The Holocaust Diaries: Book I: Souls of the Just

By Leo V. Kanawada Jr.

Book One

SOULS OF THE JUST

The Holocaust in Rome, Italy, during World War II





In his Map Room in the bowels of the basement of the White House, President Roosevelt meets surreptitiously in the early days of 1942 with a coterie of his close friends and associates, both Christians and Jews. All are intent on formulating and launching a comprehensive series of actions to save and rescue and preserve the Jews in Europe.

Dubbed "The WEJ", they sit dumbfounded as smuggled report after report from inside Nazi-controlled Europe is placed in front of them. Each report details the horrors being inflicted upon European Jewry by Adolf Hitlers minions. The members marvel at the heroic escapades of an anti-Nazi Berlin businessman who risks his life on numerous occasions to bring these reports to neutral Switzerland.

To authenticate these reports, Roosevelt enlarges the WEJ throughout Europe and initiates contacts with anti-German government leaders, with members of the Jewish underground, and particularly with Pope Pius XII and the Vatican.

It's not until Roosevelt sends America's first ambassador to the Holy See that he learns of how Pius and the Vatican are thoroughly involved and committed to saving the Jews in Rome itself and in Italy, and how Pius agrees with Roosevelt and the WEJ to continue throughout the war and throughout all of Europe to not sit idly by while their brothers in the Jewish faith are in danger.

Before and after the SS is ordered into Rome by Hitler in October of 1943 to round up the Jews, Pius and the Italian government and Roosevelt and the WEJ collaborate and secretly conspire, along with the German ambassador, to shelter the Jews and save them from complete and utter annihilation.





Leo V. Kanawada, Jr.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452057064

Leo V. Kanawada Jr.

Dr. Leo V. Kanawada, Jr. was born in 1941 in Flushing, Long Island, New York, and educated at Bucknell University, where he received his Bachelor of Science Degree in Secondary Education. His Master of Arts Degree in American History was awarded by The Maxwell School at Syracuse University, and his Ph.D. in History by St. John’s University, Jamaica, New York.

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

PART TWO

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

FEBRUARY 22, 1992

WASHINGTON, D.C.

No. Not on your life. That ain’t so. Wasn’t the way it was at all. Believe me. He snapped down the latches on his accordian case and, with the side of his foot, shoved it back up against the side of his desk.

I kept telling myself to be careful, to watch what I said. After all, he was eighty-nine years old. And, as he was fond of reminding me – at least once a day for the past month or so – Remember, I’m in the obituary stage of my life, for Christsake.

I visited him daily, usually from one to five in the afternoon, between lunch and his martini time.

Actually, it was only recently, just after New Years, that he finally had given in to me and invited me to his home. I had pestered him unmercifully during the fall months with my weekly phone calls. Eventually, just before Christmas, he came to the conclusion that I was a serious student of the Holocaust, serious about my work and, indeed, had thoroughly done my homework.

For the past twenty years or so, ever since his wife had died, he devoted his life, his remaining years, to what we called The Truth – with capital T’s – that he bellowed unashamedly whenever I baited him or played Devil’s Advocate.

I had worked on the Holocaust for the past six years, indefatigably, my wife sighed to our friends. I read and devoured everything – autobiographies and biographies, memoirs, government documents and archival papers, book after book, new release after new release, periodical after periodical. I spent hours and days at every library and government repository along the east coast of the United States, from Boston to Charlottesville. I, too, wanted to tell – The Truth.

After my wife died in the ‘70s, he confessed to me one day, I embarked on a cause similar to yours. The books, the libraries, the research, the interviews. You name it. I did it all.

That you did – yes. But – but, you did more, you traveled more and you invested more than anyone before or since, and you obtained items that no one will ever be able to obtain or to touch again.

I nodded in their direction. Those diaries.

It was my wife who encouraged me all along the way, he growled. "She loved Franklin, as I did, and knew how I felt and how I seethed inside, how I fumed, during all of those years.

