Judged by Their Deeds

By Ian Coubrough

Famed psychic detective and author, Akira Johansen, is scheduled to go on a book tour to promote her new bestseller when she receives a call from a man who implores her to help search for his missing father, a Holocaust survivor.  

         Akira has always felt a personal connection to Holocaust survivors and feels compelled to honor the request.  Even from far away in California, she feels certain the elderly man is alive and is convinced she must travel to St. Augustine, Florida to assist police in finding him.  

         Working with an inexperienced detective on the police force and using her clairvoyant abilities, Akira soon discovers the missing man has been kidnapped.   Although the police sergeant in charge of the investigation dismisses her as a charlatan, she uncovers one clue after another. Her persistence and her intuitive skills   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Coubrough
• Release date: Mar 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393240266

Book preview

I’d like to thank my wife Debbi for her support and advice throughout this endeavor. To Carolyn Lang and Mike Coffee for their thoughts, suggestions, and reflections on this story. A big shout-out to members of my writing group: Carolyn, Doris, Joan, Lori, and Mia, for their encouragement and suggestions.

Thanks to the St. Johns County Sheriff’s Office for providing technical assistance regarding police procedures and allowing me to participate in an exciting ride-along with deputies.

Copyright © 2020 Ian Coubrough All rights reserved.

ISBN-9781082082450

Artwork designed by Hassan Javed

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue and all characters, with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. In all other respects, and resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

"A man is judged by his deeds

not by his words."

A Russian Proverb

PROLOGUE

04.25.45

Mauthausen Concentration Camp

Strap him to the table, the young intern barked.

Two men who escorted the prisoner into the room sprang into action. As the gangly attendant forced the sixteen-year-old onto the old, bloodstained wooden table, the other attendant fastened leather straps to the young man’s ankles and waist to prevent his escape.

The intern––who was not much older than his subject––stood back waiting impatiently arms folded––as the attendants secured the boy.

Send me back to the camp quarry, the prisoner shouted through a spray of saliva. He fought to take a breath while groping at the restraints. Let me go. I’d rather die at the quarry than in here.

The rail-thin intern narrowed his small, hooded eyes. You will do as you’re told, he said as he snapped his fingers at the attendants. The two men finished strapping the boy down, then stood back.

The senior doctor, Albert Heim, wearing a suit under his lab coat, entered the room. He glared at the prisoner for a moment, then yanked the boy’s lips open to inspect his teeth. Where is this one from? he asked.

The Salzburg region, the intern said. The quarry master said he is young and strong, and will suit our experiments.

Good. His teeth and jaw are in excellent condition. I may have use for his skull after you’ve finished your tests, the doctor spoke as if he was talking about a lab rat. Let me know when you’re done.

Of course, Dr. Heim. The intern flashed a gap-tooth smile––an image the boy on the table would never forget. The doctor nodded to the intern and they exited the room.

One of the attendants leaned in close to the young man. Resistance will only make things worse for you. If you survive the tests today, the doctor may allow you to return to the quarry, but you must be cooperative.

The boy gritted his teeth and struggled against the straps. Go to hell, he shouted. How can you work with these people? You’re a Jew, like me. Have you lost your soul?

What do you know about me? I am also an experienced doctor and have access to medicine that will help reduce the pain you will soon feel. This is my way of helping to alleviate the suffering. He wiped saliva off the boy’s mouth. Stay calm.

The boy’s lip drew back in a snarl. Don’t touch me. You pretend you’re not as bad as them, but you’ll pay for what you’re doing. The boy took a few short breaths. Kapos are no better than Nazis.

The attendant grimaced. Do you think I want to be here doing this kind of work?

The intern reentered the room and switched on a bright light over the operating table. Prepare the solution. We must begin immediately; I have six other prisoners waiting.

