Germanica

EPILOGUE

The newspaper said it was the Fourth of July, 1960. In the United States they would be celebrating their independence with fireworks, picnics, baseball and beer. Not so Alfonse Hahn, former general in the SS. The war in Europe had been over for almost fifteen years. The world had changed and not for the better. Hahn still could not fathom a world where the Jews had their own nation and had defeated other countries in order to keep it. Who knew that Jews could and would fight? And now they had their own secret police force, the Mossad. Like the worms they were, the Mossad slithered all over the world and part of their job was to seek out and either kill or capture what they referred to as Nazi war criminals.

Just last month, Israelis had located and kidnapped Adolf Eichmann from a suburb of Buenos Aires. This had shaken Hahn. He lived only a dozen miles from Eichmann and had seen him on several occasions, although he had never approached the man. He respected what Eichmann had done in planning the disposal of the Jews, but he personally thought the man was nothing more than a pale, mousy clerk. At least, Hahn thought, he himself had been a Nazi warrior, not a glorified railroad engineer.

But Eichmann’s capture meant that the Jews were close by and still looking. He’d read some of the magazines and seen lists of those Nazis the Jews were looking for. He was high on the list. Hitler was first even though most people thought he was dead. Josef Mengele, the “Angel of Death” who decided who would live and who would die on arrival at Auschwitz, was high up as well and nobody knew where the hell he was. It was an honor to be in such company. Still, he had been small potatoes when compared with the Nazi hierarchy. He had personally killed only a few dozen people, mostly Jews, although he had shipped off large numbers to die in the death camps. He had only killed two Americans, yet they were still infuriated by it. A surviving witness named Tanner had written a book about it. It had become a bestseller and that galled Hahn. What a book he could write and what stories he could tell! Sadly, that would not happen.

Hahn’s escape from Italy had been fraught with danger. His companion, Diehl, had been killed in a gunfight with Italian partisans only a few days after escaping through Switzerland. Hahn had used the money and identification he’d taken from Bregenz to get on a steamer to Spain and then to Buenos Aires, where he’d lived a quiet and simple life in a small apartment overlooking a quiet street. It was far from the glamor and glory of the days when he’d been an SS general, but it would do until the Reich rose again.

On a positive note, young Hans Gruber had gone to East Germany where he had joined the East German secret police force, the Stasi. His sources said he was quickly rising in rank. Good. He had even survived the scandal when his wife, the former Astrid Schneider, had been murdered by her brother, a man driven crazy by the war.

Today Hahn had to be even more careful than usual. Today was the day he went to the post office to pick up the envelope that contained his monthly allowance. It was his only source of income and he lived in fear that his unknown benefactor would either die or get caught.

He entered the small grubby post office building after checking to see if anything was out of the ordinary. Some familiar people were coming and going along with the inevitable scattering of strangers. Nothing looked wrong. He had no idea how Eichmann had been found but he did know that the man had made himself a family. Probably someone blabbed or bragged. It was another good reason to live alone, which he did. If he needed sex, there were prostitutes in the neighborhood and he only frequented the regulars.

A truck driver leaned on his horn and began to curse loudly, attracting everyone’s attention. A woman pushing a baby carriage jumped in front of him. Hahn was distracted by the woman and barely noticed that someone had bumped him until he started to lose his balance. Something was terribly wrong. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He collapsed onto the sidewalk and heard people calling for help. Someone looked down at him with real concern. He heard a siren screaming and growing closer.

The ambulance stopped and medics jumped out. They put Hahn on a gurney and into the vehicle. As they drove off, Hahn heard people comment that the poor man had been fortunate that the ambulance had been so close.

After a few blocks, the siren was turned off and Hahn, still unable to move, realized that he was living a nightmare. They drove in silence for a few minutes and into another building. He was removed from the ambulance. He could see that they were in a large garage. The men laid him on a table where they cut off all his clothes and replaced them with a hospital gown.

A man leaned over him. His expression was cold. “Hello, General Hahn. Yes, we are Jews, and, yes, we are Mossad. And how we located you doesn’t matter. I don’t know and wouldn’t tell you if I did. Probably someone talked. Money always does that, although sometimes fear works as well, as you well know.

“At any rate, you are now going on a plane ride, a very long one. You will be transported by a private aircraft that has you listed as a severely psychotic mental patient who must be kept tranquilized for his own safety and that of those on the plane. The destination is listed as a sanitarium outside Paris, but, of course, we won’t go there. Your final destination will be Tel Aviv.”

The Israeli spat into his face and laughed as the spittle ran down Hahn’s cheek. “Mazel tov.”