The Authoritarian

FOREWORD

Many Nazi soldiers were arrested after WW2 and prosecuted at the Nuremberg Trials, but some escaped justice and fled to Brazil, Argentina, and beyond. Many of them managed to slip into the United States using forged documents. The Autocrat tracks one such war criminal, a Nazi who worked at Auschwitz, Majdanek, and Buchenwald concentration camps overseeing Jews and killing many for his own sadistic pleasure. This man entered the USA on forged papers and through a series of deft moves formed a company in Detroit where he lived in anonymity for 17 years until one day a new employee recognized him as one of his captors from the camps and turned him in. The man panicked and vanished while 24B a company that hunted Nazi war criminals chased him across a dozen states. Luckily for the Nazi, he had an escape plan with multiple different IDs and a suitcase full of money, so was able to disappear at a moment’s notice.

The Authoritarian is also the story of a US President who becomes corrupted by bribery and illegal business transactions, narrated by Jenny Harriman a teacher who inherits her uncles' sizable fortune after he dies. It chronicles how she not only inherits his large fortune but also his business empire that includes 107 companies that he owns around the USA. To understand the way he conducts business, she chooses to visit several of his companies and in doing so discovers a side to her uncle she never knew. Jenny’s daughter Molly a young doctor at Walter Reed Medical Center is married to Stephen a Secret Service agent for the White House as part of the First Lady's security detail. After hearing the First Lady speaking Russian on the phone Stephen starts to suspect her of being less than the patriot she claims to be. Stephen then confides this information to his in-laws and a friend who is an NSA agent. In their investigation, Stephen and Ron later discovers a plot to unravel the very fabric of American democracy and do their level best to solve this perplexing mystery. In an interesting subplot, Jenny Harriman discovers that her new personal assistant Cynthia Hawkins is, in fact, a survivor of Auschwitz and is also a Nazi hunter employed by 24B to track down Nazis who have managed to enter the United States illegally. Cynthia’s current case is to track down and arrest a fugitive who was a high-ranking Gestapo officer responsible for the death of thousands of Jews in concentration camps in Poland during WWII.

Never in her wildest dreams did Jenny a mild-mannered high school English teacher imagine that she would get caught up in such danger and intrigue, but as she learns about Uncle John, she finds herself getting in deeper and deeper. Will she survive? The Autocrat takes a deep dive into the corruption that is fascism and finds a way for the United States to deal with electing a rogue President.

DEDICATION

When I first met Laura, my wife and singing partner in The Battersby Duo for 4 decades, my knees went wobbly, and my head spun like a spinning top. I knew I was in love with that smart and sexy lady from the moment I met her. It was as if we were meant to be. Since then, every day has felt the same and today, I am more in love with her than ever. The adventures we have shared and the kids we have raised are legendary and the journeys we have taken together live on in the history books as a perfect reminder of a true love story.

With eternal thanks and undying love to our daughter Shannon and her husband Stephen for their love, and to our grandchildren Kirsten and Joseph, Kyle and Winnie and our great grandkids Addilyn and Camden

An Authoritarian

Someone who insists on complete obedience from others.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 2024 Tim Battersby

ISBN: 9798336532265

Cover design by TB Graphics

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER 1 HARRIMAN HOLDINGS                                                        CHAPTER 18 JOHANN SEBASTIAN

CHAPTER 2 MAJDANEK                                                                            CHAPTER 19 THE FIRST LADY

CHAPTER 3 THE CHERRY ORCHARD                                                     CHAPTER 20 ESCAPE FROM DARKNESS

CHAPTER 4 SUNSHINE                                                                             CHAPTER 21 ESAU METZLER

CHAPTER 5 SAFFY’S LEARNING CENTER                                             CHAPTER 22 DEMOCRACY RELIES ON HOPE

CHAPTER 6 MUELLER REAPPEARS                                                       CHAPTER 23 GURYEV

CHAPTER 7 THE HAPPY PEACH DINER                                                 CHAPTER 24 CHEYENNE

CHAPTER 8 THE HOPE HOUSE                                                               CHAPTER 25 THE CABINET MAKER

CHAPTER 9 THE GOOD NEIGHBOR                                                        CHAPTER 26 THE MEN AND WOMEN OF 24 B

CHAPTER 10  ATLANTA AND BILLY GREEN                                             CHAPTER 27 SEATTLE

CHAPTER 11 GROUNDS FOR CONCERN                                                CHAPTER 28 CIRCUS

CHAPTER 12 MOLLY                                                                                  CHAPTER 29 CYNTHIA HAWKINS

CHAPTER 13 CONSPIRACY                                                                      CHAPTER 30 THE SECRET SERVICE

CHAPTER 14 OBERFUHRER ERICH STANGL                                         CHAPTER 31 THE THEATER

CHAPTER 15 THANKSGIVING IN PARADISE                                           CHAPTER 32 LAUGHTER

CHAPTER 16 CHICAGO. DAMIAN SULLIVAN                                           CHAPTER 33 MUELLERS TRIAL

CHAPTER 17 THE LETTER                                                                        CHAPTER 34 CLARITY  

CHAPTER 1

Harriman Holdings

John Richard Harriman died in September 2015 at the age of 88. He was my uncle and the nicest and most honest man I’d ever known. He was a quiet man filled with inner wisdom who always had a kind word for everyone he met. He was buried in Arlington cemetery with full military honors, a funeral which my husband Jim and I attended. A week after the funeral, I received a letter from his lawyer saying I’d been mentioned in my uncle’s will and asking me to contact him as soon as possible to make an appointment to meet with him so he could read the will.

My name is Jenny Harriman Holland, and I live in Pensacola, Florida. I am a 10th-grade teacher at Mullins High school right here in town along with my husband Jim Holland the music teacher at the same school. As Jim and I sat in the vestibule of Jerry Ludlow’s downtown Pensacola office waiting to have the will read, we held hands nervously like two teenagers even though we’d been married for over thirty years at the time of Uncle John’s passing. After about 15 minutes Jerry Ludlow popped his head round the door and with a welcoming smile beckoned us both in and waved us to two chairs with a flourish. I won’t bore you with the details of the mechanics of Uncle John’s will but suffice it to say that we learned that morning that Uncle John had been an extremely wealthy man. After mentioning several gifts to his relatives, friends. and employees he left the bulk of his estate to me. It turned out that Uncle John had, at the time of his mother’s death, become the recipient of a living trust which he was charged to administrate for the rest of his natural life. When he died, he decided to pass on the administration of that living trust to me.

In essence that gave me an annual salary and the responsibility to invest and oversee a vast fortune that as a direct descendent of the Rockefeller family (on his mother’s side) Uncle John had decided to bestow on me. In addition to the trust Uncle John left me his house in Pensacola and several million dollars in an account that he liked to refer to as “his unsecured money.” Jim and I walked away from that meeting in shock. We both knew that Uncle John was comfortably off but had no idea he was the administrator of a massive trust worth in excess of 300 million dollars. Along with the reading of the will Jerry Ludlow had handed me a sealed envelope with my name written on it in Uncle John’s handwriting. I tucked it away in my purse to read it at a later time.

Teachers by definition don’t earn a lot of money and while Jim and I were comfortable we were by no means rich. We both drove cars that by yuppie standards were ancient and our house was tucked away in an older Pensacola neighborhood that had seen better days. We’d lived there our entire marriage and saw no reason to move. We were comfy in our lifestyle. Both of us are nearing retirement, me less than a year away and Jim about 2 years away. I was sad obviously at the demise of our beloved uncle but was delighted to have been left some money by someone who’d been so important to both of us through our long marriage. I grew up in McLean Virginia, the daughter of Bill and Ginger Harriman. Dad was a cabinet maker in nearby Fairfax and Mom was a homemaker. I was one of four children, and we all went to local schools. Like all families who grew up in the 60s, we were diametrically different. Family is God's way of teaching children how to get along in society later as an adult. His little sociological joke, I guess.  In my family the dinner table was ruled with the iron fist of a domineering patriarch and a timid mother who if she dared speak out of turn had to suffer the ire of my dad. Similarly, if any of us kids had the audacity to display emotion of any kind, they’d receive a tongue lashing from him. My entire childhood felt like we were constantly walking the plank.

I won a full scholarship to George Mason University which was where I first met Jim Holland, the man who would later become my husband. By the time we graduated 4 years later both of us couldn’t wait to get out of the area and start looking for teaching jobs that were available at the time. To cut a long story short, that was the first time Uncle John had interceded in my life. I’d always been close to him and Aunt Rachel and out of the blue he telephoned me one day shortly after I graduated and told me about a job that had come available for a teaching position in the Pensacola school system in Florida where he and Aunt Rachel had moved some years earlier. The call surprised me because I had no idea that he knew anything about the school system in Florida. As far as I knew he was my dad’s cousin who we used to see for picnics and family functions when I was a kid. I followed up on the job and wrote to them and they asked me to come down and interview for the position of 10th grade teacher at Mullins High school starting on August 5th just 6 weeks away. I was overjoyed and rang Uncle John right away who invited me to stay with them, as they lived just outside Pensacola, for a few days during my interview. He also arranged to pick me up from the airport. The interview went exceedingly well and after the first meeting the principal of Mullins asked if I could return the following day to meet the school board. Over dinner that evening Uncle John mentioned that he knew most everyone on the board and to please give the chairman a letter from him introducing me to the system! The following day I arrived at the school board offices in downtown Pensacola and introduced myself to the secretary. After a while I was ushered into a large room where 7 elderly men were sitting in a row at a long table. I took a seat in a chair set up as an interviewee’s solitary perch. When I first entered, I once again saw the principal of Mullins sitting amongst the 7 judges. I nodded to him and took my seat. They quizzed me on my political beliefs, my religious beliefs, and my marital status. After a few minutes I realized that I was now officially in the Deep South where all the aforementioned questions I’d been asked were vitally important to answer in the manner they wanted to hear, for me to be accepted into their school system. Before I answered their audacious questions, I had a brainwave. Quick as a flash I stood up and walked over to the chairman’s seat, looked him squarely in the eye and handed him the letter Uncle John had given me. “My uncle sends his best regards.” I said confidently, swiveled and took my chair again. After a few moments the chairman having read the letter turned to his colleagues and in very much of a stage whisper began chatting to all of them. Then after deliberating for a moment longer, he turned to me and said. “Ms. Harriman welcome to the Pensacola school system. Your first day will be August 5th and you will be employed as a 10th grade teacher at Mullins High school. Mr. Herschel over here,” waving his hand toward the principal, “will be sending you a contract within the next few days. Welcome aboard Ms. Harriman.” And with that the meeting concluded and I left the building realizing for the first time in my life that my uncle had apparently helped me in more ways than I could imagine. I stayed with Uncle John and Aunt Rachel for a couple more days and then flew home to tell the exciting news to Jim. 4 weeks later he and I drove south in our old Volvo packed with all our belongings and moved into a sweet 1 BR flat in a charming old Victorian house on Trinity Street just a couple of miles away from Uncle John and Aunt Rachel’s in downtown Pensacola. Jim planned on applying for a job in the music department in the school system as soon as we settled. 3 days later we arrived and spent our first night in our new flat. It wasn’t until years later I discovered that the sweet flat was owned by none other than Uncle John.

My dear Jenny,

If you are reading this letter, it means I am dead, and you have now been informed that you are my beneficiary. You have spoken to Jerry Ludlow, and he has filled you in what will be expected of you. For the past 55 years I’ve loved administering this trust fund but now I’m handing the reins over to you my dear Jenny. I have absolute faith that you will handle the day-to-day operations admirably and once you have been filled in on your new responsibilities you will succeed with all the aplomb of the lady, I know you to be. There are so many things about me that you know nothing about, and I hope you don’t think less of me after you discover my other world. For the moment I am introducing you to my right-hand woman, a lady called Cynthia Hawkins who has been with me for over 40 years. You can find her at 27 Majestic Drive at my building, Harriman Holdings. She knows all about you and will fill in all the blanks and answer any questions you may have. The office number is 471-389-2756. Since I was a boy, I have always loved old cars. I have been fortunate in my life to be able to indulge that passion. I own 25 antique cars that I’m leaving to you. They are in varying degrees of restoration and are housed in a warehouse that I own close to Pensacola. Cynthia will furnish you with the address. Amongst my treasures I own a Model T Ford, a 1929 Duesenberg Touring car, and a Mercedes Benz 300s. Now you own the collection, maybe in your spare time you can achieve what I could not, and that is to restore as many of them as you can and then pass them on to whomever you choose to be your successor? I was not the man you thought I was my dear Jenny. At some point in the not-too-distant future I have asked Jerry Ludlow to release one final letter to you which will explain why I chose to live the way I did and also the rationale of how I chose the companies that I bought. In the meantime, I suggest that you meet Cynthia and have her tell you more of my story so you can embark on a journey of getting to know some of my companies. I love you like my own daughter and hope you enjoy what I have bequeathed to you.

Forever your loving,

Uncle John.

As I folded the letter and put it away with my important papers, I wiped a tear from my eye knowing the adventure I was about to embark on would be one of mystery and intrigue. That afternoon I rang Cynthia Hawkins and made an appointment to meet her the next day at 10 am. I knew downtown Pensacola very well. My husband Jim joined me after I was first hired 30 years earlier in our new 1 BR flat and despite not yet having a teaching job, he spent our first year working for a building company headquartered in downtown Pensacola and so we would meet after work and cruise the restaurants and go for long walks in the balmy southern climate. He applied to the school district for a job in the music department and finally was offered a job as the music teacher of 5 schools within the district.  Over the past 30 years of working within the school system he has done great things for music students including building a fine orchestra.

Pensacola is a classic small southern city. A shining treasure. As I entered Uncle John’s tiny office the following day I was mulling over the magnificence of the city. Sitting at what must have originally been his desk was a heavy-set woman poring over stacks of papers. As I walked in, she looked up and a smile telegraphed across her face. She jumped up and walked over to me and spoke. “You must be Jenny? I’m so glad to meet you” and gave me a big bear hug that told me how welcome I was.

Within a few moments I realized why Uncle John had initially hired this woman. In a word, she was a dynamo. Everything she said had a point, and the point to this woman was an undying loyalty to my uncle. Her respect for him knew no bounds and in that first meeting she told me things about my Uncle John that no one had ever mentioned before. For instance, she told me that soon after she was hired Uncle John made a series of bad investments that threatened to bankrupt him. After he got started in the “salvage” business as Uncle John liked to describe his job, he went out on his own and began making quite a bit of money by buying up failing businesses and adding a new business model by streamlining it until it was profitable again. He then sold the company and purchased another. Bit by bit his reputation grew, and he became successful until he made several bad deals all of which went belly up. Rather than quit, Uncle John tightened his belt and worked harder. In the space of 3 years, he turned his business around. This gave him the impetus to change his methods. He worked harder and became more businesslike and over the next 20 years made a fortune working from this office with just me and him working long hours. 10 years earlier he had begun an incentive program for me that has ultimately made me a wealthy woman. I will always be most grateful to your uncle.”

Over the next few days, I learned all about Harriman Holdings. I learnt that Uncle John owned more than one hundred companies ranging from bakeries to tire manufacturing plants, to several lumber mills, and a tech company in Silicon Valley. His business model was always the same no matter what he was selling. Profit. When he started out, he would buy a failing company. It didn’t matter to him what the product was, he knew that if he applied the identical business principles to each firm he had acquired, as long as the employees pulled their weight, he could make the business a viable operation. The very first company he bought back in 1954 was in Milwaukee. It was a family run metal die manufacturing plant. The forming dies were typically made by tool and die makers and put into production after being mounted into a press. The die was a metal block that was used for forming materials like sheet metal and plastic. For the vacuum forming of a plastic sheet only a single form was ever used, typically to form up transparent plastic containers (blister packs) for merchandise. Vacuum forming was considered a simple molding thermoforming process but used the same principles as die forming. For the forming of sheet metal, such as automobile body parts, two parts were used: one, called the punch, performed the stretching, bending, and or blanking operation, while another part that was called the die block securely clamped the piece and provided similar stretching, bending, and or blanking operation. The piece passed through several stages using different tools or operations to obtain the final form. In the case of an automotive component, there’d usually be a shearing operation after the main forming was done and then additional crimping or rolling operations to ensure that all sharp edges were hidden and to add rigidity to the panel.

The Maple Tool and Die Company: Sadly, because the process was complex, and the family who’d owned the company was eager to make a profit, the board of directors made up of the great Grandson of the founder of the Company had run it into the ground through greed and bad business practices and had jeopardized the careers of 24 employees at the plant. Uncle John purchased Maple Tool and Die Company at a bankruptcy sale for a song. The following week he flew to Milwaukee and met with the employees. The Maple family had abandoned ownership of the company, and a team of auditors were engaged to go over the company books with a fine-tooth comb. It didn’t take long for Uncle John to realize something was terribly wrong. Young Mr. Maple or Mr. Ben as he was known around the plant had been dipping his hand into the company till for years and had bled the company dry. That time Uncle John realized that Mr. Ben’s malfeasance was none of his business, bought the Maple Tool and Die Company and allowed the authorities to handle Mr. Ben’s wrongdoing, but he made a mental note to himself that if he were to buy this kind of business again, he must protect himself and open a gumshoe private eye investigation business. Uncle John clearly did not approve of ignoble people.”

Cynthia Hawkins had been talking for about an hour now and she was just revving up to launch into another story when the phone rang, and she began chatting to a sales rep. It gave me a chance to collect my thoughts. I’d always known that Uncle John was good and kind. He and Aunt Rachel, who were childless, had spent every Christmas, Easter, birthday and special occasion with Jim and me celebrating with other members of our family at our table. In all the years that we knew them, I never heard them utter a cross word to each other, and I never heard Uncle John complain about anyone. They loved our one daughter Molly and watched her grow up with all the pride of loving grandparents and joined Jim and me at Molly’s high school graduation. Seven years later at UMD, School of Medicine they attended Molly’s graduation as she celebrated becoming an M.D. I was deep in my memories as Cynthia hung up the phone and continued telling me about the companies that I now owned.

After a few more hours she handed me a list of companies with 107 names, contacts, and addresses on it and suggested that we stop for the night and pick up tomorrow so we could continue discussing my new life and my new responsibilities. I didn’t get much sleep that night, spending a lot of time googling the 107 companies that I owned. They were spread across 37 states and included production plants, construction companies, retail outlets, and even some restaurant chains. It appears I was now the proud owner of a Steakhouse franchise with 22 restaurants throughout Florida. “Hmm,” I thought. “I must pay them a visit real soon.” I laughed silently to myself. I made a list of questions I could ask Cynthia in the morning, and turned the light out around 4.00 a.m.

Early the next morning I got to Harriman Holdings to find Cynthia Hawkins working hard at her desk already. The office was only about a 15-minute walk from my house and so I decided to walk along the charming leafy streets of Pensacola. Cynthia looked up from what she was doing and with a bright smile leapt up, poured me a cup of coffee and bounded over and placed it on the desk in front of me. “Here we are then,” she said “good morning to you Miss Jenny. And how’re you this fine morning?” Slightly startled by her heartiness I picked up the cup nodding my thanks and replied. “I’m very well and how’re you today?” After we’d dispensed with the formalities, I asked Cynthia the questions I’d written down the night before, and she answered them like the professional she was. To say I was impressed with Cynthia Hawkins would be an understatement. She turned out to be a walking encyclopedia producing names and addresses of companies with ease, which I found to be a tool that proved vital on a number of occasions.

“How did Uncle John choose to buy the 107 companies on the final list?” I asked, having asked a number of earlier questions that Cynthia had happily answered. “Quite early on shortly after I started working for Mr. John it became clear that he needed a way to vet companies he was considering purchasing. Everyone had a sob story, and frankly not all of the stories were true. All the companies that Mr. John was interested in were going through bankruptcy proceedings and the owners were rarely honest as to why their company had got into such a position. And so after a while Mr. John decided to hire an investigator in order to get to the truth so that he could decide on the potential of the business he was interested in buying. I knew a man called Bill Rein from Virginia. He ran a security company.  Mr. Rein could vet a company and produce a time and motions study giving us a report on the viability of the company within a month and the reason for its failure. It made perfect sense to hire Mr. Rein.” “Were there any companies where Bill Rein found any illegal activity?” I asked. Cynthia paused for a moment and then said, “There were a couple, I remember.” Then she switched her attention from me and looked at her screen, scrolled through a few pages and finally said, “here we are then, I thought those two were ones I remembered.”

"The Paley Shoe Company had a very strange story to tell but after considerable thought Mr. John decided to go ahead and purchase it shortly after the court case and the conviction. The Paley Shoe Company was located in Salem Oregon and had been family owned since 1845. John Paley the founder had 3 boys who eventually took over from their dad and ran the business after he retired. With hard work and a rigid work ethic the boys turned The Paley Shoe Company into a supremely successful shoe manufacturing plant. By the time Jerry Brady came to work for them on the factory floor in 1957 the 3 Paley boys had long retired and the company still family owned was being run by the great grandson of John Paley the founder, a man named Terry Paley. One of Terry Paley’s employees was Jerry Brady whose illegal activities caused so much attention from the press that it torpedoed the business. Orders dried up and within a few months Paley’s Shoe Company went into Chapter 11. The publicity that Jerry Brady received was after he was arrested for the murder of multiple women in the Salem area.

Jerry Brady was a serial killer who committed the murders of at least four women in Oregon between 1965 and 1969. He was born in 1939 in Billings, Montana as the younger of two sons. His mother had wanted a girl and was very displeased that she had another son instead. She would constantly subject him to emotional and physical abuse. As a child, Brady and his family would move into different homes in the Pacific Northwest, before settling in Salem, Oregon.

Brady had a fetish for women's shoes that surfaced at the age of 5, after playing with stiletto heeled shoes at a local junkyard. He reportedly attempted to steal the shoes of his first-grade teacher. Brady also had a fetish for women's underwear and claimed that he would steal underwear from female neighbors as a child. He spent his teen years in and out of psychotherapy and spent time in psychiatric hospitals.

In his teenage years, Brady began to stalk local women, knocking them down or choking them unconscious, and fleeing with their shoes. At age 17, he abducted and beat a young woman, threatening to stab her if she did not follow his sexual demands. Shortly after being arrested, he was taken to the psychiatric ward of Oregon State hospital for nine months. There it was found Brady's sexual fantasies revolved around his hatred towards his mother and women in general. He underwent a psychiatric evaluation and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Despite being institutionalized, Brady graduated from high school with his class in 1957. Shortly after graduation, he got a job at Paley’s Shoe Company as a factory worker. Paley was never told about his employees’ childhood.

Brady was arrested in 1968 and charged with murdering 4 women in the Salem area.

The ensuing criminal case against Jerry Brady was the final nail in the coffin for The Paley Shoe Company. For months reporters had been camped outside the factory in the vain hope they might be able to interview John Paley, the founder’s great grandson.

On June 28, 1969, Brady pleaded guilty to three first-degree murders and was sentenced to three life terms of imprisonment in Oregon State Penitentiary. The case had a relatively short shelf life and soon the media and the public forgot about the weird fetish driven murderer named Jerry Brady. Mr. John had in the meantime flown to Salem and interviewed the remaining employees of the Paley Shoe Company and had put in an offer with the bankruptcy court which was accepted.

I looked at my watch and realized it was lunchtime. I suggested that there was a charming café called Celine’s just down the street, and would she like to join me for a bite to eat? She nodded her head and replied, “I’d love to Ms. Jenny. As a matter of fact, you own that café.” I looked back at her in amazement, “Really are you joking? Jim and I have been eating at Celine’s forever and Uncle John never mentioned that he owned it.” “That was just how Mr. John was,” Cynthia replied, collecting her purse. “He was a very private man.” Over lunch sitting in a shady alcove on the sidewalk outside Celine’s I asked Cynthia how she’d first started working for Uncle John? “Well, it was simple really, but I never totally understood.” Cynthia rolled up her sleeve and showed me a tattoo that identified her as a survivor. “I was in Auschwitz. Mr. John read an article when I first came to Pensacola. I’d changed my name to Cynthia Hawkins from Sophia Engelmann to when I came to America, but the reporter who did the story must have done a background check and put that in the newspaper. A few weeks after I arrived Mr. John called me and asked me if I would like a job. I went for an interview. We never discussed Auschwitz. He offered me a job and I’ve been working for him ever since. That’s really all there is to it.” It was clearly still a sensitive subject and so I decided to let Cynthia keep on talking. First, she told me about her time in Auschwitz and then she moved with ease into her favorite subject.

That afternoon I learned why my Uncle John did what he did. He loved people. He was the original socialist, seeing good in everyone he met. His intentions were always pure when he was considering purchasing a new but distressed company. He learned that the company’s financial downfall was rarely the fault of the workforce but always of upper management. He devised a plan early in his career to make every company he bought one where the employees would have a say in the running of the company and would all own stocks in it as well. He’d worked out a way for Harriman Holdings to keep ownership of the company until the debt had been repaid. Then after all the running costs had been met, Mr. John would divide the profit between the employees, keeping a 20% management fee for himself. The profit incentive worked like a charm and before long every company that Harriman Holdings had purchased was turning a profit and putting money directly into the pockets of the people who deserved it the most. He initiated visits to each of his 107 different businesses on a bi-yearly basis, and with the advent of technology he and Cynthia Hawkins were able to keep tabs on all the companies that he owned at the click of a keystroke. His door was always open, and Mr. John would always entertain a visit from any of his employees in his tiny office. Profit sharing made perfect sense to a man like Mr. John.

On that day, Cynthia Hawkins told me the reason for his kindness was that he’d grown up in a home where his mother and father taught him to be kind to everyone. He was an only child whose parents had married for love and they both worshipped young Mr. John. When his parents met on Cape Cod on vacation, Peggy his mother, the Rockefeller heiress had been staying at a summer resort where Jack his father was employed as a busboy at the resorts only restaurant. It took John all summer to get up the nerve to invite young Peggy on a date. He finally asked her out on her last night at the resort and took her to the only drive-in in town. That night they fell in love for all the right reasons, but it took them 2 more years of long-distance dating for John to summon up the nerve to ask Peggy to marry him. After what amounted to an act of congress, her parents allowed this “fine young man” to date their daughter and a year later Jack and Peggy were married in the Presbyterian church in Chantilly VA. As a wedding present Peggy’s parents gave the happy young couple a lovely 2-bedroom clapboard farmhouse just steps away from the home where Peggy grew up.

Although Uncle Johns’ mother was an heiress, Cynthia continued the family never flaunted it. He attended public school with the rest of the community children and when it came time to go to college, he chose an in-state school, William and Mary University where he took a bachelor’s degree in business. When he graduated four years later Uncle John joined his father’s firm.

