Title: Hitler’s Silver Box
Author:
Allen Malnak
Publisher: Two Harbors Press
Page
Count: 328
Price
US: $16.95
Genre:
historical thriller
A
modern day historical thriller set in Chicago, begins with an elderly
bookseller and Holocaust survivor, Max Bloomberg, being brutally murdered in
his own home by a trio of thugs. Max’s
closest relative, Dr. BRUCE STARKMAN, chief ER resident at Chicago’s Cook
County Hospital is shocked when he learns his Holocaust survivor uncle is
dead—his body already cremated, a violation of Uncle Max’s Orthodox Jewish
views. A change in the will shortly before Max’s death provides a clue,
allowing Bruce to find a hidden journal in Max's handwriting detailing his
uncle’s ordeal some fifty years before, during which Max is ordered by a Waffen
SS Colonel to craft a silver box which is to be a birthday present for Hitler.
The silver box contains a document written by Nazi leaders, which if discovered
will lead to a worldwide Nazi resurgence. Max manages to hide the birthday gift
after a strafing run interrupts their journey to Berlin to present the box.
Bruce
decides to try and find the box and to solve the mystery of his Uncle’s
untimely demise. He and a gorgeous Israeli female companion are followed by the
thugs, who turn out to be present day Nazis intent on reviving the Reich.
The
novel leads from Chicago to Paris to Prague in swift, hair-raising turns. And
the novel concludes with a nearly heart-stopping climax.
The
full journal of Max Bloomberg is included in the book and alone, is worth the
cover price.
-------------------------------------------------------
We
lived in a maze of walls, barbed wire, fear, and cruelty. And a landscape of
screams.
Max
Bloomberg’s journal
PROLOGUE
Moscow: Wednesday, October 12, 1994
Daylight
was fading on the late autumn day as Vasilevich made his way up from the subway
and plodded the five blocks to his modest apartment in the Petrovka district.
The file clerk took
the rattling elevator to the tenth floor, unlocked the heavy door, and began
peeling off his coat. He momentarily wondered why there was no pleasant odor of
shchi, his wife’s delicious cabbage soup, when out of the corner of
his eye he noticed a tall stranger holding a
handgun.
He carefully raised his hands and
turned to face the man, forcing himself to move slowly and keep his breathing
even. It was probably just a robbery, not unusual with the soaring number of
drug addicts in Moscow. He’d give the man what money he had, and probably be
fine.
But the intruder was
too well dressed, too clean to be an addict. He waved his weapon and placed a
finger over his lips. “Put down your hands and sit.” Passable Russian, but with
a heavy German accent.
Vasilevich sank
slowly into a large armchair in a corner.
“I’m not here to harm
you,” the man said, “but don’t provoke me. You are Danislav Vasilevich,
and you work for Rudolph Pikhoia?”
Vasilevich’s mouth
became dry, and he had trouble forming the words. “Who are you? Where’s my
wife? What do you want?”
The intruder waved his hand in a
calming manner and spoke softly. “It’ll be better if you just listen and answer
my questions. Then, perhaps, I’ll answer yours.”
Vasilevich took a
deep breath to try to calm himself. Something strange and deep was going on here, but
it left him with no choice but to obey. He lifted his chin. “Director
Pikhoia is the chairman of the State Archival Service of the Russian
Federation. While I work in the archives office, I’ve only met the director
once. I’m just a clerk … a clerk. You must need someone higher up.” Knots
formed in his stomach, and a wave of nausea hit. “Please, where’s my wife?”
The stranger smiled. “Svetlana is a
lovely young woman. Don’t worry. No harm will come to her. Not if you pay
attention to what I want.”
The gunman knew her name. And his.
And where he worked. What were they doing to her? Vasilevich stood and took a step
toward the armed man. “If you harm her … .”
The intruder waved the automatic
again and said in an almost-kindly manner, “Sit back down and listen. My needs
are simple. We know you have access to many German documents from what you
Russians still call the Great Patriotic War.” The man pulled out a small
notebook. “They are kept in the … Central State Special Archive, division 14B,
room 2.” He returned the notebook to a pocket. “We need a small amount of
information. If you obtain it without letting anyone know what you have done
and deliver it to me, you’ll have enough rubles to enjoy a nice seaside
vacation. With your wife.”