"Ever since the day the Boss died and I left government service, the attacks materialized. They came along swiftly and pointedly. Not only were the bastards intent on defaming him and his administration and his people who put their lives on the line for him and for the Jews – those persons who were his eyes and ears both here at home and throughout Europe – but they were also committed to bashing Pius and the Vatican.

"They harped on the Pontiff’s silence and on Roosevelt’s ‘do-nothing’ attitude. You’ve seen it and read about it all. You know what I’m talking about.

Stuff like – like – ‘The Deputy’ in the ‘60s, Vatican secrecy concerning the Holocaust, Roosevelt’s ‘blind-eye’ toward Palestine as a Jewish Homeland, his aversion to bombing the rail lines and the camps, his failure to bomb Auschwitz, and his administration’s anti-Semitic leanings when it came to Jewish immigration and the Saint Louis and to relief and ransom and rescue schemes, his refusal to negotiate with the Reich, his blatant inaction toward the plight of European Jewry even though he knew about the concentration camps and the extermination of the Jews in Poland and elsewhere.

No stopping him. He was wound up. I said, You don’t have to convince me. I’m on your side. Remember? I want to tell this story as much as you do.

Nevertheless, he kept up his harangue.

"They said the Holocaust was an aberration, it never took place. What bullshit! That Hitler and the SS and the Gestapo were not at fault. Jewish community leaders turned in their own people. They cared for nothing but saving their own skin. It was their fault. What a load of crap! That Catholics and Christians did the same, locked their doors and their churches, turned a ‘blind-eye’, a ‘deaf ear’, and ostracized the Christ killers. Pius was Hitler’s pope, the Fuhrer had Pius in his back pocket, got him to choose silence and acquiescence rather than countering the Reich and opposing his actions.

Can you imagine? I’m sick of all this – this –. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the hassock.

Along with all that he had written over the past decades, these personal and very private and very precious diaries of some of the most prominent dignitaries in Europe – those who had lived during the war and during the time of the Holocaust – they now rested just a few feet away from us on a large, wooden rectangular table.

The table took up most of the space in the over-sized, walk-in closet, which he had converted to a semi-secure vault just off of his study. Only he had the key, and only he had the knowledge of what he had collected and acquired from those who witnessed the Holocaust firsthand, up close and personal.

He would often say that I was too young to drink or appreciate martinis. It didn’t matter to him that I was approaching my fiftieth birthday. It was his excuse for nudging me out of his home each day around five o’clock. And it was on this last Friday in February that I left him for the very last time, never to see or to speak with him again.

On Monday afternoon, as I turned the corner and drove down toward his home, right on time for our usual tete-a-tete, I was taken aback by the bizarre number of cars that lined both sides of the street. Some were even double-parked, which was a big no-no in Georgetown.

I usually pulled into his driveway and parked in the rear of the house. Today, however, that proved to be an utter impossibility.

I whipped around the corner and squeezed into the tightest of parking places. I grabbed my coat and briefcase and jogged back to the house. I didn’t have to rush into the opened front door in order to figure out what had transpired. The presence of the coroner’s people and the medical examiner’s staff said it all.

He seemed fine on Friday, I said to Hatty, his part-time nurse and housekeeper. She concurred. Even over the weekend, he was chipper, she said, his normal old, crotchety self. But this morning when she arrived, that was another story.

A massive heart attack, she sobbed. He was clutching his chest and holding the key to his closet tightly in the fist of his right hand. He always wore the key on a chain around his neck.

"Before he passed, he yanked me toward him, frightened me, and placed his mouth up against my ear. He growled that he wanted you to have this key – his key. He said, ‘Make it happen. The key and all that’s in that closet. It all goes to the kid. You get that?’ he gasped. The saliva from his mouth covered my ear and dribbled down my neck.

‘Write that down,’ he yelled, ‘on any piece of paper – any kind – now. I want to sign it before I – before – hurry – hurry up,’ he said. ‘Do it now! Now!’"

She gave me the key and the sheet of paper.