Five years later his father died leaving the farm equipment business to Mr. John. Just a year later his beloved mother tragically died leaving her estate to John, who had in the meantime met, dated and married a lovely girl from upstate New York named Rachel Mandel. 

John and Rachel originally lived in the two-bedroom clapboard farmhouse just steps away from his parents’ house until John went away to college. In his first year at William and Mary they decided to move into the big house on the property since John’s parents and grandparents had died. The house sat on 15 acres of land and in his dotage John’s grandfather Arthur liked to potter around the acreage, building walls and fences. The land of course was worth a small fortune being located just a few miles from Washington DC. That left the smaller home vacant, and so when John married Rachel, John’s parents gave them the house as a wedding present. 

Uncle John and Aunt Rachel finally moved to the big house many years after his parents had died. Sadly, they were unable to have children and so Aunt Rachel concentrated on her charities and Uncle John his business. As a family we would visit them almost every weekend as they had a lovely swimming pool on their property and as kids, we would swim all day while the adults would cook burgers and take us for rides on Uncle John’s golf cart. I remembered we’d spend every holiday with them, and because they didn’t have any kids, we became their family.  In 1970 Uncle John and Aunt Rachel moved to Florida. They kept the houses in Chantilly but decided to live in Pensacola in a house that had been in Aunt Rachel’s family since she’d been a little girl.

CHAPTER 2

Majdanek

In 1971 Mr. John became interested in purchasing a company called Mitchell’s Solenoid Co in Detroit MI which was going through bankruptcy proceedings. The owner of Mitchell’s was a man called Henry Mitchell who had started the company after the war in 1953. The company made solenoids, more commonly known as starters for automobiles. Henry Mitchell sold the solenoids to Chevrolet, Ford, and Chrysler motor cars and so the question of why the company was in financial jeopardy became the driving concern amongst Uncle John and his accountant, because on the surface the business appeared that it should be thriving.  Mr. John hired his friend Bill Rein to look into Mitchell’s Solenoid Company.

Some weeks later Mr. John received word from Bill Rein asking for a face-to-face meeting. As it happened Mr. John was getting ready to travel to New York and so he arranged to drop by the offices of Feld, Mooring, Gilbert, and Rein in DC as he was driving close by anyway. After their initial meeting in the early 1960s Bill Rein and Mr. John had become close friends, and so it was with a feeling that one gets when one is meeting a good friend that Mr. John entered the office building on a crisp spring morning to meet his friend. “It appears that Henry Mitchell is not who he says he is.” Bill said. “The reason Mitchell’s Solenoid Company is bleeding money is that since the adverse publicity regarding Mr. Mitchell’s background, their orders have all but dried up and Mitchell has had to lay off the majority of his workforce. I decided to look into his background and talk to the man who claimed to have known him back in Poland who started all the controversy.  Fillip Kowalski was a US immigrant. He arrived in Detroit to live with his wife’s family in 1957 having survived 2 years at the Treblinka camp in northern Poland and then another 2 years at Majdanek. Before the war Fillip had been an electrician in Warsaw, and so when he emigrated to the USA the first job, he tried to get was obvious. He applied to multiple companies in and around Detroit, but the one that he chose was with Mitchell’s Solenoid Company because he saw a future in it for him and his experience. He was interviewed by Henry Mitchell’s right-hand man and another engineer, Chris Partlow. Fillip had been an electrical engineer before the war, but the Nazi invasion of Poland put an end to all that when the Nazis having defeated Poland in their Blitzkrieg attack created ghettos annexing Warsaw with hundreds of thousands of Polish Jews being crammed together in postage size conditions and refusing to allow them to work at their professions. This went on for almost three years with the Polish Jews living in deplorable conditions while the Gestapo were building death camps for them to be extradited to. Thousands of Jews died of starvation in the Warsaw ghetto.

Treblinka was an extermination camp, built and operated by Nazi Germany in Poland during World War II. It was located in a forest north-east of Warsaw, 2 miles south of the Treblinka train station in what is now the Masovian Voivodeship. The camp operated between July 1942 and October 1943 as part of Operation Reinhard the plan in World War II to exterminate Jewish Poles in the General Government district of German-occupied Poland. During this time, it is estimated that between 700,000 and 900,000 Jews were killed in its gas chambers along with 2,000 Romani people. More Jews were killed at Treblinka than at any other Nazi extermination camp apart from Auschwitz.

Supervised by the German Waffen-SS which was the military branch of the Nazi Party's SS organisation and the Trawniki guard volunteers chosen from among Soviet POWs to serve with the Germans, Treblinka consisted of two separate units. Treblinka I was a forced-labor camp whose POWs worked in the gravel pit or irrigation area in the forest, where they cut wood to fuel cremation pits. Between 1941 and 1944, more than half of its 20,000 inmates died from summary executions, hunger, disease, and mistreatment.

Treblinka II was an extermination camp referred to as the SS-Sonderkommando Treblinka by the Nazis. A number of Jewish men who were not killed immediately upon arrival became its Jewish slave-labor units called Sonderkommandos, forced to bury the victims' bodies in mass graves. These bodies were exhumed in 1943 and cremated on large open-air pyres along with the bodies of new victims. Gassing operations at Treblinka II ended in Oct. 1943 after a revolt by the Sonderkommandos in early August. Several Trawniki guards were killed, and 200 prisoners escaped from the camp; almost a hundred survived the subsequent chase. The camp was undone ahead of the Soviet advance. A farmhouse for a watchman was built on the site and the ground ploughed over in an attempt to hide the evidence of genocide.

Treblinka was divided into two separate camps that were 1.5 miles apart. Two engineering firms, the Schönbrunn Company of Leipzig, and the Warsaw branch of Schmidt–Munstermann, oversaw the construction of both camps. Between 1942 and 1943 the extermination center was further redeveloped with a crawler excavator. New gas chambers made of brick and cement mortar were freshly erected, and mass cremation pyres were also introduced. The perimeter was enlarged to provide a buffer zone, making it impossible to approach Treblinka from outside. The number of trains arriving every day caused panic among the residents of nearby towns. They would likely have been killed if they had been caught near the railway tracks.

Unlike other Nazi concentration camps across German-occupied Europe, in which prisoners were used as forced labour for the German war effort, death camps like Treblinka, Belzec, and Sobibor had only one function: to kill those sent there. To prevent incoming victims from realizing its nature, Treblinka II was disguised as a transit camp for deportations further east, complete with made-up train schedules, a fake train-station clock with hands painted on it, names of destinations, a fake ticket window, and the sign "Ober Majdan", a code word for Treblinka commonly used to deceive prisoners arriving from Western Europe. Majdan was a prewar landed estate 3.1 miles away from the camp.

The mass deportation of Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto began on 22 July 1942 with the first shipment of 6,000 souls. The gas chambers started operation the next morning. For two months, deportations from Warsaw continued daily via 2 shuttle trains (the second one, from 6 August 1942), each carrying about 4,000 to 7,000 people crying for water. No other trains were allowed to stop at the Treblinka station. The first daily trains came in the early morning, often after an overnight wait, and the second, in mid-afternoon. All new arrivals were sent immediately to the undressing area by the Sonderkommando squad that managed the arrival platform, and from there to the gas chambers. German records, including the official report by SS-Brigadeführer Jürgen Stroop, show that 265k Jews were transported in cattle cars from the Warsaw Ghetto to Treblinka during the period from 22 July 1942 to 12 September 1942.

The rail traffic on Polish railway lines was extremely dense. An average of 420 German military trains were passing through every 24 hours on top of internal traffic already in 1941. The Holocaust trains were routinely delayed en route; some trains took many days to arrive. Hundreds of prisoners died from exhaustion, suffocation, and thirst while in transit to the camp in the overcrowded wagons. In extreme cases such as the Biała Podlaska transport of 6,000 Jews traveling only a 78-mile distance, up to 90 percent of people were already dead when the sealed doors were opened. From September 1942 on, both Polish and foreign Jews were greeted with a brief verbal announcement. A signboard with directions was removed as it was clearly insufficient. The Jews were told they’d arrived at a transit point on the way to Ukraine and needed to shower and change their clothes before receiving uniforms and new orders. 

It was to this awful place that Fillip Kowalski arrived one morning in August 1941 on a cattle train from the ghetto in Warsaw where he had been living. He was lucky that he was young and strong and had been sent to Treblinka 1 which was the forced labor camp. Many of his friends and loved ones were not so lucky being sent directly to their death at Treblinka II. In 1942 Kowalski was moved to another death camp called Majdanek. It was here that Fillip met Henry Mitchell.

Fillip started working at Mitchell’s Solenoid Company the following week after he had been hired. It wasn’t until his second day that he first noticed Heinrich Mueller. It was the very recognizable walk that gave him away. That arrogant strut, with his jackboots and riding crop that he used to take great delight in using against any Jew who dared to ask him a question. “Oh that arrogant strut.” mused Fillip Kowalski as his gaze moved up Mitchell’s body until he saw the face he knew so well. He’d been on the receiving end of that man’s cruelty for years.

Henry Mitchell (Heinrich Mueller) was born in Vienna in August 1911, the only son of Willem and Sonia Mueller. Herr Mueller Heinrich’s father was a gemologist who had a thriving business in Vienna creating magnificent rings for the wealthy. When Heinrich was 18, he attended the University of Vienna to study electrical engineering. In 1939 when war broke out Heinrich a qualified engineer by then was called up and joined the German army where he became an officer in the third Reich. He spent the first two years fighting in Poland and in 1942 became a member of the SS responsible for overseeing the Jewish problem. From there his story becomes murky and he dropped off the radar until he surfaced once more in 1946 when after the war he emigrated to the United States. His U.S immigration papers stated that Heinrich Mueller had indeed entered the German army in 1939 and had risen to the rank of Hauptmann (captain) and served first in Poland and then on the Russian front. At the end of the war Herr Mueller was captured in Poland by British troops and was held until his paperwork could be verified, and then he applied and was accepted to emigrate to the United States. Six months later Heinrich Mueller arrived in New York entering through the infamous Ellis Island and spending 2 months in New York assimilating to his new life. The first thing he did was to change his name to an all-American sounding name. For $75 via deed poll, he became Henry Mitchell. The anti-German sentiment was still high, and Henry wanted to fit in as much as possible. He was an electrical engineer by trade and after a few months he decided to move to Detroit, hoping he could find work in the automotive industry. He found a job with the Chrysler Company helping to build a new kind of electrical relay system that related to starter motors and worked in that department for 3 years. In the meantime he bought a small house a mile away from the plant. It was a typical suburban 3-bedroom ranch home in a neighborhood that had sprung up since the war. With the house came an attached 1 car garage and 1400 square feet of living space. Because of his new job he did not have to put any money down on the house and was able to get an affordable mortgage from a local bank.

Henry Mitchell experimented in his free time with a new kind of design for an electric starter motor which could be used in all cars manufactured today. He decided to approach Ford Motor Company and see if they would be interested in buying his design. Solenoids which are Electromagnets, were first invented in 1820 by a Danish Company called Oster and in 1822 French physicists François Arago, and Joseph-Louis Gay-Lussac discovered that when a current is passed through a wire with a piece of iron, it can magnetize the iron in the winding. Solenoid is the generic term for a coil of wire used as an electromagnet. It also refers to a tool that converts electrical energy to mechanical energy using a solenoid. The device created a magnetic field from electric current and used the magnetic field to create linear motion. Starter motors had all been using solenoids for decades, but this newfangled solenoid could potentially revolutionize the automotive industry not only from a cost perspective but also from a quality standpoint. Ford bought the first motor without knowing that Henry Mitchell was working for the opposition. In those days NDAs were not required and so everyone worked freelance. Henry immediately quit his job with Chrysler, rented a manufacturing plant in Detroit and hired a work force capable of filling the orders that he had been contracted for. In a short time his company became so busy that he had to add workers in order to run the plant 24 hours a day

Mitchell’s Solenoid Company was where Fillip Kowalski a qualified electrical engineer applied and eventually accepted a job in 1971 and subsequently recognized Henry Mitchell as the man who used to terrorize him and other Jewish prisoners at the concentration camp, he was sent to in 1942 called Majdanek. Henry Mitchell, the owner of Mitchell’s Solenoid Company was none other than the Butcher of Majdanek, Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller.

Majdanek, was a German concentration and extermination camp built and operated by the SS on the outskirts of the city of Lublin during the German occupation of Poland in World War II. It had 7 gas chambers, 2 wooden gallows, and some 227 structures in all, making it one of the largest concentration camps of the Nazi era. Though first designed for forced labor rather than extermination, it was used to kill Jews on a huge scale during Operation Reinhard, which was the codename of the secretive German plan in World War II to exterminate Jewish Poles in the General Government district of German-occupied Poland.  The camp, which operated from October 1941, until July 1944, was captured nearly intact, because the rapid advance of the Soviet Army during Operation Bagration stopped the SS from razing most of its infrastructure, and the inept Deputy Camp Commandant Anton Thernes failed in his task of removing incriminating evidence of war crimes. Thus, Majdanek became the first concentration camp discovered by Allied forces. Known as Konzentrationslager Lublin, it remains the best-preserved Nazi camp of the Holocaust. 

Unlike other similar camps in Nazi occupied Poland, Majdanek was not in a remote rural location away from population centers but within the boundaries of a major city. The proximity led the camp to be named Majdanek ("little Majdan") by local people in 1941 as it was adjacent to the suburb of Majdan Tatarski in Lublin. The Nazi documents initially called the site a Prisoner of War Camp of the Waffen-SS in Lublin because of the way it was operated and funded. It was named by Reich Security Office in Berlin as Konzentrationslager Lublin on April 9, 1943, but the local Polish name is usually still used. It was built in October 1941 on the orders of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, forwarded to Odilo Globocnik soon after his visit to Lublin on 17–20 July 1941 in the course of Operation Barbarossa, the German invasion of the Soviet Union. The original plan drafted by Himmler was for the camp to hold at least 25,000 POWs.  Following the large numbers of Soviet POWs captured during the Battle of Kiev, the projected capacity was subsequently increased to 50,000 and construction for a larger facility began in October 1941 (as it did also in Auschwitz-Birkenau, which had received the same order). In early November, the plans were extended to allow for 125,000 inmates and in December to 150,000. It was increased in March 1942 for 250,000 Soviet POWs. 

Construction began with 150 Jewish forced laborers from one of Globocnik's Lublin camps, to which the prisoners returned each night. Later the workforce included 2,000 Red Army POWs, who had to survive extreme conditions, including sleeping out in the open. By mid-November, only 500 of them were still alive, of whom at least 30% were incapable of further labor. In mid-December, barracks for 20,000 were ready when a typhus epidemic broke out, and by January 1942 all the slave laborers – POWs as well as Polish Jews– were dead. All work ceased until March 1942, when new prisoners arrived. Although the camp did eventually have the capacity to hold approximately 50,000 prisoners, it didn’t grow much more than beyond that size.

In July 1942, Himmler visited Belzec, Sobibor, and Treblinka; the three secret extermination camps built specially for Operation Reinhard purposed to eliminate Polish Jewry. The camps began in March, May and July 1942 respectively. Himmler issued an order that the deportations of Jews to the camps from the five districts of occupied Poland, which constituted the Nazi Government, be completed by the end of 1942.

Majdanek was made into a secondary sorting and storage depot at the onset of Operation Reinhard, for property and valuables taken from the victims at Belzec, Sobibor, and Treblinka. However, due to large Jewish populations in south-eastern Poland including Krakow, Lwów, Zamość and Warsaw which were not yet processed, Majdanek was refurbished as a killing center around March 1942. The gassing was performed in plain view of other inmates, without so much as a fence around the buildings. Another frequent method was shootings by squads of Trawniki guards. According to the Majdanek Museum, the gas chambers began operation in September 1942. There are two identical buildings at Majdanek, where Zyklon-B was used. Executions were carried out in barrack 41 with the use of hydrogen cyanide released by the Zyklon B. The same as were used to disinfect prisoner clothing in barrack 42. Due to the pressing need for foreign manpower in the war industry, the Jewish laborers from Poland were originally spared, and were kept in ghettos such as the one in Warsaw or sent to labor camps such as Majdanek where they worked at the Daimler munitions factory.

By mid-October 1942 the camp held 9,519 registered prisoners, of which 7,468 were Jews, and another 1,884 were non-Jewish Poles. By August 1943, there were 16,206 prisoners in the main camp, of which 9,105 were Jews and 3,893 were Poles. Minorities including French, Dutch, Belarusians Ukrainians, Russians Austrians Slovenes and Italians. According to data from the official Majdanek State Museum, 300,000 persons were inmates of the camp at one time or another. The prisoner population at any given time was much lower. From October 1942 onwards, Majdanek also had female overseers. These SS guards, who’d been trained at the Ravensbrück concentration camp, included convicted war criminals Elsa Ehrich, Hermine Boettcher-Brueckner, Hermine Braunsteiner, Hildegard Lächert, Rosy Suess, Elisabeth Knoblich-Ernst, Charlotte Karla Mayer-Woellert, and Gertrud Heise.

Majdanek did not initially have sub camps. These were incorporated in early autumn 1943 when the remaining forced labor camps around Lublin including Budzyn, Trawniki, Poniatowa, Krasnik, Pulawy, and Lipowa concentration camps became sub-camps of Majdanek.” Cynthia paused. She had been talking non-stop now for two hours. I looked at the clock. The sun was starting to drop over this elegant northern Florida city and we were both getting tired. “Why don’t we pick up this story tomorrow?” I suggested and Cynthia nodded her head and began gathering her things together. “Thanks for taking over from Mr. John,” she said walking towards the door. He loved doing what he did and would be so proud that you are carrying on his legacy. He never thought of it as a wrecking business as some call it, but rather a way to offer a helping hand to those in need. Over the past couple of days of getting to know you Ms. Jenny, you have a similar light in your eye as did Mr. John. You’re perfect to carry on his work.”

The next morning I arrived bright and early, and Cynthia continued telling me about Fillip Kowalski starting work for Henry Mitchell in Detroit. “When he realized that Mitchell was Heinrich Mueller, he contacted Simon Wiesenthal so they could investigate the validity of his claim. He followed Mitchell after work and found out where he lived and then waited patiently until an agent from the Wiesenthal Center contacted him.

The Center produces an Annual Status Report on the Worldwide Investigation and Prosecution of Nazi war criminals which included a list of "most-wanted" criminals who had never been convicted. “When did you first meet Heinrich Mueller?” The representative from the Center asked. “It was in July 1942.” Fillip Kowalski replied. “That was when I was transferred from Treblinka to Majdanek. I first saw Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller as he and dozens of Nazis greeted the cattle train that we arrived on from Treblinka. He was very noticeable. He was tall. I remember him strutting up and down the platform delivering blows with a riding crop to any Jew who he considered was out of line. He clearly was in charge. The selection process was pre-determined. If you were old or young, sick or debilitated you were chosen to stand in one line. If on the other hand you were young and able bodied, you were chosen to stand in the other line. The first line was marched off immediately to the gas chamber and killed but my line was taken to a row of filthy barracks with the intention to work us to death. I quickly learned which German officers to be scared of. There was a distinct hierarchy in Majdanek. For instance I learned that the term Hauptmann meant Captain, but Hauptsturmführer was a Nazi Party paramilitary rank that was used in several organizations such as the SS, NSKK and the NSFK.  Some of the most famous SS members have the rank of Hauptsturmführer. Among them were Josef Mengele, the doctor assigned to Auschwitz; Klaus Barbie, Nazi Chief of Lyon; Joseph Kramer, commandant of Bergen-Belsen concentration camp; Alois Brunner, Eichmann’s assistant; and Amon Goth, who was sentenced to death and hanged for committing multiple mass murders in the ghettos at Tarnów and Kraków the camp at Szebnie, and Kraków. The Simon Wiesenthal agent was a slight balding man wearing thick glasses. His name was John Turley. His profession other than being a Nazi hunter was that he was a forensic accountant. Before the war Turley had been an accountant who worked for the IRS and examined tax and business records to identify irregularities that might impact major criminal and civil cases. He used his skills as a CPA to detect or find evidence of embezzlement, corruption, and other financial crimes. On April 29, 1945, as part of the U.S. Seventh Army’s 45th Infantry Division John Turley helped liberate Dachau, the first concentration camp established by Germany’s Nazi regime. What he witnessed inspired him after the war to join Simon Wiesenthal to capture Nazi’s who’d managed to evade capture by the allies during the chaotic months post World War II. He had brought an old photograph of Heinrich Mueller which he produced and showed Filip Kowalski and asked if this was the man that he now knew as Henry Mitchell? “Yes, I’m sure this is the same man. Also the way he walks and talks gives him away. I first met Heinrich Mueller when I arrived at Majdanek. He was strutting up and down the platform beating Jews with his riding crop. The thing that gave him away on the first day I arrived at Mitchell’s Solenoid Co. was the way he walked; kind of like a goose step strut. It was an aggressive walk. I remembered that walk and the sound of his voice from 1942.” Kowalski paused for a moment. “What I’ll do,” said Turley, is go back to New York and try to find Mueller’s immigration forms. No question he lied on those forms. If that’s the case, then he’ll be subject to arrest for entering the US illegally. If we can prove he is who you say he is, we will convene a panel of lawyers who’ll tear his life apart and we’ll have enough evidence to arrest the son of a bitch. But first things first. Don’t tell anyone about your suspicions. We’ll work quietly in the background doing our investigating and when the time is right, we will contact the newspapers with hard evidence and with any luck Mitchell will be arrested and deported back from where he came. Have faith Mr. Kowalski, have faith.” And with that John Turley pushed his chair back and walked away. Cynthia Hawkins had warmed to her subject. I was riveted. I’d heard about such things happening but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that something as sinister could happen in my own backyard. 

“So how long did Fillip Kowalski have to wait before justice was done,” I asked. “It took 9 months from the time John Turley met with Fillip Kowalski.” Cynthia replied. “But it didn’t come without major legal headaches. By the time the accusations began to surface, Mitchell was a popular member of the automotive industry, and along with his popularity came political influence. Mitchell was asked to appear in front of a committee regarding the accusations that had been leveled against him. Initially he did well and answered the questions posed to him in a confident manner but at the 2nd hearing the prosecution in the course of their investigation found 10 eyewitnesses to Herr Mueller’s brutality. One by one these witnesses gave damning testimony and by the end of the third day it was clear that Henry Mitchell was Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller. During testimony Herr Mueller, who was being questioned by an extremely savvy prosecutor, took the bait and suddenly lost his temper in front of a packed courtroom. If anyone had their doubts before his explosion his extended 10-minute tantrum left, no doubt at all of his guilt. Had it not been so serious it could have been construed as funny. After he calmed down, he realized that he had just implicated himself. That night, he went home packed a bag and vanished. The publicity crippled Mitchell’s Solenoid Company, and a few months later Mr. John purchased the company lock stock and barrel, rebranded it and kept the same employees and spent about a year making the company profitable again.” Cynthia took a puff of her cigarette before continuing. “What an amazing story,” I said meaning every word. “So who is running the company now?” I continued. “Well I’m glad you asked that. Mr. John put Fillip Kowalski, who you may remember was an engineer, as the temporary boss, and he did so well that he ended up promoting him to become the CEO. The company has never done so well.” “So did they ever find Mitchell.” I asked. Cynthia just smiled and said, “Now that’s another story.

CHAPTER 3

The Cherry Orchard

Pensacola is a lovely southern city in the US. I had always wanted to mentor “at risk” kids. When I began teaching at Mullins High School my English class was a diverse group of kids predominantly Hispanic with a peppering of African American and Caucasian. Their backgrounds of my students were equally diverse; some being kids of the large naval air base, the sons and daughters of the United States Air force. Other kids were not so lucky living in poverty in the section known as the Gorbals. Wherever they came from, however, it was my job to educate them, so they’d have a fighting chance in this thing we call the 21st Century. When I first arrived at Mullins the kids were a ragtag bunch with little or no reading skills whatsoever. It took me two months and a lot of sleepless nights to get them just to even be willing to answer roll call. After I managed to earn their trust, I attempted to get them to read a book. They resisted. Many of them came from broken homes living in section 8 housing. The last thing they had time for, was to read some rubbish written by some rich person living in a big house.

So instead of ramming some pseudo intellectual literature down their throats, I bought 28 copies of The Diary of Anne Frank. Before I gave them the book, I asked them all if they had ever heard of her. No one raised their hand. The next couple of classes I gave them a history class and told them about the holocaust. Not a single kid in my class had ever heard what Adolf Hitler had done to 6,000,000 Jews between 1939 and 1945. When I felt that each kid understood exactly what had happened, I gave the kids The Diary of Anne Frank to read. I had purchased the books with my own money knowing that the school budget wouldn’t extend to such reactionary literature. I told my class that this book had been written by a girl around their age. The book was a huge hit amongst my kids, and we spent several classes discussing how the holocaust could ever have happened. I explained that democracy is fragile and if in the unlikely event we ever elected a corrupt President then his autocratic tendencies could possibly jeopardize the experiment we have called a democratic republic for over 200 years. Little did I know that my words would come true less than 30 years later.

As a young idealistic teacher I never imagined the success I would have. My students became my life, and I would visit them at their homes sometimes when they’d forgotten assignments, and I was able to drop them off a workbook or whatever they needed. It is hard to describe poverty without sounding superior. From where I came from; a middle-class environment with all the trappings of security built in so that when a rainy day comes, and it generally does in most people’s lives, safeguards are built in for people like me in order that we can surmount the problem. Those safeguards come in the form of bank loans, credit cards, second mortgages and as a last resort gifts from family members. These perks are generally not available to people who live on food stamps. A person who is living at poverty level has no credit cards to fall back on. By the time they receive their paycheck, pay their rent, electric and phone bill the money they have left is what is left in their pocket. When that is gone, they have nothing else until their next paycheck. That was the case with 60% of my class who live in the Gorbals.  My first-year teaching at Mullins High School was 1988 and President Ronald Reagan was in office. I had never been a fan of Reagan even though he ended the Cold War between the USSR and the US. Foreign affairs dominated his presidency including the bombing of Libya and the Iran Contra scandal, but he left office with high approval ratings that possibly helped another republican George Bush be elected to office. Being a democrat I approved of neither of these two gentlemen and was delighted in 1992 when William Jefferson Clinton won the highest office in the land and was elected President. By that time I had been working at Mullins High for 4 years. By 1990 I’d found my stride helped in part by my husband Jim Holland joining me in the school system where I worked who had been hired a year earlier as a roving music teacher in 5 of the schools. We would have long talks at night about the need for extracurricular lessons and he approved of the idea with such passion that he started mentoring kids himself. Jim was a natural musician. He could play most instruments with relative ease and loved to teach kids how to play. Because he worked in all 5 schools in the district, he had an unlimited choice of kids to pick from when he wanted to start an orchestra. He could use the music room at Mullins High to practice and store all the instruments at the school.