“My Sveta. You’ve not harmed her?
Please don’t. She’s … very sensitive.”
He heard a quiver in his voice but was beyond embarrassment.
“The Soviets captured a camp in the
Czech Republic called Theresienstadt.”
“I mostly file old documents. I’m
able to read some German, but I usually only read enough to get an idea of the
contents, so the papers can be properly classified. Our great Soviet armies
liberated a number of concentration camps. I can’t remember hearing that name
before. Frankly, I’ve never paid much attention to what happened such a long
time ago.”
“That’s not important. The Soviet
NKVD grabbed many records from the camps, and we’ve discovered these documents
are now in your Archives of the Russian Federation. We need you to find certain
information and bring it to us. Quickly. You must start your search tomorrow.”
The Russian shook his head and was
on the verge of tears. “Not easy. We need special permission to enter areas we
aren’t assigned to.”
The German’s face registered no
emotion. “I’m sure you can deal with that. I don’t want to spell out what will
happen if you fail. Listen carefully now. No notes. Nothing ever in writing,
except copies of the information I need. Back in 1945 an SS Colonel Steinhauser
had a prisoner make a silver box while in Theresienstadt. I must know the name
of that silversmith. It has to be in the archives here. My countrymen kept
excellent records. I need any and all information about this prisoner.
Everything. Understand?”
“But, what if—?”
The German speaker didn’t allow Vasilevich to finish. “Better you
should not think of that.”
The man reached into his pocket and
handed the Russian a cellular phone. “Tomorrow at this time, I’ll call you. Let
the phone ring without answering. Then go at once to the Cafe Gallery. You know the place?”
“I know where it is.
Not far from here.” He frowned and shook his head. “Never been there. Too
expensive a restaurant for people like us.”
The intruder handed
the young Russian a small stack of rubles. “Order a meal and start to eat. Sit
near a window. While you’re eating, I’ll call you again. If you have the
information, simply say ‘I’m busy.’ Otherwise, just say, ‘You have the wrong
number.’ Better that you be busy. Understand?”
Still shaking and
still sick to his stomach, Vasilevich simply nodded.
“I’ll give you
instructions about delivery tomorrow. Remember, not a word to anyone if you
want your lovely Sveta back home unharmed. Now sit
on the floor and face away from the door.”
Unable to think of any other
response, Vasilevich obeyed.
As the German opened the door, he
murmured, “Remember, your wife’s life is in your hands. We have informers
everywhere, so don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
And he was gone.
A few minutes later, just as he
calmly exited the building, a shiny black Mercedes pulled up alongside. He jumped in before the car came
to a full stop, and was whisked away.
“And so, Gerhard, did
it work out?” the driver asked in German. “Can he do it?”
Gerhard nodded. “Your
information on the archivist was correct. I think it’ll work.”
“Suppose he does
obtain what we need to know about that Jew,” the driver went on, “how do we
handle him and his woman, after we get it?”
“No question about
Herr Vasilevich. He has to be erased. An
accident. Can you arrange it?” His contact had better be able to, or of what
use was he?
“Shouldn’t be a problem. And the
lady?”
“That depends. Did she see or hear
anything? Has she been touched by your people? You know what I mean.”
“Absolutely not. She was
blindfolded and kept isolated. Given food and water. No one has spoken to her,
except a few whispers. We even made her wear earplugs. She has a little bell
she can ring with her fingers if she needs to use the facilities.”
Gerhard’s expression conveyed indifference.
“In that case, no matter how this turns out, just take her somewhere, give her
a few thousand rubles, and turn her loose. She’s young and pretty. She can
still have a life.”
You’ve entered a different world from the one you knew. At home, we
planted gardens. Here we only plant the dead.
Max
Bloomberg’s journal
CHAPTER
ONE
“I trust these
ruffians didn’t harm you, Herr Bloomberg, and the bindings aren’t too tight?”
