good causes.”
“In the year 1945, one of his causes was something called Sigma,” Ben
continued stonily. “The other incorporators included many Western
industrialists, and a small handful of Nazi officials. Those included
the treasurer, who is identified by the title Obersturmfrihrer, and by
the name Max Hartman.”
Sonnenfeld’s rheumy eyes did not blink. “Extraordinary. You did say
“Sigma,” yes? Dear God in heaven.”
“I’m afraid it’s an old story,” said the visitor in the black leather
jacket.
“The wife,” suggested the private detective, Hoffman, with a wink.
The man smiled sheepishly.
“She is young and very pretty, yes?”
A sigh. “Yes.”
“They are the worst of all, the pretty young ones,” Hoffman said, man to
man. “I’d advise you to simply forget her. You’ll never be able to
trust her anyway.”
The visitor’s eye seemed to be caught by Hoffman’s fancy new laptop
computer. “Nice,” the man said.
“I don’t know how I ever used anything else,” Hoffman said. “I am not
so good with technical things, but this is easy. Who needs filing
cabinets anymore? Everything is here.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?”
Hoffman hesitated. A man come in off the street–he could easily be a
thief after all. He glanced at him again, took in the man’s broad
shoulders, narrow waist, not a gram of body fat. Quietly he nudged open
the long metal desk drawer next to his lap an inch or two and checked
for the Clock.
“Maybe another time,” Hoffman said. “All of my confidential files are
there. So, please give me the details about your pretty young wife and
the bastard she’s fucking.”
“Why don’t you turn it on?” the visitor said. Hoffman looked up
sharply. This was not a request but a demand.
“Why are you here?” Hoffman snarled, and then realized he was staring
into the barrel of a Makarov attached to a silencer.
“Put the computer on,” the man said softly. “Open your files.”
“I will tell you one thing. This document was never meant to see the
light of day,” Sonnenfeld said. “It was a legalism intended for
internal Swiss bank use only. For the gnomes of Zurich alone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sigma has long been the stuff of legend. Not a scintilla of evidence
has ever emerged to give body to the shadow of supposition. I would
know. Believe me.”
“Until now, correct?”
“So it would seem,” he said softly. “Clearly, it is a fictional
enterprise.
A front, a ruse–a means for industrialists on both sides to secure a
separate peace, whatever the terms of armistice might be. The paper
your brother uncovered may be the only material reality that it has.”
“You say it was the stuff of legend–what was the nature of that
legend?”
“Powerful businessmen and powerful politicians, meeting secretly to
transfer immense, stolen state assets out of the Fatherland. Not
everyone who opposed Hitler was a hero, you might as well know that.
Many were cold-eyed pragmatists. They knew the war effort was doomed,
and they knew who was to blame. What concerned them more was the
prospect of repatriation, nationalization. They had their own empires
to look after. Empires of industry. There is abundant evidence of such
plans. But we’ve always believed that the plan remained just a plan.
And almost everyone involved has since gone to their graves.”
“You said ‘almost everyone,” ” Ben repeated sharply. “Let me ask about
the few board members who fall under your professional purview. The
Nazis. Gerhard Lenz. Josef Strasser.” He paused before pronouncing
the final name. “Max Hartman.”
Sonnenfeld fell silent. He cradled his head in his large craggy hands.
“Who are these people?” he said to himself, the question purely
rhetorical. “That is your question. And here, always, is mine: who is
asking? Why do you want to know?”
“Put your gun down,” Hoffman said. “Don’t be foolish.”
“Close the desk drawer,” the intruder said. “I am watching you very
closely. One wrong move and I will not hesitate to kill you.”
“Then you’ll never access my files,” Hoffman said triumphantly. “The
computer is equipped with a biometric authentication device–a
fingerprint scanner. Without my fingerprint, no one can log on. So you
see, you would be very foolish to kill me.”
“Oh, I don’t need to go quite that far yet,” said the visitor serenely.