Hatty said, I showed it to the police. They put it in their report. They know that it’s now all yours. You’re legally entitled, they said.

I thanked Hatty and asked the police if they had any objection if I just sat in his study for a brief moment. They had no problem with that.

All is finished here, anyway, one of them said.

Several days later, after the funeral and after all of the media accolades and the glowing obituaries in the press, I returned to the house.

I entered the study and opened the closet door. It was all there, all that he and I knew to be The Truth. His writings and all of those revelations emblazoned in all of those diaries.

With a modicum of reverence and excitability, I bent down and leaned my briefcase up against his accordian case and then pulled up a chair.

PART ONE

IN SWITZERLAND

... from the Diary of Henry Morgenthau, Jr., President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Secretary of the Treasury and member of the WEJ

1

EARLY 1943

LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND

The cable car ride down the mountain always seemed faster and more hazardous to his stomach than the ride up. This ride was no different. The view, however, from the grey, stone observation chalet at the summit of Mt. Pilatus – he rationalized – was nevertheless worth every moment and every franc.

As he descended to the midway point and arrived at his favorite gourmet restaurant overlooking Lucerne, he concluded that each and every majestic, snow-capped mountain appeared just as awesome as they did as when he partook in his numerous hiking and skiing sojourns during the winter months. He cherished these peaceful weekends here in God’s Heaven, isolated from the telegrams and the cables and the phone calls that transmitted the horrors of war-torn Europe to his office in Geneva.

At the midway point, the cable car came to its typically abrupt halt. Gerhart Riegner exited quickly. He walked directly to the bar for a drink before dinner. His favorite seat – the one that provided a panoramic view of the city of Lucerne and most of the lake – was taken by a highly-inebriated German who was babbling incessantly in the face of a bored, yet tolerant, Swiss miss.

Riegner sat down next to the young woman.

Guten Abend, Doktor, said one of the two bartenders.

Good evening to you, too, Hans, Riegner greeted his friend of more than three years.

As director and chief administrator of the Geneva offices of the World Jewish Congress during this present period of time, Riegner became acquainted with the famous and the infamous of European society, but did not enjoy them half as much as he enjoyed associating with the local, hard-working townspeople.

Your usual, Doc?

Yes, bitte.

His ability to speak, understand, and read German was not as refined as was his knowledge of French, but it was more than adequate. In fact, what he just overheard in the conversation between the German and his fraulein registered clearly in his mind – so clearly that his hand appeared frozen to his glass and unable to move to his suddenly-sealed, dry lips.

Hey, don’t you close your mouth when you eat? she scowled, brushing crumbs from her sleeve.

Only when I eat, the German smirked. He blew his nose and looked to inspect the result in his handkerchief.

You’re a pig!

Swine, my dear, are Jews. Or don’t you know any?

You couldn’t carry the bags of my Jewish friends.

She lit her own cigarette, and after taking a long, deep drag, she leaned over and blew smoke almost directly up his nose.

Bitch! His voice rose, making it easier for Riegner to hear. Maybe your Jewish friends here will soon be begging you to carry them as well as their bags just like the swine we will soon be transporting from France and Slovakia and Italy and – 

What? she gasped.

Riegner did a similar double-take, watching the reflection of the German in the mirror behind the bar. It was then that he noticed the swastika pin in the lapel of his double-breasted, blue suit – and his tie, which boasted several liquor stains.

Not – what! Swine! Jew swine! After we finish deporting them to Poland, I hope we come here next. You’ll need a strong back for all of your friends’ baggage. Actually, since you do most of your best work on your back as it is, you could be ready at a moment’s notice, couldn’t you?

Nazi bastard! She grounded out her cigarette on the back of his hand, dropped the butt into his drink, spun off the stool and, while his screams filled the room, pulled him backward and flipped him onto the floor. As she strutted out, she maneuvered her tight-fitting skirt back into its proper place.

Riegner stared at the fallen German.

Within a few seconds, a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman, also a German, helped him to his feet.