Sticking with my plan I expanded my mentoring beyond the classroom. In 1992 I decided to rent a studio in town and purchased a pool table, an upright piano and some other games like ping pong that kids liked to play and offered the space to anyone to use as a rec. center. Jim came in with me too and offered any kid who wanted free music lessons. All they had to do was ask. One night we had gone over to my uncle and aunt's house for dinner, and I mentioned that I had started an informal recreation center for kids to hang out in after school where Jim and I could help people read and learn to play music. Uncle John had a look on his face that when I thought back on it I realized was part of the reason he chose me. 3 days after Jim and I had dinner with them, we received an anonymous check for $10,000 with an attached note that read. “I hope this will help defray the costs somewhat. It’s a good thing you both are doing.” The note was unsigned. Jim and I were over the moon at our benefactor’s kindness and went to work with a zeal that until now had been unprecedented. I offered sessions to anyone young or old wanting help with their reading. I was surprised by how many people signed up for my classes. Like Jim I offered all my classes pro bono. We named the Recreation Center the Cherry Orchard Center which was a reference to Anton Chekov’s last play written in 1904 about an aristocratic Russian landowner who returns to her family estate (which includes a large and well-known cherry orchard) just before it is auctioned to pay the mortgage. Unresponsive to offers to save the estate, she allows its sale to the son of a former serf; and the family leaves to the sound of the cherry orchard being cut down. The story presents themes of cultural futility – both the futile attempts of the aristocracy to maintain its status and of the bourgeoisie to find meaning in its newfound materialism. Our “cherry orchard” would never be cut down but would grow tall, watered by hope, creativity, and imagination.

Pensacola is the site of the first Spanish settlement within the borders of the continental United States in 1559, predating the establishment of St. Augustine by 6 years and has a smallish population of just 55,000 residents. Jim and I had great success with the Rec center. I helped dozens of people learn to read and Jim began teaching adults how to play music, and before we knew it the cherry orchard was thriving sporting a basic orchestra, or what passed for one in the clinical sense and poetry readings once a week. The Cherry Orchard was driven by the kids at Mullins who without their help would never have made it. It became a sanctuary where kids could decompress from the stresses of life, have a place to go that was safe, drug free and above all a place where parents knew their kids would be looked after in a healthy fun environment.

Jenny and Jim Holland were the same age. By 1995 they were both 29 years old. Jim was tall, dark, and handsome and had always been popular with the ladies. Jenny was knocked down gorgeous. Every man she met asked her out. She stood 5 foot with the face of an angel and a body to match with green eyes and auburn hair. Jim Holland was the first man who had never fawned all over her and it surprised her. Not that she was stuck up but ever since she had turned 14 men had always cast their eyes on her in an admiring fashion. Jim simply ignored her, treated her like his equal and consequently Jim and Jenny became the best of friends. He didn’t invite her out on a date until their third year at George Mason University and even then, she was never entirely sure whether she was attending the JT concert as his friend or his date. It was only later after the concert was over, that he pulled over by a lake on the drive home and with a full moon over the water he leant over and kissed her gently on the lips and told her that he loved her. That night they sat contentedly in silence just staring at the moon until dawn. A month later they moved in together and a week after graduation in May 1987 they were married in the Episcopal church in Mclean Virginia. They honeymooned in Miami and shortly after they got home and set up their life together it was less than a year later that Jenny received a call from Uncle John informing her of the teaching vacancy in the County where he and Aunt Rachel lived.

As I was growing up Uncle John and Aunt Rachel always lived locally to us and my mom and Dad would pile us into the car and drive over to Chantilly where my uncle and aunt lived and spend the day swimming in their pool and being taken for golf cart rides around their property. Uncle John was always “the fun uncle.” Then they moved to Pensacola in the 1970’s and as all of us do, we grew up and got on with our lives. When I received the call from him about the teaching job in Escambia County schools, I was so grateful to him and accepted his invitation to stay with them during the interview. I flew in by myself to Pensacola airport and they kindly picked me up from the airport and drove me home to their house. It was the first time I’d visited and as we drove along the river road standing alone on a bluff overlooking Pensacola Bay was their house. It was a classic white clapboard 2 story Victorian with huge porches that wrapped all the way around the house. Savannah House, as the house was known sat high above Escambia Bay with gently sloping lawns rolling over the cliff. As we drove up the driveway to the house, I realized that Uncle John and Aunt Rachel had found paradise. That first night with them was magical. We had dinner on the porch, and we chatted and laughed and talked about the old days in Virginia. I knew that night what a kind gift they had both given me. Their love for me was 100% pure and I was so grateful to both of them.

As I sat in the Cherry Orchard listening to the dulcet tones of Jim’s trombone student, I remembered my first visit to Pensacola and smiled at the thought of now running such a cool Recreation Center. But it hadn’t always been that way. When I first started teaching at Mullins High my 10th grade class was in fact reading at a 8th grade level. My hope was that if I inspired enough kids about any given story, it might prompt them to read the book so their imaginations could be sparked. It didn’t happen that way. There was one more step that I had to overcome. Every year schools offer field trips. The problem is that kids who come from low-income families don’t have the money to spend on field trips. Their budgets are always tight and reserved for the essential purchases, and so it was up to me to create a fund that would pay for all kids to be able to go on field trips as a class. As I got to know my class, I was able to meet their parents as well, at PTA meetings. Generally they weren’t well attended but over my first year I managed to meet a few of the more affluent parents; some of my students were the children of air force personnel and I also met several moms who lived in the Gorbals. Back then museums were few and far between. The Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C opened on April 22, 1993. I’d wanted to take my class on a field trip to an Anne Frank memorial but short of flying them all over to Amsterdam to visit the house where she lived and was eventually arrested by the Nazi’s it’d be impossible. The year was 1989 and as yet the Holocaust Museum would not be open for another four years. My 10th grade class of 1993, however, did achieve the trip. I got permission from the school board of Escambia County to take my 28 kids on a trip to Washington DC. We drove the whole way there and back approximately 1500 miles and with the help of several chaperones who came with us we navigated I95 and spent one week away from Pensacola. One of my class parents, a travel agent, did all the heavy lifting regarding hotel reservations, and meals. I had managed to secure a grant that paid for the bus, and once again a generous anonymous gift paid for hotels and other supplementals. We managed to charter a bus from a wonderful local man called Earl who kept us all entertained on the long journey. Many of the kids had never even left their housing project let alone left the State and it was so cute to see the wide-eyed looks in their eyes as we drove north to DC and my childhood. One of the perks was that Jim had agreed to be a chaperone to the boys. He was a wonderful role model, and kids just gravitated to his generous nature. Another of the chaperones was the mother of one of my students Jamilla. Glenda grew up in the projects of Jacksonville, one of 7 children living with a single parent. At 16 she became pregnant with Jamilla and ran away to Pensacola and ended up living in the Gorbals as a single mother with 3 kids from 3 fathers. Glenda had a kind soul and had shown up for all the PTA meetings that year, and so I decided to ask her if she’d like to be a chaperone. My request surprised her. Not many honkeys gave Glenda a chance so as I asked her, she burst into tears. She had told me in a previous conversation how much she had always wanted to visit Washington DC and see the White House up close. Now as she sat on the bus, I could see the excitement in her eyes. She was a good woman. The visit was a roaring success. The journey up there took 13 hours, and we drove all night. Mr. Earl was a perfect driver and navigated the roads like the professional he was. Our itinerary was tight and Marsha, my travel agent buddy had booked us into a White House tour first thing the morning that we arrived. The kids had all slept well on the bus and were raring to go, but the chaperones were dragging a bit as we felt how one feels after an international night flight to Spain. Luckily, Mr. Earl, very experienced in this kind of travel, had arranged a stop in Quantico VA at a Burger King. There was ample bus parking, and we all clambered out of our steed and headed toward the wonderful aroma of coffee. The kids had a blast. After an hour Mr. Earl poured us back on the bus and we drove the final leg of our journey and arrived at The White House at 9:50 am.

Marsha had a friend in the social secretary’s office who met up with us as we exited the bus and gave us the finest tour of the White House that could ever have happened. I knew that Marsha was a good friend, but I had no idea the stunt that she had managed to pull off. Joan, Marsha’s friend, was leading us through a portion of the Rose Garden. The kids were chatting excitedly when all of a sudden out of the corner of my eye I noticed the President and First Lady walking along the portico between the Rose Garden and the Oval Office a few feet away. President Clinton in a loud voice shouted, “hi kids. Are you enjoying the tour?” Some kids looked surprised when they recognized him but shouted back to him that they were having a great time. “Where are you from?” He asked. “Pensacola FL,” they replied. “That’s a long way to come. Would you like to see my Office?” “Sure,” they all cried at once. “C’mon then,” he said, beckoning us with a wave. All of us walked obediently toward the President and Mrs. Clinton who took the time to shake us all by the hand and introduce themselves. They could not have been nicer. “I have a way to get into the Oval Office, so the secret service won’t get mad at us. Follow me everyone.” And President Clinton marched us through a set of French doors that led directly into his famous office. He and the First Lady spent 15 minutes with us showing the kids his desk and his phone. He genuinely cared about them and I, for one who had voted for him in the election the November before, was glad that I had made the right choice. After about 15 minutes President Clinton was told that he had a meeting and so he thanked us all for visiting, wished us a successful trip and left the room. We were led back out into the hallway and after a tour that will go down in the annals of history we headed back to the bus where Mr. Earl was waiting to drive us to our hotel so we could sleep before we visited the Holocaust Museum the next morning.

Most of the kids had never stayed in a hotel in their young lives, and so when Mr. Earl pulled the bus into the forecourt of the Washington Marriott hotel, the kids' eyes grew really wide. They gathered their luggage and traipsed into the lobby which was massive. High ceilings and a dining room and bar along with the reception desk met their every eye. Marsha had secured us 17 rooms at the group discount rate with two people sharing a room. The chaperones each had their own room and Jim, and I were “allowed” to bunk together much to the amusement of several of the less mature boys. We all checked in and arranged to meet for dinner in the dining room we’d just seen. The kids could not have been happier. Tomorrow was going to be a big day at the Holocaust Museum, and we had decided to leave the city around 6:30 pm so we could avoid rush hour traffic. It would save us a lot of money not to rent another hotel room and Mr. Earl had agreed to drive through the night so we could get home to Pensacola before midday the next day. We ate dinner that night, having a set meal for everyone and knowing it’d be a hectic day tomorrow, we turned in early so we could all get some much-needed shut eye.

We woke up having slept like rocks. I hadn’t slept so well for years. Maybe it was because we had met President and Mrs. Clinton or maybe it was because after three days of traveling and organizing thirty kids and their chaperones Jim and I were just tuckered out. Whatever the reason, we slept a dreamless sleep and awoke refreshed and ready to meet the Holocaust Museum head on. We had arranged to meet Mr. Earl at the entrance to the museum at 5:30 as soon as we finished our daylong tour, so we could jump on the bus and head over the bridge to start our journey homeward.

Since its dedication on April 22, 1993, the Holocaust Museum has had nearly 40 million visitors, including over 10 million school children, 99 heads of state, and more than 3,500 foreign officials from over 211 countries. The Museum's visitors came from all over the world, and less than 10 percent of the Museum's visitors are Jewish. Its website has had 25 million visits from an average of 100 different countries daily. 35% of these visits were from out of the United States. The Museum’s collections contain more than 12,750 artifacts, 49 million pages of archival documents, 85,000 historical photographs, a list of over 200,000 survivors and their families, 1,000 hours of archival footage, 93,000 library items, and 9,000 oral history testimonies. It also has teacher fellows in every state in the United States and almost 400 university fellows from 26 countries since 1994. Researchers have documented 42,500 ghettos and concentration camps built by the Nazis throughout Europe from 1933 to 1945. In 1978, Jimmy Carter established the Holocaust Commission, chaired by Elie Wiesel, a prominent author and survivor. Its mandate was to investigate the creation and maintenance of a memorial to victims of the Holocaust and an appropriate annual commemoration to them. The mandate was created in a joint effort by Wiesel and Richard Krieger. In 1979, the Commission presented a report to the President, endorsing the establishment of a national Holocaust memorial museum in Washington, with 3 main components: a national museum, an educational foundation, and a committee on conscience.

We spent the day at the museum looking at exhibits and watching movies. When I asked the kids what their scariest moments were, they all answered, “seeing the piles of shoes, glasses and clothes the Jews had been ordered to discard when they arrived at their destination. That one thing seemed to bring it home for the kids. We left the museum early so that Mr. Earl could drive us south before the rush hour hit hard. He drove us all night so the kids could sleep and by mid-morning we were back home in Pensacola. It was a wonderful field trip.

Tito Gonzales: Throughout my teaching career I have mentored hundreds of kids. Every one of them had that something special setting them apart and making them totally unique. Tito Gonzales was one such lad. Tito was a good-looking kid. The other kids picked on him because he did not enter in with class discussions. His family came from Mexico and had emigrated 3 years earlier as part of the DACA program. He was a silent lad.

Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) is an American immigration policy that allows some individuals with unlawful presence in the United States after being brought to the country as kids to receive a renewable 2-year period of deferred action from deportation and become eligible for a work permit in the U.S. To be eligible, recipients cannot have felonies or major misdemeanors on their records. Unlike the proposed DREAM Act, DACA does not provide a path to citizenship for recipients, known as Dreamers. The policy, an executive branch memorandum, was announced by President Barack Obama on June 15, 2012. U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) began accepting applications for the program on August 15, 2012.

In November 2014, President Obama announced his intention to expand DACA to cover additional undocumented immigrants. Multiple states immediately sued to prevent the expansion which was ultimately blocked by an evenly divided Supreme Court. 3 years later the Department of Homeland Security rescinded the expansion on June 16, 2017, while continuing to review the existence of the DACA program as a whole. Plans to phase out DACA were announced by the Cramer Administration on September 5, 2017; implementation was put on hold for six months to allow Congress time to pass the Dream Act or some other legislative protection for Dreamers. Congress failed to act, and the time extension expired on March 5, 2018, but the phase-out of DACA has been put on hold by several courts. On August 31, 2018, District Court Judge Andrew Hanen ruled that DACA is likely unconstitutional. However, he let the program remain in place as litigation proceeds. As of October 2019, the cancellation of the program was on hold by court order; a Supreme Court decision on the matter was not expected until 2020.

Research has shown that DACA increased the wages and employment status of DACA-eligible immigrants and improved the mental health outcomes for DACA participants and their children. Research suggested it reduced the number of undocumented immigrant households living in poverty. There is no evidence to indicate that DACA recipients had higher crime rates than native-born Americans; research showed immigrants have lower crime rates than native-born Americans. Economists rejected that DACA has adverse effects on the U.S. economy or that it adversely affected the labor market outcomes of native-born Americans.

In August 2018, USCIS estimated there were 699,350 active DACA recipients residing in the United States. Researchers estimate the population to be between 690,000 and 800,000 people. The policy was created after acknowledgment that "Dreamer" students had been largely raised in the US, and this policy was seen as a way to change immigration enforcement attention from "low priority" individuals with good behavior.

"Dreamers" get their name from the DREAM Act, a bill that aimed to grant legal status to young immigrants residing in the U.S. unlawfully after being brought in by their parents. Undocumented immigrant student populations were rapidly increasing; 65,000 undocumented kids graduate from U.S. high schools on a yearly basis. The majority of Dreamers are from Mexico.  

The DREAM Act bill, which would have provided a pathway to permanent residency for undocumented immigrants brought to the U.S upon meeting certain qualifications, was considered by Congress in 2007. It failed to overcome a bipartisan filibuster in the Senate. It was considered again in 2011. The bill passed the House but did not get the 60 votes needed to overcome a Republican filibuster in the Senate. In 2013, legislation had comprehensively reformed the immigration system, including allowing Dreamer’s permission to stay in the country, work and attend school; this passed the Senate but was not brought up for a vote in the House. The New York Times credits the failure of Congress to pass the DREAM Act bill as the driver behind Obama's decision to sign DACA. President Barack Obama announced this policy with a speech in the Rose Garden of the White House on June 15, 2012. The date was chosen as the 30th anniversary of Plyler v. Doe, a Supreme Court decision barring public schools from charging undocumented immigrant children tuition. The policy was officially established by a memorandum from the Secretary of Homeland Security titled "Exercising Prosecutorial Discretion with Respect to Individuals who came to the US as Children". This policy allowed immigrants to escape deportation and obtain work permits for a period of two years—renewable upon good behavior. To apply, immigrants had to be younger than 31 on June 15, 2012, must have come to the U.S. when they were younger than 16, and must have lived in the U.S. since 2007. In 2012 Pew estimated that 1.7 million people were eligible for the program. 

Tito was a silent child. His father and three brothers had been executed by a Mexican drug gang right in front of him. Prior to that terrible event Tito had been a fun-loving outgoing child. His father had been in a rival gang and the ones who killed him, and his 3 sons claimed that he owed them money for a drug transaction. Tito’s Dad was guilty but did not deserve to die or have members of his family die as well. Tito, at 13 years old witnessed the whole event. He was hiding under the stairs. His Mom took him that day and disappeared making her way to the US Mexican border. She knew that she’d be turned back at the border and so after discussing it with Tito they crossed late one night in the desert. Three days of intense heat with little water took its toll on the couple but they eventually arrived undetected in El Paso, TX and quickly got lost in the thriving Mexican community. Rosa Gonzales, Tito’s mother, had a sister living in Pensacola and slowly she and her son made their way by Greyhound bus to live with her in the Gorbals of our fair city. Tito never spoke a word from the day his dad and brothers got shot until I met him in my 10th grade class years later. Initially he was evaluated, and they determined he was a special needs child and so they sent him to special classes. Immediately it was apparent that Tito was smart as a whip but just refused to speak. His mother told school shrinks that he’d spoken before the murder but since the killing hadn’t said a word. School shrinks decided after they learned of the trauma he was suffering from PTSD.

When I was a new teacher, our budgets were extremely limited. Field trips had to have educational purposes so just taking my kids on a picnic for instance was not really feasible. It took me a long time to earn the trust of some of my hardcore students who by the time they entered 10th grade had seen life through a lens that most of us cannot imagine. Many times I’d send a permission slip home, and I’d discover it’d been binned the moment my kids left the school. They knew their parents would never allow them to go on a field trip, generally because they lived on such a rocky financial cliff all the time. One night I mentioned this to my uncle who listened carefully and then without a word took out his checkbook and wrote a check for $20,000 and gave it to me. Jim and I had taken to inviting Uncle John and Aunt Rachel once a week to our home. They were a bit lonely, and we loved having family close enough that we could just pop in whenever we felt like it and they could do the same. I held the check in my hand, flabbergasted at his generosity. “Thank you so much Uncle John, but I couldn’t possibly accept this gift.” “Don’t be silly Jen. I want you to have it so it will help with your mentoring of the poorer kids in our community. Call it your slush fund. I insist.” It was then that I realized for the first time who my anonymous donor was. I smiled and gave Uncle John a big hug. “If you ever need anything else, you know where we are.”

Something happened a week later. We have a sweet theater in town called The Lyceum just six blocks away from our house in downtown Pensacola. On occasion they bring in National acts when they can afford it, but their bread and butter is typically local theatre. We have an active theatre company in town that generally puts on 3 or 4 shows each year. One morning I was glancing through the paper, and I saw that the Martha Graham Dance Company was appearing at the Lyceum two weeks from Friday. Uncle John had recently given me the slush fund, so I decided to buy 30 tickets for the matinee for my class. I had bought the tickets on a whim and the following day announced what I’d done. There were a few groans from the boys but in the main my news was received with great positivity. The Martha Graham Dance company, even if you’re not a big ballet buff, is part modern dance, part extreme gymnastics and part ballet. I’d seen them several times in my life and always came away from their shows with a sense of awe.

The Martha Graham Dance Company, founded in 1926, is known for being the oldest American dance company in the USA. Founded by Martha Graham as a contemporary dance company, it continued to perform pieces, revive classics, and train dancers even after Graham's death in 1991. The company is critically acclaimed in the artistic world and has been recognized as "one of the great dance companies of the world" by the New York Times and as one of the 7 wonders of the artistic universe by the Washington Post. Many of the great 20th and 21st century modern dancers began their careers there including Merce Cunningham, Erick Hawkins, Pearl Lang, Pascal Rioult, Miriam Pandor Anna Sokolow, and Paul Taylor. Their repertoire of 181 works also include guest performances from Claire Bloom, Baryshnikov, Fonteyn, Liza Minnelli, Rudolf Nureyev, Maya Plisetskaya, and Kathleen Turner. Martha Graham’s style and the Graham technique is recognized in more than 50 different countries.

I received permission to take my class to the performance and sent permission slips home with all the kids to give to their parents. I explained that there would be no charge as an anonymous “patron of the arts” had kindly donated the tickets. Surprisingly, the slips all came back signed. The day arrived and the school bus picked us up at 12:00 for the 1:00 matinee. The kids filed into the Lyceum, excitement dripping out of their ears. Tito sat silently watching and when the curtain rose and the dancers filled the stage and our eyes with passion and creativity, I noticed a smile come to his lips. The dancers told their story with music, but you did not have to speak to understand the emotion they cast over the footlights that day. 2 hours after they’d begun to dance the entire troupe came out and took a final bow. Every child in my class stood and gave them a standing ovation. Tito, still with that same smile, looked at me as his smile broadened and said just one word that I will remember for the rest of my life. “Gracias.” From that day on Tito began speaking again. Something at that Martha Graham performance brought him back. He learned to speak English very quickly, became popular with his fellow students and his grades soared. When eventually he applied for college, he was accepted to Florida State on a full 4-year scholarship. Tito still drops in to see us at The Cherry Orchard when he’s home to see his mom and always volunteers his time no matter what.

By 2000 I had earned my Ph.D. and Jim, and I had celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary. I had lost my Dad earlier that year and his loss surprised me deeply. He’d been a difficult man, an authoritarian but I chose to remember the things that bonded us such as cabinet building. He had taught me how to build furniture and now in my spare time I liked to mess around with refinishing a table or making a hutch from scratch. One night Jim and I were chatting, and he knew how passionate I was about cabinet making and he suggested out of the blue. “Why don’t you start a cabinet makers course at the Cherry Orchard?” “Well we don’t have any equipment for a start,” I replied. “What would you need?” He asked. I thought about that for a moment and then said. “A mitre saw, a drill press, and various jig saws and stain and varnish. That’d be just for starters. And then of course there is the room. I don’t think the center is big enough to hold all the equipment we’d need. It’s a good idea though and I’d love to teach young kids the art of cabinet making.” Jim’s idea sparked something inside me and lo and behold a month later a building right up the block became available. I put out feelers and parents got back to me telling me they’d love to sign up their child. Before I knew it, I had jumped in feet first and had rented a large space that I decided to call The Cherry Cabinet Tree. All I had to do was fill it with lathes, drills, saws, and students willing to become apprentice cabinet makers. One such student was Noah Washington, a boy in my class and the son of an African American single mother who lived in the Gorbals and worked as a maid at the Econo Lodge motel out on the bypass. Noah was good people. He had always worked hard but academics were not his strong suit. He needed to find a trade, and from the day he took his first lesson from me I knew he would one day become a fine craftsman. True to my belief Noah over the next couple of years became an expert cabinet maker. His attention to detail was without compare, and his natural flair impressed even me. I had offered to teach him to build furniture and learn to use power tools for free and his ability made me proud. There was a small room in the front of the building which I turned into a retail outlet and called Cherry Orchard Cabinets. By the time we had the room fully equipped I had 4 students who met for classes twice a week and down the road at the Cherry Orchard I taught private reading lessons. I remained busy 7 days a week and that was the way I liked it. Jim and I are a close couple and had the community spirit which was our engine. Before long we had his music studio, my cabinet making and my reading lessons along with a most active recreation center that kids used all the time.

Jim’s teaching space was called The Cherry Orchard Music Studio and by the time it was up and running he had 20 full-time students with Jim teaching them how to read music, play assorted instruments and ultimately join his orchestra. He had arranged to rent instruments from the music shop in town and if the student showed long term promise the parents were offered a rent to buy program. All the lessons were free but like anything that is free there was an option to pay if you could afford to do so. My community took to that idea with relish and before long we had a vibrant slush fund that could take care of unexpected problems or a necessary purchase. Jim’s orchestra was taking shape nicely with his students playing trombone, piano, violins, drums, cello, and guitars. Jim used his position as music teacher in five schools to give extracurricular classes to kids who could never have afforded one on one instruction he offered.

One such kid was a 14-year-old boy named Bubba. He came from the wrong side of town, was heavy set with low self-esteem. Nobody talked to Bubba who was very much a loner. His parents never came to PTA meetings, and nobody knew that much about Bubba. One day he showed up at The Cherry Orchard when I was between classes and asked if he could play the piano. “Of course you can,” I said, and he walked over to the standup piano and began playing a piece that I was familiar with, Chopin’s Prelude in E minor. I sat there aghast. It was one of those rare moments when the center was empty. Bubba played for a while longer, stopped and stood up and got ready to leave. “You’re welcome to come back any time,” I said, and he paused for a moment and then asked, “I’d like to learn to play guitar. Can Mr. Holland teach me?” “Yes, I’m sure he can,” I replied. “Let me talk to him and see if he has availability.” “Cool,” said Bubba. “I’ll come back tomorrow then. Thanks for letting me play your piano.” “Sure thing,” I said. “How long have you been playing piano?” I asked. “Oh about a year I guess.” He then left the center with me, still amazed at his talent. Later I told Jim about the incident and his reaction was the same as mine. “Now and then you find a natural talent. It seems we have such a lad. I look forward to teaching him the guitar.”