“But do you know the truth about my father?” Ben asked. “It strikes me
that you might have assembled a file on such a high-profile survivor
and–forgive me–potential benefactor to your efforts. You, more than
anyone, would have been in a position to see through his lies. You have
all the lists of concentration-camp victims, a more exhaustive
storehouse of records than anyone else. That’s why I have to ask: Did
you know the truth about my father?”
“Do you?” Sonnenfeld returned sharply.
“I’ve seen the truth in black and white.”
“You have seen in black and white, yes, but you have not seen the truth.
An amateur’s error. Forgive me, Mr. Hartman, but these are never
black-and-white matters. You’re dealing with a situation whose
ambiguities are very familiar to me. Your father’s case, I can tell you
only a little about it, but it is a sadly familiar story. You must be
prepared to enter a realm of moral chiaroscuro, however. Of shadow, of
ethical vagueness. Begin with the simple fact that if a Jew had money,
the Nazis were willing to deal with him. This was one of the ugly
secrets of the war that people seldom talk about. Often enough, the
rich ones bought safe passage. The Nazis would take gold, jewels,
securities, whatever. It was outright extortion, plain and simple. They
even had a price schedule three hundred thousand Swiss francs for a
life! One of the Rothschilds traded his steel mills for his freedom
gave them to the Hermann Goering Works. But you won’t read about any of
this. No one ever talks about it. There was a very rich
Hungarian-Jewish family, Weiss they had businesses in twenty-three
countries around the world. They gave their entire fortune to the SS,
and in return they were escorted safely to Switzerland.”
Ben was flustered. “But an Obersturmfuhrer…”
“A Jewish Obersturmfuhrer? Can that possibly be? Bear with me for a
moment.” Sonnenfeld paused before resuming. “I can tell you about an
SS colonel, Kurt Becher, who was in charge of making deals like this for
Eichmann and Himmler. Becher made a deal with a Hungarian, Dr. Rudolf
Kastner seventeen hundred Jews at a thousand dollars each. A whole
train full. Jews in Budapest fought to get on that train. You know
your family had money before the war, didn’t you? The way it worked was
very simple, if you were Max Hartman. One day Obergruppenfuhrer Becher
comes to see you. You make a deal. What good was your fortune if you
were all going to die anyway? So you ransom your family out. Your
sisters and you. This was hardly a moral conundrum. You did whatever
you could to stay alive.”
Ben had never thought of his father as a young man, frightened and
desperate. His mind reeled. His aunt Sarah had died before he was
born, but he remembered his aunt Leah, who passed away when he was in
high school: a small, quiet, gentle soul, who had lived quietly as a
librarian in Philadelphia. The affection she had for her brother was
real, but so, too, was her recognition of his strength of character; she
deferred to him in all things. If there were secrets to be kept, she
would have kept them.
But his father what else was he keeping inside?
“If what you’re saying is true, why did he never tell us?” Ben asked.
“You think he wanted you to hear this?” There was a hint of scorn in
Sonnenfeld’s voice. “You think you would really have understood?
Millions incinerated, while Max Hartman comes to America simply because
he was fortunate enough to have money? People in his situation never
told anyone, my friend. They often did their best to try to forget it
themselves. I know these things because it is my business to know, but
they are best left unexposed.”
Ben didn’t know how to reply, said nothing.
“Even Churchill and Roosevelt Himmler made them an offer, you know. In
May of ’44. He was prepared to sell the Allies every single Jew the
Nazis had, if the Allies would give them one truck for every hundred
Jews. The Nazis would dismantle the gas chambers, stop murdering the
Jews at once all for some trucks they could use against the Russians.
The Jews were for sale but there were no buyers! Roosevelt and
Churchill said no they wouldn’t sell their souls to the devil. Easy for
them to say, no? They could have saved a million European Jews, but no.
There were Jewish leaders who desperately wanted to make this deal. You
see, you want to talk about morality, this wasn’t so simple, was it?”