Why must you speak so? He spoke practically in a whisper, but not so soft that Riegner couldn’t hear. You not only cause yourself trouble, but you cause us trouble. There are things that the world need not hear or know just now. These things are difficult enough to accept even for the few of us Germans who do know.

He slapped him gently on his back. Now, let’s get back to the Gutsch. Ja?

Ja, Herr Eichelberger.

Eichelberger paid the German’s bill. They left the bar and queued up with about a dozen people waiting for the next cable car that would take them to the bottom of the mountain – and Lucerne.

My God in heaven! Riegner said under his breath.

He watched them as they spoke to each other. He mumbled to himself, Eichelberger? Nazis don’t look like that. The German, sure – but not Eichelberger.

Hans, my bill, bitte. Leaving more francs than necessary, he waved, Auf Wiedersehen, and got on line behind the two Germans.

Riegner was also staying at the Hotel Gutsch.

He followed Eichelberger through the low, cave-like walkways of the Hotel Gutsch. They led to the hotel’s magnificent stone-covered patio, which was situated high above the lake. It sported one of the most spectacular vistas of Lucerne and its covered bridge, the Kapellbrucke. From this side of the mountain, Riegner felt that he could almost reach out and touch it.

The sun had already set and the night air was chilly, causing Riegner to wear a heavy woolen sweater. He and Eichelberger had both ordered a cappuccino. They were also alone, seated at separate tables. But not for long.

Riegner made the first move.

Eichelberger sat with his back to Riegner. His table butted up against the three-foot-high stone fence that surrounded the patio.

Riegner moved to the table next to Eichelberger’s, taking the seat that caused their backs to practically touch each other. He put his cappuccino on one of the hand-made, lace placemats. Suddenly, before he could even utter a greeting, the hair on his arms stood erect and a chill brought goose bumps to every inch of his body.

Good evening, Doctor Riegner, Franz Eichelberger said, without turning to acknowledge the intruder who had invaded his peaceful space.

Riegner swallowed loudly and failed to form even a sound – not even a guttural, rudimentary response in reply.

I frightened you, yes? Forgive me. I do not wish to upset you. I only want you to know that I have come here to Switzerland and the Hotel Gutsch to see you. Please, do not turn around. Just listen carefully.

I’m listening, said Riegner. Eichelberger’s German accent was apparent even though he spoke softly. What’s going on? Riegner said to himself as he began to shiver somewhat. The evening chill and the sudden surprise of the moment overtook him. What does he mean that he came to see me? he wondered.

This is not the proper setting for the two of us to talk. Meet me later tonight at exactly twenty-three hundred hours in the middle of the Kapellbrucke.

Before he could answer, Eichelberger had vanished.

The shops had closed for the evening in Old Town. Some tourists still relaxed with desserts and drinks at the outdoor cafes that lined the banks of the rapidly, rushing Reuss River.

At this point, the river tumbled over the spillway as it weaved a trail from Lake Lucerne to the lower elevations. The sound from the cascading waters echoed not only from the walls of the buildings, but pervaded the emptiness of the covered walking bridge.

He was early. The bell tower had just sounded its chimes. It was 10:45 P.M.

He smelled the sweet aroma from Eichelberger’s pipe tobacco before he actually saw the figure leaning against the railing in the middle of the wooden walkway. He was looking pensively into the swirling river. Eichelberger, too, was early.

We both believe in punctuality, I see, Eichelberger said as he turned to greet his contact. He smiled at Riegner, but neither offered to shake the other’s hand. They leaned on the wooden railing, side by side, gazing into the rapids.

Riegner said nothing.

Does the smoke bother you? asked Eichelberger.

No.

Good. Would you believe me when I tell you that our glorious Fuhrer does not allow me to occupy the same room with him unless I park my pipe and tobacco in an outer room?

God, he knows Hitler, Riegner said to himself, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. Why does he want to see me? Did he follow me up Mount Pilatus? Who was his friend in the bar? Again and again, why me? One question after another crossed his mind.