The tall, well-dressed man
projected civility, even benevolence. He was perhaps thirty and handsome in a
craggy-faced, broad-shouldered, athletic sort of way. Unlike the cracked and
dirty fingernails of the others, the smiling man’s nails were professionally
manicured. Speaking in fluent German, he seemed sincerely apologetic that his
prisoner, whose arms were securely
bound to his leather armchair with clothesline,
was being inconvenienced.
Max Bloomberg understood every
word, though he hadn’t used his native language in decades. If only he could
get a grasp on what was happening here. The men must have crept in during the
middle of the night and deftly disconnected the security system. They seemed
well-armed, although Max understood little concerning firearms—except the ones
that had been pointed at him by guards herding him and his fellow Jews into
boxcars, herding them off boxcars, herding them through “processing” at the
camp.
But that had been eons ago. Max
closed his eyes, squeezing them tight to push away the memories. He opened
them, blinked a few times, and glanced around. The home invaders had drawn the
drapes before turning on the table lamp. Not amateurs, any of them, he
supposed. It occurred to Max that the two rough men who accompanied the
well-spoken, well-groomed, well-dressed man relished their work. He’d seen too
much brutality not to recognize when someone enjoyed delivering pain.
Glancing toward his accomplices,
the elegant interloper continued, “I told them not to gag you, but if you cry
out, well, as they say in America, all bets will be off.” The stranger switched
to English with only the faintest hint of a German accent. The man almost
sounded Jewish, with a few Yiddish phrases thrown in, though Max considered
that was probably an act, an attempt to
ingratiate himself.
The intruder still
spoke softly, but his almost coal-black eyes bore into Max Bloomberg’s own like
steel daggers. There was something familiar about the man’s manner, something
Max couldn’t help but recognize. He’d seen eyes such as these before—the color
was of no importance. He’d heard voices such as this one long ago—the words
didn’t matter. The words soothed and the lips smiled, while the hands choked
the very life from your throat.
But, how could this
fellow possibly know Max? Though he’d encountered the type, Max had never seen
this particular man before. And this incident couldn’t be connected to what had
happened so long ago. Not possible.
Since Winston, Max’s
companion cocker spaniel, had recently died, Max lived alone in this two-story
Georgian in River Forest, an affluent western Chicago suburb. Head throbbing, Max found concentration difficult. He’d been
having trouble sleeping since finding Winston’s small body sprawled lifeless in
the backyard. How long ago was it that his beloved Winnie had died? A week?
Two? Max had taken a Seconal only an hour before the rough men, on the German’s
orders, had dragged him—an old
bookseller, not a rich man—out of bed
and down to the small den that served as his library. Now they sat or stood
among his treasured books, books Max had accumulated throughout his career and
cared for like dear friends, though they had little monetary value. Were these
devils here just to rob him? Could he be that lucky?
The other two men
were each shorter and not nearly as well dressed as the German. They’d held
handguns of some kind when they’d stormed into the bedroom, but the weapons
were now out of sight. Standing almost like soldiers at attention on either
side of Max, they stared at their leader as if awaiting orders.
A hint of a smile
once again crossed the tall intruder’s face. “Bitter cold and snowing tonight.
Mind if we light a fire in your beautiful fireplace? Make the room cozy, yes?”
Max didn’t answer.
The heavyset man
standing to his left, wearing an old Navy peacoat, said, “Come on, we don’t
have time for fuckin’ around. Let’s get on with this shit.”
An American with a
hint of a Southern accent. Unusual here in Chicago. As he spoke, “Peacoat”
played with a roll of quarters, tossing them from one hand to the other,
sometimes grasping the roll tightly in his massive right fist.
The German held his
left hand up, palm outstretched. “Now, now. Let’s be civilized, shall we?” He
crossed his arms and nodded. “Perhaps—hmm—perhaps, we can even put the heat to
some good use. Very good use. Verstehen?”
A pile of dry
kindling was stacked in the fireplace.
The man on Max’s
right, wearing a worn sheepskin bomber jacket, moved to the fireplace and
nodded as well. “Yeah, Ich
verstehen.” No southern accent, but
not a German speaker, either. “I’ll need some newspaper to light the fire. Or
something.”
The leader glanced at
Max. “Our good friend won’t mind if we take a few of his old Jew books to use.
