“Stand back against the far wall!”
The man spoke English. Thank God.
“Back to the far wall,” said the voice, this time harshly.
Stanley moved back, but only a few steps. The two guards, one with a drawn gun, just watched him from the corridor.
“Hands behind your head!”
Rosen obeyed.
Now one guard stepped in. The other remained just on the threshold of the cell, eyes wary. His revolver pointed at Rosen’s feet.
“What’s wrong?”
Rosen nodded his head backwards, toward the open toilet. The two men just stared at him.
“Rats,” said Rosen, finally.
“What?”
“Rats,” he repeated.
“Where?”
“In the corner. In the toilet pit.”
The guard inside the cell stepped to the side and looked.
“I don’t see any rat.”
“Rats,” repeated Stanley, “two of them.”
Now the guard with the gun moved into the cell.
The two men in uniform glanced at each other, and then back at Rosen.
“We don’t have rats here. This is Switzerland, a clean country. I think that you have rats in your head.”
His index finger tapped the side of his head. His colleague with the gun thought that was rather funny. Obviously he did not understand a word of English, but could hardly miss the meaning of the gesture.
“I tell you—”
“You,” interrupted the guard, “do not tell me anything. We’ve been warned about you. That you’re a troublemaker. Maybe. But although you might be able to make trouble in America, you’re not going to make any trouble here.”
“All right,” said Rosen, “maybe I did imagine things. But could you somehow cover up the drain in that toilet? Please?”
“Do what?” was the incredulous response.
“Cover up the drain. That’s where the rats came from.”
“With what? A wooden plank? So next time you can hit us over the head? Don’t be stupid. You know as well as I do that there are no rats here. Now what do you really want?”
Rosen just let one hand slip from behind his head, and across his eyes.
“Put those hands back where I told you.”
No response. Then came a sudden jab, right into Rosen’s gut. He doubled over. Both guards stepped carefully back.
“All right. That’s enough of this. Your behaviour will be reported first thing in the morning. You, my little American friend, are heading for a lot of trouble in this place. One last thing. Don’t press that alarm bell anymore. Because no one is going to respond. Get it? No more alarm bells!”
The two men backed out. The cell door slammed. The key turned. And immediately thereafter the light went out.
Rosen froze. Then he pounded on the door.
“Turn the light back on,” he screamed. He pounded again.
“The light! Please turn on the light!”
But there was to be no light. Just the fading laughter of the two guards as they moved off. Then utter silence. Rosen slumped there against the door, now sobbing quietly. His stomach had recoiled into a hard painful ball after the blow. His heart began to flutter irregularly. Stanley was afraid. For his very life. Because he knew that he could not survive for long under these conditions, neither physically nor mentally. He was not a coward. But he was a Jew, and like so many of his race he lived his life with a memory, an abhorrence, of the unthinkable. Of Dachau, of Buchenwald, of the unspeakable silent extermination of six million of his race. In central Europe. In German Europe. The cynical accusations, the helpless confinement, and finally death—by suicide, slaughter, or simply the slow surrender of life through organic decomposition. In the dark recesses of so many Jewish minds this represented the ultimate horror, a horror which had to be kept deeply submerged lest the joy of life be lost forever.
But now for Stanley Rosen it was a horror which had become reality, with stunning swiftness and brutal certainty. For no one could help him. Not tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night thereafter. They had him. Imprisoned. In central Europe.
As if in a dream, with mind paralyzed and spirit crushed, Rosen stumbled back into his corner, on top of the mattress. He pulled the blanket over his body, and then his head, curled into a ball, and entered a twilight stupor. All his senses simply turned off as, mercifully, his mind withdrew from a world which simply could not exist.
18
AT just before ten the next morning, Saturday, November 8, the door to Stanley Rosen’s cell opened again. He still lay, curled up, on his mattress.
“Wach auf, du!”
Rosen swung his feet to the floor, his eyes wildly moving toward the door.
“Komm steh auf. Du wirst verlangt.”
“Look, I don’t understand German,” said Rosen wearily.
“Blöder Amerikaner. Immer dasselbe.”
The prison guard did not waste any further words. He went to Rosen and pulled him to his feet. Then a second guard appeared, with Stanley’s shoes, jacket, coat, even tie.
“Anziehen,” was the next order, this time accompanied by a few motions. Stanley got it. He put the clothes on.
“Du sollst zum Staatsanwalt gehen. Verstanden?”
For a crazy moment Stanley thought he had been freed. He pointed at himself and then at the door and said, “Gehen?”
“Ja, ja.”
Jubilantly Stanley lurched toward the open door.
“Nein, nein. Bist Du verrückt?”
Both guards grabbed Rosen, and it was firmly in their grip that Stanley Rosen left the cell. As the trio walked through the prison corridors, nobody took any notice of them. Within a few minutes, after the unlocking and locking of a series of doors, they entered the adjoining building. Soon Stanley was back into familiar territory, as he once again entered the office of the prosecuting attorney. This time he got the name, since it was printed in bold letters outside the door: Dr. Amadeus Weckerlin.
Weckerlin was on his feet as Rosen entered. He startled Stanley as he extended his hand, but it was only to offer a handshake. Stanley ignored it.
“Mr. Rosen,” said Weckerlin, completely unperturbed. “I would like to introduce a representative of our Federal Justice Department, Dr. Bernoulli.”
The man who had been standing beside Weckerlin now also offered his hand. This time Rosen accepted it. He was offered a chair at what appeared to be a small conference table at the back of the room. The two Swiss took seats facing him. Immediately a girl appeared with three cups of coffee. On each saucer there was a small cookie.
“Do you take sugar?” she asked.
“Yes, please. That’s very kind of you,” replied Rosen.
“Do you mind if we get right down to business?” asked Weckerlin, as the girl disappeared.
“The sooner the better.”
Now the new face, Dr. Bernoulli, took over.
“Mr. Rosen, as you know we have indisputable evidence that you have been involved in one of the most serious cases of economic espionage ever uncovered in this country. In that it was aimed at undermining the currency of our country, it was my duty to press charges against you.”
“So that’s—”
“Please let me continue, Mr. Rosen. And I will be quite blunt. As I said we have indisputable and irrefutable evidence. You will get five years at a minimum. We could argue back and forth all day, but believe me, I know our courts. Don’t suffer from illusions that any forces on the outside would be able to help you. The entire affair involves matters of national security and matters which fall under the bank secrecy laws. The proceedings against you, from beginning to end, will be held in camera.”