“collectibles.”
To the more whimsical first half of the book, David now added an obsessive collection of clippings on the North Avenue Nazi attack. He pasted in news stories on other suspected Storm Troop activity: a synagogue bombing on Long Island; the grisly murder of an influential rabbi doctor in Chicago. He put in condolences on Elena’s and Nick’s murder from important Jewish leaders all over the world. And selected Naziana from his ever-expanding library.
While the scrapbook helped David maintain some balance of sanity, what seemed to help more were the medical clinics he offered every weekday afternoon.
A general practitioner for the first time in his career, David suddenly found himself treating asthma, roseola, croup, enlarged prostate, insomnia, and peptic ulcers.
Most important, while he was treating one of the hotel staff, David felt useful again. Inside his office at the hotel, Dr. David Strauss could just about feel alive.
Late one afternoon while he was treating a gardener’s child for a raging case of poison ivy, the head of the FBI team dropped by at his office.
Callaghan sat on the edge of David’s examining table. He ran his finger across the bottom of young Neal Becton’s foot.
The boy started to giggle. Callaghan grinned, too, and it was the first time David had seen any sign of humor coming from the FBI agent.
“We’ve just gotten a strange report.” Callaghan tamped down on his pipe, then lit it. “The report says that Bormann may have recently entered the United States through Miami. Did your family ever have any contact with that bastard, David? In the concentration camps in Germany? Even the most remote contact?”
As he dabbed Albolene cream onto Neal Becton’s inflamed legs, David began to feel slightly whimsical, a bit light-headed. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the Westchester attack.
“Reichsführer Martin Bormann? Short, squat man? Yeah. Sure we knew him. He used to come to breakfast at our house when I was just a boy. My Grandmother Elena would serve Nova and bagels, and he’d get all sorts of pissed off.”
Just the far corner of Harry Callaghan’s mouth broke. Half a smile showed.
“The other thing,” Callaghan went on without giving David the satisfaction of a real laugh. “One of the few American Nazi-hunters has been in contact with us. Benjamin Rabinowitz? A friend of your grandmother’s.”
David nodded. He’d heard quite a bit about Rabinowitz. For years, Elena had been a contributor to Rabinowitz’s efforts, in fact. She’d contributed to Rabinowitz in America and to Michael Ben-Iban’s Centre for Jewish Studies in Europe, David knew.
“Rabinowitz has some interesting theories I’d like you to react to. The only slight catch …” Callaghan began to relight his pipe, “is we’d have to leave the hotel for a few hours tomorrow. Rabinowitz doesn’t want to be seen with you. He actually seemed somewhat paranoid. Frightened.”
David felt a chill shoot up his spine. He had an ominous feeling that maybe something was going to happen now. Maybe the Nazi-hunter would have some new and important information.
Something
revealing about the Nazi Storm Troop.
“I’d like to meet Mr. Rabinowitz very much,” he said. “Tomorrow is fine with me. I’d be glad to meet him anywhere.”
David Strauss didn’t realize it as he stood in his doctor’s office that afternoon, but his personal hunt for the neo-Nazis had just begun.
CHAPTER 20
The Sans Souci Restaurant, Washington, D.C.
The Führer and the Warrior were eating rare steaks and sipping red wine, enjoying as amiable and lighthearted a supper as was evident anywhere in the clubby, chatty Washington, D.C., dining room.
“A pleasure, as it always is here.” The Warrior sipped his burgundy, letting the fine red roll on his tongue. He then wiped his crinkly, puffed mouth.
The Führer smiled in agreement. “A very decent steak. Even at approximately twenty-five dollars a
To the more whimsical first half of the book, David now added an obsessive collection of clippings on the North Avenue Nazi attack. He pasted in news stories on other suspected Storm Troop activity: a synagogue bombing on Long Island; the grisly murder of an influential rabbi doctor in Chicago. He put in condolences on Elena’s and Nick’s murder from important Jewish leaders all over the world. And selected Naziana from his ever-expanding library.
While the scrapbook helped David maintain some balance of sanity, what seemed to help more were the medical clinics he offered every weekday afternoon.
A general practitioner for the first time in his career, David suddenly found himself treating asthma, roseola, croup, enlarged prostate, insomnia, and peptic ulcers.
Most important, while he was treating one of the hotel staff, David felt useful again. Inside his office at the hotel, Dr. David Strauss could just about feel alive.
Late one afternoon while he was treating a gardener’s child for a raging case of poison ivy, the head of the FBI team dropped by at his office.
Callaghan sat on the edge of David’s examining table. He ran his finger across the bottom of young Neal Becton’s foot.
The boy started to giggle. Callaghan grinned, too, and it was the first time David had seen any sign of humor coming from the FBI agent.
“We’ve just gotten a strange report.” Callaghan tamped down on his pipe, then lit it. “The report says that Bormann may have recently entered the United States through Miami. Did your family ever have any contact with that bastard, David? In the concentration camps in Germany? Even the most remote contact?”
As he dabbed Albolene cream onto Neal Becton’s inflamed legs, David began to feel slightly whimsical, a bit light-headed. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the Westchester attack.
“Reichsführer Martin Bormann? Short, squat man? Yeah. Sure we knew him. He used to come to breakfast at our house when I was just a boy. My Grandmother Elena would serve Nova and bagels, and he’d get all sorts of pissed off.”
Just the far corner of Harry Callaghan’s mouth broke. Half a smile showed.
“The other thing,” Callaghan went on without giving David the satisfaction of a real laugh. “One of the few American Nazi-hunters has been in contact with us. Benjamin Rabinowitz? A friend of your grandmother’s.”
David nodded. He’d heard quite a bit about Rabinowitz. For years, Elena had been a contributor to Rabinowitz’s efforts, in fact. She’d contributed to Rabinowitz in America and to Michael Ben-Iban’s Centre for Jewish Studies in Europe, David knew.
“Rabinowitz has some interesting theories I’d like you to react to. The only slight catch …” Callaghan began to relight his pipe, “is we’d have to leave the hotel for a few hours tomorrow. Rabinowitz doesn’t want to be seen with you. He actually seemed somewhat paranoid. Frightened.”
David felt a chill shoot up his spine. He had an ominous feeling that maybe something was going to happen now. Maybe the Nazi-hunter would have some new and important information.
Something
revealing about the Nazi Storm Troop.
“I’d like to meet Mr. Rabinowitz very much,” he said. “Tomorrow is fine with me. I’d be glad to meet him anywhere.”
David Strauss didn’t realize it as he stood in his doctor’s office that afternoon, but his personal hunt for the neo-Nazis had just begun.
CHAPTER 20
The Sans Souci Restaurant, Washington, D.C.
The Führer and the Warrior were eating rare steaks and sipping red wine, enjoying as amiable and lighthearted a supper as was evident anywhere in the clubby, chatty Washington, D.C., dining room.
“A pleasure, as it always is here.” The Warrior sipped his burgundy, letting the fine red roll on his tongue. He then wiped his crinkly, puffed mouth.
The Führer smiled in agreement. “A very decent steak. Even at approximately twenty-five dollars a
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