The attendant left the room and returned holding a tall glass jar filled with a yellow-colored liquid. He placed the jar on the counter next to the table where the boy lay. He opened a drawer in a wall cabinet and removed a shiny scalpel. Without hesitation, he sliced a narrow opening in the boy’s outer calf, cutting at least ten inches, from below the knee to his ankle.

The boy’s face contorted into a hideous mask of anger and fear. His eyes bulged; hands tightened into fists as he banged his head back on the table. Blood gushed from the laceration. The intern signaled for a rag, soaked it in the yellow solution and placed it over the boy’s bloodied leg.

As the cloth touched his skin, the boy gasped and convulsed as if taking his last breath. His body lurched against the straps and collapsed onto the table, eyes rolling back in his head. He blacked-out after several seconds of uncontrollable shaking and sobbing.

One of the attendants asked the intern if they should return the young man to his bunk.

No, I will use the sulfonamides on the other leg in a few minutes. Stitch up the wound and prepare the solution. Call me when it’s done, he must be conscious for the next procedure.

Before the intern returned to complete the tests, he received an urgent message to report to Doctor Heim in his office without delay. He hesitated, wondering if he’d made an error of judgement or done something objectionable. He’d heard stories of the doctor’s cruel treatment of staff members who made the slightest mistakes in the clinic. The confused intern knew he was one of the doctor’s most promising students. Doctor Heim had even said so in as many words. Just yesterday, he told his new assistant that he had performed exceedingly well these past few weeks. Still, he knew of others who had been transferred out of the clinic for nothing more than an innocent remark.

The intern entered Doctor Heim’s office and sat in a chair, while the doctor finished a telephone call. After Heim rested the phone on its cradle, he looked up at his protégé with a hawk-like gaze. Young man, he said. I have just received this letter from Berlin. It was posted several weeks ago and finally arrived. Your work has received the attention of the Führer.

The intern’s eyes grew wide as he swallowed. Herr Doctor, I . . . I

Doctor Heim grinned and held up a reassuring hand. You’re not in trouble. Nothing to worry about, I assure you. In fact, you have done exceptionally well and deserve this recognition. Our work here has enabled doctors on the front lines to treat soldiers suffering from gas gangrene and hypothermia. The doctor handed the intern the letter.

The young man studied the document and the small gift enclosed, as tears welled in his eyes. Thank you, Herr Doctor, but you are the one who should receive all the praise. I am nothing more than a vessel. Without your knowledge and extensive experience––

Take the compliment you’ve received with pride. You’ve certainly earned it.

I shall treasure it for the rest of my life.

I have other news to tell you. I know you’ve heard talk of the impending invasion. The Allies are at our doorstep, quickly approaching the Austrian border. I have been informed that it is time for us to make plans before the enemy is upon us. I am leaving the camp tonight as darkness falls and I suggest you do the same.

Leave? But what about––

Our work here has come to an end. We must accept it and avoid being captured. I am traveling to Zermatt in the Swiss Alps. I have a grand chalet there, isolated from the local villages where I will remain until it is safe to travel. My family has already arrived at the cabin.

The intern blinked as he tried to comprehend the doctor’s meaning. But, what about the prisoners we’ve been testing?

They will be taken to the gas chambers and eliminated before the camp is taken. We do not need witnesses left behind. You must make a plan to leave before the Americans arrive. When things settle down, I will return to Germany and resume my medical practice. You are a good man with a bright future in medicine. Perhaps you can work for me if the opportunity arises. But for now, you must leave and stay out of sight as long as you can. The enemy will spare no mercy on you if you’re captured.

The intern saluted and walked out of the office a bit shaken.

09.18.69

Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, New York

It had been twenty-three years since Albert Kleiner left the Mauthausen death camp. He never forgot the American soldiers who set him free when they liberated the camp. Albert’s parents had died in the camp and as he wandered about grieving his loss, he decided to find passage to America.

