation from the two you ran your racket with."_

What could I do but blather repetitious babble: "It's no racket. Your government gave me money-"

" _Gave? For what reason?"_

I took a deep breath and then said, "I'm a member of an organization what intends to bring the fight to the Crown. Your government provided arms and money to assist our operation."

Kohner raised eyebrows and asked, "What's your relationship with Obersturmführer Mayer?"

" _He be our intermediary."_

" _Hmm...so, if what you say is true, all I need do is confirm your story with Mayer, correct?"_

Of course, Mayer wouldn't be confirming anything, but I nodded in agreement.

" _The problem is," continued Kohner, "Mayer's not around. He's been missing for three weeks...but I'm not saying anything you don't already know. Yes, you want to protest. Save your breath, shithead. Herman Mayer is dead. You killed him. Then you, and your comrade, dumped his body in the Weser. This is a bizarre way to treat a man acting as a transitional component between your National Socialist movement and ours."_

I'd been on the other side of conversations like this. Holding power over a hapless man, listening to pleas and promises, not giving a feck about tears and whining. I could've argued, appealed, fell to me knees and tried to explain. But I recognized Kohner's devotion to duty resembled my commitment to the Republican struggle. Hence, it wouldn't have made a difference what I said.

_Kohner folded his newspaper and then said, "In all previous cases, the murder of a party member is grounds for death. Do you know we still lop heads in the Reich? The device is called the Fallbeil...the drop axe. You might know it better as the guillotine. I'm positive I could make an argument for its use on you and your partners in crime. But then we'd have the circus of a public trial in Berlin because my colleagues in the Gestapo would label you a spy. Doctor Goebbels would compose one of his trite propaganda pictures, the English would take umbrage and you'd be branded a martyr or some such nonsense in the British press. This veneration is more than you deserve. And it's more than Mayer deserves, too._ _Swine like him dilute the inviolability of the SS. I bid good riddance to him."_

I muttered, "Then I did you a favor."

" _Pfft, you did yourself a favor. The bullshit you piled...still pile...you, sir, are a practiced liar. For your information, I searched the Obersturmführer's flat and found a hundred thousand Reichsmarks stuffed in boxes. Oh, and a dozen passbooks for bank accounts under several aliases. It hasn't been difficult documenting Mayer's penchant for corruption and impropriety. Further, I've linked him to your gasthaus. For the sake of...let's call it saving one's wide rear...ahem...when Mayer heard of your arrest, he fled. There you have it, Herr Foley. The expression in German is öffnen und schliessen. Open and closed. It means-"_

" _The expression is open and shut, Kohner."_

" _Open...shut...well, it doesn't make a difference. What you need to understand is, you're guaranteed permanent internment in a penal camp. I predict this punishment will be less enjoyable than a swift trial and death."_

" _I ain't staying forever," I said, and this be a promise not a desperate declaration though it must've sounded anything but. Kohner, and his smug attitude, raked a nerve._

" _Yes, you fancy yourself a hard man," said Kohner with a wink. "Time will tell, but I have my doubts. In the meantime, I've gone to the trouble of arranging your transfer to a camp better suited for a criminal."_

Then he stood, grabbed his paper and made for the door. Though I wouldn't see Kohner again for six years, I made good on my promise.

In the meantime (as Kohner stated), I was whisked from Neuengamme and delivered to a railroad trestle a few kilometers from the camp. There, I climbed into a cattle car with a handful of others. Some Jews, some criminals like me...but I suppose we were all criminals.

Nobody knew the destination but, yet again, rumors abounded: Poland; Czechoslovakia; Romania. I didn't care where we headed; all destinations led to the same miserable place. What of it? Aye, I be a hard man. A stretch in prison wouldn't kill me. However, I was in a tough spot: locked up, money gone, unable to contact anyone on the outside. To the Brotherhood, it would appear I escaped with the funds. And not just me...Claire and Tommy, wherever they be...

These problems I'd tackle later. Nothing could be done whilst I remained in custody.

The train rattled for hours. Some prisoners paced; others slept. There be no jack; men pissed out the slats. If one had to shite, one used the "shite" corner. The sun provided weak slanting light though the scantling. We travelled until darkness -so rich, I couldn't see me hand at arm's length- filled the car

At last, the train lurched to a halt; doors slid open and guards ordered us out, onto a platform, where we joined ranks with those from other carriages. I spied a few women and looked for Claire, but the females be led away as soon as their feet touched planking. For us men what stayed behind, officers holding clipboards weaved through the lines, asked our identification numbers and then directed us to one area or another. My consultation lasted a trickle of seconds:

" _Identification number, prisoner."_

" _217949."_

The fella checked a list and said, "To the right, 217949."

Single file, my group stood on a painted yellow line until the weeding be complete. Next came a terse speech from an obese sentinel:

" _Prisoners, you've arrived at Sachsenhausen. This is a labor camp designed to rehabilitate and modify deviant behavior. In a moment, you're going to be assigned both a barracks and a labor spot. At no time are you to talk with anyone but those wearing the feldgrau. Failure to follow direction will result in a loss of rations and time in an isolation compartment."_

Like Neuengamme, we were stripped, inspected, run through a quick shower and deloused. At the end of the gauntlet, we were handed a new striped uniform, ratty bedroll, threadbare blanket, a small can and wooden spoon. Whilst dressing, another German fella circulated thru the ranks and barked at each inmate: 'Prisoner so and so! Barracks so and so! You're assigned so and so!'

When he arrived in front of me, the German said, "Prisoner 217949! Barracks Three! You're assigned the quarry!"

Then we were organized by barrack number and escorted by a guard who screamed obscenities: 'Move motherfuckers! Faster shitheads! I'll shit in your mouths if you give me trouble!'

Barracks Three be just like the tip in Neuengamme with two differences: the slabs were three quarters occupied and the place smelled less vile. A couple lightbulbs hung from the ceiling and when I stepped through the entryway, two dozen wan faces swung my way. Almost all of them wore the yellow Jew star designation on their garb. Meself, festooned with an inverted blue triangle on me trousers, strolled down the center aisle and nodded at me mates as I passed. Few returned the greeting and most shied away. I learned later my blue mark (known as a Winkel) branded me a felonious convict, not a political...which meant the Jews wanted nothing to do with me.

I was looking for a rack to throw my bedroll when a tinny voice to me left hissed in German, "Psst. Englishman. Psst." I fixed me peepers and beheld the source of the intrusion: a thin fella, sporting a patchy red beard, propped on an elbow. His features be all smushed together: nose, eyes and mouth sat within centimeters of each other in the center of a haggard face; two giant ears spouted from each side of his withered head. Needless to say, he be one of the ugliest men I'd ever set eyes.

" _Englishman," he nagged, "the slab below me is empty."_

" _I'm not English," bristled I._

" _But you're not a Yid," he responded in fluent English, "which is fine with me."_

" _Jaysus, you speak the Kings?"_

" _One of my many talents. Come on, take the spot. We'll chat."_

Anybody this affable triggered instant suspicion. "I'll have the rack," I said, "but I don't want whatever you're offering."

" _Who said I'm offering?"_

" _And who said you aren't?"_

He chuckled and then jawed, "For starters, I can improve your German. This is more than you'll get from these Jews. They look out for themselves...eh...what's your name, friend?"

I tossed my kit on the slab and said, "John Foley."

" _Foley sounds English to me."_

" _Well, you're wrong. Foley is an Irish name. I've no love for the English and they have none for me."_

" _Irish? Heh, sure as the runs after supper, you'll need someone to show you around. Trust me, it won't be the Jews."_

" _This isn't my first stint in captivity, fella. I'm capable of taking care of myself."_

" _Perhaps, but you don't know how things work here. Outsiders have to stick together."_

" _What're you going to do? Protect me?"_

He scratched his scalp and said, "I bet you were assigned the quarry. Strong men always get the quarry."

" _What of it?"_

" _It's the nastiest of all jobs. Worse than the Heinkel factory, worse than making bricks, worse than binding cables in the AEG."_

I be a boaster in the face of this twig: "I can handle anything these mokes throw at me."

" _So you think. I've watched healthy people go to the mines and quarry pits. After a month they're exhausted and worthless. You'll never survive on the rations the Nazis provide, and the Jews won't share. But I will."_

" _For a price, right?"_

" _Everything is run by the barter. I've connections, but sometimes muscle is needed to get things done. The rack beneath me? It used to be occupied by a big Bavarian. He got sent away days ago. Now, I need a man who isn't afraid to throw fists when needed."_

" _Did your pal get shipped because he threw too many fists?"_

" _The Nazis conscripted him. Stuck my muscle in a Probation Unit. This happens from time-to-time. Bad luck for him, but good luck for you."_

" _Yeah? What will your connections get me?"_

" _Out of quarry duty."_

" _How?"_

He bade me closer and whispered, "My name is Zache and I'm the King of the Gypsies. I can make anything happen."

" _Anything, huh? Why are you here and not running your kingdom?"_

Zache grunted and then said, "You're looking at it backwards. I run a better trade in here than I did outside these gates."

" _I'm looking at it backwards?" I heckled. "Fella, you're crazy. This place isn't what I'd call a happening thing."_

" _It's you who doesn't understand. The SS on the street...they consider the Roma a scourge on mankind. My followers and I were arrested a year ago when the Gestapo raided our camp and swept us like dust. Resettlement, they said. Sachsenhausen is where Hitler sent me. At first, I moaned and soured. But the SS in here are unprincipled. Sure, they're scum. You can't reason with some of them. Others, however, are less...eh...ethical."_

" _I see."_

" _Good, because-"_

" _I see you're so pat, you have to solicit strangers for help. Where are your followers, King?"_

" _My daughter is here, but she's the one of my people who remain. I have eight children and five wives. In due time, I will find them."_

" _Five wives? You?"_

" _I told you I'm the King," said Zache, adding a chest thump to reinforce the declaration._

If nothing else, Zache spoke like a confident man. And he be truthful about one thing: I was an outsider at Sachsenhausen. However, the best cons are also the most self-assured.

" _You don't think I'm trustworthy," Zache said. "Let me cast a spell and see if I can't change your mind."_

" _The only trick what will convince is if you transport me to Dublin."_

" _I can't do the impossible, but I'm capable of making things happen here. Let me get you out of quarry duty and into the counterfeiting operation where I work. It's the softest job in this camp."_

" _You work in a counterfeiting operation?"_

" _We make English pounds."_

" _For what purpose?"_

" _They're floated into circulation, I guess. Something about currency devaluation. If you ask me, it's a ridiculous scheme. Will I say as much? No. You've seen a pound, right? And with your command of English, it won't be difficult to get the Sturmbannführer to request your transfer."_

" _Who?"_

" _Sturmbannführer Günter, the officer in charge of the operation."_

" _You're on a first name with the Sturmbannführer?"_

" _He's a reasonable man. Smart. Practical. Plus, he adores my daughter. Zujenia is willing to use her body to secure favors."_

" _Jaysus, you whore your daughter?"_

" _I'm alive, friend. Most of my comrades are not. For me, Zujenia is the link between life and death. Besides, you know nothing of gypsy culture. She's a red-haired princess, a chosen person, with a thousand years of history running through her veins. Our bloodline has endured while others have been wiped from the earth. I won't let my name die in this camp and neither will she."_

I glanced around the barracks and thought, 'Why not? What did I have to lose?' "All right," said, I, "let's see what magic you can conjure."

" _Good, good. I welcome you, brother. There are two other non-Germans I run with. Together we form a good unit. You'll cement the foundation."_

" _By twisting arms and so forth."_

" _When the situation necessitates."_

" _So, you guys run the racket here?"_

" _Racket?"_

" _The market."_

" _Ah...yea, like I said, I'm connected, friend. I have a few guards and Sturmbannführer_ _Günter in my pocket. Now...eh...there's one small thing you have to do."_

" _What?"_

" _You have to get sick."_

" _Sick?"_

" _Real sick. Sick enough to get sent to the clinic. Günter is allowed to request a particular inmate but the approval comes from above. Having a doctor's sign-off guarantees the duty swap."_

" _I can fake being sick. No problem."_

" _Your illness has to be authentic but don't worry. I have this down to a science. Supper call is soon. I'll come to you after I've arranged everything."_

For better or worse, I put me trust in the King of Gypsies.

# 16.

### Sachsenhausen, Part II

The evening meal be a vile cabbage and broth concoction served from a long trough stretched across a mustering grinder. Inside its crib, the congealed soup crawled with vermin. Common ladles were used and then discarded on the ground; wooden handles be smeared with excrement and dirt. Prisoners fought over the dippers until their tins were filled. Some would forgo the scoop and skim their kit into the crib. Animals in a barnyard displayed more self-control. I couldn't imagine sparring for such disgusting dope. Aye, it was this or starvation, but I wasn't hungry enough to become manic. Not yet, anyway.

I sat cross-legged on the ground contemplating the scene when Zache approached with a man in tow.

" _Our doctor," Zache informed, which also be the extent of the introduction. The physician, an old man shaking with palsy, examined me by grasping my forearms._

" _Strong," the doctor remarked to Zache in a morose tone. "It will take three or four days."_

" _Good," Zache said, and then the two shook hands before the old fool shuffled away._

The gypsy hunched beside me and scanned the grinder. Satisfied, he produced a sewing needle and string from his shoe. Tongue hanging between lips, Zache pushed the flimsy piece of thread through the eye of the needle. It took him several minutes to accomplish this simple task, and then several more to tie the string.

Next, Zache opened his mouth, took the needle in his right thumb and forefinger, and ran the string through the gaps in his crooked teeth. Chore complete, he said, "Give me your arm."

I held out me right arm and watched him stick the needle into my vein, push it out the other side, and then pull the dirty string until it be exposed to my blood stream. He counted one hundred seconds in a hushed voice before removing the needle and stuffing it into his shoe.

" _You'll have to work until you get sick," Zache said. "There's nothing to be done about it. Once you take ill, the inmate doctor will get you a bed in the clinic."_

The next morning, I mustered with the quarry rats and noted their blank stares and bleeding hands. Most the bastards couldn't stand upright. We hobbled several kilometers down a dusty road as the guards berated and whacked with batons. Once on site, we dug out rocks with dull tools. Our encouragement to work harder be provided by the threat -and frequent application- of beatings. At least I could take solace knowing the drudgery be a temporary gig. Me mates had no such light.

Lunch be a meager respite of stale bread, crackers and a splash of tepid water to force the dry mess down me throat. We worked just as hard after the break and then trudged to Sachsenhausen as the sun set. By the end of the day, even the guards were too tired to prod. All of us, a lumbering column of gassed bodies, returned to camp twelve hours after we departed. Though I was hungry, supper be identical to the previous evening. Too fatigued to squabble over cold slime, I collapsed onto me rack and fell asleep.

In the dead of night, I awoke feeling bloated and feverish. Hot and cold flashes zapped me body and my skin be slick. I knew I was going to be sick, but I couldn't muster the strength to roll out of me slab. The vomiting be bone shaking and intense; I made a mess of my outfit and bedroll, not like I cared. Whilst I heaved, Zache jumped from his bunk and gazed at me. A wicked leer spread across his face and, I swear, his eyes glowed red.

" _It worked fast!" Zache said with glee._

" _The fool said three days," I croaked._

" _This is better!"_

I wanted to tell him to contain happiness. Instead, I flopped like a pig in slop.

The following days produced a montage of fuzzy images. Between lapses of consciousness, I recall an examination by the palsied "doctor". My mind tried to convince me the suffering be just a dream, but moments of clarity overwhelmed. 'Look at you,' I whimpered. Aye, look where desperation landed John Foley: bedridden in a German prison camp, dying from a gypsy plague.

At some point, I was relocated to the camp clinic. I don't remember the transfer...but when I emerged from my stupor, a pair of stony, chin rubbing German doctors stood on either side of me cradle.

Observed the Kraut to me right: "His fever's relaxed and there's no sign of a rash."

The other said, "Time will tell. But if it's typhus, I want him gone."

Perhaps these words encouraged my ascent to improved health. In no time I be demonstrating toe touches and knee lifts to a Nazi orderly. Satisfied with my fitness, he discharged me from the clinic with new orders and a knowing wink. Zache had worked his magic...but there be one final piece of business to attend: to seal our friendship, Zache made me his "brother".

The symbolic ceremony took place in a dark corner of our hut; using a needle, Zache pricked our fingers and mashed the digits together.

" _You and I are joined by gypsy blood," he chanted. "Let the_ _Beatific Ceferino Giménez Malla fortify and protect." He continued on in this vein, intoning shite whilst I nodded me head like a rapt convert. I've never believed in the mystical, but years later Zache's blood saved my life so...perhaps there's something to the hocus and pocus. Or, perhaps, I be blessed with good timing._

I strolled into the counterfeiting operation feeling like a new man. Like Zache said, the job demanded no strength. Ten hours a day (excluding Sunday), me and my mates ran presses and cut paste leaves in an effort to produce forged British Pounds. Even tho I be assisting the Nazis, I enjoyed sabotaging the Brits and went about the work with zeal. What choice did I have?

There be one thing the Germans be sticklers about: die quote. The quota. "The quota" followed me to every camp I slaved. Often times, living or dying be based upon output. Those what fell behind got tossed aside; those what thrived managed to survive. At Sachsenhausen, I excelled. My devotion be threefold: one, I enjoyed sticking it to the English; two, someday I wanted to stare Kohner in the eyes a second before I shoved a knife in his throat; three, but most important, John Foley would make his way to Ireland and tell the Brotherhood he hadn't run away. And if I could rustle a portion of me dosh, I'd make right for my absence. Aye, the goal be fantastical; I assumed the Reichsmarks were long gone. But without hope a man withers in a place like Sachsenhausen.

In no time, I rose to the rank of foreman and gained the confidence of the plump Sturmbannführer Günter. Once he learned of my Irish background, he peppered with questions about how to improve the fraudulent Pound. I doubt my suggestions enhanced the product -the Germans had devised a solid replica- but this interaction helped sow our relationship. Well, this and our shared dislike of the Crown.

Sturmbannführer Günter was one of the few Nazis in the camps what seemed human. Congenial be a pat way to describe him, and I got the sense he'd have been a docile accountant in a different life. He often lamented the deplorable conditions at Sachsenhausen and helped make life for the prisoners under his command a tick better. For the most part, the guards ignored us because we were in the good graces of the Sturmbannführer.

One afternoon, Günter said to me, "I took a look at your sleeve and there's a dearth of information. I couldn't even locate a summation of charges. The only thing I found is a judicial verdict of indefinite internment. What did you do to land in a place like this?"

" _I got caught smuggling four million Reichsmarks," I answered, neglecting to reveal the murder of Mayer also sealed me fate._

Günter's eyes widened and he asked, "How'd you get four million Marks?"

" _A long story, but I was in cahoots with someone in the Gestapo. He was arrested and got turned by the Kripo."_

" _Yes...the Verwaltungsamt has no tolerance for theft and four million Reichsmarks...hm, not a trivial sum. You must've been a parcel to a huge plot."_

" _Not just me. Members of your government are also to blame."_

" _Did you tell the investigator as much?"_

" _Aye. Why should I take the fall when others are complicit?"_

" _If the four million Marks didn't secure your fate, your arrogance would've pricked a nerve."_

" _Let me ask you a question, Sturmbannführer. What would you do if someone tried to steal your money?"_

" _Weren't you stealing? Why is it wrong for the Reich to claim what went missing from the Reich?"_

" _Forget my situation. What would you do if someone tried to steal your money?"_

" _I'll tell you one thing: I wouldn't get caught."_

I laughed before uttering a manufactured -but casual- remark: "You know, I wonder what happened to the Reichsmarks I had in my possession."

" _Best I can answer is the money would be confiscated. After seizure...I'm not sure. I'd imagine it gets sent to the Reichsbank. Economic sabotage is a common charge levied against the Jews in this place. They hide their money, try to move it overseas...the typical Jew duplicity. Of course, anything they have evaporates upon their arrest. I imagine your money found the same fate. Listen, it's best not to dwell on what you've lost. You have enough to worry about in the present."_

Günter's information provided little insight, but it made sense the cash would find a way to the Reichsbank. Getting hands on the dosh...the task be impossible. Besides, Günter was spot on with his other statement: 'It's best not to dwell on what you've lost. You have enough to worry about in the present'.

Despite the cush trade and soft job, life in Sachsenhausen wasn't a stroll down Bachelor's Walk. I spent three years in the camp; writing about the depravity I saw would consume a lifetime. In the beginning, the treatment of the SS-Totenkopfverbände bordered on sadistic. As the war progressed, the SS-TV fashioned a pitiless attitude. By 1942, most of the guards were injured war veterans unfit for combat. Thus, they purged frustration on the only enemy they could: the malnourished prisoners in the camp.

I heard executions couldn't be administered without approval from the commandant (Schutzhaftlagerführer Hans Loritz -a venal, petite fella with a Hitler mustache), but it didn't stop wanton punishment. I witnessed beatings what rendered the victim as good as dead. Heads cracked, limbs broken...I didn't know what became of the lashed, but I had suspicions. Regardless, the poor souls were never seen again after they were carried away.

It didn't matter if you were a man or a woman; age had no bearing. Committing an offense against the "rules" ordained punishment. Problem be, the rules were arbitrary and the guards reveled in illogical order. Some of them despised eye-contact. Look at them and you were subjected to a beating. Others took pleasure in pounding prisoners who wouldn't look at them. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong guard...a beating. An excuse would be manufactured to justify the thrashing, but the reasons were shite. These things were done in public to indicate the worthlessness of an inmate's life and it became part of the day-to-day routine.

Beatings weren't the only form of punishment: prisoners were forced to march the camp's stony perimeter without footwear, made to undertake the "Sachsenhausen Salute" (popping a squat with arms extended straight), or sent to loll in isolation cells.

If internees weren't smacked into a stupor, they could die from the food and unsanitary conditions. Louses ran rampant and spread infectious diseases. The rations were the equivalent of a can of meatless soup a day, no more than a pint, along with stale bread, crackers and the occasional weak cup of coffee. No more, ever.

On this diet, a prisoner was expected to work from daybreak to dusk. For those of us in the counterfeiting or administration departments, the nourishment proved adequate. However, the men and women assigned hard labor lasted, like Zache warned, a few months. When they became too weak to work, they were herded onto trains and transported out of Sachsenhausen. The Nazis didn't care about wasting labor. They had a constant supply of "new hires" arriving every day.

Strange as it sounds, I never abandoned the hope I would be released. In me rack at night, I fantasized the Brotherhood would ask the Germans some cursory questions. Once word of my arrest got to the proper people, I would be whisked out of this hell. What fuss would be made about my treatment during incarceration was something else to be considered. Perhaps, in recompense, Heydrich would hand me the four million Reichsmarks as compensation.

Foolish thoughts, I know...and I knew it then. In the camp, though, hope kept a soul alive. Once optimism vanished, the will to live vanished. I saw it happen; I watched prisoners lie down on the grinder and refuse to move; prisoners stopped eating; prisoners stopped drinking; prisoners devised ways to end themselves; prisoners passed at night and weren't discovered until morning. I had long been desensitized to corpses. Seeing the dead brushed from the barracks didn't trouble me; I took the viewpoint, 'Better them than John Foley'.

All the while, war raged throughout Europe and then the world. I didn't know the particulars of the conflagration; I wouldn't have cared anyway. My reality stretched to the prison fence. Not even Tommy and Claire's respective fates be cause for conjecture. Survival or demise be on them.

I wouldn't be alive today without Zache, Zujenia and the two other members of our group. The difference between life and death be a razor's edge. Meat, cheese, salt tablets, Doxycycline for typhus, aspirin...these items made the difference. Zache also bartered for something called "Pervitin" from the SS-TV. The granular material came packaged in tiny paper packets. Once opened and poured onto a flat surface, the substance be inhaled into the nose. An instant jolt of energy electrified the body. Time passed like a snap of fingers. To Sturmbannführer Günter's delight, we worked hard, without respite, and always filled our quota. There be a few side effects: sleep suffered and slaking the Pervitin appetite increased with use. Six months on the shite turned me into a jittery mess. At last, I told Zache 'no more'. Weaning the desire for Pervitin took two weeks, but once clean I never touched the shite again. And neither did Zache and the others.

Before I continue, let me take a moment to mention the two comrades Zache had enlisted into our troupe:

Denni Albert -a tall, reedy, smooth-talking missionary from Belgium- had been sent to Sachsenhausen for "reeducation". Seems he offended the Nazis by preaching love for their Jewish brother. He also hid a half dozen Yids in his cellar which be a crime in the Reich. Still, the guards treated him with a reverence few received. Why? I assumed Denni's status as a Christian endeared, and he blessed the guards even though none of them deserved benediction. I considered the behavior ironic; through such largesse, he absolved these fiends of their cruelty. When I mentioned this to him, he looked pained and explained, "Everyone deserves consecration. If I can reach one man and change his ways, then my work is a success." Then he grinned and added, "Besides, you catch more flies with honey."

The honey he produced be paid in small favors. Denni worked in the administration lodge doing God know what, but he received news of impending inspections. The SS-TV enjoyed turning out the barracks in a quest to discover contraband. A stint in the hole and reduced rations be the consequence for storing smuggled goods. Even our relationship with the guards had limits and Denni provided ample warning.

There was just one catch:

In exchange for his help, I had to accept the Lord as my savior. His goal: to collect an army of Christians what would use the power of prayer to destroy the Nazis.

Denni told me: "I'm not in this camp by accident. The Almighty called me to be His instrument, one of His warriors on Earth. I will change minds, John. I will make a difference. Why else am I here?"

I didn't believe a word of it. If Denni did, he was crazier than the rest of us. Prayer wouldn't accomplish anything and the proof be in the thousands of Jews beseeching Jehovah for succor. But if crossing meself and muttering supplications on Sunday kept me from the hole, I'd be a party to the drivel.

Maurice Voclain, a tiny, bald man with a big nose and large front teeth, was the final member of our ensemble. A wealthy French entrepreneur what refused to do business with the Germans after Pétain took the helm at Vichy, Voclain tried to squirrel his money away instead of paying a ninety percent tax. When the Nazis came to seize some of his assets, he tried to escape to Switzerland with the bulk of his wealth in gold. He didn't get far and claimed a rat banker turned him out. Voclain also worked in the counterfeiting operation and, like meself, attained a supervisory role. He did everything what be asked of him and then some, but he savored the day his stretch ended. In his words, he would make the rat 'suffer'. I found this attitude more to my liking than Denni's.

While the Nazis robbed Voclain of his money, he still maintained a shrewd business sense. As such, he connived and kept our currency. Considering my background, I could've made an argument meself be an apt custodian of the stash. But Voclain had been a prisoner longer than I, and he understood the politics of barter better than meself. The trafficking be an intricate arrangement: Jews traded valuables what they kept concealed up their arse -diamonds, timepieces, earrings- for food; valuables were dealt to guards for Pervitin and cigarettes; Pervitin and cigarettes got tossed to the kitchen staff for food. Of course, this be a simplified example, and I'd be remiss to ignore what the power of corporal gratification accomplished.

Zujenia negotiated with her cunny. Fact be, most of the medicine we acquired at Sachsenhausen came from Zujenia's well-used commodity. She fecked with doctors and orderlies; not once did I hear a gripe from her practiced mouth. Though Zache's progeny, she bore no resemblance to her father...not like it would've mattered. The guards and Capos took liberties with hags and harlots; Jews and gentiles; boys and girls. But Zujenia, a svelte beauty with long red hair and almond-shaped azure eyes, evoked a mystical hold on men. She coiled their desires tight and made them her slave...not the other way around. Her whoring -what had at one time repulsed me- be just another means to an end.

I whored meself, too, though not in the carnal sense: on occasion, me muscle be required. We weren't the lone opportunists in Sachsenhausen plying merchandise and securing favors. There be a proverb in the camps: to gain the upper hand, upper hands had to be shattered. What this meant...you can look at it two ways: control of the agora required breaking the hands of competitors...or, one must break their other hand to control the agora. Either explanation sufficed. When opposition got frisky, John Foley broke bones. If breaking bones didn't suffice, Voclain bought a guard or two to remedy delinquents.

Alas, some fellas required more than a swift kick. These mokes didn't care about black markets and goods. They were branded "der rohling" -the brute or ruffian- and flouted the unwritten rules of barrack edict and decorum. It be important sixty odd men cohabitate in relative harmony. As the majority were Jews, a member of the race be charged with keeping order and meting "appropriate" punishment for petty transgressions. He was known as a Stubendienst. The Stubendienst reported to a block leader called a Blockschreiber (a fella responsible for a cluster of barracks) who, in turn, reported to the SS. Believe me, it was imperative to handle problems before the SS caught wind. The hierarchy worked well, or well enough, but upsetting the balance risked more than domestic disorder. A sloppy lodge earned the enmity of guards.

Der rohling sorts strolled in from time-to-time. As with the IRA and informers, swift action saved a laborious slog of remedy. Hands down, the worst tyrant of them all be a hideous inmate named Dobbleman.

If anyone deserved a home in a Nazi prison camp, Dobbleman be the fella. He arrived at Sachsenhausen about twelve months into my internment. Before him, the worst newcomer to Barracks Three be a haughty Italian what refused to follow the rubric of the hoary Yid. I set him straight with a fist to the face.

Dobbleman...he needed more than a crooked nose. A hulking fellow with a bald, melon shaped head and heavy brow, he stormed into our barracks, tossed the aged Stubendienst aside and announced he was taking over.

" _Alle Stiefmütterchen werden mir einen Tribut zahlen," he woofed, "oder ich ficke deinen arsch und stelle sicher, dass du nie wieder geradeaus gehst!" Then he strutted down the center aisle and glared at each man he passed._

Zache waited until the brute sauntered by and then jumped from his rack. "We have a problem," he whispered.

My understanding of German had improved, but most of the lout's words flew over my head. "What did he say?" I asked. "I caught the pansy and tribute part but-"

" _He said pay up or he'll fuck our asses until we can't walk straight."_

I let him have the run of the place for a few days whilst plotting a suitable remedy. Meanwhile, Voclain collected information from a guard and informed, "This guy is no joke. Klaus Dobbleman, former Heer NCO, arrested for excessive force in France. He raped children and struck an officer. The SS won't touch him because he's ex-Wehrmacht."

Realizing a head-on confrontation wouldn't be prudent, I fashioned a shrewder plan. One evening, whilst everyone slept, I filled me mess tin with urine until the fluid overflowed. Then I padded to Dobbleman's slab and poured the cup onto his head. Like a dog, he sat up and snarled.

" _Accident," I told him in a baiting voice._

The barracks be dark but I'd been awake for hours. Roused from slumber, Dobbleman's eyes hadn't time to adjust; I used this to my advantage. The brute slithered out of bed and stood before me, blinking and dumbfounded. Quick-like, I kicked him in the giblets; he wheezed and fell to his knees. I delivered a boot to his face; he collapsed to the floor. I grabbed his right leg, dragged his ankle over the edge of his rack, and stomped on his femur once and then again. Nobody stirred as his leg snapped like a piece of rotted wood. Dobbleman howled and reached for my shoes, but I strolled away as he squirmed on the ground.

The next morning at muster, Dobbleman tried to limp to the head of the line, whimpering like a hurt animal during the slow, painful trek. The guards took one look at him and, without pity, threw him aside. Dobbleman was on the invalid train by afternoon. The old Yid returned to his berth and everything be pat in the barracks again.

Three years I lived in Sachsenhausen...and it seemed my stretch in the camp would last forever. Then, one morning in October 1942, Günter called Voclain and I into his office and vomited bad news:

" _The counterfeiting operation is being shuttered in a manner of weeks. Seems the cost of production exceeds the return. Prisoners will be reassigned duties. I've made inquiries and Schutzhaftlagerführer Sauer intends on placing all of you in either the Heinkel factory, the brick making facility or the quarry."_

" _Are you sure?" Voclain asked._

" _Clear as dumpling broth," Günter answered. "I received new orders last night. Berlin. The Ministry of Economics doing God knows what. So..."_

Voclain snorted and then said, "I don't know anything about assembling airplanes."

" _Neither do the Jews but there they are, riveting and wiring the damn things. And I'll tell you, a lot Heinkel's are crashing in Russia for no obvious reason. Herr Speer needs to devise a better way to utilize labor. I do know the factory is dreadful labor and the quarry-"_

" _I'm familiar with the quarry," I interrupted._

" _Right. Right...and Schutzhaftlagerführer Sauer...he's new to Sachsenhausen but his first order of business is to crack favors the Death Heads are doling to prisoners. You can take poison on it."_

Günter's information soured me face, but he laid a hand on my shoulder and said, "There's a new IG Farben complex opening at a camp in Poland with a billet for twenty in the Buna-Werk plant. I've made inquiries with the officer in charge of the operation and he's willing to take a dozen of my best, so long as they're not politicals."

" _Factory work?" I asked._

" _The camp does not contain politicals," reiterated Günter. "You don't want to keep dancing with bears. Not here. I've heard there's a reorganization in the works."_

I understood what Günter implied: I'd be a fool to stick around Sachsenhausen. The saying what starts 'looking a gift horse'...aye, this be bang on.

Voclain didn't need his arm twisted. "Put me on the chit," he declared. "I'll take my chances in Poland."

Zache, Albert...these fellas were my pals. We schemed and thrived, relied on wits whilst others struggled to survive. I felt sick leaving them behind but...such be the way the screw turns. At some point, personal welfare takes precedence over friendship.

" _Aye, count me in," I said._

Voclain and I considered keeping the theoretical reassignment a secret from both Albert and Zache. However, the camps being what they were, most mates never had the opportunity to bid fare thee well's.

" _It is what it is," Zache said with a shrug. "We had a good run. I suppose it's on to the next hustle." The King of the Gypsy's, one of the best cons I ever met, would have to work his magic with a new crew. I'm not certain how the future played for him or Zujenia, but I never saw Zache again._

Albert, as usual, let pious inclinations color his opinions. "God's will," he professed. "I wish you the best."

Denni Albert had yet to realize God had nothing to do with it. He'd still be clinging to the stupid religious shite when I ran across him two years later.

The following week, Voclain and were pulled from morning rollcall and told to gather our kits. With ten others from the counterfeiting operation, we climbed into a crowded carriage ringed with barbed wire 'round the open windows. I can't say the journey was pleasant, but the belief I be headed to a pat spot buoyed me spirits. The others in the car -meek Jews and the Jehovahs- didn't share the same enthusiasm.

After two days of travel, we arrived at our new home. The placard affixed to the station listed three names: Oswiecim, Auschwitz, and Monowitz.

# 17.

### Monowitz, 1942-1944

Processing at Auschwitz be a terrible ordeal words fail to convey.

Those of us arriving from other camps were herded together on a grassy farrow and then led away in short order. This brief stay afforded a peek at what new arrivals endured. Trundling with suitcases and wearing clothes dirtied by the unrefined method of transportation, countless internees were funneled to staging areas; almost of all them wore the Jew triangle. Men, women, children...the customary menagerie. The Nazis segregated the incoming by sex and age; the result of forced separation incited pitiful wailing. The guards, stony as ever, cajoled and struck the loudest offenders. I didn't get a chance to see what came next for these folks; the lot of us already sentenced to hard time marched from the madness and commenced the next stage of dispensation.

In a building called the Sauna, prisoners were stripped, shaved of all hair (including armpits and pubic areas), deloused, photographed and tattooed on the left wrist with their identification number. Whist waiting outside with hundreds of other naked inmates (and enduring ridicule for the size of our manhood by leering guards) Voclain whispered, "I think Günter lied to us. This is awful."

After the blue nickers were etched onto our skin, new garb be doled. Once dressed, we mustered on a worn domain. A convoluted grouping of convicts commenced (prisoner numbers, called by a guard through a megaphone, determined where one assembled) until the dozen us from Sachsenhausen stood shoulder to shoulder.

A brusque Oberscharführer gave us the once over before saying, "You're the special group designated Monowitz, heh? It's a seven-kilometer walk, without rest. Stray from the group and you will be punished."

Out the gate we filed, passing large brick edifices topped with smokestacks in the final stage of construction. 'Factories,' me mind concluded. It appeared Auschwitz be an Arbeitslager, a labor camp, what required a copious work force.

The long trek by feet brought us to our new home. For clarification, Auschwitz was a conglomeration of three separate camps: Auschwitz I, an Arbeitskommando encampment, housed an armament factory and the barracks of the Russian and Polish POW's. Auschwitz II, also known as Birkenau, contained the Yid compound, administration headquarters and SS canteen. Monowitz, or Buna, be the location of Auschwitz III, my domicile...

• • •

"I didn't know Auschwitz had three separate sites," I said.

Sandi said, "Three main camps, like your father wrote, and several subcamps."

"And IG Farben used slave labor?"

"Many German companies treated prisoners as disposable commodities. Siemen's, Heinkel, Volkswagen, AEG...the list is too long to recite. These people were traded among camps and worked until they died."

"If they weren't outright killed."

"Those half-finished buildings at Birkenau? Those-"

"Crematoriums. I get it."

"Until those were constructed, the dead had to be hauled to burn pits located in an area of the camp called Little Wood. The ashes, like Voclain told your father, were dumped into a pond or spread along the soil and used as fertilizer. Can you imagine?"

No, I couldn't. I had never thought of the Holocaust beyond the musty classrooms of Benson High: a lot of dead people, piles of 'em, presented in grainy black and white images; Eisenhower and other big wigs inspecting the murdered; "X's" on European maps marking the location of concentration camps. Some of my peers exclaimed or cried; I peeped the morbid scenes with a detached curiosity. It's not like I didn't care, but lacking a connection beyond celluloid meant the pictures got the big ole flush when school ended. Those days were over, and then some.

"My father stood there," I said under my breath. Then I looked at Sandi and asked, "Six years? He survived six years?"

"Crazy, isn't it?"

"I need some air," I announced. "I feel like I haven't been outside in a month. Let's find a tree to sit under while I read."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Bde Maka Ska. We'll snag a couple sandwiches and have a picnic. Why don't you grab a blanket while I finish this chapter?"

"No skipping ahead," warned Sandi, as she wiggled a finger in front of my face.

• • •

... _from October 1942 until October 1944._

The first order of business after we arrived at Monowitz be something resembling a welcome from the commandant. He introduced hisself as Hauptsturmführer Schwarz and yapped, "You prisoners should be thankful for the opportunity to rehabilitate your criminal leanings through hard work."

" _And," Schwarz concluded, "we have amenities the swine up the road lack: movies, literature, performers. Obedience reaps comfort. I've no desire to be platooned in this Polish hell any more than you. So, we make the best of a lousy situation, yes?"_

Standing next to me, Voclain said, "This doesn't sound bad."

I thought it sounded damn good.

The dozen of us from Sachsenhausen were installed in a hut what berthed one hundred. We went from the crowded, disgusting barracks in Germany to a roomy, well-maintained building enclosed by a vaulted watertight ceiling. No leaky spots, corrugated piping attached to the wood burner, warped floorboards...a semblance of comfortability. The jacks contained showers and wash basins; linen wasn't moth-eaten; ample lighting; tables and chairs.

We were in the midst of admiring our cush digs when a squat suit-and-tie fella wearing thick glasses walked in and whistled for attention.

" _You're the cluster from Sachsenhausen," he said in a gruff voice. "I'm told you come with a glowing recommendation. Dedicated, enthusiastic workers and the rest. What is it you did there?"_

" _Counterfeiting," someone answered._

" _Counterfeiting what?"_

" _The English pound."_

" _A lax job?"_

" _We worked the presses," Voclain said. "Carried pulp, cut leaves, loaded bundles onto trucks."_

" _Hmm...well, this place isn't soft. I'm Herr Schmidt, by the way, and I've been sent to this shithole to increase production. Pulled from my home in Munich..." Schmidt glanced around the room and then continued in a mumble, "They said, 'bring your family'. Who'd bring their family to a place like this?" The question be an obvious rhetorical, but Schmidt stared at us like he expected an answer._

" _Sachsenhausen was no picnic," a voice piped._

" _How many of you have experience creating artificial rubber?" Schmidt asked. Of course, nobody raised a hand. "Great," he snorted. "You want to talk about no picnic? Butadiene is lethal when inhaled without masks. Months, years...at some point, this shit will stunt breathing or cause cancer. I'm working on allocating the necessary safety provisions, but preventative measures are not high priority for people like you. Be thankful you're not creating pesticides and fuels in the Schädlingsbekämpfungsmittel-Werk factory. Herr Roon is a tyrannical supervisor. Those bastards don't last more than a couple weeks before dropping dead."_

The information sucked our collective happiness, but Herr Schmidt wasn't finished being a killjoy: "The quota in the Buna-Werk plant is impossible to satisfy. Except for Sunday, you'll work twelve-hour days. Food is lousy, the guards are coarse and if you should fall victim to an accident, the doctors from Birkenau will weed you from the ranks. I find this entire operation deplorable. Whatever you've done to land in Monowitz, there is no excuse for German men, so-called, to embrace such a callous indifference to life."

Schmidt removed his glasses, snapped the temples, and then dropped them into a shirt pocket. "Here's the plan," he confided in a whisper. "You have orders to fill and I hold the pen responsible for signing invoices. Therefore, I foresee no problems. None. Ever. Health inspections won't be an issue because you're safe, skilled laborers who exceed their quota. I will not lose a trained worker while I'm here. Am I clear?"

You could hear a pin drop in the quarters.

" _Good," said Schmidt, rubbing hands together. "Good. Now, let's get to business."_

It didn't take long for us to became the "proficient" workforce Herr Schmidt desired. With him pencil whipping the numbers, the fellas from Sachsenhausen made their slice on a day-to-day basis. This isn't to suggest we didn't work, and our job in the Buna-Werk factory be hell:

_Bedecked in weighty sartorial, slaving in hundred-degree temperatures, we combined_ _butadiene and styrene (both products of petroleum), and formed the copolymer rubber named Buna-S. The coalescing quarters were hot, steamy, unventilated chambers. Acrid smoke burned eyes; the odor_ _of the butadiene and styrene produced soup...it's indescribable. As promised, Schmidt acquired goggles and filtered masks, but the devices only dampened the irritants a wee bit._

After our shift, we returned to the barracks reeking of rubber and stained in the black, gooey Buna. This shite would get in ears, thicken beneath fingernails, and cover our faces. It be impossible to rinse Buna-S from our bodies. Me mates and I learned to accept we'd always be covered in filth. While not good for our health, there were worse fates at Monowitz.

We could've been crafting liquid fuels or forming pesticides for the aforementioned Supervisor Roon.

The huts across the way housed workers disfigured by skin burns, sickened by vapors and blinded by chemicals. Once rendered useless, or pronounced as such by unsympathetic doctors, Schädlingsbekämpfungsmittel rejects took the "rubbish" lorry to Birkenau. Aye, the guards called it the "rubbish" lorry. An unusable slave be tossed away like garbage.

Food was plentiful but awful; the delicacy served at all meals be a watery dish known as Buna soup. The one modicum of "comfort" came on Sunday, the designated day of rest. The Nazis provided reading material from the German press, including Das Reich, Lustige Blatter and Der Strumer. Foreign material was prohibited, although I'd catch the guards ogling pin-up girls in the risqué American magazines. We were even allowed the luxury of lettering writing. None of mine, addressed to Noel Slattery in Ireland, made it past the censors.

Every third Sunday of the month featured an "entertainment and moral boosting" performance in the form of German movies, war propaganda and the occasional recital. Me chums and I favored the concerts because the choir was composed of busty Ukrainian women. The German films -bland melodramatic loves stories and glowing military reports from the front- put a man to sleep...or triggered depression. All the war information we received be tainted by German hyperbole. You wouldn't have guessed the Nazis were capable of defeat. By early 1943, I learned later, the war had turned in favor of the Allies.

But there were portents all wasn't well for the Third Reich: two bombing sorties (on in August, another in September) struck the exterior camp in mid-1944. The distant explosions didn't fill me and chums with good cheer. Instead, we cowered and hoped (or prayed) our hut wouldn't get flattened by the ordinance. Regardless, the consensus among prisoners be the Allies were giving Germany the business. But the SS, nor Herr Schmidt, spoke of the attacks; it was as if they never happened.

A handful of times, the IRC made a cursory inspection of the camp. The prisoners, in clean uniforms, mustered in front of the huts and grinned whilst the Red Cross strolled Monowitz with Hauptsturmführer Schwarz whispering sweet nothings in their ears. I guess the IRC found everything square, but I wondered if they ever visited Birkenau. Nonstop, the smokestacks vomited dark exhaust and the stench, when the wind blew east, be worse than the inside of the Buna-Werk plant. Hands down, I preferred the smell of synthetic rubber to whatever wafted through the Polish air. None of us knew what Auschwitz II produced, but it never occurred to me the camp be a death factory. Did I know the Nazis were capable of murder? Aye. I'd seen them hang people at Sachsenhausen for attempted escape or assault. In those instances, it could be argued the punishment fit the crime. Ending people for being a minority, millions of 'em it turned out, never crossed me mind until I came face-to-face with the genocide.

For two years we existed in this oblivious state whilst being lauded as skilled workers of the Third Reich. Like Sachsenhausen, the day to day existence melded into an unending stint. I scratched nicks on the plywood wall next to me slab. When the tally hit 450, I stopped making notches. Over time our barracks filled with new arrivals. The once spacious hutch packed one hundred. Absent the benevolence of Herr Schmidt, none of us in his sector of the Buna-Werk plant would've survived. I knew there'd come a tipping point, though. Nothing lasts forever.

On 7 October, 1944, Jewish prisoners in Birkenau staged a rebellion of sorts. Using munitions smuggled from an armament's factory, they destroyed several buildings and killed a number of guards. At our evening rollcall, Hauptsturmführer Schwarz paced the grinder, slapped a horse whip against his riding boots, and addressed us with grim news:

" _The Jew rats up the road decided to get frisky! Their day of reckoning is coming! Alas, the workforce in Birkenau has been compromised. I've been ordered to send my best laborers to supplement the loss. Effective tomorrow, a portion of workers from Buna-Werk will transfer locations. Have your belongings ready for transport in the morning."_

Herr Schmidt visited the barracks before lights out and called us together. "I'm sorry," he lamented in a morose tone, "but there's nothing to be done. I've argued on your behalves...overstepped my bounds...to no avail."

A cross chum named Gurtz remarked, "You see what our reputation secured? Out of here and off to Birkenau. Wonderful!"

" _You'd be out regardless," Schmidt said. "Plans are underway to close Buna-Werk at the start of next year. You know Monowicz was bombed. What you don't know is the Wehrmacht is losing ground in the east and west. The Allies are squeezing everything towards Germany. I can't say this with the company I keep, so I'll tell all of you: the end is near for the Third Reich."_

" _And the end of the camps!" Gurtz cheered. "How long until Birkenau shuts its doors?"_

Schmidt answered, "When the Soviets are on the stoop. Until then, do what's demanded and keep your head down."

" _The Soviets?" cried Voclain. "I want nothing to do with them!"_

" _At least you can appeal to their sensibilities," Schmidt replied. "I imagine these camps will be emptied well before the Red Army arrives. My...ahem...brethren in the SS won't be waiting around when the hammer falls."_

The news filled me with a joy I hadn't caressed in a long time. Up to this point, I endured sixty-one months of captivity. A few more wouldn't crack me. So what if the Soviets arrived? I figured they couldn't be worse than Nazis.

However, I had yet to comprehend the wretchedness of motivated Germans.

I didn't sleep a wink my last night at Monowitz. None of us did. Talk of freedom filled the barracks. Me mates vivid fantasies centered around three subjects: sex, alcohol and clean clothes. My dreams were more practical. I hoped, even prayed, Kohner was alive when I came calling. Seeing the look on his pinched face...a priceless moment. I'd stare deep into his eyes when I plunged a knife into his guts. Better yet, I'd take a few tokens with me. A couple fingers, his beak...mayhap my money.

My money...I hadn't thought of the missing dosh in months. Or was it years? The daft whim of ending Kohner gave way to grim reality. Where would I go when my grouse was settled? Back to Ireland to tell me tale with nothing to show of the stretch but a tattoo? Those in the Brotherhood...they'd believe the fantastic talk. But admitting why I caught a charge would -not might- incite questions and anger. Spewing a convoluted fib wouldn't work. I had failed to deliver in a spectacular way. Ending a man I was told not to end, losing the cash...not all of it be my fault, but those what could attest to veracity were (I assumed) long gone. Worse, I'd have to face the McMahon clutch. No matter what I said to them, I'd never make anything square.

A multitude of troubling thoughts serenaded when I boarded the Opal the next morning. Those feelings vanished quick-like when I arrived at Birkenau.

The vile smell induced coughing. Me chattering mates stopped yapping and looked at each other; Voclain nudged my ribs.

" _Christ!" he cried. "What are they cooking here?"_

His question would be answered in short order.

A second after the lorry stopped, a shrill whistle sounded. An SS-TV appeared at the rear and exclaimed, "Move! Move! Muster!" To accentuate the demand, he blew the whistle again and then slapped the nearest man across the face.

We scampered out with kits and lined up; the guard eyeballed us and the demanded, "Dress right!"

Whilst arranging ourselves at the appropriate arm's length, a Rapportführer meandered from a building and rooted hisself in front of us. "Count off!" he demanded.

One through one hundred rolled through our ranks (our group of twelve from Sachsenhausen had grown by eighty-eight during the stretch at Monowitz). When we finished, the Rapportführer exclaimed: "One to fifty come with me! The rest go with the Blockführer! Leave your gear!"

Fifty-one and up (including Voclain) took off at double time pace as the Blockführer spat invectives. Meanwhile, the Rapportführer plucked a flask from his coat and took several long plugs. Then he smacked lips and said, "You Monowitz shitheads are assigned Kanada. Form a line, single file, make it snappy. We had trouble yesterday and my patience is thin."

Like our pants were on fire, we fashioned a crooked line as the Rapportführer barked, "Asses to peckers, shitheads! No space between the man in front and behind! Detail, on my command, we march! And you better be in step, shitheads! Left foot, hup!"

March we did into this new miserable experience. The brick ruins of one of the factories smoldered while the four other plants belched waste into the overcast sky. Prisoners milled like thin chickens and watched us pass with bug eyes.

" _Move!" the Rapportführer shouted. "Faster!"_

He forced us through a doorway, the name "Kanada" stenciled in chalk above the entrance, into a quiet, dim chamber. Just a handful of lights shone but when my eyes adjusted, I couldn't believe the sight: heaps of naked bodies, all ages and sexes, five meters high, twenty meters deep and twenty meters long...a mountain of death.

To my left, a dozen inmates, hunched on stools and working in pairs, did something to the dead. There was another group of men taking the bodies from the workers on stools and heaving them onto karts. Others dragged corpses to the men on the stools. An assembly line for the dead, a line showing no end. I estimated these inmates would be working forever to do...whatever it was they were doing. And whatever it was, I wanted no part. I stared in disbelief until I was hit in the head by a kapo.

Stunned by the blow, I stumbled forward; a dirty fella with a red band wrapped around his right arm pointed at an empty stool and said, "Your station. Do what you're told and you'll avoid the gas."

" _Gas?"_

" _This is an extermination camp," he explained, gesturing at the bodies. "You either work or you're killed. The choice is yours."_

" _We make rubber," the man behind me argued._

I didn't bother listening to the rest of the discussion. It be clear our rubber making days were over. Instead, I walked to my stool and took a seat.

My partner, the prisoner beside me, slouched over a bucket and plucked small pieces of what looked like paper from the pail. Brow furrowed, he scrubbed the object with a small brush and then tossed it into another vessel. One after one, plucking and scouring.

I sat there, gawking, while my partner worked with the wee shavings. At last, he lifted his head and spied me.

There be no introduction from the fella, just a weary, "Welcome to Kanada. I hope you're good with a knife, because you won't have a chance to get better. They don't have much use for those who can't keep with the flow. Then it's the garbage pile for you."

Me eyes must've danced 'round the room a thousand times; each scan produced fresh wickedness.

" _Hey, shithead," me chum said, "pay attention. Things move fast. In a couple of minutes, you're going to get a kart of corpses. See the pairing knife on the ground? Take it, cut out the wrist tattoo and throw the skin into my bucket. Be careful not to damage the number. It must be readable. Leave the dead on the kart. You're allocated one minute per body. Don't think you aren't being watched. The kapo's keep time."_

His words presented as gibberish to me. Cut out the tattoo? Why? Tongue-tied, I watched two prisoners drag a squeaky kart next to me.

" _What are you waiting for?" my partner exclaimed. "You're timed! Didn't you hear what I said?"_

I reached between my feet, found the instrument and then stared at the dull, bloody blade.

" _Here, I'll show you," he fussed, grabbing the knife with his right hand and seizing a limp wrist with the left. My partner displayed precise skills: without taking excess flesh, he removed the tattoo in four slices. He peeled the skin -a little rectangle- and tossed it into the vessel. "There," he said, returning the knife. "See how easy! Now, if you know what's good for you, you'll get to work."_

I did as instructed, so help me. For countless hours I cut, peeled and tossed. Me pal, absorbed in his work, made nary a sound. The pile of bodies would be replaced every ten minutes. One a minute, sixty minutes in an hour. We took a respite in the middle of the day for food, but the last thing I could do was eat. My partner had no issues; he slurped a cup of water and consumed a dry piece of bread.

" _You're doing well," he said between mouthfuls. "The SS purged my old companion. I saw him on kart this morning. Part of the resistance, I guess."_

" _Resistance?"_

" _Sonderkommando's attacked the crematoria and SS canteen yesterday. Women working in the armaments shop smuggled them bombs. The SS hung anyone they deemed complicit in the plot."_

" _Crematoria?"_

" _The final stop for theses corpses."_

It dawned on me, then, what the smokestacks expelled. "Jaysus, they're incinerated," I pronounced.

He looked offended and asked, "Where have you been? Under a rock? You don't know what happens here? This is one death camp of many. People are brought in by train. They unload and are selected for gassing or labor. Some get sent to the hospital barracks. I've heard the doctors do strange experiments."

" _Experiments?"_

" _Consider yourself lucky..." he glanced at my Winkel and then continued, "...but you don't have to worry. The SS enjoys torturing Jews."_

The Germans ran an efficient operation. Like my partner, I worked without uttering a sound. Me back and wrist ached, but I ignored the discomfort. 'It could be worse,' I thought.

At last, a kapo hollered, "Five o'clock! Work complete! Hang identification!"

I looked up from my last wrist and saw an empty train of karts. The formidable pile had been whittled to naught.

My partner stood, grunted and then said, "Last item of the day is rendering. We take the bucket of skins to stretching racks in the back of the shop. The good news is we're not timed. The bad news? You have to be careful attaching the number. Rip the skin and you'll be whipped. Tear a couple and you'll disappear. This entire bucket has to be emptied before we can leave. Supper call is six. Last muster is eight. Understand?"

Aye, I understood. Missing supper meant you starved; missing last roll meant you were kaput.

Attaching the skins to the tiny metal anchors took excessive concentration. As usual, me mate worked fast. He fixed ten to my one. When we finished, the disgusting collection hung from a large partition. Our partition attached to another -also covered in numbers- what attached to another. And so it went, an eight meter wall filled with wrinkled skins.

Hands on hips, my partner admired our exhibit like it be the Mona Lisa. "The SS collects 'em after they dry," he said. "It's a big to-do. Paperwork, signatures...armed guards. They wheel in boxes, load 'em full, seal 'em with tape. Don't ask me where the shit is sent."

I saw the procedure for meself the next morning. Like me partner described, the SS-TV strolled in, detached the numbers, wrote on clipboards, wrapped the containers. 'Why the fuss?' I wondered. Perhaps the cultivation be the Nazis deranged method of closing the ledger on individuals.

Later, instigated by paranoia, I adopted another view of the situation. I conjured the image of a studious bookkeeper in Berlin. In a register, he would have inscribed "Worker Number 217949". Beneath the label: neat, handwritten columns chronicling the value of the work I performed and the cost the Reich incurred by keeping me alive. The accountant would combine my results with the other inmates in my quarters or camp or by class of prisoner...Jew, Gypsy, Communist, deviant, or miscellaneous. He would present this profit and loss report to his superior. If my results were above board, I would be kept alive. If I slipped beneath a threshold, John Foley's number was collected. Likewise, the commandants of each camp were evaluated on this profit or loss result. If the SS were over expensed, they would reduce the food allotment or liquidate prisoners; a negative balance meant the inmates could be worked harder and longer.

I imagined the Nazi penal system as a business enterprise of what I be a commodity. Lest I forget the lesson on expendability, I saw potential competition every day: the endless stock of men, women and children arriving by locomotive. Where all these people came from I didn't know, but it was better to be on the stool than next to it.

Such became my life: a second-by-second existence handling the corpses and a future on a kart amongst them.

• • •

I leaned against the trunk of a big elm and pushed my ham and cheese sandwich aside. My appetite had vanished, but something I read in the manuscript bonked me on the head.

"This Kanada place." I said. "Are there-"

"Kan-a-da," Sandi corrected. "When the prisoners arrived, their possessions were collected and taken to the Kan-a-da warehouse. The Nazis pilfered clothes, jewelry, silverware...anything of value. The dead had their orifices searched and valuable dental work removed. I'm assuming this happened before the bodies reached your father. He makes no mention of teeth pulling or-"

"I get the picture. He didn't stick a hand up a cadaver's ass."

"One way to put it."

"What about the tattoo mining?"

"I couldn't find an account of what your father described. The JIWCA also has nothing. It's not out of the realm those involved prisoners were executed. Or they're too ashamed to speak of what they did."

"You mean plundering corpses?"

"What choice did they have? You asked how your father survived six years? Luck and subservience, in this order. Meeting Zache, Voclain and Schmidt played a big part, but he also had to, you know, do unpleasant things to stay alive."

The tranquility of the outdoors clashed with the grim world of Auschwitz. The stink of death oozed from the manuscript and I took a breath to clear my lungs. Fresh air didn't help; my mind kept returning to the institutionalized murder. So many complicit people...even men like Schmidt -the "benevolent" guardian of Da and his "mates" from Sachsenhausen- did nothing to stop the slaughter of _millions._ And to think my father participated in it...which led me back to what bonked my noggin:

"Well, at least we've solved the mystery of what's in the jar."

"What do you mean?" Sandi asked, looking baffled.

It occurred to me she'd never seen the scar on Da's wrist. The _rectangular_ scar...

I cleared my throat and then said, "Remember the petroleum jelly jar? The thing wrapped in paper? When we get back to my apartment, I bet we'll find the number 217949 inked on the...um...piece of his skin."

• • •

The paper fell from the overturned petroleum jar; I unfolded the slip and then pinched the tattoo between my fingers. As Sandi watched, I rubbed the faded blue numbers and recited: "217949."

"Hm..." pondered Sandi, "yes, it makes sense."

"Does it?"

"You'll see when you get to the end. There's a reason he saved the number."

"He saved it as proof," I announced, setting the repulsive item down. "Behold: a tattoo from his time in a Nazi death camp."

"Proof and something else."

"Like?"

"What did I say? You'll see when you-"

"Get to the end. Yea, I heard you." Once again, I thumbed through Da's pages and watched the sentences blur together. "Look, I'm a believer," I said, "but goddamn this is depressing."

"I know, and it doesn't get better, but you can't stop now."

"You know, this passage about returning to Ireland and explaining what happened to the Council. Um..." I took a moment to find the paragraph and then read, " _I had failed to deliver in a spectacular way. Ending a man, losing the cash...not all of it be my fault, but those what could attest to veracity were long gone. Worse, I'd have to face the McMahon clutch. No matter what I said to them, I'd never make anything square."_

"What about it?"

"Don't you remember the goons at Da's wake?"

"What goons?"

"The Irish goons. Two of 'em. One big, one small."

"I don't...there were a lot of people in the house, John."

"No, they came late. After midnight when..." I palmed slapped my forehead and then said, "When you were sleeping in my bedroom. Shit, I forgot you missed them."

Sandi punched my left shoulder and said, "You're remembering this _now_?"

"No, I thought of 'em before, when I started reading-"

"Are they in the IRA?"

"Sure, they walked into the house and told me, 'Hey, your oul fella be one of our lost comrades.' And I said, 'Great, how about a whiskey.' Then we got tight and talked about all the people Da ended."

Her face soured.

"Go figure, the topic didn't come up," I said. "But the little guy whispered something to Da's corpse. _'How 'bout a wee hint before we go'_ and _'Noel says hello'_. Something along those lines."

" _Noel says hello,"_ repeated Sandi. "Wow...Noel's still alive?"

"I guess."

"How'd they know your father died?"

"We didn't have an exhaustive conversation. It's strange, though. Hindsight and the rest, but my uncle acted odd at the wake. I chalked it up to grief but...it could've been uneasiness. And then Tom split after the funeral. Haven't seen or talked to him since."

"You don't think those Irish guys took him, do you?"

"I doubt it but...the little guy did mention Da and Tom were thick as thieves. Anyway, they weren't hanging around the church for the service and I forgot about them until you dragged me into Da's morbid past."

"I didn't drag-"

"Kicking and screaming, I might add."

Ignoring the crack, Sandi griped, "I wish you would've told me earlier about these Irish people."

"Irish _goons_ ," I corrected.

"Whatever they are."

"They're goons, and I'm pretty sure I know the _wee hint_ they wanted."

"Enlighten me."

"It's obvious, Sandi. They're Claire and Tommy's kin, looking for answers about their fate. I suppose it's all in here," I said, lifting the manuscript. "Let me guess: Claire and Tommy didn't fare well."

"No."

"Shocking. What did your research uncover?"

"According to JIWCA researcher, Tommy McMahon died at Sobibor in 1943."

"Another death camp?"

"Yes, in Poland. He was killed during an uprising led by Soviet POW's. The role he played is unknown, but several guards were killed and many prisoners escaped. I can't recall the exact number but Tommy wasn't one of the fortunate."

"You're certain?"

"Positive. One of the liquidated listed in the German records is a male non-combatant of Irish nationality. In other words, not a prisoner of war."

"Claire?"

"She found her way to Auschwitz."

"Did my father see her?"

Sandi nodded.

"Must've been quite the reunion," I said. "What happened to Claire?"

"There's no definitive proof of her fate. According to your father, she left Auschwitz in Janaury1945, when the Nazis started emptying the camp. These were brutal forced marches, John. You can imagine how most fared. Regardless, no record exists of Claire McMahon after 1944."

I chewed on this gloomy information for a tick and then asked, "What about Zache and his daughter?"

"Zache and Zujenia had the unfortunate fate of being Gypsies. Only the Jews suffered more in the camps. Zache endured because, like your father wrote, he was a good con. However, when the Final Solution gained steam, millions of Gypsies were liquidated. Of course, it's possible Zache and Zujenia survived...perhaps relocated to another camp in the West and freed by the Americans or British."