You are an acquaintance, an associate, of Adolf Hitler? asked Riegner.

Yes.

But, I gather, not a friend.

That is correct.

Riegner picked some slivers of wood from the railing. He threw several into the stream. One he kept to clean under his fingernails – a nervous habit, but one that helped him to focus on his thoughts.

Herr Eichelberger –  Riegner was cut off.

Call me Franz.

Franz. Yes. Thank you. Franz, would you – Oh, by the way, my first name is Gerhart.

Yes, I know. Eichelberger turned and smiled at him.

Damnit, Franz! What the hell is going on here? Why is it so important for you to speak to me?

Eichelberger stared into Riegner’s eyes as he lit his pipe for the second time. Shall we walk and talk?

Riegner followed and listened attentively.

I know of your position, Eichelberger began, as director of the Geneva office of the World Jewish Congress. And likewise, I know of your vast network of contacts throughout Europe – and of Roosevelt’s, and of the Vatican’s, and – Well, I learned about you from my contact in London.

Oh?

"Yes. I have the luxury of being able to leave Berlin at will. And since I travel to Switzerland on business several times a month – no questions asked – you became an obvious choice.

I own and operate one of the largest munitions plants in Germany. We are located just east of Berlin on the southern bank of the River Spree. Over thirty thousand laborers work for me and, of course, for the Third Reich. In Berlin and to my friends there – my office, our headquarters, is on Kurfurstendamm Strasse –

I know the area well, interjected Riegner.

– I am a model member of the Nazi Party. To you and to the Allies, I am as repulsed by Hitler and his thugs as is Churchill himself.

They stopped near a concession stand. There were several on the bridge. Eichelberger continued.

I don’t expect you to trust me and believe all that I will tell you. You would be a fool to do so.

Correct!

Yes. So, when you wish to check my veracity and my resolve, call your contact in London. Ask him to call Ten Downing Street, using the code name ‘JUDAS’. When that operative gets on the line, you will learn of my actions over the past few years.

Okay. I understand. What next?

"You will discover from London that I have open access to Hitler’s headquarters, not only in Berlin, but also in Berchtesgaden. You will also discover from JUDAS that I have relayed through my contacts several highly significant top-secret pieces of information of military importance.

Now, however, the story of European Jewry needs to be transmitted to the Allies and the rest of the world. Suffice it to say, Gerhart, that my Jewish ancestors – those who still survive – and the fate of the entire Jewish population in Europe could depend upon the immediate and future association of you and me.

What’s going on, Franz? Riegner whispered.

"What has happened, what is happening, and what will happen is a tragedy of the first order. I have chosen you to relay my information to your contacts in England and the United States, and to all Jewish organizations, to Churchill, and – of utmost importance – to Roosevelt himself.

They must believe what I tell you. However, my fear is that my information will seem beyond belief, an absurdity, prefabrications from demented minds.

Eichelberger paused, taking a moment to watch the slow moving clouds cover the formerly bright crescent moon. Then, turning to Riegner, he asked, Shall we have a coffee?

Yes. Fine. Lead the way.

The table was on the Old Town side of the river. The spillway was just below them. Two cups of cappuccino from the small bar near their table were promptly brought over to them by an overweight, overtired waiter of the grandfather variety. Riegner made a mental note to remember to tip him over and above the amount that would be included in the bill.

Only three other persons occupied tables – a young couple, obviously lovers, and a middle-aged man, slouched in a chair near the cafe entrance, his hat tilted over his eyes, seemingly intent on sleeping there for the entire evening.

Gerhart?

Yes, Franz?

We do not have too much time left. I am happy that we met this weekend and, after you ‘check me out’ as you say, I would like to meet again next weekend. I trust you and trust that you will relay the weekly reports that I give you to the world Jewish community and Roosevelt.

Riegner nodded his approval.

Tomorrow – or is it already Sunday – tomorrow, we will drive back to Berlin.

WE? Riegner querried.