Bubba came in the next day and Jim was in the center with me and we both had a chance to get to know him. He was a sweet kid, painfully shy until you put an instrument in his hands and then his personality changed into a confident young man. Jim brought a guitar in with him and after slightly awkward introductions sat Bubba down and let him play the guitar. Keep in mind that Bubba had never played a guitar in his life before. It took him just a couple of strums to figure out the tuning and the relationship of the strings to one another for him to be able to hammer out a fairly standard blues song. I looked over at Jim and caught his eye and we exchanged a silent “OMG, this boy will be really a good player one day. With the right training.” From that day on Jim worked with him giving him the basics of guitar, knowing that Bubba by the time of the next lesson would have mastered what he had just been taught. Bubba was a natural born guitar player. After teaching him for a year Jim decided that he had taught him all he could and recommended he apply early to the music department at the University of West Florida (UWF) right here in Pensacola. Jim, who'd encouraged many of his students to apply to the degree program agreed to help Bubba with the paperwork and a year later at the tender age of 16 Bubba (Richard) Wilkie was accepted into the music program on full scholarship. Bubba’s case was an exceptional one. His home life, that he rarely if ever talked about, was heartbreaking. His father and mother had been touring musicians who played with a well-known national band originally from Florida. When Bubba was only 5, they were both killed in a traffic accident driving away from a gig shortly after the band began breaking big. Young Bubba staying with his mom’s parents who lived in a small town near Tallahassee close to the Georgia border was naturally devastated. He spent 3 years with them and then they died as well. At 8 he was shuffled off to an aunt's house in Pensacola where he lived until we had the privilege of getting to know him. From the day he wandered into The Cherry Orchard and wowed me with his piano playing Jim and I became his surrogate family. He turned out to be a compassionate and caring boy who was always thoughtful. He told us that his aunt had a piano in her house that he was allowed to mess around with. He’d never taken a music lesson before meeting us but had the rare talent of hearing a piece of music just once and being able to replay it note for note on the piano. His aunt, a classical music nut allowed him to listen to her records and before long he was playing Debussy, Chopin, Beethoven, and a number of other famous composers. It never occurred to her how unusual it was that her nephew was able to replicate what he was hearing directly by ear. He’d never had a music lesson in his life.

We were so proud of Bubba. His natural talent parlayed with hard work into becoming a truly excellent guitarist who became noticed by a talent scout who offered him a good amount of money to work with a touring band. Bubba had just turned 16 and applied for a scholarship at UWF and decided to turn the offer down. In my opinion the best choice he could have made. Ultimately when he graduated UWF with an honors degree he chose to go on the road and become a road warrior like his parents. Today Bubba owns his own recording studio in Muscle Shoals Alabama, adding his own unique music talent to friends of his like The Allman Brothers Band, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Eric Clapton, and other musical luminaries. It’s nice to know that we helped him launch.

CHAPTER 4

Sunshine

I had been thinking about visiting some of the businesses that I owned for some weeks. From everything I was learning from Cynthia Uncle John’s business model was much like the ones Jim and I had created when we started The Cherry Orchard. I asked Cynthia to organize an itinerary for me and Jim and before I knew it, we were on a plane to Houston Texas for our first drop in to an assisted living center for seniors.

I was nervous as I drove up to the Sunshine Assisted Living Center (SAL) in my rental car on my first day undercover. I was meeting the longtime manager of the center Sally Jennings at 8.00 am. I’d arrived in Houston the day before with my husband Jim and had checked into the Red Roof Inn a few miles from the airport after we’d rented an old car from rent a wreck car rentals. My cover story was that I’d just been released from prison after serving a term for a nonviolent crime and had been released on probation on the understanding that I get work in an approved facility. Sunshine Assisted Living was the approved facility. I’d been hired as a nurse’s aide to clean bed pans, help serve meals change sheets and generally help out wherever necessary. It paid minimum wage and required me to be available whenever an emergency arose. There were 23 bedrooms for the 23 elderly residents of Sunshine (or SAL as it was fondly referred to), with a small apartment provided for Sally Jennings. The moment I walked into the home I felt a warmth that could not be faked. I was directed to Sally’s office by a young man in reception and the first thing Sally did when she met me was give me a smile and a hug. It was clear she had no judgement against me and after a few minutes of getting to know me, she took me to another room, gave me a work smock and introduced me to the residents and my fellow workers. Sally had no idea that I was undercover because I was simply part of a prison reform program that Cynthia had worked with in the past.

Sunshine Assisted Living had joined Harriman Holdings back in the 90s after it had run afoul of some governmental violation that had refused to allow adults with special needs to work in their assisted living centers. The previous manager had initiated the hiring of special needs workers when she decided to hire her niece who had Down’s syndrome. The residents adored Mia Jennings who loved them all and did a wonderful job. She was always supervised and never asked to do anything she couldn’t handle. One day the state had a snap inspection which caused quite a scuffle amongst the paper pushers in the State capital. Within weeks of the inspection, (which had gone without a hitch,) Sally Jennings received a letter advising her that the state now required mandatory minimum educational qualifications in order to satisfy the new insurance requirements. They never mentioned Mia Jennings by name, but the implication was there. The manager knew it was a threat but ignored it only to find six months later that their state funding had been cut as they hadn’t complied with the state’s request. It took a court case and the manager quitting for the problem to become nuclear. The upshot had been that Harriman Holdings stepped in to alleviate the problem and privatized the center. This simply meant that funds were replaced by Mr. John’s unique funding approach and federal funding was kept regarding Medicare and Medicaid. Uncle John began to offer incentive programs vis a vis hiring released felons who had been convicted of nonviolent crimes and he actively encouraged special needs adults to work for SAL helping to make beds and wash dishes in the center. Both programs had been so successful that SAL had won several awards in recent years. One of the superstars of the latter program was a young autistic man named Al Kinsey. Al was 37 years old, single and probably the kindest man Jenny had ever met in her life.

Al Kinsey had been raised by his mother after his father had abandoned them when Al was just one. She had done her best but was ill equipped to look after an autistic child. She was a kind woman who passed her generosity onto her son. When Al was 16, he came home from school to find his beloved mother dead in her favorite chair.  Her death was ruled as natural causes and so young Al learned to live alone in their paid for modest one-story home on a quiet suburban street in Houston. Years before the government had assessed Al as autistic and he became a Medicare recipient and received $598 per month. Those checks continued to arrive monthly and was how Al eked out a living until he turned 18. On his 18th birthday he walked on over to the Sunshine Assisted Living center where he’d been volunteering for the past 2 years and with all the mental strength, he could muster he applied for a full-time paying job. It was all he knew and the manager, Sally Jennings who had hired her niece Mia some years earlier, believed in Al and knowing his situation placed a call to Harriman Holdings and spoke with Uncle John who right away offered Al a job. Al was overjoyed. This meant more to him than anything else and he promised Ms. Jennings the manager that he would work hard and make her proud; to which she replied instantly, “I’m already proud of you Al, and I know you’ll work hard.” She put her arms around him and gave him the biggest hug. From that day forward Al never missed a day of work, rain or shine. He always arrived at work with a smile on his face and loved to play games with the residents who loved him like a son. Al was not worldly wise, his brain not functioning like everyone else’s. The simplest things would trip him up. He was a young man who needed order in his life, and the simple tasks that were asked of him to do at the Sunshine Assisted Living home met those requirements. However no one had ever taught him to pay his bills on time and one December morning shortly after his mother had passed away, Mia, her aunt Sally Jennings and several volunteers from the center visited him at his home bringing him some presents for Christmas. They found him sitting in the dark confused and scared and while it was not cold where they lived Sally Jennings bundled him up and brought him to the center. She requested to Uncle John that he be allowed to live at the Sunshine Assisted Living center permanently as part of his pay. Uncle John agreed, and from that day on Al lived at the Sunshine Assisted Living home. He sold his moms’ house putting the profits in a new bank account that Ms. Sally helped him open at a local branch.

My week undercover was possibly the best week of my life. Sally Jennings turned out to be a saint. A lady with almost no education, she was a natural leader. I worked my fanny off that week and loved it. The staff never once judged me or made me feel inferior even though they thought I was a felon. I got to know the staff and by the end of the week I’d been fully accepted into the SAL family. Sally allowed me to read stories to the residents whenever I had a moment and, being a teacher, I loved that part of my job. The residents were always friendly and welcomed me with open arms. I never felt the sting of rejection from anyone and considering they all thought I was a felon their response to me was impressive.

The residents were in varying degrees of physical and mental decline. Several of them were well into their 90s with many of them suffering from dementia. Some were unable to walk and needed the assistance of a wheelchair while 3 of them were in the late stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Never once did I notice any member of the staff being short tempered with any of the residents, in fact they were just the opposite. One young lady called Jessica who had come to SAL on a court order had such low self-esteem she had originally spent her days complaining bitterly about how unfair everything was. One morning an elderly resident noticed her nails and asked her where she’d had them done and Jessica told the truth that she had done them herself. The resident was so impressed that she asked her if she could do her nails for her. Jessica agreed, and from that moment on she began doing nails and makeup for all the 14 ladies who were residents at SAL. All it took was for the resident to compliment her on her ability that made the difference. Life is funny like that.

Al had now been at Sunshine for 19 years and had recently met a young lady at a social gathering. Janice Edmonds had Downs syndrome and the spark between them was instantaneous. Al went to Ms. Sally and asked her advice on what to do and Sally suggested that he invite her out on a date. “Well I’ve never been on a date before,” Al complained. “What would I do?” Sally thought for a moment and then replied, “Do you have a favorite restaurant that you used to like to go to with your mom?” Al nodded his head and said, “Angelo’s Italian in town, because I like the spaghetti.” “Good,” replied Sally, “invite her to have dinner with you at Angelo’s and I can drive you there and pick you up. How does that sound?” Al had a big smile on his face, and he nodded that that would be an excellent suggestion. “Why don’t you ask her now Al,” I suggested as I was sitting next to them during the conversation. “Good idea,” he replied and stood up to go and find her. When he returned 10 minutes later wearing an even bigger smile than before, we knew that Janice had accepted Al’s invitation. What happened next was adorable. Sally waited until Janice had gone for the day and then turned SAL into fake Angelo’s. The residents pretended to be the restaurant diners and sat at the spare tables while Al sat with Jessica who pretended to be Janice. Al got a lesson on what to say to his date, how to behave along with basic rules in etiquette. The big day came, and Al met Janice at Angelo’s. He was the perfect gentleman. He and Janice chatted like old friends and enjoyed the ambiance of a lovely Italian restaurant while Sally sat outside the restaurant waiting to drive Janice home to her parents’ house and Al home to his new abode at SAL. When the two left Angelo’s Al sat in the back seat with Janice holding her hand as Ms. Sally chauffeured them back to Janice’s home. Al sweetly walked her to her front door and kissed her on her cheek and then walked back to the car with a big grin on his face. He was as happy as Sally had ever seen him.

Sally Jennings liked to arrange field trips for the residents as often as she could. SAL owned 2 15-seater Ford Transit vans that could carry the entire group who lived there to fun destinations. The maintenance man Kev could drive one van and Sally could drive the second van. On summer afternoons the residents enjoyed going to a park that had a lake where people could swim. On the Wednesday of the week I was there, Sally arranged for a trip to the lake and 20 residents signed up. It was about 30 minutes away and so we took two vans. The excitement was palpable. Most of the residents I knew by name now and I’d grown fond of many of them from reading to them each day. On this beach trip amongst others there was Ernie Miller, Marjorie Johns, Eric Stingle, John Jacks and Beatrice Summers for elderly people some in their late 80’s a change of scenery meant the world. The lake was crowded with young parents swimming with their kids, and a lifeguard blowing his whistle officiously at some child who had broken some rule. The sun was shining without a cloud in the sky, and all was good with the world. We had been there about an hour and all the seniors were lolling around laughing and talking when suddenly a small child started screaming. We all saw that she was in the deep water and was in trouble. Quick as a flash an 83-year-old named Ernie from SAL jumped up and ran to the water dove in and began swimming toward the young girl. The lifeguard who was at the opposite end of the beach jumped off his pedestal and began to run to help the child, just as Ernie got to her putting his arms around her and keeping her head above the water. He then swam back to the shore carefully pulling her along. When he got to the beach, he picked her up and carried her to her frantic parents who had been deep in conversation with each other and had taken their eyes off their child for just one moment. Had it not been for the quick thinking of a very agile senior citizen that day the outcome could have been very different. Ernie placed the girl on the family blanket making sure she was okay and got a standing ovation from all the people who’d come to the beach that day. Ernie, a shy and retiring kind of man, took it all in stride but was a hero that day. Coincidentally there was a reporter there that day enjoying a day off with her family and she introduced herself to Ernie and asked if she could take a picture of him and interview him for a local article. He reluctantly agreed being a modest man and so the journalist took a picture of him with the little girl he’d saved and interviewed him. The following day the paper featured Ernie’s story in the LOCAL NEWS section.

The story along with a flattering photo of Ernie with the young girl told the story of the events that had occurred yesterday at the lake. It then went on to include the story of a young Ernie Miller getting the Purple Heart for extreme bravery after he rescued the entire crew of a burning tank that had been shelled in World War II. This mild-mannered unassuming man who we all knew simply as Ernie was always a hero stressing that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

I sat with him that afternoon after the hubbub had died down at the center and he asked me why everyone was making such a fuss and that anyone would have done the same, but he had just got there first. I shook my head and replied. “No Ernie, most people would have shouted to the lifeguard to help but you took the initiative and saved that little girl's life, just like you saved those soldiers all those years ago. You are a true hero, Ernie.” In my humble opinion he was the third hero I’d met that week. Sally Jennings, Al Kinsey and Ernie Miller. Had I stayed longer I knew that several more heroes would have surfaced.

The week that I spent working at the Sunshine Assisted Living Center taught me more about compassion than I had ever known. The people who work there are the salt of the earth. Sally Jennings the manager was a natural caregiver. I have been in education for years and have seen every type of educator, folks with master’s degrees, PhD’s, and bachelor’s degrees but I had rarely seen anyone as natural, competent and proficient as Sally who never went to college and didn’t even finish high school but simply knew what to do with her geriatric charges. It reminded me of another incident that I had witnessed years earlier when I was visiting my cousin in Milwaukee. He worked at a half-way house for men recently released from jail. Darryl was a draft dodger who had gone to live in Canada. He came home at Christmas and was caught when immigration ran a check on him at the US Canadian border. They discovered he had an active warrant out against him and so he was arrested. Finally after languishing in jail for months he went to trial and was found guilty and sentenced to 3 years or 5 years community service. He chose the latter option, and ended up at Pathway, the halfway house in Milwaukee. By the time I visited him he had excelled at the center and been promoted and promoted until he was running a house with 20 residents in his care. Darryl had always been the fun cousin. Really nice and always popular with both sexes but had been somewhat lazy as a student. The end result was that due to laziness and not stupidity he didn’t go to college, putting himself directly in line to be called up for Vietnam. Vietnam was a dumb war. In fact technically it wasn’t even a war; it was a “police action.” This police action cost America more than 58,000 lives. Darryl along with countless other young men fled the US and headed for Canada, or Europe where they were able to hide until the government might offer an amnesty. In Darryl’s case the amnesty didn’t come soon enough. Contrary to popular myth Vietnam draft dodgers didn’t become pariahs with older men who’d served in earlier wars. They understood what’d happened to them and their buddies at Dunkirk and never would have presumed to rain down any judgement on the young man in that terrible position. The choice is a personal one, designed only for the person who has to make it. In Darryl’s case his choice was the right one. He turned out to be a natural counsellor helping dozens of young men make the right choices. The next house over at Pathway sitting adjacent to Darryl’s house was run by a Ph.D. from Miami who’d had every advantage given to him on a silver platter. Undergraduate degree from Harvard, a master’s degree from Stanford and finally his Ph.D. From Yale. Everything money could buy Paul Whitmer was handed. As they say in the Deep South, he had all the book larning. The trouble was that he was not a natural counsellor. His decisions were by the book, but he lacked that one ingredient that my cousin was born with, that was called empathy. So poor Paul while a man who had purchased his degrees could not make them work for him so in the end all he was, was in charge of a halfway house.

As the plane rose through the clouds, on my way to San Francisco to help out at a childcare center that Uncle John owned, I looked down at Houston and wondered what the good folks at SAL were doing right this minute. One thing I was sure of. Whatever it was, Uncle John would be mighty proud of each and every one of them.

CHAPTER 5

Saffy’s Learning Center

The year was 1968. It was the summer of love in Haight Ashbury a suburb of San Francisco. Thousands of hippies were spilling onto the sidewalks, smoking joints, getting stoned and preaching peace and love. Music was everywhere and Kids were jamming on the steps outside their squats. Anyone who had a guitar was welcome to join in and girls in brightly colored kaftans were singing and dancing in the streets. Joy was in the air. A few months later the western world experienced a population boom. Many of the girls who had been singing and dancing in the streets were now expecting victims of one-night stands during the summer of love. Two such ladies, Veronica Miller and Abbey Simms, friends since childhood were amongst those women. Both women were 19 and lived in a commune with a fluid group of fellow hippies. Neither girl had a clue who had impregnated them. It was just the way it was. Sadly reality has a way of smacking a person in the face which was precisely what happened to Veronica Miller and Abbey Simms. In their fifth month with no prenatal care Veronica hauled Abbey to a community clinic who scared the girls straight. That day armed with the facts they both realized they’d better stop drinking and partying if they wanted to have healthy babies. From then on they began to grow up.

Abbey Simms grew up in Sonoma California. Her parents owned a vineyard, and she grew up working the land with her Mom and Dad, two stoners from Colorado who had landed in Sonoma 25 years earlier by accident, bought a patch of dirt and decided to grow some grapes. After a couple of years they bought an adjacent property, expanding their venture. They taught Abbey the meaning of hard work until she ran away at 15 and joined the commune where she met Veronica.

Veronica Miller on the other hand grew up dirt poor. Her Dad deserted her mom when she got pregnant, and she and her mom lived in the back of a motel where her mom was a laundry lady. At 14 Veronica left and also joined the same commune as Abbey. During that time the two girls were passed from man to man so any chance they knew who the father might be was slim to none. The only thing they knew for sure was that he liked to get high and had good in music.

One morning after a visit to the clinic Abbey, asked Veronica what she was going to do with her baby. “I haven’t given it much thought,” she answered. “What do you intend to do?” Abbey thought for a moment and then decided to tell her friend about something she’d been cooking up for a while. “I’m going to have to figure out a way to look after the kid you know. So are you, Ronnie. I’ve found a space on Wilson where the chick who owns it will let us use a room for free if we agree to look after her kid. Well that’d be cool, and we could look after other kids as well. How hard could it be?” Ronny thought for a minute and then agreed. “Sure how hard could it be?”

Six weeks later Ronny and Abbey gave birth to a boy and a girl just 3 days apart. Ronny named her son Atomic Zagnut, while Abbey named her little girl Saffron. They put the word out that they were opening a day care center and named it Saffy’s. At that time no one really had too much money and so barter was always fine. Abbey and Ronny took kids in from the moms in the neighborhood. Sometimes the moms paid cash but in the main they offered food, weed, or toaster ovens. Saffy’s became known as a collective. As time went by Abbey and Ronny found they were really good at looking after children and before long they had a waiting list for kids to attend their little school. The two ladies were naturals and while they didn’t have college educations, they made up for their lack of knowledge of early childhood development by reading the kids great stories, creating an indoor playground with sandboxes and swings, and playing with all of them until the kids were so exhausted, they’d fall asleep on little mattresses the school had purchased. In the afternoon Saffy’s would have neighborhood musicians come and play for the kids and they would all dance so by the time Mom and Dad picked the kids up they’d had a full day of activity.

The 1960s were replaced by the 1970’s and Saffy’s World was growing up. Abbey and Ronny purchased a building just a block west of the room they’d originally rented and converted it into a Saffy’s World Learning Center with enough room to have 175 boys and girls in a state-of-the-art environment. They hired teachers with degrees, something that up until that point had rarely been tested because frankly qualified teachers were not a vital ingredient in childcare at that time in history. But now both parents were working and were more educated they were starting to insist on quality childcare. The days of just dropping your kid off at the corner day care was over. Yuppies had started to dictate, and Abbey and Ronny were geared up to succeed. They had come a long way from being the two stoners who used to run the corner day care where parents could drop their kids and hope that 8 hours later, they would still be alive.

Ronny turned out to be something of a public relations genius, and astounded Abbey by scoring a feature article in the San Francisco Chronicle shortly after they opened their new location. It didn’t take long for Saffy’s to become the hottest thing since bread was invented. Saffy’s World Learning Centers began springing up all over the Bay Area and before long, its reputation was synonymous with quality. Ronny decided to investigate a way to expand without having to lay out huge amounts of cash and soon discovered a way to do that where Abby and Ronny would actually get paid. The idea she came up with was to franchise their business which had now become super popular. She decided to check out how much they could get for franchising Saffy’s business model and then told her partner who agreed to do it. For a relatively low amount they took out some ads in Children’s Weekly, a national magazine that is distributed free to every childcare center in the US and sat back and waited for the phone to ring, which it did endlessly.

Like all things, Saffy’s came to an end with a crunch. Management and a Public Relations nightmare put a line beneath their plans to franchise their business. Ronny was as honest as the day is long but what happened with a franchisee put an end to dreams that Ronny and Abbey may have had. Ronny negotiated a contract with a national corporation who loved the business model that Ronny had pitched to them and were planning on building at least 100 Saffy’s World Learning Centers around the nation once the center that was their prototype had delivered a positive response from the city where there their headquarters were located. Ronny was excited about the buzz being created by the franchise concept, so when a famous baby food producer contacted her and signed a multi-franchise deal, she was over the moon.

This was before Abbey and Ronny had made the decision to hire only teachers with 4-year degrees or better. The company built a beautiful new building alongside their HQ so that their employees would have a state-of-the-art facility to leave their children in while they worked. The building had taken 6 months to build and was kitted out with every modern amenity. They staffed it with local childcare workers who appeared to be enjoying the children in this modern environment. The company had stipulated that they wanted to wait for a year before they started to build the new centers around the nation.

One morning a parent stormed into the school and demanded to speak to the Director. Her daughter had come home the night before with bruises on her arms. When she was asked where she had got those bruises from little Sophie told her parents that her classroom teacher Ms. Claudia had grabbed her roughly and lifted her up by her arms and thrown her on a couch. The mother understandably was furious when she spoke with Ms. Amanda the Center director. Amanda tried to mollify her but clearly no amount of apologizing was helping. After the mother left her office demanding the teacher Ms. Claudia be fired, she pulled up the video and spent the next couple of hours searching for the incident as she knew that everything that happened at the center was being videotaped. Sure enough Ms. Amanda found the damning video and just as Sophie’s Mom had told her, there was Ms. Claudia, clearly angry advancing on young Sophie and grabbing her by the arms, lifted her, swung her around, and tossed her on the couch. Unfortunately, things only got worse. Ms. Amanda called Claudia up to her office and confronted her with Sophie’s complaint and then showed her the video. Until this point Claudia had denied it ever happened, becoming angry when the Director accused her of that kind of abuse but folded the moment Ms. Amanda played the videotape. She was fired immediately, but 3 weeks later the center received a summons from Ms. Claudia’s attorney claiming wrongful termination and even worse invasion of privacy because the center was taping her movements without her consent.

The case started with depositions and the tape of the incident became evidence. Sadly for the center the tape was leaked to the press and hit the national news pictures of an angry teacher yanking a child and throwing her onto a sofa. It caused a national uproar. The Teacher lost her case, but the damage was done and the company who wanted to franchise Saffy’s World Learning Center backed out of the deal causing Ronny and Abbey’s business to go into a tailspin which ultimately brought bankruptcy to their door.

 In the course of a matter of months their business went into foreclosure. The centers they owned in the Bay area held on a bit longer but by mid-1995 the writing was on the wall. In 1996 Harriman Holdings took over Saffy’s World Learning Centers and Uncle John became the owner of the entire business.

I flew to San Francisco, one of my most favorite cities in the US on a Friday, with plans to stay at the Sheraton in downtown SF for the weekend and take in the sights and then conduct my business on Monday morning at Saffy’s. I had last visited San Francisco in the 1970’s. I had no money, so I’d bought a 30 day go anywhere ticket on a Greyhound Bus from Washington D.C across to California, where I planned to travel up and down the coast until 2 days before my ticket expired and then head home. I would buy some bread, cheese, and water and plan out my itinerary carefully going from Spokane to New Mexico visiting all the wonderful sights I’d never been able to visit as a child. I’d stay as long as I could in a city, and then catch the last bus out so I could sleep on it at night. My plan worked wonderfully but the trouble was that there were so many places I wanted to see, and I just didn’t have the time. I got up to all kinds of adventures worrying my parents to death, but it was all part of my growing up experiences. I loved it. Now I was in San Francisco again after 40 years and intended to enjoy my time but this time with a few bucks in my pocket.

Saffy’s World Learning Center was humming when I arrived at 9.30 am on Monday. Kid sounds, laughter, a little crying, and general mayhem were what greeted me that fine morning. As I walked in the door there was a reception area right opposite the front door with 2 young ladies attending to all the parental needs of the day. One of the young girls greeted me with a smile and after I had explained who I was she asked me to wait for a moment while she rang Ms. Saffy who was in the back classroom with the kindergarten kids. A few minutes later the young lady led me down the hallway to meet Ms. Saffy in her classroom. As I entered the kids about 20 of them were all busy painting while Saffy walked from child to child giving them encouragement for their project. “I’m Jenny Harriman, and I understand you’ve been expecting me?” I said with a smile on my face. “Yes, how lovely to meet you. I was so sorry to hear about your uncle’s passing. He was a lovely man and I know he’ll be missed. I understand that you’ve taken over for him and are now running Harriman Holdings?” I nodded and Saffy motioned to her assistant to take over while she gave me a tour of the center. “This center was the prototype of all our centers around the US. Everyone is identical. When Aunt Ronny came up with her idea of franchising, she figured it’d be easier to insist on new clean buildings so that would give the parents peace of mind. Also we could visualize if there was a problem in the school. Nowadays it’s all virtual so if I want to check out a school in Laurel Maryland, all I have to do is log on and I can be having a meeting within five minutes.” I laughed and said something about the advantages of the digital age. The tour took about 30 minutes where I visited the toddler room and saw 8 beautiful sleeping infants with gentle lullaby music playing in the background. I saw the two-year old’s room with kids playing happily on the floor with each other. Saffy then took me outside to the playground where I saw the three-year old’s roaming on the swings. By the time my tour was finished I knew in my heart of hearts that this center was being cared for by a caring individual who put children first.

I worked at Saffy’s Learning Center for 5 days. By the end I knew the meaning of hard work and had nothing but admiration for the staff who tirelessly worked with smiles on their faces, never losing patience with the kids and always putting their best foot forward. I was proud to advertise that I owned Harriman Holdings. My next port of call was to become a server in a 50’s style diner in Herndon Virginia called The Happy Peach Diner.