"Whenever you say it's possible, I hear: _not a snowballs chance in hell._ "

"The problem is, we'll never know one way or the other. There isn't an organization working for the Romani people. Not yet."

"Well, there you have it."

"Have what?"

"Claire and Tommy are both dead. If I see those Irish goons again, I can tell them as much."

"Right...but I don't think their curiosity is family related."

"Family related _and_ , you know, they were giving Da a final message from Noel."

She sighed and stared at me like I was a simpleton.

"Why are you giving me _the_ look, Sandi?"

"Because you're not thinking," she said, tapping her head. "What does _how about wee a hint_ sound like to you?"

"Jeez, how about you give me a wee hint. I'm not playing twenty questions."

"Money, John!"

"Money?"

"The four million Reichsmarks he carried when the Germans detained him in Bremen."

"Well, they're shit out of luck. My father didn't carry four bucks in his wallet, let alone four million. Besides, it's been thirty plus years. The money is gone."

"What if it's not?"

I rolled my eyes and said, " _Long_ gone, dear."

"I'm not saying the Reichsmarks are lying around, but your father has a theory. He just ran out of time and energy."

"A theory? So, I've been reading page after page of depressing shit just to get to a _theory_ about money impounded by Nazis?"

"With your economics experience, I figured, you know...you'd find this interesting."

"In case you've forgotten, I don't have a degree."

"After all he went through," Sandi implored. "After writing what amounts to a book and hiding it until he died. At the least, finish it and see if you can make heads or tails of his theory."

"The ole guilt trip," I said, shaking my head. But to avoid an argument, or more whining, I'd humor Sandi...and I said as much: "Okay, I'll humor you, Sandi. And when I finish, I'll tell you what I think of Da's theory."

...which, I presumed, would amount to jack and squat.

# 18.

### Auschwitz, 1944-1945

Those of us assigned Kanada and crematoria duty were housed in overflowing, dirty barracks located in the northwest portion Block III, or what the prisoners and guards called "Mexico". The main portion of the camp spread south: male and female barracks split by a railroad spur; latrines; infirmary; kitchens; the unloading fallow.

Roll call for the male prisoners took place in Mexico. Compared to the emaciated, fecal stained fellas what resided in the common hutches, those of us from Monowitz looked obese. Females assembled on their side of the camp. Wake up came early -0400 hours. Breakfast consisted of tepid watery coffee; broth for lunch; supper included a piece of bread with the broth. Final roll occurred at 2000 hours. The guards and kapos let us mingle on the grinder for an hour after last call.

The grinder was where Voclain found me on the evening of Day One. He looked like a coal miner; soot covered him from head to toe. I wouldn't have recognized him had he not approached.

As he sidled next to meself, Voclain said: "You wouldn't believe what they have me doing. I'm dumping debris from the ovens into a pond. Back and forth, Foley. Hours of back and forth."

I didn't want to talk about my job, not in the least. "We're in a tight spot," I said. "A few months from now we'll look like these fellas."

" _Listen, I heard a story from one of the guys. He claimed there's a religious nit praying for each body sent into the fire. Care to guess who?" Before I could answer, Voclain blabbed, "Albert. Denni Albert from Sachsenhausen. I'm trying to find him. You want to help?"_

I answered in the affirmative and we went on the hunt. It didn't take long to locate Albert. Bony arms flying to and fro, he preached to a collection of Christians on a corner of the grinder. When the sermon concluded, Voclain hailed: "Hey, Denni! It's Voclain and Foley!"

Albert's jaw dropped. Seconds passed before he prattled: "Pardon my surprise! I never thought I'd see you two again!"

" _In the living flesh," Voclain said._

" _Yes, this is the worst of all worlds."_

" _What happened to Zache?" I asked._

" _I don't know," Albert said. "I left Sachsenhausen not long after you. Auschwitz is my fourth camp. My final camp. I've been here six months; it feels like six years. But I'm fine with what the future brings. I'll spread my message and show the Lord I'm worthy. This is a supreme test of man's faith. The devil on Earth won't sway my piety. Hallowed be the day I stand before Him."_

Once again with God shite. He went on and on about blessing bodies to 'prepare them for the cross over'. The obsession denied him sleep and sanity.

What could we say? Voclain and I left Albert to his devices. We wanted to live; he wanted to die. My relationship with Denni Albert ceased being meaningful.

October rolled into November (or so the contraband calendar, hidden beneath a loose floorboard, declared) and the weather became cold and rainy. Not a day passed where the sun peeked through the overcast. Muster meant standing in the elements for hours, beratement from kapos and excruciating exercise (squatting with arms straight) until the SS Blockführer arrived. Once the morning count was collected and verified, we trooped to our workstations.

Mid-November, about me sixth week at Auschwitz, I perceived a diminishing flow of bodies. Small piles replaced large; the kapos stopped keeping time; we'd finish around 1500 hours and have the skins hung before supper call. In short order, the majority of corpses lacked tattoos. My work mate told me they were Communists or Slavs kept in other parts of the camp. I wondered if the Germans were running out of Jews to kill.

The lessening body count instigated rumors: 'The war will be over soon,' was alleged on a regular basis. How soon? In my opinion, not soon enough. I blamed England and France for kowtowing to Hitler; I cursed Auschwitz, the SS and their kapo thugs; I swore vengeance on Kohner for sticking me in the camps. But at night when I couldn't sleep (it be damn near impossible to catch a solid kip when sharing a slab with three other inmates), I pondered my involvement in the bloodletting. I'm not speaking of handling bodies and cutting numbers. I mean taking handouts from the German bastards. My ability to look the other way whilst the machine in Germany primed made me a partner in crime. A small partner, one of thousands on the chain, but a partner nonetheless.

The end of the war meant something else: the end of us. Deep mediation need not be consulted to see what the future held for corpse harvesters and kilners.

" _I hate to tell you," Voclain said, "but Albert's correct about one thing: we're never leaving. The Germans won't let a one of us tell our tales to whomever finds this dump."_

I agreed with his assessment, but escape seemed impossible. Men and women tried, some were even successful...however those jaunts involved a convoluted scheme of stealing SS uniforms from the wash hutch. Since Voclain and I lacked access to the launder station, this idea appeared impractical. Though rare, members of work details led outside the electrified fences made a dash for freedom. These fellas didn't get far. Once caught, they were seldom executed in public. Nay, the Nazis tossed 'em into the special cells located beneath Block 11. Those prisoners were never seen again.

But just because escape appeared daunting, it didn't stop me and Voclain from discussing options. The trick, we decided, was to get outside Auschwitz. Aye, it seemed straightforward. However, our respective jobs in Kanada and the crematorium prevented such an excursion.

One evening after visiting the disgusting latrines on the east side of camp, I walked the barbed wire fence line separating males and females. Deep in thought, I tripped in hole, fell to me knees, and felt my back seize. Whilst waiting out the spasm, I peeped the female compound. Less than five meters away, I saw a knot of women standing under the bright white glow of a fence lamp. Amongst them: Claire McMahon. After five years, the women I once loved and then grew to despise reappeared in my life.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind it was Claire. She appeared scrawnier but not emaciated, her hair hadn't been cropped, and the voice...I recognized the lilt even if the cadence be guttural German. The women Claire mingled with also looked healthier than the customary prison rubbish.

I had heard talk in the barracks of women forced into Freudenabteilung, Joy Division's, which be a cheeky way to describe prostitutes what serviced the SS. Foreign women, non-Jews, were the preferred concubines. When I saw Claire, or the woman bearing the splitting image of herself, me intuition presumed she be a parcel of Birkenau's cheap paramours.

Me first instinct: to shout at her. There were a few things I felt obligated to share (none of them good) but then an idea blossomed in my head: if me oul dear went horizontal with the SS, perhaps she could gain access to uniforms or something useful. Flight of fancy? Perhaps. But it wouldn't hurt to ask. So, I stomached me scream and slunk to Mexico. I found Voclain in the yard studying the lamplit distant fence and guard towers, and poked him in the arm.

" _You wouldn't believe who I saw on the woman's side," I told him. "One of my mates from Ireland."_

" _What of it?" he carped. "Half the European continent is here."_

" _I think she's a slave in the Joy Division."_

Voclain turned 'round and I read his eyes as he read mine.

" _I'm going to finagle a talk with her," I declared._

" _Easier said."_

" _But not impossible."_

" _If you approach the wrong kapo-"_

" _Don't get weak legged on me. We've been kicking ideas around. This is the best of the lot."_

" _I know, but be smart. These bastards will turn out an entire barracks if one of us gets caught sneaking around."_

I perused the pitch and then said, "I've an idea who to ask."

Men and women were forbidden from communicating with each other except during labor. The turmoil on 7 October had been facilitated by female Jews smuggling small arms from the munition factory to the Sonderkommando in Birkenau. Since then, the SS employed zero tolerance for unsanctioned comingling. Yet, like everything else in the camps, there be ways around the restriction.

After asking a few long timers, I learned male prisoners could get a taste of the rumpy dumpy, but it required plying a kapo with valuables. Voclain's uneasiness about approaching these bastards wasn't instigated by fretful handwringer: the kapos were a coarse bunch prodded to cruelty by their SS bosses. Composed of prisoners -almost of which were non-Jews- and granted the power of rule enforcement, the kapos relished their authority.

We had two counts each day regardless of weather or circumstance. These tallies had to be precise and run like a clock. Those what expired during the night were dragged to morning rollcall and supported by their mates in order to square the register before they could be disposed. Deviations from the expected number were handled by withholding food and beatings. The kapos kept us standing for hours, or squatting depending on their mood, daring inmates to twitch, sneeze, or cough. Uniforms and food bowls were inspected; missing articles or dirty dishes compelled harsh discipline. Outright disobedience earned a trip to the dreaded Block 11, the standing cells.

Not all of 'em were abrasive and the kapo with connections be a "half-reasonable Pol" named Zaikinsky. According to a mate in me barracks, Zaikinsky ran prisoners in the leather factory and harbored no love for Germans; they'd thrown him in the camps for peddling goods on the Myslowice black market. At Auschwitz, Zaikinsky continued to run a racket...or so I was told.

The evening after spotting Claire, I caught Zaikinsky wandering the wedge, swinging his baton, and explained the situation: I saw an old mate standing in the Joy Division and wanted a liaise with her.

He said, "I can get you ten minutes, no more. And it comes with a price."

I figured as much, but weaseling into the black market at Auschwitz proved futile without anything to barter. On occasion, the Nazis doled Holocaust script the prisoners traded for little pleasures like cigarettes or cough syrup, but I held zero cash. I told him my wallet be slim, but Zaikinsky laughed and said, "You think I want those shit bills? Be real. You work in Kanada, yes? Snag a few tattoos and pass them to me. Five gets you ten, you see."

Zaikinsky's morbid answer threw me for a wee loop, but after what I'd seen and done at Auschwitz...so be it. He wanted souvenirs? John Foley would snag 'em.

" _Fine," I assented, "five skins. But I want a particular girl: the Irish lass with dark hair and blue eyes."_

" _Get me the skins and I'll arrange your bump."_

The chiefs in Kanada's carving room had dropped the pretense of intense scrutiny, but I wasn't taking anything for granted. Over the course of six days, I snuck the flesh into the ripped lining of me cap; when my collection reached five, I dumped them into Zaikinsky's paw.

" _It'll take me a couple days to swing a meeting," Zaikinsky said, as he pocketed the skins. "Two rules: you go where I direct and you leave when summoned. No arguing."_

Despite my excitement, I needed to square a few things before throwing caution to the wind: "How does this work? There's no sneaking around the SS canteen, right?"

" _Don't worry about it."_

" _Don't worry about?" I cried. "What kinda answer is don't worry about it?"_

Zaikinsky laid an arm around my shoulders and said, "There's an officer on the other side who runs the show. This business is done all the time."

" _SS?"_

" _Relax. It's straight. The rendezvous is Sunday afternoon. Meet me in the muster yard. I'll take it from there."_

Sunday's, the nominal day off, were spent cleaning barracks and latrines. After Voclain wished me luck, I found Zaikinsky assembling a dozen prisoners on the grinder. I fell into the ranks as the kapo issued buckets and rags to five men.

" _You have ten minutes to clean barracks 112," Zaikinsky said. "When I come to inspect, I expect no trouble."_

At the head of our detail, Zaikinsky led us to 112, which be a stone's throw from the Sauna, and passed a bag to an Oberscharführer. The SS noncom counted our heads and then flung open a door. We filed in one by one until the twelve of us stood in a dim, windowless room. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling; twelve slabs, three per wall, circled the interior.

" _We're all supposed to have a go in here?" someone asked. "Next to each other?"_

" _Does it matter?" another answered._

Soon, everybody be chirping an opinion until a door at the rear unbolted and then swung outward on squeaky hinges. The Joy girls hustled in and went about selecting paramours. The birds looked haggard and more appealing at a distance, but none of the lads cared. As promised, me old flame be amongst the chattel: waifish Claire, arms folded, mouthline grim, both eyes rimmed with dark circles, no hint of joy...which was good because I wasn't yearning to lob a cheery 'Dia duit' in her direction.

Claire halted within arm's reach and cocked her head. "I heard someone requested me," she said through a phoney smile. "Imagine my surprise walking in and seeing your face. I presumed you were dead, John Foley."

It took me a tick to compose meself and not put my hands around her neck.

" _Ahem," Claire rattled, breaking the silence. "Are we gonna stare at each other or what?"_

" _I'm not interested in monkey business."_

" _Me neither. And if you've come to tell me you're sorry, don't bother."_

" _Oh, you're a cheeky one. Need I remind why we're here?"_

" _Feck off," she snarled. Then she looked me up and down and pronounced, "You've looked better."_

I grabbed Claire's arm and guided her to the one empty cradle. Whilst the room filled with groans and the repetitious creaking of beds, we plopped midpoint on a slab and dangled feet off the side.

" _You were supposed to get to Ireland," whispered I. "What happened?"_

" _We got pinched in Bremen when our travel papers didn't stand scrutiny. You can thank the Brotherhood for their lousy work, if you ever see them again. During their search, the Gardaí found the money you gave us. Tommy tried to explain it was spending cash, but his tongue knotted when the cops got inquisitive. Poor Tommy. He wasn't meant for this life. Not a quick thinker on the hotplate."_

" _You got no further than Bremen? Jaysus, you two muppets are the reason I'm in this mess."_

" _Us?"_

" _Aye, one of you songbirds sang. The Gardaí were waiting for me at the Bremen bahnhof."_

" _They were waiting for us, too. Maybe you're the one what sang, Foley."_

" _I'd wager not considering you had a couple days start. I'd also wager they weren't waiting for you. But when the coppers saw you and Tommy strolling about, they decided to do the typical stone turning. What'd I say? Show 'em your passports, play happy couple, and be on your way."_

" _And I told you the papers weren't good. When those mokes stared digging...Christ, Foley, it went to shite. Tommy said we were flying out of Berlin for Paris, but we lacked an exit endorsement. The Gardaí wanted to know why we arrived in...I can't remember the stamp...Munich, perhaps...it doesn't matter. I tried to tell 'em our paperwork was in Berlin but they claimed we were English spies. Tommy stammered nonsense...be a real cockup. Next thing I knew, we got tossed in separate cars and driven to the police block. I haven't seen Tommy since."_

" _You've no idea what happened to him?"_

" _Tommy's in a camp or he's dead. Those are the choices the Germans give."_

Exasperated, I shook me head and asked, "Who told the coppers I ended Mayer?"

" _Both of us, I imagine."_

" _You for sure, heh?"_

" _What of it? This Kripo devil Kohner did the job on me. When he learned my real name, he started on the Durstiger Witz. He accused me of smuggling Jews. Then he asked about Mayer. I couldn't help myself, swear to the Almighty. I hoped you'd find a way out, contact Liam...but weeks turned into months turned into..." Claire trailed off and rubbed her forehead._

" _Aye, nobody knows we're here. No doubt the Council believes we're on a beach in the Caribbean drinking rum and spending the Brotherhood's money."_

" _Are you serious? You're worried what the Brotherhood thinks? You're rich, Foley."_

" _When we get back to Ireland-"_

She interrupted with a cackle what resonated over the ardent thuds of rutting.

" _We're getting out of here," I hissed. "Then we'll give the Council an account of what we've endured. Let me add one thing we won't do: tell 'em we ended Mayer."_

" _We?" she jeered. "I don't recall my hands wrapped around his throat."_

" _You know the score. The Council doesn't need to know why we were arrested."_

" _Aren't you an optimistic bloke. Already have your excuse prepared?"_

" _I've had a wee bit of time to think of a few, and I'll tell you something else. These bastard ain't ending me."_

" _How many people have said the same?"_

" _I don't care about the rest of these people. I'm getting out of here."_

" _You gonna grow wings?"_

" _I have a better idea."_

One of the fellas made a gurgling sound like he be getting strangled. Claire rolled her eyes and declared, "Then make a run for it, big guy. Nobody's stopping you except the fences, minefield, the SS and their dogs...what else am I missing?"

" _Aye, those things are a hinderance. We just have to be smarter."_

" _So, you're gonna save me too? How thoughtful."_

" _Pay attention," I said, lowering my voice. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but if we could grab a couple uniforms and keys to a car...understand? We could drive outta here."_

" _We?"_

" _Me, you...a pal of mine from way back. The three of us."_

" _I presume you're snagging the uniforms, aye?"_

" _Me?"_

" _Why not? After all, this is your idea."_

" _I don't have access to the SS laundry. The building is on your side of the fence."_

" _Ah, you expect me to stroll in and steal three uniforms?"_

" _Two. You'd...you know...hide in the boot."_

" _Impossible."_

" _Why?"_

" _The SS has tightened security after two escape attempts this summer. Prisoners stole uniforms and passes from the canteen. I knew one of the girls. Mala. Mala from Brzesko. She slit her wrists after the Nazis caught her. You should have seen Mala's boyfriend. He managed to scream 'Long Live Poland!' as they slipped the nose around his neck. The fuckers left him swinging for a week."_

" _Claire-"_

" _Your plan is insulting. I should shoulder all the risk because I'm a whore?"_

" _You have access. I don't."_

" _My first camp was a men's prison in Thierisenstadt. Imagine being one of a dozen women in such a place. But I held out hope you weren't caught. What a fool I am, Foley. Even after I arrived here...even after I saw what the Nazis are capable of doing...I clamped onto senseless fantasy. And now you've come to rescue me. But it's the other way 'round, ain't it?"_

" _I gave you a chance to step away from this life a long time ago. Recall when-"_

" _Save the speech and take your idea to someone else."_

" _Shite, woman, would you listen to me? We're running out of time."_

" _Aye, but my time is shorter than yours. The SS is taking me and the lasses out by foot."_

" _When?"_

" _A few days, a week...I don't know. But I've heard enough. Those fellas enjoy talking after a romp and a couple steins. Do you know the Russians are a few hundred kilometers up the road? Here's something else to wet your whistle: The Nazis will destroy Auschwitz before 'Ivan' arrives. Prisoners what are portable depart by foot. The sick and immobile will be ended, Sonderkommando included. Me point: I don't have enough time to play thief. I could leave at any moment."_

" _You don't want to travel with 'em, do ya?"_

" _I got a better chance with the SS than I do with you. They're talking about surrendering to the Brits or Americans."_

" _The Brits," I sneered. "Mark me words: when they find out your name, you'll be tossed into another gaol."_

" _I'm willing to take my chances. It's better than your plan."_

" _Claire, you can't be-"_

" _Maybe they'll abandon us," she droned. "Dump us in a Polish town...I don't know. Not all of them are monsters."_

" _Jaysus, I can't believe what you're saying. You know what happened here. We're in a death camp. No one here gets out alive."_

She leaned over, put her head on my shoulder, and wrapped her skinny arms around my back. "Save the speech," she whispered into my ear. "My mind is decided."

" _We have a chance to get on the right side. Once we have our freedom, I promise we'll get to Ireland and live again. The IRA will take good care of us."_

" _Not another of your promises," she said into my ear. "I remember the last one."_

" _Noel will understand-"_

" _Oh? What if Noel doesn't understand? What if Noel is dead? Who knows what happened on the Isle while we've been gone. There might not be an IRA anymore. Even if there is, I'll do is stand in front of the Council and apologize for the shite I've endured. To hell with the lot of them, including you."_

" _Me? I remember you dragging me into the business when I wanted nothing to do with it."_

" _You've said as much before. Fine. You're right. I'm wrong."_

" _And you're wrong about whatever you think is going to happen when you leave with these bastards. Even if you aren't...let's pretend, by some miracle, the Germans release you. Where are you going? I have nothing but what's in Ireland and the same goes for you. I'm not sticking 'round Europe, or what's left of it. You remember what it was like after the last war? Disease, famine and revolution."_

" _Same as it is Ireland. I've had my fill, thank you. I'm going to America and start over."_

" _How? With what money?"_

Claire sighed and her body trembled. She was plump with fantasies, like the rest of us, and I suppose hers were no less genuine than mine. When faced with the sledgehammer of reality, dreams crack like glass. For a moment, I thought she verged on changing her mind. But then the door at the front of 112 opened and Zaikinsky crowed, "Let's go, prisoners! Time's up!"

A final, spastic sound of intense fornication filled the room; Claire took my hand and said, "We're on our own in this world. I haven't survived this long because I'm in the business of making frivolous decisions."

" _Have it your way," I said, standing from the rack. "Mayhap I'll see you outside these walls."_

Claire grabbed my elbow and said, "Hold on. I need a favor."

" _A favor?"_

Zaikinsky banged his baton on the jamb and exclaimed, "Move, prisoners! No time to revel!"

" _John, please," she whined. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."_

I almost pulled away but Claire's eyes bored into me like they used to when we were younger...oh, the pert blue I swam in when we were lovers. For a moment, I forgot where we be. I saw us in the gaff, dancing and kissing...how had it come to this? Jaysus, I felt the urge to bawl. But I took a deep breath, held it together, and let the moment pass. The whole moment. Back came the chill, the scuffling of footsteps and Zaikinsky's baton beating the wall. I lowered me head and broke her trance. There was nothing else to say but, "I gotta go, doll. Good luck to you."

" _John, wait. You wouldn't be here if you had connections, aye?"_

" _Whadda mean?"_

" _Getting in this room isn't cheap."_

" _So?"_

" _I saw Arnie Isack a couple days ago outside the Sauna. He-"_

" _The Jew from Bremen?"_

" _Him. Arnie was being processed. I know he's here."_

" _And?"_

" _Can you find Arnie and arrange a meeting for me and him? I'd like to say goodbye before I don't have the chance."_

" _Arrange...as in pay for said meeting?"_

" _Let's go!" Zaikinsky implored. "Pick up your pants and muster outside!"_

" _Do you know what I did to swing this?" I asked her._

She grabbed my hand and implored, "If you can find Arnie...please, you owe me one, Johnny."

Claire's doll eyes filled with tears; in a beat, she'd be weeping. I decided to nip the waterworks in the arse: "Shh...calm down. I'll ask around, but I'm not promising anything, okay?"

She stood, gave me a hug, and said, "Thank you, Foley. And please hurry. I won't have many more Sunday's at Auschwitz."

I grunted...but I didn't tell her where I expected to find Arnie Isack: on a kart in Kanada as I sliced a tattoo out of his wrist.

• • •

"Jeez," I groaned. "The Joy Division?"

"The SS called them comfort women," Sandi explained. "Selected from the incoming, pulled from the ghettos, acquired during conquest...these women and girls were tossed aside when they outlived their usefulness."

"But anybody in Auschwitz could spend ten minutes with the Joy Division?"

"So it appears."

"By trading pieces of skin? What the fuck was wrong with these people?"

"It gets worse. The Nazi doctors sterilized and forced abortions...among other things. I won't even get into the medical experiments conducted at Auschwitz. It's safe to say Claire endured horrible things. Despite all of it, working in the Joy Division was considered a premier job among the camp females."

"Get out of here."

"The women lived in sanitary conditions. They were fed and provided clean clothes."

"Until they outlived their usefulness."

"The same idea applied to everyone. Comfort women, rubber mixers, crematorium workers...you did what was necessary to see another day."

"I guess but...why did they trade pieces of skin?"

"This is where your father's theory comes into play though...um...he didn't think of it. Arnie Isack did."

At last, praise God, some dots connected: Da found Isack; Isack yammered; Isack died; Da took the theory (whatever it was) and wrote a confession; Da died; his son found said testimonial...what had I missed? Then I recalled something Sandi told me the previous day...

"Didn't you say Da took Isack's identity or something?"

"Mm-hmm. Your father moved about post-war Germany as Arnie Isack."

"Because of Arnie's theory?"

"A couple reasons, the theory being one. He also had a hash to settle."

"Kohner?"

Sandi nodded.

"I presume I'll get to the meat of Da's, or Arnie's, theory soon. It's getting late."

"We can stop if you're tired."

"Naw, let's keep going. I have practice in the morning, but I can do a few more pages."

A few paged turned into the rest of Da's confession. When I finished, the hanging clock on the kitchen wall showed 2:45 AM.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...

# 19.

### Auschwitz, Part II

I chewed over Claire's entreaty for the remainder of the day. She claimed to have seen Arnie; while possible, I didn't want to invest more time sneaking skins to pay my chummy kapo for the information.

In the end, I acted out of pity. Claire had lost her mind. The fact she'd rather leave with the SS than attempt to run with me...thinking those bastards were better wards, or offered hope, made me dizzy. Thick as it was, the choice be hers; no logic would sway her thinking. The least I could do was fulfil Claire's wish before she departed.

When I returned from my rendezvous, Voclain was on his knees scrubbing the floorboards of our hut. When the Frenchman spied me, he dropped the brush and stood. I didn't have to break the news me oul dear didn't want to help in our escape. He read my face and glowered.

" _Aye," I confirmed. "Claire's not interested."_

Voclain looked stricken. Whilst twisting hands he asked, "Why not? Doesn't she see what's coming?"

" _She understands but... Claire said there's no chance she could rustle uniforms. Prisoners have already done the dress up game. The SS have their canteen square."_

" _They're gonna square us!" Voclain ranted._

" _Calm down, fella, and listen to me: The Soviets are a few hundred kilometers away. To cover the dirty secrets of Birkenau, the bastards are going to make us tear down the camp."_

" _How do you know?"_

" _When was the last time you saw the SS lift anything heavier than a Luger? When we're done destroying this place, the Krauts will turn tail and take everyone with them. Can you picture the chaos? Thousands of prisoners guarded by Nazis looking over their shoulders? Slipping away won't be difficult. Look, we've already decided our chances are better outside the camp. What's the problem?"_

" _I'd rather have a vehicle."_

Though I didn't believe it, I argued, "Going on foot is better. How far would the two of us get in a German staff car?"

" _Further than we'd get on foot."_

" _I'll entertain a better idea if you have-"_

" _I don't have one."_

" _Neither do I, so let's...you know, scope the situation."_

" _Fine," Voclain mumbled through pressed lips._

Business concluded, I helped Voclain clean whilst contemplating Claire's request. After supper, I found Zaikinsky in the yard throwing cards. I jerked him out of the game with a subtle head nod; we ambled to a quiet area and the kapo shook out a pair of heaters.

" _What else do you want, Foley?" he asked. "I was close to catching the tiger."_

" _I'm looking for a fella named Arnie Isack."_

" _What about him?"_

" _He's a pal of a pal seen at the Sauna."_

" _Your pal of a pal...is he trouble?"_

" _No."_

" _Hm..." Zaikinsky grumbled as he sucked on the cigarette._

" _They're chums from way back."_

" _Hm...any trouble and you're on the hook."_

" _You have my word, for whatever's it worth. No trouble."_

" _All right, I'll see what I can do."_

A couple mornings later, Zaikinsky informed: "Your pal of a pal is housed in Block Two, Building 162. And you better hurry. He doesn't look well."

I followed the kapo's instructions and wandered into 162 an hour before lights out. I wasn't sure what I'd say given our shared, sordid history. Me oul dear once told me: 'Simple sentences make sentences simple, Johnny'. Who knows better than a mum? Thus, I listened to her advice. I'd keep it simple, something like: 'Arnie, Claire's here. I can arrange a liaise, if you're inclined. Beyond this errand, I'm not doing another thing'.

I asked one of the inmates for Isack; he pointed to a slab. Zaikinsky was right about the decrepit state of the fella. Isack be slender, frail, droopy-eyed and at least 60 years old. I tapped his foot and he opened his eyes, fixing me with a tired, pitiful look.

" _Arnie Isack?" queried I._

He groaned, struggled into a seated position and nodded his head.

" _The same Arnie Isack what worked at the Durstiger Witz for Claire McMahon?"_

" _Claire?" Isack asked in a deep voice what astonished given his gaunt appearance. Then he was seized by a coughing fit which he cleared by spitting a hunk of phlegm onto the floorboard._

" _Pardon me," he hacked. "Yes, I know Claire. Why do you ask?"_

I sat down on the slab and reported, "Claire and I had a working relationship."

He studied my Winkel and then said, "Ah...I should've heard it when you began talking. My mind, you know...it's not like it used to be. You're one of the Irish boys."

My mood be south of small talk and I responded, "Aye, I'm one of 'em. Listen, Claire's in this camp and she-"

Isack squeezed my left thigh and cried, "Claire's been arrested?"

" _Meself, her and Tommy. The lot of us."_

" _Oh, no," he sobbed. "Oh...this is awful. She's here?"_

" _Aye, and she asked to see you."_

" _You visited her?"_

" _A few days ago."_

" _How is she?"_

" _Trying to survive," I answered with tact._

" _I told Claire she was pushing her luck."_

" _By sheltering you and your own?"_

" _By taking money from the Nazis."_

His candor surprised and I elevated my eyebrows.

" _I lived in the pub," he said. "Business transactions below the table didn't escape my attention. She told me a member of the party passed her Reichsmarks for an Irish charity organization. Ha! The Nazis have no interest in humanitarian causes, but I never pressed for specifics."_

" _Yet you told her she was pushing her luck?"_

" _I told her taking anything from the Nazis wasn't smart. And...yes, I worried about my wellbeing. Every time the Gestapo walked in, I thought they were coming for my family. One day-"_

" _I'm versed in the history, Isack. Claire lost her head after you and yours were collected. Seems she developed an attachment. I explained to her we weren't in Germany to mingle with the locals. She didn't listen to me, either. You know what happens when you mind the heart instead of common sense."_

" _You think...no, we never-"_

" _You don't have to be coy."_

" _I'm a married man. Claire and I were never intimate. We're friends and...are you saying she was arrested because of me?"_

" _She fussed with the SS. It turned into cockup."_

" _Goodness...I'm sorry for whatever you've endured at my expense."_

His words were heartfelt, or I thought as much. "I'm not blaming you," I said, patting his leg, "but I don't want to rehash the past. If you want to see her, I can arrange something."

" _I would. I...I haven't set eyes on a pleasant face in years. Where is Claire?"_

" _She's a Joy girl."_

" _Excuse me?"_

" _A woman the SS...you know...passes around."_

" _No! How long has she been-"_

" _I didn't ask."_

Isack looked at his shoes and said, "How soon can you arrange time with her?"

" _I suppose this coming Sunday. And, um..." I knew what the answer be by looking at him but I asked: "Do you have anything of value?"_

" _The Nazis have taken everything. I only have these clothes to my name. If there's a way you can help me...what is your name?"_

" _John Foley."_

" _Oh...you're Foley? Pardon me. I didn't recognize you."_

" _Recognize me?"_

" _I recall you visited the gasthaus."_

_It dawned on me Arnie and I had crossed paths in the past, but I never said boo to the man tending bar at the_ _Durstiger Witz. A wee bit sheepish I replied, "Aye, you're right. Several times. I also remember you, fella. I should've said 'hi' in Bremen but I always had pressing business."_

" _Then we exchange pleasantries now," he said, extending his left hand. I took the grip and saw Isack's eyes focus on my tattoo. "If we should survive Auschwitz," Isack added, as he released me hand, "we'll have the blue numbers to remind of our time here."_

" _On way or another I'm removing mine."_

" _Best to keep it handy. When the Russians or whomever arrives, they'll be sorting through those with and those without the numbers. You know the irony? The Nazis will be decorating their skin to save it."_

" _Funny the way the world works," I said, gaining me feet. "I'll pass you the word about Claire after I talk with my man." Though I was finished with the conversation, Isack was not. He grabbed my arm and pulled me down._

" _Humor me for a minute," he implored. "I'd like to talk someone who isn't sleeping next to me."_

Small talk hadn't been part of me evening plans, but then I thought about moping around Mexico with Voclain. A wee chat with Arnie Isack would be a change of pace I could stomach until the call for lights out.

Isack watched the mingling of prisoners in the hut and then whispered, "You asked if I have anything of value. I do, but it's in the realm of the intangible."

" _Which would be?"_

" _In my head."_

" _Ideas, eh? Good luck selling those."_

" _I'll give them to you," he said through a smile. "Claire for a notion. A fair trade."_

" _You don't owe me anything, Isack. We're square."_

" _My friend, I was a successful business owner before Hitler and his sycophants took power. You might find what I have to say worth a few minutes of your time."_

Quick-like, my intellect fashioned a notion about Isack...and not in a good way. I heard a lot of chatter from inmates during my internment. Promises, threats, vows of retribution...I paid little mind to the yapping. Those who talked of doing never did; the cathartic act of describing revenge sufficed in the heads of cowards. Was I about to endure a pointless, mind numbing diatribe? Me brain said 'yes' and then encouraged me to pry my arse from the slab.

Isack read me peepers or body language: "I'm not a lunatic," he claimed. "I'm staid."

" _Right...see, I'm not saying you're crazy but-"_

He interjected: "All I ask is you keep an open mind."

Against better judgment, I crossed arms, bit my tongue and listened:

Until the early 1930s, things went well for Arnie Isack. Because of his family's connection to the German community through his grandmother and wife, he and his were spared from the occasional Jewish pogroms. But the tenor changed as the worldwide depression escalated. Isack, having been frugal in the years preceding the economic decline, became an easy target.

Once the Nazis consolidated power, conflict proved unavoidable. Isack hoped the persecution would go as it had in the past: a pronounced rise of acts of violence and vandalism until the police and city elders put a stop to the nonsense. This time, nobody stopped the trouble. Jews were accosted on the streets, in their shops, and in synagogue by gangs of boys and men. Then the elders became converted Nazis and joined in the harassment. Soon, Jews were forced to sell their businesses and belongings to Germans.

As a savvy businessman, Isack lowered his profile in the community and transferred most of his money and sundry property into the hands of sympathetic Germans. He identified these people knowing the day would come when friends would be advantageous.

Tommy and Claire were examples of Isack's foresight. When they arrived in Bremen, he discovered they wanted to purchase commercial property. He sold them the pub for a pittance and took the job of barman to oversee his interests. Things settled for a short time, but it was a fleeting respite. In 1937, Isack's house was seized; the housing authority allocated a two-room gaff for the family of four...which they shared with another couple and their small child. With Claire's encouragement, Isack, his wife and their kids, moved into the cellar of the Durstiger Witz.

" _I didn't plan on staying long," Isack admitted. "A few months, no more, until I could arrange to leave Germany with what I had hidden. Wishful thinking. The Nazis revoked travel privileges. I had a chance to get us out of Germany in the mid-30s, but the government demanded Jews pay ninety percent of their income to emigrate. What would I have left after we arrived in England or the United States? I thought...I thought I would have time, John. But I was wrong. The people I knew, the so-called sympathetic Germans, were too afraid to risk their necks helping me and others escape. With no other choice, I turned to Claire._

" _I knew she had connections in the SS. I knew she received money. I knew she detested the Nazi treatment of minorities. We had long conversations about it and one night I...I posed the question: could she get me and my family out of Germany? You have to understand, I would never put her in danger. I assumed Claire had enough pull to make it happen without jeopardizing her safety. She was supposed to acquire visas and passports...I don't know the details. It seemed like a done deal but..."_

Isack continued, describing how the Gestapo rousted his family from the pub cellar; he said me mate Mayer accused the Jews of living in an 'unsanctioned abode'. In addition, Isack had a half-million Reichsmarks stashed in vases and drawers. The family of four was hustled from the gasthaus and taken into detention. With minor differences, his story mirrored millions of others: transported, separated, berated...

" _We were sent to Esterwegen," Isack said. "My wife and girls were put in the woman's side of the compound. I could see them through the fence. A week after we arrived, they were marched out of the camp. I haven't seen them since. It's been five years, John. I doubt their alive considering...the women and children are selected for..." He shook his head, lowered his eyes and sighed._

His story, while woeful, contained no groundbreaking "intangible" ideas. Like I suspected, Arnie Isack be full of bluster. We sat there -meself irritated and he lost in unpleasant memory- until a kapo announced, "Lights out!"

Isack snapped from his stupor and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...I wandered down the wrong avenue. There's more, and I'll share my inkling, but could you...would you bring me a bit of extra food? A piece of bread or...anything?"

' _There you have it,' me mind scolded. 'He's playing you for a fool.' I looked at this withered excuse of a man and contemplated a few answers, none of them noble. Isack claimed he didn't want to endanger Claire. What did he think would happen? Now he had the gall to beg for bread?_

I said, "Arranging a rendezvous with Claire is the extent of my influence, and I'm tossing scraps to a kapo for the pleasure. Collecting an extra ration isn't going to happen."

" _Yes...I see," Isack said, sinking to a prostrate position. "When you hear something-"_

" _I'll let you know," I finished._

Once again, I passed skins to Zaikinsky; the following Sunday, Isack visited Claire. I assumed all went well, but amidst the misery of Auschwitz I forgot about Claire, Isack and whatever the two of them shared. Surviving was hard enough; worrying about others frittered time I could spend fretting about meself.

Days passed...November rolled into December. Snow piled, temperatures plunged, and the Jews began celebrating Hanukkah on 11 December. Once upon a time, the holiday would've been a clandestine affair, conducted in the privacy of the huts after lights out. In late 1944, the Nazis had bigger problems than religious rituals. I don't know where the Yids got 'em, but candles were procured and lit, once a day, over eight evenings. Collective litanies, blessings after supper, the exchange of gifts (a symbolic gesture given the circumstance)...the adherent to custom struck me as both insipid and inspiring. Nevertheless, the torch strikes helped mark the days.

Voclain and I watched the comings and goings in the camp like hawks. On the third day of Hanukkah, a large group -four dozen shabby men, a few kapos and ten guards- departed into a swirling white maelstrom. As they vanished, Voclain looked at me and grumbled. I understood his sentiment -tramping outside the fences seemed a better option- but I had no illusion any of those lads be breathing after sunset.

Meanwhile, the gruesome work in Kanada petered to trickle. In place of cutting tattoos, the SS demanded we commence the comprehensive, backbreaking mutilation of the large building. Using sledgehammers, we bashed holes in the walls while the guards watched with their weapons trained on us. I can't tell you how many times the fantasy of crushing those bastards bowled through me head. Millions, trillions, a number so large it be infinitesimal. I wasn't the only fella thinking of homicide. But like I was back in Bremen four years prior, my brain cautioned, 'Stay calm'.

By now, talk of the approaching Red Army consumed all conversation. Even the guards didn't bother disguising reality.

" _Work faster!" they demanded. "Harder! We're on a tight schedule, shitheads! The Bolsheviks are coming!"_

Grueling fourteen-hour days, little to eat, lice, sickness and sore limbs...hand over heart, I don't know how I survived. Yet, I took consolation my drudgery could've been worse: despite Kanada's destruction, the Krems continued to operate. Every evening, Voclain returned from his stake looking drawn and gassed.

In short order, the Frenchman confided: "There's not much more I can take. Corpses by the thousands arrive from the Little Wood and we feed them to the ovens. Who knows how long they've been moldering? The smell is awful and they've all been consumed by vermin. We can't keep up with the work, Foley. Albert's wasting time trying to bless these bones and the guards are beating him for the trouble. He's not long for the world if the fool can't keep his mouth shut."

Every evening after the pitiless work, I slumped in front of the wood burner inside our barracks and rubbed calloused hands. Such was the condition of the drafty structure, the only way to get warm required standing less than a half meter from the hob. The prisoners formed a hushed, raggedy circle around the smoky stove and rotated turns or muscled into the inner ring.

It was in this position on the frigid fifth night of Hanukkah when I felt a tug on me top followed by a hoarse voice: "Foley."

I presumed somebody wanted a go at my spot and spun to shoo them away. To my surprise, Arnie Isack hunched next to me. With everything else, I forgot about the old fool. But he hadn't forgotten about me.

" _Foley," he repeated through chattering teeth._

" _Isack," I returned as me own chompers rattled._

" _It took me too long to find you. I wanted to thank you again for the pleasure of seeing Claire and I...I've come to reciprocate."_

I resisted the urge to push him aside; Isack's inklings, intangibles, and ideas wouldn't warm me bones: "I'm glad you and Claire reconnected or whatever, but I'm cold, hungry and-"

" _Claire told me what you did," he interrupted with a wink of his rheumy right eye. "You murdered an SS officer. And not just any officer. Mayer, eh? The man who arrested me. I should kiss your feet."_

" _Spur of the moment decision, but I didn't kill him because he tossed you into a camp. I had other problems with Mayer, a hash to settle, and the situation became..." I considered spilling the entire story but conceded with a throaty, "...complicated."_

" _Imagine, though, us crossing paths at this point. What good luck."_

" _Good luck would've found me a ship to Ireland all those years ago."_

" _Fate, then. Do you believe in fate?"_

" _Fella, can you get to it, whatever it is?"_

He pulled me away from the others and asked in a hushed voice, "How much were you carrying?"

" _What?"_

" _When you were arrested, how much were you carrying? Claire said you had a large sum of Reichsmarks. She told me your group...is this the right expression? Militants funded by-"_

" _Four million Reichsmarks," I announced._

Isack's jaw dropped.

" _Reserved for the...for my group. The Reichsmarks came from the Nazis to prop my people in Ireland. It's a long story but when I was arrested, the bastard investigator believed Mayer and I moved Jewish money across the Channel. Nothing I said made a difference. This fucker...name of Kohner...when Kohner learned I ended Mayer, he decided to chuck me into the camps. Killing me would've been too quick a death, Kohner said. He wanted me to suffer. I didn't think it'd be a jamboree, but I've done a stretch before. I even promised Kohner I'd pay him a visit someday."_

" _Revenge is a strong motivator."_

" _Aye, it kept me going. Still keeps me going. I'm not letting these Nazi bastards end me."_

" _I've thought of my wife, daughters and the hope we'd reunite someday. All of us who've lived through this experience harbor one of two emotions: optimism or vengeance. I didn't arrive in Auschwitz but a few weeks ago. At my last camp,_ _Stutthof, I worked at Deutsche Ausrüstungswerke building bombs. I knew Jews and others were being murdered, but at Stutthof the victims were party officials from Poland, Russian soldiers, and political activists. I told myself the Germans killed those who rubbed the leadership the wrong way. Once I saw the extent of...this...my blind eyes opened and optimism vanished. What's left?"_

" _Revenge."_

" _Indeed."_

" _Well, we'll not find revenge in these camps."_

Isack nodded and focused eyes on the hob. Once again, I assumed our conversation had concluded. But he snapped from the trance, shook his head and said, "The Marks you had seized...would you like it back?"

" _Aye, but it's long gone, fella."_

" _I don't think it is. I believe it's sitting in a bank waiting to be collected."_

" _Wonderful. Care to share the location?"_

" _I'm not being facetious."_

" _Neither am I. Tell me where and we'll collect it after the war is over."_

" _You don't believe me," Isack pronounced, "but I have a theory." He pointed at my tattoo, then rolled up his left sleeve and displayed his six numbers. "There's a reason we have these numbers on our wrist. Care to hear?"_

I be a hair away from laughing in his face; I wanted to stand next to the stove, not a lunatic. But then I thought of Kanada, the SS collecting skins, plying Zaikinsky with said flesh...

" _All right," I grunted, "give me your grand theory."_

# 20.

### Auschwitz, Part III

" _I've been trying to figure out these numbers since I arrived," Isack said. "Do you know Auschwitz is the only labor camp to tattoo its prisoners? The other sites assign identification numbers, but here the number is put onto skin. Why?"_

" _Why else would we be given a number? Categorization. A method to track the millions those shitheads in Berlin have tossed into gaols."_

" _Yes, but what if it's more than a tracking number? What if it denotes an account?"_

" _What kind of account?"_

" _A bank account."_

" _You're saying...what are you saying?"_

" _Everything seized at the time of arrest is stored under an account number...our identification number. When a prisoner dies, the account is closed. I see your face, Foley. Before you say I'm crazy, I know what happens in Kanada. The Nazis collect the personal effects brought into camp, those items are sorted, and anything of value is added to the Nazi vault. What happens to the bodies? They're shoved into the fire but not after something of value is removed from them"_

" _The tattoo," I confirmed. "I've done the deed."_

" _Oh? I don't know you worked in Kanada."_

" _I got tossed into that pit of hell the moment I arrived from Monowitz."_

" _Tell me what happens after the tattoo is removed."_

" _They're hung on hooks to dry. The SS collects them the next day."_

" _Where do you think the numbers go?"_

" _I assume...marked off a list or...you know Germans. They're meticulous record keepers."_

" _But keeping records pertaining to genocide? No, there's more, Foley. I think our number, the physical tattoo, must be presented to close the account. You understand this war has to be funded. Take...take your militant group in Ireland. What do you need to sustain your efforts? Weapons, soldiers and, most important-"_

" _Money," I finished._

" _Yes, money pays for the military."_

I can't deny Isack's hypothesis piqued my interest, but there be a few holes I meant to puncture: "You're certain Auschwitz is the only camp using tattoos?"

" _Positive. When you arrived from...wherever-"_

" _I came from Sachsenhausen in '42."_

" _Were you tattooed at Sachsenhausen?"_

" _No, but...but the prisoners killed in the other camps without nicks on their skin...if they're accounts, like you allege, then their identification numbers would be recorded and presented to a...let's pretend it's a bank-"_

" _Not pretend. It has to be a bank."_

" _Okay, a bank. A list is made of those numbers and taken to a bank. Why the need for a tattoo?"_

" _The Nazis don't care about cheap labor, the poor in other words, without capital or money to their name. And not every prisoner here gets a tattoo, but the selection process isn't arbitrary. Of course, there are exceptions. I know prisoners are used in the hospital and...other things."_

" _Like Claire."_

" _Like her, yes. She has a corporal value. However, who the Nazis send to the gas chamber is based on worth. Like in your case. You have a thick roll. In fact, I think the Germans keep those with the largest funds alive longer than those with smaller amounts. Their value grows by the day in the form of interest."_

" _So...my four million Reichsmarks confiscated by the SS in 1939 are sitting in a bank, collecting interest, and upon my death the money will be...what? Handed to the Germans to fund their military? Why not kill all of us now and reap the bounty?"_

" _I've told you why."_

" _Interest?"_

" _Interest and our labor. Somebody has to do the work. The SS isn't going to cut tattoos and shove bodies into ovens. They're above such menial tasks."_

I wondered how Isack spawned his idea, but the answer stared me in the face: years of toil and torment in the camps had fashioned his mind, like all us, into a paranoid. What could I say? He'd have a rebuttal to all my arguments.

Lost in thought, or sensing my uncertainty, Isack pressed: "Do you know the state of the German economy after the First World War?"

" _In the gutter like the rest of the world."_

" _Deep in the gutter. Worthless. Germany was mired in unemployment, inflation and violent political factions. The Weimer Republic...utter rubbish. Jews and non-Jews shared the same sentiments. Hitler appealed because he promised a German renaissance; he swore to create jobs; he vowed our nation wouldn't be obligated to the outrageous stipulations of the Treaty of Versailles. But Hitler had to start from scratch, you see. How does one create jobs when none exist? The Chancellor's solution: the war industry._

" _There were, of course, problems Hitler and his cronies had to address. Capital's required to build factories and pay the masses for their labor. German banks contained limited resources. The Nazis nationalized these institutions and used their reserves in his initial endeavors. Thus, Hitler first turned to the wealthiest Germans -the nobles with 'old money'- and asked them to invest in his business scheme. Seed money. Then he targeted the Jews because we're all flush. We're not, but the Nazis couldn't single out a small percentage of Jews for seizure without a reason, so they concocted motives. It's the Jews fault the German government capitulated during the First World War; it's the Jews fault the Weimer Republic failed the German people; it's the Jew who prospered during the decade of hyperinflation. Not to mention there's a historical antipathy of European anti-Semitism going back centuries._

" _But the money from the upper class and the Jews wasn't enough to fund the infrastructure Hitler envisioned. Where do businesses turn to get expansion capital? A bank. Or many banks. I'm convinced the Nazi financial gurus convinced Swiss banks to loan them the necessary money. In exchange, the Nazis promised to respect Swiss neutrality when, not if, the Wehrmacht began its conquest of Europe. Hitler received his capital, he built his army and navy, annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia, then attacked Poland...and here we sit in these camps._

" _The plunder reaped from conflict continues to both fund the German economy and pay on the Swiss loans. But reimbursing, building equipment and securing natural resources requires incessant subjugation. The Nazis use terms like 'breathing room' for its citizens and 'Master Race' ideology to justify the carnage, but it comes down to loot._ _At first, expansion went well. Too well. Hitler became greedy, but any shrewd businessman knows rapid expansion comes with a price. I didn't open a second pub because I lacked the ability to pay more workers or shoulder loans. The Nazis didn't ponder or they dismissed this complication. They have cheap labor in the camps building airplanes, bombs and the necessary material for the Wehrmacht, but the military suffered because it became too large to sustain. Then the tide turned. Defeat turned into defeat. Profit lessened when land was lost. The slaughter of Jews at Auschwitz intensified to whittle the principal of Swiss loans."_

Isack took a breath and studied my face. I assumed he wanted a response; the only question I could think to ask: "Why doesn't Germany invade Switzerland and take the Swiss banks? Erase the debt through military action."

" _The Swiss are nothing but southern Germans. Besides, at this point the men in Berlin are worried about saving their necks. I'm certain the Nazi hierarchy have their own Swiss accounts. They wouldn't want their resources seized. Perhaps they'll use their stash to flee Europe and start a new life after the war. I'll tell you one thing: the German nobility has recognized their investment is lost. Many, thousands, are members of the Heer. High ranking officers. These men have grasped what Hitler's toadies cannot or refuse to believe. The war is lost. Before I left Stutthof, I heard talk of an assassination attempt on Hitler in June or July. Prussian counts and barons committed mutiny; even some in the loyal SS joined the plot. The great Chancellor survived, but he cannot trust his military anymore. The end is coming._

" _We'll be liquidated long before then. After Auschwitz is dismantled, we'll be walked west, slaughtered and stripped of our tattoo. Maybe the officers in the know have a method to redeem them. Or maybe my idea is bunkum."_

" _Whatever the reason, we're dead meat. Even the dullest mind knows what's coming."_

" _Meh. I'd argue most of these people think they're going to survive."_

" _Okay, Isack, for the sake of argument, what bank is our money sitting in?"_

" _It's impossible to know. You'd have to ask someone in high command. There are hundreds of banks in Switzerland. My best guess? The accounts are established in the Reichsbank and then transferred to Zürich or Bern."_

I put me hand on Isack's bony shoulder and said, "You have an interesting idea, mate. Something to mull while I'm staring at the specks on the ceiling."

" _The Nazi scum aren't getting my tattoo," Isack whispered. "I'll make sure of it."_

" _What are you going to do? Cut off your arm?"_

Isack croaked an ominous chuckle and then erupted into coughing. The fit passed in seconds but he reported, "I don't have much left, Foley. This evening, my barracks was informed we'll be dismantling Krem Two. The work is too much for me to endure. You, though...you're a survivor. Perhaps I've provided, like you said, something to mull."

Aye, I mulled: later, when I should've been sleeping, I pictured Kohner tagging my Marks and sending the dosh to Berlin. From Berlin, the money flowed to Zürich or Bern; there it would sit, gaining interest, until me tattoo be delivered to a prissy auditor. Then the account of John Foley would be closed.

It's depressing to think of yourself as a number; I'd have rather entertained -for the millionth time- a dream of ending Kohner.

# 21.

### Auschwitz, Part IV

The last inbound train arrived on the sixth day of Hanukkah. Whistle blaring, it chugged into camp early, well before muster, waking everyone in the barracks. A moan rose through the hut and me bunkmate said, "These bastards. Their goose is cooked and still they bring more to roast."

But the train didn't contain the walking dead: ten empty passenger cars linked behind the locomotive. Some thought the Nazis were going to transport us out of Auschwitz. It be a daft belief and I would've laughed had I not felt so miserable.

Throughout the day, prisoners loaded the train with the bags of Auschwitz's most comfortable guests: the spouses and children of SS administrators. These people lived on the east side of the camp in splendid dachas; they sat outside and sipped drinks whilst the Krems spewed ash; their children played within eyesight of the wretched Blocks. And now, like the mangy shitheads they were, the German families used the rails to flee as emaciated prisoners were flogged out the gates on marches destined to lead nowhere.

The stripping of Kaneda reached the end stages a few days before the New Year. All what remained of the warehouse be piles of wood and cinderblocks. Meanwhile, prisoners slashed the crematoriums. Voclain told me lorries packed with dynamite had been procured; prisoners went about the dangerous rigging under the joint direction of SS ordinance experts and engineers.

On the last morning of 1945, I was assigned to drag planking to an excavated pit near the Little Wood. Other prisoners built pyres of the detritus. Me and a chum dropped a load and stopped to catch our breath when an explosion shook the ground. A second bone rattler followed and then black smoke swelled above the treetops. I assumed the Krems were coming down, but my partner watched the spreading cloud and asked, "What the hell's going on?"

" _Krem flattening," I said._

We began our walk back to collect more wood but encountered a sooty guard sprinting from the opposite direction.

As he passed, he barked, "You two! On the double! Hustle to Krem Two!"

We arrived to a chaotic scene: a gray haze hung in the air; half the giant structure stood, the other portion be a collapsed jumble of bricks and rebar; body parts littered the ground; a bright fire burned inside what remained of the Krem; guards and prisoners limped from the ruins -bleeding, clothes tattered, moaning- and collapsed on the ground. I saw Voclain sitting cross-legged and squatted beside him. Bleeding from the ears, he stared at the mess with bloodshot eyes.

" _Jaysus, Maurice, are you hurt?" I asked. Aye, it be a stupid question given his physical appearance, but I could think of nothing else to say._

" _I'm having trouble hearing," he said, shaking his head like water collected in both ears._

" _What happened?"_

" _It exploded is what happened. Idiot Sonderkommandos were running wires and planting dynamite inside. I was standing here when it blew. Knocked me off my feet. Christ, Foley, Albert's in there."_

" _You!" a disheveled TV screamed, pointing at me. "Get in there and fight the fire!"_

I had nothing but me bare hands to "fight the fire", but I wasn't going to argue with the bastard. Joining a brigade of coughing prisoners, I entered the ruins and clambered over hunks of gore and smoldering masonry. Anybody in the ruined portion had either been blown to smithereens or crushed by the brick ceiling. At last, fate found Denni Albert and Denni found his God.

Men in the baking section crawled from the smoke; I saw fellas with charred skin and britches burned off. Casualties got pulled out, others expired on the floor. A hose was dragged in and a tepid trickle of water be sprinkled on the flames.

How daft the situation! We fought a fire in a building the Nazis intended to destroy. I suppose the Germans wanted to save their own, but anyone coming out of the clutter be better off dying.

Afterwards, we hauled the dead SS outside...or those what could be carried by two sets of hands. The prisoners were left where they fell. I saw Denni Albert's mangled body and I found part of Arnie Isack amongst the dead. Head, right arm and a portion of Isack's torso to be exact; clenched in his hand, a tangle of wires. I swear to the Almighty, there was a smile on his swollen face.

Other than to claim the detonation be "accidental", the Germans kept their lips tight about the affair. Their dead comrades improved the procedures used to destroy the Krems, but this was little comfort to the injured prisoners. All of them, Voclain included, got dragged to the hospital barracks. I suspect they didn't receive first aid treatment, and I never saw Maurice Voclain again.

• • •

"Ah, shit, not Voclain," I whined.

"He isn't listed among the dead," said Sandi, "but I'm certain he didn't survive the war. The doctors weeded out the sick and infirmed. Useless prisoners had no place in a labor camp."

"I wonder if Arnie Isack had anything to do with accident."

"It's possible. On the other hand, the Nazis used prisoners to pack dynamite and arm the charges. How many of those men knew what they were doing?"

"What about Arnie's theory?"

"Like you father said, something to mull over."

"The assassination Isack mentioned. What's the story?"

"Late July 1944, a bomb detonated in Hitler's proximity. Military and civilians were involved including the SS. It appeared to be an extensive plot. I read around 700 purges followed the act. Executions were filmed for posterity. They hung the conspirators with piano wire."

"Hmm...I can't deny the idea is interesting."

"Assassinating Hitler?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm referring to Arnie's theory."

"The Nazis did have a cozy relationship with Swiss banks," she said, reaching for her bag.

"Don't bother. I believe you."

"You're an economics major. Does Arnie's idea seem plausible?"

"Banks are in the business to loan money. And if what Arnie said about the Nazis and their banking system is true, it would make sense to seek financing. But we're talking the Depression of the '30s, and risk is a factor in loan approvals. The Nazis had to convince those in Switzerland they had the potential for high reward."

"The spoils of war."

"War _is_ an economy booster. And if the Germans held millions of accounts until they were...liquidated...I mean, the idea has merit. Still, coordinating all the moving parts would've been enormous."

"The Holocaust seems unbelievable, but it happened."

"True, but one thing I don't understand: Da trading skins to the kapo...what's his name?"

"Zaikinsky."

"If the arrangement was streamlined from top to bottom, you'd think somebody upstairs would've realized the books aren't balanced."

"There's graft in every organization."

"How do you cash skin?"

Sandi shrugged.

A crazy notion of my own formed and I felt lightheaded. However, before I allowed myself to slide down a bizarre rabbit hole, I returned to Da's words and slithered into his strange world...

# 22.

### Auschwitz, Part V

The day after Arnie and the rest found peace, the women's compound was emptied of all but the immobile. The process began in the morning as my work crew threw the remains of Krem Two into barrows and then emptied the loads into the pond where ashes had once been dumped. I caught no sight of Claire, not like I had time to study the stooped mob. The gruff Death Head's threatened punishment if anybody gawked.

Claire had chosen her fate, my brain reminded, but I fixated on the last time I saw her. Selfishness prevented me from comforting the woman I once loved. Instead, I flung blame at her and Tommy. Worse, I expected Claire to participate in a foolish escape attempt. No wonder she shot me down. Aye, I was a thoughtless piece of shite what used people to my ends.

So be the way the world works. Birkenau, Ireland, the States...one way or another, all us buggers used each other. And to typify the sentiment? Jealousy festered inside me as I thought of Claire strutting out of Auschwitz whilst I rolled bricks to a stagnant pond. I joined the IRA and suffered in a death camp because of her; Claire risked our operation in Germany because of herself's stupid pity for Arnie Isack and his brood; she wouldn't entertain the idea of returning to Ireland to share what became of me and Tommy.

To hell with Claire McMahon.

Women were still lumbering out when the Nazis blew Krem One in the afternoon. The demolition took down a third of the building -without ending anyone- but a third wasn't the entire structure. German engineers and bossmen stood around, scratching their heads, and chattered as me mates and I collected the leftovers of Krem Two. The distant pounding of artillery serenaded as I tramped back-and-forth across Birkenau. In me humble opinion, the camp's obliteration wouldn't be completed before the Russians arrived.

A couple sixteen-hour work days passed: the remainder of Krem One came down; prisoners began cabling Krem Five. I swapped duties, yet again, and helped hollow overflowing warehouses in the family camp. Suitcases, clothes, eyeglasses, shoes, toys...mountains of junk the Nazis never had a chance to sort. Under me breath, I criticized both the Jews for bringing their personal effects and the Nazis for stealing them. We constructed pyramidal pyres of luggage and lit them ablaze; mounds of clothing -fancy dresses, children's britches, kippah's, under linen- reduced, like their possessors, to ash. The guards passed liquor amongst themselves and looked east as the smoke blew west.

Wondered I: How long until the Krauts gave up? How long would they keep the pretense of order? In the evening, warming in front of the hobs, me mates plotted of sprinting for the electrified fence. What then? Machine gun fire from the watchtowers would cut people to pieces; the fence be frying those what avoided the bullets. Best case: only a handful would survive a breakout.

I didn't get the chance to make a mad dash, at least not from inside the camp. At muster on the sixth morning after the accident at Krem Two, meself and thirty others had their numbers called by a guard. Like Neuengamme six years prior, I resisted the urge to smile as I passed the tired prisoners standing at attention. There be no doubt in my head the reason for the summoning. Execution? Block 11? Nay. The Nazis were walking me out of Birkenau, beyond the fences, over the Polish countryside where -I presumed- escape awaited.

Once culled, we were led to the entrance gate, organized into a three by ten column, and inspected by an unshaven, chain-smoking soldier what wore the winter dot pea camo outfit. Absent Gorget patches it be impossible to know his rank or branch, but his demeanor screamed Schutzstaffel officer.

" _Listen up," hisself said in a hoarse voice, "you've been selected for relocation. We walk...oh, nine klicks to Grojec and board lorries."_

Walk we did: thirty of us in thin coats, worker gloves and wooden shoes; ten of them camo robed Krauts cradling MP 40's. Snow fell and we ambled through ankle-deep powder as a caravan of military vehicles snaked past: Kübelwagens, light armor, troop transports, even horse drawn artillery. The exodus of a Master Race chased by their inferior foe.

Head down, hands shoved into worn britches, I got walloped by reality. Getting outside Birkenau had been my goal; I assumed salvation be a matter of shaking a squad of weary soldiers. In other words: a pat, cocky plan. Aye, I'd slink into the forest before the Krauts were none the wiser. Never mind me prison stripes, or the Wehrmacht in retreat, or the freezing clime, or my geographical ignorance...never mind any of it. Naivety massaged me brain. After all my time behind fences, I confronted the sickening notion of wanting to return to the gaol.

The actual factual: I was marching to my death.

# 23.

### Polish Countryside, 1945

Late afternoon: we arrived in Grojec frostbitten, famished, fatigued. The seven-kilometer march took six hours, but even the soldiers lacked the energy to cajole a quicker pace.

Grojec, the village proper, looked abandoned. A speck of paper be difficult to find, let alone a living creature. The Krauts led us through the streets -a series of right and left turns- and halted, at last, in front of a stone Catholic Church. The fella what inspected us at Birkenau (I'll call him the Bossman) consulted and then jabbed a map with a finger. I couldn't hear the conversation between hisself and another soldier, but mannerisms are an apt conveyance of mood: the Germans were flummoxed.

