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The man’s name was Marek Jaruszek. He was hunched in posture and thin to the point of emaciation, with clear blue eyes and flyaway blond hair. He held his flat cap in his hands and only reluctantly took von der Haas’s hand when it was offered.
“I must translate,” said Stanislaw. “He does not speak German.”
“I’ll leave you,” said Bauer, getting up from his seat.
“No.” Von der Haas grabbed Bauer’s arm and looked at him. “Please stay.”
Trembling, Erich von der Haas reached inside his coat and removed a photograph of his brother, sliding it across the table to the man. “His name is Lars,” he said.
The man took the photograph in his hands. “Ah, Lars,” he said, then closed his eyes.
“You knew him?” Von der Haas burst into tears, an outburst of emotion Bauer had never seen from him. “Is he… alive?”
The man spoke in Polish as Stanislaw translated. “I remember this man… he was… put in the carpentry workshop… he built shelving units for the administration office…”
“Is he alive?” von der Haas pleaded again.
Marek spoke without looking in von der Haas’s direction, with Stan translating: “He arrived… with his family… his family… was sent immediately to the showers…”
Von der Haas shook his head furiously, tears falling down his face.
Marek continued to speak in a flat, monotone voice. “Every day he asked, where was his family, where was his family,” Stan translated. “When he learned what we all eventually learned… we were not supposed to discuss it… when he realized what had happened to them… he attacked one of the SS guards.”
“No. God, no.” Von der Haas clutched his hair, eyes squeezed shut.
“They beat him with their whips… and their rifles… and hanged him in front of us… to make an example… I am sorry. He was a brave man. I am very sorry.”
Bauer put his arm around von der Haas, who could not contain his emotions. The man, Marek, left quietly. Stanislaw left, as well, out of respect. Bauer wrapped both arms around his friend and held him while von der Haas wailed and sobbed and pounded the table.
It felt like forever, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, before Erich von der Haas finally exhausted himself and collapsed, his head on the table, eyes shut, his body spasming.
“Hey,” Bauer said quietly. “You want some water? Vodka? You want to be alone for a while?”
He didn’t respond. After a while, Bauer moved himself out of the seat, prepared to give his friend some time alone to grieve, when von der Haas finally spoke.
“I only want one thing.” Von der Haas sat upright, his face red and puffy from tears, but his eyes cold as ice.
“Anything,” said Bauer. “Name it.”
“I don’t care if the war’s almost over,” he said. “I don’t care if it makes no difference. I don’t care if it’s too late.”
“What is it, Erich?” asked Bauer. “What do you want?”
Von der Haas swallowed hard and drew a deep breath.
“I want to kill him,” he said. “I want to kill Adolf Hitler.”
112
Present Day
Munich Airport
AS I SIT DEFLATED, exhausted, and defeated at the departures gate in the Munich Airport, the flight attendant lifts her receiver and speaks into it, giving boarding instructions. “Guten Tag, Passagiere. Dies ist die Pre-Boarding-Ankündigung für den Flug 1502 nach Chicago O’Hare. Good afternoon, passengers. This is the preboarding announcement for flight 1502 to Chicago O’Hare.”
“We’re boarding soon,” I say to Ty on my phone. I’d paid an outrageously expensive fee to change my ticket to this flight. “I’ll be back in Chicago in eight hours.”
“It will be good to have you back home,” he says.