That’s what they were made for, don’t you think?” Without waiting for a
response, he continued, “Remember those good old days when the Führer burned
all the Jew books, old man?” The tall
stranger’s voice deepened, the tone no longer benevolent.
“Sheepskin” snatched
several of the oldest books with
Hebrew on the covers and
ripped them into chunks, tossing the pieces onto the fireplace with the tinder
and the wood. Although he couldn’t make out the titles, Max had placed each
book in its slot so often he knew exactly the ones chosen. One was a siddur, a
prayer book considered holy to Orthodox Jews. If such a sacred book
accidentally fell to the floor during a religious service, the owner would
instantly retrieve it, treating it as gently as one would an injured child, and
plant a kiss on the cover. Tears filled Max’s eyes.
Soon, they had a
blazing fire. The leader nodded to his henchmen. “Bring him closer. Careful not
to mark this beautiful floor.”
With Max still bound
securely, Peacoat and Sheepskin dragged the chair across the waxed parquet
floor, only stopping when the well-spoken German motioned for them to do so.
Now Max was so close to the fireplace his bare feet began to feel uncomfortably
warm, although he didn’t yet feel any pain.
The German stared
hard into Max’s eyes. “You know what we want. So, tell me where the box is.
Hmm? Then, we go. We know all about you. You’ve hidden long enough, old man.
Too long.”
Max shook his head.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
His aching head began
to clear. He kept the rest of his words inside himself. He wasn’t crazy.
Something had been going on around him in recent weeks. My God, after all these
years. How? How’d they find him?
Max tried to lift his
right arm, but was only able to raise his index finger. Pointing it as best he
could. “Get out of my home! Now!”
He felt like
screaming for help, but knew no one could possibly hear him. The closest house
was perhaps fifty yards away, and the windows would be shut during the freezing
weather. His house was modest—one of the least expensive on the block—but it
occupied a quarter-acre corner lot,
carefully landscaped with Northern Accents rose bushes as well as tall red oaks
and American elm trees.
He tried to study the
men, so he could describe them to the police, but they had handled him roughly
when they’d forced him out of bed, and he had difficulty focusing. His heart
was pounding. Did that mean the drugged feeling from the sleeping pill was
wearing off, or was he becoming
even more frightened?
The German simply
stood there, allowing Max’s helplessness to sink in. “Oh, you’ll tell me
whatever I want to know. Perhaps time has caused you to forget the methods we
can use on you Jew bastards? You’ve forgotten the camps?”
Heaven forbid, the
camps. That was going back over fifty years. Before these evil men were even
born. What could they know about the camps? Only stories they’d read. Max
knew—really knew. And, sometimes in the dark, alone at night, his flesh bathed
in a cold sweat, he only wished he could forget.
In the next instant,
it came to him. His dog, Winston. That was what had happened to his sweet
little friend.
“You, you rotten,
filthy Nazis. You killed my beautiful little Winnie.”
Now, for the first
time, Max began to sob. He became even more short of breath as his chest
tightened, and he began to wheeze. Prayers came automatically to his mind. Please, dear God, no time for my emphysema to act up. I’m
choking.
He tried to take in
deeper breaths, but it didn’t seem to help. If only he had the inhaler with
him. But that was still atop his bedside table.
Ignoring Max’s
comment and grief, Peacoat lit a Camel,
flicking the old-fashioned kitchen match with his thumbnail near his prisoner’s
face. The sulfur smell caused Max to cough, and the tightness in his chest
increased. The room began to spin as his breathing became ever more labored.
“Go in the kitchen,” the German said. “Get a
dish for those ashes, so you don’t leave a mess. No cigarette butts left
behind. Verstehen?”
The leader had just confirmed
what Max already suspected, since the men wore neither masks nor disguises.
When they left, there would be no evidence of their crimes. Alive, Max would be
evidence.
Resigned to his fate,
Max turned his thoughts to his nephew, Bruce. If Bruce were half as smart as
Max knew him to be, he’d find what Max had left for him.
Max silently thanked
God he’d been suspicious. And that he’d carefully shredded his notes after
finishing the detailed review of exactly what had happened to him so long ago.