Yes. My driver, my chauffeur, he was the loud-mouth drunk who you saw thrown to the floor in the restaurant up on the mountain. He is extremely loyal to me. Has been with my family for over a decade.

He also seems loyal to Hitler and the Party line.

Yes, unfortunately. Unfortunately, too, he knows a great deal because of his close association with me. You, no doubt, were as shocked as his young lady was when he blurted out what will occur next week in Paris.

Yes. That was going to be one of my next questions.

Well, that was going to be one of the top secret pieces of information that I wanted to transmit to you this weekend.

I still don’t fully understand what will be happening in Paris next week.

"I know. What I will tell you will shock you. It will also help you, in your own mind, to make up your mind whether or not to trust me and believe me.

What I tell you will take place next week, and hopefully this piece of information – keep in mind that it is only part of an even more horrendous program that I will tell you about at a later date – hopefully, Gerhart, it will convince you to meet me here in Lucerne, or in cities nearby, on a weekly basis and be my contact to the outside world.

Go on.

Okay, Gerhart. Next week, a mass ‘roundup’ as you say will begin. A mass roundup of tens of thousands of Jews, not only in Paris, but also in Belgium, Holland, and in other areas of France.

My God! Riegner said softly under his breath.

Children will be separated from their parents. Deportation will be by train. And their final destination will be – Poland.

In the conversation that ensued, both men knew of the mass executions of Jews in Poland and Russia, particularly since the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in June of 1941. Eichelberger described the shootings by the Einsatzgruppen of hundreds of thousands of Jews.

Last week, Eichelberger reiterated, we intercepted a report from the Polish government-in-exile. It told that seven hundred thousand Jews had been massacred by German soldiers since the invasion of September, 1939. In one city, Chelmno, mobile gas vans were used. Ninety Jews at a time were stacked in a van and killed by carbon monoxide poisoning. Sometimes, one thousand Jews were killed in one day.

Riegner sat in stunned silence.

It is going to get worse, Gerhart. Worse.

Riegner still said nothing.

"Look – uh – we have spent enough time in this place. We should leave. Let’s meet next weekend, but not here in the city.

On the north side of the lake about twelve kilometers out of town, there’s a lovely, small hotel – the Hotel Schloss. It looks like a Swiss chalet. It’s on the left side of the road and a miniature castle is on the right. Meet me on Saturday at twenty-hundred hours in the indoor pool.

Fine.

Good. You leave first. Don’t worry about the check.

Okay. Until next week, then.

Yes. Until next week. Auf Wiedersehen, Gerhart.

Auf Wiedersehen, Franz.

Neither shook hands as Riegner left to make his way back through the tables. He waved good-bye to his elderly waiter. Suddenly, he stopped – his arm appearing to freeze in midair.

He noticed that the man who seemed to be sleeping in the rear of the cafe was approaching Eichelberger, who was still seated at their table. He was close enough to see the man snap to attention in front of Eichelberger, give the Nazi salute, and quietly say, Heil Hitler, Herr Eichelberger.

Without rising, Eichelberger responded with his own Heil Hitler, and motioned for his uninvited guest to be seated.

ODESSA, SOVIET UKRAINE

ON THE ODESSA WATERFRONT

When our forces and the German Wehrmacht invaded this area, known then as the Soviet Ukraine, approximately 200,000 Jews evacuated back into Russia along with the Soviets. Odessa became the only haven for the 100,000 or so who remained. Or so they thought.

As soon as the Germans flooded the city, they massacred probably in the neighborhood of eight thousand, the governor of Transnistria, Gheorghe Alexianu, reported to the dictator of Romania, Ion Antonescu. Machinegunned them, right in the streets and gutters, every last one of those Jews who – 

Jews! Jews! I’m sick of the name! Ion barked. They’re communists as far as I’m concerned. Fucking communists, every last one of them. They kiss Russian ass and shit on us. Hang them all! Haul their asses out of their houses and out of the ghettos in Odessa and hang them all!