CHAPTER 6

Mueller reappears

Heinrich Mueller aka Henry Mitchell managed to escape justice in 1945 and had slipped into the US on forged papers a year later in 1946. As an electrical engineer he was hired at Chrysler and worked there for several years. In his spare time in his garage he invented a solenoid which was really just a motor that happened to work using a coil of wire. The job of a solenoid is to turn electrical energy into movement. His idea caught on and within a couple of years he’d turned his idea into a flourishing business that he called Mitchell’s Solenoid Company. In 1953 the business became so big that he rented a larger factory space. Along with renting larger space Mitchell had to hire more employees.

In 1969 Fillip Kowalski went to work for Mitchell’s Solenoid Company and on his 3rd day at work he saw an old nemesis from Majdanek concentration camp namely Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller. There before his very eyes was the monster that would torture the inmates year after year. His name was now Henry Mitchell, and he owned the company that Fillip was now working at. Over the next few months he discovered where Mitchell lived and then contacted a Nazi hunter named Wiesenthal who put his best agents on the case. Finally 9 months after Fillip first contacted them, a hearing was held that confirmed Henry Mitchell was Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller.

 A day later Mitchell disappeared. Shortly after the hearing that had implicated Henry Mitchell of being Nazi war criminal Heinrich Mueller, along with multiple different identifications and a bag full of money took a train from Detroit to Washington DC to lose himself in the anonymity of a new city. He arrived at Union Station and took a taxi over to Roslyn Va. The year was 1970. He checked into a small motel for a week under the false name Barry Kemp providing a Massachusetts driver’s license as identification. He paid for the week in advance using cash.  The next day he took a cab to a dealership and bought a 10-year-old Volvo 960 for cash and drove in it back to his motel. The next day he drove to Fairfax and found a 1-bedroom flat to rent in an anonymous building tucked away on a shady side street. Barry Kemp’s lease started at the beginning of the following week. Meanwhile agents from The Wiesenthal Center soon discovered that Henry Mitchell had disappeared. His company had no information as to his whereabouts and his neighbors reported that his house had been dark for about a week. Henry Mitchell aka Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller had disappeared off the face of the earth.

 One of the agents Sophia Engelmann who had been tracking Mueller from day 1 as soon as she heard he had gone missing began checking the train and bus schedules. She had a friend who worked for the FBI whom she called and asked unofficially if he’d be willing to do some snooping for her. He agreed to help her, and she sent him a current photo of him. Sophia figured that because he wasn’t a fugitive, he wouldn’t bother to try to disguise his appearance yet. A couple of weeks passed and then one morning her phone rang. It was her friend from the FBI. “I went down to the bus terminal and showed Mitchell’s photo around to all the ticket agents and I came up empty. So I went over to the Detroit station and spoke to the main ticket office. The man was unsure at first but then remembered he had sold a ticket to a man matching that description with what he described as having a heavy foreign accent. He sold the man a one-way ticket to Washington D.C.” “Oh that is good news Jack. I’m most grateful to you. Did he mention the time and the day that Mitchell bought the ticket?” Sophia asked, feeling that surge of excitement when you’re getting close to catching your prey. “Yes, he said on the 19th and the train would arrive at Union Station at 3:55 pm.” “I’m so grateful to you Jack. I look forward to receiving your bill.” Sophia said and hung up her phone. She sat back in her chair to consider what her next move should be.

 Barry Kemp was being interviewed for a job as a salesman at the electronics giant Circuit City. In recent years there had been an explosion in technology and young upwardly mobile families were moving into the hundreds of brand-new subdivisions in Fairfax County. Business was booming and Barry Kemp was offered the job at the store on Route 50 near the Chesapeake Seafood House. The Wiesenthal Center recruited survivors from all over the world to help hunt down Nazis who had fled Germany in the aftermath of World War II. For several decades, the appetite was to bring all the war criminals that had fled to justice. But as the memory of WWII was replaced by newer atrocities and as the Nazis were getting older the appetite to bring them to justice was becoming less appealing. This was not the case with most Nazi hunters who’d promised to track every guard, Kapo, Sonderkommando, quisling, SS officer and any member of the Third Reich who had so far managed to evade capture and any criminal charges. Sophia Engelmann as a young German Jew had survived 4 years at Auschwitz. When she was first sent there, she was chosen to work at IG Farben Monowitz which employed thousands of Jews to work as slave labor in the chemical factories that comprised IG Farben or as they referred to it, Auschwitz III. Sophia worked in the rubber production factory making tires and rubber products that would help Germany win the war. The irony was that Sophia grew up in Berlin and would have volunteered her time to help in the war effort. Instead because she was a German Jew, she was subjected to being arrested, beaten tortured and finally being sent for medical experimentation that almost killed her. After she was liberated by US soldiers in 1945, she along with thousands of other survivors came to live in America.

 Sadly a large number of Nazi criminals managed to slip in unnoticed, so as soon as survivors like Elie Wiesel, and Simon Wiesenthal started to hunt them down people like Sophia Engelmann volunteered to help them catch these murderers, rapists and thugs who had terrified and murdered millions of innocent souls over the past 10 years. It was at Circuit City that the father of a young family who were shopping for audio equipment and TVs for their new home recognized Barry Kemp. Barry had been working there for more than six months now and was gaining a reputation among his fellow employees as an excellent salesman. He had the gift of the gab and for the past 2 months had been named employee of the month. One Saturday morning the Cleary family had dropped into the store to buy TVs and a sound system for their brand-new house in the Cascades subdivision in Fairfax. Jan Cleary had her father visiting from New Jersey. The store was busy that day and after a while Rob Cleary began looking for a salesman to help them. A few minutes later Barry Kemp approached them to see if he could answer any of their questions. As he walked toward them Jan Cleary’s Dad froze. “What’s the matter Dad?” she asked. “I’ve just seen a ghost,” replied Rabbi Elon. Her father had lost all color in his face and was trembling uncontrollably. “What can I do to help?” she continued. “I need to leave right now.” The Rabbi said. “I’ll see you back in the car.” And the man turned tail and left the store. Jan looked at her husband and said, “Rob let’s do this another day. I don’t think Dad is feeling too well.” Rob Cleary nodded his head, and they thanked the salesman for his time and walked to the exit. “I wonder what came over Dad?” Jan asked.  That afternoon while the children were playing in the back yard of their new home Jan Cleary asked her father how he was feeling. Rabbi Elon who was sitting on the sofa looking out at his 2 grandchildren pulled up his sleeve and showed his daughter and son in law the tattoo he had received when he was sent to the Mauthausen concentration camp. Jan gasped as she saw it for the first time in her 24 years. “I was a Yugoslav student living in Belgrade when on April 6, 1941, Germany bombed Belgrade. It became known as Operation Retribution after a coup d’état happened on April 2nd, 1941. Right after the coup Germany invaded Yugoslavia and rounded up students, political dissidents, and Jews. I was part of that round up and they arrested us immediately. I never saw your Grandparent again. They put us in cattle cars and took us to their concentration camps. I was sent to Mauthausen.  Many were taken straight to Auschwitz and Dachau where they were exterminated immediately. When we arrived at Mauthausen we were greeted by members of the SS Gestapo holding attack Alsatians on leashes who were growling and barking. One of those SS officers was the man I saw today in Circuit City.” Rabbi Elon took a sip of his tea as that last statement sank in. “Are you positive Dad?” his daughter responded. “Oh yes Jan. Quite sure. I’d stake my life on it. That man was a monster. He’d strut around wearing jackboots and holding a cane. If he took a dislike to any Jew, he’d beat them to within an inch of their life.” “We’ve never talked about that time in your life Dad. I’m so sorry you went through it. If you don’t mind me asking how long you were there?” Jan asked. “Nearly four years.” Her father answered. “Nearly four years.”

Suddenly Rob broke into the conversation. “I have the salesman’s card,” he said producing it with a flourish. “Why don’t we check him out?” Rob Cleary was a detective with the Fairfax County Sheriff’s department. “Let me make a call and see if he has any warrants?” Rabbi Elon nodded his head great fully. “Thanks son, that’d be great. Half an hour later the Cleary’s were left scratching their heads. The Fairfax Sheriffs dept. could find absolutely nothing about Barry Kemp. It was like he had never existed. The next day Rob and Jan asked their father if he would babysit the kids for a couple of hours and they drove back to Circuit City. When they arrived, they asked to speak to their salesman Barry Kemp in order to complete a sale they’d started with him yesterday. A few moments later a manager came onto the floor and asked if he could help. The Cleary’s repeated their request and the manager looked embarrassed. Unfortunately Mr. Kemp no longer works here. He came to me at closing last night and told me he was quitting immediately. He told me that he’d had a family emergency and needed to fly home to Minnesota to attend a funeral. I told him that he’d be welcome to return as soon as he was ready, and we shook hands, and he thanked me.” Rob then showed him his badge and the manager looked concerned. “Is there a problem Detective?” “There well may be. Would you please give me Mr. Kemp’s home address?” The manager now was deeply confused and began to splutter. “What has he done?” Asked the manager. “I fear I can’t divulge any information at this juncture. Just the address please.” The manager looked defeated, went to his filing cabinet, found Barry Kemp’s address, and handed it over to Rob. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch.” Rob and Jan Cleary walked out of Circuit City and drove straight round to Barry Kemp’s address. Just as Detective Bob Cleary had suspected Barry Kemp was long gone. The moment that old Jew saw him in the store Barry Kemp knew he’d been recognized. Now he had to go to plan B. He waited until just before closing and then gave his manager a bullshit story of having to quit because of a family emergency. The guy took it pretty well. Barry then drove his car back to his apartment, packed a bag and was on the road heading south an hour later. He was mad at himself because he’d liked his job at Circuit City for the last 6 months but hell it was no use crying over spilled milk. What was done was done. He must be more cautious in the future. What are the chances that some old Yid would recognize him after all these years? He’d soon be Billy Green. He knew that he had to be Barry Kemp until he could ditch the car because if he got stopped by the police and his driver’s license identified him as Billy Green he’d be in all kinds of trouble. “That’s okay he justified to himself tomorrow I’ll sell my Volvo to a car dealer for cash and then get a taxi to another dealer and buy another car with my new name Billy Green. That night he drove south down interstate 95 and stopped for the night in Fredericksburg VA at HoJo’s motel. The next morning he awoke early and decided to drive on so that he could get out of Virginia before he tried to sell his car. He had decided to try his luck in Atlanta GA and so he drove south on 95 until the intersection of 85 which would take him directly to Atlanta. He stopped in Raleigh N.C. For lunch he found an open car dealership which offered him a criminally low price for his Volvo. He accepted and after all the paperwork was complete, he took a taxi across town and using his new ID became the owner of a nice Volvo station wagon.

2 hours later Billy Green was driving west on 85 heading for Atlanta. Sophia Engelmann’s contact Jack had managed to track Henry Mitchell to Union Station in Washington D.C. but there the trail ended. Sophia knew the first 24 hours were crucial before a lead ran dry and so she’d put her best agent in Washington on the case right away. Moe Berger had worked for Israeli intelligence and was based in DC. Sophia had known him since Auschwitz and had run into him years later when visiting a friend. Sophia explained to Moe that she was searching for Heinrich Mueller who had last been seen buying a train ticket from Detroit to Washington DC, but Union Station was where his trail went cold. It took Moe some time but finally he got back in touch with Sophia and told her that a man called Barry Kemp answering Mueller’s description was picked up by cab and taken to a motel in Rosslyn VA. Moe discovered that Mueller aka Kemp rented the room for a week and then moved to Fairfax where he found a job at Circuit City and found an apartment. Moe spoke with the manager of the store who told him that Kemp up and quit for no good reason. He’d been an exemplary employee and had worked there for 6 months. Apparently 2 detectives came looking for him after an incident at the store. The manager gave Moe the business card of one of the detectives, a man named Rob Cleary from the Fairfax Sheriff’s department. Moe contacted Detective Cleary and interviewed him. Cleary told Moe that he his wife and father-in-law, a Rabbi, had gone to Circuit City to purchase some audio equipment and TVs for their new home, and his father-in-law had recognized a salesman that he remembered as an SS officer at the concentration camp that he’d been sent to in World War II. The Rabbi was so upset at seeing the Nazi that he left the store immediately. His son in law and daughter left the store too without buying anything but not before the detective got a business card from the salesman called Barry Kemp. “That’s fine work Moe. Did you find out where he lives?” “I did, but sadly he must have realized he’d been identified because that night he quit his job, left the area, and disappeared. I interviewed Detective Cleary a day later and showed him a picture of Heinrich Mueller and he confirmed that Barry Kemp and Mueller were one and the same. Now we need to figure out if he’s headed south to Florida or west to Atlanta Georgia." 

CHAPTER 7

The Happy Peach Diner

We flew from San Francisco to Dulles VA where the location of my next business was. I was about to begin working as a server in a diner chain my uncle had bought at a bankruptcy sale in 2008. The chain was called The Happy Peach Diner and was a group of ‘up market diners’ serving hamburgers, French fries, hot dogs, club sandwiches, and other simple, quickly cooked, and inexpensive fare, such as meatloaf. The Happy Peach offered a wide range of foods, mostly American cuisine, a casual atmosphere, and a combination of booths served by a waitstaff with a long sit-down counter with direct service. It was a 50s style diner designed to look just like the old lunch cars of the 1950s. As you walked in there was a long counter with stools for customers to eat at. A server stood behind the counter taking food and drink orders. Behind her was an open kitchen with a short order cook working his magic. It served hand-blended milkshakes and desserts such as pies, which were displayed in a glass case near the exit and convenient for last-minute purchases as the customers are paying their check and getting ready to leave. The Happy Peach had an exterior layer of stainless-steel siding—a feature unique to diner architecture that added a nostalgic, retro style feature also found in many restored drive-ins and old movie theaters. The restaurant chain had seven identically built diners all within the Northern Virginia and Maryland suburban DC area. I had been “hired” thanks to Cynthia’s organizational skills to work as a server for the week. It was Monday morning as I walked in the Happy Peach Diner in Herndon Virginia, and I was looking for Sylvia Weiss the day manager. The Happy Peach was a 24-hour Diner that in addition to the counter had a number of booths and tables to the left and right of the entrance. Standing at the reception area where there was a cash register where diners could pay their bill.

I introduced myself to the cashier at the entrance to The Happy Peach Diner and told her that I had a meeting with Sylvia Weiss. The lady smiled back and said to me, “That’s me. I’m Sylvia. How can I help you?” “Oh hi Sylvia. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Amy Todd and Cynthia Hawkins called and told you about me. I’m meant to be starting today as a server. I was told to report to you.” “Ah yes,” Sylvia replied. “Let me get you a uniform and then show you which station you’ll be working at. It’s nice to meet you too.” Sylvia strode toward the back of the restaurant where people were buzzing around getting ready for the lunch rush. We walked into a tiny office that I assumed was probably hers. On a rack in the closet were a number of starched white uniforms. She sized me up and picked one and handed it to me. Along with the white ‘nurses’ dress came a hat like they wore in the 1950s that was attached to my head using Bobbie pins. “You can use my office to change if you like or there is a staff restroom down the hall.” Not wishing to invade I chose the ladies restroom. 10 minutes later I returned to her office, and she smiled and said, “you look nice. Let me show you to your station and what needs to be done with prep work.” Sylvia then led me down the hall and introduced me to 5 women wearing the same uniform as mine who were bustling around filling salt and pepper cellars and filling up ketchup jars. Sylvia introduced me by name and then walked me out into the restaurant and showed me the tables at which I’d be waiting. “Cynthia tells me that you’ve waited tables before. Is that right?” I nodded. “For today you’ll be training under Marylee.  She will be here soon and will introduce herself to you. Until she arrives, I suggest that you do your prep work like the others until customers start to arrive.” Sylvia then with a wave of her hand dismissed me and walked back to the cash register, and I walked over to the prep area and began filling my condiments. Sylvia had issued me with my own iPad when she gave me my uniform. Each time I took an order at one of my 5 tables the order was transmitted through to the kitchen. When the order was ready my iPad notified me and I’d pick the order up at the window and deliver it to my table. I was responsible for taking and delivering drink orders.

20 minutes later Marylee arrived. She was not pleased she had to babysit a newbie and made that plainly clear from the moment she met me. Servers rely on tips, and she was an experienced one who obviously felt it was beneath her to have to train someone new. I was 30 years older than Marylee and had waited tables for four years when I was at George Mason University. I worked at a restaurant called Armand’s Pizza which was one of the busiest restaurants in the area. On Friday nights the line would be around the block and the servers and kitchen staff had to bring their “A” game every night. I didn’t want to sound arrogant but this job at the Happy Peach was a walk in the park compared to Armand’s. What I hadn’t taken into consideration however was that I’d been 30 years younger. The fact was that on my first shift I didn’t mess up too badly, but I was physically exhausted. At 3 pm I was given a 2-hour break but at 5 was back at it with a vengeance. I finally finished at 2:15 am and drove back to my hotel where Jim was still up and worried. We fell into bed only to be woken up at what seemed like 5 minutes later so I could get up shower and be at work by 10:15 am. It was going to be a long week.

As I walked through the door I was greeted with smiling faces from my new friends at The Happy Peach. Marylee, while seemingly grumpy with me all day, had given me glowing reviews and suddenly, I became one of the family. Hard work and an enduring positive attitude had clearly worked. I was now fully trained and had my own station and Sylvia was now fully confident in my skills as a server. The whole essence of working at a diner is that not only is the food fun, but the atmosphere is as well. 50s music blasted all day. Bill Haley and the Comets, Elvis, Roy Orbison, and Chuck Berry were all fixtures at the Happy Peach, and we all spent our days singing the songs that I grew up with. Frankly I found the work invigorating. Because I had been a teacher for decades, I liked the physicality of waiting tables. Nobody judged me because I was older than the rest and after a few days of working double shifts I began building up my stamina. Waiting tables is punishing and the general public tends to take what servers do for granted.

The Happy Peach Eateries was the brainwave of two businessmen from Maryland. It turned out I’d been at college with them but had never met them. Their names were Daniel Simmons and Grady Matthews. After graduating with business degrees they both worked in different restaurants for a while but eventually enacted their dream of opening up a 50s diner chain in the area. They hustled up some money and built the prototype in Rockville Maryland. Within a few years Danny and Grady had built up a business that was going through the roof. Their only crime had been that they got too big too fast. Had they simply been content with building one store every few years they might have survived. But they were young and greedy and wanted it all now. They built six more restaurants in the space of two years, amassing huge debt and simply couldn’t repay their loans. They tried to no avail to refinance but the economy was beginning to tank and in 2007 they filed for bankruptcy. Uncle John heard about their bankruptcy and intervened offering to purchase all 7 restaurants lock stock and barrel. He and Aunt Rachel loved everything about the 1950s and were delighted when the sale came through. He didn’t change a thing and kept the employees who wished to stay, offering them all a share of the profits. The fact was that Danny and Grady’s idea had been a sound one. It had simply lacked a viable business plan, and that was Uncle John’s strength. Within months of reopening the 7 restaurants within the Happy Peach Diner family began earning money and starting to make a profit once more.

Sylvia Weiss had been with Happy Peach from the beginning. She was a success story. She started as a server and Danny Simmons, seeing her potential, decided to offer her an assistant manager job. She jumped at the chance and six months later after the manager left Sylvia was offered the job as manager.

By Thursday I’d found my rhythm at the Happy Peach and had called Cynthia to suggest that I stay an extra week. There was no reason other than the fact that I was enjoying myself. Call me a masochist who relishes being on one's feet for 14 straight hours and walking more than 10 miles a day between the kitchen and my tables. The fact was I was loving my time at the Happy Peach. At 57 I was loving the music and the friendly environment and was thoroughly enjoying my newfound friends. Cynthia had green lighted my extension and Jim was enjoying visiting all the DC tourist sites and the White House, the Smithsonian Museum and taking me to the National Zoo on my day off.

I finished work around 2:25 early Friday morning and had gone to the ladies’ room to change into my civvies. Right next door was Sylvia’s office and there was a vent between the changing room and her office. I was putting on my shoes when I heard Sylvia talking on the phone. Obviously, I could only hear her side of the conversation, but what I heard was chilling. Sylvia was telling the person on the other end of the phone that she had the money for him but that this would be the very last time she ever wanted to hear from him again. I then heard the sound of a phone being slammed down on the cradle. I sat there for a moment unsure what to do next, but eventually the mother in me emerged and I knew I had to confront the situation head on. I walked out of the ladies’ room and into Sylvia’s office where I saw her sitting behind her desk crying her eyes out. I walked over to her and immediately put my arms around her and held her tightly. After a few moments she pulled herself together, looked at me and apologized. “I’m so sorry for my unprofessional behavior,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” I sat down and drawing breath decided. “Sylvia, I happened to be changing a few minutes ago and heard your side of a conversation you were having on the phone. It sounded to me that you were being threatened. Would you like to tell me what is going on?” Sylvia suddenly looked terrified and began sobbing again. “Listen to me Sylvia. I’d like to help you if I can, but you must level with me. Do you understand?” Sylvia looked over at me and nodded her head. “I’m being blackmailed,” she began to say between sobs. “I did something stupid a while ago and someone who works here saw me and has been blackmailing me ever since.” “What did you do, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked. I could see Sylvia steeling herself to tell me the truth, and I let her take her time until she was ready. “I’m a single Mom and have two kids at home. When I was a server, I used to earn an exceptionally good living but when Danny, the previous owner offered me a job as an assistant manager, I accepted without thinking. I took a big hit on my salary and in fact added a considerable number of hours to my working week at the Happy Peach. I got behind on my bills and did something that I’m ashamed of. I stole money from the day's takings. I only did it one time in order to pay a $200 electric bill, but I got caught. The night I took the money someone else was working late and saw me slip the money into my pocket. A couple of days later she confronted me and told me what she’d seen. I was mortified. I’ve been working in the hospitality profession all my adult life and had never stolen so much as a packet of sugar, and suddenly I’m caught stealing from my employer.” “So, who was the woman who caught you?” I asked. Sylvia looked at me and with a grim smile replied, “it was MaryLee Drummond. Firstly all she did was tell me she had seen me stealing the money. There was no mention that she would turn me in. Because I’m the manager I was able to replace the money within a week by pawning a ring and returning the money. Our accounting system was sloppy enough that I knew I could explain the discrepancy if I had to, so I forgot about it until I received a threatening call from MaryLee demanding $500. It scared me to death. And so I called her into my office and asked her how she could be so unkind. She laughed in my face and asked me how I’d like her to turn me in. She was deadly serious. I knew that she meant it. The only way I would be able to pay her was to do again what she had seen me do in the first place. I was forced to steal again. From then on MaryLee would approach me every few weeks blackmailing me for more and more money each time. So far, the $200 that I stole originally has cost me over $5000. I fully intend to pay back every dime that I have taken. I feel like a common criminal but I’m at my wits end. Amy what can I do?” And she began to sob again.

I looked hard at Sylvia, and I could see she was an honest person. My years of being a teacher had taught me, if nothing else, to be a good judge of character. “I think you may be in luck Sylvia.” Sylvia looked at me quizzically. “Why do you say that?” She asked. “Well I haven’t been entirely honest with you myself either. My name is Jenny Holland, but that is my married name. My maiden name was Harriman. Does that name ring a bell, Sylvia?” “Well,” she said thinking, “Mr. John’s name was Harriman.” And then slowly the light began to dawn. “You’re related to Mr. John?” “Yes, he was my uncle, and when he died, he bequeathed Harriman Holdings to me. That means I own The Happy Peach Diner chain lock stock and barrel.” I wish you could have been there to see the look of relief on Sylvia’s face. But then as fast as it came it was replaced with a look of fear when she realized what she had just confessed to. I put her out of her misery right away. “What I recommend is this. We bring in our accountants and have them go over your accounts. Did you keep an accurate tally of all the money that you took?” Sylvia nodded her head. “I will give permission for that money to be written off so that you won’t be held responsible for the shortfalls, and then you and I must plan a way to rid the Happy Peach of one MaryLee Drummond once and for all.” I looked at the clock and it was well past 5 in the morning by this time. “Let me suggest that both you and I take the day off so we can get some sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Then we will both plan on working tomorrow evening. In the meantime let me put my mind to working out a way that we can fire MaryLee. I will let you know my plan tomorrow.” With that we both got up and walked to our cars and I drove back to my hotel where I had to explain to a frantic husband why I was so late getting home and what had transpired, and could I ask for his help in carrying out my plan? He smiled and nodded. I knew that I could always count on Jim. He’d been my rock for over 30 years and wouldn’t mind just one more accolade being showered on him. He’d deserve it.

Friday evening Sylvia was at the cash register as I showed up for my shift. I smiled to her as I headed back to the Ladies room to change into my work clothes. MaryLee just happened to be in there getting ready herself. We exchanged pleasantries and at that moment I decided to grab the bull by the horns and confront her with what she had done. “MaryLee, I need a word with you.” MaryLee started to tell me she was in a hurry and that whatever it was I needed to talk to her about would have to wait. “I’m afraid this cannot wait MaryLee. Please sit down and hear me out.” My tone clearly startled her, and she did what I asked. “My name is not Amy Todd. It is Jenny Harriman Holland, and I’m the CEO of Harriman Holdings. For the past week I’ve been working undercover as Amy in order to understand how the Happy Peach Diner is functioning as a restaurant. Sadly what I discovered in just 4 days of working here is that my manager is being blackmailed by you because you claimed to have seen her stealing money from the cash register. Is that true MaryLee. Did you see Ms. Weiss stealing money from my cash register?” MaryLee was sitting looking like a cat who’d got the cream. “Yes, I saw Sylvia stealing some money.” She answered looking pleased with herself. “Do you have any proof that she stole the money? A video of her, maybe, taking the money and putting it in her pocket?” I asked. “Well no, but when I confronted her she admitted that she took the money.” MaryLee replied. “I assume you taped the conversation when she admitted stealing the money?” I asked. “No I’m afraid I didn’t.” MaryLee answered, beginning to get an inkling of where I was going with my questions. I paused for a moment to increase the drama of the moment and then handed her several handwritten blackmail notes that Sylvia had given me the night before. “A handwriting expert could easily confirm that these notes were written by you Ms. Drummond,” I replied handing copies to MaryLee. All of a sudden, her face went ashen, and her body just crumpled. Her confidence completely disappeared and was replaced by a look of utter defeat. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Holland. I did something I’m so ashamed of. I got in way over my head. I never meant for it to go this far. It’s time I told you the truth. I really did see Sylvia stealing money from the till. I was prepping my section for the following day. It was late and I looked up and saw Sylvia remove some money from the cash register and put it in her pocket. I went home that night and thought about what she had done. I didn’t say anything to her until two days later when I mentioned that I’d seen her steal the money. I look after my aging mother. She has vascular dementia, her health care costs, and her medication are crippling me financially. I never intended to blackmail Sylvia. I like her and love working for the Happy Peach. I’ve honestly been happy working here. An unexpected bill arrived in the mail 3 days after I witnessed Sylvia taking the money. It was a bill for a new drug that Ma had been prescribed and was for $500.00. I lay awake all night worrying about how to pay it. The next day on my way to work it came to me. I would blackmail Sylvia for the same amount, and she could pay it. Stupidly I wrote out the note in my own handwriting and while I was putting it in her box, she came around the corner and caught me red-handed. She took the note, read it and gave me a look of disappointment that I will never forget. That night she came to me as I was leaving and gave me $500 in $20 notes. The next month I received another bill for $500 and handled it the same way. I knew that Sylvia was taking the money from the till but didn’t think about the long-term legal ramifications. I just knew I had to find the cash to pay for my mother’s treatment. I am clearly such a novice at this that I continued to write blackmail notes to Sylvia even though she knew who I was. Had it not been so serious it could’ve been a Smothers Brothers comedy routine on how not to be blackmailer.” MaryLee had started to cry now. Sitting there on the bench in the Ladies room, I couldn’t help but feel terribly sorry for her. Her situation was tragic. I’d had some experience dealing with the lack of health care coverage that was available to some students at my school in Florida, one of whom I remember came from a low-income household with no insurance coverage. He suffered a seizure in my classroom severe enough to call 911.