Soon after arriving at the port on the Hudson River, he followed other survivors who settled in a Jewish community in Brooklyn. Although Albert had no one there to welcome him, he decided to make his home in Brighton Beach. Within a few years, he met and married, Alona Cohn, a beautiful woman who had survived the brutality of the Dachau concentration camp. Alona had suffered at the hands of the Nazis and the long-term consequences that treatment led to included various medical ailments, chronic depression, and anxiety. Alona gave birth to a healthy son, but she did not survive long enough to see or hold her newborn.

Albert assumed the role of mother and father to his son. He named the boy, Nathan, in honor of his father who perished in a gas chamber in Dachau. In the years that followed, he never spoke of the war or his imprisonment at Mauthausen. Whenever he was asked about his childhood, Albert often shared stories of his life before the war. He preferred to keep the memories of the concentration camp locked away deep inside. Nathan never inquired about his father’s childhood, so it surprised Albert when Nathan––now twelve years old––came home from school and questioned him at length about his experience.

Nathan sat on the living room carpet, notebook in hand, waiting for his father to return. He looked up as his father limped into the room, carrying a bottle of Coca-Cola. Albert settled into his favorite armchair. Now, what exactly did you want to ask me for your homework assignment?

After Nathan explained about his school report, Albert said, My time spent in the concentration camp is one thing I don’t like to talk about. Whenever I think about those days, I often get nightmares. I’d much rather tell you about my happy memories with my family before the war.

The boy sighed and scooted closer to his father.

A grin crossed Albert’s face. Your grandmother was an amazing cook. She made the best strudel in the village, but always stuffed the pastry with fresh raspberries, not apples. In season, she baked the strudel every morning and I delivered them to the neighbors who had placed orders. My reward for the day’s work was getting a whole strudel for myself.

Frustration appeared on the boy’s face. Dad, I need information about what it was like to be in a concentration camp. I can’t write about desserts or happy memories.

Nate had already heard stories about the good old days, before the war ripped through Austria. His dad repeated the stories so often Nate could almost imagine he’d grown up in Salzburg rather than Brooklyn.

I need more details, Nate said. Like a description of the camp at Mauthausen.

Albert groaned, gave a weak nod, and continued. Okay. It was an Austrian work camp, set in a quarry the Nazis called the Knochenmühle.

Nathan looked up. Nockin mule? What the heck does that mean?"

The translation means ‘bone grinder,’ and it was a good name for it. There were exactly one hundred and eighty-six ‘steps of death’ leading to the top of the quarry. Prisoners had to carry granite boulders strapped in a wooded frame on their backs, all the way to the top of the stairs. Sometimes the guards would tease us and goad us into moving more quickly, hoping to see someone slip and fall. I always prayed the man above me didn’t stumble. If he went down, he’d take all of us below him, to our deaths. When someone slipped, the Nazi guards would burst into laughter. They never thought of us as human beings or fellow countrymen, only bodies to do their grunt work. Our suffering had become their entertainment.

Why did they make you carry rocks up the steps. What was the point of that?

The camp was created for two purposes: The first, to increase the production of building materials or granite for the Fatherland, and the second, to exterminate as many Jews, gypsies, and communists as they could through such hard labor. Thousands of men died in the quarry from the harsh work and frigid cold. At the top of the steps, they made us dig large rocks out of the snow and ice. Even today, I can almost feel the cold in my hands. It’s never gone away. We worked nine-hour days in the freezing winter with no gloves or socks.

What did you do with the rocks?

We broke them into gravel. It was menial work with strict rules. Talking was not allowed, and you had to smile whenever a guard looked your way, or they would hit you with a club. If a guard didn’t like you, he could push you off the top of the quarry. Some men, unable to take the harsh conditions, gave up and jumped to their deaths. The Nazis laughed when that happened and called the men, ‘parachutists.’ Albert shook his head in disgust.