" _Looks like they're short a couple lorries," somebody said._

" _Big deal," burbled a retort from the man to me left. "No trucks, no problem. We got legs."_

" _They can't make us walk forever."_

" _This fool," me mate jeered, whilst jabbing my ribs._

" _What about the guards?" asked the first fella. "They'll get tired too."_

Before me mate could answer, the Bossman spun around and told us, "We're bivouacking in the church tonight. In an ordered fashion, file in and find a pew to sleep on."

A pat idea, and I salivated at the thought of sitting, but the building had been looted. Benches, dais, carpet, stained windows, candelabras, carpet, sacramental ornaments, paintings...not a single article remained. Whilst the sad lot of us shivered, the Krauts pilfered scraps of wood from God knows where and kindled a small fire in the rectory. They also produced three loaves of hard bread and a mess of coffee; the braced pot roasted over the flames as the bread made the rounds.

After "lunch" or "supper" or whatever the repast represented, the Bossman stood atop the barren riser and eyeballed his custodial responsibility. Hisself swayed in obvious intoxication, licked lips and then said, "Our transport is, um...delayed...but I expect they'll arrive in the morning. Until then, we make the best of a bad situation."

Bad it be, but bad is a matter of perspective: the stone floor felt softer than the slab in Birkenau and I didn't have to share the rack with two others. I stretched out, cuddled with the warmth from the fire, and managed to steal a solid kip before the rumble of engines kicked me awake. Or it might've been the barking of the Krauts.

One of the bastards bellowed: "Get up, fuckers! Our chariots await!"

Parked outside under a purple sky, two Opal's with canvas tops idled in a cloud of black exhaust. The Bossman conferred with the driver of the first vehicle and then gave an impatient wave. Fifteen prisoners and five Krauts climbed into the back of each lorry. I was placed in the first and had the pleasure of sitting against the rear facing cab bench between two soldiers. I couldn't help but notice the bad end of their respective MP-40's pointed at me belly and groin. I had nary a second to imagine my demise should we hit a furrow before the truck lurched forward.

Needless to say, we didn't get far. Best guess...a couple kilometers before our Opal's engine hiccupped and then died. Punctuated by a slew of oaths, the driver cajoled a brief restart. The Opal rolled few meters and then stalled a second time.

" _Fuck," the German to my right said. "I knew it's too good to be true."_

The Kraut to me left said, "We're stuck. Snow on the road."

Not a second after offering the opinion, the trailing Opal went silent.

Back to the fella to me right: "As usual, you're wrong, dumbshit. We're out of petrol."

After we were unloaded and assembled, the Bossman tossed three, six-liter jugs on the ground and said, "Our coachman thought we could reach a fuel depot about five klicks south, but it's not happening. I require three men for a petrol run and...eh..." He paused to inspect our emaciated ranks and then said, "Better make it six. Do I have volunteers?"

In the camps, the SS never engaged in anything resembling polite beseeching. The guards pointed; you did. However, despite the Bossman's cordiality, nobody raised a hand...and for good reason: the cover of the canvas, puny as it be, provided a better alternative than hossing heavy cans three kilometers over the snowy Polish demesne. Facing a dearth of enthusiastic bucks, the Bossman resorted to choosing conscripts: meself, standing in hisself's vantage point, and five other slouching mates. Four sentinels were also plucked to fortify the party.

" _Sir," an unlucky subordinate intoned, "what are the odds the yard is stocked? Why don't we wait for a passing convoy and siphon a few liters to get us moving in the right direction?"_

" _We're off the well-worn," answered the Bossman. "And our comrades aren't sharing squat. Would you under the circumstance? No, we're left to our own devices."_

Ten total -six and four- struck for the depot. An overnight snow shower added less than a quarter meter on the pack, but a fierce headwind slapped our faces. I considered the foray akin to torture. The four Krauts travelling with us shared the same sentiment, and those mokes had parkas and ski masks. Regardless, they groused about the cold, their tired legs, and the state of the world as if we were invisible.

I'd be surprised if we trudged more than a kilometer before the salty Germans spotted a derelict cottage: windows broken, front door banging, roof half-collapsed. Despite the obvious physical deformities of the house, our chaperones decided the shelter would suffice for a respite.

A cursory examination with a torch revealed the house hadn't been occupied in some time. The single room contained a crumbling stone hearth, upended table, a shattered oil lamp hanging from a nail next to the door and a slanted watercolor on the opposite wall.

The Krauts told us to sit on the earthen floor whilst they rummaged through cupboards. The fools sought food but their search produced three skeletonized mice and a cracked salver.

" _Fuck it all," one of soldiers -a thick man with a bullet shaped head- bitched before delivering a kick to the table. "The old man's lost his head. Hiking for petrol in this country? We stand no chance if partisans are about. Doubtful there's any fuel remaining, but if there is..." He gestured at us with his weapon and said, "Look at these fuckers. Brittle as an uncooked noodle."_

A second German snapped, "Obergefreiter, complaining won't change the situation."

" _No?" asked the Obergefreiter. Hisself kicked the table again -splintering the board in half- and said, "Do you not comprehend how fucked our situation is Gefreiter? Or must I waste breath explaining?"_

I learned a few things in German gaols and one be designation of military rank. The SS NCO's and junior enlisted carried designations what ended in "führer": Scharführer; Rottenführer; Unterscharführer. The Heer used affixations like "webel" and "freiter". Deductive reasoning led me to the conclusion our German mates be minions of the Heer.

And this was important because (in theory) the Heer enlisted weren't as fanatical as their fecund SS brethren.

The camp maxim -drilled into me head from Day 1- be this simple rule: The prisoner must remain silent until addressed. I watched people beaten and ended because they forgot their place. For a tick, I forgot mine too. "You're not SS," I blurted.

Instead of giving me the hard stare or a swat for talking, the Obergefreiter asked, "SS? Do we look like SS?"

" _The Death Heads have been marching prisoners out of Birkenau," I explained. "I assumed-"_

" _You assumed we're SS," the Obergefreiter finished. "Well, we're not. Grenadier Regiment Gnesen, or what's left of it. We're a parcel of the 227th, but yesterday new orders arrived. Redeployed for prisoner transport. Instead of taking you on foot, it's been decided an expeditious approach is better suited. The old man...we call him the old man but it's Oberst Wengler to you...the old man's a warrior, but he's also shrewd. He's hoping-"_

" _Hans!" the Gefreiter interrupted. "You should watch your tongue around the prisoners!"_

" _It doesn't matter," the Obergefreiter said. "We should be with our division. But no, here we are, freezing our balls in search of petrol. Six liters between two trucks gets us six kilometers down the road. What then? More sorites to imaginary fuel stations? Stupid, stupid...this is stupid and we're fucked."_

The Gefreiter cheeped, "Fine, the situation is stupid. But orders are orders. What's the Oberst to do? Refuse a command from the Generaloberst?"

" _We're in full retreat across the Eastern Front!" the Obergefreiter argued. "And Harpe wants us to move towards the Bolsheviks? Pfft."_

Spurned by the candid talk of his superior, a third soldier said, "I agree with the Obergefreiter. The Bolsheviks won't negotiate."

" _We're going towards the Russians?" a prisoner asked._

The Obergefreiter answered, "See, even he recognizes the foolishness of the situation! You know why the SS is moving inmates? Ivan is thirty kilometers east and closing by the second. Garbage out. Of course, there's no petrol at Birkenau so they walk. And they walk west. We're to take you to Łódź, and Łódź is east. Three hours by truck. Care to guess why? Hm? You're all non-Germans. The idea is we can parlay a surrender with Ivan using you poor fuckers as leverage. Harpe's brainchild and the old man agrees. The rest of us have no say in the matter."

I swallowed a laugh. Leverage? Us? Why would the Russians barter with the Germans for prisoners? Then, from the great beyond, Arnie Isack's voice spoke in me head: 'We'll be walked west, slaughtered and stripped of our tattoo. Maybe the officers in the know have a method to redeem them'. We were headed east instead of west, but the remainder of his idea...

A period of silence passed; the Krauts fiddled with their outfits and the prisoners stared at the ground. The rising sun blasted through exposed roofing and spoilt florid dawn. Bright light jammed into every nook of the cottage. I awaited the order to move, but none came. The Obergefreiter took pieces of the splintered table and piled them into the hearth. Soon, he had a small fire burning.

Eyes glued to the flames, the Obergefreiter said, "I've heard stories of Birkenau. Yesterday, the smell almost knocked me over...and tickled memories. Once upon a time I sat in your clothes. I beat the piss out of a fucker who owed me a few hundred Marks. Business, you know. Nothing personal. It wouldn't have been a big deal had he not been a party official. The Gestapo sent me to Sachsenhausen for sixty months, but I only served fourteen. After Poland attacked, I was drafted into a probationary unit. Believe it or not, I didn't want to go. A couple prisoners and I ran a nice black-market operation in the camp. The Probeeinheit is the lowest rung of the Wehrmacht. We're treated like scum, first over the hill and all the rest, but I did well in the Heer. Relocated to the Gnesen Regiment. Squad leader. Iron Cross Second Class recipient. Holder of the Frozen Meat Medal. Look how high I've climbed! The irony? I'll be back in a camp before the war ends, except it'll be Ivan's gulag."

" _I was at Sachsenhausen," I said._

The Obergefreiter cocked his head and asked, "When?"

" _October '39 until October '42."_

" _Ha, we almost crossed paths. July '38 until September '39, for me. Those bastards assigned me the quarry, but I met a Gypsy...he called himself The King of the Gypsies. Crazy fucker. I'll spare the details, but the King's a good friend to have."_

Dumbstruck, I exclaimed, "Zache!"

" _Zache...yeah, you've heard of him?"_

" _Heard of him? He also got me out of quarry duty!"_

" _Did he pull the needle and string through your vein?"_

" _Yes!"_

" _Then you received the blessing of the Beatific Ceferino Giménez Malla."_

I nodded and said, "I became Zache's brother."

" _Heh, small world. There were four...correction, five of us. I can't forget Zujenia. Let's see...her, Zache, a Frenchman named Maurice...I can't recall his last name...and a priest from...Belgium, I think."_

" _Marcel Voclain and Denni Albert."_

" _Right, Voclain and Albert. I haven't heard those names in years."_

" _Let me guess: you were the muscle."_

The Obergefreiter snapped his fingers and grinned.

" _Me too," I said._

" _What happened to those fools?"_

" _I don't know about Zache and Zujenia. I went to Monowitz with Voclain in '41. Then we moved to Birkenau in October '44. Albert also made it to Birkenau. Voclain is dead, I think. He caught a bad injury during a demolition and the injured...you know. Albert died in the same explosion."_

" _Hm," the Obergefreiter mused._

" _You know the saying: living and dying is all about timing."_

" _My, what an insightful conversation," the Gefreiter said, "but the old man's expecting petrol."_

" _Of course," the Obergefreiter said, giving me a wink. "It's all about timing...and a little gypsy blood. So...why don't the six of you check the supply of our hypothetical fuel yard. If you find no petrol then you keep walking until you do. We'll keep warm and await your return."_

Though it be amazing, the long lost Zache, King of the Gypsies, had worked his magic again. Still, after years of cruelty at the hands of the SS, I assumed the Obergefreiter's command be a ploy. We'd depart and the Krauts would shoot us in the back or hunt us for sport. And I wasn't the only bloke confused by the statement:

" _You're letting them leave?" cried the Gefreiter. "We're responsible for these prisoners!"_

" _They're going to the depot," responded the indifferent Obergefreiter, as he tossed a table leg into the fire._

" _Without us!"_

" _Ahem...you misremember, Gefreiter. Damn partisans. Pinned us down. Prisoners ran away. What can a soldier do?"_

" _I'm not lying to the old man!"_

" _You can tell him whatever you want," the Obergefreiter said, as he rubbed the stock of his MP-40. "But a word of warning: I won't be shooting anyone not holding a weapon."_

One of me mates didn't need further impetus. He rose, brushed his pants, strolled out the door...and nobody stopped him. A second and third man followed. I went fourth. Nice and easy, hands raised, no eye contact...

It was this easy.

Freedom, or the nearest thing to freedom, became a reality as I stepped across the threshold.

The three preceding fellas sprinted for a wooded area a few hundred meters down the road. I saw them in their striped outfits, like a pimple on the Queen's arse, and gave pursuit. Breaking through barren branches, I ran into the winded trio. The remaining two joined seconds later.

" _What happened in there?" one of me mates asked between deep breaths._

" _Who cares?" panted another. "We need to move before they change their minds."_

We discussed several options, none of them keen: walk into a town and steal clothing; find another abandoned cottage and wait; stumble until we found charitable folks. All decisions led to the same conclusion: at some point, we'd have to mix with the locals and hope for the best.

At last, we decided to split into pairs of two. Moving like we had bricks on our feet, a fella named Carl and I headed deep into the woods. Every noise, real or imagined, incited concealment. Stumbling around for hours gave us nothing but cold extremities and cuts on our faces. Clearing a line of timber at dusk, we spotted a cabin shining light from the windows and smoke from the chimney.

" _What do you want to do?" Carl whispered._

" _Throw ourselves on their mercy."_

" _I think it's too risky."_

" _Fuck sake, fella. What choice do we have? We can't sleep outside. Worse case, we get physical."_

" _Physical?"_

" _Violent."_

" _I can't lift my body weight. How will we fare in a fight?"_

Deciding a bout to the death would be better than dying in the woods, I left my hesitant pal and took off in a jog. Feet crunching on snow, head swiveling, I made it to the log house and sidled next to a window. A quick peek through the warped glass revealed a couple of fellas at a table throwing cards. A shotgun rested between them.

Carl joined me seconds later and leaned against the house. "What'd you see?" he wheezed.

" _Two men and a shotgun."_

" _Shit. What next?"_

" _We knock on the door and find out if they're friend-"_

" _Don't you fuckers move," a throaty voice demanded from behind. "Turn around and keep your hands raised."_

We complied and came face-to-face with the bad end of Mossberg bolt action. The hidden man behind the weapon said, "Your stripes dance in the dark, but I can't take any chances."

" _Wha-we-the Germans," blubbered Carl. "We're...we...came from Auschwitz."_

The gun swung left on me mate, then back to me. "Roll down your sleeves and show me your wrists," the gunman demanded.

" _We don't want trouble," I said, exposing the tattoo. "Just a place to rest for a spell."_

The fella stepped forward, into the cone of window shine, and lowered the weapon. Thin, bearded, wearing loose winter clothes, he said, "You'll find no trouble. My comrades and I were prisoners of Camp One. How'd you escape?"

" _Prisoner transport," I said, giving Carl the side eye. I didn't feel like explaining how or why the Obergefreiter named Hans released us; no doubt we'd face a barrage of questions and perhaps be viewed with suspicion._

Either Carl read my body language of he also knew enough to be succinct: "Yes, we were able to get a jump when our guards stopped to scout the area."

Our pal with the gun swung the weapon the way we came and asked, "Are there others hiding in the forest?"

" _Just the two of us," I said._

" _Ah, a shame. My name's Bruno. Drop your arms. Go on. I won't hurt you. Follow me inside where it's warm. And let's get you out of those disgusting outfits."_

Bruno introduced his two mates: Wenzel, a scrawny middle-aged Jew from Krakow; Ivan, a soldier in the Red Army captured in the Ukraine. Bruno claimed Ivan had been rendered mute either during war or internment; he communicated through rudimentary hand gestures and grunts. Wenzel, on the other hand, greeted Carl and me with a hug and a peck on each cheek.

Over a bowl of porridge, Bruno and Wenzel related a wild tale of escape. During a forced march from Auschwitz with Russian PW's, and in the midst of a heavy snowfall, two hundred plus prisoners fled en masse.

" _We ran in all directions," Bruno said. "The TV, around twenty of them, shot and gave chase with their dogs, but I made it into the thicket and out of harm's way. I found Wenzel and Ivan at a stream and we decided to travel together. Hours of walking in a blizzard...and then this house appeared like magic."_

" _Ivan kicked the door down," Wenzel said. "The couple living here, an old man and woman...he beat them to death with his fists. Didn't you Ivan?"_

Arms crossed, the Russian grumbled.

" _How do you know his name if he can't talk?" Carl asked._

" _We gave him one," Bruno said. "I don't think he understands German, but he enjoys killing them. We've been holed for two weeks. On the third day, a carriage arrived with a man and boy. Perhaps a son and grandson of the deceased...I don't know. Ivan snuck around the house and put an axe in both of them."_

" _We have a good thing here," Wenzel said. "Food, weapons and wood. We'll sit tight, defend our spot, grow fat and wait for the Russians to arrive. There isn't much traffic anyway. Some people on horses, a car here and there...they never stop. Yes, this is as good a place as any. You're welcome to stay."_

" _The more the merrier," Bruno said. "Five men are better than three."_

Carl didn't need his arm twisted, and neither did John Foley.

Save for the occasional fleeing horse-drawn carriage, four days passed without incident. Planes flew overhead, artillery thundered...and we sat on our arses, played cards and jammed food into our gullets. Camp life -what we did to survive, friends and kin lost- wasn't discussed.

Instead, elaborate dreams of the future be bandied: returning to lives upended by war, rebuilding homes, finding employment. I lacked hackneyed inclinations, listened with half an ear, and added nothing to the conversation. My immediate goal, my only goal, involved severing Kohner's throat. Returning to Ireland -never mind how it be done- seemed a futile plunge into fantasy.

Day Five brought our only scare: six Kraut Raupenschlepper Ost's hauling howitzers. Armed with long guns and knives, we sat with backs against the front partition. Next to me, Ivan snorted like a wild animal sensing prey. But the Germans scurried past, got swallowed by the smudgy horizon, and we breathed a sigh of relief...all except Ivan. The Russian wanted to bathe in German blood.

Between rotating watches and the uneasiness of discovery, sleep became almost impossible. When I did catch a kip, I dreamt of Claire standing in the white glow of a searchlight. Thin, dirty, spinning circles, display her wretched figure...inviting me to join her in the light...to dance the Ceili like we once did in the Dublin pubs.

Another vivid dream haunted: I sat on me stool in Kanada and cut the nicks out of flaccid wrists. Karts of bodies stretched into infinity but they piled with those I knew: Claire, Tommy, Zache, Zujenia, Albert, Voclain, Isack...other chums from Monowitz what hadn't survived.

From said nightmare I was awoken on the morning of Day Ten. In my dream, the corpse of Tommy McMahon zapped to life as I jabbed the paring knife into his skin. His eyes blinked, mouth opened and then he croaked, "Look at me. Look at me. Look at me..."

I got knocked out of sleep by Wenzel. Slapping me cheek, the Jew exclaimed, "Wake up! Wake up!"

Assuming the Germans lurked, I sat upright and reached for me gun.

" _No, no," said Wenzel. "Leave the gun! The Russians are here! Ivan's run to greet them! Come on!"_

In front of a battered brown jeep, four soldiers in winter camo huddled around Ivan. The mute did his best to communicate through hand gestures but the Soviets appeared either indifferent or vexed by the exchange. At last, two soldiers and Ivan climbed into the vehicle and departed in a cloud of white snow. The two Russian malingers motioned us to our arses with their rifles.

Whilst one searched the house, the other -hisself with a thin, pimple-speckled face and breath stinking of onions- attempted conversation in abysmal German:

" _Your...eh...identify. Identify...group?"_

" _Prisoners from Auschwitz," Bruno said._

" _From encampment near Oświęcim?"_

" _Yes," said Carl. "All of us."_

" _You're not...how do I say...resistance?"_

We shook our heads in unison which seemed to disappoint the fella.

Ever the fusspot, Carl whispered, "Did I say something wrong?"

" _Hell if I know," I said. "Mayhap he hopes we have bodies of Krauts stacked behind the cottage."_

When his partner returned carrying an armful of long guns, the pimpled soldier produced cigarettes and offered the hand rolled heaters to each of us. It be the most God-awful thing I ever tried, but the buzz of tobacco mollified. I smoked the stove down in several, deep drags as the soldiers chatted in Russian and moved snow with their boots.

This went on for spell...twenty, thirty, sixty minutes...I can't tell you how long we waited. At last, two jeeps sped down the road; our sentries motioned us to stand and then snapped to attention as the vehicles skidded to a stop. A couple new fellas climbed out, returned greetings, and then moseyed to where we stood.

One -tall, cleanshaven, square jawed and handsome- wore an impeccable uniform with shoulder boards; atop his head, a peaked brown hat with a single red star tacked in the center; a tuft of blond hair curled from beneath the visor. I pegged him as a prim, or what we in the IRA labelled an officer concerned about appearance rather than leadership. In most cases, the primmies be the blokes what gave orders and scolded bearing.

The other fella be the prim's opposite: short but thick, camo torn and stained in oil, face pitted and crisscrossed in scars. An ugly bloke, to put it pat. He squinted at us and whispered something to his partner.

After looking us up and down, the prim -in vibrant German- said, "Our comrade, and yours it appears...it became a lengthy interrogation...but he wrote you all came from the Auschwitz slaughterhouse."

" _We escaped," Bruno answered._

The stout Russian woofed, "We are pulling prisoners out of the countryside! Know what else? Fascists dressed as prisoners and the population!"

" _Your comrade isn't a fascist," I said._

" _Plenty of my countrymen and women become fascists. They use internment as excuse for conversion. Whose house is this? And the rifles," he said, motioning at the weapons. "Where did you obtain?"_

" _Your comrade killed those living here," said Bruno. "The guns are theirs...were theirs, I mean."_

The soldier what searched the house spoke in Russian; the grumpy officer frowned whilst the prim fella began an inspection of the cottage exterior.

" _Far be it from me to tell your business," I said, "but he's lit like a torch at night."_

" _Is what?" the Russian asked._

" _Your comrade's uniform could draw the fire of a sniper."_

" _Bah. Major Popov is indifferent to fascist pests unlike...eh...those who cower in house."_

The blatant insult prickled and I felt heat in me cheeks. Christened a coward after what I'd been through? I wanted to charge the bastard and jam my fist down his throat.

" _You don't appreciate the truth," he continued, marching within arm's reach of me. "The whole of you are robust, unlike those worthless souls in the fascist penal camp. I wonder...how are you so fortunate to escape? Maybe you were never in camp."_

Carl whined a weak protest, but I rolled up me sleeve and pointed at the blue nicks. "All of us have the numbers on our skin," I said. "They didn't appear by magic."

" _I'm convinced of nothing anymore," the Russian declared. "But Major Popov and I will humor you. We go to Auschwitz for identification. Let's see what those poor bastards say."_

# 24.

### Red Army, 1945

Though liberated by the Soviets, Birkenau looked no better than it had when the Nazis ran the show: fences stood, soldiers manned the watchtowers, and skinny, lethargic prisoners wandered the compound. Waist-high heaps of corpses dotted the grounds; stiffs in kapo garb -including the congenial Zaikinsky- swayed from whatever conceivable place a rope could be strung. Me mates and I were taken from the jeep and displayed in front of hundreds of inmates what confirmed we weren't "fascists" or prisoner sentinels. Vetting complete, the Russians walked us to the hospital barracks for a hasty health inspection and interview.

After delousing, I faced a barrage of questions by a bored clerk what chain smoked those awful cigarettes. His German was awful too, and the conversation evolved into a convoluted exchange:

The Russian demanded, "Your ethnicity."

" _Irish."_

" _Eh? Irish? Like...eh...like British?"_

" _No, like Ireland."_

He scribbled a note on a piece of paper and then asked, "Why are you not in Stalag?"

" _Is this not a camp?"_

" _Soldiers from...eh...from capitalist allies...go to Stalag, not fascist death factory._

" _I'm not a prisoner of war."_

" _But you British?"_

" _Irish."_

" _Then..." he began, before scratching his head._

" _I committed a crime in Germany and received hard labor."_

" _What crime?"_

Up to this moment, I didn't think I'd have to explain anything about my situation; I assumed meself would be regarded as a victim of the fanatical Nazis, no questions asked. But amongst the Jews, Gypsies, continental Western and Eastern Europeans, an Irishman (or Brit...whatever the tag) stuck out like a sore thumb.

Common sense told me the Russians would not or could not understand the complexities of my internment. Worse, I had worked with the fascists (the Russians preferred word for their enemy) and wanted to keep this a secret.

So, what crime landed me in a fascist death factory? My endearing answer, which also be a parcel of the truth: "I killed an SS officer."

" _Figushki," the clerk said, blowing smoke into my face. "Do you know the expression? Horsefeathers. What do horse and feather have in common? Nothing. Means, I'm not the fool. You kill fascist SS, you don't go to penal institution. You go to death."_

" _I wore a blue Winkel. Blue is-"_

" _Bah, I don't care what blue is. I find how you arrive in death camp curious."_

" _The Germans were, um...see, there's no rhyme or reason-"_

" _Rhyme or reason?"_

" _It's a Western saying. There's no understanding Nazi behavior. The man what arrested me considered interment a worse fate than death. You've seen Birkenau. It's a place of suffering."_

" _Ah...well, if it's as you say, you wait for Red Cross. They will deal with the prisoners and send them...I don't know. East, west...perhaps they transport to your British officials. I make note in your folder and pass to comrade yeoman."_

" _I'd rather not stay."_

The clerk elevated his brow and asked, "No?"

" _Birkenau is an unpleasant place. Terrible memories."_

" _Yes, is bad. The fascists are devils."_

" _Devils is a generous description. And the man what sent me here...I want to make him suffer."_

" _You want to hurt him, eh?"_

" _If I can find him."_

" _Your choice, comrade. I will submit a request to the Starshina in charge of approving prisoner releases."_

" _How long will this take?"_

" _Who can say? An hour? A day? Perhaps never. You can leave fascist camp now. My comrades don't care but should you encounter a frisky group of the Raboče -krestjjanskaja Krasnaja armija...eh...Workers' and Peasants' Army...without a pass it will make explanation...eh...difficult."_

" _What about transportation? I need to get to Germany."_

" _Ah...you think..." he said, but then slapped the table and laughed. Then he shouted something in Russian, no doubt a joke at my expense, and a few of his comrades hooted._

" _There's no carriage," I deduced above the chuckles._

" _Not for prisoners. And everywhere is squalor. Squalor and chaos. Fritz is still fighting-"_

" _Fritz?"_

" _The fascists. You encounter many obstacles and Germany has not capitulated. I say it is safer here. Wait for Red Cross. They'll arrive when war is...eh...less complicated. Perhaps if you have stomach for war and a thirst for vengeance, you travel with army and shoot fascists. Some prisoners volunteer. If we encounter English, you go with them."_

" _I'm Irish," I reminded, though I knew he wouldn't understand the difference._

Staying at Auschwitz wasn't appealing, but traveling with the Russians didn't present an attractive proposition either. Be picking one of two poisons, I figured. But one poison would get me closer to Bremen by the time the war ended.

" _I would like to join," I announced._

" _Ah!" the clerk cheered. "Good, comrade!" He produced a bottle of vodka, two mess tins and filled them to the rim. As we toasted my decision, I wondered if the clerk received a bonus for recruiting me desperate arse. I stopped caring after downing me first plug of alcohol in six years. Although not my favorite whiskey, it be a start in the right direction._

For the next twelve hours I wandered Birkenau in a vodka-soaked stupor, seeking acquaintances and revisiting the hut I called home for two and half months. The prisoners were a miserable lot: protruding eyes, skinny arms; ribs showing through translucent skin. They did a lot of sitting and talking. I assumed they wanted to leave too, but most had no desire or strength to function. It didn't occur to me until later they had nowhere to go.

The next morning, I was assigned to the 322nd Rifle Division of the Red Army, which be part of the Special Infantry Platoon. It sounded like an impressive outfit on the surface, however a typical division is composed of 10,000 to 20,000 soldiers divided into several brigades. The 322nd was a fraction of this size: a handful of officers, 4000 conscripted troopers (many, like meself, liberated prisoners), a dozen Russian T-34and SU-85 tanks and a small battery of artillery.

I joined an army of nomads with a clear objective: Berlin. I was given a crash-course in Socialism and Marxism by the same prim the day before -Major Popov. Joining him at the seminar be the stout, rugged officer what called me a coward.

The prim introduced hisself as then described the Red Army as "Workers' and Peasants' Army".

" _We have no class distinction among us," Popov declared in a lofty tone. "The sonic," he gestured at the scowling officer leaning against a wall, "works alongside the strerelts." Popov smiled and nodded at us, the motley collection of bedraggled prisoners almost too weak to stand. I wasn't familiar with the Russian terms, but I understood the basic idea: The brotherhood in arms analogy mirrored the IRA creed._

" _As conscripts," Popov continued, "you are mercenaries. We cannot pay, and anything you recover of value will become property of the people of the Soviet Union. However, you are liberated prisoners of the fascist bureaucracy. Once the war is over, you will be granted absolute freedom. You can become Soviet citizens, or you will be allowed exodus to the Capitalists." Popov flashed another captivating smile and then turned towards his partner._

" _I am Major Ivanov," he said, jutting broad chest. "I will not lie about the war. It is brutal. We take no German prisoners! If you can't handle death, I don't want you in my unit. Get out!" Ivanov glared at us under a knotted brow and crossed arms. Nobody stirred. Satisfied, Ivanov said:_

" _All of you have experienced the depravities of barbaric fascists. Their death camps have been discovered throughout Poland. I demand you use this opportunity to take revenge on the scum of humanity. Two years ago, this battalion was a full-strength machine. We fought from Kursk into Poland before splitting from the main body of our army. Since then, we've continued with little reinforcements. The soldiers outside the walls of Birkenau are all what remain. It's not a large force, but the will of my men drives us to Berlin. I am the senior officer of this brigade and I expect nothing but sacrifice from those who fight with me._

" _The fascists are in full retreat. The war will be over soon. Once I link with the Krasnaja Armija, I will have little or no use for you. As Major Popov said, you will be given a choice. I don't care what you decide. When you're with me, though, you will fight for the Red Army._

" _Like I said, you have plenty of reasons to be vengeful. We Russians have motivation. Entire villages were erased by the fascists when they invaded Rodina. You think it is bad for you at this camp? Auschwitz is like..." Ivanov looked at Popov and mumbled, "how do I say, comrade?"_

" _Is like you live in mink, vodka and caviar," Popov said in all seriousness._

" _Yes, you have been babied here!" Ivanov snarled. "Nonetheless, you have a chance at being men again." He paused, studied the room and then asked, "Who has military experience? Any knowledge of weapons?"_

A young Jew in front of me raised his hand and said, "I was in the Warsaw ghetto during the uprising," he claimed. "I used guns, grenades, bombs. I've killed, and will kill again."

Ivanov grunted and said something to Popov in Russian.

I considered telling the Russian about my prewar experience fighting the British. Perhaps I would earn an important role in this prisoner army. Mayhap I'd get a better weapon, more food, or a chance to fight with the Red Army to Berlin. However, confession meant I might expose meself. I spent the last six years climbing the side of the mountain; I overcame the obstacles the Nazis put in the way. I had almost reached the top and faced a number of paths. In the end, I decided to take a chance:

I raised my right arm and Ivanov pointed at me.

" _I have experience in organized resistance," I said._

" _Where?"_

" _In Ireland, before the war. I commanded a small group of men."_

" _You fight who?" Ivanov demanded._

" _I-I fought the British for Irish independence. I've used rifles and explosives."_

Ivanov grunted again (he grunted a lot, as I learned), turned to Popov and they chatted amongst themselves. Then Ivanov approached me, jabbed my shoulder and said, "You. We talk. The rest leave and gather outside."

" _No lies or half-truths," Popov said after the room emptied. "You battle the English?"_

I cleared my throat, looked at both men and then...and then I couldn't think of anything to say. How could I make them understand the situation?

Popov sighed and then asked, "Why are you here if you fought the fascist enemy?"

And still I stared at them. I knew my future, perhaps my life, depended on the answer I gave but...all I could do was twist fingers and mumble, "I was tricked. Tricked and...I overestimated my value. The Germans used me to achieve their purposes and, when they no longer needed my services, threw me in their camps."

" _The fascists are good at trickery, but why were you in Germany?" asked Popov._

" _My resistance unit sent me to learn the military ways of the Nazis."_

" _Why were you arrested?" Popov challenged._

" _It's a complicated story of deceit."_

" _Major Popov," Ivanov said, "I would like time alone."_

Popov and Ivanov argued in Russian before the prim left the room. Then Ivanov looked me up and down and said, "Major Popov believes you are a deranged criminal or a skilled liar. I think you are both. Now's the moment you tell me why I'm correct."

" _I've explained-" I began, but Ivanov cut me off with a clucking tongue._

" _You've explained nothing. You were sent to learn fascist military techniques and were thrown in camp? Eh? Because you were tricked? I don't understand. Serdtsem k Serdtsu...heart to heart. I'm not political officer. I am soldier. If you are soldier, as you claim, make me understand."_

Ivanov's appeal sounded genuine. He also represented the type of personality I found pleasing. If anyone could understand my intentions, I figured it would be him.

" _I am a soldier in the Irish Republican Army," I admitted. "Following a transaction with the Nazis in 1939, I was arrested while leaving Germany with Reichsmarks."_

" _Money the fascists gave you?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Hm...but there is more. Don't lie."_

" _I also killed an officer of the SS," I said in a quiet voice. "There was a disagreement...for years, the bastard helped himself to the kitty. I decided to settle the debt."_

" _Ah..."_

" _The Kripo arrested me because I carried forged travel documents and four million Marks. They suspected I was involved in something underhanded and...you can understand there were facts I tried to keep secret."_

" _They discovered you killed the fascist?"_

" _I tried to be discreet, but I told the police my business in Germany. The detective thought I was lying and my business be smuggling Jewish money. My partners were also detained, but they admitted we had killed the SS fella. Instead of execution, the detective dumped me in the camp system. He told me it would be a fate worse than death. Kohner expected I'd die, but I vowed he'd see my face again. And I mean to keep my word, Major Ivanov."_

" _You will kill him?"_

I nodded.

" _Irish Republican Army," Ivanov mused. "Friends of the fascists?"_

" _Not friends. We want to remove the English from Ireland. The Reichsmarks funded our army."_

" _What happens after you remove the British?"_

" _We rule our country by our traditions and beliefs. Every Irishman and woman would be equal. The English way under their King...the men with all the money use those what don't have the money or power."_

Ivanov held up his hand, stood, and walked outside. Minutes later he returned with the prim. Reverting to Russian, Ivanov spoke in an animated manner; Popov listened, nodded his head and said "Da" every few seconds.

At last, Ivanov said, "It sounds to Major Popov your Irish Army is like the communists before the revolution in Russia."

I answered, "I don't know enough about Russia to comment."

" _We had Tsar," Ivanov explained. "He and his court treated the people like the English treat your people. The communal effort of men and women instigated a revolution and made Russia new."_

Popov rattled something else in Russian and then nodded at me before vacating the room. When we were alone again, Ivanov said, "Major Popov is impressed by jargon. He is fourth political officer of this unit. I think he is full of shit, but his remarks to the commissars in Moscow mean more than my success as a commander. He cannot defy my orders, but he's like a thorn in foot. I have enough thorns as is. I don't need another...eh...I've forgotten your name."

" _John Foley."_

" _John, huh? John is common name, like Ivan in Russia. What is your father's name?"_

" _My father?"_

" _Yes."_

" _His name is John."_

" _Good! I will call you Ivan, comrade. Ivan Ivanovich. So...eh...Major Popov is convinced you are a good communist; he believes you'll contribute to our glorious victory against the fascists. I am a logical man from a family stripped of its money after the Revolution. When Stalin took power, I was in London studying mathematics. Or, if you believe the State, I became indoctrinated in Imperialist dogma. But this accusation came later. I returned to Moscow in 1934 and gained an engineer's commission in the Army. You are talking to a former artillery strategist, Ivan Ivanovich! What more could I ask? Combining my love of arithmetic and destruction...a dream come true for humble Adrik Vladimirovich Ivanov. Then came the purges; the State branded me a subversive. Therefore, I'm...eh...not as devoted to the Party like comrade Popov. I fight for my life, Ivan. Before the war, I received ten plus five and suffered humiliation in a gulag. The Great Patriotic struggle permits the rectification of the spineless label affixed upon my name. We're all fighting these battles of honor. I respect honor. And...you're a soldier skilled in battle, yes?"_

" _I've been in a few tangles."_

" _My brigade lacks qualified prisoners. These Jew we've collected...they're nothing more than solobon...eh...Ghost Warriors. They get the so-called honor of clearing mines and taking fire in front of the unit. Is unpleasant duty capable of turning men from warrior into ghost. But I'm flush with the walking dead, Ivan Ivanovich. You'd fit snug in the rabbit squad. Ordinance and message runner. We have no uniform or weapon for you. The next time you see a trooper fall, take their dress. And the next time you see a fascist fall, take their weapon because Soviet weapons are worthless."_

• • •

Sandi rested beside me on the bed as I read the last paragraph aloud.

"Kind of an improbable escape," I said, tossing the pages aside. "I can't believe the Germans let them walk."

"Thank indifference or gypsy blood."

"Either answer seems improbable."

"Imagine the disorganization of an army in retreat. Thousands of prisoners escaped during the marches. Their stories are similar to your father's."

"So the Red Army comes along and Da just...joins their ranks?"

"Not only joined, he fought with them to Berlin. Hold on, I've something to show you."

Sandi left the room and returned with some papers and a map. She spread the map on the bed and I saw the European continent, with Auschwitz, Poland, circled in red. She had drawn a red line from Auschwitz through Poland and East Germany, intersecting towns along the way. A large red "X" marked Berlin, and another red line ran northwest from Berlin to Bremen. John Foley's journey.

"Some of the facts surrounding the Russian incursion into Berlin are incomplete," she said. "The Soviets are tight-lipped and their military records are impossible to research. I confirmed the 322nd Rifle Division of the Red Army, along with several other divisions, liberated Auschwitz in late January 1945. However, I couldn't find any records of a Major Ivanov or a political officer named Popov."

"It doesn't matter."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Look, after what I've read, unless you believe my father used history to create a Walter Mitty type life..."

"I don't believe he did."

"Then there is the jar with the number."

"He would've had to go to a lot of trouble to fabricate it. See why I wanted to keep you reading?"

I pointed at the line from Auschwitz to Berlin and asked, "This is his passage to Berlin?"

"Your father doesn't go into much detail, but I tracked the movement of the 322nd from Auschwitz to the Reichstag. History book research, John. Hours and hours. They travelled from Auschwitz to Wroclaw, Cottbus, Schwerin. Your father's unit reached Berlin in late April 1945 around the time Hitler committed suicide."

"Then you said he went to Bremen as Arnie Isack?"

"Yes."

"To kill Kohner?"

Sandi nodded.

"I suppose I'll get to read all about it?"

"You will."

"What about the money thing? Isack's idea. Anything come of it?"

"Same answer as the last."

I looked at the clock on the nightstand: _09:52_ ...with the little red dot parked next to _PM._ I had skipped a couple classes in the morning to read Da's story, but I attended practice in the afternoon. Sore and tired, I wanted to sit in a warm bath and soak.

Of course, I didn't...

# 25.

### Berlin, 1945

_The 322nd left Auschwitz on 31 January 1945; late April found us rolling into the eastern suburbs of Berlin. I don't know the exact date we entered the Nazi capital; the days melded together in a never-ending slog west punctuated by skirmishes with the retreating fascists. In short order, I graduated from rabbit to "elephant", joined a shock squad and fought alongside the Russians. Knee deep in snow and the garbage strewn streets of villages, I proved me mettle._ _I won't speak of the many battles because they're all the same. Either you won or lost, lived or died. We won and I lived. I even gained the respect of Ivanov and fashioned an amicable relationship._

Ivanov enjoyed speaking English when we were alone. One night as we bivouacked next to a German town and got tight, he asked, "You still happy to have joined my army?"

I considered my response and then said, "I'll answer when we get to Berlin."

" _If, Ivan, if. The will is strong, but our fuel dwindling. We've made big strides, but big strides come with a price: our supply convoy is 50 kilometers behind. What am I to do? I have choice of moving fast, linking with Belorussian Front, or crawling like slug and babysitting fascist ruins. Berlin is the jewel the Commissars desire to hand our Great Leader, The Man of Steel, Comrade Stalin. So...eh, you know, it's a comical situation. The Marshals -Chuikov, Rokossovsky, Zhukov- want to put a boot on Hitler's throat. They don't care about symbolic gestures. Regardless, all roads end in the fascist den. For you, though, the road begins there, yes? Tell me, where do you go after we conquer Berlin?"_

" _Northeast. Bremen."_

" _To find the fascist detective?"_

" _Yes."_

" _If he cannot be found?"_

" _I'm trying to be positive, Major."_

Ivanov laughed and then asked, "After you kill man, what then?"

" _I'm not sure. I'd like to return to Ireland and clear my name with those in my movement."_

" _Clear your name?"_

" _For all they know, I've run off with the four million Marks. And my partners...I know one is ended. The other, a woman...she's ended, I suppose. Why? Because we couldn't make an exchange without it going to bags. If I return short the money and me two mates, it'll be a holy show. But I should take me lumps. It's my fault."_

" _Clear your name," grumbled Ivanov. "Bah. Forget all your heroic shit. You owe nothing to anyone after what you've been through, comrade. My advice is forget Ireland and go to America. Become rich man and live high on the swine. Is correct expression, yes?"_

" _Close enough, but your advice is easier said. The money belonged to the Brotherhood. I'm responsible to see it through, one way or the other."_

" _Mm...I know of honor. My service in the Red Army is driven by honor. At the same time, I have no choice. You do."_

" _My path is no different than yours. Years ago...Jaysus, twenty-five years ago...I thought of moving to New York City. Instead, I joined the Republicans. Swore an oath. I chased a woman...she's the lass what caught a charge and found the camps. Her and her brother. Their kin will never forgive me."_

" _You love this woman?"_

" _At one time, but fidelity for the cause consumed her...and it consumed me. A chasm formed-"_

" _Say no more, comrade," Ivanov said, as he patted me knee. "I marry beautiful woman. We live in nice apartment, plan family, make future. Then I was arrested. My wife denounced me to Narodnyy Komissariat...eh...the NKVD. She had no choice, but I had difficult time stomaching dissolution. All I thought in gulag for months...how could this woman, my love, condemn me? I find out later she married a Junior Lieutenant of State Security. Not only did the State take my freedom, it stole my wife! But in Russia, this story is not unique. What's one to do?"_

" _The story isn't unique to Russia, Major. People fall out of love, transform, get twisted in strange directions by many strings."_

" _Is true. The forces of man and nature cannot be predicted."_

" _On the other hand, Claire's always been headstrong. I knew her temperament, but...it's like you said: What's one to do?"_

" _Now it isn't strings pulling, eh?" chuckled Ivanov. "Make up your mind."_

" _Mayhap her strings pulled me."_

" _Ah, I understand. You think your misery is the fault of this Claire woman."_

" _I did, but what happened in Bremen be a combination of her temper and my lack of self-control. I found her in Birkenau last November. She became a Joy Girl...a whore for the Germans. My pal and I...we recognized the situation in the camp. The Krauts would end everyone, hide their mess-"_

" _Cover bloodshed."_

" _Aye. Claire had access to the canteen, be the SS commissary and wash huts, and I asked her to swipe uniforms and keys."_

" _Eh? What then? You drive out of Birkenau dressed as fascists?"_

" _Why not?"_

" _Ha! I shouldn't have to tell you 'why not'. Comrade, is a terrible plan!"_

" _A terrible plan is better than no plan. It didn't matter, though. Claire said she'd have a better chance surviving with those Kraut bastards than making a go with me."_

" _She made valid argument. If you ask me, she saved your life by refusing terrible plan."_

" _One way to look at it. Here I stand whilst Claire does not."_

" _You do what's necessary to live. She made her choice; you made yours. Let me tell you, I read philosophy in London. Do you know Thomas Hobbes?"_

" _Never heard of him."_

" _My favorite author, this Hobbes. He was English philosopher in 1600s. Eh...Hobbes said...how I translate...life is a war of everyone against everyone. We compete for rare goods. Our lives are short and nasty. Selfishness is the key to survival. Think about it. Look around. Is it not true?"_

Ivanov, or rather Hobbes, made a valid point. In the context of what I had done to last in the camps, selfishness aided my survival. As a thief, I acted in the same way. Yet the fact be, I hated the guilt what came with selfishness. Once upon, the Brotherhood changed my philosophy; the Brotherhood gave me purpose. I needed to return to their fold and redeem meself. John Foley didn't want to be remembered as a runner.

" _The Brotherhood thinks in terms of the whole community," I said. "Selfishness does not serve the greater good."_

He handed me the vodka bottle and talked whilst I sipped: "Communists waste breath discussing the same adages. They babble about brotherhood and duty. Between you and me, I believe the Party is more corrupt than Tsar. Maybe your comrades are different, but I contend you owe them nothing."

At the beginning of April, the remnants of the 322nd linked with the Belorussian Front and fought street by street through the Berlin suburbs. In the German capital, the Russians became barbarians from a different time; "Geneva Convention" were two words no Russian knew or cared to know. Women and young girls were raped and then ended by bayonet because the Soviets wanted to conserve ammunition. The lasses what weren't ended became concubines, orderlies and cooks; handsome women and girls were claimed by the officers as their personal slaves, whilst the common soldiers shared bleating, shabby hags.

Any man or boy found alive was violated and then stabbed, hung, set ablaze or squashed by vehicle. Creative manners of death were fashioned as we thrust deeper into the fascist stronghold. Sometimes the wretches were abused first and then ended; sometimes it be the other way. The order didn't matter so long as the soldiers rode the pedals. I got the idea the Red Army be a collection of deviants, criminals and derelicts Stalin scraped together from his gulags. Ivanov didn't participate in the gruesome activities, but he watched from atop his tank, drank vodka, and laughed. Justification for the aberrant behavior be a combination of Hobbes and retribution; Ivanov once told me, "The fascist acted a thousand times worse in Rodina. My men are repaying a debt. Who am I to stop them?"

The deviant conduct repulsed; I branded the Russians a vile horde. But I had epiphanies amongst the carnage. My attitude mirrored theirs except I used a different creed to justify 'repaying a debt'. The English in Ireland, traitors in the Brotherhood, Gavin...whatever the label, I squared me ledgers without compunction. Mind mollified, I began to appreciate the historical implications of my journey. I also observed how a real army functions in battle. Granted the Soviets be rough-around-the-edge, but I assumed my exposure to urban combat would be useful after I returned to Ireland. Indeed, I dreamt of leading me own boys into battle against the English.

We halted one evening in Herzberge, an eastern suburb obliterated by ordinance, and took cover in the ruins. Ivanov, meself and few NCO's drained vodka and shot the shite. In the midst of ribaldry, a Soviet enlistee dashed to Ivanov and rattled Russian.

" _I must go," Ivanov said, as he stood and handed me the bottle. "A fascist has been caught trying to sneak though our lines. Not any fascist, either. SS. An officer. He should be fun to pick apart. Care to join me and break the monotony, Ivan Ivanovich?"_

Drunk enough to not give a damn, I followed Ivanov to the temporary HQ nestled on the ground floor of a gasthaus. Amongst the shattered glass and splintered furniture, the prisoner -dressed in a woman's overcoat and bonnet- sat with arms trussed; Major Popov leaned against a crumbling partition and shifted detritus with the toe of his boot.

" _Ah, fuck," Ivanov bellyached. "Your yefreytor told me he's a fascist SS, Comrade Popov. But he is a she. Why bother me with nonsense?"_

" _She's a he," Popov snarled. "The fascist is fashioned like a wench!"_

Snorting, Ivanov pulled the bonnet from the fool's head and tossed it on the ground. "A typical fascist coward," he derided in German. "Do you even have a pecker, shithead?"

" _It claims the rank of Sturmbannführer," said Popov. "But does it wear the uniform with pride? No! It scurries like a rat and conceals its fascist hide!"_

Ivanov handed me the torch and instructed, "Shine on his face, Ivan. Relish the shame of our defector. Yes...listen to me," he said, kicking the prisoner in the leg. "My men don't care how you dress. They'll turn your insides out regardless of sex." What followed be more of the same colorful harangue, and I enjoyed watching the Nazi squirm...but something about the sneak caught me eye.

By the be, Major Popov -what once presented as a strait-laced brother in parochial school- had long abandoned the ostentatious garb and Party rah-rah. He quit shaving, let his uniform go to shite, bowled with the vanguard, and took chances in combat even Ivanov had the good sense to avoid. Like the rest of us, constant inebriation became his master instead of dear Joe Stalin. Besides getting tight, the political officer's source of entertainment -or purgation- be doling hearty, painful doses of interrogation. But cracking the quaking, cross-dressing deserter seemed -at least to Popov- a waste of time.

" _Comrade Major," Popov interrupted, "this rubbish isn't worth the diatribe."_

Ivanov begged to differ and the two conducted a terse argument in their native tongue. Whilst they sculled, I studied the detainee:

Like I stated, there be a familiarity about the grasser. I leaned close, squinted, shined the weak light on the Nazi's wan visage; he blinked but didn't speak. Then recognition struck me: Sturmbannführer Günter, the SS counterfeiter from Sachsenhausen. And there be no doubt in me mind.

Günter didn't see John Foley in front of him; he saw a Soviet trooper: slim, bearded, adorned in the drab, olive green M35 uniform and budenovka...which be a soft hat with ear flaps. Me tongue wanted to flap, but I could think of nothing to say. Not like it mattered anyway. His fate be sealed, the poor bastard.

At last, Popov and Ivanov concluded their argument. The commissar departed the room as Ivanov squatted beside me and cuffed Günter on the right ear. "My political officer believes I should put a bullet in your fascist head," the Major informed. "I say we pick at your brain before destroying it. So, I give you a generous choice, fucker. Answer my questions and I'll spare the rod. Refuse to speak and...eh...the conscripts will make statements of their own. Do you understand?"

" _I have something you'll want to see,"_ _Günter whispered._

" _Fuck your something I want to see," Ivanov snapped. "You talk, swine. I've been tasked with moving on the Prenzlauer Berg in the morning. Tell me the troop strength of the fascist scum there."_

Günter looked from Ivanov to me and then said, "I don't know the situation at Prenzlauer, but if it's similar to the rest of Berlin's suburbs expect weak resistance. Other than the Hitler Youth and scattered diehards, civil defense in the outskirts is disorganized."

" _What's your unit and numbers?"_

" _The 11th SS Panzer under Felix Steiner. My element's been destroyed and the group, what's left of it, scattered. Most decided to cross the Elbe and surrender to the Western Allies."_

" _You should've gone with them, fucker. The Americans are more accommodating to your fascist-"_

" _I have valuables,"_ _Günter interrupted. "Gold. Many bars. They're hidden. I can show you."_

Ivanov jeered, "A coward will say anything to save their head!"

" _I'm not-"_

" _Bah. You've said enough. And now, because I'm a man of my word, you can have a minute to whisper sweet nothings to your fascist god." The Major stood, stepped back, and then motioned me to join him in an alcove. "A pathetic, simpering fool," he said, pulling a couple smokes from his breast pocket. "You want?"_

I shook my head and said, "I know him."

" _Eh?"_

" _Sturmbannführer Günter. He's one of the SS administrators from Sachsenhausen."_

" _What is-"_

" _A camp."_

" _Ah...you want to kill him," Ivanov concluded._

" _No. He's one of the good ones."_

Ivanov looked skeptical and mumbled, "Good, you say?"

" _Amicable."_

" _Ha. You've lost your mind, Ivan."_

" _He got me and a pal the cush job in Monowitz."_

" _Monowitz? One of the camps near Auschwitz? You think the fascist did you a favor?"_

" _I know how it sounds, but he pulled strings."_

" _Pfft. Pulling strings gets you out of labor camp, not into one."_

" _Yes, you're right, but listen to me: Before I left Sachsenhausen, Günter told me he was assigned the Ministry of Economics. The man worked with money. He might be holding gold-"_

" _Might is different than is."_

" _Would it hurt to look?"_

" _He's lying, idiot. Look at him. Dressed like a woman...his appearance is a deception. What makes you think his words are truthful?"_

" _Why would he go east, huh? Why would he head into the Soviet advance?"_

" _He's crazy is why."_

" _Mayhap, but I think he has gold."_

" _You want gold so bad, you'd risk life?"_

" _What risk? Everything east is held by the Red Army."_

Ivanov rolled the cigarette between his fingers and stared daggers at me.

" _It'd get me started in the right direction," I said, trying not to sound like a beggar._

" _For your movement, eh?"_

" _After all your talk of repaying debts and now you drag feet?"_

" _Is different."_

" _How?"_

" _Do you know the one thing fascists and communists have in common?"_

" _What?"_

" _Their snipers shoot first and never ask questions."_

" _It's night."_

" _Shit in my mouth," Ivanov spat. "So help me, if the fascist is lying, I'm going to beat the piss out of you, Ivan Ivanovich. And then I'll break your arms, both of them, for good measure." Before I could respond, he hollered, "Fascist! How far is your goldmine?"_

Günter's drooping head shot up and he answered, "Two klicks. My apartment abuts the south end of the Akazienwäldchen."

" _How do you know the building stands?"_

" _I've the gold stashed beneath, in a coal cellar."_

" _Beneath? If the structure has fallen, the cellar will be buried."_

" _We'll never know unless we go."_

" _Shit in my mouth," sighed Ivanov. "I must be crazy. All right, grab your Sveta and a pack, Ivan Ivanovich. We go on foot. Less chance of being sighted. And the fascist wears his Frau outfit. If were stopped by comrade sentries it will look like...you know...and I do the talking, fool," he added, jabbing me chest._

Under cover of night, the three of us snuck through the Soviet lines to Günter's apartment. Overcast skies meant travelling without benefit of the moon, and we didn't dare use a torch. Creeping around charred vehicles, crouching beside ruins, trying to avoid corpses in the streets, it took an hour to travel the promised two klicks.

At last, we reached a four story, battle scarred building. Günter breathed a sigh of relief and then said, "Follow me."

Ivanov grunted, pulled out his Nagant and cocked the hammer.

" _It's dark downstairs," Günter said, eyeing the revolver._

" _Full of ghosts, eh?" Ivanov asked._

" _Full of vermin. Big rodents. I don't want to catch a slug because you're frightened."_

Jerking his weapon, Ivanov said, "Move, fascist."

We weaved through a hallway, descended wood stairs, and entered a bomb shelter. I couldn't determine the size of the chamber. Be it ten or ten thousand meters? Darkness hung like a curtain and the torch painted but a small halo in the pall. Günter spent a long time searching the concrete walls with his hands. Meanwhile, creatures scurried and screeched; they possessed an annoying dexterity of remaining just outside the cone of light.

" _What's taking so long?" Ivanov demanded._

Minutes later, the German called, "I found it!" whilst pointing at a small hatch sunk into the wall, indiscernible to all but the trained eye. "We have to slink through, but the next room is big enough to stand."

" _You first," Ivanov ordered. Günter swung the tiny door inward and wiggled into the opening. Next, Ivanov took the light and crawled in. Last, I squeezed through...and found a secret chamber almost three meters high, four by four meters in size. Against the opposite wall, a stout three-tiered bookcase; dozens of shiny, gold ingots lined the shelves instead of books._

" _This is real?" Ivanov asked, as he holstered his gun._

Günter took pleasure presenting his trophies: he strolled to the bookcase, removed one of the ingots, and then tossed it to Ivanov. "Does it feel real?" he asked. "Look real? Try to break it over your knee."

Ivanov juggled the ingot from one hand to the other before asking, "Is there more?"

" _The SS is sitting on a trove. Truckloads are being driven west from the Reichsbank and other depots. It's a free for all. A companion in the Ministry and I planned to move our stash before the enemy arrived but, as you see, we failed."_

Ivanov handed me the ingot; I examined it, noting "Deutsche Reichsbank" imprinted on the bar. It wasn't heavy, but I estimated I could stuff no than six bricks in me puny rucksack.

" _What is the worth of a single bar?" Ivanov asked._

" _Gold is gold. My collection...I'd say...each is worth a few thousand Reichsmarks, but Marks are worthless. All the important transactions in Germany are handled in gold. Look, what I have is child's play, a bribe from a general to secure his safe passage. Himmler, Kaltenbrunner, and Herr fat fuck Göring are hauling their larges stashes as we speak. You'll never catch them. They're heading to the Americans and British. They think it will secure amnesty."_

" _As do you," Ivanov said._

" _Help yourself to what you want. I only ask-"_

Ivanov waved him quiet and took a handful of bars from the bookshelf; we managed to stuff seven into the bag.

" _Well," Ivanov said, rubbing his hands, "this is where we part company. Ivan Ivanovich, would you like to say goodbye to the fascist? If so, be quick." Then, like a graceless worm, the Major slithered into the opening and disappeared._

" _Comrade," Günter pleaded, "what more do you want? I gave you gold. Let me make a go of it."_

" _Herr Günter," I said, "it's John Foley from Sachsenhausen. You remember?"_

Günter's eyes narrowed with suspicion and then widened in recognition. "Good God!" he yelped. "I can't believe it's you! How...how did you link with the Russians?"

" _It's a long, depressing story, but I'm trying to work my way home."_

" _You need to cross the Spree, go west towards Moabit. Forget the Soviets, Foley. The Western Allies are your best play."_

" _You mean the direction opposite where you're heading?"_

" _As you can see, I have reasons."_

" _I don't want to talk about the best play. Where's the Reichsbank located and is it standing? Come on, I haven't all night."_

" _The financial district on Kurstraße. The bank sits a few klicks east of the directorial buildings, including the Reichstag. If you're going to make a run at it, be careful. The location is thorny. SS units are determined to battle to the death."_

" _From what I've seen of the German military, I'm not impressed. They do well against prisoners in camps, but the Russians shoot back."_

" _You can't compare the Waffen-SS to the_ _Totenkopfverbände. The Waffen is fanatical. Suicidal. And the Hitler Youth is crawling with crazed children who have lost everything."_

" _Bang on, but they're no match for the Red Army. The Russians are determined to obliterate your people. Care to guess why?"_

" _Foley, I'm sorry about what happened to you. I see, too late, the errors of my government."_

" _Stop with the apologies, fella. Just tell me if the Reichsbank's standing."_

" _It's damaged but operational as of a week ago."_

I knew my next question was a stab in the dark but, with respect to Arnie Isack, I displayed my tattoo and asked, "Is my number worth anything?"

" _What do you mean?"_

" _After I transferred to Birkenau, I sat on a stool every day for twelve hours and cut nicks out of the wrists of the dead."_

" _The tattoos?" whispered Günter._

" _Aye. They were cleaned, hung and dried. Your mates collected them. Some were traded in the camp. Do they have value? Or do you people have a hankering for skin?"_

" _I didn't handle the camp...um...finances. Not my department."_

" _But camps were moneymakers, hm?"_

" _Pilfered goods were...yes. All valuables, seized from the prisoners, found their way to Berlin."_

" _And then?"_

" _I suppose...turned into gold, banked, spent."_

" _What about loan payments?"_

" _Loans from whom?"_

" _Investors in your country. The Swiss, for instance."_

" _It's possible but...where did you come up with this idea?"_

" _Time in the camps made the brain swirl. Remember my crime? You asked me in Sachsenhausen and I told you."_

" _I recall a large amount of Reichsmarks had been found on you."_

" _Four million, seized by the SS. Where do you think it went?"_

" _Uh...the logical answer is the Reichsbank."_

" _Is there a chance my tattoo corresponds to an account number?"_

Günter sniffed, joggled his head, answered, "If you're looking for your money, I'm certain it's been disbursed. You might even be holding some of it in your bag."

" _Not if my account isn't closed."_

He gave me the shifty eyes: from my face, to blue numbers, and back again. "I have no clue," mumbled Günter. "Honest, I don't. Using tattoos, like you described, as account numbers..." He shrugged and plied me with a morose expression."

" _I had to ask. Curiosity and all."_

" _There...there are a couple things I've heard: colleagues in the know spoke of an account under Max Heiliger. The story goes, Herr Heiliger is a fictious name used by the SS to filter loot. I never put credence in the rumor. Chatter after too many cocktails at informal Party functions, understand? I remember one man...an auditor at the Reichsbank. Loud and ostentatious. Georg Netzeband. He worked with camp finances and...he mentioned Aktion Reinhard and a program called the Regnesmachen Files. Again, I assumed he had six too many drinks."_

" _Aktion Reinhard and what's the other?"_

" _Max Heiliger."_

" _No, the...something files."_

" _Regnesmachen."_

I studied the remaining ingots on the shelf and then said, "Enjoy your gold, Günter. Best of luck."

_As I hefted me bag from the ground,_ _Günter asked, "How did your friends fare?"_

" _Voclain and Albert are ended. Zache and Zujenia...I don't know, but the odds aren't good."_

" _I tried my best to help you and-"_

I spun 'round and repeated, "Best of luck."

And that's how I left Sturmbannführer Günter: alone in a coal cellar, standing in the dark, surrounded by gold.

Pushing me bag ahead, I squeezed out the other end of the passage and handed Ivanov the torch.

" _I hate rats," he grumbled._ _"I hate them more than fascists. What took so long? Did you and the fascist share a kiss?"_

" _He gave me directions to the Reichsbank."_

" _We have seven bars to spilt. I get four and you take three. Is a fair arrangement, yes?"_

" _Fair, aye, but there's more gold at the bank."_

" _How many bars make you content?"_

" _Not three, mate. Not by a long shot. Are you happy with four?"_

" _I suppose four is not enough but what do you want me to do? Walk to the Reichsbank?"_

" _Jaysus, mate, you have a brigade."_

" _No, I have half a brigade, a political officer, and orders to take some shithole piece of this shithole fascist city."_

" _Is military decorum a happening thing all a sudden? And Major Popov...is he toeing the line these days? Did Günter...the fascist...did he lie about having gold?"_

Ivanov scratched the kinky beard on his face and said, "Shh...enough talk, Ivan Ivanovich. The time has come to move and...eh...I will mediate on walk to bivouac."

We crept out of the building into a hazy dawn. The sun rose over the skeletal remains of Berlin's suburbs; artillery and gunfire be like the rooster announcing a new day. Slouching like sneaks, we made it three blocks before stumbling upon a half-dozen Russians looting a disabled German tank. Ivanov flexed his authority and procured a jeep. When we arrived at our camp, Ivanov snatched me bag and found Popov; they shared a few words, a peek into the sack and then a sloppy salute.

" _Major Popov concurs with my recommendation," Ivanov told me. "Based on prisoner information, Prenzlauer Berg is an inconsequential objective. The significant targets are in the center of Berlin. He wants to move within the hour."_

Quick time -two hours to cover eleven klicks through urban detritus- be made until we crossed the River Spree on the Rathausbrücke. West of the bridge, Ivanov split the brigade into thirds: hisself directed the mid tine on Kurstraße; Popov led the left troop around the Kupfergraben canal and then swung north after traversing the Gertraudenstraße; the right group tramped over the Schloßbrücke towards the Berlin Bahnhof.

Within eyesight of the Reichsbank, Ivanov's SU-85 (what amounted to a howitzer mounted onto a medium size tank frame) stopped. "Ivan Ivanovich!" he bellowed. "Join me topside!"

