“I have names for you, sir,” Adler stammered fearfully. “And charts.”
He fumbled nervously through his papers and as he did, Vierhaus suddenly and radically changed his mood. This was what he called a “neutral interrogation.” Non-adversarial. But he used the same methods he would have used in less friendly encounters, employing subtle changes in temperament combined with equal doses of cruelty and generosity, designed to keep his prey off balance and intimidated. Methods he had learned from the master of the technique, Adolf Hitler. The difference was that Vierhaus, unlike his volatile and psychotic boss, was a study in serpentine control.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked abruptly, with a smile. “It is imported from South America, an excellent brew.”
“Oh, that would be very kind,” Adler said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face. He had been reduced to ersatz coffee months ago. He couldn’t specifically remember the last time he had a cup of real coffee.
Vierhaus got up and went to a corner of the room and turned on a floor lamp. A pot of coffee simmered on a hot plate.
“Cream?” he asked.
“Yes sir.” Cream. Real cream.
Adler sipped the coffee with his eyes closed, savoring every drop.
“Now, tell me what you know about the Black Lily.”
“Herr Reinhardt was a frequent visitor at the home of a Jewish teacher named Isaac Sternfeld. Sternfeld taught political science at the university here until he was sent to Dachau.”
“Is he a Communist?”
“Nein, a Social Democrat radically opposed to the Führer and the Nazi party. Before the Führer became chancellor, a group of students who were also frequent guests at Sternfeld’s started a pamphlet called Die Fackel. It was aimed mainly at students, a kind of college humor. . . uh, satire thing with a bit of a sting to it. Then after Herr Hitler
“The Führer,” Vierhaus corrected.
“Yes, the Führer, after the Führer became chancellor it became more pointed. That is when Reinhardt became involved, writing occasionally for it and editing it. Sternfeld was the advisor and it was printed by Oscar Probst.”
“The Berlin Conscience,” Vierhaus said.
‘Ja. When the. . . uh..
“Repatriation?”
‘Ja . . . repatriation . . . of the Jews began the students formed the Black Lily to help get Jews out of Germany.”
“Where did they get that name?” Vierhaus asked out of curiosity.
“There is no such thing as a black lily, Herr Professor. They meant it to be a phantom organization, just like the flower.”
“Schoolboy antics,” Vierhaus said, waving him off. “What else?”
“They moved money into Swiss banks, arranged forged passports, transportation, everything.”
“Students?” Vierhaus said with astonishment.
Adler nodded.
“Students are doing this?!” Vierhaus said, shaking his head. He could imagine Hitler’s reaction to that bit of news.
“But very dedicated students,” said Adler.
“Politicized by Reinhardt and this Sternfeld person, hmm?” Adler continued to nod.
“The editor of Die Fackel was a Jewish boy named Avrum Wolffson. He is now twenty-five years old. His best friends are Werner Gebhart and Joachim Weber. It is my understanding that Wolffson is the head of the Black Lily. Gebbart handles the movement of Jews out of the country, and Weber handles money, the paperwork, passports, false ID’s, such things.”
Vierhaus stroked his chin as he listened to Adler. Other things were becoming clear to him.
“So, now I think I know what happened to Otto Schiff and Tol Nathan. These students probably ran them out of the country. And they probably forced Simon Kefar to hang himself.”
“Simon Kefar worked for you, too?”
“You didn’t know that? Schiff, Nathan, Kefar, all very effective Judenhascher like yourself. You knew them?”
“I knew Kefar casually. The others only by name.”
Vierhaus stroked his chin for a moment or two longer.
“How do they finance all this?” he asked finally.
“With contributions from rich Jews and sympathizers here and abroad.”
“This Wolffson and a couple of students created all this intrigue?” Vierhaus said, still unable to accept Adler’s theory.
“Actually I think it was Sternfeld who organized it anticipating the . . . repatriation. But Wolffson was a brilliant student, very pragmatic the way I understand it.”
“How do you know all this?”
Adler stared at him for several seconds. “Joachim Weber is my nephew,” he said. “The boy and I have never been close but I talk to my sister—his mother—frequently.”
“How many people are involved with this bunch?”
Adler shook his head. “Dozens, I assume. In Berlin, Munich, Linz, Paris, Zurich.”
“All Jews?”
“No. They are both Jews and Gentiles.”
“How did this get so far Out of hand!” Vierhaus said almost to himself. The Führer would be outraged. “And where do we find this Wolffson?”
“That is the problem, Herr Professor, nobody knows. There are no lists of the members, it is not a military-type organization.
It is like the flower, it seems not to exist. It is like a train that runs whenever necessary. Nobody has seen Wolffson in months. But I believe he must be in Berlin. And I have this.”
He handed Vierhaus a sheet of typing paper. There were two columns of names and addresses on it.
“These are forty-eight people who are related to Wolffson. That includes three generations up to fourth cousins and nephews. I have similar lists on Weber and Gebhart in the folder.”
Vierhaus was impressed. “That is a remarkable report, Adler.” He turned back to the list of names and ran his forefinger down each one. “You did this in a month?”
“Three weeks actually.”
“Remarkable indeed. The Gestapo has been investigating this for months with no success.”
“They are not Jews,” Adler said, almost in a whisper.
“Very true, Herman. It takes one to catch one, eh?” He smiled at Adler, who began to relax. The jeweler wiped sweat off the back of his neck. “If you can find him, sir, I think I can produce enough proof to
“I do not care about proof,” Vierhaus said, waving his hand as he scanned the list. “Give me names and addresses and I will get confessions from these schoolboys. I don’t need proof.”
Vierhaus started to say something else and then stopped. His finger was poised over one of the names.
“This is his sister? Jennifer Gould?’
“Half-sister, Herr Professor. Her mother married the Jew, Wolffson. She is a Catholic, I believe.”
“You have no address on her?”
“Nein. She moved about three months ago and dropped out of sight.”
“Hmm,” said Vierhaus. “We seem t have an epidemic of vanishing .
Vierhaus looked up suddenly, his eyes squinting into a dark corner of the room, and then he slapped his hands together. Adler was startled by the sharp sound in the quiet room.
“I know where she is!” Vierhaus said. He pulled open a desk drawer and clawed through file folders. He pulled one, out. Inside were copies of the weekly reports of military spies in half a dozen major European cities, including von Meister in Paris. Vierhaus licked his thumb and flipped through the pages, then stopped. “Yes, of course. Keegan”
Vierhaus leaned back and smiled, proud of himself not only for reading these dull reports every week but for remembering the brief reference to Keegan and the Gould woman.
“She’s a singer,” he sneered. “She sings American nigger jazz. And she is a friend of that American liar, Rudman.” He looked at Adler and smiled. “Perhaps she knows where Wolffson is. Perhaps she is the Kettenglied to the Black Lily. And she is in Paris.”