I thought to myself as I sat there in the Ladies room listening to MaryLee apologize that this never needed to have happened if we’d had universal health care as so many countries do. I vowed to look into buying an insurance policy that would offer every Harriman Holdings employee in the future.  But at the moment I had to deal with the problem at hand. “I suppose you’re going to fire me and then have me arrested?” MaryLee blurted out between sobs. “As a matter of fact I’m not. I’m going to promote you instead.” I replied. “What do you mean?” she asked incredulously. “I’m going to promote you effective immediately. You will now be assistant manager under Sylvia Weiss. You will also be receiving substantial pay raises that will consider the high cost of living in this area. I will ask my business manager to give you both an allowance for rent and you will both be asked to work a 40-hour week with overtime given the more hours you work. I’ll ask Cynthia to determine what hourly wage you should receive over and above your 40-hour salary. Does that sound fair?” “Yes, it sounds incredibly fair. Oh Mrs. Jenny, thank you so much for giving me another chance. I am most grateful.” I then walked out with MaryLee and walked over to the cash register and asked Sylvia if I could have a word with her in her office? She smiled and nodded her head and walked with me to the back as MaryLee walked over to her section to work her final shift as a server before starting her new job in the morning. “Before taking over from my Uncle John I was a high school teacher for 30 years. Many times I had to punish children for things they did that were out of their control. I learned to understand the need from greed. Many times kids would break the rules not because they wanted to but because of pressure applied to them. I found that if I could find the cause I would be able to find a solution. Both you and MaryLee had similar problems that motivated you to do what you did. Last night we talked about your problem and how we could resolve it. I am instituting a pay raise for you and all your fellow managers at The Happy Peach Diners. You will now be asked to work a 40-hour week for your salary. Normally in the restaurant business upper management work long hours. You will now be paid an hourly wage for every hour you work past 40 hours. In addition you and your 2 assistant managers will be paid a cost-of-living stipend to absorb some of the cost of housing.”

“The Happy Peach is open 24 hours a day” I continued. “That means that you and your two other assistants would each work 8 hours a day for 5 days after which you would be earning 16 hours overtime on the weekends. You could arrange your days off by alternating with each other. That would be up to you all to decide.” I paused to let my words sink in. “You mentioned hiring 2 assistant managers.” Sylvia interjected. “Did I not mention that I just hired MaryLee Drummond as your second assistant manager?” I replied.  “No you hadn’t mentioned that” answered Sylvia. “May I ask why you did that?” “Sure.” I replied. “For the very reason I forgave you for stealing from me. Both of you did what you did because of poverty. Both of you are honest people who deserved a second chance. MaryLee looks after her 73-year-old mother who has dementia. The reason she did what she did to you was because she’s being crucified by health care costs. I’ve decided to help both of you, and in doing so have restructured the entire management of the Happy Peach Diners.” “I’m so grateful to you Jenny for everything you’ve done for us this week. I always liked MaryLee and was horrified that she started to blackmail me. However none of this would have happened had I not stolen from you in the first place. Thank you so much for the trust you have placed in me.”

I worked that evening as a server, having the most wonderful time with my new family and when I got back to the hotel around 3 am Jim turned over and said sleepily. “How was your night, Jen?” so I replied, “fine thanks Jim. It was just another day at the office.”

I stayed at The Happy Peach in Herndon for 2 weeks working 14 days in a row without a break. I made excellent tip money but more importantly made lifelong friends with all the staff and customers. Sylvia and MaryLee became a powerful team along with the other assistant night manager Janice Mulroney direct from Belfast who was nicknamed TNT because of her temper and her flaming red hair. Those three became a force to be reckoned with.  On Sunday Jim and I packed up our luggage and flew to our next adventure in Tampa Florida where a group of ex-special forces soldiers had started a moving company using their motto “Proximo Bonum” which served them proudly as warriors and just as well as civilians. I was looking forward to working alongside the the folks building The Hope House in Charleston South Carolina. I had no idea that our week would generate such a lifelong friendship with the Generation family.

CHAPTER 8

The Hope House

I had always wanted to work on a building site ever since I was a young girl. I loved the sound of power tools and the smell of wood. When I was a child my dad who had not been the greatest Dad in the world taught me how to build furniture, something which I love doing still and run a cabinet building workshop in Pensacola called The Cherry Tree cabinet company. Dad had been indifferent as a father, but he had been a good teacher. Sadly, he did not have the empathy chip necessary to succeed in being a good Dad. He made his living as a cabinet maker and from all accounts was exceptionally good. The advantage of working with wood, it seemed, was that wood did not talk back. I was, however, most grateful to him for teaching me how to care for wood and create lovely pieces of furniture. And so, it was with excitement I noticed a building company in SC that Uncle John owned. I asked Cynthia Hawkins Uncle John’s right hand to tell me about it.” New Generation Builders had been started 10 years earlier by a father son team whose name just happened to be Generation. Billy and Lucas Generation had been building homes in Charleston SC their whole life. Billy, the dad was a tall fit man of 45 while his son Lucas the spitting image of his dad had long blonde hair with deep blue eyes and was around 27. A deep tan covered both men suggesting they worked long hours on a roof in the burning sun. They clearly thrived from the lifestyle. From an early age Lucas had hung out on the building sites his dad was working on and learned every aspect of the building trade before he was 15. Not much into school, he was a whizz kid with math and could naturally figure out any angle anyone asked him to do. People who have no experience in the building trade have no idea how much complex math a carpenter must figure out, but Lucas did it without giving it a thought. Had someone posed the same question in a classroom setting Lucas would have been stumped, but in his comfort zone, a building site, he could correctly arrive at the right answer. It was all about the environment.

When Billy Generation was about 35, he decided to strike out on his own and one day asked his son if he would like to start up a new building company with his old man. The answer was an unequivocal yes, and the next week they did the paperwork to create an LLC which meant that their company would be incorporated. It took 6 months for them to hang out their new shingle. They rented a small office in an industrial complex in town and hired Lucas’s mom to be the front person for the company. Sharon Generation’s job was to answer the phone, pass messages on to Billy and take care of the accounts. In her downtime she also promised to chase up new jobs. New Generation understood that their reputation hung on the first job that they did. Billy and Lucas didn’t rush into their new business. They kept their jobs that gave them a paycheck but organized all the paperwork and rented the office space that also had enough room in the back for them to keep small equipment and tools and the like. They advertised New Generation using word of mouth and waited for the phone to ring. They didn’t have to wait long as Billy’s reputation as an honest, hardworking, no-nonsense builder preceded him and Sharon took a call from an architect that Billy had worked with in the past, who asked him to give a bid on a large home being built on the shore. Billy took his son Lucas to the architect’s office to help with the presentation and Lucas impressed Douglas Collins the architect so much with his unusual grasp of the complexities of the new house that Doug gave these two locals a chance. They took the blueprints home and a week later gave an estimate. It was by no means the lowest estimate, but it was way and far the most comprehensive. Highly detailed it turned out that Billy Generation had an excellent eye for detail, which was what Doug Collins the architect was looking for. He understood that his clients wanted a high-quality job using high quality finishes, and it appeared that New Generation had just submitted a near perfect quotation. Not knowing this was their first job, he put in a call to New Generations office and spoke with the receptionist a woman named Sharon and asked if Billy Generation could return his call? That night Billy did just that and learned that his company had secured the job. Billy knew he’d have to bring his A game to this job and spent the next week lining up carpenters and electricians who he could trust and would do an excellent job. New Generation’s life hung in the balance.

Billy and Lucas Generation did indeed bring their A game. Not only did they build a magnificent home, but they came in under budget and finished two weeks early. Doug Collins the architect was delighted, as were his clients. That first house that Billy Generation built cemented New Generation’s reputation and for the next ten years they built A+ homes for Architects throughout the Charleston area.” “So why did they go bankrupt?” I asked. “Simple,” replied Cynthia. “2008 happened.”

The US housing bubble was a real estate bubble affecting over half of the U.S. states. Housing prices peaked in early 2006, started to decline in 2006 and 2007, and reached new lows in 2012. On December 30, 2008, the Case–Shiller home price index reported its largest price drop in its history. The credit crisis resulting from the bursting of the housing bubble is an important cause of the 2007–2009 recession in the US. Foreclosure rates in 2006/2007 among U.S. homeowners led to a crisis in 2008 for the subprime, Alt-A, collateralized debt obligation mortgage, credit hedge fund and foreign bank markets. In October 2007, the U.S. Secretary of the Treasury called the bursting housing bubble "the most significant risk to our economy". Any collapse of the U.S. housing bubble has a direct impact not only on home valuations, but mortgage markets, home builders, real estate, retail outlets, Wall Street hedge funds held by large investors, and foreign banks, increasing the risk of a nationwide recession. Concerns about the impact of the collapsing housing and credit markets on the larger U.S. economy caused President Bush and Federal Reserve chairman Ben Bernanke to announce a bailout for homeowners who were unable to pay their mortgage.

In 2008 the U.S. government allocated over $900B to special loans and rescues related to the U.S. housing bubble. This was shared between the public and the private sector. Because of the large market share of Federal National Mortgage Association and the Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corporation as well as FHA they got a big share of federal support, though the loans were conservatively underwritten and performed much better than those in the private sector.

“New Generation went out in a big way,” continued Cynthia. “Like so many building companies in 2008 they’d gotten way too big way too soon and so when the real estate bubble burst it exploded with a ferocity rarely witnessed. Billy and Sharon Generation had possibly the worst reaction as over the 10 years of financial success they’d had they had not saved a dime. Their motto had always been “easy come easy go,” but construction is hard on the body and Billy was not getting any younger and although he was only forty-five, he looked ten years older. When the crash came it hit them both really hard and while Lucas tried to look after them, he couldn’t keep up. New Generation finally filed chapter 11 which is a federal way of reorganizing a company’s finances so they can pay back any outstanding loans and debts. Uncle John swooped in and paid off their debt and bought New Generation for about ten cents on the dollar. He and Rachel drove up there and had a meeting with the Generations and offered them a sweet deal. He asked them to stay on and run the company but advised them to scale back on the types of homes they built. At the time Charleston was experiencing an influx of out of state retirees who were looking to buy modest villas and town homes but because of the recession they could no longer afford the high prices of the early 2000’s. Mr. John put all 3 of them on a salary bought a 10-acre parcel of land outside Charleston and received planning permission to build a 40-home subdivision of modestly priced homes. He then asked New Generation Builders if they would build all 40 homes after he had arranged for site preparation, land survey, installation of sewer and water as well as the building of roads and finally 40 mapped out building plots. The stipulation was that the homes be built one by one and as soon as one had the occupancy permit then and only then Billy and Lucas could start building the next home.”

I decided to visit New Generation to see for myself what it was like. I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of business I wanted on my roster. I had to have faith that Uncle John knew what he was doing and so I arranged with Cynthia to book me in for a couple of weeks of hard labor. Billy Generation and I must be similar in age although his life experience was vastly different from mine, I was looking forward to a few days of hard graft. I arrived on the job site on a Tuesday morning and found Billy and Lucas hard at work. So far, they had built seven homes and were halfway through their eighth. The blueprint for each was similar but with cosmetic changes that made each house look unique. It was actually a clever design. All the homes were single story 1500 square foot houses with a 2-car garage attached. The architect had managed to fit 3 bedrooms a combination living room dining area, a kitchen and 2 bathrooms. This time, rather than go undercover I’d decided to be honest with Billy, Sharon and their son Lucas and admit that I had inherited my uncle’s estate and wanted to try my hand at building with them for a couple of weeks. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I wanted them to give me a chance, so I intended to bring what was left of my A game to the job site. Frankly it had been years since I had wielded a hammer and so I decided to bring my trusty husband along for moral support.

Billy Generation was a no-nonsense guy. Jim and I showed up on the job site ready and willing to work and introduced ourselves. The first job Billy gave me was to carry ¾” tongue & groove roofing ply from a pile of recently delivered supplies and hand it up to Lucas who was just starting to deck the roof. I gritted my teeth and went about my task knowing I’d be sore in the morning but determined to do a good job without complaining. Jim was helping Billy frame interior walls which suited him fine. He’d had plenty of construction experience as a young man and felt comfortable at pretty well any task he was given. For me on the other hand I found it hard lugging 4x8 sheets of tongue and groove 20 feet and then lifting it above my head and handing it up to Lucas who was standing on the sill plate placing the plywood on a staging platform so that when I had delivered enough, we could start decking. Billy had clearly intended for me to do the grunt work so he could see how long I would last. I had no intention of quitting and just continued lugging the plywood to Billy not saying a word. Finally I finished and climbed up on the roof and without being asked began handing plywood to Lucas from the staging area. With his nail gun he began nailing it into the roof trusses and before long we had a nice rhythm to our work. We never said a word, but just kept on doing what we had to and before I knew it Billy and Jim appeared, and Billy told us to quit for lunch. Between you and me I’d never been so glad to hear those words. On the other hand Jim looked fresh as a daisy.

The four of us found a tree to sit under and started to eat our lunch. “So how long have you owned Harriman Holdings?” Billy asked. “My uncle died a few months ago and I found out I’d inherited his estate shortly afterward. Jim and I are high school teachers in Pensacola Florida where my Uncle John lived as well.” My voice trailed off as I realized that Billy and Lucas were more interested in eating their lunch than hearing my life story so I concentrated on eating mine too so I could muster the energy to put in an afternoon of harder physical exercise than I’d endured for my whole lifetime. 30 minutes came and went really fast and before I knew it I was back on the roof muscling the tongue and groove plywood into place and then using my nail gun that Billy had provided and decking the entire roof with just Lucas and me. The last thing we did was install 30lb felt over the plywood. Normally only 15 lb. is required by code, but New Generation always preferred to overbuild. Frankly, the dollar difference was negligible so why not go the extra mile? As it happened, I was glad we had added the felt as that night we had a massive rainstorm that woke me up at the Hampton Inn where Jim and I were staying. I went back to sleep knowing that what Lucas and I had done had preserved the job site and saved us a big clean up when we arrived tomorrow. When Jim and I got back to the hotel that night after our first day on the job, we both went straight to bed without supper and slept all the way through until the rain woke us around 3 am. I woke up 3 hours later a bit stiff but proud of myself. Jim found Billy to be a nice man, possibly a tad chauvinist but on the whole a genuine and nice guy.

We arrived at the job site right at 7 am just as Billy and Lucas were arriving. Lucas had brought coffee and donuts for all of us, which I found to be a really nice sincere gesture. They were both far more relaxed with us on that second day, and I like to think we must have passed their test. Suddenly we became just one of the guys and Billy and Lucas cracked jokes and treated Jim and I as if we’d worked for them for years. When we first arrived, I’d been given the job of lugging over sixty 4x8 sheets of plywood weighing 61 lbs. each over twenty feet from the pile of lumber to the edge of the house and then manhandling it over my head so that Lucas (25 years younger than me) could take each sheet and place it on a staging area. That was my test, and clearly, I had passed because I never said a word but just did the job I’d been told to do and never missed a beat. Billy also was pleased that Lucas and I had installed the felt as it not only saved us from unnecessary work, but it also kept the interior wood dry that he and Jim had built yesterday. A win. Today’s job was to begin installing the windows and the 2 exterior doors. One really cute thing I found out about New Generation Builders was that they named all the house they built. The one we were helping build they had named Hope House in memory of Lucas’s maternal Grandmother Hope who had recently died. Jim and I spent the last summer changing out all the windows in our house for more energy efficient ones. It had been quite a job as the house is 2 story but I have to admit that my husband had been a true gentleman and insisted he could change out the upstairs Windows if I would agree to steady them from the inside so he could screw them in from the top of our rickety ladder. I was happy to oblige his request, and we completed the task over the course of our summer break from school. The Windows we were installing at the job site would hopefully all be installed within the next day or two. Then the house would officially be dried in, the term that is used when a house that is being built finally has the walls up, a roof on, and all the windows and exterior doors in place. This is a big moment and in true southern style once we got to that point a couple of days later Billy suggested that he and Sharon take Jim and I out on their 16-foot Bass boat and go for a picnic. Jim and I were happy to accept the invitation. Sharon was delightful. Up until this point we hadn’t met her as she worked in the office. Billy and Sharon picked us up from our hotel in their Ford 350 maxi cab pickup truck. I have always been a huge pickup truck fan, and I loved this one. It was big and powerful with enough might to haul the Bass boat that was sitting proudly on the trailer behind. They had decided to take us on a cruise down the Pee Dee River. The river originates in NC and flows for 232 miles until it meets Charleston Bay. Billy and Sharon liked to put their boat in at a place called Wyeth just a few miles from the new house we were building. I really had never done much boating in my life and was excited to be going. I was also delighted we had turned a corner with the Generations. I sat in the back with Sharon and got to know her as Jim and Billy rode up front chatting as if they were old buddies. When we got to the boat ramp Sharon, and I just sat and chatted while Jim and Billy launched the boat like a pair of pro’s and before we knew it we’d parked the truck and got ourselves and a delicious looking picnic into the boat and were pulling away from the bank headed for open water.

The Pee Dee River, also known as the Great Pee Dee River, is a river in NC and SC. It originates in the Appalachian Mts in N.C., where its upper course, above the mouth of the Uwharrie River, is known as the Yadkin River. The lower part of the river is named Pee Dee (in colonial times written Pedee) after the Pee Dee Indian Tribe. The Pee Dee region of S.C., composed of the NE counties of the state, was also named after the tribe. In fact, today the Pee Dee Tribe still occupies some of their ancestral lands, although the tribe only consists of just over 200 enrolled members. The first Europeans believed to have navigated part of the river was a party sent by Lucas Vásquez de Ayllón in 1521. They named it "River of St. John the Baptist."

We floated down the river for about 2 hours that morning taking in the wonderful wildlife that existed because of the Pee Dee. The birds nesting on the shoreline were a sight to see and the odd water snake that swam by ignoring us as he raced for his prey. We noticed several alligators that sparked a conversation. I’d never been crazy about them, but Sharon told me that as long as they weren’t nesting, they can be quite docile. At that moment one swam up to the boat and freaked me out. I was scared it would jump into the boat and capsize us. Sharon unfazed quickly said to Billy, “show Jenny what you can do with them.” Billy nodded and quick as a flash grabbed the gator and turned it on its back. The gator good as gold responded with what can only be described as a purring sound as Billy gently tickled his tummy. This went on for a couple of minutes until Billy swiftly turned the gator right side up and it swam away. No one could ever convince me what I’d just seen. It was just way too bizarre, but I gained a whole new respect for this unusual man who had just become our friend. The rest of our day on the Pee Dee was magical. Sharon provided us with a picnic from heaven served on the boat as we lazed amongst the bulrushes and soaked up the southern sun. It truly felt good to be alive.

The two weeks Jim and I spent building the Hope House was wonderful, hard work, tiring exhilarating, and exhausting. I learned shortly after we came back from the picnic that Lucas was getting married to his longtime love, a young man named Adam, and the wedding was going to be on the day we were meant to leave. Lucas invited us a couple of days later. He and Adam had gone to the bank without his mom and dad knowing and had applied for a mortgage to purchase Hope House as a tribute to GG Hope. Soon they received a letter accepting their application. Lucas and Adam were now homeowners

After that day on the river Billy, Sharon, Jim, and I became good friends, and we were sorry to have to leave them and head home. But the lessons learned were lifelong. After we dried in the house, we turned our attention to the finish work. We put up Cherry cabinets in the kitchen giving the new owners a classy looking place to cook in, we built bedroom closets in all three bedrooms. I wished that I could have built the cabinets for the house in my shop in Pensacola but when I told Billy that my dad had been a cabinet maker and he’d taught me everything I knew about working with wood he asked me if me and my students would be willing to build cabinets for the next house, I decided it’d be a great opportunity for the kids to know that there work would become a feature in someone’s home in South Carolina. All the homes that New Generation would be building were approximately the same and so I took the measurements home with me and promised to build cabinets for them in the future.

Jim and I proudly attended Lucas and Adam’s wedding that Saturday. It was held outside under a number of Majestic Oaks that populate the south. Billy and Sharon hung lights in all the magnificent trees and placed tables in a circle around a central area where a band was set up and they gave their wedding vows. With close to 300 guests, most of who had known Lucas all his life, the environment spoke volumes about love and tolerance. Many guests may have been surprised that Lucas was marrying a man, but no one said a thing. It was more than probable that the vast majority of them were card carrying Cramer voters, but everyone had enormous respect for the family and buried any homophobic feelings they had for ones of love and understanding. That day in Charleston was a day that America could be proud of. Jim and I stayed until way late, and then did something that we used to do when we were young. We drove all night and listened to music, chatted, and laughed. Those 2 weeks were memorable and earned us new friends that we’d keep for the rest of our lives.

We drove home, both feeling stronger than when we’d arrived. The work had been exhausting but we felt exhilarated that we had survived the fearsome pace that New Generation required of their workers, and proud that our skills as carpenters had stood up to the rigors of the schedule that Billy Generation insisted on. 

CHAPTER 9

The Good Neighbor

We flew into Tampa Airport on Sunday night from Pensacola having driven home all night after attending the magical wedding of Lucas and Adam beneath the Majestic Oaks of South Carolina. As we circled the airport we flew directly over the Gulf of Mexico on our approach. The sun was starting to set, and the ocean welcomed our arrival with a splendid and joyous smile as we flew low over it on our final descent. This approach into Tampa Bay with the sun shimmering off the Gulf of Mexico showed just how beautiful this magnificent city is.

The Good Neighbor Moving Company was founded in 2008 by 2 members of the US Army’s Special Forces who had recently retired from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Both of them had grown up in Hillsborough County Florida and wanted to start a moving company that would hire special forces retirees exclusively. They bought a used moving van and placed an ad in the Tampa Tribune offering their services for folks that were moving locally. The advertisement mentioned they were army veterans and could be trusted to move Fort Knox. The ad was a huge hit with readers of The Tribune and before they knew it Rob Jackson and Cecil Washington had as much work as they could handle. The second ad they placed was for able bodied army vets to come and work for them. Those 2 ads were the only ads they ever ran. By the time Rob and Cecil bought another van and hired 4 more army vets The Good Neighbor Moving Company was up and running. It became a word-of-mouth business. Friends telling friends, neighbors telling neighbors. The first year they were in business Rob and Cecil grew so fast they had to hire office staff to help with bookings and an account department. Rob and Cecil liked to run their own crews, and loved being out in the field, so didn’t want to sacrifice that by having to stay in an office all day and become administrators. But even after they had hired office staff it still wasn’t enough. It seemed their idea of hiring army vets had become a gold mine. Their reputation preceded them, and The Good Neighbor Moving Company expanded into Jacksonville, Orlando, Miami, and Daytona Beach. Rob and Cecil had bought large moving vans in those cities and had hired more army vets to handle all the new business. The company was going places, and nothing could stop them. Cynthia Hawkins had described the Good Neighbor Moving company a few weeks earlier and what she had told me intrigued me enough to want to pay them a visit.

“One morning Rob and Cecil were sitting in their newly acquired office space drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for their crews to arrive when the phone rang.” “Good morning, you’ve reached the Good Neighbor Moving Company, Ali speaking.” The receptionist answered. She listened for a moment and then interrupted the caller and said, “Hold on please. The owner is right here. You should tell him what you’ve just told me.” Ali then handed the phone over to Cecil who was sitting closest. He took the phone, identified himself, and then listened quietly. After several minutes he thanked the caller and hung up and with an ashen face turned to Rob and said. “Billy Tequesta is holed up at the Watson House and has apparently flipped out. At this time he has taken the 5 members of the Watson family hostage along with Joey, Chris, Dennis, and Sam. The police have the house surrounded and are currently in negotiation with Billy.” Rob sprang into action, jumped up and replied. “Jesus. I can’t believe this. C’mon Cecil we must get over there and talk Billy down. His PTSD must have been triggered again somehow. I thought he had it under control. We better get over there quick before someone gets hurt. Alison, will you tell the guys when they arrive to head over to the two jobs and start without us and we will text them as soon as we know what the hell is going on.” Cecil and Rob rushed out the door, jumped into Cecil’s car, and sped away.

Billy Tequesta belonged to the Seminole Indian tribe and had joined the army in 2000 right out of High school. He grew up on the Big Cypress reservation 45 minutes south of Clewiston in South Florida on the shores of Lake Okeechobee. The eighty-two square mile Big Cypress Reservation is the largest of six Indian reservations which are owned by the Seminole Tribe of Florida. By the time Billy signed up with the army, his hunting skills had been expertly honed by living in such a remote wilderness. He was a natural choice to be picked by Special Forces to become one of a team of highly trained specialists that comprised the U.S. Army’s Special Forces unit. Billy served two tours of duty in the sand box near Kandahar. His final 7-month tour was particularly gruesome, with Billy receiving a commendation for saving the lives of two comrades while under fire. He came home a different man from when he first joined the Special Forces.