I scaled the rear of the vehicle and shimmed along the right side of the turret. Head and chest protruding from the commander's cupula, Ivanov planted field glasses to his eyes. The Reichsbank, four stories tall and covered in soot, spread across a pitted asphalt mall littered with abandoned cars, oxcarts, and smoldering piles of debris. The dearth of activity be both welcome and disappointing.

" _Looks quiet," Ivanov mused. "I see no fascists on rooftop and no fascist military vehicles on road. Makes me think we arrive too late for treasure. Where did the fascist coward say gold is kept?"_

Me sarcastic response: "In the vaults."

" _Shit in my mouth. I know 'in the vaults', idiot._

" _Then why'd you ask?"_

" _Bah! You see the size of building? A specific location would be helpful."_

" _Günter, the fascist, told me the vaults are under the main floor."_

" _Is big building," Ivanov said under his breath. "Big buildings have many vaults."_

To our left, Popov's squeaky T-34 crashed through a flimsy metal barricade and then continued across a small green. Increasing speed, the tank crushed the statue of a mustached Prussian warrior before coming to a jerky stop. The remainder of Popov's command-three 34's and several platoons- fanned behind and took defensive positions.

" _The right flank has met resistance at the Lustgarten," Ivanov said, as he lowered the binoculars. "Maxim reports several platoons supported by two Tiger's and six anti-personal vehicles. So, time is short. Major Popov demands a storm team clear important fascist stronghold. I nominate you to join troopers."_

" _It would be my honor, Comrade Major."_

" _I put Starshina Medvelov in control of twelve man group and tell him to clear ground floor. Allow say...twenty minutes, no more, for search. If you locate anything of value, send a rabbit to me. Extraction will be handled in an expeditious manner. Good luck."_

With those words, Major Ivanov slapped me back and signaled to the Starshina. Considered a "Ded" (Grandfather -a soldier with a year or more of service), Boris Sergeyevich Medvelov had served with Ivanov since the inauguration of the 322nd. Confident, brave, unrepentant...there wasn't a better senior noncom in the brigade.

I mustered with the element in front of Ivanov's 85 and fashioned a bayonet on the Sveta as Boris finished a terse briefing to the ten others in the team. Russian proved a difficult language to crack, but I understood a few words: unichtozhit' fashistov; net zaklyuchennykh. The expressions amounted to, 'kill all fascists, take no prisoners'.

" _Prover' svoye oruzhiye!" Boris barked. "My pereyezzhayem!"_

Which meant: ready your arms, time to move!

We didn't bother seeking concealment and sprinted along Kurstraße, up the marble steps of the Reichsbank, and into the dim building through doors of shattered glass. Banks look like banks the world over, even in Nazi Germany: an arched ceiling supported by marble columns; sitting areas; teller stations; offices; lifts; stairs; a directory on the wall.

Ivanov and Popov be foolish to think any loot remained. Silver, gold, bullion...I assumed the Nazis plucked every morsel. Besides, I had no intention of looking for vaults. Like the Major expressed: 'Is big building'.

My focus: finding the desk of Georg Netzeband.

Whilst the Soviets kicked open doors, I perused the extensive directory until I located: "G. Netzeband: Etage 3, Büro 21".

Third floor, office twenty-one.

A strident shriek interrupted my perusing: a beaming Russian trooper dragged a haggard woman from one of the offices by her hair. He heaved her onto a divan, tossed his rifle aside, and started to work the clasp on his girdle. A moment later, another Russian appeared with a teenage girl in a headlock. She struggled to free herself...be a futile waste of energy. Down the lass went, next to her oul dear, sissy, friend, whatever the acquaintance. Hard as it sounds, I felt no pity for the women. I had seen small children come through Auschwitz. Those two became another example of the bad decisions a generation of people made.

Up the carpeted stairs I went, leaving me mates to their business. I hit the third floor and caught a whiff of something rancid. Coughing as I ran down the hall, I found Netzeband's office...and the source of said funk.

The fella slumped in the padded chair -Netzeband or whomever- had consumed a "lead lunch". In this case, the unnamed used a rifle to complete the task. Meaning: only fingerprints could identify the ended.

I hadn't planned to dather, but the added a tang of death added impetus. First, I attacked the large mahogany desk. But for a calendar on the surface, nothing remained (not even a paperclip) in the bureau.

Stacked along the wall behind the dead man, six file cabinets -drawers open- caught me attention. Avoiding dried hunks of gore, I shimmed the drawers off their tracks and set them on the floor. Using me torch, I inspected the meager contents: a handful of documents remained, enough for a small pile about three centimeters high. I went to work after rubbing me hands, searching for the names Max Heiliger, Aktion Reinhard, or Regnesmachen.

Despite the small stack, it took precious minutes to read through the papers. Most of shite be memorandums, and regarding the first two subjects I found nothing. However, near the bottom I discovered a beige folder and the word "Regnesmachen" written on the tab; I shook out four wrinkled leaves and spread them across the carpet.

All four be letters be addressed to "Wolfie" from "das Haus am Werderschen Markt" (the House on Werderschen Market). The first note from the file (included at the back of this text), stated:

Wolfie,

As of 31 October 1944, there are 1,452,489 open balances totaling RM 24.015.846.632.01, including interest.

' _Per the Reichsführer-SS, 188,263 books will be closed by 31 December 1944, with a calculated amount of RM 1.820.414.325.65, including interest. After 01 February 1945, the Reichsführer expects to turn off the power. Plan on an update concerning Regnesmachen no later than 15 January._

Das Haus am Werderschen Markt'

Letters two, three and four appeared to be copies of the first, but on closer inspection I saw the numbers altered. Discarded drafts? Revisions? Change of plans? Whatever the reason, I fostered a solid idea of what me treasures confessed: one million plus in the camps scattered around Europe be worth a boatload of Reichsmarks. When the time came, a hundred eighty-eight thousand poor blokes would find their way to Auschwitz. But Himmler's plans didn't come to fruition. The long and short? Buckets of Marks, attached to more than a million four accounts, sat somewhere on the European continent.

The first letter found a home in me tunic pocket. I would've snatched the others for good measure had an explosion not rocked the bank. Be the whole nine: floor and fixtures shaking, windows rattling, me teeth slamming together by unseen hands.

Several more concussions followed in succession. The dead body jumped and belched rancid gas. Perchance it be the dancing corpse, or the notion the ceiling would fall on me head, but I seized my rifle and made for the stairs.

# 26.

### Berlin, Part II

Me ascent be triple time speed (my feet didn't feel like they touched the marble steps) and I skidded onto the ground floor gasping for breath. The eleven Soviets crouched by the entrance, kneeled in glass blown from the doors, and fired their weapons. Racing past the splayed bodies of the two lasses on the divan, I squatted next to Starshina Medvelov and copped a peak outside.

It be a holy show: explosions kicked clods of soil and asphalt into the sky; a couple Nazi Tiger tanks (the first heavy armor I'd seen in Berlin) rumbled across the grassy mall. For every shot the Krauts unleashed, double responded from Ivanov's command. However, the Soviet firing solutions were a wee errant, resulting in wild salvoes to everyplace in the financial district except the most important spot.

The German tanks were followed by a platoon of Nazis. Kids and old men, a few helmeted heads. A ragtag operation if ever there be. But the Tigers equalized the shortcomings of the soldiers: three T-34's burned on the mall, obliterated by high powered ordinance.

Medvelov paused to reload his German Sturmgewehr and caught me gawking. "Strelyat'," he said, jerking his head towards the Kraut foot soldiers. Fifteen meters, and closing, the lot be bunched. They also lacked leadership: all of 'em ran without a notion of where to go. Green troops are frightened animals; running from noises, eyes wide, chased by ghosts...be akin to slaughtering sheep but with less bleating.

Me mates at the Reichsbank cut down a number of logs before Soviet troopers -driven away by the Tigers- retook the plot. Soon, only the two snorting monsters remained of the German assault.

One of Ivanov's tanks got a bead on the lead Tiger and rained a ten-kilogram shell onto its rectangular turret. The bastard blew, chucking pieces every which way. Meantime, a swarm of Reds scrambled onto the second beast; a brave fella yanked open the hatch, tossed two FI's into the hole, and covered his ears. The concentrated blast propelled the lid five meters into the air; the Tiger jerked and came to an abrupt halt. Lest there be a chance any Kraut crewmembers still kicked, the hisself what tossed the FI shoved the barrel of his Gewehr into the tank's bowels and emptied a clip.

The skirmish concluded with the typical nonsense: those breathing got sharp edges or single-taps; the ended were stripped of everything except undergarments; men gathered 'round the vanquished and tinkled.

_Whilst I shook dust from me garb, Ivanov's brigade sallied down_ _Kurstraße. Spouting orders, the Major jumped from his SU-85 and then inspected the remains of battle. Hands on hips, he limped amongst the carcasses, spitting and kicking hunks of twisted steel, until stopping in front of a wrecked T-34._

I sidled next to him and cleared me ears with a protracted yawn.

" _Ambush," Ivanov reported. "The fascists came from Dönhoff-Platz and hit Popov's position. Boom. Comrade Popov's machine took first salvo from 800 meters. Then...eh...Vasyli and Alexi...I think. Bah, the order doesn't matter. Popov will receive highest award for bravery, but he won't be the last chit I sign. So," he said, throwing an arm around me shoulder, "did you find vaults?"_

" _Yes, but they're not sparkling."_

" _Shit in my mouth. All of them?"_

" _Sorry, Major. We arrived too late."_

He grumbled and then said, "We have expression in Russia...zhertvennyy yagnenok. Means 'sacrificial lamb'. Looks like Major Popov made a bad decision. Regardless, I will dance the carpet."

" _Be the bugaboo of risk. Sometimes there's reward and other-"_

" _Shush. I don't need maxims. I need a drink."_

For disregarding orders to take Prenzlauer Berg, Ivanov caught a smack from some fella, what caught a smack from another fella, and so on. The result? Whilst the 3rd Shock Army steamrolled their way to the Reichstag, the 322nd looted apartment buildings and shot stray dogs.

Days later, be the warm afternoon of 2 May 1945, word came the Nazis had surrendered.

" _The war is over!" Ivanov announced to his assembled command. "The fascists have quit! They've no stomach for the Russian way of war!"_

General Weidling, the Kraut in charge of Berlin's resistance, agreed to the unconditional terms demanded by Marshal Zhukov. Russian propaganda declared Hitler terminated, ended by brave shock troopers what stormed the bunker beneath the Reichstag.

Five and a half years after my arrest in Bremen, John Foley had come out the other end -as promised- ready to finish me business. Not only did Kohner await my blade, I planned on posing a few questions to the bastard.

_But other than a desire to have my debt "repaid", the cessation of war stirred no emotion inside me. War_ _never_ _ends. Peace is bogus; respites brief. Every generation has their conflict...be the same conflict past generations fought. Sides swap, new faces join the fray, but it's the same shite._

For the time being, though, the Russians basked in victory: drinking, laughing, crying, hugging and kissing of each other, even me. Over the course of four months, I became one of them, Comrade Ivan Ivanovich, the "Englishman" with me own axe to grind. Believe me, endearing meself to them wasn't easy. Hearty doses of hazing, exploits in the field, the language barrier...yet, there I stood, amongst them, one of them, a member of the vile horde.

_Stubborn holdouts remained in parts of the city, most positioned where the Reichstag was located. On 5 May 1945, the 322nd received orders to help secure the former heart of the Nazi government; our sorry remnants strolled down_ _Wilhelmsplatz -1000 men, five tanks, a couple wagons- like we owned the place. We established a perimeter around some ministry, but the day passed without incident. At dusk, sipping whiskey, Ivanov led me to a bomb crater and then pointed at the blackened hole._

" _This is where the fascist Hitler was found," he slurred, handing me the bottle. "Hold the vodka, Ivan Ivanovich. I have unfinished business with the fucker."_

" _I thought he died in the bunker."_

Ivanov unbuckled his belt and barked, "Bah! The fascist killed himself before we could get hands on him! His minions burned his body here."

Shadows cloaked the bowl; I took a step forward but Ivanov grabbed my shirt.

" _Idiot!" he scolded. "It might be rigged! Don't get too close!"_

" _Where's the body?"_

" _The NKVD removed it. Took mess to Moscow."_

" _Then somebody's been in in the grave. It should be safe."_

" _I didn't say who booby-trapped hole or with what. And now comes the moment I make a contribution." Then Ivanov moaned and tinkled into the crater. "Ah, feels good!" he cheered. "Look, I'm watering the soil!"_

_For the next week, the only exciting events were the evening wrestling contests between the troopers. The matches be contested with the same intensity I'd seen in battle; blood, broken bones and other injuries went ignored. A man had to be knocked unconscious to end the bout. After the contest, however, both combatants hugged, kissed cheeks, and then attacked the vodka. I enjoyed these moments of comradery...and I also marveled at the irony: I found a semblance of Russian humanity_ _amongst the vicious fighting._

But the time came for me to move. The Red Army delivered me to Berlin, but I could go no further with them. I had me own war in Ireland to fight, and this path started in the west. The problem? Soviet military and political authorities instituted draconian laws to keep the fascists on a short leash. I doubted the Russians would allow me to move through their occupied zones...at least, not until I received me discharge papers. The company yeoman told me the process took "time", but I tired of waiting.

I assumed it'd be easier to deal with the Americans instead of the British. The English be apt bloodhounds; they'd pick apart my story, toss me into a gaol and throw the key into the Thames. Aye, the Americans be a pat play. As such, I approached Ivanov for a final favor:

" _Major, I can't sit in Berlin any longer. Can you speed up the release process and point me towards the Yanks?"_

" _You do not want to become Russian citizen?" Ivanov asked, as he administered a playful jab to my stomach._

" _Mayhap after the next war. I still have unfished business from this one."_

" _Ha! I joke but...eh...you remember what I say? Forget Ireland. Go across the ocean with your three bars and make new life in USA."_

" _My home is Ireland, Ivanov. My people are there."_

" _Yes...yes, I understand. As much as I complain, Russia is my home. I have two brothers, also in the army, but I don't know if they're dead or alive. We made a pact, my brothers and me. We would meet at the top of the Potemkin Steps in Odessa every May fifteenth. If I was smart, I'd go west. But I'm an idiot...and I'd miss my brothers. So, I stay. As to your burden...the Americans have a checkpoint south of Leipziger. I will see about your papers and a pass."_

Ivanov disappeared for the remainder of the afternoon but found me at supper.

" _I have bad news, comrade," he informed. My government forbids travel to the west except for approved prisoner exchanges. Since you are not a prisoner of war..."_

" _But I'm a liberated prisoner from the camps!"_

" _Eh...you don't know how my government works."_

" _Make me understand."_

He frowned, put his hand on my shoulder and then said, "When you were conscripted, you became a prisoner no longer but a member of the Red Army."

" _Ivanov, I haven't signed anything, been paid for my service or sworn allegiance to the Soviet Union."_

" _I'm not political officer, so I don't have a say in the matter. If Popov were alive, he'd be able to work this out. But..."_

" _What am I supposed to do? Sneak out of here?"_

" _No! Not on your own. I've a better idea, but it will be risky."_

" _What choice do I have?"_

" _None, if you want to leave. I can secure a car and drop you a half klick from the American checkpoint. Then you're on your own. If you're caught by my countrymen...don't get caught, okay?"_

" _Fine," I said, rising to my feet. "Let's go."_

" _Sit down, fool. Not yet. I'll be back with a car. Better we go after dark."_

In a knapsack, I gathered my gold bars and a few mementoes from the war: pilfered SS insignias, a badge from my Russian unit and the Reichsbank document. An hour later, Ivanov arrived at the camp in a pea green German staff car; two small cardboard flags (three yellow stars on each, what the Soviets called a General-Polkovnik) jutted from opposite sides of the front fender.

Ivanov opened the driver's side door, got out and motioned me inside. Then he took a seat in the back. "I'll tell you where to go," he ordered. "If we're stopped, I talk. Otherwise, drive fast."

The official looking Benz provided an apt prop. A Russian tank or patrol hogged most intersections, but a look at the vehicle's decals provoked salutes from the soldiers. Ivanov enjoyed the attention; he cackled and returned salutes. We we're waved through a Russian checkpoint next to the Bulgarian Embassy and continued until sighting spotlights and concrete barricades stretched across Friedrichstraße.

" _Pull into alley," Ivanov directed. I turned off the headlights and swung the car into a tight backstreet. After we stopped, he said, "Ahead is the American barrier, but we're still in Soviet territory. Sentries loiter, make trouble if you're not quiet."_

I nodded, grabbed my sack and...mayhap guilt or recompense ate at me...I don't know...but those three gold bars? I thought Ivanov should have them.

" _When you approach capitalists, do with hands raised," Ivanov nagged. "They kill before searching, like us." Then he swiped the budenovka from my head and said, "And they like to shoot Russians almost as much as they like to shoot fascists."_

" _I'll be careful."_

" _Zhelayu tebe uspekha, Ivan Ivanovich. Means...I wish you success. Now, get going. I need to return car."_

After opening the door, I twisted in my seat and tossed the ingots next to Ivanov.

" _No!" he protested. "No, you take! They're yours!"_

" _Consider it reimbursement for the Reichsbank debacle or a gift of gratitude. Either way, I want you to have my dosh."_

" _You can use to-"_

" _The Americans will help themselves to the gold. I'd rather it be yours. There's something else, Major: Every fifth year from now on the fifteenth of May, I'll try to find you at the Potemkin Steps. Look for the fella wearing a green tweed coat with a shamrock tacked to the lapel."_

" _A green tweed coat in Russia will be hard to miss. I'll be looking for you, Ivan Ivanovich."_

I slid out of the seat, adjusted me garb, and then gave Ivanov a sloppy salute. Then I spun 'round and made for the Americans. I took a last look before making a left out the lane, but the staff car had reversed the other direction.

• • •

"I thought Da was crazy when he talked about the tweed coat and Potemkin Steps," I said in a quiet voice.

"What?"

"Um...just another random statement I ascribed to the Alzheimer's. _Ahem_ ...so, Da found nothing in the bank except letters...and he said one's included at the back..." I rifled to the end of the manuscript and found...nothing except the last page of Da's story.

"Yep," Sandi said, "I couldn't find it either. Perhaps your father put the letter somewhere for safekeeping and forgot about it when he got sick."

"After all the trouble he went through, I don't think he'd forget to include the _most important piece_ of whatever conspiracy he thought occurred."

"I agree, but we have his text."

"His words aren't proof."

"If everything else he wrote is true, why lie about the Reichsbank note?"

"Then where is it?"

Sandi decided to try another approach: "You know those names Günter mentioned? Max Heiliger and Aktion Reinhard? Few people, outside of historians and Holocaust researchers, know about these programs."

"The other one? Regnesmachen?"

"Regnesmachen is a term nobody's heard before but-"

"There's zero evidence?"

"As of today."

"We're going on almost thirty years after the war ended!"

"It's possible the Nazis buried the Regnesmachen Files, but taken with the other evidence, it's clear the Germans treated their victims like commodities. The Max Heiliger moniker was used by the SS to launder a portion of the valuables seized at the concentration camps. Rings, eyeglasses, fillings...a laundry list of plunder. The dynamics are complicated, but the Nazis opened Heiliger accounts throughout the Third Reich. I spoke to one historian who believes Himmler and a select few in the government siphoned the Heiliger money into their pockets."

"All right, tell me about Aktion Reinhard."

"A campaign during the Holocaust targeting the wealthiest Jews in Poland. Want to guess who it was named after?"

I shrugged and asked, "Somebody named Aktion Reinhard?"

"John, _Aktion_ is German for Action or Operation. Reinhard is-"

"Heydrich," I said, snapping fingers.

"You got it."

"Christ, this is fucked up. The Holocaust was nothing but a big cash grab."

"Sorta."

"No, not sorta. According to the letter from the Reichsbank, the prisoners at Auschwitz were turned into the physical embodiment of their accounts!"

"The letter didn't mention Auschwitz. And don't forget the slave labor portion of the equation."

"What about the bank guy...Netz...bond? Did you find anything on him?"

"Georg Netzeband, assistant director at the Reichsbank, disappeared before the war ended. And if anything of importance exists or existed in the Reichsbank, it's in East German hands. The bank -still standing, by the way- sits on the bad side of the Berlin Wall. But if the books are open, and we have an account number, then perhaps..."

"No way," I scoffed.

"Why not?"

I didn't have a fancy response to _why not_ other than: "We're missing an important piece, Sandi."

"There's no way around it, but Sarah Miller from the JIWCA said your father's story could be enough to launch a major investigation."

"Jeez, I'm getting another migrane."

"Now do you see why I wanted you to keep reading?"

_Wanted? Pfft. How bout made me read,_ I thought.

But instead of screaming at her, I gave Sandi a smile and jumped back on the horse...

# 27.

### Berlin, Part III

Hands raised, I marched into the cone of light and squinted.

The second the Americans spotted me I was told, "Stop! Halt! Otstavit'!" It be evident I hadn't been first fella seeking sanctuary.

" _I speak English," I yelled._

A dusky shape behind the barrier twanged, "Keep your arms raised, pardner. Walk forward."

" _It's stop, by the way," I said, taking small steps."_

" _Come again? the dark blob asked._

" _In Russian, stop is stop. Otstavit' means...well, it's not stop."_

" _Seems to work just fine, pardner. Nobody's not stopped. Keep walkin'."_

When I arrived at the obstruction, two soldiers in drab green camos gave me the frisk and inspected the sack. I explained I made my way from Auschwitz, but they weren't interested in me life story. Next, I was escorted to a gasthaus turned military headquarters. Ushered around the bar and into a dim storage room lit by lanterns, I was greeted by a plump lad catching a kip. Lid-less, slumped behind a desk, hisself's fat head rested on hisself's left shoulder.

One of the G.I.'s kicked the desk and barked, "Peterson, goddamn it, wake your lazy ass!"

Startled, this Peterson fella sat upright and yelped, "Wha?"

" _Look what showed at the barricade," the soldier said, jerking his head at me. "He claims somethin' about being a prisoner in one of them death camps."_

" _It's not a story," I said._

The soldier tossed me sack on the desk and said, "Yeah? Then why you gotta load of Nazi and Commie crap in the bag? And why you wearin' a Red M35?"

" _What do you want me to do with him?" asked Peterson._

" _Keep him company until the captain gets here. Butch and I got wall duty."_

Me pal Peterson offered a seat and, once we were alone, asked, "You wanna squirt?"

" _A squirt?"_

" _A little something to wet your whistle. I got a bottle of high test. Good stuff. Glenfiddich."_

I nodded and watched as Peterson produced the aforementioned scotch and a couple dirty glasses from a table behind him. He poured two; we drank in silence. I drained the first round quick-like, which seemed to either impress or frighten the American. He crinkled his brow and said, "Damn, skippy. Take it easy, buddy. You'll be on the floor in no time."

Cocky-like, I said, "Naw, I'll be fine. How 'bout a refill, mate?"

" _Mate? Where you from? Ireland?"_

' _Shite,' I thought. I had worked a pat story in me head, but there I be, making a bag of it because I shot off me mouth._

" _Sounds like you have a little Irish in ya is all," Peterson said. "I used to live next door to an Irish couple. Straight from Dublin. Half the time I couldn't understand what they were saying."_

" _Dublin...I've heard it's pretty. Never been."_

" _Now those guys outside," Peterson said, as he poured me another. "You know, it sounds like they think you're a Nazi."_

" _Do I look like a Nazi?" I laughed. "And if I am, would I tell you?"_

He upended the knapsack and spilled the contents. Whilst I downed the second, Peterson pawed through the mementoes and investigated each ornament. He held up an armband with the Nazi swastika sewn into the fabric and asked, "This yours?"

" _Does it look like it would fit me?"_

" _What about this thing?" he asked, pointing at the SS collar ribbons of a Hauptsturmführer._

" _Why would I be carrying anything incriminating?"_

" _Beats me. People do stupid shit all the time."_

" _This stuff came from the ended."_

" _The ended?"_

" _Dead men."_

He picked up the badge from the Russian Rifle Unit and arched eyebrows.

" _I was at Auschwitz, a Nazi labor camp in Poland. The Russians liberated the place in January and allowed me to travel with them."_

" _You came with the Russians?"_

" _It's the only way I could get home."_

" _Home? Home as in Berlin?"_

And now be the moment to tell me "story":

My Jewish parents were tailors from Wales and immigrated to Germany before I was born. Raised a German Jew, I married, had a family, and opened a bar in Bremen. In 1939, the Nazis sent me and my loved ones to the camps. I survived, but I assumed my wife and kids had not. My desire was to go to Bremen, or near there, to find relatives and friends. Since I had -with a dusting of creativity- related Arnie Isack's story, I also took his name.

When I finished the woeful tale, Peterson shook his head and said, "I hope you find someone, Mister Isack."

" _Is there any way you boys can get me to Bremen?" I begged. "I just want to go home."_

" _I'm not the one to ask. Sit tight. The captain will be here soon."_

We each had another "squirt" (be three for me at this point) and were about to have another until a shirtless fella in skivvies padded into the office. His eyes darted from the bottle to me and then to Peterson. "Sergeant," he sighed, "I got tossed from the rack to process a possible Nazi runaway. Why in God's good name are you drinking with him?"

In a timid voice, Peterson answered, "He looked jittery, sir. I thought he could use a squirt."

" _You gotta think, sergeant," hisself said. "What if this guy is on the run or-"_

" _I'm not a Nazi," I interrupted, as I rolled up me left sleeve. "See these blue nicks? I caught ink at Auschwitz."_

Hisself planted a portion of arse on the edge of the desk and said, "I'm listening, pal."

Out of my mouth came the same story I told to Peterson. By the end of the night, I repeated the lie four more times to men of increasing importance. The final fella, a colonel, signed some papers and then sent me to the jack. For the first time in years, I took a hot shower and climbed into clean linen. Boy, did I feel like a million bucks.

The following morning, I began a four month process what resulted in a designation of "Displaced Person". In official parlance, Arnold Isack be a creature without a home. Instead, I lazed in a "DP Facility" until somebody up the chain decided what to do with me.

My newest camp be a version of purgatory filled with people like meself: a remorseful and despondent group of nomads. They, we, survived whilst loved ones and friends ended; nothing remained of the past except ghosts and guilt.

Aye, complicated emotions swept over the pathetic lot. As prisoners in the Kraut hellholes, there be one burden: survival. Now, like life in the camps hadn't happened, men and women faced the reality of returning to a normal life. Many questions had to be answered, none of them easy: Do you want to go home? Do you have a home? What will you do for a living?

Though the Americans presented as cordial and sympathetic, I knew they wanted to rid themselves of refugees. Manpower and resources be wasted babysitting us. In patronizing sermons (similar to Major Popov's lectures about Socialism...before he went to shite), we were told -in so many words- to get on with life. A new world existed, one devoid of Nazism and persecution; a better world; a world we had to accept...whether we liked it or not.

Many weren't ready to embrace the "new world", or they understood the babble amounted to sugarcoating a platter of offal. Some stopped functioning; they refused to eat, drink and talk. Like they be walloped with a terminal sickness, scores of the distressed ended themselves through suicide or indifference. I rationalized these folks expired years ago, but the physical finality took place in the present.

I had no such problem; I wanted to live. But John Foley wasn't embracing a "new world", at least not until the old one be reconciled.

On 4 September 1945, Arnold Isack received the official designation "Displaced Person 8452". There was no ceremony, no congratulations, none of the festivity; a G.I. handed me identification documents, travel chits to the DP camp outside Bergen-Belsen, and $100.00 in script. While pointed in the right direction, there be two issues: one, the BB-DP resided in the British sector of Germany; two, the camp sat 60 kilometers from Bremen.

What followed be another protracted trek to northwest Germany: seven afternoons in a slow, noisy lorry with other DP's; six evenings in rudimentary military encampments. The American escorts were pleasant, young soldiers what engaged in conversation. They talked about pinup lasses and baseball; one of the soldiers traded a Bowie knife for my Nazi and Russian souvenirs.

At the Bergen-Belsen DP, I was put into army barracks with other "unattached" men and boys until the English saw fit to release me. When would the magic date arrive? Nobody knew. Bremen had to be cleaned up, local authority established, etcetera, so on. What did I hear? Excuse after excuse. I got the sense I would never be free; I'd spend the rest of me life in a camp dreaming of the debts I planned on squaring instead of squaring them.

Plus, I encountered another unexpected problem: the hut I'd been assigned was populated -to the last man- by Yids. Meaning: Arnie Isack had to fit in with his people or Arnie Isack's deception might be discovered. I knew enough to "act" Jewish but not enough to "be" Jewish. Never mind the strange voodoo customs, I couldn't speak Yiddish. There was also the risk, albeit small, of someone knowing Arnie Isack.

I decided to separate myself from the others by acting aggressive: I instigated arguments, insulted Rabbis and triggered the ire of everyone in the hut. My irrational performance produced the desired result...to an extent: relocation to the camp hospital be pat, but having to chat with a mind doctor -an Englishman- wasn't:

" _I am Captain Dobbs," he introduced in perfect German while offering a hand. The Captain looked about my age, wore a nice creased uniform, and smiled at me as if we were chums. I vowed to turn the prim's grin into a frown, and quick-like._

I ignored the hand and bitched, "I'm tired of being a prisoner. First the Nazis, now the English. I'm beginning to think there's no difference between the two."

Like I tinkled on his leg, the captain flinched.

" _You heard me," I continued. "Don't tell me I'm wrong, either. I know what's happening."_

" _What...um...what is happening, Arnold?"_

" _Are you blind? Look around! You've locked me up!"_

Dobbs sighed and then said, "I know you've had a rough go, and I sympathize with your predicament, but the situation here is temporary."

" _The Nazis said the same thing. Guess what? They lied! I spent almost six years in captivity. Six!"_

" _You won't be here six weeks, let alone six years."_

" _Then let me out today!"_

" _You're from...Bremen," Dobbs said, as he looked through my paperwork. "Understand, the Army of the Rhine has to take a census, restore utilities, find unexploded ordnance, and complete a thousand other tasks. I'm afraid you'll find most of the city uninhabitable."_

" _Living in ruins is better than living in another camp!"_

" _Okay, okay, relax, Arnold. I can't snap my fingers and get you released. What I can do is talk to the base commander and see about acquiring a three day pass for you. Three days should be enough to take stock of your property and locate acquaintances or family. If you find something, we can talk about what comes next. Sound fair?"_

Three days didn't seem long enough to handle business with Kohner, and I didn't even know if the bastard was breathing, but beggars and choosers came to mind...so I acquiesced with a nod.

" _Good," Dobbs said. "Couple things: the chit only permits travel to and from a specific destination. You're also required to stay in supervised lodging. If you abscond, or are caught without the proper paperwork, you'll face more time behind the walls. I'm working with you, Arnold. Don't do anything rash and make me regret my kindness."_

Like an altar boy, I swore I'd be a good lad; days later, I received the pass.

At last, I was headed to Bremen with the Bowie knife in me sack and a desire to do something rash.

# 28.

### Bremen, 1945

The English assigned me a small room in an inn not far from where the Durstiger Witz once stood. Bremen crawled with British soldiers, but they had other business in the city to attend. Another downtrodden survivor of the Nazi regime didn't raise an eyebrow, and my pass allowed free reign to wander without disruption.

Wander I did. Arnie Isack's pub, and half the city it appeared, had been reduced to a heap of rubble. Brit engineers and German construction workers were in the process of rebuilding Bremen's business center, but it would take some time to restore the once thriving city to a semblance of its prewar exquisiteness.

However, one building stood unblemished: the police station on Am Wall...the last place I visited in Bremen. A line of haggard Germans waited to enter; I joined the end of this group and poked the fella in front of me in the shoulder.

" _Is this where I come to locate a family member?" I asked in a weary voice._

He didn't bother turning his head and answered, "Vouchers and script."

" _What about family?"_

" _There are lists posted on telephone poles...the one's still standing."_

Intuition told me Kohner would be composing lists not adorning them. Therefore, I shuffled along until I reached the counter inside. A plump Brit non-com, surrounded by envelopes and papers, gave me the once over and then pushed a packet across the desk. Next to him, a fat, four-eyed pencil pusher addressed me in terse German:

" _Identification."_

" _I don't want money. I'm looking for an old friend named Kohner."_

" _Check the spools on the poles. I have no information about the living and dead."_

" _But, um, he used to be a detective at this station and I hoped-"_

" _What did I tell you? Check the lists. This is a disbursing station, not the information desk. Either hand me your identification or move along."_

I forked over my paperwork and then craned me neck to catch a peek of the station interior: Brits soldiers lounged in chairs and ogled American magazines.

The solicitor returned my credentials and remarked, "Ten Pounds is the allocated allowance. Next!"

I swept the money into my hand and strolled outside. 'Check the lists'...it seemed an impossible task. Hands on hips, studying the battered city, I cursed my stupid plan. Of course I wouldn't find Kohner. Not in three days sifting through ruins or badgering the downtrodden. No doubt my SS chum had fled, died or got shoved into a gaol. For my trouble, I had ten pounds to blow in a pub...if I could find one still standing. And I was about to make a go of getting tight when a voice behind me asked:

" _You're looking for Kohner?"_

I spun around and came face to face with an old man leaning on a cane.

" _Sorry to pester," the fella said. "It's none of my business, but I was next in line and heard you ask for Otto Kohner."_

" _Be the same Kohner what served in the SS?"_

The fella eyed my tattoo and rasped, "Yes, Otto Kohner. He's here. The bastard swapped one uniform for the other."

" _Huh?"_

" _Those British assholes put him in charge of doling labor. Fitting, wouldn't you say?"_

" _Where is he?"_

He pointed his cane to the left and said, "On Knochenhauerstrasse, in the building across from the Schweinehirt sculpture. Headquarters of our English lords."

The Schweinehirt is a copper or bronze statue of a farmer tending three pigs. The ridiculous display sits on a sidewalk along Knochenhauerstrasse; I walked around the pigs a few times while sneaking glimpses at the municipal building. Seeing the Commonwealth flag flapping from the pole atop the structure resurrected memories of me time Ireland. The Brits were well-schooled in subjugation but, in this instance, the Germans deserved every last stomp the English saw fit to dole.

Funny the way sensibilities are altered. It only took a few years in a Kraut death camp to sway my opinion. Then I remembered the dialog with old fella what directed me to the Brit HQ. Subjugation had limits; the English used traitorous Irishmen and women to further their exploitation of me countrymen. It appeared the Crown wasn't above soliciting the services of a former SS detective...and this irritated me sensibilities.

A quartet of lax English sentries jawed amongst themselves and challenged nobody entering the purported HQ. Nonetheless, I wasn't strolling into the building to seek Otto Kohner. Nay, I would wait for him.

I took my post in a café across the street and settled at a table. Several strong coffees later, I peeped Kohner. Lean, dressed to the nines, head held high, he strutted from a car park as if he owned the world. Across the street he came, made a beeline for the café, and passed me spot without a squint...not like I expected hisself to recognize John Foley. But just in case, I snatched a menu and held it in front of my face.

Kohner took his drink to go, disappeared into the HQ; meself stood, bought a tabloid from a vendor, settled onto a bench, and read the five page paper about five thousand times. Late afternoon, hisself left the HQ and strolled to the car park. I felt the knife in my breast pocket, counted to ten, and then followed.

I assumed the bastard be too arrogant to believe anybody would take a run at hisself, but I wasn't going to push me luck on the first day. Down a flight of stairs, I trailed Kohner at a prudent distance, watched hisself climb into a green Mercedes without so much as a glance around. Anyway, the car park be empty; not many German were driving new rides.

A sleepless night at the inn gave way to radiant dawn. I repeated the same stake as the previous day and watched hisself do the same. Car park, coffee, HQ, late afternoon departure...and there I be: fast heartbeat, sweaty hands, pursuing hisself, grabbing the knife, Kohner -back to me- whistling, opening the car door...

I pricked his back, felt him stiffen, and whispered, "Where's your weapon?"

" _I have a roll of Sterling," Kohner said in a calm voice. "Right inner pocket of my coat. Take what you want. They're yours."_

" _Where's your weapon, shithead?"_

He tried turning his head 'round, but I jabbed him again. "Yes, I understand," Kohner said. "You're in charge. No need to stick me. I have a Lugar, left coat pocket."

" _Put it on the roof of your car."_

Slow-like, Kohner extracted the pistol, set it down and raised both arms.

" _Listen to me," I said. "You're going to get in and put your paws on the wheel. I'm going to sit beside you. We're taking a drive."_

Hisself nodded, slid onto the seat; I took the gun, joined him a moment later in the front, and aimed the barrel at his groin.

" _Be mindful where this Lugar's pointed," I said. "Now, start the car."_

" _Where are we going?" Kohner asked, giving me -and then his gun- the side-eye._

" _Along Osterdeich, to a park along the Weser."_

" _Osterdeich? You want to leave the city?"_

" _We're not arguing and I'm not asking. Turn over this fancy carriage. Let's go."_

" _Going anywhere will be difficult due to the English checkpoints. I pass three getting to and from here. The sentries demand identification, take plate numbers. After curfew, you need authorization to travel. Taking me to a park to do...whatever it is you have planned...need I go on?"_

I hadn't thought about checkpoints and curfews. Fact be, I hadn't thought about much except getting Kohner alone. Ending him in the car park wasn't the smartest play...

" _So," Kohner said, "shall we stop with the nonsense? Take my money and be on your way. I won't remember your face and you won't bother me again." The familiar authoritarian tone resounded and I had a mind-snapping flashback: standing in front of him before hisself banished me into the camp system. This, and the notion he_ _didn't_ _remember my face, sparked me ire._

" _Look at me," demanded I._

" _I don't want to-"_

" _Look at me, Kohner."_

He twisted his head and said, "Yes, I'm Kohner. Bravo, you found me. It's not like I'm hiding."

" _Do you know who I am?"_

" _You're an arrogant bastard! No, I don't know."_

Switching to English, I said, "John Foley, mate. Does me name tickle your recollection?"

I expected a slack jaw, blood-drained visage. Instead, Kohner blinked and said, "Well, I never expected to see you again, Herr Foley."

" _I told you I'd survive those demented gaols. You don't know how many times I fell asleep, dreaming of this moment. You had your doubts. 'Time will tell,' you said. Time has arrived, Kohner."_

" _So it has," he said in a flat voice. "Now what? Would you like me to beg? Cry? Tell you I'm sorry?"_

" _I want to learn about money."_

" _Money?"_

" _The money you took from me. Four million Marks."_

" _Nothing was taken, at least on my end. If I recall-"_

" _Regnesmachen."_

The name failed to crack Kohner's impassive expression. Hisself didn't even a twitch. "What is Regnesmachen," he asked. "A camp?"

" _Regnesmachen is what happened to money seized by your government."_

" _I have no idea what you're talking about."_

" _Think, fella. Where did my money go after it left Bremen?"_

" _You keep saying it's your money, Foley. It wasn't-"_

" _Where's my money," I said, jamming the pistol into his right thigh._

Hisself pressed lips together and mumbled, "What happens to anything confiscated by the state?"

" _You're better suited to answer the question considering you worked in economic crime."_

" _I was a detective. A kriminalrat. My job involved arrests and seizures. Everything after is beyond my understanding. You can keep asking and I'll say the same thing a million times. Walther Funk is the ex-Minister of Economics. He's alive. Pester him."_

" _You see my wrist? The tattoo? I got it at Auschwitz. It's an account number. An account number under the name Regnesmachen."_

" _As I stated, if such a thing existed, I didn't know."_

His mulishness infuriated, or mayhap it be the realization Kohner spoke the truth. He knew nothing; nobody knew anything unless they stood at the tippy top of the pyramid. But those bastards were dead or in custody.

" _Put your wallet on the seat," I said, climbing out the Mercedes._

Kohner nodded, kept his eyes pointed on the gun, and dug a hand into his coat. Seconds later, a thick leather billfold landed on the leather seat.

The gunshot followed.

Single tap, striking Kohner in the head, shattering the driver's side glass. Ears ringing, I opened the wallet, removed the cash, and dumped the rest of the contents on the floorboard. Pictures, for the most part: a black and white of Kohner and a pretty blonde; another containing two young, smiling girls; a third photograph, a gap-toothed, grinning boy; a fourth, all three beaming kids, arms around waists.

What happened next...I'm not sure if Kohner's children or the physical act of fulfilling the homicidal fantasy pushed me over; perchance it be a moment of clarity to the alcoholic or a revelation to the blasphemous.

Bam! I realized I'd spend a life chasing rumors, a life trying to atone. How long could I search? How long could I be Arnie Isack? How long could I roam Germany? But the question be foolish; I knew the answer: not long. I didn't have the strength to undertake the task. Not anymore. Scheming and running had worn me raw. I can't say I no longer cared about Ireland, money, or the IRA. These causes were, and still are, what I believe. But morality, or reality, took hold: I couldn't and wouldn't participate in the madness anymore.

Hands shaking, I returned to the inn and went to me room. For the first time since I be a wee one, I cried. I cried through midnight. I cried for Claire, Tommy, Arnie, Voclain, Albert, Zache, Zujenia, Popov; I even cried for Kohner and his family.

I didn't plan what came next. My arm worked by itself; before I knew it, I snatched a pen and stationary from the nightstand. Cross-legged, I sat on the bed and started writing. I wasn't a writer, never had a creative bone in my body. Correction: I could create trouble. Nothing but trouble. But once I began, the words came easy.

As of this moment, I'm 45 years old. I don't have a thing to show for my life except killing, robbing and conniving. I could return to Ireland and become the latest version of Derek Tierney. Or I could go to the States, find Tom, and make a good life. I know I don't deserve a good life after what I've done, but I can try.

In the morning, I climbed aboard the Brit lorry and returned to the BB-DP. Captain Dobbs found me in the mess at supper. Stirring soup and staring into space, I didn't notice him until a hand squeezed me left shoulder.

" _I'm glad you made it back, Arnold," the prim said. "Part of me...okay, most of me...worried you wouldn't return. What did you find?"_

" _Nothing remains," I said to the chicken noodle. "My family, property...everything's gone."_

The prim squeezed again and said, "Sorry to hear. I hoped for better news."

I dropped the spoon with a clang and said, "It's the usual story. Why would anything be different for me? The line for rations and script. Lists of living and dead on the sticks. A city blown to shit. I can't stay in Bremen. The memories...they're too thick."

" _What are you going to do?"_

" _I have a cousin in New York City. He'd take me in."_

" _You want to go to the U.S.?"_

" _Seems like the best play, don't you think?"_

Dobbs said he'd see what could be done. No promises, he warned, but others were asking to leave and the Americans were happy to accept.

I waited a handful of days for an answer, and then another handful for details to be hashed, but I wasn't complaining. What's a small delay? Good things come to those...and all the rest.

The evening before I left Europe, I slept well for the first time in six years.

My ship departed Hamburg on 15 October 1945; Arnie Isack arrived in New York on 21 October. John Foley began his new life the next day.

So, goodbye Germany and goodbye Ireland. Goodbye to all the terrible memories.

I hope the next chapter of my life is better than the first.

• • •

I placed the last page face down on the kitchen table and sighed.

"There you have it," Sandi said.

"Mmm...I thought there'd be something important at the end."

"No, but we have enough. Sarah's excited-"

"Sarah?"

"Sarah Miller from the JIWCA.

"Ugh, I can't keep these people straight."

"Sarah's excited, John. Sure, it might amount to nothing, but what's the harm in looking?"

"His name can't get out. John Foley cannot be mentioned."

"Proving your father's story, if it ever comes to it...I don't know. So much is associated with his name."

"I don't want anybody associating _anything_ to his name. In fact, I'm thinking of changing mine."

"Don't be absurd."

"What about my mother? She can never find out. _Ever."_

"Hey," Sandi said, rubbing my arm, "have you considered this isn't all about you? People who survived the Holocaust, people who lost everything...if they could get a portion back, wouldn't your father be helping them?"

I stood and paced the kitchen while my brain did the ole seesaw. Needless to say, there was less see and a lot of saw...

"Honey, I appreciate what you've done, but look at it from my perspective. Da had to die before we could have a charming man-to-man."

"You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"What do you want me to do? Quit school and become a treasure hunter? Jesus Christ, give me a break!"

"Like father, like son."

"Excuse me?"

"Go ahead, hide from the past the same way your father did. Are you going to write a letter to your son and pass the buck? Or are you going to be a man and take charge. It's time to be honest. Who are you?"

The little Irish guy posed the rhetorical in my head, _'A fella should know his history, don't ya think?'_

Then Coach Werth chimed in: _'This moment, two-twenty on the nineteenth of August, you became the man in your family. Now's the time to show everyone you're up to the task. Go home and take care of your affairs.'_

"He asked you to right his wrongs," Sandi pestered.

"Yes, _his_ wrongs. Da wants me to 'square the ledger' with the IRA."

"You read those pages. Does it sound like he wanted anything to do with the IRA after he left Germany?"

"It doesn't matter, Sandi. Two goons came to my father's wake asking for a _wee hint_!"

"They weren't being serious."

"How do you know?"

"Asking your father's body?"

"The point is, they asked."

"John, it's late and I'm not going to argue. But you know I'm right. You're never going to forget this until you try to take of it. I'm going to Diane's. Call me when you figure out what's important to you."

She walked out of the room and I heard the door slam.

"I'll figure it out," I grumbled.

I glared at the manuscript, then looked away. Seconds later, like the damn thing was a lodestone, my eyes zeroed on the stack of papers. _Perhaps_ my girl spoke the truth: I would never forget Da's story. Then I pictured myself as an old man obsessing over secrets.

For the thousandth time, I pushed the stack of papers away and said...

# 29.

"Fuck This..."

" _Fuck this."_

The car, a beige junker, started following me a couple days earlier. At least, I _noticed_ the Chevy a couple days earlier. _It_ , and the men inside, might've been trailing me after I returned to Minneapolis after Da's funeral.

The first time I saw the Nova parked outside the sports annex (sticking out like a sore thumb, by the way), I wondered who on the team drove the godawful beater. Nevertheless, I forgot about the vehicle until the next morning when, _ta-da_ , it sat snug against the curb across from my apartment. This back-and-forth continued for several days until I got the message. On Day 4, I pulled my best Dennis Weaver impression and wandered -in a zigzagging fashion- the crowded streets of Dinkytown. Some might term the behavior "bar-hopping" and my staggering gait "drunk as a skunk", but don't listen to 'em. I was engaged in important research.

Maybe my stalkers tired of clandestine tomfoolery and wanted _moi_ to comprehend the gravity of the situation. The following morning, hungover me took another peek out the window. Not only was the car idling but two men leaned against the front bumper, arms crossed, smoking cigarettes. I snapped the curtain shut and felt butterflies swarm. Lo and behold, the two Irish "fellas" "what" made their appearance at Da's wake shot daggers at my second-floor apartment. At some point, they'd get impatient and pay me a visit.

So, there I _be_ : Twiddling thumbs, pegged like a prisoner...

I considered phoning the police.

How would this conversation go? I'd sound like a paranoid and...well, I figured international militants wouldn't let the Minneapolis P.D. get in their way. Shit, most of the cops in the Twin Cities are Irish. The men in blue would take the Irishmen down the street, slap their backs and feed them shots.

There wasn't anybody who could handle the situation but me...which, of course, was easier said than done. Yet, I had one thing in my favor: home field advantage. A plan formed...

I said: _"Fuck this,"_ again...

...and reached for the phone.

The four beefy linemen I summoned -John King, Doug Kingsritter, Tim Alderson and Jim McCormick- agreed to meet me at the _2 and 1/2_ for happy hour. It didn't take much coaxing: beer and a chance to "mix it up" with some guys who gave Sandi the business at her job sounded like a good time to my thickheaded pals.

I threw on clean threads, slapped fear out of my head, and walked outside. Across the street, the little guy tossed his cigarette on the ground. I gave him the old Italian digit and hustled along. Behind me, I heard the slam of car doors.

Five blocks later, I strolled into the diviest (and, yeah, I know _diviest_ ain't a word) of all local dives. After collecting "the usual" (a 50-cent schooner of Hamm's) from Dick, the grouchy bartender, I climbed the stairs and waited for the fun to start.

The _2 and 1/2_ was an anachronism. Located on the bar crawl circuit near the U, the dusky joint catered to a clientele of hard working, uneducated men. If the odd frat boy wandered in, they'd leave quick-like after confronting baleful glares and boilermakers. I drank there because I fucking love boilermakers, I didn't wear chinos and turtlenecks, and I got a hint of balefulness in my blood. Also, it was a place to get drunk with the boys and not be bothered by the female variable. In other words, a perfect spot for the night's festivities.

Until then, I took a seat at a table and fixated on the one small black-and-white hanging from the ceiling. The lousy, fifteen games out of first place Twins were playing a road game in Arlington. Ten minutes before first pitch, I listened to Buetel and Faris pontificate about the future of interim manager Frank Quilici. They droned, I drank...and then came the sound of yelling from downstairs. I strolled to the balcony railing and watched Dick reach under the counter. Like a ninja, he whipped the club (a baton fashioned with a pointy spike at the tip) and whacked the bar. A gunshot like report echoed, the beer steins on the bar rattled, and the source of the trouble, a panhandler, jumped with a yelp.

Dick growled (a noise more menacing than the club striking wood), and said, "You're warned, ya fuckin' bum. Next time it's your head. Tell your fuckin' buddies the same goes for dem. Get the fuck out!"

And then, like nothing happened, the regulars went back to their business. I couldn't remember a night Dick didn't put on this show...or worse. Like Captain Queeg, he ran a tight ship. Unlike Queeg, there'd be no mutiny. And if there was, Dick wouldn't go quiet-like into the night.

I returned to the booth to find the little guy sitting in my ass-groove and tapping fingers on the table. The big boy stood sentinel.

"My, what a surprise," I said without sounding flabbergasted.

"Ain't it tho," the little guy said. "I wondered how long it take ya to realize we're keepin' an eye on ya. What's the count? Two...or is it three weeks?"

The big guy grunted.

"But ya caught on," the little guy said. "Good thing ya did. We were thinkin' of payin' a house call this evening."

"Come to offer more condolences?" I asked, sliding into the seat opposite him. "Or are we gonna watch the ballgame and shoot the shit?"

"Ya know, I like ya. Yer a frisky lad. Be a little of yer oul fella in ya."

The reason for my "friskiness" shuffled up the steps. My boys had arrived and they were keen. The quartet of fat bodies appraised my companions and began cracking knuckles in anticipation.

As the big man placed a paw on my shoulder, 6'6" and 300 pounds of Jim McCormick hollered: "Good way to start the night, meeting new friends! Where are your manners, Foley? Not gonna introduce us to your pals?"

Both Irishmen whipped their heads around and saw the reinforcements. The big guy removed his hand and grumbled; the little guy chuckled.

"My new friends are leaving," I said. "The atmosphere in this dump doesn't suit their refined blood."

"Darn, what a shame," Jim said, clucking his tongue. "I was hoping they'd get a chance to see Dick's bat in action. Maybe next time, boys."

"Ya need ta talk with me and soon," the little guy whispered as he scooted out of the booth. "I'll be waiting when ya don't have yer mates about."

"Is now soon enough?" I asked. "Leave your buddy and let my friends entertain. You and I can step outside to chat."

He nodded and pushed past my protective echelon.

I said to the boys: "Keep this other gentleman company. I'll be back in a few minutes."

I threw my arm around the Irish twerp and led him down the stairs, past a glaring Dick (who had no love for _dem queers_ ), and towards the front door. As we walked outside, I said, "I'd ask for your name, but after tonight we won't cross paths again."

"No?"

"Enough of the pestering. I don't appreciate being followed."

"Foley, if I wanted ta make ya appreciate the situation, we wouldn't be havin' this polite conversation. Consider this a courtesy call. Best listen and be a good lad. First off, me name is Ray. Second, ya caught me on a good day and I'm not so proud ta admit ya surprised me with yer mates. But I tell ya," he warned, jabbing my chest, "I ain't as pleasant when the field is level. And I'm startin' ta hope we'll meet on such a surface in the ne'r future if ya catch me drift."

I caught it...and Ray's hard little eyes worked some kind of spell. I had dealt with bullies and football foes; I considered myself tough; I wouldn't let anyone push me around lest I get used to it. But Ray...he wasn't lining up across from me in a tackling drill. This wasn't a game to him, and the realization I was face-to-face with a thug from the IRA hadn't sunk in until that moment.

After studying my eyes (or watching the sweat roll down my forehead), Ray said: "Ya know why I'm 'ere, and don't insult me intelligence by sayin' otherwise. I've given ya time to grieve, and it looks like ya ain't cryin' no more for dear Da. Now, how 'bout ya tell me what he did with our money and we can go our separate ways."

I opened my mouth, cleared my throat, and then...emitted a strangled squeak. Ray cocked his head and knotted his brow. I had been preparing my speech for several hours. Perhaps _overpreparing_ , because when it came time to recite said lines the words vanished from my head. Nerves, I guess. Or I was scared shitless.

"Foley," Ray prodded, "cat got yer tongue? Or are ya playin' hard ta git?"

"Listen," I said, finding my voice, "you look like a smart, observant man. You-"

"Ah," he interrupted, "this be the part where ya play nice guy, ain't it?"

"This is the part I tell you I don't have what you want."

"But yer aware of its existence."

"Not until a few weeks ago."

"And what did ya learn?"

"I learned my father got thrown into a Nazi concentration camp and tried-"

"The Yid gaols?" Ray cackled. "Bugger off!"

"Man, I swear-"

"Feck off, mate. Ya'll have ta come up with a better story than 'at. See, what I think...which be the same as what I know...is he and 'em McMahons decided to take their show on the road. Who can blame 'em? They were pullin' a large pucker, eh? They split it between the three of 'em? Or did your oul fella end the McMahons and lift their riven?"

"If you're not gonna listen to me, then nothing I say will change your mind."

"Because what yer sayin' is shite."

"You've been to the old man's house. You've seen where I live. I'm a poor college student with a shitty part time job. Does any of this scream money?"

"Looks can be deceivin'. A man would attract attention if he threw a thick stack 'round. Best ta keep it hidden, aye?"

"Jeez, man, there's _nothing_ hidden. And it's been almost forty years. _And,_ I had _nothing_ to do with my father's business."

"Any bit ta the Cause goes a long way, forty-years old or whatnot. The Brits have upped the ante in the North, but I expect yer ignorant of The Troubles so I won't bother ya with the particulars. Needless ta say, I'm the collector of overdue debts."

Da's story -the one involving Davin- popped into my head. _Once a donor, always a donor..._ and all the rest. "Yeah, I know the score," I said. "You're a bagman."

"Ah, a bagman," Ray laughed. "Be an old term. Yer oul fella tell ya 'bout his stretch?"

"I don't need this," I mumbled. "Between Sandi and...listen to me: I have enough to deal with in my life. If giving you money would get rid of you, I'd do it. But I _don't_ have _anything_ , and neither did my father. You're wasting time shaking me down." I raised my right hand to the theoretical God I didn't believe and declared, "You'll have to take my word."

Ray rubbed his neck and sounded...almost apologetic: "I don't fancy this business, laddy. I'm just doing me job. Tying up loose ends. Yer a loose end. Yer Ma and Tommy Foley are loose ends. Thing is, if ya tell me yer a dead end, I got no choice but ta visit yer oul dear and see if she knows anything. I don't get off hass'lin the elderly. But I got me orders. So, no hard feelings, aye?"

Of course, he was trying to provoke me. And, of course, I got provoked. I poked him in the chest and scrambled my face to look all serious and mean-like. Then I snarled, "You go anywhere near my mother and I'll hurt you."

The Irishman looked unimpressed: "I'm jist tellin' ya _what's-what_. I can't leave no stone. Ya tell me ya don't know, I tell ya I gotta do a little diggin'. Nothin' personal."

"My mother doesn't know and I'd prefer she never does."

"A'ight, then how 'bout yer Uncle Tommy? He hit the road, dint he? Left ya holding the bag."

Speaking of Tom..."If you find him, please send him my way after you're done. I'd also like to have a chat with him."

"Ya wanna know somethin' comical? Tommy contacted a man in the IRB after yer Da passed. He wanted to pass along the news as if we'd forgive the debt. As ya've deduced, it doesn't quite work like 'at. And now, 'ere we be."

"The fuck?" I squawked.

Ray shrugged and offered a laconic: "Aye."

For the life of me, I don't know what Tom was thinking. Perhaps he wanted to clear his conscious, give the McMahon clan in the old country closure, or save my mother and I an unpleasant visit when (not _if_ ) the Brotherhood tracked us down. Nip it in the bud, so to speak.

Okay, wonderful...except, like the giant pussy he was, Tom hightailed it for parts unknown. My uncle's benevolent or _stupid_ idea might've worked had I not found Da's manuscript, and I'm certain Tom did not know it existed or else he would've never opened his mouth.

Well, fuck him. I've never seen Tom or Ella again. I assume they've both passed on, but I spent a decade trying to find _him_. I wouldn't have put a bullet in his head; a curt conversation is all I required.

Whatever. I had to deal with Tom's bullshit blabbermouth in the moment, and dealing with it meant giving Ray a snippy: "Then why the hell are you bothering me, man? Go find Tom and turn him upside down."

"As I said, and ya know, Tommy Foley ain't ta be found."

"I doubt Tom knows anything more about your funds than me which, again, is _nothing_. If he did, why would he contact somebody in the IRC?"

" _IRB_ , laddy, but..." He paused to scratch his chin and then said, "I'll tell ya what, Johnny Foley. I'll leave yer dear ma alone, but not because of yer bullshit threats. I believe yer telling me the truth. But ya will need ta do one thing for me, please and thank ya: If ya hear somethin' about the stack, ya'll remember where it belongs."

I was positive none of us would _ever_ see the money and felt I'd won a small victory: Ray claimed he wouldn't harass Ma. I'd have to accept his word, and he mine.

He reached into his pocket and handed me a folded square of paper. "Me blower. If ya anything ta blow, call Madigan's in Donnybrook. Ask for meself. I'll get the message."

"10-4," I mumbled, jamming the slip into my wallet.

"Madigan's in Donnybrook, laddy. Say it."

"Madigan's in Donnybrook. I got you loud and clear, _laddy_."

"Aye," Ray chuckled. "And... _maybe_ , if me schedule allows, I be checkin' in with John Foley. Just to see _what's-what_ , eh?" Before I could respond, my newest pal patted my cheek and said: "Now, can ya send me man down? I gather ya'd like to git ta yer pucker."

I returned to the balcony and found Jim, John, Tim and Doug crowded into a booth with the hooligan.

Jim hailed: "Foley, three things you need to know about our guest: First, I managed to find out he's from Ireland; second, he's the lone Irishman who doesn't drink. We've offered him multiple opportunities and he just grunts and shakes his head. Third, he looks like a thug, but I don't think his heart's in it. I gave him a couple of chances to act the part and he passed. I guess it's like my dad says: _All the Irish worth a shit left the place_. This guy didn't, right buddy?"

"His friend is waiting," I said, jerking my thumb over shoulder. "Time to am-scray, fella."

The boys gave way and the goon walked down the steps and out the door without a backward glance. I wiped my hands, like I'd thrown trash outside, and then settled into the booth. My tough guy routine had failed and both hands trembled.

Tim glanced at my hands, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "Your story about two bums giving your girl the business doesn't hold water. Care to fill us in?"

"Like all things," I answered, "everything's about love or money. As you can see, I'm not in love with the two of them."

"You owe those mokes money? I don't believe it. I mean, you're stupid but..."

"Thanks for the testimonial, Tim. No, I don't owe them _anything_. They go back to the old country with my father. I explained to the short guy all my father's problems vanished when he died. Then I gave him a little-one-two combo and-"

"The hell you did," Tim scoffed.

"Point being," I said, "he got the idea."

"I don't know," Tim nagged, digging for China. "They don't look like the type to go the way of the Dodo."

I slammed my fist on the tabletop and mustered a smile. "I ain't letting a couple lowlifes ruin the evening and I don't want rehash the particulars. No, sir. I'm ready to drink. Jim, here's ten bucks," I said, digging into my wallet. "Go and sweet talk your lover about a couple o' pitchers."

I could tell they had questions, but I wasn't in the mood to talk. And I was frightened but didn't want to admit as much. Not to them, and not to myself.

Jim fetched the booze and, like I intended, the incident became a distant, blurry memory. We watched the Twins get pounded, played foosball, and drank until Dick kicked us out at closing time.

If not for my drunken legs, the walk home would've been uneventful.

• • •

I didn't hear from Sandi for the better part of a week. Unlike our last period of silence, I was too stubborn to call her. The Gophers played another lackluster game (a 38-6 defeat to Colorado I viewed from the unenergetic student section of the Brick House) and afterwards, the boys and I caught a bad dose of intoxication at the aftergame get-together.

Early the next morning, the phone summoned. And by early, I mean 10 AM early. Head fuzzy, it took ten brain rattling shrieks before I could muster enough energy to yank the handset off the hook. The truth is, I hoped whomever phoned would abandon the effort. But they didn't, and I answered the damn thing to silence the strident noise.

"What," I hollered in a tone even Heller Keller wouldn't mistake for a question.

A staticky voice asked, "Hey, are you awake?"

The lousy connection masked the identity of the caller, but I had a good idea who needled. "Fuck you, Jim," I said. "Can't you let me suffer in peace?"

"John, it's Sandi."

I popped up in bed and rasped, "Sandi?"

"Yeah, Sandi. Not Jim."

"Christ, are you calling from the moon?"

"I'm in West Germany with my parents. I need you to wake up and listen."

"Yeah, I'm...wait. Did you say West Germany?"

"You need to pay attention. No talking. I don't have a lot of time."

"Jeez," I muttered. "Hold on a second."

"Wait! Don't hang-"

I dropped the phone, leaving it dangling by the twisty cord, and went to the bathroom. After a splash of cold water, I studied my reflection in the streaky mirror. I wasn't looking hot, I wasn't feeling any hotter, and Sandi was picking at this dreadful scab. _Again._ Frankly, dear diary, I was getting a little annoyed.

When I returned to the phone, I meant to lay the smack down. In a voice, used when I _meant business_ , I said, "I'm back. Now, what are you doing in-"

"They bill by the minute, you know," Sandi said in a voice indicating she _meant business_.

"Didn't we decide-"

The phone blasted static into my ear followed by Sandi's scratchy voice: "-with an open mind before you get angry."

"Too late. What did I say? Hmm?"

"I know what you said, but I have news!"

"What news?"

I couldn't believe what followed, but I should've known better:

"Make arrangements to fly to Frankfurt as soon as you can. You're never going to believe what I've arranged!"

"Did you say, _fly to Frankfurt as soon as I can?_ "

"Yes!"

"Are you kidding? I have logistical issues to tackle. My job, school-"

"Work them out," she snapped. "I don't care how, but you need to get here."

