The Jerusalem Inception - By Avraham Azrieli Page 0,2
weariness. “Buy me American stocks—manufacturing, food, oil, chemicals.”
“As you wish.” The banker opened the ledger on the last page and scribbled at the bottom: Deposit of above-listed goods is acknowledged this day, 1.1.1945 by the Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich. Signed: Armande Hoffgeitz, President. “We can’t just dump huge quantities of stones on the market—prices will collapse.”
“Take your time.” Klaus took the ledger and handed it to Tanya, who slipped it under her shirt, where it rested against her chest.
Armande asked, “When will I hear from you?”
“I will contact you from Argentina when it’s safe.” Klaus rolled down the window. “Felix!”
His driver hurried across the road.
“Tell your cousin to show Günter how to drive that monster.” He pointed at the truck. “I don’t want him to lose control on the way downhill.”
“Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer!” Felix ran to the truck.
“What about him?” Armande put the papers back in a briefcase. “Will you take Felix to Argentina?”
“I offered. He’s loyal and obedient, but no longer valiant. He wants to go with his cousin back to Bavaria, till the fields, milk the cows. Fools’ dreams.”
Armande Hoffgeitz’s assistant climbed into the cabin of the truck. The engine roared, and the truck proceeded through the gate into Switzerland.
They got out of the Rolls Royce. It felt even colder than before. The banker rubbed his hands. “A U-Boat ride across the Atlantic is risky. Why don’t you come with me to Zurich?”
“It’s too close to Germany,” Klaus said. “I must be far away when the Reich surrenders. The Allies will hunt us down, put up show trials, and march us one by one to the gallows.”
Tanya clutched his arm.
“Good luck, my friend.” Armande Hoffgeitz got behind the wheel.
“Auf Wiedersehen.”
The Rolls Royce slid backward across the border, and Klaus led Tanya to the Mercedes.
Felix held the door open. His cousin stood at attention.
“Excellent driving,” Klaus said. “You’ll be rewarded.”
They saluted. “Danke, Herr Obergruppenführer!”
He helped Tanya into the car and was about to follow, but paused. “What was that?”
The two soldiers looked around, uncertain.
“I heard something!” He drew his service Mauser.
Felix and Karl cocked their submachine guns and followed him around the hood of the car. The night was quiet, the moon exposed by the thin clouds. He stayed back as the two soldiers advanced toward the trees, their boots sinking into the snow, their weapons ready.
He raised his arm, aimed, and pressed the trigger once. The shot caused a flock of birds to scramble off a nearby tree. Felix turned to his cousin, who collapsed, blood trickling from a hole in the back of his head. The Mauser shifted, aligning with Felix’s head, silhouetted against the snow-weighted branches. The next bullet entered Felix’s temple and exited on the other side. The driver’s knees folded under him and he knelt down, blood oozing down both sides of his face. His mouth gaped as if attempting to speak, and he fell forward in the snow.
Klaus got behind the wheel and shut the door. “I’m sorry you had to see this,” he said. “But they knew too much.”
Tanya didn’t answer. She forced her mind to recall the photos he had shown her of the ranch in Argentina, the rolling hills and lush pasture, the sturdy cattle and proud horses. She imagined the sound of chirpy children.
Elie Weiss crouched in the snow by the roadside. The wool coat, stripped from a corpse a month earlier, was too big. The gloves were tattered, the knuckles bare. Another hour of exposure could cost him a finger, or worse.
“We’re too late,” Abraham Gerster said, clapping his hands to keep the circulation going. “We missed them. Let’s go back to the village, steal some food.”
“Not yet. They might come back this way.”
Abraham obeyed without argument. Elie was barely two years older, but they had known each other since childhood, when such age differences fix seniority in concrete. But Elie envied Abraham’s vitality, his youthful energy, the strength he hadn’t lost despite the harsh weather, constant hunger, and bursts of violence. At eighteen, Abraham was still running at full speed, four years after they had escaped the German slaughter of their shtetl. They had learned to survive in the thick forests, stealing food when possible and killing Germans at every opportunity. But as the war dragged on, hiding became harder, and the dwindling German units had little food left to steal.
“Maybe they took another route,” Abraham said.
“I heard them clearly.” Elie had eavesdropped on two German soldiers smoking outside the inn at the village. They were cousins,