Chuckling and smiling, Alexianu said, Just after Colonel Davidescu sent your order this morning to Fourth Army Command Headquarters in Odessa, General Trestioreanu went out and, before noon, had five thousand Jews hanged in the public squares of the city.

I would have loved to have been there, Gheorghe. I’ll give the same order again if I have to. Execute two hundred Jews for every officer killed, one hundred for every one of our soldiers. You’ve gotten the word – my orders – out to everyone? Right, Gheorghe? I don’t want any Jew left standing.

General Nicholae Macici of the Second Army Corps has informed me that about twenty-five thousand have been rounded up and packed into Odessa’s municipal jails. And General Ion Iacobici, the commander of the Fourth Army, had our troops and gendarmerie drive another nineteen or twenty thousand into a town square near the harbor.

A huge, wooden, make-shift fence donned the perimeter of the quaint, picturesque park that occupied a prime piece of real estate adjacent to the harbor entranceway. Trees and walkways and benches lined the stone embankment. Groves of trees and shrubs surrounded the open grasslands and the numerous, cement parking areas.

All throughout the afternoon hours, the last columns of Jews were hurried inside the wooden enclosure. Our soldiers and their German SS advisers, were dispersed at strategic points, supervising the operation. It was the local police that did all of the dirty work.

Some Jews were told that several ships would soon arrive to take them to Turkey and then on to Palestine. Most, however, were much more cynical. They shuffled around stonefaced, obviously bewildered and apprehensive. They knew that no ship would dare dock near this rocky side of the harbor.

One young boy stood on his father’s shoulders. Cautiously, he raised his head above the top of the wooden wall and looked out.

Only police and soldiers, Father. They have machineguns and – and –  His voice went silent for a second.

And what, son?

From the side streets around the square came trucks and trucks and more trucks.

What’s that noise, son?

Other boys and older men had crouched along the fence line. They were looking through the round cutouts that ringed the fence at measured intervals. One of them yelled to the father, Steel trucks. Oil trucks. Metal trucks with hoses.

Suddenly, the trucks stopped near the fence, and soldiers ran to the hoses that were attached to the rear of the vehicles.

They’re unwrapping the hoses, Father. And many soldiers – many with machineguns – are marching toward us.

Hurry! Get down! He grabbed his son by the arms and said sternly, Stay with me now. Don’t lose me. Do you understand? We’re going to try to squeeze our way through everyone and get to the water. Understand? Now, hurry – and don’t look back.

By this time, the machineguns were in place, their muzzles protruding through all of the cutouts in the fence wall. It only took a few seconds for the noise to become unbearable. All of the guns began clattering at the same time. No one inside had a chance. They fell like ducks in a carnival shooting gallery.

The father and son ran side by side, but not for long. They fell like the others, clutching, hugging each other in their arms, their bodies racked by a volley of steel and metal.

When the firing stopped, the dying little boy cried out, Father, father! I feel it! It’s the water! We’ve reached the water! My pants and my shirt – I’m soaked! We’re free – we’ve made it! Let’s swim to the – 

It didn’t take long for the gasoline and the oil that was being sprayed by the oil trucks to reach the stacks and piles of fallen Jews. Streams and puddles of the fuel soon appeared amid the dead and the dying.

And then, the whoosh – the loud, fiery tidal wave. As if by magic, this inferno of blistering rage appeared and rolled methodically from one end of the park to the other.

They burned for hours. All 19,000 of them. Red flames and billowing, black smoke could be seen for miles. The sun disappeared for days. The smell and the sight of burnt human flesh on charred bones sickened and repulsed even the strongest of our battle-hardened troops.

... A segment of a report transmitted to the Polish government-in-exile found in the diaries of Mihai Antonescu, Ion Antonescu’s foreign minister in Romania

2

NORTH OF LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND

He left his office early in the afternoon to avoid the Friday evening exodus out of the city.

Even to get a place on a streetcar in Geneva was nearly impossible. Long lines at practically each street corner for taxis and trams cluttered the intersections, which were already jammed with people, bicycles, and automobiles inching their way home or to mountain retreats for the weekend.