"Explain."

"Hold on...I can't talk right now."

I thought of Ray and whispered, "Are you in danger?"

"No, don't be silly. My mother's in the next room. Do you have money and a passport?"

"I have about fifteen hundred socked away, but it's supposed to last a couple months. My credit cards carry a five-hundred-dollar limit and they're almost maxed. Maybe..." I didn't want to think about tapping Ma for dough, but with Tom gone...

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe...I could rob a bank and then-"

"John, be serious."

"Me? You drop this bomb and expect an instant decision."

"We have a small window. I didn't want to call until I knew everything had been arranged."

After a prolonged sigh I said, _"Perhaps_ , I can borrow a little from Mom though...you want me to go Frankfurt. What am I going to tell her?"

"I don't know. She's your mother. You can think of something."

"Why don't you ask your mother for the money?"

"Because my mother thinks you're a thoughtless cad."

"Oh? Well, how about I tell _my_ mother I need it to take care of our _dirty little secret_ , eh?"

"Tell her whatever you want. But once you swing it, I can handle the rest. My parents gave me three grand for a graduation gift last summer, and my dad told me to have fun with it. I can't think of anything better than an adventure in Europe with my boyfriend."

"If I'm going to Europe, I don't want to spend time with your mother."

"They wanted to tag along to the old country. Plus, they're worried about me. They think I'm having boy problems and need a break from reality."

"What, or whom, would give them this idea?"

"Don't worry about it. Just get your butt on an airplane."

Did I mention Sandi's persistent? And, while I should've been outraged, her spunk was _somewhat_ endearing. All the legwork she'd done and now, going to West Germany...how could I leave her in the lurch?

"Fine," I relented. "Fine, if it makes you happy, I'll make it happen." Meanwhile, my mind nagged: _Sure, no problem. What's the big deal?_ _Leaving in the middle of the school quarter? Pushing your graduation back half-a-year? What about football? Are you ready to tell the coaches you're going to leaving the team?_

"You're coming?"

"Yeah...yeah, I'm coming. I've a passport...somewhere...and...and I'll ask Mom for help. If she can't lend me the cash, I'll pester Jim or one of the other guys. Either way, I'll make it work."

"Awesome! Make sure you book round trip. I'm flying back from Frankfurt on the fifth. Northwest, Flight 260. See if you can't get a seat."

"I'll do my best."

"I'm so excited, John! You'll see. This won't be a waste of time."

And wouldn't you know? I felt a jolt of excitement...until I remembered one teeny issue (and it wasn't the IRA): "What about your parents? Are they joining us for the adventure?"

"No, they leave tomorrow. I told them I was staying another six days to see more sights. A girl has to grieve, correct?"

"Uh-huh. What a rotten boyfriend you had."

"My mother warned me about him but, you know, I'm not a good listener."

"I've noticed. You seem to-"

"We'll talk later," she interrupted. "I have to run. My father's taking us to dinner. I'll call around midnight your time. I can't wait to tell you what's going on."

• • •

I spent the rest of the day making preparations for the trip, including a drive to Clontarf to visit Mom. I hated to ask her to pony-up, but the last-minute plane ticket bordered on highway robbery.

"I don't have much," Ma said. "But your father and I put a little aside over the years. Rainy day funds."

She disappeared into her bedroom and returned with three different shoeboxes. I sorted the contents into similar denominations; the greenbacks spread across half the living room floor.

I counted the piles ten times and then said, "Mom, there's five thousand dollars here!"

"Your father never wanted to deal with banks. He didn't trust them."

What a shocker. "Look," I said, "I'm only going to borrow a couple thousand, and I _promise_ to pay you back."

"Johnny," she fretted, "are you in trouble?"

"No..." I garbled, as my mind scrambled in search of a harmless response. Of course, what came out of my mouth? "I'm...um...I'm buying Sandi a ring because...ah...see, what I want is a little pricy and I-"

Mom squealed and threw her arms around me. "She's a lovely woman, Johnny! I'm so happy!"

"Huh?"

"You're going to ask the question!"

"What-"

"Heavens, this is wonderful! Have you picked a date?"

Then it hit me: _The_ question. The marriage question. I felt blood drain from my face, but Mom continued to fire like a machine gun. She adored Sandi; we were perfect together...a shit ton of babble I answered with a phoney grin and nodding head.

Oh yeah, I knew how to smooth-talk my mother. Too bad I was a lying bastard. I guess Sandi hit the nail on the head: like father like son.

"Have you picked a date?" Mom repeated.

" _Ahem_ ...like...first, I need to get the ring. Then, you know...we'll discuss a date."

"Heavens, spring is the perfect time of year for a wedding! Nice weather, flowers blooming-"

"Jeez, spring is short notice, don't you think? We're not shotguning this thing."

"I never said you were."

"All I mean is, there's no reason to rush."

"Oh, what wonderful news," she beamed. "I can't wait to tell..."

I tuned her out as I gathered the money. Boy, I was getting in deep. Never mind the IRA and Nazis, stupid me had committed to marriage...

• • •

As promised, Sandi phoned at midnight...and she didn't beat around the bush:

"Did you take care of everything?"

"I borrowed money from my mother. We'll, um, have to talk about how we're going to pay her back."

"Of course. When are you flying here?"

"The airlines are booked solid until Tuesday evening. I managed to find a seat on Northwest, but I won't arrive in Frankfurt until Wednesday morning...which is good, I suppose, because I have to talk to my boss, take care of withdrawing from my classes, and speak to the coaches."

"The return flight?"

"Same as you. October fifth. Flight 260. Frankfurt to Minneapolis."

"All right...you arrive Wednesday morning...sure, Wednesday will work. You're going to be a jet-lagged, but you'll have to suck it up."

"Suck what up?"

She explained Sarah Miller contacted a West German politician who expressed interest in hearing more about Da's journey through the camps. Reasoning it would help if a living family member attended the powwow, Sandi wanted me in attendance.

After she stopped yapping, I said, "Not to be a party pooper, but do you think our meeting is going to accomplish anything?"

"Maybe we'll convince someone in the West German government to look into your father's claims. Maybe we won't. But what's the harm in trying?"

"Okay, let's pretend we make a believer out of the politician. Let's even pretend we strike gold. What happens next?"

"If there's a vault of goods stolen from Nazis victims, these people or their next of kin can-"

Ray's squashed, squinty-eyed face materialized in my head. Then the other guy, the grunter, appeared. Both of them, side by side...

"-and he seems interested in looking," Sandi concluded.

I missed the meat of her "answer" because I had IRA on the brain. My response? "Have you thought what kind of negatives might come from our digging?"

"Negatives?"

"Say, for example, news gets out the IRA and Nazis were cozy."

"Who cares? The IRA is a terrorist organization and their reputation isn't virtuous. They blow up buildings and assassinate people."

"The people in the IRA might care. What if one of them comes to tell me how much the don't care about the negative press?"

"Are you scared?"

"I'm trying to wrap my head around every scenario. Like, for instance, what if the IRA wants Da's money?"

"If his money exists, we'll donate it to the JIWCA. What are they going to do? Strong arm a humanitarian agency?"

" _They_ , as in the IRA, _might_ get angry."

"It's not even their money, remember?"

"Those two guys at the wake don't care. And even if Sarah Miller censors Da's name, there's enough anecdotal evidence to make the leap."

"Don't you think this is exciting?" she screeched. "We could help uncover a secret left buried after World War Two!"

"You're not answering the question."

"Because we have a chance to salvage something positive from your father's story. I mean, besides you, of course."

"Of course."

"So, the one stumbling block Sarah foresees...she'd like to have the document from the Reichsbank. The other thing: I have a copy of your father's story, but she needs the original. Oh, and bring the tattoo."

"The manuscript and tattoo, no problemo. The letter...well, you know the deal."

"Yeah...but we'll make due with what's available. Sarah said...oh, crap...sorry to cut this short, but I'm meeting her in a half hour."

"No problem. I should...you know..." I looked at the mound of laundry outside my bedroom and wondered if I had a single stich of clean clothing.

"You should pack," Sandi said. "Bring a nice outfit, too. We need to look presentable for the bigwigs in the West German government."

"The nicest thing I have is the suit I wore to Da's funeral."

She ignored the lame attempt at humor and said, "I'll call you tomorrow afternoon," before making a kissing-kiss sound.

Needless to say, I didn't pack. No, I ordered a sandwich from Valli's (Valli's made the best subs within a reasonable walking distance from my apartment), grabbed a sixer at Manning's and tried to lose myself in another lousy Twins game. Alas, the lackluster action on the diamond permitted pondering time...

The next day would be a slog. I'd play the sympathy card when asking (I don't beg) my asshole of a boss, Mr. Matt Morobito, for more time off. If Mr. Matt Morobito lacked compassion, I'd tell Mr. Matt Morobito to fuck off. Second, I had to submit the withdrawal request for my classes. Last, and worse, a tail-between the legs visit to my coaches.

# 30.

"My Head Kept..."

My head kept turning side-to-side on the pillow. If you're familiar with the routine then you know willing the brain to sleep never works. Three in the morning, or thereabouts, and I fought a useless battle. The more I wrestled, the worse it got.

The dumb thought triggering insomnia? The letter Da took from the Reichsbank. Where did the most important piece of his evidence go?

Muttering oaths under my breath, I rolled out of bed and went into the kitchen. As I filled a cup with water, I thought about the shoeboxes full of money at Mom's house. ' _Your father didn't like banks_ ,' she told me. Indeed, Ma announced the understatement of the century. After draining the water, I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich left from dinner.

Earlier, I had wrapped what remained of the hoagie in parchment paper and then sealed the crease with masking tape. At three in the morning (or thereabouts) I wrestled with my stupid lack of foresight. Finally, I gave up and tore the paper in frustration.

Rip.

The satisfying action of tearing the parchment and then seeing the cozy sub struck me with a keen revelation. Newton had his apple; I was bonked by a sandwich.

The tattoo came enclosed in paper. Intrigued by the repulsive item, Sandi and I failed to study the wrapper...

Abandoning the snack, I found the petroleum jelly jar and spun off the lid. Then I removed the paper, unfolded it on the table and...and I felt like quite the fool.

Voila, the missing letter from the Reichsbank.

At least, I thought as much...

• • •

My supervisor at Northwestern Bank, Mr. Matt Morobito, was not thrilled by my request. Mr. Matt Morobito wanted to know how much time I needed. I told Mr. Matt Morobito to write a question mark. Mr. Matt Morobito thought I was joking, but I told Mr. Matt Morobito, _'I'm serious, Mister Morobito. I have a family emergency to handle. It might take two weeks; it might take a month. Who can tell?'_

By the way, I never liked Mr. Matt Morobito. Mr. Matt Morobito had the Washington Monument shoved up his ass; Mr. Matt Morobito treated interns and part timers with disdain; Mr. Matt Morobito demanded work be completed "post hasty". Need I continue?

In fact, almost every day I dreamed of going nuclear in Mr. Matt Morobito's office. Lacking a compelling reason to lose my shit kept ridiculous fantasies in check. But the times were a-changin', and change is something we gotta embrace, right? Sure, losing the job would've caused complications, but I'd deal with those later. He who worries about the future neglects the present.

Mr. Matt Morobito smoothed his Johnny Unitas-era buzzcut and said, _"I will grant an additional two weeks of bereavement leave, Mister Foley. Two weeks, not a day more. I expect you at your desk fifteen days from now, ready to work post hasty. If your rear isn't in the chair, consider yourself terminated."_

Next came the dreaded visit to the sports annex. I knew it wouldn't be difficult to replace me, but I made a commitment to everyone on the team. Bailing during the middle of the season made me sick.

Hat in hands, I knocked on the door of the coaches' office and asked to see Coach Warmath. An intern walked me to the film room where the brain trust dissected the lopsided loss from the previous Saturday. My entrance allowed a sliver of blinding light to puncture the cloistered darkness; Coach Warmath and the ten assistants swung their heads in my direction.

"You can't blame me for this one," I said, trying to break the ice.

Coach Warmath turned off the projector and then summoned me forward. Once upon a time, the U of M had one of the best college football teams in the nation. Coach Murray Warmath was a big reason for the success, but it took years of his leadership to forge a championship caliber program. His first six seasons fluctuated between awful and mediocre; impatient fans called for the coach's head. I remember one incident when I was eight: The Gophers had lost a season ending game to rival Wisconsin and finished one win against eight losses. At breakfast the next morning, the _Star's_ sports section reported a "horde of wild students" hung Coach Warmath in effigy. Bitty John Foley didn't know what "effigy" meant, but I knew _hanging_ wasn't good. I read the article twice and then shrieked.

Head down, working on a crossword, Da mumbled, "What's wrong?"

"They hung Coach Warmath!" I sobbed.

Da sat upright and tossed the puzzle aside. "Who hung him?" he asked, tugging the sports page from my little hands. It took the old man all of five seconds to comprehend my ignorance; he laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks.

"What's so funny?" I cried.

"Oh, Johnny, nobody killed him," Da explained, after he composed himself. "Effigy means _an image of_ , not the _actual_ person. These baggers strung up a scarecrow."

"Ello, son," Warmath twanged, interrupting my pleasant memory. "Let's seeeee...I recognize your face...hold on...it'll come to me..." He tapped his forehead for five Mississippi's and then said, "Tarnation, I must be getting old."

"It's John Foley," Coach Werth informed. "He's one of my ends, Murray."

"Ah, Foley," Warmath greeted. "Now I recall. Your father passed last month. How're ya makin' out?"

I set my backpack on a desk and said, "I've been better. My father's...um...estate...it's become a complicated matter and..." I unzipped the sack, opened the flap, and removed the letter from the Reichsbank. "Dad's personal archives contained a letter from a bank in Germany. It appears he conducted business with the German government in the 1930s. Go figure, huh?"

Coach Warmath gave the letter the hairy eyeball and asked, "What does it say?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm flying to Frankfurt to meet with some people in the West German government. His business dealings might not have been above the board."

"Jeez o'Pete," Warmath said. "Well...ya have to do what's right for ya, son. I hate to see ya go, but I'm not going to browbeat ya."

"Thank you, coach. I'm sorry for the short notice."

"Shoot, don't ya worry about my feelings. Family comes before everything else in life. In the big scheme, football's a game."

I shook Coach Warmath's hand but, despite his warm words, walked from the film room feeling an inch tall. And then, because I'm a glutton for punishment, I cruised past my locker and stared at the mess of dirty laundry piled inside. On most days, the fusty smell of days old perspiration went unnoticed by my conditioned sniffer, but standing in the funk triggered nostalgia. So did the maroon practice lid. Scarred from countless bashings, the helmet glowed under the lightbulbs of the locker room. Suiting up, strapping it on...chances were I'd never do it again.

Head hanging, I made for the exit...and ran into Coach Werth in the hall. I expected the third degree...or maybe he'd beg me to reconsider. As everyone knows, the value of a third string tight end cannot be overestimated. I kid, of course, but I could've used a little ego fluffing.

Werth, though, gave me the frowny twice over as I walked towards him. I had stood chest to chest with an IRA goon less than twenty-four hours prior, but the sight of my position coach triggered butterflies in my stomach.

When I got within spitting distance, Werth cleared his throat and then said, "Okay muchacho, what's going on?"

"Coach," I sighed, "I'm sorry, but I said my piece."

"Forget your piece. Are you in trouble? No shit, be honest with me."

"Like I said, my father failed to mention a few things about his past. Lucky me, I get to sort it out."

"Business dealings with German government from the 1930s sounds ominous."

"Naw, it's not ominous," I fibbed through a grin.

"Not above the board?"

"Huh?"

"In the film room, you said your dad's activities might not have been _above the board_."

"Figure of speech. He opened a bank account or something. I guess the West Germans are auditing their books and found something odd or...you know-"

"Or something?"

"Or something. I mean...Coach, come on, I don't know what else I can say other than what you told me after my dad died."

"What I told you..." he mumbled. "Refresh my memory."

"Be the man in my family, take charge, all the rest? I'm following your advice."

He snorted and then said: "Well, for fuck's sake, it's about time! You'd be First Team Big Ten if you listened to me earlier."

"Let's not go overboard."

Werth stroked his mustache and I assumed he was going to give me a kick out the door complete with more robust words of inspiration. Instead, he nodded at my backpack and said, "This letter you have. It's written in German?"

"Yes."

"And you have no idea what it says?"

"I got the jist."

"Kind of important to know what you're getting into, don't you think?"

"I got the jist," I repeated.

After more mustache feathering, Werth snap his fingers and said, "Come on." Yeah, though he had no _real_ control over me, I'd been conditioned to yield to his demands. As such, I followed him to the office like a poodle.

"I speak a little German," Werth said after we stepped into his room. "I can't read it well, however I know somebody who's fluent." He picked up his phone and jabbed a couple digits. I listened to his side of the conversation as I fiddled with my fingers:

"Otto? Hi, Ray Werth. Good...yeah...she's doing great at 3M, thanks for asking. Listen, Otto, I have a student with me. One of my ball players. Are you in your office? Alright, I'll send him over. He...yes, a ball player. He has questions about a document. It's written in German and I can't make sense of it. Uh-huh. Ok, thanks." He hung up the phone and then said, "Doctor Otto Fuchs. I go to synagogue with him. He's a professor of German History in Grimley Hall. Room 220. He's expecting you."

# 31.

"It's Good To Meet..."

Professor Otto Fuchs -short, bald, chubby- shoved itty Benjamin Franklin-esque bifocals on his face and said, "Pleasure to meet you. I don't see many football players grace the halls of the formidable Teutonic past."

"I'm not here by choice," I answered, "but thanks for meeting me on short notice."

"Ray doesn't call unless he needs to get a player out of the doghouse. What is the problem? Haven't attended class? Working on a project? Need assistance composing an essay?"

Small talk isn't my thing, you know, so I decided to skip the b and s. Instead, I produced the letter from my backpack and set it on Doctor Fuchs desk. He gave the paper a cursory inspection and then asked, "Are you writing a thesis?"

"God no. I found...whatever this is...in my dad's, um...estate...after he passed in August. I can't make heads nor nails. Careful, it's a mess with the gunk and whatnot."

"This isn't school work? My mistake. I assumed when Ray phoned..." Fuchs trailed off and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Give me a few minutes to see what you have. Make yourself at home."

I took a seat on a folding chair while the good doctor went to work. Mumbling in German, Fuchs arranged the paper under a table lamb and dragged a finger under each word. He repeated the studious behavior four times, emitting sundry noises -low whistles, a sigh, a perplexed _hmm_ \- and puckering lips. At last, Fuchs wiped his fingers with a tissue and said, "I have to admit, I'm fascinated. Tell me again where you found this document?"

"My father's estate."

"Well, it's real or a great forgery. The stamp alone lends authenticity, but I'm no expert. Let's start from the top...somebody named Wolfie is the addressee. To quote: _Zum 31. Oktober 1944 bestanden 1.452.489 offene Salden in Höhe von insgesamt 24.015.846.632,01 RM einschließlich interesse'._ To summarize, as of 31 October 1944, there are one point four million and change of open balances totaling...I believe it's twenty-four _billion_ Reichsmarks. Quite a hunk of change, young man."

"If you say so," I said with contrived indifference.

Fuchs removed his glasses and stared at me like I was an imbecile. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I say so. This letter references the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. You've heard of Himmler, I presume?"

"Like, he's a big deal, right?" I asked in the same, listless tone.

"Oh, he _was_ a big deal," Otto clucked. "Herr Himmler appears to have some say in the matter. The second paragraph reads: one hundred eighty-eighty thousand _bücher_ , books, will be closed by 31 December 1944. Going by context, _öffnen_ and _geschlossen_ ...the literal translation is open and shut...as well as mentioning interest _einschließlich interesse_ ...including interest...the writer is referencing bank accounts. Of course, I'm not one hundred percent sure but...see, at the bottom? _Das Haus am Werderschen Markt._ The House on Werderschen Market, a tongue in cheek reference to the financial district of Berlin. Rather, old Berlin. Today, the location is in East Berlin. There's a word here... _ahem_ ... _Regnesmachen_. I'm not familiar with the term. Perhaps it's a surname or...or an identifier of an account or accounts. In any case, Himmler appears ready to _mach den strom herunter,_ turn off the power, after 1 February 1945. This could mean a number of things. Close an account or accounts? Close a financial institution? My forte is the Holy Roman Empire, but I know Nazi Germany absorbed...though, I suppose, _captured_ is a better word...foreign banks and the associated properties. If you'd like, I can direct you to a colleague versed in modern German history."

"Jeez, I appreciate the thought but-"

"But you're busy playing the football tournaments," Fuchs said, as he handed me the letter. "I understand. How did your father get possession of such an interesting artifact?"

"My old man served in the army. Saw action in The Big One. Ended up in Germany at the tail end. He managed to snag a few souvenirs."

"Some souvenir. You should think about selling to a collector. If it's authentic, you might get a few hundred dollars."

"Perhaps," I said through an agreeable smile.

I left Fuchs' office elated...sort of. On the one hand, I had undisputable proof the Regnesmachen account existed. However, one ingredient doth not bakith the cake. The memo hadn't been signed by Georg Netzeband, nor did it mention the Reichsbank. My father provided those ingredients but, while compelling, his words amounted to hearsay.

• • •

Sandi phoned later and I described my sit down with Otto Fuchs, what he gleaned from the document, and what it meant in the Big Picture...

"...in other words," I concluded, "it's something, but just so."

"Something's better than nothing," she chirped.

"I agree, but a letter from the Market House isn't going to bowl anyone over."

"Himmler's mentioned."

"Not by name."

"Close enough! There wasn't another Reichsführer-SS. And the letter references Regnesmachen. Sarah was jazzed _before_ you found the letter. I'm calling her after we're done talking. She's going to be ecstatic!"

"Great, but just remember I'm giving up _a lot_ to flap my wings to Europe."

"Compared to everyone who lost everything during the war?"

"Don't do the guilt trip thing again," I whined.

"Okay, then I'll tell you how wonderful Europe is in the fall."

And so, for the next ten minutes, she did.

And it didn't help but, for better or worse, I'd already made my bed...

"See you on Wednesday," Sandi concluded. "Enjoy your flight. I'll be waiting for you in Frankfurt."

# 32.

"It's A Long..."

It's a long flight from Minneapolis to Frankfurt if you're travelling in coach (ass end of plane, by the way, entrenched among the chain-smoking dregs of humanity), longer yet when you're in a middle seat, and the longest of all when you're six foot-three inches tall like _moi._ Everyone around me slept after the meal, but _moi_ could naught. The headphones playing classical music, the window to my left showing nothing but black above and beneath the 747, even Northwest's glossy magazine...nothing helped.

After an hour of fidgeting, I threw in the proverbial towel. Armed with my father's story, I crawled over the prone form next to me and planted my butt in an aft lav. Toilet lid down, I made myself comfortable on the plastic throne.

Once again, I stared at Da's words. First page, first sentence: _This be what I remember, though there are moments I can't believe these events occurred._

"This _is_ what I remember," I said to the text. "Not _be_. Not _meself_. Not _me mates_."

Da's voice answered: _Be me oul tongue, fella._

"Um-hmm."

It be.

"What am I supposed to do with your oul story?"

Be yer problem, lad. Find me money...or don't. Maybe you'll strike it rich; maybe you won't. Maybe you'll stick it to those German bastards. Maybe-

"I won't."

Maybe.

Blowing a sigh, I rifled pages...

Front to back; back to front.

At last, I said: "No _maybe_. No _won't._ No ambiguity, Da. Am I helping you, or am I helping me?"

No response.

"Am I helping _anyone_?"

Again, no response.

I knew one thing: despite Sandi's optimism, thirty odd years had passed and the trail would be difficult to find.

_But not impossible,_ Da nattered.

"What am I getting into?" I muttered.

_It's too late now. You're on an airplane to West Germany, hotshot._ And in case you're wondering, this wasn't Da with the cheery proclamation. It was my brain giving me the business.

Stupid brain.

I was starting to get comfortable on the toilet, but then the little placard beckoned _Fasten Seatbelts,_ and the pilot garbled something about _turbulence_ and a _rough ride_. Chased from sanctuary by a strident, ball bearing flight attendant, I returned to my seat and wedged myself between the two somnolent fat bodies.

There I remained for the final three hours of the flight:

A restless, secondhand smoke-inhaling, mind-spinning, page-flipping, unhappy, jetsetter.

My stupid brain tried to tempt me with booze.

But I stayed sober.

_Miserably_ sober.

John Foley needed to keep his wits, see?

And I swore I would keep 'em...

_No matter what_.

True to her word, Sandi was waiting for _moi_ at the international arrival area of Frankfurt's Flughafenterminal Eins. I spotted her _post hasty_ holding a small, handwritten sign: " _Herr Foley_ ". She was a sight for stinging and tired eyes. I fondled and kissed her until she pushed me away.

"We're double parked," she explained. "Passion can wait until we're alone. You don't want to be like the last John Foley in Germany and draw the attention of the police."

"Nein," I barked in my best Sergeant Schultz impression.

After a short drive through dense traffic, we arrived at the hotel; the bed called my name, and I collapsed on the hard mattress with a sigh.

"You can nap a couple hours," Sandi said, "but we have to leave by noon."

"Leave?"

"We're meeting Jürgen Holte at three."

"Who?"

"Jürgen Holte. He's the politician I told you about. We're meeting him today, remember?"

"Oh...Christ, I forgot."

"Holte's in the Bundestag and-"

"The what?"

"Bundestag. The West German version of the House of Representatives."

"The _bunt-stag_? What kinda name is-"

"Bonn is two hours by Autobahn, and we need to make one stop. I want to give us plenty of time."

"When are we meeting...um...what's his name?"

"Jürgen Holte. Four. You brought the letter, manuscript and tattoo?"

I closed my eyes and said, "They're in the backpack."

Sound of a zipper, rustling and then Sandi said, "Where's the tattoo?"

"It's in there," I mumbled.

Another zipper, more rustling, Sandi sighing. "The jar isn't here, John. Did you put it in the suitcase?"

"I guess."

Clicking of fasteners, still more rustling, and then, "I can't find it."

I sat up and blinked peppers. "Are you sure? Did you look-"

"It's not here. All I see are clothes, the Regnesmachen letter and your father's story. No tattoo."

"Shit. I thought...I... _shit_."

"Shh...don't worry. We'll make due. The story and letter are what matter."

"Man, I'm such an idiot. I thought I packed it!"

"Relax, it's fine. Now, close your eyes. I need you well rested."

Despite my oversight, I laid back as the ole eyes slammed shut. Lickety-split, I forgot about the ink. I heard the blinds close and the click of a light switch...

# 33.

### Giessen

Like two old farts, we puttered along A-5 in the right lane as cars, box trucks, and semis passed on the left. Our rented BMW 1500 had the spunk of a tricycle, man. Maintaining a pedestrian _85 KPH_ entailed mashing the go-pedal to the floorboard. After twenty minutes, my right leg shook with palsy.

"Hell's bells," I bitched. "Couldn't you have found something with spunk?"

Staring a roadmap, Sandi mumbled, "We're on a tight budget. Besides, slow and steady gets us to Giessen in one piece."

"Not before sundown."

"You're doing fine, John. Just stay on _A-Fünf_ until we get to Giessen."

"Ah, good ole _Fünf_. Now there's a German name I can pronounce. So...remind me again: what's in _Guy-son_?"

"The Jewish International War Crimes Association."

"And...why are we stopping there?"

Sandi jammed the map on top of the dashboard and said, "Sarah Miller is driving us to Bonn."

"Sarah...right. Sorry, the brain fog is thick. And in Bonn, our politician friend... _what's his name_ ...awaits?"

"Correct. Jürgen Holte is a representative from the State of Hesse. According to Sarah, Holte believes the German government, East and West, hasn't done enough to atone for the past. He's made it a point to further the efforts of the JIWCA and other like-minded institutions..."

• • •

We moseyed into Giessen and arrived at the JIWCA -a five-story brick building on Grunbergerstrasse- ten minutes before our 1:30 appointment. The Association didn't appear to be a fly-by-night operation; five stories were four more than I expected. I don't know...I guess peeping the joint with thine eyes made things real...or _realer_. Sandi's rhetoric about do-good politicians and social activists was fine and dandy, but I believed _all_ of those cats (at least, the cats in the States) worked the reverse Teddy Roosevelt: they spoke loud and carried a small stick.

My mind hasn't changed since...but...

Ahem.

_But_ ...I'll cite the lack of sleep and the miserable flight over the pond...the _maybes_ and _whatnots_ and conversations in my head...as sufficient motivation for my temporary insanity. For a moment, I considered _something_ would come of our legwork.

And it _would_ start inside the five-story building.

Shit, with Sandi at my side...hell, leading the way...we were gonna: find the trail; right wrongs; help people; redeem Da's terrible legacy.

My hand in hers, smiles on our mugs, sunshine on our shoulders...

It's a sweet story, ain't it?

Uh-huh. Sweet as cow flop.

My oul dear and the receptionist had a stilted conversation in German while I hovered in the background. They went back and forth...I sensed something amiss in the secretary's demeanor...and her wan pallor...but a second round of jetlag had set in and...

"Bitte, setz dich und," whispered the receptionist, gesturing at the chairs in the lobby. She yanked a handset, presented her back, spouted guttural German into the phone...

...and since I was more than happy to take a load off, I grabbed Sandi's left arm and dragged her to plushy nibbana.

Down I went, ass to cushion in zero flat, but Sandi paced, nibbled on a thumbnail, and stared daggers at the frau.

I patted the seat next to me and ordered, "Sit down."

"Something's not right," she muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"Sarah always meets me in the lobby. And the receptionist is acting strange."

"Oh, relax, will ya. Maybe Sarah's at lunch or-"

"She's never late."

"Well...then...she might be in the potty or something."

"What?"

"Taking a tinkle or a number-"

An atmosphere-clearing cough interrupted my scatological attempt at succor. A lanky, bald gentleman in a suit and tie stood at rigid attention, studying Sandi and I behind thick glasses. He had the pallor of a corpse and could've passed for any age between thirty and sixty years old.

"Ich bin Norman Leavitt," he said in an expressionless, Lurch-like voice. "Was kann ich für Dich tun?"

Sandi, electing English as the better medium, said, "I'm here for Sarah Miller."

Looking perturbed, Lurch cleared his throat and then said, "I'm Norman Leavitt. You asked to speak to me?"

"No," Sandi said, "we're here to see Sarah Miller."

Leavitt presented a suggestion of expression -a furrowed brow and obvious flinch- and said, "My apologies. Sarah is...unavailable."

"Unavailable?" Sandi asked. "We have an appointment at one-thirty."

"I'm the director of the Association," Leavitt explained. "If Sarah was working a case for you, perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Was?" Sandi asked.

"Fräulein Miller is no longer with the Association."

"Since when?"

"I cannot discuss the personal matters of my associates."

"But-"

"Would you like my assistance or not," he said, not asked, with a hint of irritation. Then he added a glance at his watch to suggest: _You're wasting my time._

My trans-Atlantic promise to keep wits, _no matter what_ , began to crumble; I deduced a little American masculinity needed to butt into the conversation _post hasty_. Yet...I took a deep breath. Sandi's oil greased the skids; she could handle the Lurch...Leavitt...whatever...sled.

"I spoke with Sarah yesterday afternoon," said Sandi. "We arranged-"

Lurch grumbled: "As I've explained, Sarah is no longer with the Association, Miss...what is your name?"

"I'm Sandi Hinger. This is my boyfriend, John Foley."

I received no acknowledgement from Lurch, not even a head nod. He checked his watch (again) and said, "Miss Hinger, I've had quite the day. Pardon my brusqueness, but we'll have to continue our conversation later. Please leave your contact information with Fräulein Grift at the counter. I'll be in touch at my earliest convenience."

"No..." Sandi sighed. "No, you don't understand, Herr Leavitt. Sarah, John and I are supposed to-"

"How many ways can I say, Sarah is no longer with the Association? _Sarah ist keine Angestellte mehr. Shrh arbet nit mer. She no longer works here._ As I stated: If you desire further assistance, leave your information with Fräulein Grift. I, or someone else, will get back to you when the time is convenient."

Needless to say, Lurch's churlish tone was _really_ getting under my skin.

My brain yapped: _Fuck this motherfucker!_

" _Ahem._ Do you have another way to contact Sarah?" I asked Sandi.

She said: "I have her address and phone number."

I stood, brushed my slacks and said, "Wonderful. We'll get a hold of her on our own and go from there." Then I gave Lurch the squinty, hairy eyeball and added, "We've travelled a long way, pal. The luxury of your convenience is something we can't afford."

"I'm afraid it will be impossible to contact to her," Leavitt said in a wooden voice. "Sarah passed away last night. Car accident."

Sandi squeaked and fell into a chair like her legs gave out.

"A terrible loss," Leavitt continued without modulation. "I received the unpleasant news this morning. As you can imagine, we're trying to process her loss. At the same time, her cases must be catalogued-"

"Oh my god," moaned Sandi.

"Yes, shocking," clucked Leavitt. "I didn't want to be the bearer...you understand? The work she did for you will have to be handled by someone else. If you're concerned about time, I will peruse your file as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I will need days to review the information."

_Figures,_ my mind griped. Don't get me wrong, I felt awful about Sarah, and Sandi...her sobs broke my heart. But, as my optimism deflated, angst -not sadness- filled the void. My mood rocketed to sour with a snap of fingers. I hadn't spent but a few hours in West German and Sandi's plans appeared shot to shit. So, yeah, _figures_.

"To help me better understand, what was the nature of Sarah's research?" Leavitt asked.

He looked to me for an answer; I jerked my melon at Sandi.

"It-it's complicated," she said, wiping eyes. "John's father spent almost six years in various camps. We learned the details a month ago."

Leavitt scrutinized my appearance (the S.I. Irish guise: curly, red hair; fat, rounded nose; dry, pasty skin) and then said, "Sir, if your father was confined in a Stalag, the war ministry in Bonn is a better place to start your search. Sarah wouldn't have been much help."

"No," Sandi argued, "John's father wasn't a POW. The SS arrested him before the war and he spent time in Neuengamme, Sachsenhausen and Auschwitz. Sarah was researching money taken from him when he was arrested."

"Money?"

"Sarah never spoke of us, or our questions, to you?"

"No, I'm not aware of the work she did on your behalf. Hm...I'm sure I would've heard something. Sarah advised me on all matters."

"She never mentioned the word Regnesmachen?"

Leavitt's eyes narrowed and appraised us like we were full-of-shit. "Regnesmachen?" he spat. "What is...are you certain you spoke to Sarah Miller?"

Sandi looked confused; she rose, put her hand on my arm and stammered, "I-I-I'm positive."

Leavitt exhaled. Maybe he was breathing, but it sounded like a snort. A _contemptuous_ snort.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I cried. "You can't think we're making this up?"

"The Association is a favored stop for eccentrics," Leavitt lectured. He must've caught the hint of red on my cheeks because he raised hands and said, "No offense, sir. I'm not implying you're crazy, but there's obvious confusion. I _suppose_ it's _possible_ you're mistaken about to whom you spoke. The language barrier can be an obstacle."

"Excuse me," Sandi said with sass, "but someone in your office calling herself _Sarah Miller_ went to the trouble of arranging an appointment with a government official in Bonn. If you aren't aware, then it appears she organized this on her own."

Leavitt reacted to this information with a snarky: "Who are you meeting in the government?"

"Why do you care?" I asked, shedding Sandi's arm.

"This is peculiar," Leavitt fussed. "Dragging unsubstantiated claims to politicians doesn't endear our cause. Just the opposite. Such behavior presents the Association as undisciplined children. Granted, it has nothing to do with you. Sarah, or whomever, shouldn't have involved themselves in your father's problem. The Association doesn't search for money. We are after those who perpetrated crimes on Jews and avoided punishment for their misconduct. Your father wasn't Jewish, correct?"

"Matter of fact, Norman, he _was_ a Jew, but only for a couple months. He didn't take to the religion. I gather it was kinda like eating rancid meat or something."

Leavitt decided our conversation had reached its conclusion. I wonder why? "I suggest you go elsewhere in your search," he snapped. "And, by the way, your comments are _most_ offensive! Good day, sir. I believe you know the way out."

Wonderful! I could see we weren't going to get anywhere with the motherfucker, but Sandi (bless her heart) tried one last time: " _Sarah_ _Miller_ assisted us. I spoke to her on the phone or in person at least two dozen times. How else would we know to come here? Herr Leavitt, could you see if she's left any notes? There must be-"

"No, I cannot. I've already told you, the Association doesn't handle money matters. Now, it's time for both of you to leave," Leavitt said, as he helped himself to a handful of Sandi's slight left bicep.

Confrontation didn't scare me, but I had a recurring problem of picking fights poorly. However, I was confident I could take the skinny German with one hand tied.

"Listen asshole," I growled, "I would love nothing more than to remove those glasses from your face and feed them to you. But, as Sandi reminded me earlier, the last John Foley arrested in Germany didn't fare too well. So, I'm _kindly_ asking you to remove your hand. You get one warning, fucker."

Leavitt grinned and raised his arms as if surrendering to me. "You amuse me with your threats," he said through the shit-eating grin. "Bullies like to threaten, but it's no different than a barking dog afraid to bite. If Sarah talked with you, it wasn't in her capacity as an employee of the Association. Maybe she asked you for money to do her work, yes? She wasn't beyond this sort of behavior."

Sandi about jumped out of her skin: "How dare you! She never asked me for anything!"

For good measure, I poked Normy in the chest. "You've been a real peach," I said, jabbing with each syllable, "but we have an appointment in Bonn. I'll be sure to mention your name."

Still grinning, Leavitt nodded at the door and shooed us with a limp wrist.

"And I'll make sure to come back and see you before we leave your fucked-up country," I added with one final pointer-finger jab into Leavitt's left shoulder.

"Yes, yes," Leavitt tutted. "Run along, then. Have a nice day. Enjoy the pleasant weather."

• • •

Back behind the wheel, I tore through traffic like a maniac. The drive to Bonn was supposed to take almost two hours; I intended to make it in half the time. As such, the shitty rental rattled like it was reentering the Earth's atmosphere from space.

Sandi gripped the humming dashboard and said, "John, relax and slow down. Take a deep breath."

"Isn't that bastard supposed to work for victims' rights?" I asked. "And what about his crack about Sarah? She's not even cold and he's trashing her!"

"I know, I know. It took all my self-control not to slap him in the face. Sarah wasn't misleading me, nor did she ask for a payment."

"All right, I hate to pretend like nothing happened, but how bad do we need her today?"

"Sarah knew Holte; she worked with him in the past. Her influence would've been helpful. And...and I can't help but think...oh, you're going to think I'm crazy but...but..."

"Spit it out."

"But what if Sarah's accident isn't a coincidence?"

"Mmm..." I droned. "Jeez, Sandi..."

(Quick like, my encounter with Ray at the _2 and 1/2_ replayed in my head. I knew the IRA hadn't done anything to Sarah; as we scooted to Bonn, Ray was planted at... _Madigan's_ ...in... _Donnybrook_ ...doing whatever Ray did at Madigan's in Donnybrook: drinking ale; plotting bombings; shaking down the aristocracy...the usual Brotherhood junk.

If not the IRA, tho...

...and it wouldn't have been them because Ray wanted the whatchacallit... _the riven_ ...

...then...

...eh...

...err...

...see, therein lies the devil. Once you start down the _what if_ slope, gravity becomes a queen bitch. Best to mash the brakes, and how. Besides, accidents happen _all the time!_ Every day, millions of people got smoked for one no good reason or another: strokes, alligators, lightning strikes, car whatnots and drunk whonots and...

...and bad luck, man, you dig?

_Ahem_ ...)

"...let's not jump to radical conclusions," I finished in my most urbane, pooh-poohish voice.

"I guess...I guess you're right," Sandi whispered.

"Thank you."

"But-"

"No, no, no. No _but_. You were doing fine with, _you're right_. Don't ruin it with _but_."

"Sorry, I just can't help _but_ think about Leavitt's attitude."

"Leavitt's a condescending prick. I work with enough of 'em at the bank to recognize the M.O."

" _But_ to your point: he's supposed to be an advocate for victims' rights. John, he didn't want to listen to anything we said."

I didn't want to defend Lurch, _but_ ..."Look, he doesn't know us and it sounds like Sarah did the research on her own. Maybe Leavitt's a little flabbergasted or a lot pissed."

"Why would he be pissed? The JIWCA is supposed to help victims of the Holocaust."

"He's pissed because Sarah went above his head. Do you know how my boss would react if I didn't adhere to the chain of command?"

Sandi whistled and then said, "Wow, what a rational explanation."

"Remember this the next time I do something irrational."

"Fair enough, but try to be cordial to Holte."

"Depends what he says."

"What if he says _tough luck_?"

"Then he says _tough luck._ After what happened back there, would you be shocked if he didn't?"

"No, but I'd be disappointed. Sarah had a good heart and she...she was a wonderful person. Even though I didn't know her long... _ugh_ ...I'm gonna cry. I-I considered her a friend, John. All those hours we spent together...now our work seems pointless and worse, she's gone. I'm sorry for dragging you here. I shouldn't have been so pushy."

"I could turn around and we could fly home tomorrow. If you want to go, we'll go. We'll go and forget this ever happened."

Teary-eyed, she leaned her head against the window and asked, "Do you want to leave?"

At Sandi's insistence, I dropped everything; I borrowed money from my mother. I warned Sandi nothing would come of the impulsive mission. Yet, despite my sage advice, I came. Returning to the States after two days amounted to a colossal waste of both time and cash. Plus, I felt we owed Sarah to honor the appointment.

"Let's talk to Holte and see what he thinks," I said. "I don't want to leave anything on the table, not after the effort you and Sarah have made."

"Good," she sniffled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"And if he's not interested, we go on an adventure. A week of hosteling and train jumping sound good to you?"

"I'm not sleeping in a hostel."

"You can't knock it until you try."

"Diane stayed in hostels when she backpacked Europe two summers ago. She told me people had sex in the bunk above hers." Before I could utter a witty response, Sandi punched my arm and said, "Just concentrate on the road. And slow down."

# 34.

### Bonn

As we sat in the white-walled anteroom waiting for Jürgen Holte, I felt a conflicting tussle of emotions. On the one hand, I assumed this was our last chance to get anywhere with Da's information. We could keep pestering others if Holte passed but to what end? I decided I could stomach a curt dismissal. Sandi would be dissatisfied, but it's how the cookie crumbles and all the rest.

On the other hand, staring at a white wall for fifteen minutes allowed my imagination to roll. What -or whom- did I picture? Norman Leavitt. His smug attitude and insults...calling _me_ a bully? If nothing else, I wanted to march into Leavitt's office and prove Sarah's work meant something.

At last, a flimsy plywood door opened and the German politician materialized through a cloud of cigarette smoke. After my eyes stopped watering and my vision cleared, I suppressed a chuckle with a dry swallow. Jürgen Holte presented a conspicuous appearance. Cue the Rod Serling voiceover: _Picture a man, south of his best years, perhaps in his last years_ ...

His looked like Max von Sydow circa _Hour of the Wolf_ crossed with an ageing Bozo the Clown:

Tall;

Lean, creased, pallid face;

Mussed gray hair receded from a pronounced forehead;

Giant, bulbous nose laced with gin blossoms;

Wrinkled, yellow dress shirt;

A slack, black tie hung to the crotch of sagging, avocado colored slacks;

A heater -more ash than additive- drooped from the right corner of a wide, compressed mouthline.

I knew -without doubt- politics in West Germany were different from America in at least one aspect: Jürgen Holte wouldn't get elected in the U.S. if he campaigned in the ridiculous get-up.

Well, that and fellas like George Wallace were still relevant figures in American politics...but I digress.

"John Foley?" Holte asked in scratchy voice. Somehow, the ass end of the unfiltered cigarette remained stuck on his lower lip.

Fanning the air, I answered, "Yes, sir, and this is my girlfriend, Sandi Hinger. Thank you for seeing us."

Sandi gave a timid wave, but Holte ignored her and hacked, "Where's Sarah Miller?"

My girl and I exchanged a look...

"Sarah told me she'd be here," Holte said.

"It seems Sarah passed away last evening," I said.

" _Was?_ " Holte yapped. "Last night?"

"Sandi and I stopped at the JIWCA in _Guy-sun_ on the way here and received the news from this mother... _ahem_ ...Norman Leavitt. He's the-"

"I know Herr Leavitt," Holte interrupted. "He told you she's dead?"

I nodded and said, "A car accident."

The politician took a deep drag of the heater and then exhaled smoke through flaring nostrils. "Poor Sarah," he whispered. "Where?"

I said: "Leavitt didn't elaborate. He was...you know...kinda terse."

Holte flicked the smoke into a standup ashtray and grumbled something in German under his breath.

"Um, excuse me," Sandi peeped. "I'm just as upset, Herr Holte. I got to know Sarah over the last month; I'd go so far as to call her a friend. If it wasn't for her, John and I wouldn't be here today. On the drive to your office, we talked about turning around and going back to the States. But we came because we feel the story of John's father is too important to dismiss. While I'm saddened and, yes, we could have used Sarah's help going forward, John and I can summarize the information and present the documents we have. We don't want to make this trip in vain."

"Oh, you needn't worry about me kicking you out of here," Holte said. "I'm curious to hear what the fuss is about. Besides, I've blocked the time. Waste not, yes?"

He led us to a compact office and squeezed his tall frame through the small doorway. Of course, the room smelled of smoke; a tiny desk overflowed with stacks of papers and thick books. Holte sucked in his gut as he fell into the chair behind it, and then motioned me to shut the door. In order to accomplish this simple task, Sandi and I had to lean against the desk. During the contortions, I managed to knock a shit ton of papers onto the floor.

"Leave them," Holte said. "There are folding chairs against the wall to your left. Have a seat and try to get comfortable."

I unfolded the squeaky contraptions and chuckled, "Bit of a tight squeeze, heh?"

(An understatement, by the way: Sandi and I sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs to the wall, elbows-to-knees, shins jammed against the frame of Holte's desk. The rigid posture -and hazy atmosphere- evoked memories of sitting steerage in Northwest's 747; whatever muscle kinks I worked out after the flight returned with a vengeance. Believe you me, I would have rather stood on one foot...but there wasn't enough room to allow it.)

"Yes, my office is small," Holte rumbled. "As a member of the CDU, I'm not _in step_ with the majority Social Democratic Party, so they stick me in a glorified closet! Not even a window! I'm fortunate I don't work from the boot of my automobile. I try to spend as little time in here as possible which means... _ahem_ ...shall we get to it?"

For the next hour, as my ass took a nap, Sandi and I told Holte everything up to the moment we left the JIWCA in Giessen. (Well, _almost_ everything: We failed to mention _why_ Leavitt asked us to leave...must've slipped our minds or something. And my interactions with Ray didn't make the cut. It also slipped my mind, go figure.)

We presented the Regnesmachen letter and Da's manuscript; we described the cutting and trading of tattoos; we hit every salient point and then hit them again. Holte didn't interrupt or ask questions, but scribbled notes on a Steno Pad and lit one cigarette off another.

When we were finished, the German fired another heater and then said, "I must say, this is interesting. The IRA connection is worth examining, but I'm not surprised the Third Reich shook hands with a paramilitary group. The intricacies, though...you have quite a story. It'd keep the historians busy. Now, this Regnesmachen business? I'm not sure what to make of it."

"We're hoping you'd have, um...input," Sandi said.

I decided to cut to the chase: "Or launch an investigation."

Holte studied his pad before saying: "Input...investigation...hm...fine, I'll be blunt: When Sarah phoned, she was rather cagy. She mentioned a case, an Irishman surviving the Holocaust, which piqued my interest. And she said it is _possible_ Nazi plunder sits in a bank somewhere, waiting to be discovered. Again, intriguing. The consensus is, most of the Third Reich's procurements were discovered after the war. But Sarah said nothing about Regnesmachen and Auschwitz numbers tied to bank accounts. If she had...well, I don't think we'd be meeting today."

Sandi sank in her chair like a delated balloon.

"Account numbers on skin," Holte mused. "You have to admit, it sounds ridiculous. And the idea those who survived could somehow use their numbers to gain access to their funds? Assuming... _ahem,_ you're making many assumptions. How come nobody has talked of Regnesmachen, save Mister Foley's father? Nothing in the annals; nothing mentioned at Nuremburg. A conspiracy so well-hidden, nobody has _ever_ uttered a word."

"I know it must sound outlandish," mumbled Sandi.

"Yes, outlandish," Holte said with a shake of his head. "Outlandish...but not impossible. Indeed, such conspiracies _are_ real. The Holocaust is a conspiracy, and I use _is_ because the conspiracy _is_ ongoing. The Final Solution didn't end with the war. Some of the responsible were arrested, tried, and punished, but who knows how many were not? Men and women remain in hiding, shielded by sympathetic governments or like-minded fanatics. Others...let's say...eh...individuals with a capacity to construct space programs and weapons for superpowers...they walk amongst us. Is this not a conspiracy?"

"Then you believe us?" I asked.

"I believe _anything_ is possible," Holte said. "Understand: from the planning, execution and dismantling of the camps, the Holocaust required a united effort of many criminals' intent on keeping a terrible secret. The problem is...er, _problem_ is the wrong word...the _fact_ is, we have _evidence_ of this conspiracy. What evidence do you have of Regnesmachen? A tome from a dead man? The letter from the Reichsbank? I can't take this to my colleagues. I may have an open mind, but they would find the story too farfetched to believe.

First the bullshit from Leavitt, now the brushoff by Holte. "Awesome," I scoffed. "You believe us, but you're not willing to do anything."

Holte forced a smile and annunciated, " _Ihre Beweise sind keine Beweise_."

I forced a smile of my own and said, "Pardon my French, but I don't speak fucking German."

"John, please" Sandi groaned.

"It's fine," Holte said. "What I told you is, your evidence-"

"-is not evidence," Sandi finished.

"Ah, you speak German," Holte said with an approving nod.

"You'd tell Sarah the same thing if she were sitting here, huh?" I asked.

Holte laced hands behind his head and said, "Without question. _Ihre Beweise sind keine Beweise._ And she'd stare at me with the same sour expressions I see on your faces. But let me tell you about Sarah Miller: her mother's parents were murdered at Treblinka; her mother survived the Holocaust; her father was a Polish Jew who fought for the resistance. He fled the communists after the war and snuck his way into West Germany before the Wall was built. What kind of a child would these two survivors produce? A _warrior_. A warrior and a crusader. Sarah joined the Association because she wanted those responsible to pay for their actions. I didn't know Sarah long, but I've never met anyone who worked as hard as she.

"I met Sarah in the spring of 1970, when she came -unannounced- to the Bundestag to solicit my help. I'm one of fifteen representatives from the Bundesländer, or State, of Hesse, and I serve the people of the Giessen Regierungsbezirk, administrative district or region, of Hesse. Laubach, a city of ten thousand, falls within my district. Sarah suspected a prominent businessman and resident of Laubach as a former guard at Treblinka, but suspicion is not proof. What she needed was access to SS rosters, but those are in Berlin. Of course, working with the communists in the East is difficult. According to Sarah, the governing board of the JWICA told her not to waste her time, and the Associations money, pressing the issue.

"So, one fateful day, Sarah rapped on my office door. Before I could ask her who she was, she blurted: 'Do you want a Nazi living in your district?' _Humph._ I joined the Christian Democratic Union in 1949 because its founders were anti-Nazis. Konrad Adenauer, Andreas Hermes and Eugen Gerstenmaier were members of the July 1944 putsch. In lieu of execution, they were tortured until the Red Army liberated Berlin.

"I won't bore you with my complete personal history, but I was raised in Fronhausen, a small town in the south of the Hesse-Nassau province. They're weren't ardent Nazis in Fronhausen. My father made and sold his own furniture; in 1937, after he passed away, my brother and I took over the business. None of my family were Party members; we made tables, chairs and cabinets. In late-1944, at the age of thirty-seven, I was conscripted into the Luftwaffe and sent to Frankfurt; I served in an anti-aircraft division as a searchlight operator until the Americans arrived in March 1945. I was fortunate: my battery had been located in the western suburb of Kelkheim. My commander took the sorry collection under his charge -old men, adolescents and furniture makers like myself- and marched us under a white flag to the Americans. Had we been in the city proper when the invasion took place...but here I am. Fate saved me the indignity of being labeled a hero for the Nazi cause. Alfred, my brother, wasn't as lucky: he died defending Cologne.

"The Americans transported us to Breitenau for vetting and reeducation. We were threatened with prison, insulted and shown the breadth of Germany's crimes. Some men questioned what they saw; they labelled it propaganda. Not I. Millions dead! _Millions_! Nazi Germany was a machine driven by murder and misery! I questioned my value as both a German and a human being. I could claim ignorance; I could claim: _I made furniture_ , _not ovens_! But I didn't reside under a rock. The reality was, _out of sight_ , _out of mind_. What kind of a man was I? My indifference made me sick.

"After my release from Breitenau, I returned to Fronhausen and furniture making. But resuming a normal life became a pointless exercise. The war, the occupation, the uncertainty of what or who would come next...I'm not a communist, and I wanted nothing to do with Soviets. The Americans were cordial after a while, but travel was limited, curfews were enforced and the economy was in tatters. I wondered if it would always be this way until I obsessed about the future day and night. Finally, I realized sitting on my haunches had done me no favors in the past. I told my wife I needed to get involved! She looked at me like I had gone mad. _'You?'_ she asked. _'What are you going to do?'_

"Angst and curiosity compelled me to attended a meeting of Central Democrats in Frankfurt. Amid a sparse, unenthusiastic audience, Konrad Adenauer stumped for a democratic movement intent on returning parliamentary government to the people of Germany. There wasn't fiery rhetoric or hyperbole; in a flat voice, Herr Adenauer stated: _conflict amongst Germans created the Nazi Party._ If Germany meant to reclaim its humanity, every German had to accept the role they played in the past. The CDU would not tolerate Nazism, fascism, or talk the war was instigated by Versailles, the Weimer Republic, communists...nothing but the idiocy of fanatics. He also dreamed of reunification and the return of millions of _Heimatvertriebene_ -German citizens captured by the Red Army- stuck in Eastern Bloc countries. Well, Konrad Adenauer's dream of reunification is one I will not see in my lifetime...

"Anyway..." Holte sighed, "I joined the CDU at the end of the night. Then, with a handful of others, I went about spreading the good word amongst the rural communities of Hesse and Darmstadt. Much to my surprise, I gained a following. Perhaps I'm a natural politician...or the people were desperate...it doesn't matter. What mattered was, they witnessed and heard a humble workingman with a harmless war record present a heuristic future. Not long after the war, the Western Allies restructured Hesse-Nassau, Hesse became a state, and I was selected to represent my district as a member of the provisional state administration. In 1962, I was elected to the Bundestag. I've been in Bonn since. The CDU, the majority party since Adenauer was elected Chancellor in 1949, became the minority party in 1969. Chancellor Brandt and the Social Democrats are running things now and...and dinosaurs like me are no longer preaching the right words. Some of my colleagues have changed stripes, others have retired...as it should be, I suppose. Politics is a fluid enterprise. But with regards to _my_ view on National Socialism, I have not wavered, and I never will.

"Therefore, you have my answer to Sarah Miller's question: No, I didn't want Nazis living in Laubach, or Hesse, or _any_ portion of Germany. To get the SS records she requested, I crossed the aisle and did business with a Social Democrat who had ties to the Stasi. Are, eh...are either of you familiar with the Stasi?"

I shook my head, but Sandi answered, "East German state security."

"The _Staatssicherheitsdienst_ ," Holte spat. "My, how similar it sounds to another German word: _Schutzstaffel._ "

"The SS," I said.

"Yes, a German word _everyone_ knows," Holte said. "I won't tell you what my backdooring cost me, but my reputation within the CDU is forever tarnished. What of it? I handed Sarah her information and felt no guilt. Weeks passed, and then Sarah returned. Agitated, she described how the board of the JWICA chastised her for seeking help from the West German government; they claimed, she said, her foray presented the Association as _rabblerousing Jews_. They pulled her from the case...and nothing more was to come of it. Can you imagine? I intended to raise hell with the Association...but Sarah had a better idea: she contacted a socialist tabloid in Stuttgart, the _Stuttgarter Zeitung_ ; the paper broke the story and the ex-Nazi is rotting in jail, where he belongs." He squinted at me and asked, "Why am I sharing this story?"

_To bore me to tears_ , hovered on the end of my tongue, but I knew why, and so did Sandi. "You're telling us to keep searching," she surmised.

"It's what Sarah _would've_ done," Holte mumbled, as he lit another cigarette.

"Look, man," I said, "we're not Jewish advocates. Leavitt seemed less than thrilled to see us, and not at all interested in what we had to say. Like...I understand why, I guess, but it'd be helpful if, you know...you _helped._ "

"A brilliant idea!" Holte jeered. "I'll phone the economic minister tonight and announce, 'Helmut, listen to what I've been told by two young Americans!' He'll laugh me off the line."

"We could go to another group," Sandi said.

"Sure," Holte said. "The Irish Holocaust Association is...where again?"

"Or the newspapers," she rejoined.

" _Ihre Beweise sind keine Beweise,_ " Holte rasped.

"You want _us_ to find more evidence?" I laughed.

Holte winked at me and said, "Your German is getting better."

"What's the German word for, _I doubt a couple young Americans are going to have any success on their own_?" I asked.

"Goodness, Herr Foley, you're speaking to a German politician in the Bundestag! Did you expect to find yourself here when you began reading your father's story? And what was it you said? _We don't want to make this trip in vain_?"

"Yeah, we don't, or didn't, which is why we came to see you," I said. "Besides, we're on a fixed budget. _And_ we're returning to the States in five days. We can't-"

" _Six_ days," corrected Sandi.

I gave Sandi the side eye and said, "We can't spend more than six days hunting rumors."

"Then we accelerate the process," Holte said. "One way or another, we determine if Regnesmachen is a work of fact or fiction. Fiction? You go home with the satisfaction of making the effort. Fact? I roll my sleeves."

Sandi straightened in her chair; I adjusted my ass and shrugged.

"I'm thinking on the fly," he said, "so bear with me. I know a man..."

Holte's piehole yakked a simple plan: the honorable representative said he'd arrange a sit-down with a Deutschbank official named Dieter Kleinmann. He wouldn't tell Dieter our business, only we had an inquiry about an old account...

"Deutschbank's world headquarters are located in Frankfurt. If evidence of open accounts, as you put it, exists somewhere in the records, they'll be found there. Oh, and you'll have to act naïve," Holte warned. "Tell Dieter your father opened a Regnesmachen account in the 30s. Perhaps you say...eh...yes, your father belonged to the Nazi party and he-"

I interrupted Holte with a cough and then said, "Maybe we should, like, tone it down a notch."

"No, no," Holte argued. "Who do you think had the capacity to open large bank accounts in Germany in the 30s? What's important is your father had a change of heart, saw the error in his ways, read the tea leaves...something innocuous to explain his departure from Germany. Because he left in haste, your father never had the opportunity to close his account. You only learned of his secret after he died. This isn't a wild deviation from the truth, Foley."

"It sounds like you don't trust your friend," I said.

"He's a banker!" Holte exclaimed. "Of course I don't trust him, _he-he_. But I kid. It's not about trust so much as...okay, _it is_ about trust, but in a good way. Dieter's a tangential acquaintance, a man I've met at conferences and so forth. He's a staid representative of the bank and I expect he'll conduct a systematic audit...which brings me to my last point: You _cannot_ make Dieter apprehensive. There are many avenues this could travel. We need to be discreet."

"Then what?" asked Sandi.

"You phone me after your meeting and tell me what you've found. Nothing? We are at the dreaded dead end. If there's fire, we creep forward to the next road."

"Why can't this Dieter fella call you with the information?" I asked.

"Dieter will be a better resource if he doesn't think I'm looking over his shoulder."

Sandi squeezed my knee and said, "I'm game."

I thought there were a few avenues Holte's plan _would_ travel, none of them in the right direction...and I was correct, but not in the way I suspected. _Dead end_ , yes. _Dead bodies_ ...I mean, more than there already were...no. Asking a banker to unearth Regnesmachen seemed like a half-assed scheme, a scrap Holte tossed to satisfy my plaintive request he help us.

Whatever. I nodded my head and figured Sandi and I would waste another day or two before hitting the road.

Holte took a business card from his desk, turned it over, scribbled a number, and handed it to me. "My home line," he said. "Call me tomorrow morning before ten and we'll discuss the next step."

After two hours sitting in Holte's office, Sandi and I weren't jazzed to spend another two hours driving back to Frankfurt. Instead, we walked to a park across the street and gazed at the statue of a long dead Teutonic hero. There are more of these statues in German parks than there are pigeons to shit on them.

With my arm around Sandi's shoulder, we strolled the leafy green looking like honeymooners instead of secret agents. Not like I considered us spies or anything, but the impending _clandestine_ pursuit gave me just enough ammunition to stoke the ole mind's eye.

"What a rollercoaster of a day," Sandi said. "I'm glad Holte's willing to work with us, but I can't stop thinking about Sarah."

"Mmm..." I grumbled.

"What?"

" _Willing to work with us_ is a liberal interpretation of what took place in his office."

"He didn't kick us out."

"No, he... _ahem_ ...we'll see."

"John, he _is_ helping. Besides, I doubt Sarah expected Jürgen to move mountains. We put the idea in Holte's ear; he gave us the name of a banker. What more do you want?"

"I don't know."

"Right."

"I thought we'd raise a little hell or something."

"I'm not trying to raise hell; I'm trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing better not take too long, or we'll be thumbing to the States."

She laughed and then said, "At least we'll do it together."

Ah, isn't Sandi a sweetie? And because she's such a sweetie, I thought about raising the subject of marriage, or my mother's belief we were getting married. How would I start the conversation? _For some foolish reason, my mother thinks we're getting married in the spring..._

Anyway, I decided to forgo the subject. The marriage b and s could wait until our mission in West Germany concluded.

• • •

I phoned Holte after breakfast the next morning; he gave me pithy instructions:

"Dieter Kleinmann will meet you at the Deutschbank in Frankfurt, one o'clock, in the atrium. I don't mean to sound fussy, but what I'm asking of Dieter is not _quite_ legal."

"Meaning?"

"He might be inimical."

I didn't know what inimical meant (still don't) and grunted instead of confessing ignorance.

"We'll see what Dieter turns up and go from there," Holte said. "Good news or bad, we'll talk later."

# 35.

### Frankfurt

As planned, Dieter Kleinmann greeted Sandi and I in the lavish, sprawling, three-story atrium (vaulted glass ceiling, gilded cherubs, a fountain, sitting area lined with puffy chairs, and a bevy of professional looking people -all wearing glasses- moving _post hasty_ ) in the Frankfurt headquarters of the Deutschbank:

Despite my healthy self-esteem, I felt conspicuous in my t-shirt and Levi's...but being a sore thumb meant Dieter had no problem locating Sandi and me: he made a beeline for us as if we jerked a string tied to his gonads.

