The Accomplice: A Novel - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Joseph Kanon is the Edgar Award–winning author of The Accomplice, Defectors, Leaving Berlin, Istanbul Passage, Los Alamos, The Prodigal Spy, Alibi, Stardust, and The Good German, which was made into a major motion picture starring George Clooney and Cate Blanchett. He lives in New York City.

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Chapter 1

1

HAMBURG, 1962

IT WAS LATE IN the season to put tables outside, but the unexpected sun had drawn crowds to the Alsterpavillon, all asking for the terrace, so that by noon the entire promenade had become one long outdoor café, people sipping coffee, wrapped in coats and mufflers against the wind coming off the lake, their faces tilted up to the sun.

“You look like a turtle,” Aaron said, glancing at his uncle sitting with his chin down in his coat, his great nose sticking out like a beak.

“Idiots, they think it’s summer.” He drew on his cigarette, a small shrug. “I’m cold all the time now.”

“Go to Israel.”

“Israel. What’s in Israel?”

“Sun at least.”

“And then you’re even farther away. Another ocean. So maybe that’s the idea.”

Aaron moved his hand, brushing this away. “Then come back with me.”

“To America. To sit around and argue with you.” He shook his head. “My work is here.”

Aaron looked up at him. “You can’t keep doing this. Your heart—”

“So then it’s something else. How can I stop? We got Pidulski. All these years and we got him. What is that worth? A man who kicked children to death. In the head, like a football.”

“Max—”

“So what is that worth?” he said, his voice rising. “To get him. On trial, so everybody sees. A little heart trouble? OK. I’ll take it.”

Aaron sipped his coffee, a second of calm. “Max, we need to talk about this. The doctor said—”

“Give up smoking,” Max said. “I’m not going to do that either.” Taking a noisy puff, illustrating.

“I have to go back.”

“You just got here.”

“Max.”

“You’re a big shot. You can take the time off.”

“Compassionate leave. It’s usually a few days.”

“What, to bury somebody? So hang around, it won’t be long.”

“You told me you were dying. You’re not dying.”

Max shrugged again. “Anyway, it’s cheaper for you to come here than talk on the phone. Calls to America. Who can afford that?” He paused. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I know. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“But you don’t talk back. Days now and you don’t answer. Who else is there? You’re a son to me.” He looked toward the bright lake, taking a breath, a theatrical gesture, overcome.

“Max, we’ve been over this.”

“But you haven’t agreed yet.”

Aaron smiled and Max, catching it, smiled back.

“You want me to retire. Whatever that is. This is something you don’t walk away from, what we do. It’s not possible. For you either. We’re the only ones left in the family. Everyone else— Think about that. Everyone else. You don’t turn your back on that.”

“Twenty years.”

“And still guilty. Still.”

“It’s different for me. I never knew them.”

“You knew your mother. You remember her.”

“Of course.”

But what exactly? The way she smelled when she leaned down to kiss him good night, the day’s last trace of perfume. Sitting in her lap on the train. The voice, wrapping around him like a blanket. But her face was a face in photographs now, no longer someone he knew.

Max was shaking his head. “She waited too long. Herschel was right—get out now. And she says, ‘You go, I’ll come after.’ You know she wanted to keep you here with her? So think, if Herschel had agreed. You would have been killed too, like everybody else. And you think it’s not personal with you?”

“Why did she stay?” Aaron said quietly, as if it were a casual interest, the question he’d been asking all his life.

“She was helping people here. You know this. Herschel said, ‘Save yourself. Think of the child,’?” he said, nodding to Aaron. “But he’ll be safe with you, she says. I can’t leave now—” He stopped, the story still painful. “She thought she had more time. We all thought that. Except Herschel. The smart one. So you can thank God he didn’t wait. You’d be a statistic. A number. Like Minna.” He looked over. “She was tall, like you. That’s where you get it. And the hair.” He touched his own, a few wisps. “Not from our side.” He took a breath. “Did he talk about her? Herschel?”

“When the letters came.” The ones that meant she hadn’t abandoned them, however it felt. “She was always on her way. Soon. Any day. And then they stopped.” He looked up, answering the question. “He didn’t talk about her after that. He didn’t want to talk about—what happened. He said people didn’t want to hear about that.”

“People there. And by this time he’s Wiley. Weill isn’t good enough. More American than the Americans. As if it would make any difference—that they wouldn’t know what he was.”

“He blamed himself. Leaving her behind.”

“Ach,” Max said, a sound of dismissal. “And what good did that do?” He shook his head. “She didn’t die because she stayed. She died because they killed her. Don’t forget that. That’s what this is all about. They killed her. Everybody. That’s who we do this for. Your family.”

“Max, I never knew them.”

“Listen to them now, then. You can hear them if you listen.” He moved his hand, taking in the crowd, as if all the Weills, all the dead, were here in the crowd on the Binnenalster. “I hear them all the time. You don’t retire from that.” He moved his hand toward Aaron’s. “I’ll teach you what you don’t know. The archives. It’s all about the documents. Not all that cloak-and-dagger stuff Wiesenthal talks about. Liar. You listen to him, he found Eichmann himself. Shoved him in the car. Oh, the Mossad was there? Who would know, with Wiesenthal playing Superman?”

Aaron looked over. “Max.” The old rivalry, Max and Wiesenthal even sharing a Time cover. The Nazi Hunters. As if the feud were a Macy’s and Gimbel’s rivalry, with discount sales.

“All right. So it helps him raise money. Eichmann. Who cares about Pidulski? Except the children he murdered. Maybe I should do it too. Say I’m this close to Mengele,” he said, pinching his fingers. “To Schramm. You could always raise a few donations if you said you had a lead on him. Which I did once.” His voice went lower, private. “Imagine, to get him. After everything. But he got away. And then he cheated me. Dead. But no trial. No—” He caught himself drifting. “So now it’s Mengele if you want to raise money. Wiesenthal says he’s in Paraguay. No, Brazil. No, somewhere else. So here’s a check. Go find him.” He stopped. “We all do it. How else to keep going? Think how useful you would be. An American. The money’s in America. And maybe a little guilt...