My poor friend, Jürgen, worked beside me in the quarry. One day he stopped digging for just a moment to tell a joke and stretch his back. It was his way of easing the burden of the brutal work. A guard nearby heard his voice, rushed over, and slugged him with the wooden club... Albert’s voice trailed off. He took a deep breath and covered his mouth with trembling hands. His eyes welled and his breath became labored. The force of the club sent Jürgen over the edge of the quarry and just like that, he snapped his fingers, he was gone. Albert tried to keep his voice even. We had been in school together since kindergarten. He wiped away tears.

Nathan patted his father’s hand. How could they treat people like that? He waited for his father to continue.

As I told you, they didn’t think of us as people. A few weeks later, a guard told me the head doctor was looking for strong men for a study. It gave me a glimmer of hope since I’d heard prisoners who were in the experiments, received a bit more food. I knew I needed to stay strong if I was to get out alive and find my family at the other camp. After I was selected for the experiments, I found out that most men who participated in the studies died at the hands of the doctors. You don’t need to put that in your report. It’s too gruesome to share at school. Ask me something different.

Okay, what kind of food did they give you?

None of us had very much to eat. Most of the men at the quarry received turnip soup––which was just a cup of hot water with the tiniest piece of turnip. On my first day in the clinic, they gave me a quarter of a small potato, one coin of sausage cut thin as your fingernail, and a quarter of a turnip. I thought my luck had improved until I met the evil doctor with the space between his teeth. I’ll never forget him. Albert stared in space, as if lost in thought.

Dad?

One day, I’ll write all this down before I forget. After we were freed by the American troops, I hunted for the head doctor’s office and found photos and papers about the experiments done there. The world needs to hear from those of us who survived. So many did not.

Nate looked into his father’s eyes. If I saw those guys today, I’d find a way to make them suffer for what they did to you. I’d kill them all.

No, Albert said, wagging a finger. Don’t talk like that. Doing such things would make you no better than the Nazis. They lost the war and I’m certain God has punished them in his own way. We must remember that it is not for man to seek revenge against another.

***

As the years passed, Albert became more involved in the Jewish community and his neighbors in Brooklyn; he even assisted in the events surrounding the annual Holocaust memorial program. By this time, he was able to separate his emotions from his experience in the concentration camp. He looked at his time there more objectively and was able to help others who could not exorcise the demons of their past.

After graduating from high school, Nate joined the army and served in several tours overseas. When he returned to civilian life, his father noted a distinct difference in his son’s attitude and perceptions. Nate slept most days and only ventured out in the evenings. He suffered intense migraines daily, and gut-wrenching nightmares from the war. Psychological counseling didn’t seem to help his PTSD symptoms. Things changed for the better when Nate saw an article in the paper about a billionaire named, Joshua Wainwright. The philanthropist had created an organization dedicated to finding artworks stolen by the Nazis during the war. Wainwright insisted on using his resources to find treasured paintings and return them to the original owners who’d lost them to the Nazis.

Perhaps someone will find Papa’s sunflower painting, Albert said. I hope the Nazis didn’t destroy it.

What was so important about it? Nate asked, looking up from the paper.

It was the last painting the artist did before getting sent to the concentration camp. By that time, his work had become quite valuable. Scholars have said that painting, if found today, might be worth over $1,000,000.

Nate thought about what his father said and immediately looked up Joshua Wainwright’s contact information. Within the week, Nate had applied for the job and soon received a phone call from Wainwright offering him a position. A week later, he travelled on a mission to Sicily. Nate was beside himself with new found energy.

CHAPTER 1

08.20.93

After clearing customs in Catania, Sicily, Nate headed out to wait in the terminal for his partner, art historian, Richard Tyre. Nate checked his watch: 2:32 p.m. He and Richard had flown in from the States––Nate from Brooklyn and Richard from Los Angeles––with the intent of meeting in the airport. Nate waited in a café directly across from the frosted-glass windows of the customs area, at a convenient table to spot his new partner.