Kleinmann looked the part of haughty, important bank official: dark, expensive three piece; gold cufflinks; lack of hair; prerequisite glasses; limp handshake.

"John Foley," he said, in impeccable English. "Pleased to meet you. And Missus Foley, I presume?"

"Ah..." I garbled, "this is my girlfriend, Sandi Hinger."

"Hello, Sandi," Kleinmann greeted, offering another wet noodle. "My office is on the third floor. The elevator is this way."

Up we went and in we sat; Kleinmann's office appeared fresh from the factory. Soft leather chairs, not a paper out of place nor dust motes floating in the sunbeam shining through one of the six windows. In other words, a far cry from Jürgen Holte's sty.

The first order of business? Well, let me put it this way: Herr Kleinmann wasn't just a banker, he was a _German_ banker. Though we were thrown together to bend, if not break the rules, he insisted the formalities of banking be observed: he forced me to sign the security log and report the nature of my visit.

"What do you want me to write?" I asked.

"I'm told you're here to search for a missing or abandoned account. Pen in... _account discovery._ "

Holte said we were involved in something _not quite legal;_ how could I keep our business a secret if we logged the activity? _Whatever you want_ , I decided, and wrote as instructed.

Satisfied, Kleinmann opened the conversation, "Jürgen mentioned you want to trace an old account. So you're aware, the normal protocol for an action like this requires the due diligence of two managers. As a courtesy to Jürgen, I'm willing to forgo the red tape."

"Thank you, Mister Kleinmann."

"Please, call me Dieter."

"Alright, Dieter, here's the situation: my father opened an account at the Reichsbank in the late-30s, but he left Germany before closing it. I discovered the information after he passed."

"Is it a personal account, or one created through his occupation?"

I gripped Sandi's hand, bowed my head and then reported, "I'm not proud to say, but he was a member of the Nazi Party."

Kleinmann frowned and muttered, "I see."

"But he left before the war. Change of heart or something."

"Foley? This isn't a German name."

"Um...yeah, you're right. He changed it. It used to be...von Foley."

My comment cracked Kleinmann's banker façade. He laughed and then said, "I understand, but what you ask will likely require an actual name."

"I just want to handle this shameful issue with discretion," I said. "Mother is beside herself."

"Herr Foley, we have an entire section downstairs, in the vaults, devoted to the Reichsbank business during the Nazi era. When the Reichsbank ceased operating in 1945, the bulk of what remained landed in Soviet hands. Concessions were made between the East and West to transfer pertinent books...and I don't know what defined _pertinent,_ but I assume a trade of some sort was brokered. Nevertheless, the bulk of the Reichsbank's material arrived from Berlin in 1952. Most of the archives were delivered to Frankfurt, the headquarters of Norddeutsche Bank. In 1957, Süddeutsche and Rheinisch-Westfälische merged with Norddeutsche to form the new national bank of West Germany, Deutschbank, with the headquarters in Frankfurt."

The history West Germany's financial evolution damn near put me to sleep, but I understood the meat of Kleinmann's dissertation. However, in case Sandi and I didn't follow, Kleinmann said: "All of the Reichsbank's records are here, in Frankfurt. I spend almost no time working with the collected archives, and what I've seen is mortgages, land deeds and titles, but there are individual accounts kept in a portion of the file room. I'd venture most haven't been examined since the creation of the Deutschbank fifteen years ago, but everything is housed in case we run into a situation like yours. Being said, I'll need an identifier for the account, otherwise you'll be forced to reveal your father's name."

"Regnesmachen," I answered.

"Account number?"

"217949."

Kleinmann jotted the information and then ogled the words. I could tell he wanted to pose supplemental questions, but the banker persona took over his soul. He passed a business card, asked me to phone in the morning and then ushered us to the street.

After we left the Deutschbank, I found a payphone and contacted Holte.

"Dieter was cooperative?" Holte asked.

"More than cooperative. He's rolling sleeves _post hasty_."

" _Post hasty_?"

"Kleinmann's on the job. I'm to phone him tomorrow. Fingers crossed, we hear good news..."

# 36.

"We Spent The Night..."

We spent the night in Frankfurt like an old married couple: I watched television while Sandi read a book ( _The_ _Masters of the Master Race_ , complete with a picture of an arms crossed, sullen Hitler on the dust jacket). Despite a heroic effort to enjoy a _Dreistufiger Fußball_ match, I stared at the pissed-off Führer more than the t.v. At the eightieth minute mark, in a gripping 1-0 game, I threw in the towel and decided to close my eyes. When I leaned over to kiss Sandi, she offered a smidgeon of cheek; her eyes remained glued to the guts of the book.

"Wow," I said. "I'm starting to think you find Herr Hitler more attractive than me."

"Uh-huh," she mumbled.

"What do you find most sexy about him? The mustache or the hair?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sandi," I said, snapping fingers.

She put a finger on a sentence and shot me an irritated look.

"How's your book?" I asked.

"Do you really want to know?"

"You haven't spoken to me in an hour. What are you reading?"

"Oh, the author traces the idea of a master race to the last century. The Southern politicians used the term 'master race' to justify slavery and writers ran with the concept. George Fitzhugh, Thomas Carlyle, John Van Evrie..."

I felt my eyes closing and she jabbed me with a pencil.

"You asked," she said, "so now you have to listen."

"I heard. We can thank the Confederacy for the Nazi scourge. Got it."

"No, my point is the Nazis were the latest to advocate the concept. They also took the philosophy a step further with eugenics."

"What now?"

"Mengele, Ritter, Brack, Bouhler...I know those names don't mean anything to you, but these so-called doctors were determined to build the perfect human through genetic experimentation. They treated people like animals. The old, children... _infants_ , John. Babies were tortured. Pulled apart..." Sandi shuddered and then continued, "After the war, they claimed their methods were in the guise of science."

"Science?"

"Yes, but I'm getting off track. The letter Otto Fuchs translated mentioned the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. Here, read this..." She flipped a couple pages and found an underlined sentence.

" _Ahem,"_ I gurgled, squinting at the small print: "Um... _In February 1945, Himmler instructed the commandants of all concentration camps to cease with the extermination of prisoners in an attempt to use them as a negotiating tool with the Western Allies._ "

Sandi produced the letter from the Reichsbank, tucked into the back of the book, and opened it. "When you talked about your father _being_ an account, I looked at this letter again." She pointed at a sentence, written in German, and consulted a note she had written in the back of the book. "According to both your father and Otto, the letter says, _'After 01 February 1945, the Reichsführer expects to turn off the power. Plan on an update concerning Regnesmachen no later than 15 January.'_ You see? Himmler wanted to trade the open accounts to save his skin."

"If Himmler wanted to save his slimy ass, why didn't he tell somebody what the prisoners represented."

"He didn't get the chance."

"Wasn't he executed?"

"Himmler committed suicide after he was captured by the British. He fled Berlin in the final weeks of the war and attempted to broker a treaty with the Western Allies. Hitler had him tried for treason and Himmler was sentenced to death in absentia."

"Maybe he didn't convince the right person in the British government."

"There's also a theory Himmler didn't commit suicide."

"He's dead, right?"

"Yes, but what if-"

"I have enough conspiracies to entertain at the moment, dear. I'm going to bed. Tomorrow might be a big day." I gave her another peck on the cheek before nestling under the covers and closing eyes.

• • •

I called the Deutschbank at eight sharp; Kleinmann picked up at once: "Good morning, Herr Foley. I'm still working on your...information. Give me a few hours to put everything together."

"You found something?"

"Oh, yes, I found something." He paused, I heard papers shuffling, and then Kleinmann whispered, "What did your father do for the Nazi party?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. Holte instructed me to be discreet, but if Kleinmann found the Regnesmachen account...well, he'd be somewhat perplexed.

"Herr Foley," Kleinmann continued after I didn't respond, "I'm not sure how to proceed. I should deliver what I've found to Herr Holte, but dropping this into his lap might create a problem for you."

"Why?"

"What I'm staring at...I'm afraid your father's involvement with the Nazis will be scrutinized and your desire to keep his activity a secret...you can forget about it."

I decided to give Dieter a taste to see if he'd share his concerns: "I'm not sure how to respond to your question. From what I understand, my father raised money for the Party, nothing more."

"Was he SS?"

"God no! What gave you this idea?"

"Hm...just a thought I had."

"Can you tell me what-"

"I'd like to talk in person," he interrupted. "I don't feel comfortable conducting business over the telephone."

"You tell me where and I'll be there."

Kleinmann recited directions to the Café Berliner and said he wanted to pow-wow at two. "One more thing," he added, before hanging up. "Don't tell anyone I've found anything. Don't tell Holte, don't tell your girlfriend... _nobody_."

I sat with the phone in my hand after Dieter disconnected.

Sandi, damn near standing on top of me, begged, "What did he say?"

"I believe Dieter's struck gold. He wants to meet this afternoon."

"Great! What time?"

"He, um...I don't think you should come."

She winced and asked, "Why?"

"It would make him feel better."

"But-"

"Trust me. Dieter's a little...you know...uneasy or something."

"Uneasy? What else did he say?"

I ignored her, spun Holte's number on the rotary, and worked out the lie I would tell.

As usual, Holte sounded cordial: "Foley! Thank you for calling. Any news from Dieter Kleinmann?"

"No, he hasn't found anything. In fact, Dieter said he needed more time, perhaps a week."

"A week, eh? Do they have banker hours in the States? Those men never work longer than their shift."

"I hate to say this, but Sandi and I can't wait a week. I've always wanted to visit Dublin, my father's birthplace, so instead of wasting time and money babysitting the phone, we're going to make the most of our time."

"Sounds wonderful!"

"Doesn't it? If I hear anything from Dieter, we'll alter our plans. Based on his tone, though, I'm not optimistic."

"I understand. When are you leaving for Ireland?"

"Tomorrow morning, I think. Sandi's working on the itinerary. Thanks again for your help, Jürgen. I'll be in touch."

"My pleasure. You know how to contact me if anything changes."

After I disconnected, Sandi looked at me with a frown and asked, "We're going to Ireland?"

I didn't want to visit Ireland, but I decided Sandi should do something constructive while Deiter and I chatted. Also...okay, Dieter's nervousness and his instance I lie to Holte jostled a few butterflies in my stomach. Having a hasty Plan B in case the shit hit the fan seemed prudent.

"Why are we going to Ireland?" Sandi pestered. "If Dieter's found-"

"Just find a way there. I'll explain later."

She gave me a weak salute and mumbled, "Yes, dear."

• • •

I arrived early and watched Kleinmann from outside the Café Berliner. He sat in the rear, facing the door, and leafed through a half inch stack of papers. Every few seconds he'd glance around the deserted café before returning to his documents. He seemed tense, distracted and not at all observant. I stood in front of the large window for five minutes until, at last, he spotted me and beckoned. Greeting me at the door, Kleinmann pushed me to his table and nudged me into a chair across from him.

"You came alone?" he asked, casting a another look at the entrance.

"As instructed."

"You didn't tell anybody?"

"No."

" _Humph,"_ grunted Kleinmann. "I hope not."

"You hope not? Jeez, what have you found?"

He signaled me to lower my voice and then whispered, "Before we continue, I must know who your father was and who you are. No dishonesty. I need to trust you."

"This might take a while," I said. "We should order coffee."

As we sipped, I divulged an abridged version of my father's life: Da had been arrested while fleeing Germany after closing his Irish pub. Instead of declaring his income and facing excess taxation, he tried smuggling four million Marks to Ireland. Caught red-handed, Da was tossed into the camps. Without mentioning the Auschwitz numbers, tattoo cutting and the Regnesmachen letter, I expressed my father's conviction the Nazis opened an account under his name ( _Seemed like a half-baked idea_ , I said. _But here we are, heh?)_ and then included an addendum regarding Sarah Miller, Norman Leavitt and Jürgen Holte. Kleinmann remained silent and non-emotional until I related Jürgen asked me to be less than forthright.

"Herr Holte told you to lie to me?" Kleinmann fussed. "Why?"

"You asked me to lie to him," I reasoned.

I thought I made a valid point, but Kleinmann grumbled, "If Jürgen is determined to gather information about Regnesmachen, why would he tell you to lie to me?"

"Listen, the two of you asked me to be a smidge deceitful. Are we gonna split hairs arguing which lie is worse?"

Kleinmann grabbed my wrist and said, "You can believe me because I have the information..." He tapped the papers with his other hand, "...right here. I'm willing to show you _everything_ , but I don't want to be associated with _any_ of this."

"How bad is it?"

"Bad," rasped Kleinmann, as he dug fingernails into my skin.

I freed my wrist and squashed a nervous chuckle.

"What's your background?" he asked.

"I'm a university student majoring in Business and Economics. I also have a job collating and auditing the balance sheets of small businesses."

"You work in a bank?"

"Yes."

Kleinmann sat back in his chair as the waitress collected our empty cups. When she vacated, he leaned forward and continued in the same quiet voice:

"I thought it'd be a cumbersome task of digging through archived cabinets to find Regnesmachen. Imagine my surprise when a cursory check of the Deutschbank catalogue revealed a Regnesmachen file in the computer database. I've never seen a Reichsbank transactional registered on the computer."

"Regnesmachen exists?" I blurted.

"Shh, keep your voice down. Yes, Regnesmachen exists, and it's an active account. Further scrutiny revealed the Deutschbank is making payments on the..." Kleinmann glanced around and then pushed the stack of papers across the table and then whispered, "Better I summarize what's printed:

"Beginning in 1933 and ending in 1945, over six million personal accounts were opened at the Reichsbank under a single profile named Regnesmachen. _Six million_ under _one_ account. The accounts are categorized by six-digit numbers." Kleinmann nodded at the papers and said, "I've printed a few thousand examples. There's no other identifying characteristic in the database. No summation of worth, changes in value...not a name or initials."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Kleinmann waved me quiet and continued, "How is the primary account holder identified without a name? What's to stop someone from walking into the bank and demanding to close account number so-and-so? How would the clerk know if this person was the proper account holder without another measure to discern identity? While I contemplated this problem, I came upon another. It's not unusual when someone opens a new account to name a secondary and tertiary owner. Herr Foley, I spent six hours studying thirty pages detailing the chain of custody. Every Regnesmachen account had the same secondary and tertiary owner. _The exact same._ The secondary owner, the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei-"

"The what?"

"Apologies. I'm using parlance from the documents. The Nazi Party. Care to guess the tertiary owner?"

The question was a softball: "The Reichsbank."

"Correct. At some unidentifiable point in the process, the Nazis assumed ownership of millions of accounts as beneficiary and then transferred these accounts to a Zürich lending house named N. Schellhaus. I can't tell you what happened after N. Schellhaus took proprietorship, but my guess is the accounts were either liquidated, wholesaled or transferred to other Swiss banks."

"How'd you come to this conclusion?"

"The Third Reich received sizable loans from the Swiss in the 30s. None of this information is secret, but it's kept...quiet. You'd have to engage in a protracted examination to understand the extent of the advances. The precise total is a rumor. Only those in the Finance Ministry know, and they're tightlipped. Twelve billion, twenty billion, maybe more, or less...I can't tell you. For the sake of argument, let's pretend the Swiss loaned the Third Reich ten billion francs. Ten billion francs isn't coming from one institution. Banks during the worldwide depression, even Swiss banks, assumed a large risk and seldom granted unsecured loans. To secure the initial financing, it appears the Reichsbank turned to N. Schellhaus for hard cash. Also, it appears the Reichsbank engaged in securitization to bolster their pool of assets. Short of seeing the loan agreement, I'm making assumptions but...but personal accounts are never equal in value. To navigate the problem, the Third Reich was obligated to open new accounts. These were then bolstered by newer accounts...which were then bolstered-"

"Robbing Peter to pay Paul," I interrupted.

Kleinmann grunted and then said, "With the defeat of Germany and the closing of the Reichsbank, Germany defaulted on their loans. N. Schellhaus would've had a lender's claim and put liens on what remained of the German assets. Now, I'm getting into complicated subtleties-"

"I know what a lending house does, but my understanding is they handle mortgages and commercial properties."

"In essence, the same arrangement applied to the Third Reich. N. Schellhaus, acting as broker, would've sought private investors or other Swiss banks for loans. My theory again, but the risk shouldered by N. Schellhaus necessitated higher than normal interest rates. I...um..." Kleinmann stared into space and then muttered, "I'm getting lost in hypotheticals. My driving point...yes, after the war, N. Schellhaus assumed a guarantor's burden. To free credit lines, and mitigate or forgive debt, they repaid their lenders with the defaulted assets. After the outstanding accounts were settled, whatever monies remained were sold or...perhaps loaned...by N. Schellhaus.

"Now, I presume, those assets sit in various Swiss banks. They sit with the Swiss and earn interest, Herr Foley. Even with market interest rates, the accounts have tripled or quadrupled in size. Sake of argument again, an investment of ten billion Swiss francs thirty-five years ago is worth one hundred billion francs today. Who do you think pays the interest? West Germany, or rather the Deutschbank, bears the Third Reich's egregious fiduciary decisions for a hundred years, if not longer. I predict the principal won't ever be settled. Meanwhile, the Swiss are capitalizing the interest or using it as lend money."

I whistled and then said, "This is amazing."

Kleinmann shrugged and said: "Keep in mind, my example of one hundred-billion-francs is a supposition. A guess. Interest rates and the worth of each number...without financials, it amounts to conjecture. I discovered a catalogue. The Deutschbank holds thousands of robust accounts. For the sake of confidentiality, they're all registered in the same matter as Regnesmachen. The specifics are retrieved by a representative when an account holder does business with the bank. If my assumption is correct, none of the Regnesmachen holders will _ever_ ask for their information. Herr Foley...John...who would name the Party as the secondary holder of their account? What person wouldn't name their family as beneficiaries? When the time came to..." He paused to nibble his bottom lip, and his eyes bored into mine. After a few Mississippi's, Kleinmann broke eye contact and mumbled, "I don't need to continue. You're not a stupid man; you've figured it out."

"Oh, the stupid part is up for debate but-"

"This is no time for jokes," he hissed. "I-I... _ugh_ , this is awful. Our governments are intent on convincing the world how evil Willi Stoph is. The reality is more sinister."

At the time, I didn't know who Willi Stoph was, but I added a grunt as if in complete agreement.

"We've tried to rebuild our country and destroy the stigma of the past," Kleinmann gnashed between pressed lips. "Can you imagine the outrage if it's revealed the property of Holocaust survivors is kept by the Swiss? And the West German government is complicit? _Ack_ ...I feel nauseous. Who...who else knows?"

"Only Jürgen."

"Nobody else?"

"We...I mean...Sandi...began-"

"Sandi?"

"My girlfriend. You met her yesterday."

"Oh... _her_."

"Yes, her. She began researching my dad's information with the help of a Jewish victims' rights group."

"Which one?"

"The JWICA in _Guy-son_."

"What did they say?"

"Uh, well...they were...helpful. The researcher, her name..." _Was_ , was about to be the next thing out of my mouth, but studying Dieter's strained face...I suppose blurting: _See, she's dead. Too bad, so sad,_ struck me as an imprudent. "...is Sarah. She knew...knows...she _knows_. Matter of fact, she suggested we visit Jürgen. So, there you go. Four of us." Not counting Ray, in the IRA, of course. But I didn't count him because he laughed off the-

" _Five_ ," Kleinmann annunciated.

"Huh?"

"Me, Jürgen, you, your girlfriend and the woman at the Jewish group. _Five_."

"Five...yeah, you're right. Five."

"Are you certain?"

"Man, after what you've told me, the more the merrier. You know what I mean?"

"No...yes...I...I don't care. Herr Foley, I've come to the end of my usefulness," he said, pushing the stack of papers towards me as if they were mephitic. "Take what you want. I can't be associated."

"Dieter," I soothed, "you can help crack the largest misappropriation scheme in history."

"Regnesmachen isn't under lock and key. I found the catalogue in minutes. Somebody else is bound to stumble upon it."

"Stumble, maybe, but they won't have the knowledge to make sense of the information. Even if they do, when will this happen? It's been almost thirty years since the war ended. Are we to wait another thirty years? After the passing of a couple generations, _who's going to care_?"

"Another thirty years might be the earliest West Germany can deal with the Regnesmachen file. Despite Jürgen's good intentions, my government might not take action. Even if a thorough investigation is conducted, I guarantee it will be slowed by political feet dragging. Think of the consequences if millions of people made claims on their long-lost deposits. Though Swiss law requires high capital requirements, a run of this size could create colossal insolvency. A forty percent gold reserve, the standard in Switzerland, would be depleted in days."

"Yeah, well, too bad. Besides, I have an idea where all the high capital comes from."

"I'm not arguing the aggrieved parties don't have a right to their assets, but you underestimate the power of the economic brokers."

"Ahhh...no," I laughed. "I have a _good_ idea the power of economic brokers. But guess what? Fuck the economic brokers."

"I see...mmm...if you're determined to key the media, release these documents far from West Germany. You must remain anonymous..."

I half-listened as Kleinmann speckled sensible advice and pondered the irony of the moment.

Funny, me posing the _who's going to care_ question considering I used to be on the other end of the query. Weeks ago, I didn't care. My father's behavior repulsed. He was a cog in the linkage between two fucked up movements. The consequence of erroneous philosophy: five and half years in a concentration camp. Did the punishment fit the crime? Yes, no, maybe...whatever, _I didn't care_. His method of confession angered and confused me. Throw in Ray and his strong-armed bullshit...

Thanks, but no thanks.

It took Sandi's levelheaded, well-intentioned scheming to prod me into action. Even then I didn't believe anything would come of our snooping.

Lo and behold, look what happened.

Once Holte learned the extent of Regnesmachen, I expected the promised wheels of bureaucracy to turn. I didn't know what those wheels would or could do, but getting the train moving meant Sandi and I accomplished something. We'd wrap our research with a bow, return to the States and get on with our lives...which is what I wanted in the first place.

But if Kleinmann spoke the truth, little or nothing would come of our work.

Holte's gruff comment from two days ago echoed: _Account numbers on skin? You have to admit, it sounds ridiculous._

I...I can't explain what happened next other than a moment of clarity bowled me over. Or maybe it was Da's voice giving me the business again: _I asked_ _you_ _to right my wrongs, Johnny._ _You_ _._

I thought of the men and women responsible for stealing from millions; I studied the frightened Dieter Kleinmann; I remembered Sarah Miller's contribution and lamented how she wouldn't be around to see what her work produced.

...and I decided to hell with it.

My father wanted _me_ to right _his_ wrongs.

Kleinmann shut his briefcase, snapped the fasteners and nodded his head as if to say _we have nothing more to discuss._

"Could a primary designee close their account if they prove ownership?" I asked before he could beat feet.

"By the letter of Swiss law, yes. Deposit arrangements protect assets in Swiss banks made by actual people or other _legal_ institutions residing in or outside Switzerland. The Reichsbank was a legal entity and those deposits made on behalf of the primary account holder are protected by the authorized deposit arrangements. In the case of Regnesmachen, a primary _capable_ of proving ownership has a right to their property."

"Even if N. Schellhaus repossessed the accounts?"

Kleinmann cracked a slight smile and said, "Yes, even then. The Swiss conduct business by the book. By the way, I know what you're thinking, Herr Foley."

"And?"

"We're returning to the question I posed earlier. First, good luck finding the bank housing your father's account. Next, you'd have to make a claim as the primary account holder. How would your assertion be vetted? Code name, photo, fingerprints? The Reichsbank devised a way to close deposits without the consent of the authorized possessor. I assume the same method could be employed to empty your father's account."

I rubbed my chin and pictured Da's tattoo sitting in the petroleum jelly jar. Proof of identification? No doubt. Too bad I left it in Minneapolis. The long and short: the missing tattoo would be a bridge to cross later.

"I appreciate what you're doing, and you may use whatever I've found," Kleinmann said. "All I ask is you leave my name out of the papers. I need to think about my future. In fact, I'm not certain I want any association with Deutschbank anymore." He shook my hand, stood from the table and then added, "Please be careful, John. There are some who won't take the Regnesmachen news with aplomb."

He turned around and walked for the exit but stopped before opening the door. Over his right shoulder, Kleinmann said, "Oh, I almost forgot. You'll find your father's number circled on the fourth page."

My, "Thank you, Dieter," chased him outside. As Kleinmann made haste down the sidewalk, I gathered the documents into a neat stack...

• • •

"I need a beer," I announced.

Sandi, sitting cross-legged on the bed, dragged her peepers from a large map spread across the comforter and asked, "How did it go with Dieter?"

"I'll tell you in a second. Did you figure a way to get us to Ireland?"

"We could fly, but I'd rather take the scenic route. If we drive to Bonn, we can hop a train to Calais. I thought it'd be nice to see France. From Calais, we board a ferry to Dover. Dover's in England and-"

"I know where Dover is. White cliffs and all the nonsense. Go on."

"At Dover, we take another train to Holyhead, and then a ferry to the Port of Dunlairhge near Dublin. Won't it be pleasant?"

_Pfft. Not. At. All_. It sounded like torture. "Yeah...pleasant," I answered through a phony smile. "But...I've changed my mind."

"Huh?"

"We're not going to Dublin."

"Perfect," Sandi bitched, stabbing the map with a finger. "I spent two hours researching travel combinations and timetables."

I closed the drapes and turned on the light before saying, "Busy work while I talked to Dieter."

"Thanks," she said, tossing her pencil over her left shoulder.

Chin rubbing, I paced in front of the bed and mused, "We could fly or take the train. Or...maybe...rent another car and-"

"John, you _just_ said we're not going to Dublin."

"How are we driving to Dublin?" I jeered.

"Then what are you talking about?"

"We're going to Switzerland. I think my father's money is in Zürich. Hell, I bet all the open accounts are there."

" _There,_ as in Zürich? Or _there_ as in Switzerland?"

I removed the bank papers from the inside of my coat and threw them on the bed. Sandi pawed at a couple sheets and then looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Regnesmachen," I said. "Or part of it. Dieter didn't want to print six million numbers. The chain of custody is also included."

While she squealed and shuffled through the pile, I presented a dumbed down version of Kleinmann's suspicions. At the conclusion, I crossed my arms and announced, "We'll withdraw Da's money to prove the validity of his claim. Then the kit and kaboodle goes to the media, _schnell_."

"But Jürgen's expecting us to bring him evidence."

"Yeah, about Holte...Dieter made a good point. Even if Holte's serious, the West German government won't be in a hurry to resolve this mess. Or maybe they do nothing."

"You don't know what the West German government will do."

"Hon, remember what Holte said after we laid out our theory? _Account numbers on skin sounds ridiculous_ , or words to the effect."

"We have proof it isn't ridiculous."

"We need more proof, and you know I'm right."

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, all suspicious-like.

"Common sense. _We_ have documents and the potential to hold a check for four million Swiss francs or dollars or whatever in front of the camera. Tell me the press isn't a sucker for conspiracy stories."

"You're being rash. Sarah wouldn't have gone to Jürgen if she didn't trust him."

"I trust Jürgen but... _argh_ ...like, we gotta strike while the iron's hot."

"I'm not against being proactive, but how do you know all the Regnesmachen accounts are in Zürich? Which banks? There's missing information we can't solve on our own."

"We know N. Schellhaus is involved. N. Schellhaus is in Zürich. Ergo..."

"How many banks are located in Zürich besides N. Schellhaus?"

"Why are you arguing with me?" I cried. "We came to Germany to prove the existence of Regnesmachen. We have, okay? But if you want the victims to recoup their money, even if it is a fraction, we'll need to provide more than numbers on a sheet."

"Five days, John. We're flying home in five days. Do we have enough time to run around Zürich in...let's see, after tomorrow it'd be four days, minus one to get back here the day before we depart so...what's the math say?"

Her rhetorical question addressed a quandary I hadn't considered, but I wasn't going to back down after stoking myself for an adventure. "Three days, then. After three, I'll deliver the documents to the media."

She crumpled the paper of travel plans and asked, "Fine, smart guy. How are we getting to Zürich?"

# 37.

"Foley!"

I had one call to make before we checked out of the hotel. While Sandi watched with arms crossed, I spun Jürgen Holte's number into the rotary and placed the handset between my right ear and shoulder.

He answered after the first trill, "Wer ist das?"

"Jürgen, it's John Foley."

"Foley! I expected you'd have departed by now."

"Naw, we're still here doing the touristy bullshit. You know, a little sightseeing, taking in the culture and all the rest. In fact, Sandi and I drove to Lutherstadt yesterday." (Lutherstadt's the village Martin Luther had learned to be a good Catholic, turned into a bad Catholic, and became the worst Catholic of all time before becoming the firstest and bestest Lutheran.) "I saw the most amazing relief of Jews and swine commingling. My German is lousy, so I may have the translation wrong, but I think it said _something-something_ Jews are no better than swine."

Holte tittered with nervousness and then said, "Eh...an unfortunate relic of the Middle Ages."

"Yes, unfortunate."

"Yes, um... _ahem_ ...pardon me for changing the subject, but I hope you called to tell me Dieter's learned something of our mysterious Regnesmachen."

"Nope, nothing from Dieter's end."

"Nothing, huh? What a shame."

"Tell the truth, I don't know how hard Dieter looked, is looking, whatever the case. You know, I think the whole _my_ _father's an ex-Nazi_ tale alarmed him. Perhaps we should've toned it down."

"Or we face the alternative, Foley."

"You don't have to tell me. I spent the entirety of last night facing the alternative. You know what? I've come to the sad conclusion my father was grasping at straws. There's too much conjecture in his story. The bank letter? A misunderstood relic. I mean, it doesn't _really_ say anything. Anyway, I'm sorry to have burdened you with the fantasies of a lunatic."

"Well, I can't deny I'm disappointed."

"Me too, but it's how the cookie crumbles. So...shoot, I guess this is where we part ways, Jürgen. Sandi and I had quite the time, but we have a flight to catch in a couple hours. Off to visit Da's old stomping grounds on the Emerald Isle."

"Do you need a ride to the airport?"

_The kick in the ass sendoff,_ thought I. "I have a vehicle, but thanks for offering," I answered. "And we're pushed for time. Women and packing, you know."

"Oh, _he-he_ , I sympathize. Now... _ahem_ ...for the sake of due diligence, I'll give Dieter a ring this afternoon. You can follow up with me anytime if you're so inclined."

"Boy, those long-distance charges will empty my pockets."

"Reverse the charges! I may appear destitute, but I have enough in the wallet to cover an international call."

"Careful, I might take you up on the offer."

"Please do. Pleasure to have meet you and the Fräulein. Have a safe trip. Goodbye."

I listened for the disconnect and then dropped the handset on the cradle.

Sandi began, "Women and packing-", but I cut her off with a raised hand.

"He wanted to give us a ride to the airport," I explained. "Too bad we have the rental. Now chop-chop. We have a plane to catch."

"I can't believe I'm entertaining your idea."

"You mean going to Ireland?" I said in a loud voice.

She rolled her eyes and snorted.

"I wish you weren't so truculent," I nagged.

"This is stupid," she droned, before returning attention to her suitcase.

• • •

During the drive to and from Lutherstadt, Sandi and I planned our "trip" to Ireland. Out of Frankfurt, Aer Lingus offered a single direct flight to Dublin Airport. The two seats weren't cheap, but I argued we needed to present the illusion we were leaving West Germany. The long and short? Tickets had to be purchased.

Sandi told me this was _Stupid_. _'One_ , _'_ she argued, _'we're never going to use the tickets.' Two_ , we were spending money on said tickets. _Three_ , money didn't grow trees or something. In conclusion, she repeated, _'Your plan is stupid!'_

By the way, the reason our travel plans were hashed in our clunker was also _Stupid._ Not like I'm a paranoid, but I wanted to arrange everything in the comfort of the car. When Sandi asked why, I told her, _'Maybe our room's not as private as you think.'_

She looked baffled, but it made sense to me. I tried explaining again but she gave me the palm and groused, "Whatever. Get your tickets to Dublin. But this is _stupid_."

• • •

While she appeared dour, I embraced excitement. In my defense, I didn't think we were walking a fine line. Sure, sneaking out of West Germany _might_ seem drastic. I could've told Jürgen, _'We're off to Zürich'_. And maybe he'd respond, _'Wonderful! Have a great trip!'_

But maybe he wouldn't be so cheerful. Maybe he'd ask, _'Why are you going to Zürich?'_ I couldn't say, _'Dieter Kleinmann dropped a bomb on me and I want the Swiss to pony up.'_ Dieter made it clear he wanted no involvement and I believed every warbling syllable he uttered. Besides, what if Holte put two and two together? What if Sandi and I were roaming Zürich and an angry Jürgen Holte stepped from an alcove or something and scolded us for taking the law into our hands or withholding important information? Maybe the term _Interfering With An International Investigation_ would be tossed my way. What investigation? It didn't matter. Sticking my nose (and Sandi's) in West Germany's sordid affairs might ruffle feathers.

Okay, _maybe_ I sounded like a paranoid, but better safe than sorry, right?

Bottom line: I didn't want anybody meddling in our business. If it meant Sandi and I had to sneak out of West Germany, so be it. Like Kleinmann told me, the West German government would drag their feet. Maybe, maybe not (as I've since learned, I tend to use too many _maybes_ and _mights_ in my thinking), but I'd give the bureaucrats a little push to help get the legs moving.

So, the plan was this: we'd return our piece of shit car at Frankfurt am Main and check-in for our flight on Aer Lingus. Tickets in hand, the two of us would stroll to the train station located beneath airport. Then we'd board a train from the Flughafen Regionalbahnhof, the regional train line, to Stuttgart. In Stuttgart, we'd get on a long-distance train to Zürich. Easy peasy.

We just had one small problem, or one large one in Sandi's estimation: our suitcases. Well, _her_ suitcases. Three of 'em, big mothers too. I decided being burdened with her luggage (and my banged to shit Samsonite) would be too much of a hassle as we hopped bank to bank. Plus, to complete the illusion we were winging to Ireland, I figured it wouldn't hurt to send our bags. Like...you know...we'd fool somebody...or something.

All right, _maybe_ this strategy was _Stupid._

But we did it anyway.

The comment to Holte? I wasn't exaggerating. Into my backpack I stuffed three days of underwear and a folder containing: Da's manuscript, the Regnesmachen letter and the papers from Dieter. I could've lived out of a paper bag. Sandi had clothes, shoes, accoutrements and the giant book of Nazis. I bought her a small duffel bag at the hotel gift shop, but she could only carry a sixteenth of her belongings. Hence, the selection process took _a long_ time.

Several hours and a lot of cursing later, she zipped the duffel bag. Then she gave me the evil-eyes. All-squinty and glowing white hot, you dig? If Sandi could've shot lasers out of 'em like Superman, she'd have fried my lily-white ass without even blinking.

"You're baking me with your stare," I said.

"Good. I can't believe I'm letting you talk me into this."

"You'll thank me later."

"I doubt it."

"Your suitcases are gonna slow us down and give me hernia."

"How long are we staying? I only have two outfits."

"You mean, how long are we staying in Ireland?" I asked in a loud voice.

She cackled and then said, "Oh, right, we're not supposed to communicate like adults because _they_ might be-"

"We need to leave post hasty," I interrupted. "The flight to Dublin leaves in an hour and a half and we still gotta drop off the car."

"Stupid," Sandi muttered.

• • •

We returned our rental car without incident and then stood in a mile-long line for the Aer Lingus ticket counter. For the sake of killing time, I scanned the terminal and people watched. Everybody looked like they belonged at an airport. Red-faced men and women lugged heavy bags, children squawked, airport workers swept the floor, pilots and flight attendants strolled past. In other words, the situation appeared kosher. I thought of Dieter in the café and his hawkish peeks out the window. How would a banker know if he had a tail? Picturing him imitating James Bond almost plunged me into a fit of laughter.

Speaking of Dieter...what was his face doing on the newspaper? The guy in front of me had a folded up daily in the crook of his elbow. Plain as day, I saw the recognizable half of Dieter Kleinmann's thin face staring into the great beyond. I knew this wasn't good thing. No, sir. Bankers didn't get their faces in the paper for good things. I elbowed Sandi and then pointed at the black and white picture.

"Why's he in the paper?" she whispered.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, tapping the guy on the shoulder. He huffed, half-turned his head and I asked, "May I see your newspaper?"

" _Was?"_

"Your newspaper. Can I...er... _das looken_ _paper_?"

" _War willst du?!"_

I didn't know if he was asking or telling me something. Something along the lines of _go fuck yourself_. Or, _please, read my newspaper, kind sir._ In German, even pleasant expressions sound like an insult.

Without explanation (not like it would've mattered), I yanked and then unfolded the newspaper. Dieter Kleinmann hadn't made the front page of the _Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung_ , but he was pretty damn close. On page 3A, a headline announced: **Bankier Stirbt in Tragischen Unfall.** Below Dieter's photo? The picture of a light rail car.

"Oh my God." Sandi squeaked.

"What does it say?"

"He's dead, John."

"Nächster!" barked the ticket agent.

"Dieter's dead?"

Sandi didn't respond. Instead, she covered her mouth with both hands.

"Nächster," The agent repeated. She...or he...looked like an East German Olympian with too much blush. As a scrubby American in what was becoming hostile territory, I should've moseyed to the counter and completed the ticketing process without stoking the creature's ire. But moi needed answers, _post hasty_.

I slapped the newspaper on the podium and demanded, "What does this say?"

Ignoring my request, It demanded, "Passports."

Trancelike, Sandi forked them over. It scrutinized our documents, circled our names on the passenger manifest, and then returned the passports and tickets to me with succinct instructions: "Gate 10, boarding in a half hour. Next!"

"Hold on," I barged, stabbing the headline with a finger. "What does the newspaper say?" I knew this beast despised disruption to her methodical procedure, but fuck it, right? Never mind I stood in a terminal full of Germans, I wanted this one to confirm what the attention-grabbing words _alleged._

It narrowed its eyes to read the banner and recited, "Banker killed in accident. A tragic accident," It added, as if another kind existed.

We didn't need to hear another word. As Sandi and I turned to find empty seats in the terminal, I handed the newspaper to the guy who loaned it to me. He challenged with a rancorous frown but I ignored the sourpuss and wandered to a chair. Elbows on knees, hands on chin, I slumped into a question mark; Sandi stood in front of me, biting her lip.

"Well..." I began before trailing off. For once, I didn't know what to say.

"You look pale," she said in a tiny voice.

"Maybe...maybe it is an accident," I offered. "Did you read _any_ of the article?"

"First Sarah, now Dieter. What are the odds?"

Sarah Miller's death happened to correspond with our arrival. I could argue this was bad luck for Sarah but had nothing to do with us. Dieter's demise, however...I didn't want to believe your pal was the reason Dieter Kleinmann no longer sucked air. Because, if I was the reason, it didn't take any dot connecting to figure Sandi and I occupied a couple lines on the naughty list. Of course, the good ole brain didn't do jack squat to mitigate my uneasiness: _Sure, Dieter had a tragic accident._ _Tragic accidents happen all the time. But there's a silver lining. You don't have to worry about a tragic accident if you hop on the flight to Dublin and drop your incriminating documents in the trash. Dieter and Sarah were warnings. Best heed, John Foley._

As luck would have it, I seldom listen to common sense. "I'm not running," I said under my breath.

"John, this is crazy. Dieter's dead."

"Yeah, thanks, I got the message."

"We need to go to the police."

"And tell them what? You're frightened?"

"Two people we know have died within days of each other!"

"They'll laugh us out of the building. Besides, what did you say when I got here? _You don't want to be like the last John Foley in Germany and draw the attention of the police._ "

"I wasn't serious."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to the police. _We're_ not going to the police."

"Then let's use our tickets and get on the plane to Dublin. You can give the Regnesmachen stuff to somebody there or after we fly home and _blah blah blah blah_ ..."

Long ago I told you, reader, my best and worst attributes: I'm stubborn and hate to lose. My lark of a trip to Zürich wasn't getting flushed because somebody _presumably_ didn't want me to go. The more I stewed, the angrier I got. Sandi's carping didn't help; her voice jabbed like an ice pick in my ear.

And there was something else: I pictured the passenger manifest and the butch ticket agent circling our names. Call it deductive reasoning (or paranoia), but I knew we wouldn't set a toe on the airplane. Maybe they'd grab us as we tried to board, take us away and _poof_! Sandi and John would vanish into thin air, a couple of senseless American travelers missing in Europe. Easy come, easy go.

Once derided by Sandi, my paranoia mutated inside her skull until she had a handful of my sleeve. Grunting, she attempted to yank me from the chair. I planted my shoes into the carpet and refused to budge.

"You can't _still_ want to go to Zürich," she said between clenched teeth.

I pulled my arm out her grip and said, "I need a second to think."

"About _what_?"

"If somebody has it in for us, or they know we have Dieter's documents, or whatever the fuck it is, do you think they're going to allow us to walk onto an airplane?"

My logic shut her down for the time being. Meanwhile, I scanned the crowd: the grumpy man with the newspaper; a woman gnawing on pastry; a couple to the left, standing by the payphones, _pretending_ to nuzzle...

I said, "We need to get to the train station."

Sandi sighed, removed the timetable from her purse and then consulted it with shaky hands. "Um...okay, the next one to Stuttgart departs in twenty minutes."

"Good, time enough to get a coffee."

"Coffee?"

I stood, put my arm around her waist, and led her to the short line at the café.

"John, listen to me. I don't think-"

"Shush," I scolded. "Don't make a scene. Look at the menu" Using the people around me as protection, I unzipped my backpack and removed the folder containing Dieter's papers, Da's story and the Regnesmachen letter. In one fluid motion, I untucked my shirt, stuffed the folder down the front of my pants and smoothed the fabric.

Sandi whispered, "What are you doing?"

"Just in case."

"In case what?"

"Would you stop asking so many-"

Before I could finish my sentence ( _questions,_ by the way), a strong hand griped my right shoulder and a stern voice intoned, "Herr Foley."

I spun around and faced a man fresh from the Aryan factory. Correction: a _big_ man fresh the Aryan factory. He stood a couple inches taller, stuffed more muscles than I had braincells into a tight blue suit and shook a badge in front of my eyes. Before I could peruse the fine print, the monster tucked the wallet away and said, "I'm Joaquin Mueller with the Bundesnachrichtendienst. Would you come with me?"

"The Bund...what did you say?" I asked, as Sandi slid behind me.

"Federal Intelligence Service. I've been asked to collect you."

"Why?"

"An ongoing investigation, Herr Foley. I don't know anything else. Please, will you follow me?"

_Uh-uh!_ my brain screamed. _No fucking way!_ But I played it cool and said, "Yeah, man, no problem. Can I just get my coffee? We're flying to Dublin and I'm dragging ass. These time zones, you know?"

Mueller gave the short line a glance and then said, "Please be quick."

"You got it. Hey, do you want a cup? I'm buying."

He shook his head, walked a few feet away and fixed his back against a marble column.

"We're not going with him," I told Sandi though a smile.

"What if he's here because of Dieter?" Sandi asked, squeezing my left arm a bit harder than Herr Mueller's aforementioned grasp. "Maybe Jürgen sent him to find us."

"Why?"

"To...you know...get us into safekeeping after what happened to Dieter."

"Dieter had a tragic accident."

"I'm not playing around."

"Neither am I. Do you want to experience a tragic accident?"

"He's a policeman, John. You saw his badge."

"If anything, he's a Fed. And I didn't see enough of his badge."

"You have all the answers, huh? What are we going to do? Run?"

Now, I hate to use the beat to shit Chess analogy, but I will. Look at the big picture, see five moves ahead, find the opponents weakness...the usual spiel. As the line moved, I put my ducks in order. If Mueller was a Fed and I had some 'splainin to do later, I'd contend Sandi and I were freaked out; if Mueller wasn't a Fed, all the better. Or, if you're a glass half empty person, all the worse.

The line moved fast (too fast, in my opinion) and my mind struggled to devise two moves ahead, let alone five. Right of us: ticket counters, three escalators to a second floor, a milling throng; to the left: a hall and more escalators, these leading underground to the rail line; a stone's throw from the café: a gray fire door embellished with a stenciled message: _Achtung! Nur Flughafenpersonal!_

Mueller checked his watch.

Had he come alone? Were others -perhaps a whole squadron of West Germany's G-Men- roaming the concourse or lying in wait?

I called to Mueller, "What about your partner...or partners...whatever the case. Would he or they like a coffee?"

"Don't bother, Herr Foley."

"No bother. Why don't you ask?"

"The other agent is waiting in the car and I've been instructed not to leave you."

"We're running," I said out the right side of my mouth.

"No," Sandi rejoined out the left side of her hole.

"He's alone. He doesn't think we'll be a problem. We'll catch him flatfooted. There's a door to the left. See it?"

She squinted and said, "It's an employee entrance. John, I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. And I'm not asking. We're going. End of discussion."

"Then what?"

"We'll improvise," I said, throwing the Chess analogy into a mental garbage bin. "One other thing: we're leaving the bags."

"No...no, are you crazy? I don't have anything but what's in-"

"I'm not asking. We gotta shed dead weight."

I imagine Sandi fashioned a testy response, but the cheerful barista beat her to the punch. What did I want? _A big coffee, post hasty_.

My large coffee arrived -hot to the touch through Styrofoam- and I gave Sandi a nudge towards the nook where sugar packets and cream vessels were arranged. I made a show of dumping five Domino's into the joe before giving Mueller a girlie wave. He pushed from the column, adjusted his tie, weaved through a cluster of chirping teenagers...

I grabbed Sandi's clammy paw with one hand, my coffee with the other, and we beat our motherhumpin' feet. Correction: I beat feet. While I played the role of Roadrunner, Sandi's shoes sorta skidded across the floor like she was a stubborn horse.

"Come on!" I implored.

She bleated, "My purse!"

"Forget your purse!"

Mueller, from behind: "Herr Foley! John Foley! Halt."

I made a football move into the door and knocked it open with my shoulder. Faced with a long corridor, I charged ahead until the hall split into a "T" at the end. Left, or right? I picked left, wheeled 'round the corner and stopped. From what seemed like miles away, the fire door thudded shut.

Trembling, Sandi dropped my hand and panted, "Why are we stopping?"

Seconds later, the door opened and then closed with another thud. Next came slow, echoing footsteps, but not in tandem. One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other...

I removed the lid from the cup, felt steam on my face, and tensed. If all went according to plan, I'd snag Mueller in my clever trap. Fly meet spider. Of course, what if Mueller had a partner and said partner was _not_ waiting in said parked car? What if said partner worked his way behind Sandi and me?

Anyway, since you're reading this, it should be clear the FIS didn't play rope a dope. Nope. Mueller turned the corner and his surprised eyes meet mine. I can't imagine he thought I had the balls to throw fists...or in this case, coffee.

I pitched the scalding liquid on his face; Mueller screamed like acid had been poured on him. His hands went to his eyes and I punched him in the stomach. He said something -probably the _f word_ in German- but I dropped him with a boot to the groin. Prone on the ground, Mueller shook his head and scattered droplets of airport joe.

But the beast wasn't out of the fight: he scowled, worked hands to fists, and started to rise. I administered another kick to the privates; Mueller gurgled and curled into a comma. My hands worked quick as I ripped open his suitcoat and rummaged through the pockets. I found the wallet, yanked it out with a rip of fabric, and examined the badge and corresponding photo identification card:

Joaquin J. Mueller, Agentur-ID 14405

_Bundesnachrichtendienst in Deutschland_.

Frankfurter Büro +49 (0) 69 -400-4999

The picture matched the prostrate man but I wasn't gonna help him up from the concrete floor. "Who told you to _collect_ us?" I asked.

"Fuck you," he grunted.

"Jürgen Holte?"

" _Fuck. You."_

I kicked him in the ribs for good measure and took Sandi's hand. Still quaking, she stepped over Mueller like he was a puddle.

Doubling back into the terminal struck me as foolish, so we left Mueller and dashed the other direction. A bunch of left and right turns later, we pushed through a swinging door and entered a food preparation area. The white-smocked fellas slicing celery and carrots appeared less than thrilled to see us; one of 'em yelled and brandished a serrated knife.

"He says we're in a 'prohibited area'," Sandi reported.

"No shit. Tell him we're looking for the train station."

The employee shooed this way and the other while giving us a royal tongue lashing, but he had the decency to 86 us near the escalator plunge into the Flughafen Regionalbahnhof.

The moving stairs allowed us to collect our wind and do a personal inventory. My shoulder ached from slamming it into the steel door, my right hand throbbed from hitting Agent Mueller in his stomach, but the folder of important documents rested between my waistband and abdomen. Not to toot my horn but I thought I did okay on the fly.

Sandi, on the other hand...

"I have no change of clothes," she stewed. "And my purse had three eight hundred dollars in traveler's checks, not to mention my credit cards. How are we going to do _anything_ without money or clothes?"

"Relax, I'm holding a few hundred-"

"Oh my god! What about my passport?"

I patted the breast pocket of my polo and said, "I got it. You sorta wandered away from the ticket counter and the agent handed it to me."

"I'm left with a passport, John. A _passport._ We're leaving in four days. How am I going to last four days with only a passport?"

"We agreed on three to locate Da's money."

"Before all this crap happened we agreed on three days. We have nothing and...I'm sorry but can you be logical for a minute? Do you think you're going to find anything in three days? Why can't you be sensible and give our information to Jürgen?"

I didn't bother answering because I had the feeling three days wasn't enough time either. And with the adrenaline tapering, the upcoming hurdles appeared daunting. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to map out the near future on our train ride. Five hours to Zürich, according to the timetable, which meant:

Five hours with a sullen girlfriend.

Five hours to comprehend what I'd done in Frankfurt.

Five hours...or less if the authorities figured out two cheeky, FIS assaulting Americans were on a train bound to Switzerland. Rather, if Agent Mueller was a purported agent. If Agent Muller wasn't an agent...

In conclusion, five hours to drive myself crazy.

While Sandi simmered, I purchased tickets and forked over a few of our precious shekels. When I returned to the bench and tried to deliver a pep talk, she turned her head in the opposite direction and stared down the tunnel.

Yep, we didn't talk again until halfway to Stuttgart.

As the car went clickety-clack, Sandi said, "I told you this is stupid."

# 38.

### Zürich

We switched trains in Stuttgart without incident and headed south.

The "without incident" part made me a feel a smidge better about delivering the dreaded Foley one-two to Agent Mueller. Had he been with the FIS, I anticipated police waiting for us in Stuttgart or one of the four preceding stations. Of course, the assumption was based on gut feeling since my prior interactions with law enforcement took place when the deputies of Swift County returned Da from one of his protracted rambles.

I wondered -with some pride- if Sandi and I hadn't pulled a cunning escape. With all the trains running out of the Frankfurt Regionalbahnhof, the authorities would've faced the daunting task of canvassing all of West Germany.

Bottom line: Sandi and I were either smart, lucky or Mueller wasn't FIS.

But clear sailing wasn't in the forecast. The journey to Zürich would take almost four hours broken by three stops. While I attempted not to worry about what lay ahead...let's just say my mind spun.

Except to evoke the absurdity of my idea, Sandi didn't speak. Instead, she rested her head against the window and closed eyes. Meanwhile, I took inventory of our necessities -my wallet, our passports, no clothes- and dealt with uneasiness by staring at my shabby sneakers.

It needn't be said, but time wasn't on our side. _Beating_ plus _around_ plus _the bush_ equaled _no bueno_. The first (and, fingers-crossed, _only_ ) stop in Zürich: N. Schellhaus. Our actions beyond the bank were a big fat question mark.

More to myself than her, I said, "We can't use my credit cards."

"Gee, why not?" Sandi asked with sarcasm.

" _Ahem_ ...I have four hundred dollars in traveler's checks. I don't think four hundred can buy a night in a Zürich hotel."

She sighed and then said, "I'm not sleeping on the street. No way."

"Then we're left with the next best thing."

"And I'm not sleeping in the train station."

"Me neither. I'm thinking a hostel."

"A hostel?"

"What choice do we have? Plus, it'd be cheap and we'd have anonymity. I bet four hundred dollars would buy us, like, ten days or something."

"We're staying three days, no more. If you can't find anything by Friday, too bad. Then there's the matter of getting home. We're supposed to fly out of Frankfurt, remember? _Frankfurt._ Do you think it'd be wise to return to _Frankfurt_?"

In all the excitement, I forgot about flying home from _Frankfurt_.

"Don't have an answer, do you?" Sandi needled.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I'm _certain_ Zürich has an airport."

"I'm certain there's an airport there too. I'm also certain you need money to buy airplane tickets."

"All right, what's the big deal? Call your parents and ask them for a few bucks."

"Great idea. I'll tell them I spent a thousand dollars on plane tickets to Dublin I didn't use and I lost my credit cards running from a policeman. Oh, and I'll make sure to mention I'm stuck in Zürich because if I return to West Germany, there's a chance I'll be arrested."

I pulled Mueller's identification from my pocket, studied the badge, and then said, "Stop being dramatic. You aren't going to get arrested."

"You assaulted a policeman."

I snapped the wallet closed and said, "Herr Mueller isn't the fuzz."

"How do you know?"

"Because...because I do."

"Because you do? You've taken a class at the U on this subject?"

"Think about it, Sandi. The timing? And it was just him."

"So? He said his partner-"

" _If_ he had a partner. See, I think he didn't want to make a scene. A couple guys surround us...we yell...they get rough...hmm?"

"What if he was sent to help us?"

"I'll be damned if I trust a German cop. Haven't you learned anything after reading Da's manuscript?"

"At some point, we're going to have to trust somebody in authority."

"If I'm going to put my trust in anyone, it won't be _somebody in authority_. Not after what happened to Sarah and Dieter."

Another sigh from Sandi and then her eyes meandered to the window. I rubbed the leather surface of Mueller's wallet with my right thumb. The train rattled, lights dimmed...

"What are we going to do?" Sandi asked.

Pocketing the badge, I answered, "We're going to Zürich to visit N. Schellhaus."

"I mean _after_."

"Depends on what we-"

I felt the train slow and strained for a peek out the window. A minute later, trees fell away and a quaint station slid into view. Dolled in red and yellow stripes, the terminal looked more cartoonish than real, like something out of a model train magazine. A lacquered sign on the building read _Freiburg._ I saw a dozen people milling about the platform, but no police, and settled into my comfy chair.

"You were saying," Sandi said, tracing her finger along the glass, "it depends on what we... _what_?"

"Learn at N. Schellhaus."

"And if we learn nothing? Are we supposed to roam Zürich like a couple nomads? Doesn't this sound risky to you?"

"Maybe...a little...but-"

"We should minimize risk, John. Why don't we give the folder to someone in the U.S. Embassy?"

"Do you think anybody in the Embassy will give a rat's ass? Besides, like I said yesterday, we need more than numbers to make a case. If you want to go to the Embassy, by all means. But I'm not throwing in the towel yet."

"You're _so_ stubborn. Can't see we're in a bad spot? You assaulted a policeman."

"For the hundredth time, he's not a cop."

"You don't know."

"And you weren't protesting when I kicked his ass."

"I was frightened!"

Go figure, a fight was brewing...but, for once, I had the ammunition to win the battle: "Need I remind _you_ it was _your_ idea to _see this through_? You _begged_ me to come to West Germany. _Drop everything_ , you said. Well, here I am!"

Sandi slid her finger from the window and shut eyes.

"Yeah," I continued, "and even though I said-"

A clean-shaven, wrinkled face poked into our compartment and I snapped my jaw shut. The man examined the two empty seats across from us and then said, _"Ist diese zu essen gemacht."_

I sat there like I'd been dipped in cement. Or, a better description: I looked like a senseless American.

"Is anybody sitting here?" he asked in English.

Spell broken, I shook my head.

The stranger struggled out of a trench coat and then tossed it, and a leather briefcase, on the seat across from Sandi. Next, he settled into the chair across from me. I stared out the window and willed the train to move with my mind. It took a long time but, at last, we started rolling. Lickety-split, the landscape blurred into a medley of fall colors. Sandi remained quiet, eyes closed. I fixated on the country and convinced myself our compartment buddy was no threat.

Besides, he looked like another suit-and-tie businessman. Within minutes, our compartment pal was digging through his briefcase. As he'd done after each stop, the conductor appeared and requested our tickets. Like before, he punched them with a hole press before moving to the next compartment. Easy peasy. No fuss. The conductor didn't even glance at Sandi or me. Why would he, right? Mm-hmm. We were normal passengers like everyone else...

Spurned by boredom or the need to be sociable, our travelling companion cleared his throat and then asked, "English, by chance?"

I wasn't in the mood to talk but I didn't want to be impolite. So, I split the difference and grunted, "American."

"Ah. If you're going to Zürich, you should be careful," he warned through a grin.

_Great,_ I wondered. _What next?_

He nodded at Sandi and said, "Women love Zürich. If you're not wise, she'll spend all your money."

Somewhat calmed, I patted Sandi on the thigh and reported, "I'm afraid we spent everything in Germany. She'll be on a short leash. Right, my pet?"

She snorted and pushed my hand away.

"What did you think of Germany?" our seatmate asked.

"Oh..." I hemmed, "you know...we're happy to be heading to Switzerland. Change of scenery and all the rest."

"Change of scenery...yes, I understand."

"We didn't have the best experience," Sandi said.

Our seatmate looked from me to her and then back to me again as if expecting clarification. When it appeared Sandi had zero desire to elaborate, I explained, "My father spent years in a concentration camp. I...er, rather... _we_ didn't enjoy reliving his struggles."

"Ah...I see. I'm sorry about your father. Such a... _ahem_ ...a terrible experience. Germany will be forever saddled with the depravities of a previous generation. Many Germans, like myself, are repentant. Others...not so much. I wouldn't say they are proud of the past. More like...like they have an inability to confront it. Does this make sense?"

"Confronting the past is never pleasant," I answered, nudging Sandi in the ankle with my shoe. "But it has to be done."

"I agree," our seatmate said. "Like so many things, though, easier said."

"Easier said," I echoed. "Anyway, we're both spent from our adventure in the Fatherland. Time for a change of scenery and all the rest."

"Well, I suppose you'll enjoy Zürich except Zürich is a testament to how the world would look if it were designed by a German with a passion for making money rather than war."

I wanted to tell him he was closer to the truth than he knew. Instead, I said, "We're going to Switzerland to do some sight-seeing."

"And get some chocolate," added Sandi.

"Ah, chocolate," our pal said, rubbing his belly. "Swiss chocolate is world famous. Of course, many foreigners come to Zürich for one thing, and it isn't chocolate. The Swiss treat the banks the same way the Vatican treats its cathedrals. It's no coincidence the Pope looked to the Swiss to provide a guard for his treasures."

"No money here," I said, raising both hands. "Two broke Americans. We're so broke, we're travelling without clothes."

"Spontaneous and impetuous. Young and careless."

"You have us nailed to a _T_ ," Sandi mumbled.

Trying to sound diffident, I said, "Speaking of banks...um, like, I kinda have one trivial question. Do you mind?"

"Please."

"I'm an accounting major in college and I've always wondered why the Swiss banks have this...you know..." I was trying to think of a diplomatic word for _fucked-up enterprise_ but drew a blank. So, I shrugged and pasted a dumb grin on my face.

"I think the word you're looking for is _aura,"_ he said.

"Sure," I answered. " _Aura_. It's on the tip of my tongue."

"Deposit agreements and stringent confidentiality laws. In addition, the Swiss franc has zero inflation and the banks are not fractional-reserve establishments. A large portion of assets -at least forty percent by law- are secured by hard cash. But the most attractive facet is privacy. Who should tell a man what they can do with their money?"

"Hands off, huh?"

"Indeed. If you're looking for a refuge from prying eyes, Swiss banks offer sanctuary. This isn't to say I agree with the mentality. For decades, petty and not so petty criminals have secreted their plunder in the banks of this country. When the inevitable coup or arrest seems eminent, off they go to Switzerland to claim their cash. As a bonus prize, they also get Swiss citizenship."

"What a deal," I said, rolling my eyes.

"It does present as unsavory, but there's a method to the madness. Switzerland is not a military superpower, but there are other ways to wield authority. Banking is like, oh, what tourism is to a beautiful place like Hawaii. Banking distinguishes Switzerland from the other smaller landlocked countries in Europe. Banking-"

"Banking is the economy," I interjected.

"Correct. As long as the Swiss have their banks, the Swiss will be relevant."

I was forming a response but the train lurched and then slowed. Meantime, the conductor came through the car, distributing customs forms, and I realized we were approaching the border. Minutes later, we stopped in Basel. If we were on some kind of list, now would be the moment of reckoning.

Time seems to pass like a kidney stone when you're sitting on the stove. I clenched hands, counted every speck of bug guts on the window, and willed the train to get rolling. At last, a suit-and-tie fella appeared at the front of the car. Bouncing from seat-to-seat, he collected the declarations and stamped passports. Once again, Sandi and I avoided scrutiny and supplementary questions. I don't recall the official even glancing at our pictures. The experience seemed anticlimactic but I wasn't complaining. As we rolled from the station, Sandi's sticky hand seized mine.

"Next stop Zürich," our seatmate announced. Then he spied at our hands, locked in a death grip, and added, "Young love is a wonderful thing."

"Isn't it?" I asked, elbowing Sandi in the ribs.

"Sure is," she said with zero inflection.

"She's being coy, but do you know what she said to me last night? My girl wants the gaudiest ring in the Western Hemisphere. I'm like, whoa, tap the breaks, love. I'm not a Rockefeller, you know."

Sandi gave me the side-eye, but our companion chuckled and said, "You'll need go no further than Zürich."

"Maybe we'll settle for the second gaudiest ring," I said through a wide smile. "Problem is, I'm not sure where to start looking. This guy in Frankfurt suggested a store in Zürich...um...shit..." I snapped fingers and scrunched my nose. "Damn if I can remember the name."

"Cartier?" he asked. "De Beers?"

I shook my head and then said, "N...something. Help me out, hon. What's the name of the place Dieter recommended?"

"N. Schellhaus," she said to the window.

"What would I do without her?" I asked. "Mind like a vise, this one. Say, you wouldn't know where this Schellhaus joint is located?"

He cocked his head and said, "They don't sell chocolate at N. Schellhaus. Or rings."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Perhaps I can help," he interrupted, reaching for the briefcase. After some digging, he found a business card and pen. "Schellhaus is a short stroll from the Hauptbahnof," my newest pal informed as he scribbled something on the back of the card. "Follow Bahnhofstrasse, known as Station Street, to Pelikanstrasse. If you reach the Zürich See, you've gone too far. By the way, Bahnhofstrasse is the richest street in the world. Most of Zürich's largest banks are located there. You'll never believe it, but in the old days this area was referred to as the ditch of frogs." He handed me the card and then asked, "Funny name, yes?

I grunted, studied the immaculate penmanship...