He had never spoken of it, even to his closest friends or family. But when he
finished the journal, he’d hidden the document and left a clue for Bruce,
should Max’s worst fears be somehow realized.
The German put his
hands on Max’s shoulders and shook him, almost gently. “You haven’t answered.
Where’s our box?”
Shortness of breath
made speaking nearly impossible “Why … why are you here? Take what you want …
leave. I just sell … a few old books.”
Peacoat laughed.
“Look who’s asking questions now.” He turned toward the leader. “Better let
this Jew vermin know who’s running the show. Before you know it, he’ll be
ordering us around. And you’ll probably click your heels and say, ‘Yes, sir,
your honor!’ That’s what guys like you are trained to do.”
The leader ignored
Peacoat and tapped his right index finger on Max’s head. “Pay attention. I’m
running out of patience, and, as you see, my friends here are not as pleasant
as I. I must have that box and its contents. Then we’ll leave, and you can get
on with your miserable life. You mean nothing, the box everything.”
At that second, the
fire crackled and flared, and Max felt a burning sensation in his feet. He did
his best to pull them back. His eyes closed for an instant, and he silently
prayed. Please, dear God,
let me be strong. This may be the last favor I ask.
Max leaned forward as
if to whisper something. The German leaned in toward him.
Max spat into his
interrogator’s face.
The German
straightened, snatched a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and without uttering
a sound, carefully wiped the sputum from his cheek. At almost the same moment,
with the rolled coins clutched in his right fist, Peacoat punched Max on the
left side of the head, knocking him and the chair onto the floor. Max let
himself go limp. The pain in his head was excruciating, but he didn’t cry out.
“Pick him up and cut
out that kind of thing!” the tall German shouted. “Leave that to me. You’ll
kill the old Jew before we get him to tell us what we need to know.”
As the two men lifted
the chair along with the apparently semiconscious Max, the German carefully
removed three fluid-filled syringes from the side pocket of his cashmere
topcoat and laid them on a little table. Max began to groan. The German
strolled to a nearby armchair, removed his coat, and folded it over the chair
back. He dragged the chair close to Max, who was thinking desperately, trying
to dream up some way out of this. Through half-open eyes, Max watched the
German sit down and cross his legs.
After a moment, Max
slowly opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He shook his head, acting as if
he were still trying to clear his mind. His whole body throbbing, he needed a few minutes to figure out if he had any options.
From previous experience though, he knew these types wanted people to grovel,
to be frightened out of their wits.
Max took a deep
breath, sucking in as much air as possible. “Please, don’t hit me again,” he
whispered. “I’ll tell you.”
“Speak up,” the
German urged.
“Those papers. Burned
’em. In the woods. Didn’t … didn’t make any sense to me. That’s the truth.” Max
looked the interrogator in the eyes without blinking. “They important?”
The German nodded.
“Sure. And the silver box? What did you do with that?”
“Box? Oh, the box.”
“You know exactly
what I mean. You made it. Called yourself a silversmith back then. Where is
it?”
Max didn’t hesitate.
“Melted … melted it down. Sold the silver.”
Peacoat stepped up to
Max and waved his clenched fist, the roll of coins still in it. “You’re a
filthy, fucking liar.” He turned toward the leader. “You going to let this
piece of shit get away with this nonsense? Look! Let me at him. Leave the room,
if you need to. Just give me ten minutes. Probably won’t take that long.”
“Patience, patience.”
The German waved his hand. “Now, do me a favor. Take a deep breath and sit
down.” Then the German whispered just loudly enough for Max to hear, “We do
only what we have to in order to get what we need. Yah? After all, we are not
animals. So.”
Peacoat stared hard
at his leader, shook his head, and frowned. “Talk. Talk and experiment! That’s
what you’re best at. The way you’re going at it, we’ll be here all fuckin’
night. My way will be lots faster. You’re too damned smart. And you know what?
That makes you too damned soft.”
“And you never learn
how to follow orders. So, shut up and maybe we’ll all learn something besides
how strong you are and how brave when your victim is an old man, tied up and
helpless, hmm?”
The German picked up
one of the syringes. “So. Let us begin.”
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