He ordered coffee and a pastry before settling into a chair that faced the busy arrival area. His blue eyes widened as the aroma from the double espresso engulfed his nostrils. He exhaled then downed the coffee and watched the frantic parade of people bustle through the terminal.

When Nate noticed a cobalt blue suitcase with a red ribbon, he sprang from his seat. Although he hadn’t met Richard in person, they spoke several times on the phone. In addition to the description of the suitcase, Richard had told him to look for a gray-haired American in his sixties lugging his bag.

Dr. Tyre? Nate asked, approaching the man with the distinctive luggage.

Call me Richard, the stately gentleman said with a relieved breath. I hope you haven’t waited too long. I got delayed in Rome. At five-eight, Richard stood a couple inches shorter than Nate, and a few pounds heavier. He looked like a typical academic––wearing a bowtie and thick silver-rimmed glasses. A gray V-neck sweater matched his short-cropped gray hair, giving him a distinguished professorial look.

No problem. Nate flashed a smile. I got stuck in Rome too. It’s been an interesting trip already. Didn’t realize how busy this small airport would be.

Very nice to finally meet you in person. Richard shook Nate’s firm hand and looked him over. I thought you said you were in your late thirties?

Yeah, I’m thirty-eight.

Well, you look younger and I’m glad to have you on my team. Joshua Wainwright seemed impressed with you.

Really? What’d he say?

Well, he told me about your former military experience, your time in the desert. Said your father was a concentration camp survivor, and something about this search being personal to you.

Jesus, I guess he really was listening. This job is so different from my work in MI.

Richard raised his brow. MI?

Military Intelligence. Spent a year in Monterey at the Defense Language Institute learning Russian, then months on end at a desk doing things I can’t ever talk about.

Richard lowered his voice. Did you pack a weapon?

Yeah, my trusty .38. I was kind of surprised Wainwright insisted on it.

It’s just a precaution. I’ve been on several teams and we’ve never resorted to using a weapon, but this location is different. We have priceless art hidden under the noses of the unsuspecting Mafia. Our expedition promises to be an interesting one, if nothing else. I’ve barely slept the last couple days from the excitement. It’s been a while since serving on a team, and I haven’t been to Sicily in over ten years.

Nate commandeered his partner’s suitcase and placed it next to Richard’s seat at the table. Can I get you something from the bar? Nate asked.

I’ll get it myself if you watch my luggage. It’ll give me a chance to practice my Italian.

Deal, Nate said. Hey, have you heard from our driver?

Richard’s brow creased. "Yes, I finally got a hold of Mario after picking up my luggage. I forgot you have to use gettone here in the public phones. Fortunately, one of the customs agents felt sorry for me and gave me the coin."

Gettone? What the hell––

I’ll show you one when we go to the tobacco shop. I think that’s the only place to buy them. Public phones are a godsend here since most people don’t have telephones in their homes. But you need a gettone to call on a public phone.

Richard smiled and took a large brown catalogue out of his suitcase. Here, take a look at this while I order. I think you’ll find it interesting. It’s a listing of the major artwork the Nazis stole during the war. Hey, is that croissant good?"

This? Nate held up his pastry and nodded. Yeah, it’s fresh, warm, and delicious. They call it a corn something.

Richard nodded. Cornetto. He approached the bar and returned minutes later with a croissant and a cappuccino. Mario said he’d be here in ten minutes, which probably means thirty or more minutes, Italian time. He sipped his coffee as his partner flipped through the art catalogue.

Jesus, Nate said, looking up. I didn’t realize the Nazis stole that much. It says they took 650,000 pieces of artwork. Can that be right? Gotta be worth billions of dollars.

Richard took a long sip and wiped the milk foam from his lips. He squinted through his glasses. It’s definitely an educated guess, he said. They stole over 100,000 pieces from the French Jews alone. This catalogue shows the most valued items of those still missing.

That’s a lot to track down. Nate looked away for a moment, thinking about the challenge ahead. His hand raked through his curly brown hair. "I