N. Schellhaus

15 Pelikanstrasse

...then flipped the card and read:

Thomas Goebbel

Beigeordneter Ermittler

Eidgenössische Finanzmarktaufsicht FINMA

031-65-34-23

...before shoving the card into my pocket.

"Easier than spending an afternoon trying to find the place," Thomas Goebbel said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

I nodded and reached for Sandi's hand.

"I'm in Zürich for a few days," Goebbel added. "Most of my time is spent in Bern but business beckons. If you need anything, feel to...eh, how do you Americans say? Feel to drop me a line?"

"Feel _free_ to drop me a line," I corrected, while thinking, _Not probable, Mister Goebbel._

# 39.

"We Said Goodbye..."

We said goodbye to our latest friend as we disembarked at the Zürich Hauptbahnof. Leaving the train and blending into the hustling throng added a sense of concealment, but we weren't inconspicuous. A chill in the late afternoon air drove sane people into coats, furs and shawls; Sandi and I wore short sleeves and carried zero luggage. I wondered how our duffel bags were faring in Frankfurt as I rubbed my arms. Worse than the lack of overgarments: the folder stuffed into my pants. The glut of papers had been percolating in my sweaty nether regions -not to mention digging into my tummy and both inner thighs- for hours. I couldn't wait to remove the pest and air out the ole sack.

Shuffling forward, Sandi whispered, "I thought you said we can't trust anyone."

"We can't."

"Then what's with the small talk?"

"I don't know. He seemed cordial and...anyway, did he look dangerous?"

She scoffed or coughed or cleared her throat...whatever. I feigned deafness to her noises. We were approaching a pinch point where the platform and terminal met beneath a concrete arch. Once through the people grinder, the crowd separated in several directions. With Sandi in tow, I followed placards towards the Bahnhofstrasse exit...

...and almost pissed when I saw the gendarmes.

At least a dozen cops (I stopped counting when I reached twelve) milled around the egress and studied the faces of pedestrians with contrived indifference. My savvy inner voice informed, _'This isn't normal, moron!'_

"Shit," I croaked.

Sandi halted next to me, followed my stare, and then muttered, "Wonderful."

"I might be wrong, but I'd say this isn't your run of the mill Swiss train station security."

" _I told you_ ," she sniped. "I told you Mueller's a cop.

Quick-like, I snagged Sandi's hand, guided her next to a news kiosk and then planted a kiss on her lips. Young love indeed. Out of the corner-of-my eye I watched the coppers fan into the terminal and form a skirmish line. "We have to split up," I whispered into her left ear while nuzzling her cheek. "There's no way they can cover all the exits out of here."

Sandi stiffened and said, "Unless there are police at the other exits."

"Unless...yeah...but...um..."

"But _what_?"

"If they're looking for us-"

" _If_?"

" _If._ We don't know. But _if_ they are, we'll have a better chance if we're not together."

"This is another stupid idea, John."

"Do you have a better one?"

She peered over my shoulder and then said, "Where do you want me to go? I've no clue-"

"Shh. There're _a lot_ of people here. Mix in. Keep your head down. Move fast. But not too fast. Don't run. I'll meet you on Pelikanstrasse in a few minutes."

"John, what-"

"Look," I said, pointing at stairs leading to an underground exit. "Follow the signs, don't turn around, and wait for me outside. Find a pillar or something to hide behind."

"Which way are you going?"

"The other direction. If I'm not on Pelikanstrasse in ten minutes, you'll need to find a way to the U.S. consulate. _Don't_ go to the police." I didn't want to tell her what I'd do if she wasn't there because I had no idea.

"Ten minutes?"

"Yes. Ten."

"But-"

"No buts. _Go_." And with those words, I shoved her forward and watched as she joined a knot of people heading for the exit. She cast a look at the gendarmes and then a final, baleful glare at me before disappearing down the steps. I reasoned Sandi had a better chance than me. Her German was passable and she didn't stand out in a crowd. I was almost a head taller than everyone else.

As I was deciding how to proceed, a family of Germans ambled by the kiosk. At least, I thought they were German. A rotund father jabbered, gesturing to his plump wife and bored children, in a barbaric, saliva-spraying language. German seemed an apt candidate for said dialect and I decided against looking a gift horse in the mouth. Digging Joaquin Mueller's badge from my pocket, I rushed forward and draped my arm around the wide shoulders of the alleged German patriarch. If there's one thing I learned from Da's manuscript: most Germans were compliant in the face of authority.

" _Was is das_?" the father inquired as I shook the badge in front of his face. The family stared at me in dismay. The old man squinted, consulted the identification and then exclaimed, _"Herr Mueller der Bundesnachrichtendienst?!"_

Um...question, statement, or both? I waved my arms and hoped the badge would be enough stimulation.

" _Was willst du?!"_ the father barked. _"Wir haben nichts falsch gemacht?!"_ His modulation, and body language, suggested the opposite of compliance.

" _Umzug,"_ I rasped. I'm certain I didn't congregate the verb in the correct manner and added, _"Schnell,"_ to get the fool moving. Impelling with a tiny shove, I coxed him towards the Bahnhofstrasse exit as his brood followed a few steps behind.

" _Was machst du in Zürich,"_ the man prattled.

Head down, I grunted, "Uh-huh," as we passed a trio of gendarmes.

" _Wir sind hier im Urlaub. Wir haben Reisevisa."_

I smiled and patted his arm. Sure buddy, whatever. Like friends in conversation, we passed two more officers, engaged in a discussion of their own, at the exit.

Once outside I kept walking, splitting from the astonished family without so much as a _Guten Tag_! Handfuls of cops roamed the sidewalk (and several police vehicles idled in the street) but there were many pedestrians, too. I sashayed my way here and there, mixed with denizens, and moseyed down the sidewalk undetected. In fact, I kicked myself for being a paranoid. Perhaps the large presence of law enforcement was normal at the train station. Perhaps nobody be looking for little ole John Foley.

_Why risk it?_ Brain asked. _Vigilance is better than a prison sentence...or worse._

To which I could only agree and quicken pace. Peepers pinballing, I scurried along Bahnhofstrasse until I found Pelikanstrasse. I walked the length of the block once but couldn't find Sandi. Sliding into an alcove, I wiped my brow and felt adrenaline coursing through me like fire. Several deep breaths later, I tried to form a "what's next" plan in case Sandi didn't show. However, my mind didn't want to strategize. With any luck, she'd be along. I _knew_ she'd be along. I _hoped_ she'd be along. She _had_ to be along.

And so...

...after what seemed like an eternity, I saw my girl meandering towards me while gawking, like a stupid tourist, at the buildings.

I stepped out of my hiding spot and summoned in a silky voice, "Hey, doll. What took you so long?"

She rushed into my arms and gushed, "Thank God!"

"See, no problem. Easy peasy."

"Oh yeah," she chided, "then why are you dripping like a sprinkler?"

"It's hotter in Switzerland than I imagined. Plus...you kinda had me worried. Did you run into a problem?"

"No. I skipped out, but got turned around when I came up the stairs and went the wrong direction on Bahnhofstrasse. I doubled back, but bypassed the station, and took the long way here. You?"

"Oh, I just had to give a couple of those boyos the patented Foley one-two. I tell you, John Foley is a dangerous cat."

"I hope John Foley's not running out of lives."

"Agreed, which is why we need to get to N. Schellhaus before they close."

• • •

At 15 Pelikanstrasse we found a nondescript building sandwiched between two taller structures. " _N. Schellhaus_ ", carved into the concrete next to a single glass door, confirmed we were at the right place. I pulled on the handle but the door didn't budge; I yanked harder but still no give; I leaned against the glass, cupped hands over face, and strained to see inside. Dark, empty lobby. No receptionist's desk, no chairs, no tables, no sign of life...nothing but darkness.

"They can't be closed," I said, checking my watch. "It's not even five."

"Bankers hours?" Sandi asked.

"An old wives' tale."

A doorbell and small intercom were imbedded into the wall below the engraving. With a shrug, I mashed the button. The speaker crackled and a woman's voice spoke to use in German. I told her, in English, I didn't speak German. No problem. She switched to my native tongue and asked:

"How can I assist you?"

I answered, "I'm here about a family account."

"One moment, please." The speaker clicked off and we stood on the sidewalk as people passed. A spider had made a home in the _"u"_ of _Schellhaus_ , its web small but full of bugs. I caressed the etching and wondered how old _Schellhaus_ was.

The speaker clicked again and the same female voice inquired, "What is the name of the account, please?"

"Kohner. It was opened about thirty-five years ago."

"One minute, please."

"Kohner?" Sandi asked. "Why didn't you say Foley or Regnesmachen?"

"I'm trying to get us into the building and I don't want them to know who I am. Foley sorta gives it away."

"Regnesmachen doesn't."

"If I said Regnesmachen, do you think they'd let us in?"

"Why not?"

"Look, I want to speak to a real person about Regnesmachen. I'm not taking any chances."

Once again, she looked baffled. But then the speaker buzzed and the door shuddered.

"Voilà," I said.

I pulled the handle, motioned Sandi inside with a bow, and then entered. Talk about spartan: barren walls, painted white; a single, dim yellow light illuminated a panel mounted in the rear of the room. Since the "reception" area lacked chairs, we stood in the foyer and watched as the door shut and locked behind us with a _clunk_.

"Now what?" Sandi whispered

"I guess we wait and take in the ambience."

"This can't be a bank. Where are the tellers? There's no customers and-"

A shrill ding, like a bike bell, echoed from behind as the rear wall slid apart with a squeak. Presto! A short, well-dressed man emerged from the hideaway and flashed a smile as he adjusted a bowtie. Pale and doughy, our newest pal sauntered to within a foot of us and cleared his throat. An obvious toupee, askew on the banker's pointy head, invited ridicule. It took all my self-control not to stare at the absurd hairpiece.

"I'm Herr Fine," he said, offering a flaccid handshake to me and Sandi.

I eyeballed the "reception" area and said, "Pretty sparse, fella. Saving money on overhead?"

Fine chuckled and then said, "We don't need to impress the clients. In fact, N. Schellhaus doesn't ever handle walk-ins. This is a private house. Business is conducted by appointment."

"I would've made one, but I just became aware of my uncle's account."

"Your uncle named Kohner?"

"Otto Kohner. As luck would have it, we're passing through and decided, spur of the moment, to see about Uncle Kohner's assets."

"As luck would have it," Fine mumbled. "Do you visit Zürich often?"

"Oh, you know, every couple weeks."

"Hmm...well, this seems to be a wasted trip."

"Whadda mean?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you, but whomever gave you the information is in error. We have nothing for a Kohner."

"It might be under another name. Uncle Kohner was a sneaky man when it came to his business dealings. Nobody in the family knew about his private affairs until he passed away."

"Are you sure he used this bank?"

"Positive."

"What's the other name?"

"A strange one. Regnesmachen."

If the words meant anything to Fine, he did a fabulous job of concealing emotion. Not a flinch, tick, or nervous mannerism. He asked, "Do you have the account number?"

I thought of the blocky blueish ink on old dead skin and recited, "217949."

"I'll be back in a moment," Fine said. Then he turned, inserted a key in the panel, and disappeared behind the moving wall.

"See," I said, elbowing Sandy. "Easy as pie. I gave him the code word and presto."

"Maybe he's calling the police."

Of course, I hadn't thought of that, but I shook my head and argued, "He's not calling the law. You heard Goebbel. These people thrive on secrecy. They don't want cops crawling around their temples. It's bad for business."

"Mm-hmm, because this place is jammed with customers."

"You know what I mean."

Another piercing ding announced Fine's return. I hoped to see a wheelbarrow full of cash or something...but Fine wasn't holding anything in his hands, wheelbarrow or otherwise.

He _acted_ apologetic and explained, "My regrets, but the account number you provided is not here."

"But N. Schellhaus had it, right? Don't tell me Uncle Kohner was mistaken."

"No, your uncle wasn't erroneous. At one time, the house held the title. Now, we don't," he said, shaking his head; the toupee flapped from the vigorous, side-to-side agitation. I tried not stare, willed peepers forward, and wondered if Fine's hairpiece served as some kinda distraction.

Anyway, no big deal. Kleinmann said the accounts had been relocated or vended to other institutions. I needed Fine to give me the pertinent information and I'd be out of his toupee. Cue the histrionics: "Not here?" I cried, waving arms. "Where is it?"

"Due to confidentially laws, I can't reveal this information. I will say it is common practice for a lending house to transfer financial property."

"Geez, what kinda two-bit operation is this, pal?"

"As I stated, the practice is normal. The explanation is complicated but-"

"Complicated like your bank sold my uncle's account?"

Fine's lips puckered and his eyes narrowed. "In accordance with the Swiss Financial Market Authority regulations, the location of your uncle's account would have been passed to him," he said in a measured cadence. "You're not even the primary titleholder. Do you have paperwork or another legal endorsement naming you the executor of your uncle's estate?"

"Yeah...well...I'm working on all the legal crap."

"Yet you make demands without _all the legal crap_? I'm sorry, but there's nothing more I can do for you."

I wanted to tell him he should've been apologizing for his bad hairpiece. Nevertheless, begging, stomping my foot, raising hell, being an ass, or...shaking...Fine...down...

And then I was struck by moment of clarity Number Two.

There's more than one way to skin a cat and sometimes you need a tool stronger than a knife.

"Thanks for your time," I said, putting my arm around Sandi. "I'll see what I can find in Uncle Kohner's papers."

The front door unlocked and I pushed it open with my shoulder. As Sandi and I stepped outside, Fine called, "Good luck in your hunt."

# 40.

"It Was After..."

It was after five when we departed N. Schellhaus...

"We're not going to make any headway tonight," I announced. "I imagine the banks will be closing soon and I'm beat."

"I'm not sure we're going to make any headway, period," Sandi said. "We don't know where to start looking for... _ahem_ ...Uncle Kohner's account."

"You're right, but Fine gave me an idea. A _great_ idea."

"Care to fill me in?"

I didn't because her response would've been: _N.O._ Or, rather, _NO!_ _NO! NO! NO!_ NO's into perpetuity.

Instead, I bought time to work the particulars by saying, "First things first. We need to avoid the fuzz and get off the street. We'll find a hostel, but I need to cash a few of my checks. There has to be a Western Union around here."

"Meaning, we'll be walking the streets."

"Not walking so much as creeping."

"John, I know you don't want to hear this but the odds of finding your father's account are astronomical. You said we'd visit N. Schellhaus and go from there. What did we learn? Nothing."

"I told you, I have an idea."

"No offense, but your ideas have sucked. I'm exhausted. I'm scared. I can't deal with another two days of sneaking around Zürich. Can you please listen to reason?"

I thought about throwing an _N.O_. in her face, but decided to split the difference: "One more day, hon. Give me one more. If I have nothing after six P.M. tomorrow, I'll take the evidence to the press."

Her eyes gave me another serious Superman laser stare and I swear smoke came out of her ears.

"You brought me here," I said, pushing the knife a little deeper. "Give me one more day."

"I had a plan. You're flying by the seat of your pants."

"Not anymore."

"Because of the _great_ idea you won't share, huh? Because of the great idea you won't share because it's _not_ great."

"One more day."

"We still haven't figured out how to get home."

"True, but-"

"But you have a _great_ idea," she scoffed.

_Humph._ I had it figured out. Sandi wouldn't want to hear it, but _I had it figured out_. I should add, if everything went according to my plan...which it did...in a roundabout way.

So there.

I figured it out.

And while summoning the IRA's assistance screamed "desperation", I could rationalize desperation. Assuming the police were looking for Sandi and me, her abject (but not unfounded) disposition, my desire to right many wrongs...I convinced myself these factors motivated. But so did something else...something else called _greed_. The train ride gave me ample time to put a price on my labor. Sure, I'd give _most_ of my share to the JIWCA, but a smidgeon went to me. Welp, I won't be the first to say avarice causes nothing but trouble. I should've predicted the outcome. But twenty-four hours later -when regret foisted itself upon me- I blamed Da for everything.

Like the kids these days say, I became a whiny _beeatch_.

Anyway, I wasn't thinking about compunction as we crept Bahnhofstrasse in search of a Western Union. The swarming streets provided anonymity, but gendarmes roamed amongst the tourists and Zürich's well-to-do. One or two cops here, three or four there, police cars driving back and forth...was this normal? I didn't know and (apologies for sounding like a broken record) I wasn't taking any chances. Doubling back and passing N. Schellhaus, we walked along Pelikanstrasse for three blocks and then swung a right on Talstrasse. I found a Western Union and exchanged a couple hundred dollars for Swiss francs. While Sandi counted the money, I asked the teller for a hostel off the beaten path. After consulting a book, she gave me the address to a joint on Niederdorfstrasse. Sandi and I jumped in a cab and spent the half-hour trip, once again, in silence.

The twenty-something hostel clerk was less than cordial. "Wunderbar, another pair with no reservation," he carped, giving us the hairy eyeball. "You're lucky. I have a few bunks remaining in the big room. Take it or leave it."

Big room, small room, baby room, I didn't care. I wasn't gonna be a Goldilocks. "The big room sounds delightful."

He continued: "Respect your roommates' privacy. No stealing, smoking, humping or whatever creative endeavor you might think of. Don't cause any problems or you're out."

"You needn't worry about us," I said. Unless by _problem_ he meant the Swiss police, the West German FIS and slash or _miscellaneous_ , everything would be hunky dory.

The clerk gestured us to the stairs and we ascended a couple floors, arriving in a giant room with a dozen bunk beds lining the wall. Twenty people of various sexes and stages of inebriation milled about, smoked dope and drink beer. In the corner of the room, a long-haired in tie-dye strummed a guitar and warbled "Me and Bobby McGee". Hair like a female, voice like a male...just like Janis Joplin, except the singing be awful.

I fanned the pungent atmosphere and said, "So much for the no smoking rule."

"I get the bottom bunk," Sandi announced, throwing herself on an empty cot.

"See, it's not so bad. Comfy bed, music, and a bathroom down the hall. Hell, you might even catch a contact high."

"John, I'm not sure about this," she whispered. "I don't feel safe around these people."

In spite of the horrible singing, or because of it, our roommates appeared harmless. "One evening, hon. You can handle one evening."

"One, John. I won't do more than one. I _can't_ do more than one."

" _One_. I promise."

"I'm holding you to your promise, mister."

I massaged her forehead and said, "Listen, I have to make a couple phone calls and then I'll be back. Chill out. Everything will be fine."

She nodded, closed eyes, and then mumbled, "Just hurry, please."

I walked downstairs and eyed the lone payphone in the lobby. I wasn't sure how much my phone calls were going to cost, but I didn't feel like paying. I went to the front desk and found the happy clerk reading a magazine. To piss him off, I rang the bell.

He marked the spot where he stopped reading with a finger and glared at me.

"I need your help," I said.

"Huh?"

I meant to produce Agent Mueller's badge but grabbed my wallet by mistake. When I slapped the imitation leather open with a dramatic flourish, Thomas Goebbel's business card fluttered to the counter. The churlish desk jockey must've thought I was giving him the artifact because he scooped it up and studied both sides.

Somewhat embarrassed, I said, "Keep it as a souvenir. Listen, I need to use your phone."

He scrunched his face, scratched the fuzz beneath his chin, and then read, " _Assistant Investigator of the Swiss Financial Market Supervisory Authority_. Is this you?"

I didn't know if he was impressed or irritated, but I almost jumped out of my skin. "What did you...what's it say?"

" _Assistant Investigator of the Swiss Financial Market Supervisory Authority._ "

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said, tossing the card on the counter. "And I'm also sure I don't want it."

What luck, right? Of all people...or maybe it wasn't luck. "I need to use your phone," I said, all urgent-like.

The clerk pointed over my shoulder and responded, "There's a payphone in the lobby."

So...this time, I pulled out my trusty badge, hung it in his face and...

• • •

...placed my first call to Thomas Goebbel. I didn't know how I'd convey my crazy story, so I decided to skip around the truth while imploring Goebbel to locate Uncle Kohner's account. This was no doubt against some regulation, but I could summon a sob story and tweak heartstrings. If the waterworks failed to impress, oh well. Never hurts to try, right?

It didn't matter: the phone rang on his end until I knew it wouldn't be answered. No problem, I'd circle back to Goebbel. Meantime, I had a couple other people to contact.

Using the number on Agent Mueller's ID, I dialed the Bundesnachrichtendienst in Frankfurt. I waited forever but exercised patience; I wasn't disconnecting until I talked to someone in the department. At last, an operator answered...

"May I speak to Agent Mueller?" I asked.

"Hold please."

My stomach completed several gut-wrenching cartwheels as the handset buzzed. Well, one questioned had been answered: Mueller was the real deal.

Nobody picked up on the German side and I rebounded to the operator. "It appears Fräulein Mueller has left for the evening," she said. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Um...no, I'll...wait, did you say _Fräulein_ Mueller?"

"Yes, the Fräulein is not at her desk. Would you like to leave a message?"

My tum-tum did a few more revolutions, but it whirled in satisfaction. I wanted to run upstairs and brag, _Sandi,_ _I'm right! Hot damn, I'm right!_ However, just to be sure: "There's no Agent Joaquin Mueller, number 14405, in Frankfurt?"

"No. Perhaps you'd like to try another Bureau?"

I could've wasted the evening contacting FIS Departments across West Germany, but I assumed the responses would've been the same: _No Agent Joaquin Mueller here._ And at this point, my assumptions might as well have been fact.

I hung up and ran a hand through my messy hair. Now came the time to jam some pieces together...

"How much longer are you going to be?" the clerk demanded.

I feigned deafness and telephoned Jürgen Holte. He answered on the first ring and sounded grumpy: _"Wer ruft an!"_

"Jürgen, it's John Foley."

His customary, cheerful tenor had gone the way of the Dodo. "John," he barked, "I received an alarming visit this evening! Where are you?"

"London. I saw the Queen today and got her to kiss my ass. Can you imagine?"

"Be serious, John. Give me your location."

"Well, I would except I've decided trust is overrated. As luck would have it, the revelation struck the moment I discovered Dieter had died. Quite a coincidence, eh?"

"Yes, I know about Dieter," Holte said with appropriate sedateness.

"So there's _that._ And then some guy claiming to be FIS tried to detain Sandi and me at the airport."

"Claiming?"

"After I beat the stuffing out of him, I snagged his badge and made a phone call to the Frankfurt Bureau. Guess what? The woman I spoke to has never heard of Agent Joaquin Mueller, badge number 14405. Go ahead and check it out."

"No...no, I believe you."

I expected Holte to poo-pooh my news; his non-confrontational tone threw me for a loop. I didn't know whether to be suspicious or grateful. "Right...good," I said. "Because I'm not lying, man."

"You're in a tight box, Foley. I had a chat with two men from the BND today. They're under the impression you caused the death of Dieter Kleinmann."

I didn't know jack squat about the BND, but I figured they weren't selling Tupperware. "Wonderful," I muttered. "My day keeps getting better by the second."

"I'm afraid the news gets worse."

"Hold on a sec. The newspaper said Dieter got hit by a train. How do I figure in his death?"

"The detectives are under the impression you pushed him into the path of the railcar."

"Uh-huh. Why'd they come to you?"

"This is the other bad news: you're also wanted for questioning in the death of Sarah Miller."

"What!"

"The police are connecting distant dots with a wavy line. Herr Leavitt told the police you and your girlfriend had personal and professional dealings with Sarah. He also said you threatened him. Is this accurate?"

"I can explain. He made a few snide remarks about Sarah; I ran my mouth. Nothing but a little steam blowing, Jürgen."

"Not smart, Foley. Understandable, but not smart."

"You're not the first person today to tell me how stupid I am."

"Then am I to assume you told Herr Leavitt about your appointment with a politician in Bonn?"

"Yeah, the topic come up in our pleasant conversation."

"Well, the detectives interrogated everyone in the Stadthaus. When it was my turn in the chair, I said we had met, once, and directed you to Dieter Kleinmann on a manner of business. You can see where Dieter led. I argued on your behalves, to no avail."

"Wanted for murder," I scoffed. "Why would I murder them?"

"I asked the same question. The police weren't interested in answering."

"Explains the fuzz."

"Fuzz?"

"Police. When Sandi and I arrived in...where we are...there were more than a dozen cops prowling the train station."

" _Was!_ You must avoid the police!"

"No shit."

"John...enough of this nonsense. I will help you deal with the authorities, but you must tell me where you are."

"Mmm...I'll think about it."

"There's no thinking to be done!"

I tapped the desk with my fingers and listened to Holte's labored breathing. I had zero intention of putting our lives in his hands, but I decided to clue him in...just in case:

"Jürgen, Dieter passed me papers detailing the Regnesmachen account information. In fact, he had no problem locating Regnesmachen in the Deutschbank computers. There's nothing damning if you don't know what you're looking at and, um...anyway, Dieter was nervous. Beyond nervous. He put two and two together and wanted no part of a Regnesmachen investigation, not like he thought you'd accomplish much with the material. But it's all there if you connect the...what did you say? The distant dots with wavy lines?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just did."

"During our earlier conversations you never mentioned evidence."

"Abundance of caution, not like I thought it necessary. Turns out somebody is alarmed."

"Let me bring you and Sandi to Bonn. No funny business. You have my-"

"You're assuming I'm in West Germany."

"Ah...I see. Then you must find the American consulate. The longer you're on the street, the worse your odds. Interpol will join-"

"Yeah, I know the score, but I have unfinished business."

"Are you insane?"

"Maybe, but I have an ace up my sleeve."

"A what?"

"Sorry, Jürgen, but I have another call to make. Remember what I told you, and don't be surprised when the shit hits the fan."

I set the handset down and then pulled the folded square of paper from my wallet. Opening it sent the butterflies in motion again. _Here we go,_ I thought.

"Hey, are you almost done?" the clerk called. "You're using the only phone I have!"

Once again, I ignored him as I pecked the digits.

And, once again, the phone rang and rang. The strident European tone -a one second buzz followed by five seconds of silence- almost induced hypnosis. I tapped my foot, stared at the wall, and followed the winding cracks in the concrete. At last, a sunny, airy voice chirped, "Madigan's."

"I'm looking for Ray. Um...he's squarish, squinty eyes-"

"Ray's in congress right now," she cackled.

It took me a few seconds to digest the frank information; the thought of Ray "in congress" scattered the butterflies and filled my stomach with bile. "Right...so...can you have him phone John Foley when he's no longer, um, in congress?" I read her the number from the telephone and then said, "Tell him he has to call soon, within the hour."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Ray's a quick worker."

I dropped the handset and exhaled. So far, so good...

The phone rang almost the instant I hung up. _Ray's a quick worker,_ the woman said _._ I had to squash a chuckle as I picked up the receiver.

"Um...hi!" a shrill female voice greeted. "Do you have any rooms tonight or-?" I disconnected the line and sat with my finger on the plunger. Ten seconds later (I counted each of 'em), the phone rang again.

"Foley," I answered in my sternest voice.

"John Foley," the caller hailed from across the English Channel. "I be hoping ta hear from ya again."

"Hello, Ray. I guess the tart at the bar was right: you are a quick worker."

# 41.

"I Didn't Recognize..."

"I didn't recognize the country code," Ray said. "But I put the two and two together. Switzerland, aye?"

"Zürich to be exact."

"What's so important in Zürich ya need ta bust me good times?"

"Use your imagination."

Three Mississippi's passed before Ray said, "Ya better not be pulling me leg, boyo."

"There's an expression we use in the U.S. when the shit starts to fly. We say, _send in the cavalry_. Do you catch my meaning?"

"Aye, and if I do what ya ask I better see something for me trouble."

"You're going to see my father's money and a lot of action. I suggest you bring boys who like to scrap. There've already been a couple casualties."

"Me lads love to scuffle and I'd never run from the fun, but I need ta take this up the chain. Stick around. I'll call ya in a few ticks."

As my finger squashed the disconnect, I caught the clerk giving me the hairy eyeball. I had tied up his phone for almost an hour...and now it'd be longer. _Too bad,_ I thought. _I might be here all night, bozo._

The fool must've read my mind. "Hey, man, I've been more than accommodating," he said. "You need to get off the phone."

I turned my back and hummed "Nancy Whiskey" until the blower rang.

Before I could say _boo_ , Ray spouted, "Be at the airport tomorrow at ten ta meet me Aer Lingus flight from Dublin. Don't be late and be sure ya turn up. Ya don't want us lookin' for ya, understand?"

"No, Ray."

"Ya don't understand?"

"I understand, but I gotta stay clear of all checkpoints."

"Why?"

"Trust me, okay? We meet in front of Aer Lingus ticketing outside security." I didn't know where to find _Aer Lingus ticketing outside security_ , but I assumed it wouldn't be difficult to locate.

Ray said, "The old man isn't going ta like this, but we have no choice, aye?"

"Not if you want the money."

The telephone went dead in my hand.

• • •

Back in the big room, the kid with the guitar butchered Dylan while an amorous couple wrestled beneath the covers on the top bunk across the way. Sandi, oblivious to the noise, slept with her legs curled to her chest. I woke her with a gentle tap on the nose; she blinked open her eyes and then smiled.

"Told you I'd return," I said.

"Did you take care of everything?"

"Yeah."

"Your master plan, huh?"

"You got it."

"Don't forget your promise."

"One more day."

"You're not doing anything stupid, are you?"

"No, I'm all out of stupid. I have an idea where to do some discreet poking around. A final look. If it's a bust, we'll go to the U.S. Embassy and ask for...whatchacallit...asylum or something. I'll hand over the file and let the professionals go to work. Sound good?"

"Sounds good. You're making the right decision, John. Are you coming to bed?"

"You gonna make room?"

"Um...no. We're not getting busy here."

"Seems to be the happening concern," I said, jerking my head towards the randy duo on yonder bunk.

"Ugh, gross. I love you, but I'm not letting anyone in this room know how much I love you. But the next time we're alone... _ahem_ ...let's just say it'll be worth the wait, hotshot."

Ah, isn't she a sweetie?

• • •

The next morning, Sandi's opinion of _moi_ swung the other direction.

"You called who!" she bellowed. The lobby full of stoned, sleepy, and hungover heads turned in our direction.

"Lower your voice. I called Ray from the IRA."

"I thought I heard you wrong," she hissed. "But...nope."

"It's a smart play, Sandi."

"A smart play? What is this, a baseball game? You promised-"

"Yep, and we'll get to the Embassy before midnight if nothing turns up." By the way, if nothing turned up, I'd be paddling shit creek. But Sandi...I fashioned an exit strategy for her. I tossed and turned the entire evening (while trying to ignore humping and bad music...which, I'll have you know, ain't an easy feat) and hammered a semi-solid plan.

She kicked me and said, "You're joining hands with a criminal organization."

"Okay, you're correct, but follow along. First things first: Mueller isn't FIS. Last night, I contacted the Frankfurt office or bureau...whatever it's called....and the secretary told me the only Mueller there is a woman. So, like, this is good news, right?"

"I...I wouldn't call it _good_ news."

"It is compared to the next, um, gossip. After I talked to the FIS office, I called Jürgen. Now, he said, like, I guess there's another branch of the West German police called the BND. According to Jürgen, the BND thinks we, um, you know...we killed Sarah and Dieter."

"How...oh my god," she squeaked. "Us?"

"Or me. You're, like, my accomplice or something. Regardless, we're both fugitives."

"John, why aren't we going to the Embassy _now_?"

"Because this is bullshit. We've pricked a nerve, a big nerve, and somebody wants us to stop pricking. Fuck them. I'm finishing what's been started, but I can't do the heavy lifting by myself. Thus, the need for the IRA. Ray will help, you know, handle the situation. Keep the bad guys away and so forth."

" _Ray_ ," she jeered. "Your personal soldier of fortune?"

"Right, and he's bringing buddies."

"John, those men are criminals. If you commit a criminal act with them, you _will_ get sent to _prison._ Correction: not _if_. _When_."

Irritated by her thorniness, I exclaimed, "We face the same outcome if we do nothing!" I knew Sandi wouldn't be thrilled with my plan, but I expected she see a modicum of reason. Maybe she did...which meant I didn't...but whatever. I put the machine into motion; there wasn't a way to stop the nonsense.

I suppose she understood the situation, but understanding and accepting are different streets with limited points of intersection. "We should go to the Embassy," she pleaded. "Both of us. Now."

"Not until this is resolved."

"You're willing to trust the IRA?"

"Yeah, I am. You know why? They want their money. We work together and then go opposite directions with smiles on our faces. My father wanted his name cleared and I have the ability to do so. _Make things right._ Wasn't this the point?"

"The point wasn't to drag terrorists into our lives."

Taking her hands, I described my encounter with Ray at the 2 and 1/2 and then concluded, "Whoever killed Sarah and Dieter; the IRA; Da's ghost...today, I'm purging everything. The end. No more."

"Mm-hmm, like it'll all vanish, huh?"

"I'm hoping."

"If not?"

"Positive thinking, dear."

"Where will I be while you're running around?"

"En route to the American Embassy in Bern."

"And then?"

_And then we walk into the sunset, holding hands, with a bluebird on each shoulder_. As I stated, _and then_ had yet to be determined; _and then_ hung on success or failure. _And then_ , _and then_ split into innumerable _and thens_. Good _and thens_ , bad _and thens_ ...you get the picture. But I couldn't tell Sandi as much. You know the ole saying, _ignorance is bliss_ ...

"John?" she nagged. "What happens after I get to the Embassy?"

Like it was no big deal, I answered, "You'll wait for me."

"If you..." she trailed off, blinked tear-rimmed eyes and then whispered, "I can't even say it, John."

"Nothing's gonna happen."

"No," she said, crossing arms. "I won't go if you aren't coming with me."

"Jeez, don't be dumb."

"Me? Are you kidding? Have you listened to yourself?"

"You remember what happened to Claire. I couldn't live with myself if you suffered for something I did. Besides, it's not like you won't be helping. You're going to play an important role."

She blotted her eyes with a napkin and asked, "What do you mean?"

"The man on the train yesterday? Recall?"

"How could I forget?"

"His name is Thomas Goebbel. Get this: Goebbel is an assistant investigator for the Swiss Banking Authority." (And no, I wasn't going to tell her my source was the salty hostel gatekeeper.)

"He is? Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, but I'm going to call him after we through. Maybe he can locate Da's account and save me the trouble of...you know...having to find it myself."

"What's your bright idea if Goebbel doesn't help? Are you and the IRA gonna bust down the doors to every bank in Zürich?"

"I think one door is sufficient."

"Oh...I get it. Schellhaus."

"Mm-hmm. Schellhaus is the starting point. As for you, I'll ask Goebbel to take you someplace safe while I'm raising hell and high water."

"No way," she said, shaking her head. "We don't know anything about him."

"I'll make sure Goebbel's watched."

"By who?"

"I told you: Ray is bringing help."

"How can you trust Ray? Or his help?"

"The IRA has a vested interest, and so will Goebbel if he decides to put on his big boy pants. He'll have to deal with the Republican babysitters for the afternoon, but I'll promise him a glut of information. So, pay attention: I'll give you the Deutschbank papers Dieter entrusted to me. _Do not_ turn them over to Goebbel until seven tonight. At seven, he'll drop you in front of the Embassy in Bern. Do you follow?"

"I...I guess. I'll give him the papers after he brings me to the Embassy."

"But not before seven."

"Why?"

"I'll need the afternoon to kick down doors. After seven, Goebbel can do what he wants. Unleash the fury of the Swiss banking authority, storm banks, freeze accounts, whatever. When you get to the Embassy, show the guards your passport and tell them your life is in danger. Be vague...someone's chasing you because you're a dirty American or something. Don't say anything else."

"Nothing?"

"Not until I phone. I'll demand to speak to the big cheese...whatever it's called...and then-"

"The Ambassador," she interrupted. "The Ambassador's the big cheese."

"Sure, the Ambassador. When the Ambassador takes the phone, I'll give him the straight poop. _And then_ , we'll go from there."

" _We'll go from there_ doesn't fill me with confidence."

"This is the best I could mastermind on short notice. Not to toot my horn, but I don't think it's half bad."

"You're assuming Goebbel will want to put on his big boy pants. What if he won't?"

"On the train he mentioned the stigma of the Holocaust and the inability of Germans to confront their past. I'm going to give him a chance to do the right thing. If he can't, or won't, we go to Plan B: You'll deliver the file to the Ambassador."

"How?"

"Via taxi..." I glanced at my watch and then said, "...from the airport. Listen, I need to contact Goebbel-"

"With what money?"

"What?"

"Bern isn't next door and I'm certain you don't have enough in traveler's checks. How will I pay the fare?"

"Sandi," I sighed, "the Ambassador can pony up."

"Don't get mad at me. I'm trying to think through the situation."

"Great. Are we good?"

"What if the driver demands payment before we leave?"

I was halfway out of my seat and muttered, "Geez...I don't know. I...I suppose Ray can float a loan. He knows I'm good for it. Speaking of the Irish, you'll have a chaperone in case...you know..."

"In case I need protection," Sandi finished.

"Right. No more questions, okay? I gotta call Goebbel and figure out what plan gets put into action."

• • •

I didn't bother with the blower behind the counter. Instead, I went to the standup payphone, threw in some coins and spun Thomas Goebbel's number. While waiting for the line to connect, I crossed fingers (and toes) and uttered a prayer. I'm not the praying type, not even before a football game, but I deduced a prayer wouldn't hurt the cause. And if it helped...what would be the harm? But I didn't want to make a habit of praying. Why set a bad precedent, you dig? _No more than one teeny supplication,_ I promised myself as the speaker buzzed. Little did I know...

Goebbel would serve as an essential player in my scheme. Other than _perhaps_ giving me the location of Da's account (I assumed he wouldn't), he'd provide Sandi with a sense of security and give me leverage with Ray. To wit: the IRA couldn't go all Billy Jack in Zürich knowing an official in the Swiss government had the power to shutter the banks. And since I'd give us until seven to get the goods, the sense of urgency would help motivate my newest mates to follow moi's designs, not theirs. Of course, putting a time constraint on our activities wasn't a great idea, but if people were scouring Europe to find the fugitives named John and Sandi, we wouldn't have much time anyway.

Plus, I wanted to be done with the shitshow.

I could make it work without Goebbel, but sending Sandi to Bern with an IRA goon wasn't a solid Plan B. It needn't be said, but putting her in Republican hands opened the door to potential problems. Matter of fact, it would've been better to call Plan B, _Plan F_. And no, I ain't gonna explain the reference. Bottom line: I had almost zero leverage with Plan F.

Therefore, I fucking prayed Goebbel took a swing at my pitch...

...I checked my watch: _8:03_ ...

...but if he didn't, I'd do a little twisting of screws-

The phone clicked and a perky female voice announced, "Autorité bancaire Suisse. Comment puis-je diriger votre appel?"

"Herr Thomas Goebbel," I said, re-crossing my fingers.

She put me on hold, but my new pal connected in seconds:

"Thomas Goebbel. Comment puis-je-"

"Mister Goebbel," I steamrolled (I've always favored the direct method of communication. Ambiguity is pointless and maddening), "it's your pal from the train."

Silence from his end...

"Yesterday afternoon," I explained. "Arriving Zürich. Curly hair and-"

"Yes, I remember. You and your girlfriend, the impetuous American couple. How's the hunt for chocolate going?"

"Lousy."

"Lousy?"

"Yep, and I could use your help."

More silence, long enough for nervous me to coil the phone cord around my left wrist, and then a cough...from behind. I twisted my head and saw a large fella tapping his right, cowboy-shoed, foot.

"Yew allmist dun," my newest chum said (not asked) in a molassic drawl.

I turned my back on the hick and nestled the handset against my left ear. "I gotta keep this short," I told Goebbel. "Your business card says you're an investigator or something."

"More or less. I oversee and audit stock transactions in the Six Swiss."

The lug behind me inched closer.

"You don't work with the banking institutions?" I asked.

"Eh...no. Why do you ask?"

_Isn't this peachy,_ grumbled my inner voice.

Goebbel said, "If you hold a moment, I will put you in contact with the Investment Authority."

"I don't have time to transfer desk-to-desk. I have to be at the airport by ten."

"Then let me take your information and I'll hand the complaint to-"

"Uh-uh, I'm not filing a complaint. I wanna give you some documents."

"What kind of documents?"

"High test," I said, all sneaky-like.

"I...I don't not understand the term."

"Volatile."

"Regarding a bank?"

"N. Schellhaus to start, several others to finish."

"What others?"

"I'm not sure yet. Look, I don't mean to put you on the spot, but I need to get rid of this stuff ASAP. You know what ASAP means?"

"Soon."

"Like eleven at the airport, soon."

"I'm unavailable at eleven, but I can arrange for-"

"You're not listening, man. I want you."

"But...why me?"

"Serendipity."

"I can't meet you at the airport on a vague pretense. I don't even know your name."

"John Foley. My girlfriend is Sandi Hinger."

A long pause followed before Goebbel cleared his throat and said, "Now's the moment you tell me why your documents are _high test_."

I took a lungful and then rattled: "You need to understand I'm hesitant to trust anyone at this point. I have documents detailing a conspiracy between the Nazis and Swiss banks. Two people have already lost their lives. Excuse me, it's more than two. A couple million is a better number, but we can get to the nitty gritty later. Why don't you start by contacting the German BND. Reference Dieter Kleinmann and Sarah Miller."

I heard scribbling in the background and then the rip of paper from a pad or notebook. "What's this couple million?" he asked.

"Victims of the Holocaust. They're considered assets. I'll explain the rest later."

"No, you'll explain now."

"Time fur somebody else to git a tern," the bumpkin behind me said.

"No, I'll explain later," I said into the receiver. "Eleven, in front of the Aer Lingus ticket counter."

"You don't understand what I do at FINMA, Mister Foley. Your allegations, intriguing as they are, deserve the attention of the Investment Authority, not my department."

It appeared Herr Goebbel needed a little shove: "Damn, I just realized something, man. I mentioned Sarah and Dieter. They were involved, now they're dead. Sandi and I are being chased. Like a dumbass, I'm using a public telephone. You know, I shoulda been smarter but, um, you can't let the past hold your future hostage and all the rest. So...I mean...can you see what I'm getting at?"

"I have no idea the purpose of your rambling."

"My point is, sure, you could pass the buck but...like, by talking to you I'm sorta getting you involved. One could make the argument I'm, you know, putting or life at risk and whatnot."

"Mister Foley, making statements or threats, regardless of intent, is as much a crime in Switzerland as it is in your country."

"I'm not threatening you and I'm not a crackpot. You should be cognizant, is all. Since I can't handle this problem myself, the problem won't go away when I'm no longer around. Clear as mud?"

Another round of silence, a peek at my timepiece, and then Goebbel's icy voice: "You should contact the police."

"They're not gonna be any help."

"Why?"

"Take my word."

Goebbel's teetertottered; I could see the man in his office, rocking in a chair, phone in one hand while the other scratched the bald spot on his head. Thirty seconds rolled to sixty (according to my watch) before he asked, "The Holocaust?"

"Yes, the Holocaust."

"You...you said eleven?"

"In front of the Aer Lingus ticket counter. Come alone."

"As you wish, but I expect a detailed explanation."

"Oh, you'll get the actual factuals."

"I presume you mean a _detailed_ explanation."

"A term my father used. Facts. The straight dope. The whole enchilada. You'll get _everything_ at eleven. And one last bit of business: I need you to take Sandi to the U.S. Embassy. She'll have the documents, but she won't give them to you until seven. Drop her, drive away, take the evidence and help right many wrongs. Shoot, you might even make a name for yourself."

"I don't care about making a name for myself."

"Wonderful, neither do I. Eleven, Goebbel. Aer Lingus counter. Come alone."

I dropped the phone, turned around, and said, "All yours, sweetie," to the impatient hick.

# 42.

"Wait Here..."

"Wait here a minute," I told Sandi.

"Now what?"

"I gotta use the bathroom. Nervous bladder."

"What did Goebbel say?"

"He's onboard. Eleven, at the airport."

"You trust him?"

"Yeah," I said, mustering a smile. "He's right as rain. Why don't you snag a taxi while I'm taking a tinkle."

She nodded and made her way to the front desk; I brushed past the hick (staring daggers at me as he dialed) and bounded up the stairs to the big room. Joint in mouth, dopey grin on his face, the scuzzy guitar player noodled like a tone-deaf fool. As luck would have it, he strummed to an audience of one. Too bad it was _moi._

Clapping hands, I gushed, "Wow! You sound good!"

He took a monster rip and then set the bomber on the floor while I appraised his looks. From the hair to the face, he looked nothing like me...but with my "Some Are" beard and some shades, I reckoned I could pass as the kid. So be it. Beggars and choosers, you dig?

"Thanks, man," he said, blowing a zesty cloud into the air. "You recognize the song?"

I took a wild stab: "Um...'Different Drum'?"

The left bloodshot peeper of my newest pal twitched, and his mouth dropped like I had stuck a poker up his ass. "Ahhh..." he gargled through slack jaw, "...ahhh, like...did you say 'Different Drum'?"

"You know, the Stone Poneys. Linda Ronstadt and those two other guys...Peter and Paul...whatever their names."

"Yea, man, I've heard of the Stone Poneys, but, like, dude, I was playing 'Spanish Caravan'. I guess it sounds kinda rough, huh? See, Robbie Krieger never cuts his nails. I'm thinking of doing the same. Flamenco fingering is no joke."

The fuck was he babbling about? The world will never know. Before a thorough explanation could be presented, I whipped out the FIS badge, thrust it at his face and growled: "Police."

His blood ran south, mouth dropped ever further, and his fingers fell from the guitar strings.

"I need to see your identification," I commanded.

He studied the badge and then looked at me. Go figure. I stumbled upon the one American pothead in Zürich capable of understanding German. "West German Police?" he asked. "Like, do you know what country you're in, man?"

" _Ahem_ ...the police don't respect imaginary boundaries."

"But I'm not hurting anybody, man!"

"You're hurting yourself, son. The pot will ruin your mind. Besides, what did the counterman tell you? No smoking, right?"

"I've been smoking for the last three days!"

"I'm not going to argue. Hand me your passport so I can verify you're not a delinquent or something."

"Oh, man," he moaned, as he burrowed through a backpack; out came a folder and a U.S. passport. He tossed me the latter and whimpered, "Come on, man. Please don't arrest me! _Please!_ My parents will _kill_ me!"

I opened said passport, skimmed the interior, and then said, "All right...Richard Richardson. As long as you're clean, I won't put the cuffs on you."

"I'm clean, man! I'm clean! I wasn't even doing anything wrong, man!"

"We shall see. I need to run your name with Interpol. It's gonna take a few minutes. Don't move."

" _Interpol?_ Like...can't you write me a ticket or something, man?"

I pointed at the folder and asked, "What's in there?"

"Those are my poems," he said, shaking his head. "Oh, man, I can't believe this."

"I'm also taking your folder."

"You want my poems?"

"I need to do a...a handwriting sample."

"A what?"

"New protocol. Matter of fact..." I nodded at his backpack and said, "I need everything. Sit tight. If you go anywhere...you know...we're watching and stuff."

I left poor Richard Richardson sitting Indian style on the hostel floor. For all I know, he's in the same position today. I raced down the stairs and into the lobby where I tapped the hick on the shoulder. He spun around like a ballerina.

"No hard feelings," I said, handing him the ID and badge. He started to say something as I hustled out the front door. My pal's parting words, lost to the ages...

As my feet hit the sidewalk, I zipped the pack and then scanned the street. A chipper voice called my name; Sandi beckoned from the backset of a cab.

"Where'd you get the backpack?" Sandi called.

"I stole it."

She didn't look surprised. At this point, what did it matter?

I climbed and told the driver, "Take us to the airport, pal."

# 43.

"The Cab Deposited..."

After a forty-five-minute ride, the cab deposited us in front of Terminal 1.

I admit, an airport wasn't the smartest place to roam; the concourse didn't crawl with cops, but the presence of any law enforcement made me cagy. So be it. Beggars couldn't be choosers. Anyway, I had a prefect spot to lay low until the boys from Ireland arrived.

Creeping like scoundrels, I guided Sandi around the long lines and stopped in front of the restrooms. My watch read: _9:20_. Forty minutes to kill...

"I want you to have minimal contact with the IRA," I said. "You need to be out-of-sight until Goebbel comes for you."

"Where do you want me to hide?"

I nodded at the powder room.

"The bathroom?" Sandi asked.

"The most secure place is the potty. Take a seat on the throne and get comfortable."

"Where are you going?"

"The men's room."

" _Rugh_ ," she grumbled.

"I know it's not ideal, but Ray will be here in about a half hour. Lock yourself in a stall and don't come out until I give you a shout."

"Lock myself in a stall-"

"And don't come out until I give you a shout."

"I heard you the first time."

"Good. I'll see you in a few shakes."

After a quick peck, we split to our respective sanctuaries. I dropped the backpack on the floor, washed my face and stared into the mirror. The verdict: grungy and crunchy. Black circles under my eyes, frizzy hair, stubble and the stench of two days on the run with no change of linen. Perfect. I looked like every twenty-three-year-old in Europe.

Taking a seat on the toilet, I read the poems of Richard Richardson.

• • •

A couple minutes to ten, I emerged from the W.C. and found a chair providing a direct view of the Aer Lingus counter.

(My mental notes:

_1003: Thumb twiddling and people watching._ _No sign of Ray; left leg bouncing._

1005: Perhaps their plane is late. Eyes to the arrival board...the only flight from Dublin: ARRIVED ON TIME –0930.

10:10. They backed out. Ray or "the old man" felt it too dangerous. Yeah, why would they come for thirty-year old Reichsmarks? Why go to the trouble or the risk? 'Hey dumbass!' the ole brain screams. 'Why the hell are you here!' Touché, Brain.)

1015: Standing; stretching legs; thinking: 'Goebbel will be along in forty-five minutes. Where the heck is Ray?')

Now back to the actual factual:

An arm wrapped around my neck and I was pulled into the embrace of someone reeking of whiskey and cigarettes.

"Long time no see, Yank," Ray greeted. "Ya got me honeypot in yer bag?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it looks light."

"Um-hmm, and we're sorta up against it, man. We need to talk someplace quiet. I suggest the toilet."

"Naw, let's walk like mates ta the teashop."

"You don't-"

"Swallow it and keep yer head down."

"Ray-"

"I ain't negotiatin'. C'mon."

There was no point fighting him, not unless I wanted to make a scene. Steering me like a ragdoll, breathing heavy in my right ear, Ray hustled me into a busy café and found a table at the rear.

"This won't take but a beat," he said, pushing me into a chair. "Me fella wants a word. Then we be moving, aye? I brought the cavalry, like ya bade. They're ready ta do some head-cracking."

"There's a few things you need to know before we get head-cracking."

He slapped a newspaper on the table and said, "And there be a few things ya need ta know. Take a look at the rag."

Two blurry pictures -one of Sandi and one of your ole pal- decorated the front page. _The Irish Times_ announced we: _ran a confidence scheme; murdered two people; assaulted a German FIS officer_. We were also _dangerous, armed, and wanted by Interpol_.

"Aye, yer big news," Ray said. "You and the pretty bird."

Nervous chuckle from me, then a mawkish, "Jeez, I always wanted to be the lede."

My sense of humor failed to dimple Ray's façade; he blasted an ear-splitting whistle and raised a hand. From across the concourse, three men made ambled to the café. Two, stocky like Ray, wearing sunglasses; the third looked like Methuselah: face like a turtle, bent back, walking stick...the whole nine. He fell into a chair across from me; Ray and his two pals stood with their backs to the table.

The old man leaned forward, wrinkled his brow and stared into my eyes. I had a good idea who he was and thought about breaking the ice with a hackneyed joke: _Why are monkeys great at sports? They're born chimpions._

But I kept my mouth shut and returned Noel Slattery's gaze.

At last, he said: "Most of the McMahons thought Johnny killed Tommy and Claire and ran off to the States with the money. It didn't take much convincing to put them in chase. They scoured the big cities on the East Coast and kicked down the doors of the Irish Fenians. But Johnny stayed one step ahead until hisself disappeared for good. There's none of 'em McMahons with the long memories left except Frankie, and hisself never bought the story. I didn't either. I assumed they divided the money and went to America. Wouldn't be out of the realm. Johnny had enough of the Council's shite. Claire, too. Tommy McMahon be a softie; his sis cracked the whip. I could picture the three of them in the States. Your oul fella be a City dreamer. Had hisself a cousin there named Tommy...be the one what contacted the Fenian in the City after your da passed. Wanted to close the book did Tommy Foley. Where be hisself today?"

"Hell if I know," I answered. "Tom vanished after Da's burial."

"Left you with the bathwater, did he? I've nothing against the man, but the current leadership wanted a sit down. Guess it doesn't matter, aye? Here you be, at your peril."

I sat tall and announced, "I've come to make things right."

"We shall see, lad. It's hard for the Brotherhood to forgive betrayal."

"Da didn't betray the Brotherhood."

"Enlighten me."

"My father did everything asked of him. The Germans arrested all of them in Bremen after the last pick-up. Tommy, Claire, and my father were sent to concentration camps. Da spent almost six years in confinement and then tried to find the money after the war. You don't know what he did...it's both incredible and devastating. But he ran out of energy. Can you blame him? Yes, John Foley fled to America. But he had no choice."

I pulled both folders from the backpack and dug out Da's crinkled manuscript. "He left me this letter," I said, jabbing the pile with a finger. "I found it after his death. The writing must've been cathartic, but he also wanted me to _make things right._ So, here I am on John Foley's behalf. His information led me to West Germany and now Switzerland. I can get your money, make things right for everyone, but it's not possible without assistance from the Brotherhood. Two people are dead, I'm being chased, and time is running out."

"Aye, I know time be precious, but this won't take long. Did Johnny mention what happened to Claire?"

"Da didn't know. In late '44, the Germans marched Claire out of camp; he never saw her again. Maybe she escaped, but the odds say otherwise."

"Tommy?"

"He died in a camp."

"And Johnny moved to the States, settled down, and had a family? _Humph_. A charming, sedate life."

"But pestered by the past. Same as my uncle, I guess. Same as me. But I'm here to end it. After this is settled, we're square, okay? I want to get on with my charming, sedate life."

"Hmm...did your oul fella say what brought him into the Brotherhood?"

"Not what but who. Noel Slattery, when they were at Mountjoy."

He nodded and then extracted himself from the chair. "I have to catch the eleven-thirty to Dublin. Me lads will assist with the rest. And you can keep the letter from your oul fella. I trust you're giving me the God's honest."

As the alleged Noel Slattery shuffled away, Ray dropped into the vacated seat and said, "Consider yourself vetted, Foley. Now, tell me how me mates can get what belongs to the Brotherhood."

"You'll get what's yours, but we need to lay down rules. Number one: I'm claiming what's left over. We go fifty-fifty."

"Left over?"

"Yeah, left over. The money's been sitting in a bank gathering interest for three decades. There's plenty for all."

"Plenty be a matter of perspective."

I glanced at the two men guarding the table and responded, "In more ways than one. Is this the extent of your cavalry?"

"I brought plenty. These two runts, another in the concourse and three outside. Being said, yer fifty split is a mite generous since we're providing the heavy lifting."

"You can't get to the account without me."

"Aye, but I had to call in a favor. Let's say...thirty for yer share, fifty for the Brotherhood and twenty for the Arabs."

"Arabs?"

"They provide transportation and the facilities. Be a package deal."

I wasn't in the mood to haggle while the watch be tick-tocking. "Rule number two," I said, presenting the appropriate number of digits. "We have until-"

"Hold on. I ain't done talking. If ya don't deliver, what then?"

My superb response: "I don't know."

"There be the problem. The oul man believes John Foley didn't betray the Brotherhood, but he never said anything about forgiving the debt. If ya fail to grab the honeypot...mmm...ya should be aware of the consequences."

"How 'bout we concentrate on positive thoughts."

Ray snorted and said, "A'ight, what be yer other rules?"

"Only one more: this business gets handled today."

"Ya know, I be thinkin' we're runnin' on a short string. Great minds, eh? Today tho..." He considered the newspaper, wrinkled his brow and then said, "I ain't claimin' you haven't excited the powers what be, but I got a lot of movin' parts. Jamming the treadle plaits mistakes."

_Too bad,_ I thought, before dropping the news: "Like it or not, we have until seven."

"What's the rush? You said the honeypot be in a bank. It ain't going nowhere."

"It's not, but I'm setting the deadline. Come with me. There's someone you have to meet."

# 44.

"From Our Vantage..."

From our vantage point in the cafe, Goebbel looked like he arrived alone. Fedora in hands, he paced near the Aer Lingus counter and checked his watch.

I checked mine too: _10:51_.

"Thomas Goebbel," I said, nodding at the mark. "He's an investigator in the Swiss banking authority. Sandi's going with him while we do our running."

"I don't understand this bloody nonsense," grumbled Ray. "Yer given a government prick yer bird and he's gonna keep her safe? What's he getting for doing ya this favor?"

"He's doing it out of the goodness of his heart."

"Ah, feck off, Foley. I got ta know what I'm working with."

I wrestled a folder out of my pants and said, "I have the documents he needs to rain fire on...well, it'll be a lot of people. When the smoke clears, there'll be hell to pay."

"And?" Ray prodded, as if this wasn't a big deal.

"And...I'm giving this file to my bird...er...Sandi...and she'll hand Goebbel the papers at seven. Once the file is in his hands, banks across Switzerland will be walled."

"Yer givin' him the bird what has the documents? Are ya a fuckin' shithead? What if 'at nancy boy doesn't wait until seven ta get 'em off her? We'd be fucked, aye?"

"Yes, we'd be fucked, but it's not going to happen. Ray, I have a plan and you're going to listen without interruption. Job one is to stick a man, or two if you can spare it, on Goebbel..."

• • •

The goons from the IRA formed what's known in football lexicon as a flying wedge, with me in the middle and Ray as the tip. Striding without hesitation, our gang of four plowed across the floor until Ray stood in front of the surprised German.

"Herr Foley," Goebbel began, but Ray shut him down with a snap of his fingers.

"Look at me, ya old cunt," Ray snarled. "You tell anybody yer here?"

Goebbel took a step back and opened his mouth, but Ray snapped fingers again and said, "If ya lyin', so help me the last thing ya see will be me ugly face when I plunge me fist into 'at thing ya talk out of."

"Herr Foley, you said, _come alone_ ," Goebbel said. "Who are these men?"

Ray decided to answer for me; he grabbed Goebbel around the neck, dragged him to the women's restroom and kicked open the door.

Two flight attendants fussed in the mirror; Ray ran them in short order. "Get out ya cunts!" he barked. They took a look at our motley bunch, gathered their bags and made like a banana. The moment the door swung shut, Ray slammed Goebbel against the pink tiled wall and grabbed his lapels.

The squeak of a stall door delivered a reprieve to the roughhousing. Sandi emerged -eyes dinnerplate wide- and squeaked, "John, what's going on?"

"Jesus, hon," I whined. "I told you not to come out until I shouted."

She stammered, "I-I heard the commotion and I...I-I thought..."

"'Ello, love," Ray said. "We're just layin' the foundation of our relationship. Now, this suit is takin' ya someplace safe, ain't ya?"

"To...my...office," Goebbel panted.

Ray waggled his finger and said, "Naw, I don't think so. Ya have a gaff?"

"A...a what?"

"A flat."

"I don't live in Zürich, sir. I'm here on business."

Ray patted Goebbel's cheek and asked, "Where you stayin', mate?"

"The Sheraton on Steinstrasse."

"Perfect," Ray announced. "He's takin' ya ta his hotel room, precious. One of me mates is joining ya in case anything untoward happens...like ya try ta wrestle them documents you desire, old man. If it be the fate such an untoward thing happens, me mate will make sure ya won't piss again without a catheter. This pretty bird will give ya everything ya need at seven, not a mite before. Ya take her ta the American Embassy, she drops the papers in your lap. Do ya understand?"

"Yes!"

"What be the phone number of yer provisional domicile?"

Goebbel recited the information while one of the sycophants scribbled.

"Johnny Foley, you got anything ta add?" Ray asked.

I took the pad and pencil from Ray's subordinate and wrote _Regnesmachen Acct. 217949_. Then, for good measure, I added: _routed from N. Schellhaus_. I ripped the paper from the notepad, handed the slip to Goebbel and said, "I need you to locate a bank account. Regnesmachen is the identifier, but there are millions of accounts under the name. I only care about 217949. At one time, N. Schellhaus held the book. Start there. Knowing the way these institutions are managed, I'm certain you'll discover a paper trail. These bastards count every cent."

"I...I'll see what I can do," Goebbel said. "No promises. The information you're asking me to obtain will take more than a phone call, and I'll have to make a compelling case for the disclosure."

"He just needs the name of the bank, princess," Ray said. "And don't be tellin' me ya can't get it."

"I'll contact you later this afternoon," I said. "I hope to hear good news."

Ray released his quarry and said, "Jimmy, go with this prick. We'll find ya out front." Quick-like, one the stocky guys seized Herr Goebbel's twiggish left arm and heaved him from the bathroom.

I waited until the door closed before commencing the introductions: "So, um, Sandi...this is Ray. Ray from the IRA. Ray, this is Sandi. These other two-"

"Don't trouble yerself with their names," interrupted Ray. "Do what ya gotta do, Foley. Daylight's wasting."

I handed her Richard Richardson's folder full of poems and said, "Not until you have both feet out the car door, not a second before, throw the folder onto the seat and run to the Embassy. I'll phone after seven."

Sandi dry-swallowed and then said, "Not before seven. I understand."

"Charming," Ray said, as he grabbed my arm. "It be time we scoot, mates."

• • •

Ray raised a finger in the air, belted another piercing whistle and presto: a dented taxi screeched to a stop in front of us. Seconds later, a gray Mercedes came to a halt inches from the cab's scratched to shit fender. The driver of the taxi -thin, dark skinned, aviator sunglasses- took Ray aside. They had a brief conversation before the taxi driver motioned at the Mercedes; the driver of the Mercedes exited his vehicle and dashed to the taxi.

"We're not taking the hack," Ray said. "It, and a couple of me boys, will follow yer girl to the pricks inn."

"You gotta take it easy on Goebbel," I said. "I'm trying to get _important_ information from him."

"Ain't nothin' but a little encouragement, Foley. Speakin' of, Jimmy should be here with hisself soon."

As promised, and with Jimmy at his side, Goebbel guided a BMW to the drop-off zone.

"A'ight," said Ray, "it be time to part ways, precious."

Sandi gave me a hug and I whispered in her right ear, "I'll call you this afternoon."

"You better, mister," she replied. And you know what? She sounded strong, not a quiver in her voice...which was good because anxiety hadn't waylaid me either. So far, everything had fallen into place. Hell, I felt like a criminal mastermind. I'd let the IRA tap the Fine well; if he failed to leak, I expected Goebbel would unearth the information. Once I got the name of the bank, I'd march in...without the tattoo...yeah, I had a few kinks to work out, so sue me.