By this time of the day, Riegner was halfway around the lake, having just passed through Lausanne on his weekly sojourn to Lucerne. High cumulus storm clouds north of Lake Geneva promised the thunderstorms and the rain that were so sorely needed in the area.

During the past week, he had contacted his people in Prague and Rome, and in Amsterdam and Brussels and Paris, acquainting each of them with Eichelberger’s information and hoping that it would prove to be untrue. After all, Heil Hitler, Eichelberger could be – as he said himself – one of those demented Nazis, playing games. And, he mused, I’ve only spoken to him for a few hours. Who am I to know? And also, who was that little Nazi who approached Eichelberger in the cafe last week in Lucerne?

Riegner still had many questions rolling about in his mind as he turned north, bypassing Montreux. One question, however – for which no answer was now necessary – was whether Eichelberger had told the truth about the deportations. During the past week, Riegner and his contacts in France and in the low countries stood by helplessly and watched, in stark disbelief, as Nazi soldiers confirmed what Eichelberger had revealed.

Eichelberger was probably a legitimate anti-Nazi, Riegner told himself, but after this weekend encounter, he would definitely launch a complete and conclusive investigation.

As he sped in the outer lane of the autobahn, he wondered about what new piece of top secret information Eichelberger would divulge – would it be enough to convince him of Eichelberger’s veracity and commitment? And what was the horrendous program he alluded to – would he describe it in detail this weekend?

Come on, car, he cursed, don’t start sputtering now.

It was dusk when Riegner pulled into the parking lot at the Hotel Schloss. He would get a good night’s sleep and prepare on Saturday for his meeting with Eichelberger.

His room was quite large with two double beds and was located on the lower level next to the sauna and the indoor pool. It was perfect. He beamed. The only inconvenience was the absence of a toilet and bath, but he was told that he could find and use those facilities in the pool area. They were just outside his door and to the left.

Riegner enjoyed his Saturday afternoon, using the hotel’s paddleboat on the lake, swimming, diving from the newly-painted raft, and just plain-old-ordinary sunbathing on the grass-covered beach. Mt. Pilatus was an inspiring site from his side of the lake, but so were the mammoth mosquitos. They drove him indoors earlier than he desired.

After a leisurely dinner in the hotel’s outdoor restaurant – that was flanked by enormous wooden boxes of geraniums and was smartly enclosed and screened in – Riegner lingered over his after-dinner cappuccino, patiently waiting for his eight o’clock rendezvous by the pool.

As at their initial meeting on the Kapellbrucke, Eichelberger was early. He was floating on his back, arms outstretched, motionless, squirting streams of water between his teeth high into the air, acting like a pregnant whale. Two small children were playing with their mother at the far end of the pool when Riegner arrived.

He sat down at the opposite end, nearest the sauna and Eichelberger. Eichelberger, after recognizing Riegner, paddled his way to the side of the pool, hauled himself out, and motioned for Riegner to join him in the sauna. The sauna was unoccupied.

So how was your week? Eichelberger asked, as he turned down the heat, making the room much more tolerable.

Fine, and yet sad, as you no doubt can imagine.

Yes. I, too, suffered with every news report. Paris, Holland, Prague, Belgium. So efficient, so quick, so sick.

The silence that persisted between the two men seemed more like a six hundred-second minute.

I hesitate to ask what news you bring this week. I only wish that I were powerful enough to act on your reports. I felt so helpless this past week, Franz. So, so, helpless.

I know. I told you, Gerhart, that the news does not get better. This week is no exception. Your helplessness will just intensify.

As will Roosevelt’s and so many others.

Yes.

Riegner changed the subject for a few moments. Are you staying at this hotel?

No. I have a room at the Hermitage, a quaint old hotel on this side of the lake about five kilometers out of town. You probably passed it on the way out here. From my veranda, I have a most beautiful view of the lake, the city, and the mountains.

Sounds very pleasant, Riegner offered.