Rob and Cecil arrived at 1697 Whiteway Drive just 17 minutes after Rob put the phone down. Cecil broke every speed limit to get to where his friend and Special Forces comrade was holding 9 people hostage. Police cars with flashing lights were parked everywhere and a hostage negotiator with a bullhorn was standing on the sidewalk outside 1697 Whiteway. Cecil screeched to a stop and he and Rob jumped out and ran toward the man with the bullhorn. Before they could reach him, they were stopped by a patrol officer in charge of the “murder” tape that was preventing the public from entering an active crime scene. “I am Billy Tequesta’s boss,” yelled Rob and Cecil broke through the cordon and began running toward the house. It took 3 policemen to stop them and when it became clear that Rob and Cecil were friends with Billy the officer in charge walked over and asked them to explain what they thought Billy was up to? “Our firm The Good Neighbor Moving Company hires only veterans. We hired Billy Tequesta a year ago. He is a Seminole Indian who served in Afghanistan but was honorably discharged when he was wounded after saving two enlisted men’s lives. After he came home, he was treated at the VA hospital in Tampa for PTSD.”

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental disorder that can develop after a person is exposed to a traumatic event, such as sexual assault, warfare, child abuse, or other threats on a person's life. Symptoms may include disturbing thoughts, feelings, or dreams related to the events, mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues, attempts to avoid trauma-related cues, changes in how a person thinks and feels, and an increase in the fight-or-flight response. These symptoms lasted for more than a month after the event. Young children are less likely to show distress, but instead may express their memories through play. A person with PTSD is at a higher risk for suicide and self-harm.

Persons considered at risk include combat military personnel, victims of natural disasters, concentration camp survivors, and victims of violent crime. Persons employed in occupations that expose them to violence (such as soldiers) or disasters (such as emergency service workers) are also at risk. Other occupations at higher risk include police officers, firefighters, ambulance workers health care professionals, train drivers, divers, journalists, and sailors, in addition to people who work at banks, post offices or in stores. The size of the hippocampus, the region of the brain that is associated primarily with memory, is inversely related to post-traumatic stress disorder and treatment success, the smaller the hippocampus, the higher the risk of PTSD. A person suffering from acute PTSD can trigger an episode where he loses touch with reality. It appeared to Cecil that was precisely what had happened to Billy Tequesta.

Cecil Washington had proudly served with Billy Tequesta in Afghanistan and knew him to be an excellent soldier. He was cool under fire and had been a brave and gallant warrior. The trouble with a disease like PTSD is that it creeps up on you. Most people who suffer from the disease are able to handle it with the right kind of medication and medical care. Rob was talking to the chief of police explaining that he and Cecil could talk Billy into giving up. The chief was telling Rob that it was too dangerous and would put the hostages in even more danger. Cecil took the matter into his own hands and on a whim texted Billy on his cell phone. A moment later Billy replied. He intimated that he’d had a momentary lapse of judgement. Cecil seized on that and texted back, “I’m coming in. Is that cool?” Billy answered, “Sure, but come alone.” Cecil showed the text to the chief who looked at it and asked Cecil if he was ok to go in. Cecil answered that he was. The media was everywhere with TV reporters conducting on the spot interviews and the two newspapers in Tampa, The Tampa Bay Times and The Tampa Tribune digging up as much as they could about everyone involved; and so when Cecil Washington a tall handsome African American strode across the lawn to the Watson’s front door all attention was turned on him. The TV cameras were recording every moment.

Cecil walked through the front door of the Watson house into the living room. He saw the 5 members of the Watson family sitting on two couches looking scared and the four guys who were meant to be moving them on the floor beside them. Billy, who Cecil had known for over five years was standing holding a gun with a far off look in his eyes. “Hi Sarge,” he said to Cecil. “I found these hostiles hiding in a bombed-out house over there.” He said waving his gun and pointing to an imaginary desert location. “I think they might be terrorists, so we’ll need to question them back at HQ.” “Good work private,” Cecil responded. “Tell you what. Let me march the 5 of them over there and secure them right away. You stay here and guard the other 4 and I’ll come back, and we can get the other terrorists secured when I get back. How does that sound Billy?” “Sounds like a plan Sarge.” Then Cecil ordered the Watson family to stand up, put their hands over their heads and walk to the front door. Billy, like all good soldiers, simply did what he was ordered to do. He stood in the sitting room watching as his sergeant marched 5 of the hostiles away to the lock up and continued to perform his duties by guarding his other 4 prisoners. Cecil shot a glance at the four other veterans as if to tell them, “Good job guys, we’ve got this,” and walked outside with Mr. and Mrs. Watson and their three scared but relieved kids. After depositing them with the hostage team’s leader Cecil walked back to the house but this time with his captain in tow. Together Cecil and Rob walked into the room and the first thing Billy did was spring to attention when he saw Captain Jackson and saluted him. “The hostiles are ready to be transported sir.” He said standing to attention. “At ease private. Good job.” Captain Jackson replied. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” “Yes sir. On your feet now,” Billy ordered the four guys on the floor who all stood up and put their hands in the air. Billy was clearly delusional and was under the impression that he was still in enemy territory and had captured some dangerous terrorists.

Frankly, what Cecil did that day was nothing short of heroic. He managed to defuse a volatile situation with no one being hurt physically. The press, however, didn’t see it that way. Billy Tequesta was arrested and charged with kidnapping. The Watson’s sued The Good Neighbor Moving Company and won a massive settlement. Billy was eventually confined to a psychiatric facility that is operated by the VA and that was where Uncle John first came into this story. Orders completely dried up for The Good Neighbor Moving Company, Rob, and Cecil filed for bankruptcy. Uncle John acquired the company and decided to reinstate Rob and Cecil to their old positions. He did so with a caveat that all new employees be given a clean bill of health by the VA upon their acceptance of work with the good neighbor moving company. He initiated a profit-sharing agreement, and the company began to do good business again. The fact was that Uncle John knew that the business model was excellent, but it had to be run with efficiency otherwise it wouldn’t stand a chance.

Jim and I checked into the Hampton Inn opposite the Straz Performing Arts Center in downtown Tampa and showed up the following morning to fill in for Alison who’d just had a baby. My name was to be Andrea or Andy for short and I would be filling in for Alison for the duration of her maternity leave in the accounts department of the good neighbor moving company. MacDill Air Force base was about a mile from our company’s offices. MacDill is where Central Command is located.

The US Central Command (CENTCOM) is one of 11 unified combatant commands of the U.S. Department of Defense. It was established in 1983, taking over the previous responsibilities of the Rapid Deployment Joint Task Force (RDJTF). The Area of Responsibility included the Middle East, and Egypt in Africa, and Central Asia, notably Afghanistan and Iraq. The command has been the main American presence in many military operations, including the Persian Gulf War's Operation Desert Storm in 1991, the War in Afghanistan, and the Iraq War from 2003 to 2011. As of 2015, CENTCOM forces are deployed primarily in Afghanistan under the auspices of Operation Freedom's Sentinel, which is itself part of NATO's Resolute Support Mission, and in Iraq and Syria as part of Operation Inherent Resolve since 2014 in supporting and advise-and-assist roles.

The Good Neighbor Moving Company was the brainchild of Cecil Washington and Rob Jackson. They took their name from the US army’s motto Proximo Bonum which comes from the Latin and means Good Neighbor. Rob and Cecil were both Special Forces Vets and always wanted to hire army veterans out of respect for their service. Since Uncle John had taken over the company and kept Rob and Cecil to be the face of the company, things had been going well. There was always a veteran in need of a job and all the employees still had strong backs and great work ethics so Rob and Cecil could always rely on hiring good hands. Or so they thought. On my 2nd day I was working late in the back office when I heard voices in the main office. I peered through the door and saw a uniformed man pass a package to a guy who works on one of the crews. At the time I didn’t give it much thought, but the man in the uniform saw me and was embarrassed that I had seen anything. He approached me aggressively and asked what I was doing here so late, so I just acted normally and explained that I was just finishing up doing some paperwork and had heard a noise up front and decided to have a look see. They both looked guilty as hell. My answer satisfied them, so I went back to my desk and finished what I was doing and then closed up the office 45 minutes later. By the time I left they were both gone.

As I was walking across the parking lot on a moonless night a van drew up beside me. It happened quick as a flash. The driver slowed and another man jumped out of the back and clamped his arms around me. Then he shoved me into the van and got in beside me slamming the sliding door behind him. The kidnap took no more than a minute and before I knew it we were speeding away through the back streets of Tampa. The second man sitting beside me put duct tape over my mouth tied my hands and put a hood over my head. We drove for a while and finally got to our destination after which I was roughly manhandled out of the van and walked into a building. I had no idea if I was in a house or an apartment until the second man removed my hood. It took me a moment to focus but when I did, I realized I was in an empty hangar. Standing next to me was a man with a hood on his head. “We know your name isn’t Andrea so why don’t you tell us who you are, and who you’re working for?” he said. “My name is Andrea, and I’ve just started working in accounts at the moving company.” I stammered. “We know that you’re lying. Tell us for whom you’re working. Is it Military intelligence or CIA?” “I promise you I’m not lying. I just work in the accounts payable department at the moving company. I’m filling in for Alison who’s on maternity leave for the next six weeks. I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here. My husband will be worried sick.” The two men ignored me and left me alone to stew in my juices. I knew they’d be back soon, and I knew the outcome wouldn’t be good for me. And that was a chilling thought. The second man also was wearing a hood, but when he spoke a few words, I recognized him to be Craig who I’d just seen an hour ago in my office being handed a package by a guy in a uniform. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they were the 2 creeps who had freaked me out earlier. They felt it necessary to kidnap me. But why? What were they up to? I needed to find out what was in the packet the “uniform” had passed to Craig and what Craig was intending to do with the information. One thing was sure. I couldn’t find anything out if I was trussed up in a hangar in the middle of bloody nowhere. Luckily, the boys were quite inept at trussing up their captives and I was able to free myself within ten minutes. I went to the door and of course it was locked and so I employed my Girl Scout training and tried to pick the lock. It was a lot harder than I remembered but I finally succeeded and opened the door carefully and escaped into the darkness. It took me a moment to get my bearings. I noticed a café and a church near the office that I remembered seeing and realized that I was on Kennedy Boulevard. As soon as I saw the landmarks, I was able to figure out where I was. Once again, I silently thanked my Girl Scout training. Traffic was whizzing by, and I hailed a cab and told him to take me to the Hampton Inn in downtown about 3 miles away. The only awkward moment was that I hadn’t brought any money as I’d dropped my purse when I’d been abducted. I explained my situation to the cabbie and asked to use his phone so that Jim could meet us in the forecourt of the hotel in order to pay the cab fare. 15 minutes later I was sitting in the hotel bar telling my frantic husband what had happened. It took two large scotches for him to comprehend the enormity of what I’d just been through. I had been prepared for most eventualities as the purse I carried to work only had my fake identity and nothing that connected me to my real identity. Oddly enough I had even forgotten to bring my hotel room key and so there was no way these two ruffians could find me. However…. being a Girl Scout from way back I intended to find out exactly what they were up to.

One thing my friends have accused me of is being a dog with a bone. When I am focused there is nothing that will block me from finding out what I am looking for. Jim was naturally horrified that I had been exposed to such danger. He wanted to take me home then and there and forget our whole adventure, but I persisted and told him that the reputation of Harriman Holdings was at stake. After the 3rd scotch, he finally agreed to my demands knowing my passion wouldn’t be assuaged until the culprits had been apprehended. I didn’t get much sleep that night as I was too busy planning my strategy so in the morning I went to work at my usual time. Imagine Craig’s surprise when he saw me in the office working as if nothing had happened. I’d arranged for Jim to meet me from work and act as my bodyguard while I ferreted out the truth. The first thing I did was find out who Craig was. That wasn’t hard. Yes, he’d been a special forces veteran, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer and turned out to be an extreme right wing conspiracy theorist. Like so many conspiracy theorists they’re easy to bamboozle so by the end of the day I had a fairly good idea who the “uniform” was but also what the contents of the package were that he had passed on to Craig last night in the office. Now it was up to me to prove it. Before I could do that however, I had to have Jim meet me and then lose any tail that was following us to find out where we were staying. Now Jim is many things but above all he is a man with enormous integrity and a keen intellect. As a veteran music teacher he’s seen every scam known to man and as an aficionado of thrilling Brit murder mysteries he knew precisely how to lose his prey. I picked up “uniform” near the office building as he started to follow me. Unbeknownst to him Jim had rented a car and was sitting on the street waiting for me to leave the office. I texted him the moment I was leaving and when he saw me, he also saw “uniform” pull out and tuck in a couple of cars behind me. Jim wrote down the license plate number and the make and model and then called 911 and reported a road rage incident. He gave the operator the location of the incident, plate number, and make and color of the vehicle. Not more than 5 minutes later a police cruiser with sirens blaring pulled over “uniform” and Jim and I arrived at our hotel without further incident. That evening we treated ourselves by going out to dinner to Magliano’s Italian restaurant and then attending Jesus Christ Superstar at the Straz Center opposite our hotel. The whole reason for our subterfuge was to obtain “uniform’s” license plate number. We have a good friend who works for the Florida DMV, so we sent him the information and begged a favor to give us the name of the owner. Normally we’re law-abiding citizens but this recent abduction called for me to break every rule in the Girl Scouts honor code. A day later our friend texted the info we’d requested. The car belonged to Harry Wallis, a corporal in the Air Force. He was stationed at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa Florida. It turned out that his brother was none other than Craig Wallis, the man who worked for the Good Moving Company.

The next part was not so easy. We were clearly not dealing with masterminds. They had made a series of stupid mistakes when they abducted me. First, they let me hear their voices which I immediately recognized and secondly, they really had no clue how to tie up a victim. Thirdly they fell for the oldest trick in the book regarding following a car. Never assume that you are the only car being followed but always check your rear-view mirror. These guys were amateurs at best. With any luck Craig Wallis would have the package stashed away in his house. That was our next job.

1529 Howard’s Lane Brandon was a tiny house in a working-class suburb of Tampa named Brandon. Craig Wallis had grown up in that house with his older brother Harry. They had gone through public school and both of them joined up when they turned 16. Craig, slightly smarter than his big brother, applied for special forces training and was accepted into the program. Both boys inherited the home after their parents passed away just six months apart from each other. Because Harry lived on base Craig lived at the house alone. Had Jim not been a music teacher I’d always said he’d be an excellent burglar. He’d learned how to pick locks at 16 (I never knew why) and so it was that he drove to 1529 Howard’s Lane Brandon and while I kept watch on Craig’s activities Jim broke into the house and searched for the package his brother had passed to him. No one could accuse the brothers of being too smart, because it took less than 5 minutes to retrieve the stolen package. Jim was in and out of the house within ten minutes and let me know as soon as he was back in the car.

That evening Jim and I looked into the package that he’d retrieved from Craig’s house in Brandon. Once we could decipher the military gobbledygook, we realized that Harry Wallis had been stealing cyber data in order to sell it to one of our hostile neighbors. Could it be that he wanted to sell classified information to Iran or China, Russia, or the Middle East. Whatever, the boys were up to Jim, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Growing up in Washington DC had its advantages. I had a friend from high school who joined the State department right out of college and was now a senior member of the Government. That evening I called her and told her what had happened, and how I had been abducted. She listened sympathetically and when I was finished Madeleine asked me where I was staying. “Jim and I are at the Hampton Inn in Tampa for the next few days,” I replied. “Stay where you are Jen, and I’ll call you back in 10 minutes. OK?” Ten minutes later Madeleine rang back and told me that 2 FBI agents would be with us in a few minutes to take a statement and relieve us of the package. We chatted for a few more minutes, and then I thanked my friend; right after I hung up there was a knock on our door. Standing outside were two characters who resembled the men from a Blues brothers movie. Both standing well over 6 feet tall they wore dark suits and shades. “Ma’am I’m special agent Sully from the FBI and this here is Agent Darwin he said flashing his badge. I understand you were kidnapped last night. We would like to come in and take a statement from you if that’d be alright?” “Yes of course Agent Sully. Please come in. This is my husband, Jim Holland. Can I get either of you a drink?” “No thank you ma’am. Tell us in your own words what happened.”

And so I explained who I was and that I’d recently inherited the Good Neighbor Moving Company from my uncle who had left it to me in his will and I had decided to work undercover for a week to see how efficient the company was. I then told them I had been working late in the accounts department and had heard voices in the front office. I had then peeked through the partially open door and seen one of the two men who was wearing a military uniform pass a package over to another man and someone I knew who was an employee at the moving company. They must have seen me because 45 minutes later when I left the office, they were waiting for me in the parking lot and shoved me into a van and drove me to a deserted hangar in an industrial area of Tampa. They tried to find out my name, but I refused to tell them anything other than I was Andrea the temporary who was filling in for Alison who was on maternity leave. They finally got frustrated, tied me up and then left me. Somehow, I managed to free myself and escaped from the hangar and managed to hail a taxi a few blocks away that took me back to my hotel.” Agent Darwin had been taking notes all the while I had been speaking but when I stopped, he asked. “It’s probably no use my asking how you came into possession of the package that Agent Sully had been poring over ever since they sat down.” “No it would not.” I answered fearing the legal liability we’d be in if they found out the truth.” Agent Sully gave me a knowing look with a hint of a smile creeping around the edges of his mouth then looked away. “Ma’am. If you could just give us the names of the individuals who abducted you, that’d be an enormous help to us.” “Actually, I can do better than that,” I replied. I wrote down their names. They are 2 brothers, Harry and Craig Wallis and Craig who works for the moving company lives at 1529 Howard’s Lane Brandon. His brother and he own the house but because Harry is currently in the air force he lives on base at MacDill. However he drives a tan Ford Fiesta with FL license plate YRH639.” Agent Darwin had been busy scribbling again and when he was done, he smiled and said, “Ma’am you’ve been a mine of information. We appreciate what you have done.” “It’s my pleasure,” I interjected. “Do you have any idea what the package contains?” “We’re fairly sure it’s classified, and the data is encrypted and so it’s hard to know what it is until our cyber unit at Langley takes a look at it. Nevertheless whatever it is should not have been taken from MacDill and CENTCOM and the 2 individuals you ID’d will be arrested and possibly charged with espionage. My advice to you Ma’am is to come clean with the moving company and admit who you are so everyone can get on with their lives again.”

The next day Craig Wallis was arrested as he arrived at work and Harry was picked up at CENTCOM at the same moment and charged with espionage. I asked for a meeting with Rob and Cecil who met me in the office and were horrified when they found out what had happened to me two nights earlier. I made it clear this was not their fault and that they should in no way blame themselves. I admitted who I was and after an awkward few moments they both laughed and welcomed me into their family. I decided then and there that I would never go undercover again. Life is too short.

CHAPTER 10

Atlanta and Billy Green

Henry Miller had vanished after reinventing himself as Barry Kemp after he was recognized by a customer and a camp survivor at the Circuit City job he'd acquired when he moved to Fairfax Virginia from Detroit after his outburst at the hearing that implicated him as Heinrich Mueller the infamous "Butcher of Majdanek."

My feeling is that he has several identities with him and plenty of cash. I think he will sell his car as it is tied to his Barry Kemp identity and then buy a new car using his new identity. I suggest that I travel south on I95 and search for where he stayed Saturday night. I would like to bet that he stayed in Fredericksburg because that’s 2 hours south of D.C. and he got a late start leaving so Fredericksburg makes sense to me.” “Good Moe. Keep me up to speed as soon as you get anything.”

Billy Green aka Heinrich Mueller pulled into the Atlanta suburb of Doraville near sundown on Sunday evening. The first thing he did was buy a local paper as he walked into Denny’s restaurant. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and was hungry. The waitress introduced herself as he sat down in a corner booth. She was a little southern Jewess named Missy. In the past he’d have selected her for the gas chamber, but now in 1970 in the US they appeared to frown on that kind of behavior. And so Billy simply smiled and thanked her for the menu. Later after he was getting ready to pay he asked Missy if there was a Howard Johnson’s anywhere close. She told him there was one just 2 exits closer to Atlanta. Billy thanked her, paid his bill, climbed into his Volvo, drove to the Inn, and rented a room for a week paying cash for the room.

Sometimes life just hands you lemonade. Moe Berger who was an excellent investigator relying on his instincts remembered that Mueller had stayed at the Howard Johnson’s Inn in Fairfax and knowing that humans are creatures of habit he took a chance and pulled into the forecourt of the Howard Johnson’s Inn in Fredericksburg VA and asked the night clerk if he recognized the picture of Heinrich Mueller? Right away the clerk nodded that he remembered Barry Kemp and Moe slipped him a $10 bill to get the car make model and license number. 15 minutes later he placed a call to Sophia Engelmann and told her the good news. “I’m impressed Moe. Did the guy know where he was heading?” Sophia replied. “Maybe. The clerk remembers him asking how far interstate 85 was from Fredericksburg, so I thanked him and headed toward 85. The first big city I came to in North Carolina was Raleigh and so I stopped for the night at, you guessed it Howard Johnson’s. I showed the clerk a picture of Mueller and asked him if he had seen the guy. Unfortunately, he didn’t recognize him and so I asked him where the closest car dealership was. He pointed me toward a used car dealer several blocks away from the hotel. I drove over there and showed Mueller’s photo around. Money talks and so I slipped some to the salesmen who took me more seriously then. One of them remembered a guy matching Mueller who bought a dark blue Volvo station wagon from them and paid cash for it. He remembered the guy mainly because most people finance their vehicles as it was a Buy here Pay here place. Money talks. I slipped the salesman 40 bucks and within moments he gave me the name that Mueller purchased the car under. The name he’s now traveling under is Billy Green and he’s driving a dark blue 1963 Volvo 780 station wagon. I assume that he’s heading for Atlanta so he can lose himself in that large metropolis. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything more.” Sophia took a deep breath as she listened to Moe Berger. He’d found out more in two days than most people could find out in a year. “Thanks so much Moe. I truly owe you for this.” Sophia said. “I’ll make you pay,” Moe laughed as he hung up the phone.

Billy Green checked into the Howard Johnson Inn on Wilbur Street and once again booked a room for a week and paid in cash. He’d decided that before he found an apartment, he would find a job first. He wanted something in law enforcement but knew that if he did that it would bring undue scrutiny to his life. After he checked into his motel, he bought a copy of the Atlanta Journal and turned straight to the want ads. As if it were meant to be the third ad was from the Bureau of Corrections advertising for a corrections officer at The U.S. Penitentiary, Atlanta at McDonough Blvd SE, in Atlanta. Billy read the ad 3 times and then grunted his satisfaction and wrote the phone number down. In 1970 without the aid of much technology applicants for jobs not requiring a great deal of confirmation could effectively produce a bogus set of positive testimonials that if the person applying for the job interviewed well would generally be ignored. Billy made the call later that day setting up an interview and was told to show up at the prison at 10.00 am on Thursday morning. He figured that it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for him from the work he did in Poland back in World War II. He’d heard that the prison system in the US was unruly at best and that violence from the corrections officers was unofficially sanctioned and that the top brass generally turned a blind eye to it. That was most appealing to a sadist like Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller and so it was with optimism that he appeared for his interview on Thursday morning. Green was an excellent interviewer and ran rings around the man who was interviewing him. He lied easily with great conviction and provided false letters of recommendation and 40 minutes later found himself to be a member of the U.S. penitentiary team in Atlanta.

US Penitentiary Atlanta had over 1,000 male inmates incarcerated in a building that was opened in 1902. Modernization had not yet happened, and conditions were still Dickensian. Billy Green knew that at some point in the future his false references would be acknowledged, and he would be called up in front of his supervisor, questioned and then dismissed. He would cross that bridge when he came to it but now, he’d throw caution to the wind and enjoy the power he’d just been given. He had missed that so much. He was fitted for a uniform and 3 days later he reported for duty. It didn’t take long for Billy Green to become the most despised guard on cell block 3. Rather than keep a low profile he went the other way and wasn’t shy to use the truncheon he carried at all times on the inmates. Actually he thoroughly enjoyed it. Within a matter of days word got around not to mess with Officer Green. He would beat the living shit out of any man if you just looked at him wrong. Billy Green managed to put 3 inmates in the hospital in his first two weeks and the top brass looked on approvingly from their ivory tower. The Warden of the prison was a man called Cletus Evans. Billy Green caught his attention soon after he started work at USP Atlanta. Both men were law and order hawks, and the moment Cletus met Green he knew they were birds of a feather. It took Billy Green less than five minutes to ingratiate himself with the warden who was not a smart man but a stickler for the rules as long as those rules helped his own cause. In fact he was like the Nazis who ran the concentration camps like Belzec, Chelmno, Dachau, and Auschwitz. Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller could wrap a man like him around his finger in a slim minute.

Back when he worked at Buchenwald which was not considered a death camp a Nazi method of torture was to tie a man’s hands behind his back and then lift him up by his arms and suspend him for hours. This method was used as punishment if a Jew asked for more food or did not remove his cap in the presence of a German officer. One day sitting in the Wardens office Billy Green suggested that method of torture be used on unruly inmates. Cletus loved the idea and unofficially gave Billy permission to adopt it on prisoners who were out of control and in need of some discipline. Cletus and Billy were a match made in heaven. Over the next few months Billy Green created a Wild West flavor at USP Atlanta with many of the guards, fearful of losing their jobs, siding with the Warden and the others just keeping their heads down and doing their jobs. The ringleader without doubt was Billy Green and he was in his element strutting back and forth with his truncheon in his hand willing to use it on an inmate for the slightest thing. It took six months before someone had the nerve to complain to the Bureau of Prisons after an incident that almost killed a man. To Officer Green it was just another day at the office, but it attracted the attention of the press because of the egregious act that Officer Green performed on the prisoner. After a month in the prison infirmary the inmate wrote to the newspaper telling them of the torture that was being perpetrated on the prisoners at USP Atlanta. He particularly singled out Officer Billy Green. The newspaper had recently written a series on Governmental corruption so the reporter Jessie Daniels who’d been given that story started investigating the charges. Every time she tried to find any information about Officer Green it always came up blank. She contacted Warden Evans and when she tried to get him a quote, he stonewalled her. Finally, after hitting roadblock after roadblock, she contacted a friend at DMV and asked him to run his name through their system. Officer William (Billy) Green owned a 1963 Volvo 780 with a recently changed license number from North Carolina to a Georgia plate number CVB 867.