Anyway, watching her slide into the back of the BMW meant I had one less variable to juggle. I considered Sandi might've put on a brave face...but she was safe.

She gave me a wave as her ride pulled from the curb; punctuated by a squeal of an alternator belt, the taxi followed.

I said, "For what it's worth, I want your word nothing happens to her or Goebbel."

" _For what it's worth_ ," Ray chuckled, as he opened the back door of the Mercedes. "Foley, my word be keen. Me lads won't touch her or the nancy boy. We square."

"Yes, we're-"

"I'm not askin', I'm tellin'. Let's go." He pushed me to the middle of the backseat, next to a bald, pasty, squat man...who sat beside a bald, pasty, squat man. Ray followed me, thus creating a tight squeeze. Before the rear door closed, the Mercedes accelerated and merged with dense airport traffic.

"Since we're crammed together," Ray said, "let me introduce the group ta ya: on yer left is Paddy O'Reilly; ta the far left is Francis Middelton. Driving this vehicle be Herbert...eh, his last name is difficult ta pronounce. Just Herbert, a'ight? In the passenger seat be me best mate, John Hill. Boys, this be the progeny of John Foley, and hisself goes by the same."

John Hill looked like a Viking: red hair, red beard, thick red eyebrows. Even the locks growing out of his ears were red. "Where do we start?" he asked, cracking hairy red knuckles. "I'm tired of sitting in this bloody carriage."

Ray said: "Foley gave me the dope, but for the sake of bein' on the same page, I'll let him do the explaining. Bang on, mate."

I cleared my throat and then said, "I went to a lending house named N. Schellhaus yesterday. Schellhaus is the main player; Swiss involvement with the Third Reich originated there. The manager -I presume he's a manager- said my father's account had been relocated to another bank. Problem is, he can't reveal the location because of Swiss banking regulations."

"We're gonna see if a pat man-to-man will change his mind," Ray said.

"If he doesn't know, I have another man looking into it," I said, sounding like a big shot. Why not puff the chest? I had a banking official in my pocket.

"What if neither of these blokes can pull the brass?" asked Hill.

"Between the two of them, we're bound to strike gold," I said. "If not, we're spreading out in the financial district, one bank at a time, until we find my father's account."

"Jaysus," Paddy O'Reilly scoffed. "You think we're gonna waltz in and ask them cashiers if John Foley's thirty-something year old account is there? Have ya looked at us?"

I tried to dumb it down as best I could: "The accounts aren't identified by names, only numbers. The bank doesn't know who the primary is, what they look like...nothing."

O'Reilly scratched his bald head and asked, "You're sayin' anybody could claim an account if they know the number?"

"There is one measure of quality control. A tattoo with the corresponding account number must be presented to close the account."

"Bugger me!" Hill boomed. "Ray, you listen'? He's pullin' our hawser, mate."

"Why would I invent _any_ of this?" I argued. "If I did, why would I contact the Brotherhood?"

"Yeah, Hill, shut yer hole," Ray said. "One way or another, we're gonna make it work. I ain't travelled here for nothin'. Speakin' of, this fella what we be knocking...what's hisself's name?"

"He introduced himself as Herr Fine," I said. "No first name."

"What's he look like?"

"Short, bad toupee, chubby face."

"You catch 'at, Herbert?"

The driver nodded.

"The account has all your oul fella's brass?" Hill inquired as he shifted his body around to face me.

"And then some," I answered. "I can't give you an exact number, but I'm estimating the original four million Reichsmarks has quadrupled in size."

Hill's eyes drifted to his fingers as he began counting to himself.

"It's a lot," I said.

"How'd it get in a bank?" Francis Middelton asked. The name did not fit the man, by the way. Francis had a throaty voice and primate-like brow; his nose bent to the left. "I thought he lost the cash."

"The Germans arrested my father and confiscated the money," I said. "Better I don't explain the nitty gritty. It'll make your mind melt."

"But how'd it get in a bank?" Middelton pressed.

"The Nazis took loans from the Swiss before World War II and then used goods seized during the war to pay the principal. Plunder found its way into the Reichsbank until assets were sent to N. Schellhaus after the liquidation of an account. In other words, with each closed book, the Germans made a payment on the lend. Today, those unliquidated accounts are in Zürich and they've accumulated, and still accumulate, interest paid by West Germany's Deutschbank. Nobody who survived the war will ever recoup their property because they don't know it's comfy in a Swiss vault. Clear as mud?"

Paddy O'Reilly might have been the smartest of the lot. He whistled and then said, "By liquidated you mean killed, aye?"

"Yep."

"How do you know the banks haven't...what'd you say...closed the accounts?" Hill challenged.

"You're a thick one," O'Reilly said. "Didn't you hear Foley's explanation? Them accounts produce interest and nobody but the bankers know they exist."

I added, "And the interest finances banks investments, loans, money on hand."

"Eh, fuck it," grumbled Hill. "I can't understand your brass gabbling."

"Understand this," Ray said. "We have until seven ta get the job done."

"Seven!" O'Reilly exclaimed. "Seven today?"

"Ain't nothing boys," Ray said. "We shake with a purpose is all. Bash a few-"

Before he could finish, the unobtrusive Herbert whispered: "I'm sorry, but I have to make _the_ call."

# 45.

"Herbert Double-Parked..."

Herbert double-parked the Mercedes on a busy street -obstructing the traffic behind us- before jumping out. It appeared the honking and flashing lights from pissed off motorists bothered nobody in the Mercedes except me. And bothered least of all was Herbert as he strolled to a pay telephone while digging coins out of a pocket. Craning my neck to follow his progress, I was afforded a better look at him and his austere wardrobe: dingy gray slacks, tan windbreaker and white Converse tennis shoes.

"Who is Herbert?" I asked Ray.

"One of the Arabs I told ya about. Them buggers be thick 'ere, but you'll see what I mean. 'Em bastards are always ready for a fight. They hate the Europeans as much me Brotherhood hates the English."

After a few minutes on the telephone, Herbert returned in the same lazy, unhurried gait and climbed into the driver's seat. He gave Ray a half-smile in the rearview before we started moving. Left turns, right turns, circling roundabouts and doubling back, I received a thorough tour of Zürich. Extravagant buildings gave way to a modest locale...which is a polite way to describe a slum. I can spare the trite description; slums look like slums the world over. And though my lily-white ass felt conspicuous amongst the... _ahem_ ...non lily-white asses walking the sidewalks, I realized we were in the best place to do bad things. But not too bad. Just a little questioning...

...or so my stupid mind presumed.

At last, we came to a stop in front of a small green building topped by rusted, corrugated sheet metal; hanging from the one front window, a crooked, handwritten sign: _Backerei_. Though my German sucked eggs, I knew enough to make sense of the gibberish: _Bakery._

Herbert killed the Mercedes and motioned us out. With the slouching Arab leading the way, we hopscotched dog shit, circled to the rear and arrived at a warped aluminum door lacking the requisite knob. Herbert removed his sunglasses, rapped several times and then stepped aside as the door opened with a grating squeal.

"Yer hinges need grease," Ray remarked.

"Our oil is used to cook," Herbert said. "Second room, straight ahead."

A step inside the humid bakery plunged the body into sudden darkness...and something else. My snotbox caught a whiff of nothing resembling baked good, and the aroma of human waste, body odor, and foreign food tickled the ole gag reflex.

Passing through a space no bigger than a dining room, weaving around a dozen men and boys sitting on the floor, we entered a bright, white-tiled kitchen. Various utensils -knives, spatulas, forks, spoons and cutting boards- adorned the counters to my right; three large ovens, two deep fryers and a large mixer occupied the area to the left.

And in the middle of the room: a lumpy, naked Herr Fine secured to a rattan chair by frayed electrical cords and gagged with a rag. His doughy body looked like an abstract painting: red welts and cuts decorated his marble skin. As he struggled against the ligatures and wrenched his head, the awful rug flapped this way and the other.

Herbert slammed a steel door behind us, locked it with a deadbolt and leaned against the wall. The Irishmen took respective positions...all expect Ray. He approached the trussed Fine and cackled, "You're lookin' a bit tied up, mate."

Me? I stood rooted in place, uncertain what to do or say. The moment struck me as surreal; John Foley issued an order and voilà, here the man sat stewing in pain and misery. Did I want Fine to suffer? No, or I told myself as much. I needed information, nothing more, but my compatriots weren't of the opinion answers came without agony. In an instant, naivety gave way to reality. Butterflies started flapping in my tummy; I felt weak-kneed and lightheaded.

Ray squatted and removed the rag from Fine's mouth. Then he jerked his thumb in my direction and said, "Me fella wants his honeypot, and he wants it taday. Best for ya ta start gossipin' before I git impatient."

Fine's watery eyes appraised his captors until they settled on Herbert. In German, the banker blubbered and sputtered as Herbert cleaned his sunglasses with a dishtowel.

"Hey, ya cunt!" Ray barked. "I'm the bloke what ya be talkin' ta."

"He says he doesn't understand your priggish English," Herbert informed.

Grumbling, Ray removed a boondocker from his foot and then cracked Fine in the face with the heel. The banker moaned, his head flopped forward and blood poured from a kinked nose.

"Jaysus, mate, the prick ain't gonna be any help with ya scrambling his brain," O'Reilly said.

"This ain't me first knock job, Paddy," Ray said, as he scrubbed his shoe with the gag. "He's the bugger, Foley?"

I thought of Da's introduction to the "wet work" when he murdered the churlish Davin; I recalled Sandi's statement: _Like father like son._ Good Christ, what was I doing? And my plan? Heading further south as each second passed.

"Ah...yeah...it's...him," I said, avoiding a prolonged examination of Fine's messy face. And then, in a futile attempt to prevent further harm, I added: "But, um, I agree with Paddy. Fine is useless if you beat him unconsciousness."

"This ain't supposed to be a pleasant conversation, and it becomes less pleasant the longer I stand 'ere. Let's get the heat flowin'," said Ray, snapping his fingers.

Herbert slid off the wall and spun an oven knob. While he was at it, he fired both deep fryers and the dough mixer. Events were progressing, quick-like, and there was no point speculating how uncomfortable things were to become for Herr Fine. One way or another, he would be introduced to the Arab art of baking.

"You should know," Herbert said, as he watched the grease in the fryer bubble, "this mughfil told Ajmal his people are looking for the American."

"Ah..." Ray cooed. "Did this bag of potatoes say who they be?"

"The mughfil...he cries too much. Makes no sense to Ajmal. But Ajmal said they weren't followed from café where the mughfil was taken. I believe the mughfil lies."

"Hmm...drag our mate in front of the mixer," Ray said, motioning to Hill and O'Reilly. "And tie him tight. He's gonna thrash a wee bit." While the two men pushed the chair across the bloody floor, Ray took me aside and whispered, "I'm gonna work this cunt until he tells us where yer oul fella's account be."

I watched Liam cinch the ligatures; my butterflies turned into sharp stabbing pains. "Couldn't we...you know...try speaking to him?" I asked.

"Pain will tell ya one way or the other."

"Jeez, I don't want to hurt him."

"Whad ya think would happen? You're pushing the clock on us. The gittings have ta be git.

"Goebbel's working on the same information."

"Better ta get it now, don't ya think?"

"If there's anything to get."

"Mate," Ray sighed, "all yer talk in the airport-"

"Just give me five minutes. He'll respond better to the light touch."

"Like you'd know. How many blokes have you roughened?"

"Okay...none, but-"

"Ya best take notes, Foley. Consider this a...a learning experience."

I raised my hands and said, "My use of torture begins and ends today."

"Could be, but not in the manner yer presuming. I reckon you'll be sitting in the chair if our outing amounts ta nil." No doubt my color went from lily-white to translucent because Ray swung an arm around me and explained: "Them positive thoughts ya fancy? Sorry, but 'at ain't how it works in me business. If it were up ta me, I'd own yer arse and tax the shite out yer future earnings. But Herbert and his mates don't work on credit. Ya know what I mean?"

"Ray-"

"They don't work on credit," repeated Ray, tightening his arm around my neck.

"Jus-lis-listen," I stammered and wheezed, all at once.

"Eh?"

"I-I never asked for the Arabs to get involved, man."

"It be what it be, mate. Ya wanted help? Help's arrived. And let me tell ya, these Arabs are the real deal. PLO. They hijacked a plane in '69 outta Zürich."

Wow, little ole me bumping elbows with the big boys. Wouldn't Da be proud? Moi, on the other hand...I almost wet myself.

"Seein' how polite ya be, tho, I'll give ya a beat to try the diplomatic method," Ray said with a wink. He released me, patted my back and added, "After 'at, we're gittin' nasty."

With those inspiring words, I crossed the room, folded arms, and took a position near the prone figure. John Hill gave the man a couple light slaps across the face; Fine snorted and then -in either a last act of defiance or luck- vomited across the front of Hill's slacks. Hill blasphemed our Lord and Savior, backhanded Fine and then grabbed a rag hanging from the blender. He tried to wipe the bile from his pants but only succeeded in smearing the stain.

"C'mon, Foley!" Ray cajoled. "Pick his brain!"

I wet my lips and waited until Fine's bloodshot eyes focused on me. "Do you remember me?" I asked. "Yesterday? Uncle Kohner?"

"Regnesmachen," moaned Fine.

"Account number 217949."

"I told you...I don't know...I don't know where it is!"

"There has to be a transfer record."

"I-I...I have grandchildren," sobbed Fine.

"Forget your grandchildren," I snapped. "You're gonna get hurt...er... _more_ hurt...if you don't tell me something."

Blubber -slick with blood and vomitus- jiggled as Fine continued crying. So violent the contractions, his toupee gave up the ghost and flopped to the floor. "I don't know where the Regnesmachen financials are stored," he whimpered. "The accounts could be anywhere! Try UBS, Julius Bar, Credit Suisse, Vontobel! Start there! You have to believe me! I-I'm a tier administrator. You need to ask the president of N. Schellhaus or...or the trustees. I can-"

"Ya told the Arab there be people lookin' for me mate," Ray interrupted. "Herbert over there thinks yer full of shite."

"Yes!" Fine exclaimed. "Yes, I'm trying to explain! It's...I...I called when...he...he and the woman visited N. Schellhaus yesterday."

"Who'd ya call?"

"One of the trustees. Herr Leavitt in-"

"Leavitt!" I exclaimed. Don't get wrong, the guy had "asshole" written across his face, but to hear his name involved with Regnesmachen and N. Schellhaus threw me for a loop.

"Him," Fine said, nodding his head. "I didn't know what to do. Nobody's asked about Regnesmachen before and...and...the account is flagged. Herr Leavitt is the portfolio manager. He told me to get rid of you...and...and I did."

"A'ight, Yank, what be the story with Leavitt?" Ray asked.

"I met him my first day in West Germany. He's the director of a Jewish Association in Giessen."

Like someone blew a dog whistle, Herbert -adjusting knobs and whatnot- swung his head around and whispered, "Where is the Jew?" Behind him, the fryers burbled and steam rose; the air smelled of doughnuts.

"He...he arrived today...with others," Fine said. "Herr Leavitt instructed I contact him if the Americans returned to N. Schellhaus. Please, I don't know anything! Talk to Herr Leavitt!"

"Where is the Jew?" repeated Herbert.

Fine presented a hung dog look and sniveled, "I can't...I-I...why can't you understand? I know nothing!"

"Ya better know something or yer gonna get tossed into an oven," Ray said.

What followed -more sputtering and stuttering- ceased lickity-split when Herbert turned on the blender. Now, I'm not talking about your normal Susie Homemaker kitchen mixer. This was one of those Hamilton Beach industrial monsters. The beaters were a half-foot long, stainless steel, and whirled like a helicopter.

Herbert locked the base at a ninety-degree angle and nudged the blender forward. The whisks spun inches from Fine's right fingers; he tried to flinch, pull his hand to safety, but the electrical cords held fast.

Once again, Herbert asked, "Where is the Jew?"

"I'll lure Herr Leavitt!" Fine screamed. "He has the information you want!"

Holding a serrated bread knife, Ray edged next to me and ordered, "Kill it, mate. I can't hear me bloody self think."

Off came the blender, but I knew the respite wouldn't last; Herbert's pointer finger caressed the power switch and a teeth barring leer promised pain in the forecast.

"This cunt Leavitt needs ta take a seat in the chair," Ray announced, waving the knife at Fine. "Herbert, how can we..."

Thus, Ray and Herbert brought their conniving mindpower together and poured the foundation of a plan: Fine would phone Leavitt and report the pesky John Foley confronted him outside a coffee shop with a threat: _If I don't get information about my father's account, I'm going to the media._ The nervous Herr Fine arranged a sit-down at the popular Paradeplatz at two bells. When the aforementioned time came and Fine failed to show, I'd flag a taxi. The cab, driven by one of the Arabs, would lead Leavitt into a trap. If all went well, we'd have the German staring at the blender before three.

My role as bait wasn't debatable, but I felt there were a couple things lacking in the scheme. What if Leavitt cased the park; what if he brought goons; what if they tried to pull a JFK on my ass?

These complications couldn't be addressed. My one saving grace: I had a small army of terrorists watching my back. While not filling me with warm fuzzies...yeah, what choice did I have? Besides, I wanted to pose a few questions to Leavitt. The account information was one thing, but what role did he play in Sarah and Dieter's deaths...presuming they were murdered, of course.

Ray and Herbert's strategy took a few minutes to sort; a street map of Zürich was spread across a counter and different avenues of entrapment were discussed. Several Arabs from the other room joined the debate, but I shrunk into a corner and attempted to calm the ole thumping heart with positive thinking.

Go figure. Positive thinking didn't work.

At last, Ray strolled to where I slumped and handed me the folded map. "Herbert circled them banks the cunt mentioned. Ya can take a gander, but they be spread 'round. If everything goes to shite and we gotta hopscotch for the honeypot...let's just say, I have me doubts."

"I gotta call Goebbel," I said. "I gotta call him and see if he's located Da's account."

"Aye, ya can try, but we both know the answer. Fact, I had an inkling ya be playin' me from the git-go."

Nervous chuckle from me, then a wheezy, "Playing?"

"Them documents, the cunt shutting down banks and whatnot at seven? It ain't happenin'. Ray O'Neill ain't thick, Foley. First and fore, yer lookin' out for yer bird, which be a noble thing but... see, the problem ain't the banker bloke. The problem be, lettin' yer bird walk into yonder Embassy at seven..."

Cue the sweat; dry mouth; clammy hands...

"...'cause she'll spill her tale and then 'at nancy boy Hoover will scour these streets looking for a Mister John Foley, American in danger. Nothing riles the Yanks more than one of their precious citizens in peril. Be the size of things, aye? So, here be what the what: we're solving one problem in the next couple hours. This Leavitt cunt? We're draggin' him here, and he _will_ talk. I hope he brings the good dope and the lot of us get what be due. The Brotherhood, the Arabs, yerself.

"But, as Herbert pointed out, our snatching might cause a commotion. Bullets and the rest. Leavitt, whatever he's about, might be missed from whatever he's about doing. The gendarmes, Herbert said, turn out the Ahmadiyya when something untoward occurs in Zürich. I confess, I don't know what an Ahmadiyya be, but two and two equals Herbert and his mates. So, Herbert's hard and fast be to wrap our enterprise and roll ta a safe place before the gendarmes knock these doors. Seeing how sweet ya are on seven, I bought the aforesaid. I ain't pleased with the ultimatum, but Herbert's got hisself other ventures what pull a honeypot. True to me word, I'll let yer bird sashay, but herself ain't goin' anywhere to the until I gave the okay. First, tho, I'll need a word with her. Second, she'll have ta..."

Ray continued spieling -detailing why Sandi would forget her adventure in Switzerland (for the record: the ever-present shadow of the Brotherhood kept tabs)- but my brain both chastised and plied pity. _Poor me,_ I thought. _Poor Sandi. Blast my bad luck. Why aren't you in Minneapolis? Better yet, why aren't you in Clontarf where nothing happens? Look what righting wrongs and cash grabbing got poor Johnny Foley._

During all the external and internal yammering, I watched Fine speak German into a phone held to his head by Herbert. Did the man sounded wooden enough to drag Leavitt into the mess? I sure hoped so.

"...and, as for ya, I'm working the particulars," Ray said, stirring me from my daze. "The taxing future earnings idea be in play and I expect ya...ah, shite. I just had an unpleasant thought. The coppers be searchin' for ya and the bird. Hmm...yer gonna have some explaining ta do ta the gentry. Aye...I gotta think on this quandary, Foley."

Even if I had an idea, I wouldn't get to share. The blender roared to life, Fine squealed, and Herbert shouted: "Two o'clock, Paradeplatz."

"A'ight!" Ray cheered. "Time for some head-crackin' lads!"

Herbert grinned and then guided the beaters into the Fine's right fingers; the attachments went through the digits like cookie dough. The howl...I'll never forget it. Over the din I heard bones breaking; bits of flesh floated in the air like snow flurries.

Though it wasn't more than a couple seconds... _ahem_ ...no doubt you've heard the cliché about _seconds seeming to last an eternity_? Fuck if it ain't true. Fine passed out after his fingers went flying across the room.

There's another true as fuck cliché...the one about the brain processing traumatic events. What I'd witnessed didn't quite...it...it didn't seem real, okay? Like it was dust, I brushed chunks of Fine's hand from my shirt as Herbert flipped off the blender, admired his handiwork and patted the machine.

John Hill, his hairy face covered in a mist of biohazardous material, roared: "A warning woulda been appreciated, you donkey!"

"Jaysus, what a sight," Ray muttered.

I managed a hoarse, "Why...did...he...told us-"

"Oh, ya know, the cunt's playin' nice but he knows names, faces and places. Those be damnable offenses for the kidnapped. Plus, Herbert doesn't like Jews. But don't worry 'bout the cunt. Ya gotta have yer mind on our business, mate."

# 46.

"Moving Slower Than..."

Moving slower than the flow of traffic, Herbert coxed the Mercedes along Bahnhofstrasse. I sat in the back -between O'Reilly and Middleton- and flexed my hands. On my lap, the folded map of Zürich; in my pants, the bent to hell folder; in my head, the image of Fine's fingers meeting Mister Mixer.

The only thing capable of stirring me from the unpleasant recollection? The sound of magazines being jammed into handguns. O'Reilly and Middleton had three guns each. Don't ask me the brand or make or whatever; I couldn't differentiate between a Colt .45 and a Magnum.

Much to his chagrin, the filthy John Hill remained at the bakery. Nobody wanted to share a confined space with a man reeking of puke and splattered in Herr Fine's gore. Plus, according to Herbert, we wouldn't need him. The gang of Arabs under his command more than made up for Hill's absence.

O'Reilly caught me giving his weapons the side-eye and asked, "You wanna pick one?"

"God no," I said. "I've never shot anything stronger than Bushmills. I'd blow off my toe. Or worse."

"Yer oul fella never took ya shootin'?" Ray asked from the front seat.

"Never. But he didn't take me fishing or sledding either. Da didn't do much of anything."

"From what I've heard, he be more of a fist man," said Ray. "Paddy's oul fella also be a fist man."

"My father and yours worked together," O'Reilly said. "First in the City, then in Germany."

"Your father's Liam?"

"Ah, you've heard of hisself! He always argued John Foley never stole a dime. Guess he be bang on."

"Da waited for the day the Brotherhood got wind of his arrest. As the years passed, he felt abandoned by the cause and the oath he swore. Then he felt guilty for thinking as much."

"My father told me he waited as long as he could for Claire and Tommy, but when they didn't show he had no choice but leave Berlin. When the war kicked off, English speaking foreigners were shown the door or else. Even if the Brotherhood knew the fate of the McMahons and John Foley, I doubt they coulda done anything to set 'em loose. Politics of the time and whatnot. The Brotherhood bickered amongst themselves in the 40s. Not a whole lot be accomplished at home, much less abroad."

"But we're remedying 'at situation," Ray said. "Them nancy boys got pushed aside. Be some head-crackers in the Army Council today."

_Wonderful_ , I thought.

The Mercedes stopped at a traffic light and Herbert announced, "Paradeplatz is a block to the right."

"A'ight," Ray said, "we're gonna let ya loose, Foley. Keep yer head up and let them straight white teeth catch the sun. Show our mate Leavitt ya've arrived in all yer glory. Herbert's gonna park this boat nearby and we'll peel eyes. Make for the hack a couple minutes after two bells."

"Number 115," Herbert said.

"115," I repeated.

O'Reilly opened his door and shifted legs; I climbed over him and planted feet on the sidewalk. One step, then another, passing jewelers and clothing stores. At the corner of Bahnhofstrasse and Paradeplatz, I saw a black Cadillac nestled against the curb. Three men in suits wrestled with a tire jack, but their attention wasn't on fixing a flat...not with heads swiveling like lighthouse beacons...and not with four whitewalls looking factory fresh.

I willed eyes forward, body forward, everything forward. Once I passed the trio, I didn't look back. But when I sat my ass in Paradeplatz, I noticed the tire changing had ceased. The jack and three men...gone. The Cadillac remained and I imagined, behind the tinted glass, a professional marksman taking aim at my fat Irish noodle.

Never fear, though: Herbert spotted the Caddy; the man had the eyes of a hawk. The Mercedes scooted past the presumed adversary and angled into a parking spot. Ray stepped out, lit a cigarette, and pretended to study clouds, buildings, women in furs. Middleton joined him and the two chatted as Ray gestured at a passing streetcar. Then O'Reilly emerged, gave his mates a wave, and merged with the pedestrians. If all went as planned, he'd be in the back of cab 115.

If all went as planned...

I'm not gonna lie: I shook like I was outside in a blizzard with no coat. For some reason, I thought of my first kiss with Sandi: the second before planting lips on hers, my body trembled under the onslaught of fear, anticipation and joy. The tangible consequence of this confection turned me into quivering goo. It didn't seem right to compare a kiss to whatever the not so distant future held, but I couldn't help it...

• • •

If you haven't already figured it out, my story begins here. You find me philosophizing on a fine fall day in Zürich because I needed to kill time. The words of this future narrative -present tense- chattered in my head:

The men in the black Cadillac are watching me. The men in the gray Mercedes are watching them. I'm watching the clock. And my time is running out...

You know the rest; if you've forgotten, flip back and take a look-see. Nothing's changed between then and now.

Five after two, I stood and smoothed my repugnant outfit. Casual-like, I gave Da's ole picture a look and then strolled north on Bahnhofstrasse towards Credit Suisse. The Caddy waited a moment and then forced its snotbox into traffic. Would they hazard a shot in broad daylight on a crowded avenue in the heart of Zürich? I figured the odds at fifty-fifty. Risking a peek, I turned my head and saw the Mercedes swing from the parking spot. Four cars behind, in no hurry...

Events progressed quick but on schedule. From the opposite direction, Cab 115 approached and I raised my hand. A snippet of Da's words, or maybe they were my own constructed on the fly ( _I know I don't deserve this after what I've done. God help me if I get what I deserve._ ), echoed in my head as my chariot pulled over. I jogged for the vehicle and flushed the internal chatter. Across the street, the Cadillac gunned its engine and swung a U-turn.

I wrenched open the rear door of the cab, flung myself inside, and bumped my head on the metal crossbeam. Stooped on the ripped seat, weapon drawn, muscles in his neck tight, Paddy O'Reilly stared out the rear window. The dark-skinned driver smashed the accelerator; I was still closing the door when the cab accelerated from the curb.

"Get down," O'Reilly instructed. I didn't need to be told twice and contorted myself until my head touched knees. Or, if you like, I kissed my ass goodbye. We turned right, damn near on two wheels, and my stomach heaved. The driver keyed his radio and rattled street names like an auctioneer. Next came a jerky left; I slid across the seat, bounced into Paddy's shoulder, and received a shove in the other direction.

Another right, another left. The driver honked the horn, braked, accelerated, cranked a flurry of lefts...

"Get ready," the cabbie warned.

The taxi blasted 'round more corners. Right or left? I can't say. With all the gravitational forces at work, I pinballed to and fro.

"No matter what, stay put and keep your head down," Paddy said, each word emphasized with a finger jab to my left thigh. I squeaked an affirmation and tried to melt into the vinyl.

The driver slammed the brakes; the car skidded and slewed. A soft impact from the front stopped momentum. Seconds later, a harder bump from behind rattled my chompers.

"Go!" the driver implored. Paddy fumbled for the door latch, pulled it, and rolled onto the street...

• • •

Each gunshot sounded like thunder and I'm not ashamed to report every one of them made me jump. I counted numbers aloud: "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six-"

When converted to real time, five and a half-Mississippi's -the duration of the battle- clocks in at twelve seconds (take my word for it- years later, I conducted a non-scientific experiment with a stopwatch). Even after the gunshots stopped, I did as instructed: I kept the noggin down and squeezed my eyes shut.

At last, Paddy O'Reilly tapped my shoulder and said, "You can join us, mate."

Herbert and Ray masterminded a tight plan. The cab lured my tail into to a tapered, dead-end alley; the Mercedes sealed the Caddy from behind. Stuck between the two cars...you get the picture.

A spiderwebbed windscreen punctured by a half dozen bullet holes revealed two men slumped forward in the front seat. A third body, bald and slim, lay face down on the cobblestone beside the Caddy's left rear tire.

_Please don't be Leavitt_ , my mind pleaded. Though I had briefed Leavitt's physical appearance, mistakes are known to occur when bullets start whizzing. I wanted to roll the corpse over, yet the thought of touching or looking at it...naw.

O'Reilly grabbed my elbow and said, "We got him behind the car."

"Leavitt? You have Leavitt?"

"Think so. Take a gander and see."

Walking over broken glass and shell casings, O'Reilly led me around the Mercedes. I _took a gander_ and exhaled in relief: Norman Leavitt on his stomach, right cheek on grit, eyes closed, wrists and ankles secured by zip ties. An Arab man dug a knee in Leavitt's back; Ray and Herbert squatted beside the German and conversed in whispers. When Ray saw me, he stood and rubbed his hands together.

"I hope this be the bugger," he said. "We put all our eggs in one, if ya know what I mean."

"It's him," I said.

At the sound of my voice, Leavitt opened his eyes and stammered nonsense, but the man atop him wound a roll of duct tape around his head and sealed the mouth.

A whistle from the open end of the alley drew Herbert's attention. A fourth car (and the three Arab's standing watch with machine guns or something), idled perpendicular-like at the entrance of the alley. I hadn't noticed the boxy, two-door European piece of crap until the signal...nor the audience of gawkers: women in veils scrutinized from balconies and windows; boys stood in doorways; a couple dogs sauntered from alcoves and sniffed the dead man on the ground. None of 'em -women, kids, dogs- seemed surprised by the afternoon show; I got the sense they would've participated if given the opportunity.

"Time to move," Herbert said.

Ray nudged Leavitt in the flank with the toe of his boondocker and said, "Bad news, princess. We ain't got a cushion and blanket in the boot. But the good news be, you'll have few minutes of quiet time to come up with the location of me mate's money."

# 47.

"Leavitt Didn't..."

Leavitt didn't come easy. Despite his scrawny size, it took a collective effort to drag the squirming bastard from the Mercedes into the bakery. And for having his trap taped, the German made a lot of racket: grunts, groans, huffing and puffing. Inside the bakery, Leavitt was tossed onto the ground and then dragged feet first by Francis Middelton into the torture room.

Legs elevated on a counter, the pungent John Hill leaned back in the rattan chair and perused a paperback. He didn't raise his eyes from the novel as we entered, nor did he seem impressed by our prize. His banishment to the bakery while the "fun" commenced appeared to strike a nerve. In most cases, the silent treatment does an ample job of conveying displeasure. Want to know another? Stuffing a man in an oven...which is where the flaccid bottom-half of Fine's body protruded.

Fine's dimpled white ass stopped me cold, but Ray strolled to Hill and whacked the book out of his hand. "Get up, ya baby," he ordered. "We need yer seat. And what be with the stiff? Herbert had a spot to take it."

"Feck off, you," Hill snarled. "I gave the bloke _ample_ warning to stop yelping."

"Yer tantrum run its course, Johnny Hill? Ya feel better?"

Hill stood, gave a bow, and helped Middelton secure the prisoner in the chair with the electrical cords. Task complete, Ray ripped the tape from the Leavitt's mouth and said, "Ya see yer mate...what _was_ his name, Foley?"

I untied my tongue and mumbled, "Fine."

"Yer mate Fine...consider him an example what ya might wish ta avoid."

Eyes glued to Fine's posterior, Leavitt nodded and then thought better and shook his head.

"John Foley wants his father's money and he wants it today," Ray said. "For yer sake, ya better deliver, or ya better know a bloke what does."

"Yes...yes, I know," Leavitt said. "I was going to meet with him and...um...exchange information."

"With them three fellas armed with Glocks? I think yer idea of exchanging information be the same as mine, mate."

Leavitt looked at me and said, "I want to talk with you. Talk. Nothing more."

His ridiculous statement snapped me from my stupor. _"Talk?"_ I cackled. "You want to _talk_? Did you have a _talk_ with Sarah and Dieter?"

"You have to understand the implications of what you're-"

"Oh, I understand. Sarah, Dieter, the phoney agent at the airport...I've been accused of murdering two people!"

"We can work it out. I'll give you the account and...and this is what I want to discuss. If we come to an agreement-"

Ray slapped him across the face and then said, "Yer not making demands, and for tryin', I oughta shove my first down yer throat."

"Who are you?" Leavitt asked, as he glanced around the room. Maybe Ray's backhand joggled his brain because Leavitt's tenor rocketed from submissive to insolent. I found his attitude _somewhat_ insulting considering the circumstance, and I had a flashback to the afternoon I first met Norman Leavitt. Thus, I decided to channel my dormant Irish hoodlum lineage.

I shouldered Ray aside, placed hands on Leavitt's knees and stared him in the eyes. "Have you seen what these blenders do to a hand?"

"It ain't pretty," John Hill testified.

"Alright, alright, let's not get senseless," Leavitt fussed. "We can have a rational conversation without being sadistic. You want your father's money? One phone call and it's yours. But you must never speak of Regnesmachen again, and the only way I can carry this message to those in the know is if I walk out of here and tell them so. Otherwise, you'll always be looking over your shoulder."

My blood pressure spiked.

After the events of the day, Leavitt's chances of seeing the following dawn bordered on nil and yet he persisted with arrogance. I thought about pulling the folder from Ray Richardson's bag and shaking the Deutschbank papers in Leavitt's face. _"Good luck stopping me,"_ I'd trumpet. What he could do?

"Man, you're in no position to deliver ultimatums," I said. "And as far as looking over my shoulder, I suggest _you_ look around this room and tell me who should be weary."

Leavitt's eyes pinballed to Fine's corpse and then back to me. "Herr Foley," he sighed, "I'll have you know, I would've said the same at Paradeplatz. We could've skipped this absurdity."

"I'll tell you what's absurd: Regnesmachen comprises money stolen by _Nazis_ , most of which is _Jewish_ money. It doesn't belong in a bank, it belongs to the owners. Of all people...you're the director of an Association sworn to help Jewish survivors of the Holocaust!"

"I am helping! You're...you're viewing this backwards. Regnesmachen isn't a malicious scheme...correction, it began as one, but today it's used to finance the State of Israel. Roads, waterworks, communities, the military...these wouldn't be possible without money from the account. Yes, the German reparations assist, but they are not enough to sustain Israel."

"Gee, you almost make it sound noble, Normy."

"Suffice to say, I'm a Jew and I have no issue with the arrangement. It benefits more than harms."

"Which is why you keep it secret, right?"

"What would be the reaction among people who don't understand the struggles of the Jewish people? For thousands of years we've been subjected to persecution and genocide. Our State is a sanctuary for Jews. Everything must be done to preserve the sanctity and security of our Homeland. Do you see what-"

"Hold on," O'Reilly said, stepping forward. "You said 'em accounts finance Israel? How do we know John Foley's account ain't one of 'em?"

Ray groaned as the logic bonked his thick skull; Herbert removed his sunglass and edged next to the blender; I dug fingernails into Leavitt's knees and stuck my face inches from his. Though my stomach spasmed again, I told him (and the others in the room), "I don't care if you gotta miracle the money out of your ass, we're getting what's due."

"Not to worry," Leavitt tutted. "I said _some_ , not all, the accounts were reinvested. The bank your father's account landed declined the option."

"Invested?" I snorted. " _Invested._ As in, _make a profit?_ "

"You cannot comprehend the complicated financial agreements between N. Schellhaus and its partners in Zürich," Leavitt said.

"I comprehend. Sarah and Dieter were killed to keep the agreements secret."

"Those unfortunate events weren't my call. I-I told Sarah to drop the case. What evidence did she have? A manuscript? But she was stubborn and kept searching. It wasn't until your Fräulein arrived in Germany... _ahem,_ a choice had to made. It should've ended there, but Sarah arranged your meeting with Holte. Had I known, I would've warned him of two Americans touting a fantastic conspiracy. Would it have helped? I don't know. After the banker became involved..."

"Dieter wanted no part in the Regnesmachen accounts. Besides, according to him, the material isn't concealed."

"It's not, but nobody's ever searched for Regnesmachen. Nobody knows of its existence. The Deutschbank information isn't revealing, just numbers used for bookkeeping purposes. With your knowledge, however, the numbers have meaning. When Kleinmann accessed the account, the hit generated his employee number. It was theorized he met with you, at Holte's request. Another choice had to be made."

"Sandi and I are next, huh? The final solution, so to speak."

"No, no, killing Americans is not wise. In all honesty, I thought you'd give up after Sarah's...accident. The man at the airport? He was to bring you both to me and we'd have a frank discussion. You'd be allowed to leave Germany in exchange for your silence and my promise you wouldn't be implicated in the murder of Sarah Miller and Dieter Kleinmann."

"Uh-huh. Well, your plan turned to shit.

" _Humph,"_ Leavitt bristled. "I've said enough. If you want your father's deposit, give me the phone. The bank closes at six."

For about the millionth time, I scanned the Yazole ( _3:50)_ and then gave Ray the side-eye.

"Ya ain't talkin' to anyone, princess," Ray announced. "Yer tellin' us and we collect the honeypot. If it be where ya say, we'll dump yer arse on the street and let ya go on yer way. If it ain't-"

"Credit Suisse," Leavitt blurted. "But I can accelerate the process with a call to the bank. There are questions I'm better suited to answer."

Ray slapped my back and said, "We be handling the _process_ ourselves, please and thank ya. Foley, enough with the question and answer. There be a honeypot to collect."

"Yeah...whatever," I said, rubbing my forehead. Relief -or something approximating the emotion- crept into my bones, but exhaustion had taken its toll. I felt sapped of energy and sluggish. There was also one final detail to attend before Da's deposit could be collected.

While Leavitt squirmed, I waved Ray over and whispered in his ear...

• • •

Ray spoke to Herbert; Herbert spoke to a subordinate; the tattoo artist- a teenage boy carrying a small cardboard box- arrived at ten after four. The kid didn't flinch when he spied Fine sticking out of an oven and Leavitt tied to a chair; he set up his kit on the counter without comment. He removed the contents -a penknife, small paintbrush, dirty rag and a jar of black ink- cracked both knuckles and nodded to Herbert.

Leavitt watched the unpacking with his head cocked until he worked the mathematics. The second the lightbulb went on in his head, he gasped and then said, "Wait...wait! There's no need for...no, let me use the phone! You can skip this!"

"What I say to ya about making demands?" Ray asked.

"But-"

"Best sit tight and close yer eyes. It'll sting a wee bit, but it be better than me fist down yer throat."

So it passed: O'Reilly and Middleton held Leavitt's left limb while the boy carved _217949_ on the meaty part of the German's twiggy forearm. Once the cuts were inscribed, the paintbrush was dipped into the jar and then spread across the numbers. Though the craftsmanship left something to be desired, only the end result mattered.

Inscription, inking and removal took a half hour. For his part, Leavitt made nary a peep. Even the four deft strokes and the peeling of his skin failed to stimulate a whimper. The messy piece of art, handed to me on a paper towel, was placed on a cookie sheet and pushed into a vacant oven. How long does one toast a piece of skin at 350 degrees to give it an aged veneer? I had no idea, but Leavitt's arm offered plenty of space for trial and error.

As the smell of cooking flesh filled the kitchen, Leavitt carped, "I don't deserve this treatment!"

I couldn't help but laugh. Did he think we gave a shit?

After ten minutes of baking, I pulled the tattoo out of the oven and picked it up with plastic tongs. Stinky, smoky, curled at the corners...but less gory and legible. A decent facsimile, not like I expected anyone at Credit Suisse to practice quality control.

The Irishmen and Arabs huddled around me as I held the tattoo under a lightbulb. "I guess this will do," I said. "I mean, I'm no expert, but Da's skin looked the same."

"We good now, mate?" Ray asked. "It's almost four-thirty."

"We're good," I said, wrapping the tattoo in parchment paper. "Boys, let's go to Credit Suisse."

# 48.

"Herbert Acquired..."

Herbert acquired a new vehicle -a four door, canary yellow Volkswagen "sedan"- for the trip to Credit Suisse. I took a spot in front, rolled down the window, hung my right arm outside, and enjoyed the blast of cool air. After the putrid atmosphere of the bakery, the breeze felt cleansing. I didn't want to count my chickens and all, but each lungful of clean air inflated my confidence.

I said, "Ray, I want to talk to Sandi after we're done."

"Aye, when we're done."

"And I want her delivered to the Embassy."

"Ya still think this be a smart idea?"

"I'd rather her walk into the Embassy than walk the streets with me."

"As long as things are tight, I'll send yer bird wherever ya want. But ya still need to hash _yer_ particulars. No offense, but I don't think yer cut out bein' a fugitive."

"No?" I laughed.

"I'll tell a fact ya better comprehend sooner than later: comin' clean ta the man ain't a good idea considering what's happened today. The man's gonna press and make ya share the nitty-gritty. They be full of promises, like they be doin' ya a favor, but the man's one concern be the man. Once ya slip the tongue...Foley, it be like the cunt said: yer always gonna be lookin' over yer shoulder. We get this honeypot, ya best keep yer head low and tongue tied."

"You need papers," Herbert said. "Passports, visas, authentic stamps. I can get it all, but it will take a couple days."

"What am I going to do?" I asked. "Wander Europe under an alter ego?"

Paddy O'Reilly said, "With the money you say is waiting to be collected, you could go anywhere. Shite, you should come to Ireland with us."

"I'll figure it out," I said. "But I want you to know, I'm giving everything to the media."

"It'd be wise if ya don't mention names," Ray said.

"No names, but I imagine a few people will piece the facts together."

"If them cunts from the press poke Donnybrook, they ain't gonna be met with open arms."

"Israel is a sham sate," Herbert said. "A sham state ordained by the English and Americans. The Jew controls the money and the press. Your information will never see bright lights."

"Herbert's right," O'Reilly said. "If what Leavitt said be true, it'll get squashed. Too much brass at stake, mate."

I took another sip of air and considered the advice of the criminal element. Needless to say, I reached unpleasant conclusions. When I said my plan worked in a _roundabout way,_ I wasn't lying. In the end, I followed Da's footsteps in a _roundabout way_. And I knew I'd have no choice but to play hound dog as I sat in the car bound for Credit Suisse.

Until then, I shoved the future aside, supped oxygen and enjoyed the ride.

Bahnhofstrasse teemed with traffic, the bumper to bumper kind, but Herbert steered the little Volkswagen like a Formula One driver. Four cars behind, a taxi watched our six. I gathered a fleet of cabs kept tabs, but I could only see the one in the sidemirror.

I patted my right pocket, home of the tattoo, and checked the clock radio on the glareshield: _5:05._ Less than an hour 'til close...

Herbert spun a right on Bärengasse and pulled the Volkswagen next to a curb. To our left, Credit Suisse headquarters: four stories of polished stone topped by leering effigies. It looked like a medieval castle down to the foreboding barbican protecting the ten-foot-tall double oak door.

"I will circle the block," Herbert said. "When you're done, walk to Bahnhofstrasse and turn left. Keeping moving until I find you."

Ray squeezed my shoulder and said, "Showtime, mate."

• • •

Unlike N. Schellhaus, Credit Suisse conducted itself like a real bank: doors opened, tellers stood behind counters; customers completed business. _Well-dressed_ customers. Ray and I looked like we stepped out of hell. Both of us wore the detritus of a day of carnage and Ray stank of cordite. The receptionist regarded us with squinty eyes and I pictured her hand reaching for the silent alarm beneath the desk.

"Gentlemen, this bank is for clientele," she said in flawless English.

"We are clientele and we want to close an account," I said.

"You have an account? Here?"

Ray elbowed me and said, "Foley, show her yer tattoo."

I had a better idea. "This man told me to visit Credit Suisse," I said, handing the secretary Herr Goebbel's card. "He told me you should contact him with any questions."

Snap of fingers, her frigid tone melted: "I won't bother the Monsieur. What is the name of your account, sir?"

"Just tell whomever...tell them I want to settle a Regnesmachen number."

"Please, have a seat. I'll contact a manger."

While Ray paced the lobby, I slumped into a chair...cleared my mind...closed eyes...and awoke with a start.

Ray, standing over me, flicked my left ear and said, "Wakey, wakey, boyo. The birdy is taking us upstairs."

• • •

The elevator deposited us on the fourth floor where another secretary took our leash and dumped us in an empty lounge. Once again, I sat my tired ass as Ray trekked back and forth.

"Jeez, man, can you relax?" I asked.

"Me nerves," Ray confided. "I'm outta me element, Foley."

"Excuse me," a young man intoned from the doorway. "You've requested to close a Regnesmachen account, but I need the specific withdrawal number."

I answered, "217949. Opened in 1939, if it helps."

"The number suffices. I have to pull the appropriate paperwork and pass it to Herr Bauer. Thank you for your patience."

When we were alone, Ray whispered, "I've never stepped foot in a bank."

"Never?"

"Swear ta the Almighty. I gotta philosophy about givin' me money ta someone ta hold. Anybody what does be a wanker. I've always believed banks be scams run by scammers. My mind ain't been changed by this experience. And what pricks me arse is how these bastards 'ere act like they be refined compared ta the likes of me. Doesn't matter what ya wear. A thief be a thief in a suit or rags."

If there's a moral to the story, Ray defined it in succinct prose. It also explained the reason I didn't trust Herr Goebbel. He might've been eager to do some head-crackin' of his own, but Goebbel also administered over the institutions responsible for making Switzerland, as he described, _a superpower_. I couldn't see an administrative investigation uncovering anything but crickets.

Or, in laymen's terms: _If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself._

A pinch-faced gentleman with a pencil thin mustache and slicked gray hair poked his head into the lounge and said, "I'm Herr Bauer. Follow me." No inflection, no facial expression, nothing but the professional client-to-banker relationship the Swiss have made famous.

• • •

Bauer led us into an ordered office and took a spot in a darkened corner of the room. Standing between a small desk (barren but for a single sheet of paper and expensive fountain pen) and a window overlooking Paradeplatz, a middle-aged man looking more the college student than banker (wavy blond hair, khaki's and a blue turtleneck sweater) gestured Ray and me forward.

He said, "Welcome, I'm Herr Pries, the assistant director of Credit Suisse. Please forgive the intrusion of Herr Bauer. I must have a witness present to close an account of this size. Now, um, according to the bylaws, there is a perquisite to settle your account." Pries removed the paper from the desktop, shook it, and recited: _"Said account must be verified closed by the presence of a tattoo with corresponding account number._ As you can imagine, I reread the statement several times. But the instruction, while odd, is binding. I can't proceed if you don't meet the conditions."

"We got yer bloody conditions," Ray snapped. "Foley, give him the shite."

I dug into my pocket, slapped the folded parchment paper on the desk, and watched Pries unfold the prize. The garish tattoo instigated a subtle flinch, but the banker regained a stoic demeanor and said, "Credit Suisse has never closed a Regnesmachen account. The standard verification process for a tout takes two to three days, but yours is an unusual case. We're not dealing with documents, birth certificates, or wills. Herr Bauer and I will need a moment to sort the clerical formalities and draw the paperwork, but we should be finished in less than a half-hour."

Alone again, Ray mussed my messy hair and giggled, "Bang on, Foley. It worked."

"Nothing's a sure thing until the money's in your hand."

"You don't gotta tell me, but I'm just marvelin' we got this far..."

• • •

Bauer hobbled in with a heavy carton of papers and dropped it on the desk with a thud. "Inside are trimestral statements dating to 1940," he said. "Balances, accrued interest, bank fees, transfers and deposits...do you want this information? If not, it will be incinerated."

"I want everything," I answered.

A moment later, Pries returned holding a thin dossier. Opening the folder on the desk, he said, "You _must_ sign these three papers to complete the transaction."

The first form read _'I, the account holder, do not hold Credit Suisse liable for any acts unknowingly committed while in possession of the account'_ ; the second stated I had no further professional relationship with Credit Suisse and all money due had been received; document three informed: _'Business matters and practices with Credit Suisse will remain confidential'_.

I signed the name _"Richard Richardson"_ in triplicate as Pries, Bauer and Ray hovered over my shoulder.

Before the ink dried, Pries hustled us into the hall and said, "We've finished with the unpleasant business. Herr Orestes Huebner will prepare the funds based on your instructions." Pries attempted no handshake or parting words; just the ole hit the road. It seemed he wanted nothing to do with us, which suited me fine.

• • •

Herr Orestes Huebner: Greek first name; German surname. A dark Mediterranean look masked a calculating German manner. His office, as usual, decorated in meager furnishings: one desk, three chairs, a computer and telephone. In other words, no plants, pictures or vestiges of humanity. Credit Suisse has all the money in the world, yet they appear workman-like. Except for the computer, I imagined the room had changed little since the first transaction some hundred years prior.

The banker consulted his computer and reported the total of my father's account. _How would I like the funds distributed_? Ray's inability to split the colossal amount into the agreed percentages allowed me to finagle a bit of an insurance policy. Just in case, you know.

"One more thing," I said, before Heubner left to collect the checks and whatnot. "I need to make a phone call."

"By all means," Huebner said. "I'll leave you in privacy while I collect the disbursement."

I pulled the rotary across the mahogany and told Ray, "Call Goebbel's number and tell your men I want them on the road with Sandi in ten minutes. Then I want to speak with her..."

• • •

"How are you holding out?"

"How do you think?" Sandi responded in an icy voice. "I'm worried about you. I thought you'd call before now."

"I've been tied up. People to see, places to go, etcetera, etcetera."

"Don't be glib. This isn't the most comfortable situation, you know. These Irish guys...all afternoon, they've sat around and stared at me and Goebbel."

"It could be worse. A lot worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing...nothing except I'm tired of running around."

"Have you found your father's account?"

I sighed and then manufactured a strained, "I'm working on it as we speak."

"John, you're running out of time."

"Yeah, well, this might take longer than I thought."

"You said it'd be over tonight."

"The moving parts are...moving. And there are many moving parts. I'm getting close, okay? But I'm not getting to the Embassy before midnight."

"You should talk to Goebbel. He's been on the phone the trying to locate your father's account."

"I doubt he's learned anything."

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Learned anything?"

"I already told you."

"You're working on it?"

I glanced at Ray (listening with both ears and a cocked head), and said, "I can't explain but even if I could, it wouldn't be wise to blab over the phone. I want you to know I'm safe and this is almost over."

"What does _almost_ mean?"

"It means you go with Goebbel to the Embassy like we discussed. Remember what I told you this morning?"

"I remember. Drop the folder and run to the door or the...guard shack, I guess."

"You tell them your life is in danger, but say nothing about Regnesmachen, Dieter and Sarah to anyone. _Ever._ We'll sort everything out after I'm through running errands."

"I feel like you're not being honest with me," she whispered. "The folder seemed light and I opened it because I thought some of the Deutschbank papers might've fallen out in Goebbel's car. John, there's nothing but poems. Hundreds of poems. You have the-"

"Yeah, I have it."

"More devious planning?"

"Trying to cover my bases, hon."

"You should've told me."

' _Guess what, sweetie,'_ I thought. _'There's a bunch of shit I'm not going to tell you.'_

"When Goebbel discovers you lied to him..."

"Those nice Irish boys will keep him mellow on the trip back to Zürich."

Huebner rapped on the door and Ray waved him in. In his hands...

"I have to go," I said. "I'll phone the Embassy tonight. Love you."

Sandi sounded less than thrilled and muttered, "Love you, too."

# 49.

"When We Walked..."

When Ray and I walked out of Credit Suisse at 5:50, I had three checks in my pocket and two postage size envelopes in my hands. The first envelope contained a check for 2.4 million in Swiss francs for Herbert; the second held 15,000 (large denominations) in good old American greenbacks.

Picture us walking Bahnhofstrasse: John Foley in possession of more money than most small countries had in their banks; Ray laboring with the weighty box (made a smidge heavier by my folder). The sidewalk bustled with shoppers and tourists too enthralled with the glitz to pay attention to the seedy duo tramping through their mecca.

Ray stopped to catch his breath and dropped the box with a groan. "Did ya need this carton of worthless shite?" he asked, shaking arms like a boxer between rounds.

"You told me you're doing the heavy lifting."

"Aye, but it be metaphorical, ya stupid wanker. Do ya see those cunts?"

I scanned the street and spotted our yellow Volkswagen as it swung a U-turn. Like before, Herbert stopped the car without regard to other vehicles. Amidst a cacophony of horns, the rear door swung open and we scampered inside.

From the front seat, Paddy O'Reilly gestured at the box with his head and asked, "Jaysus, this the stash?"

Ray answered, "Ask Foley. He's the moneyman. I'm the heavy lifter."

"We made out like bandits," I announced, handing Herbert his cut. He grunted, tossed the enveloped on the dashboard, and pulled into a traffic.

Next, I fished a check from my pocket totaling 4,035,291.91 in Irish pounds and passed it to Ray. He removed his sunglasses, studied the figure, and then whistled.

"I'm glad you're impressed, Ray," I said. "But it's just two-thirds of your fifty percent."

"Eh?"

"You'll get the other two million pounds when Sandi arrives in Bern."

"How?"

"I'll mail it to Madigan's."

"After what we've been through, ya don't trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust. It's about money. Does this settle John Foley's debt to your people?"

" _Your_ people?" Ray laughed. "You and I are brothers, Foley. Irish ta the core. Don't ya forget it, either."

Forget it? Was he kidding? I sat back in my seat and fingered the checks in my pocket. If you're wondering, the sum reaped from John Foley's prize equaled about 12 million Swiss francs. Conversion rates being what they were -and minus the cash in my envelope and the Brotherhood's remaining third- I had a cool 3.3 million dollars to blow. Not bad for a few days of work, eh?

• • •

Herbert took us to a new location -a deserted asphalt demesne bordered by dark warehouses- and put the Volkswagen into park. "I will take the American where he wants to go," he said. "My friends from Ireland, your comrades are in the building ahead. A car is coming to collect you within the hour."

"I need to make a phone call," I said.

"Not here," Herbert said. "And we need to switch vehicles again. Faud is driving a Fiat from Wipkingen. He should...ah, there he is. Let's wait outside."

Illuminated by the Volkswagen's yellow headlights, the four of us slouched against the fender. Being a novice to this kind of thing, I wasn't sure how extremists parted ways. Hugs? Handshakes? A bullet to the head?

As my new ride approached, Ray straightened and dusted his hands. "Hey, Foley," he said. "I got somethin' for ya."

I turned my head and he clipped me on the chin with a left hook.

"Be our way of saying, 'Welcome ta the Brotherhood,'" Ray said through a grin. "Safe travels. If ya ever want a pint, pay me a visit at Madigan's."

Paddy O'Reilly shook my hand and said, "Nice meeting ya, Foley. Luck and all the rest. And the same goes for me except I'll chip in enough for two pints."

I watched them disappear into the warehouse and then lugged the box out of the Volkswagen.

"Do you need the Jew anymore?" Herbert asked.

"Leavitt?"

"His name is not important. Does he fit into your future plans?"

The Fiat rolled next to the Volkswagen while I mulled Herbert's question.

Needless to say, I had run out of things to ask Norman Leavitt.

# 50.

"At 8:15..."

At 8:15, I called the American Embassy from a payphone in the busy lobby of a Hilton and told the woman who answered, in my most important voice, _I need to speak to the Ambassador._

"Ambassador Davis is busy. I can take your-"

"Miss, Missus, whatever...tell him John Foley is calling."

I was put on hold but didn't wait long. It appeared my name meant something.

I heard a click and then the stern voice of a man determined to treat the conversation like a parent chastising a child: "Mister Foley? This is Shelby Davis. Where are you?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"Son, you need to turn yourself in. I promise-"

"This isn't how our conversation is going to work, Shelby. You're listening to me, okay? You have my girlfriend, Sandi Hinger?"

"Yes, and she claims she is in danger."

"Because she is."

"Perhaps but-"

"No, not _perhaps._ "

"You understand this is a delicate situation. You're both wanted for multiple murders in West Germany."

"We didn't murder anybody."

"Then let's straighten the matter out, John. Can we talk about bringing you to Bern? If you're in danger, the best thing to do is-"

"How about a trade, Mister Davis? You put Sandi on an airplane to the States and I'll turn myself in."

"Mister Foley-"

"This is non-negotiable. She can't remain in Europe."

"We're not handing an American citizen to the West German police. Sandi's protected. You're not. Mister Foley, you don't want the police finding you. Whether you're guilty or innocent, your arrest would cause significant political handwringing."

"I'm not letting the German police arrest me."

"It's an assured fate if you remain on the streets."

"Like I said, you put Sandi on a plane pronto and I'll come to Bern."

"I'm trying to help you," Shelby Davis rumbled. "Do you want to stare at the inside of a West German cell for the rest of your life?"

"Listen, I have some killer dirt, dirt people will do _anything_ to protect. I can't share what it is until I know Sandi's on her way home. So, here's the deal: give me your direct line and take a seat next to it. I'll call in an hour. You're going to let me speak to Sandi, and then you'll explain how she's getting home. If I sit on hold, I won't call back."

Davis hesitated but recited a number after I threatened to disconnect; I wrote it down and dropped the phone on the hook before he could ask me anything else.

Sixty minutes to the second, I stood on Pfauenplatz between the Schauspielhaus and Kunsthaus. Herbert recommended the location and, as usual, his acumen proved spot-on. Thick crowds from the theater and art houses provided ample concealment; the S-bahn station entrance next to the public telephones offered another place of refuge. And with Herbert keeping watch in the blue Fiat from a parking lot across the street, I felt safe...for the most part. Besides, I wasn't planning on a long conversation...

My call was answered on the first ring.

"Put Sandi on," I demanded.

A crackling and then a meek: "John?" I pictured her in a sterile interrogation room surrounded by a cadre of stuffed-shirts and recording devices.

"It's me," I said.

"Thank God! Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. You did what I asked?"

"I did what you told me."

"Ambassador Davis is sending you home tomorrow. When I know you're on your way, I'll turn myself in."

"Just be careful and...and I'm sorry for involving you. If I had any idea-"

"Shh, don't say anything else. Hand the phone to Davis. He and I need to chat."

"I love you," she whispered.

"Back at ya. I'll see you soon."

Shelby Davis announced his presence with a dramatic clearing of throat and a terse, "Satisfied, Mister Foley?"

"Not yet. Give me the details."

"She's leaving Bern tomorrow morning on a diplomatic charter and will arrive in Washington around ten in the morning. The time here will be-"

"I can do the math. How can I contact her?"

"Once you give yourself up, you'll be able to talk with her. Now, you understand we're spending major tax dollars and-"

"Save the guilt trip."

"My point is, I want to know I can count on you."

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon. No sooner."

"For my own peace of mind, can you explain what the hell you're doing?"

I was about to say something smart, but Herbert flashed the headlights.

"Mister Foley?" Davis pressed. "Hello?"

I dropped the phone, sprinted across the street, and joined Herbert in the front seat.

"You should move slow," Herbert coached. "You won't draw attention to yourself. "Something else you need to learn is the art of brevity. I told you two minutes, no more."

I exhaled and then said, "I need to get to West Germany. How far can you take me?"

"Mmm...Basel. An hour drive. But I cannot cross the border. Too risky for me. I'd say it's too risky for you, too."

"I have my reasons. And I also need a couple bags. I can't carry this box around."

Herbert nodded towards the phones and whispered, "Be quiet and watch."

Within minutes, two men approached the dangling receiver and cased the area.

"Accept you're being watched," Herbert said, as he shifted the car into first gear and revved the engine. "And accept it will always be this way."

• • •

I entered West Germany as Richard Richardson on a train bound for Stuttgart. Two plaid soft sided bags (procured from an Arab man in Baden) occupied the seat next to me. Inside one bag: Da's manuscript, the Deutschbank papers and the Regnesmachen letter; inside the other, the documents from Credit Suisse.

Upon arriving in Stuttgart, I bought a briefcase and visited a clothing store. In the changing room, I transferred the Credit Suisse financials to the briefcase and then donned my late '60s garish wardrobe: tie-dyed shirt, bellbottom jeans, and those little round glasses with purple lenses. Leaving my old clothes stuffed in one of the empty bags, I stepped outside and lugged the remaining shit several blocks. Richard Richardson checked into a hotel, went to his room, and composed a ten-page letter full of extraordinary information, none of it false. Like Da, I'm not a writer. No doubt the missive contained spelling errors, too many _that's_ , and incorrect tenses. Sue me. I got plenty of money to throw at you.

My last order of business in West Germany? A visit to the headquarters of _Stuttgarter Zeitung_. On a late Saturday afternoon, I entered the empty lobby and approached the receptionist's desk like everything was hunky-dory.

I told the young woman I needed to speak to a reporter and added _now_ to the end of the sentence to impress a degree of importance. When pressed, I told her it would be worth their while.

I watched the street and waited. At last, I heard the scuffling of feet and a tentative cough. A bedraggled, overweight hack with a bad combover approached and extended his right hand.

"Richard Heiss," he introduced. "Ich bin Leiter der Nachrichten Abteilung."

"In English," I demanded. "If you don't speak it, find somebody who does."

He coughed again and then said, "I'm Richard Heiss, Director of the News Department."

Dropping the briefcase on the ground, I said: "Last year, or maybe the year before, your paper published an article about a Nazi guard from Treblinka."

Heiss glanced at the case and frowned.

"A woman from the JWICA brought you the information," I said. "Her name was Sarah Miller."

"Yes...um...you are correct, mister...?"

I nudged the briefcase with my foot, sliding it forward a few inches, and gave Herr Heiss a pat on his shoulder. "This is a bigger story, fella," I said. "Work your magic."

He asked my name, tried to keep engaged; I turned around and strolled from the building, feeling like a million bucks but worth more."

What happened next...

A train back to Basel...

A car ride here...

A bus ride there.

Richard Richardson disappeared...

And in Milan, I bordered Aer Lingus direct to Dublin.

Funny, but the only place I felt safe was amongst terrorists.

Be the devil you know, aye?