Jessie Daniels, the young reporter for The Atlanta Constitution was a young Jew from the modern era who’d been born in 1950 and knew little about the horrors that her parents and grandparents had had to endure at the hands of people like Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller. And so armed with her camera she drove to the address that her friend at the DMV had provided her and parked outside the apartment building and waited for Billy Green to return home from work. Jessie didn’t have to wait long. She was sitting in her car fiddling with the f stop on her new Canon 87 hd when she noticed a man wearing a guards uniform walking toward his building. She snapped off several shots with her high-def camera and then decided to throw caution to the wind and knock on his door. The first thing that Jessie noticed as he answered her knock was the strange accent that came out of his mouth. It simply didn’t match his name. She’d been expecting to hear a “good ole” boy accent from a guy with a name like Billy Green, but instead what she heard was a thick Germanic accent, and it confused her. “Mr. Green, my name is Jessie Daniels. I’m a reporter for the Constitution and I wonder if you’d mind me asking you a few questions?” “What kind of questions?” he replied. “An inmate at the prison you work at has made some allegations that you beat him up and broke his collar bone. What do you have to say about that allegation?” Jessie continued and was rewarded by Billy Green slamming the door in her face. “I guess that’d be no comment.” Jessie thought as she walked back to her car. Billy Green sat in his apartment and watched as Jessie Daniels drove away. He knew that it was only a matter of days before his cover was blown. “And I was enjoying my job at the prison so much, but I guess it’s time to move on.” He thought to himself. He took the next two days off calling in sick, but on the third day he left town. A couple of days later Jessie Daniels published a story along with several pictures of Billy Green accusing him of being a fraud and telling the story of multiple complaints against him and the warden Cletus Evans. After extensive research she’d been unable to find out his real identity and so her editors agreed to publish his picture, tell the story and ask for the public’s help.

 Henry Mitchell never saw the newspaper story. He was long gone and heading for Chicago. The Windy City was calling him. The first day Billy drove to Indianapolis 8 hours away and booked into his standard Howard Johnson’s Inn. This time he checked in under the name Damian Sullivan. He then sold his Volvo at a loss and took a taxi across town to another dealer and bought another Volvo for cash using his new identity. Heinrich was nothing if he wasn’t consistent. He then drove his 1964 960 back to the motel where he took himself out to dinner at the restaurant attached to the motel. When he was a young man and an officer in the Wehrmacht he was always being transferred from camp to camp. The comradeship was what he missed most of all. He loved his fellow officers, and he considered his mission to erase the world of all Jews to be vitally important. He found himself ruminating on those halcyon days on his recent road trips and wondered if his fellow officers were still alive or what had happened to them. When it became clear that Germany would lose the war, his friends and he did everything in their power to exterminate as many Jews as possible and burn every shred of evidence that tied the Gestapo to the 44,000 concentration camps that they operated in Europe. That in itself proved without a doubt that they knew what they were doing was wrong, and the fact that so many Nazis when they were being tried at Nuremberg told the same tired old story that all they were doing was following orders didn’t hold water.

 The next morning Billy Green awoke and as was his custom ate a hearty breakfast at the little restaurant attached to the inn and then checked out of the motel and about 3 hours later drove into the sprawl of Chicago. About 800 miles away Moe Berger had lost the scent of Henry Mitchell. He was having coffee and reading the Post when a tiny Reuters article caught his attention. Staring back at him was a photo of Henry (aka Barry Kemp) Mitchell dressed in a prison guards’ uniform. Along with the photo was a story written by Jessie Daniels of the Atlanta Constitution asking for the public’s help in finding out the real identity of a prison guard named Billy Green who had been accused of multiple acts of violence against inmates. Moe took a deep breath and a few minutes later after he’d recovered picked up the phone and called Jessie Daniels. “Good morning, Miss Daniels, my name is Moe Berger, and I just saw your piece in the Post asking for the public’s help. I may have some information for you regarding officer Billy Green.” “I’m sorry sir. I didn’t catch your name.” Jessie Daniels answered. “My name is Moe Berger Miss Daniels, and I believe I can help you with Officer Green’s identity.” “Thank you, Mr. Berger. Can you tell me who he is because in the course of following up on an abuse complaint Mr. Green’s name came up. I have checked high and low and have found Officer Green does not exist. It is extraordinary that Mr. Green was a federal corrections officer but there seems to be no record of him anywhere. I stumbled on it quite by chance. Since my article was published Officer Green has disappeared and I have hit a brick wall.” Jessie paused for a moment and Moe Berger asked, “did you by any chance manage to get his address or the kind of car he was driving?” “I can do better than that,” Jessie replied, “I can even give you his plate number.” “Fantastic,” said Moe enthusiastically “I’d be most grateful. If you wouldn’t mind being patient for a day or two and if you can give me his address and license number, I will do some checking and then get right back to you and tell you everything.” Moe was starting to feel the excitement of the chase again and knew that Mueller would revert to his usual habits. “That’d be fine,” replied Jessie who after a few minutes of pondering had decided to trust this stranger. She gave Moe the address she had and the make model and license plate number of the car and then after a minute more said. “I look forward to hearing from you soon.” After Jessie hung up the phone she wondered if she had done the right thing.

Moe did it bit more investigating and when he was satisfied picked up the phone again and called Sophia Engelmann. These days they were in touch regularly as they were working on several cases simultaneously. Sophia answered the phone. “Hello. How can I help you?” “Hello Sophia, it’s Moe. I just spoke to a reporter in Atlanta. She had written a piece in her paper about a prison guard who had been accused of beating up some inmates at the Atlanta correctional center. In conducting her due diligence, she discovered that the guard a man called Billy Green did not exist. She ran all kinds of checks on him but with no luck and so she found out his address and waited outside to confront him. She took several photos of him entering his apartment and then knocked on his door only to have it slammed in her face. And so, she drafted an article telling the story of a corrupt and vicious prison guard and then printed his picture and asked for the public’s help in finding him. Reuters picked the story up which is where I saw the article. Sophia, you will never guess who that corrupt prison guard was.” Sophia chuckled and replied, “oh why don’t you tell me?” It turns out that Billy Green is none other than Heinrich Mueller.” Moe replied. “Now I have a problem. I promised Jessie I would get back to her and give Billy Green’s real identity. If I do, then he will go to ground, and we will never catch him. What would you suggest I do?” Sophia thought for a second and then replied. “Moe, your word is your bond. You need to tell her the truth. If she prints who he is then maybe everywhere he runs, he will be recognized. He’s on the lam now isn’t he, so if he’s recognized wherever he’s headed that’ll ultimately help us. I’d suggest telling her the truth.” “Funny you should say that Sophia, I was thinking the same. I’ll let her know after I finish talking to you.” Moe finished talking and Sophia thanked him for all his diligence and wished him luck in finding the next set of clues, wherever he was heading. After they’d hung up, he called Jessie Daniels back. “Miss Daniels, Moe Berger here. I’m calling you back as I promised you that I would tell you what I know about Billy Green.” “Oh yes,” Jessie replied. “Thanks for calling back.” Moe continued. “Billy Green emigrated to the U.S. in 1952. He is an engineer by trade and grew up in Austria. In 1939 he joined the SS and fought for Germany in World War II. He was promoted to Hauptsturmführer a paramilitary group and one of the leading Nazi members of the Gestapo engaged in Hitlers’ Final Solution. His job was to annihilate all Jews from the face of this earth. After the war he managed to evade capture by the allies and successfully emigrated to the US. In 1953 he founded a company in Detroit that manufactured starter motors for cars that he sold to GM, Ford and Chrysler for 17 years before being recognized by a new employee as the monster who tortured Jews at Majdanek concentration camp. I work for a group of Jewish survivors who tracks down Nazis and brings them to justice. This man who you know as Billy Green is a fugitive. His real name is Heinrich Mueller, and we believe that he’s a most dangerous war criminal. So far, he’s used several aliases as we’ve tracked him through multiple States. I’d appreciate it if you can publish his name and history so we might get lucky if someone recognizes him.” “Wow Mr. Berger. That is quite a story. Thanks so much for telling me. I was suspicious the moment I heard his accent. I didn’t know he was a Nazi, but his name just didn’t jive with hi accent. Something was off.”

Jessie Daniels article revealing the true identity of Officer Billy Green was published in the Atlanta Constitution two weeks later and the uproar was immediate. Reuters picked up her story and it was distributed nationwide a couple of days later. Questions were immediately asked how a war criminal could be hired for a federal job such as a corrections officer. An internal investigation began and the man who was responsible for hiring Green was fired as were the two people who should have checked his references. Warden Cletus Evans was never mentioned in the official complaint. Jessie had managed to dig up a photo of Heinrich Mueller in full SS Nazi uniform which had clearly been his official German army photograph. Extraordinarily enough all these years later he hadn’t changed much at all. She printed that photo alongside the one that she’d taken as Billy Green walking into his apartment building in his corrections officer uniform. She explained that he had emigrated illegally to the US after the war and had started a business in Detroit manufacturing starter motors for cars which he sold to GM Ford and Chrysler. 16 years after starting the company he hired a Polish electrical engineer who recognized him as being an SS officer in the Gestapo. The man Fillip Kowalski had been an inmate at a concentration camp named Mauthausen. He subsequently contacted The Wiesenthal Center and told them that he’d recognized a Nazi who used to work at the camp where he was an inmate. Jessie Daniels article went on to describe the conditions that Jews had to endure while they were imprisoned at any one of the 44,000 camps that Adolf Hitler built in order to carry out his insane ambition of wiping Jews off the face of the earth. The girl had clearly done her homework or maybe spoken to her parents or grandparents who must have explained to her the true intention of The Final Solution.

The Wiesenthal Centers’ purpose was to hunt down Nazi war criminals and investigate claims. They sent a man called John Turley to interview him and 9 months later they had a hearing where 8 witnesses confirmed what Fillip Kowalski had been witness to. A day later Heinrich Mueller disappeared and was eventually tracked down by agents of The Wiesenthal Center in Fairfax Virginia. Every time they get close, he gets wind of it and disappears again. So far, he has avoided capture for well over two years.

Cynthia Hawkins in her infinite wisdom had scheduled us to go to a town in Georgia to visit a coffee house named Grounds for Concern owned by a political activist. The Associated Press detailed how former Georgia Secretary of State Brian Kemp, who is now the Republican governor, had stalled more than 50,000 voter registrations of disproportionately black voters because of alleged problems with their voting registration information. Governor Kemp denied any allegations of intentional voter suppression and said that all persons on that list can still vote on Election Day, if they have the proper identification. 

Sadly the political pressure was too much for the owner of Grounds for Concern and the coffee house went into foreclosure for lack of business. Uncle John then bought it. I was beginning to notice an interesting pattern to his purchases. As we flew into the tiny airport of Brunnings, I got the feeling the turbulence I was feeling would be greater from the coffeehouse with the provocative name than from this tiny jet.

 A month after Jessie’s article came out an arrest warrant was issued for Heinrich Mueller for obtaining a federal job under false pretenses and for perjury as when he was sworn in, he took an oath to uphold the constitution.  As we flew into the tiny airport of Brunnings, I got the feeling the turbulence I was experiencing in the air from the plane would be far less than the chaos we were about to experience over the next few days. How right my premonition turned out to be.

As Jenny absorbed the latest information as to the whereabouts of Billy Green the plane touched down in Brunnings

CHAPTER 11

Grounds for Concern

Brunnings Georgia is a town that checks all the boxes that qualify it to be charming. Uncle John was many things but the one thing he was not was a hypocrite. He voted GOP Republican all his life and even though Jim and I are Dems he respected that and never made us feel bad about ourselves. The businesses that he bought numbering 107 in all were companies that for whatever reason had failed, and he had decided to buy them and try to turn them around. It did not have to be a huge company for it to qualify for Uncle John’s short list. Big or small, it made no difference. There was however a consistent theme to his choices, and I was noticing that theme.

This adventure was a coffee shop called Grounds for Concern. It opened its doors on November 5th, 2016, the day the new President won the election and became President of the United States of America his boorish behavior had been reverberating around Republican politics for a while and even though many politicians in his own party had called him a xenophobe, a racist and a religious bigot the party still got behind him and nominated him for President.

After Adolf Hitler came to power in 1932, creating the Third Reich, Deutsche Bank dismissed its 3 Jewish board members in 1933. In later years, Deutsche Bank took part in the aryanization of Jewish-owned businesses; according to its own historians, the bank was involved in 363 such confiscations by November 1938. During the war, Deutsche Bank incorporated other banks that fell into German hands during the occupation of Eastern Europe. The bank provided banking facilities for the Gestapo and loaned the funds used to build Auschwitz and the nearby IG Farben facilities. During World War II, Deutsche Bank became liable for managing the Bohemian Union Bank in Prague, with branches in Turkey, the Bankverein in Yugoslavia, the Albert de Barry Bank in Amsterdam the National Bank of Greece, the Creditanstalt-Bank in Austria and Hungary, Deutsch-Bulgarische Kreditbank in Bulgaria, and Banca Commerciale Română in Bucharest. It also maintained a branch of Deutsche Bank in Istanbul.

In 1999, Deutsche Bank confirmed that it had been involved in the financing of Auschwitz. In December 1999 Deutsche, along with other major German companies, contributed to a US $5.2 billion compensation fund brought by Holocaust survivors. The history of Deutsche Bank during World War II has since been documented by independent historians commissioned by the Bank.

Meanwhile Deutsche Bank was having troubles of its own. Having lent millions to bad risk clients the bank had fallen foul of the law agreeing to pay $630 million in fines for mirror trading, which is just a fancy term for money laundering. This is how it works. Mirror trading allows traders in financial markets to select a trading strategy and automatically "mirror" the trades executed by the selected strategies in the trader's brokerage account. Traders can select strategies that match their personal trading preferences, such as risk tolerance and past profits. That meant a Russian trader in Moscow could execute a transaction in rubles and then cash out a few moments later at a bank in the USA in American dollars. This was how the Russian Oligarchs managed to buy Cramer condos in New York. It was a classic case of money laundering. As well Deutsche Bank used a small bank in Cyprus, the Bank of Cyprus to launder money. This fact and the mirror trading scandal was why Deutsche Bank received such a hefty fine. One owner of The Bank of Cyprus was a Russian billionaire named Yuri Strzhalkovsky who is a former KGB agent and close friend of Yuri Guryev’s. In addition, the man who had helped the new president keep control of his businesses after going into foreclosure, was a man named Willem Gross. He owned an 18% share in the same bank, The Bank of Cyprus. Willem Gross then recruited a high-profile banker with close ties to Russia, a former Bank chief executive Josef Ackerman, and close ally to Yuri Guryev to serve as chairman of the bank. In February 2017 Willem Gross was confirmed as Secretary of Commerce in the new administration.

I discovered the Bank had a murky financial relationship with a Russian based bank PTB which had ties to the Kremlin. PTB Bank was founded as Peshtorgbank in 1990 with the support of a Russian State Bank and the Ministry of Finance. It was set up as a limited liability company with the aim of servicing Russia's foreign trade and promoting Russia's integration into the global economy.

I showed up with my husband Jim Holland to Grounds for Concern in Brunnings Georgia on a summer morning this time not as a worker but simply as a customer.

Grounds for Concern was an unusual business. It was part barista run and part activist run. The store was located on a walking mall between a music store and a barber shop. It had a welcoming feel about it as we walked in and ordered breakfast. A sign over the cash register stated simply. Please be polite the barista who took our order was a delightful young man around 18 with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail who gave us a sweet and most genuine smile as he gave us our meal. “First time to Grounds for Concern?” He asked. “Sure is,” replied Jim. “Great. Enjoy yourselves and if you are around this evening at 6, we have a live band who play until about 9.” “Sounds fun,” I added. “Maybe we’ll swing by.”

That evening we did indeed swing by and enjoyed the band along with a packed house who sang and danced behaving like we were concert goers at a Crosby Stills Nash and Young concert when we were young. Brunnings GA was my kind of place. Jim and I found a lovely Victorian bed and breakfast to stay at just minutes away from Grounds for Concern where we lazed around until it was time to head back to the concert at the coffee shop. At around 9pm the band finished, and I asked Tom the nice barista who’d served us in the morning where we could find somewhere nice for dinner, and he recommended Grady’s a few blocks south on the same mall. It opened at 9pm and had a very convivial atmosphere, delicious food and a topflight jazz band that played until 3. Who knew? We decided to take a chance and as it was a gorgeous evening walked to Grady’s getting there around 9:30. The restaurant was jammed but the maitre’d found us a lovely table for two overlooking cherry trees on the mall that had been festooned with Christmas lights. What a perfect setting for a romantic dinner. Prior to leaving Grounds for Concern Tom had told us that the following night at 7:30 they had invited an author who was going to read sections of his new book entitled What do Republican’s see in their new president? It sounded interesting and the author would open the room up later for discussion. It sounded right up our alley. “See you tomorrow, Tom. Thanks for the recommendation.” And we walked out with a big smile. It had been a fun day in Brunnings GA.

The food was delicious at Grady’s, and we finished off the evening eating a Georgia staple, peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream with coffee. You cannot visit Georgia without sampling home grown peaches. That night Jim and I strolled lazily back to the B&B and went to bed realizing that it had taken my beloved Uncle’s death for me and Jim to go on our honeymoon. We had been married 32 years by that time and found ourselves to be as much in love now as we had been all those years before. We slept until 10 and then rolled downstairs where the owner had fixed us a huge breakfast. She reminded me of a teacher I’d known as a child. A big roly poly woman with a permanent smile on her face who asked us if we were on our honeymoon. It was such a sweet and innocent question that we both nodded our heads and received a huge smile as a reward. We spent the day being tourists, something we had little experience with but found ourselves enjoying enormously. After exploring the sights, we finally went home to our B&B and took showers and got ready for our evening’s entertainment.

Nick Brady had been a fixture at The New York Times where he had worked for the past 25 years as a journalist on the politics desk. He had seen his fair share of controversy in his tenure there but had also won 2 Pulitzer Prizes. Nick was apolitical, meaning that he wasn’t influenced or concerned with political considerations. He was a fair and even keeled writer who loved people and was always happy to listen to any side of an argument.

As we walked in Nick Brady was reading from his latest book “The Goals of Russia.” “The goals of Russia since 1917 have been to destroy capitalism, discredit democracy, and show that Communist collectivism was the greatest social and political system in the world. Reagan went to Reykjavik to meet Gorbachev to begin the surrender of the USSR but when Cramer met Guryev last November in Reykjavik, he met him to begin the surrender of the USA.” We took a seat and listened to this eloquent speaker. This was going to be an interesting evening I could tell. “After Russia invaded Ukraine in 2014,” Brady continued, “the USA promised to help Ukraine in their fight was deeply offended by some wording used by the US that said the US would “be providing lethal defensive weapons to help Ukraine.”

“Dima V. Ivanov is a Russian Ukrainian political consultant.” Nick Brady went on. “In the United States, he had become a person of interest in the Special Counsel Investigation into Russian interference in the 2016 United States elections, particularly due to his ties as an American political consultant, who served as as an adviser for the President.

Ivanov was believed by CNN and The New York Times to be "Person A" listed in court documents filed by the Special Counsel. He was also believed to be Person A in court documents filed in the formal accusation of Andrew Vander Zwaan. The claim that he had ties to Russian intelligence agencies, or was a Russian intelligence operative, was a central part of the theory of the Acton Report. In 2017 Ivanov denied having any ties to Russian intelligence agencies. Acton did not believe him however and Ivanov was indicted by Acton's grand jury on 8 June 2018 on charges of obstruction of justice and conspiracy to obstruct justice by trying to tamper with a witness on his behalf.” George had a commanding way with people and the audience was riveted as we listened to him explaining the details of the Arthur Cooper investigation. He continued, “Ivanov was born on 27 April 1970 in Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine. Fluent in Russian and Ukrainian before his service in the Soviet Army, he became fluent in Swedish and English as a linguist at the Military University of the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation, which trained interpreters for the Soviet Main Intelligence Directorate. He served in the Soviet Army as a translator and worked closely with the Soviet Army's GRU. He took Russian citizenship after the dissolution of the Soviet Union and worked in Sweden as an interpreter for a Russian arms dealer. In Moscow, Ivanov then worked for the International Republican Institute from 1995 to early 2005. According to anonymous sources, when applying for his position with the IRI, he responded to the question about how he learned English by stating that the "Russian military intelligence" taught him and he became known among Moscow political operatives as "Kostya, the guy from the GRU". In 1997, he traveled to the United States using a Russian diplomatic passport. He claims he was dismissed in the early 2000s after the Federal Security Service's chief gave a speech discussing internal private meetings at the Institute. A former colleague told the FBI that Ivanov was fired because of his strong links to Russian intelligence services.”

“In 2005 recruited by Philip M. Griffin as a translator for oligarch Rinat Akhmetov and seeking better pay than at IRI, Ivanov met Rick Jameson and became an employee of Jameson's consulting firm. After leaving IRI in April 2005, he lived and worked in Kiev and Moscow while his wife and two children remained in Moscow living in a modest house near the Sheremetyevo International Airport. Some reports say Ivanov ran the Kiev office of Jameson's firm, Davis Jameson International, and was Jameson's right-hand man in Kiev. He began working for Viktor Jakob after the Orange Revolution in 2004 cost him his job. With help from Jameson and Ivanov, Jakob became President in 2010. Ivanov then spent 90% of his time inside the Presidential administration From 2011 to 2013 as a liaison to Viktor Jakob’s chief of staff Serhiy Lyovochkin, Ivanov, Jameson, Alan Friedman, Eckart Sager, who was a onetime CNN producer, advised him on an international public relations strategy. This effort supported the administration of the President of Ukraine Viktor Jakob who hired Jameson's company Global Endeavor, a St. Vincent and Grenadines based consulting and lobbying company, which during the end of Jakob’s presidency transferred $750,000 out of Ukraine and also paid Ivanov $53,000 during November and December 2013. When Jakob fled the country, Jameson and Ivanov gained employment with the Ukrainian party Opposition Bloc, which was backed by the oligarchs who backed Jakob. At some point Opposition Bloc stopped paying Jameson's firm but even though the non-payment forced Jameson's firm to shut down their Kiev office, Ivanov continued to advise the party while working to collect unpaid fees for Jameson's firm.

Around 2010, Ivanov collaborated with Leonid Smirnov when the Washington-based lobbyist was trying to sell a book disparaging one of Jakob’s opponents. Ivanov and Jameson actively helped Russian and Ukrainian oligarchs that were close to the Kremlin. Also, they worked to ensure that Viktor Jakob and his Party of Regions would reduce and eventually sever Ukraine's ties to the USA and Europe so that Ukraine would become much closer to Russia and the Kremlin.

In 2017 Ivanov helped Jameson write an op-ed for a Kyiv newspaper. A journalist in Ukraine, Oleg Voloshyn, has disputed this, saying that he and Jameson wrote the op-ed and that e-mailed the rough draft to Ivanov. The op-ed may have violated a gag order issued against Jameson by a US court and may have been a breach of Jameson's bail conditions.

In 2018, media reported Ivanov to be variously "described as a fixer, translator or office manager to the president’s ex-campaign chairman Rick Jameson.

In June 2019, John Sully claimed in an opinion piece at The Hill that he’d reviewed State Department emails and conducted two interviews that established Ivanov had worked as an intel source for the US Department of State since at least 2013.” I’d just looked at my watch which said it was ten past nine when suddenly the lights in Grounds for Concern went off. Pandemonium ensued and everyone in the place began coughing and gagging and our eyes were stinging. We all heard the front door slam shut and laughter from at least three people who shouted epithets at us. “Jews will never replace us,” and “nigger go home.”

Tom went to the fuse box and managed to turn the lights back on. The audience was staggering about coughing, spluttering, and rubbing their eyes. “Someone call the cops,” I heard someone shout as we all realized that we had just been attacked by thugs and possibly white nationalists who had clearly planned this attack. The fact that Nick Brady was a well-known TV commentator and journalist and the fact that he was an African American lent credence that a hate group had clearly planned this vile attack. I was mortified. However it was time for action and Tom, the kind young barista who had become our friend, had jumped into the fray, had phoned 911 and requested medics asap and then gone around the room tending to the most seriously hurt. Jim and I had not been in the direct line of fire so we could see fine and set about helping Tom make people as comfortable as possible. In a few moments the sound of sirens invaded our space and before we knew it we were swamped with medics in masks diagnosing the ailments. The most serious casualty we saw was an elderly man who’d had a heart attack when whatever it was tossed into the room. He was immediately taken by ambulance to hospital and those of us who were well enough helped calm the chaos. The room was a mess.  We were all led outside, and the medics continued their treatment of us. After about thirty minutes our eyes stopped stinging, and a young medic confirmed that we had just been tear gassed.

Standing alone after everyone had been treated and had either gone home or had gone to the hospital for further treatment was Nick Brady looking dazed and depressed. “Are you okay,” I asked tritely to which he nodded his head. “This is my husband Jim,” I said. “I know this is an odd thing to suggest, but I’ve always felt that getting back on a horse right after you’ve fallen off is the best thing to do. We are going to eat dinner just down the block at Brady’s. Would you care to join us?” Nick Brady was so taken aback at my question, that he laughed and replied, “you know I think that’s a great idea. I’d love to.”

Sitting in a packed restaurant eating dessert drinking coffee and listening to jazz from the same band that we had enjoyed the night before, the three of us were like old friends who’d known each other all their lives. Nick Brady was intense, passionate and highly intelligent. Oh and by the way a really likable guy. I looked at my watch and it was 2:20 and time had flown. We drove Nick back to his hotel and thanked him for such a great discussion before the tear gas and he laughed and thanked us for making the best out of a bad scene. We exchanged numbers and bid our new friend goodbye. It was one of the strangest evenings of our lives.

The following morning our host cooked us another scrumptious breakfast and we both decided we should go for a long walk in order to burn the calories we’d just consumed. Somewhere around mid-morning we found ourselves walking past Grounds for Concern and decided to pop our noses in to find out what the damage was like. Tom greeted us at the coffee bar. He had obviously been busy and must have arrived early as you would never have known that the place had been tear gassed just 15 hours earlier. “Hi Tom,” I said. “How’s it going?” Tom’s big smile filled his face. “All is cool. The man who had the heart attack was lucky. It turned out to be a very mild one. They’re keeping him in for a couple of days just to keep an eye on him but they’re saying he should be fine. I’m happy to report that everyone who attended the talk is fine. A few of them decided to get checked out at the hospital, and we have talked to our insurance carrier who has let us know that they will cover any costs including the man who had a heart attack.” “Oh, that is good news,” I replied. “Tom, could you tell me something?” I asked. “Yes of course.” “I would like to have a word with the manager, if that’d be possible?” “Well actually, you’re talking to him,” he replied looking flustered. I took a deep breath and dove in headfirst.

After I had explained that I was in fact the new owner and that I had inherited Grounds for Concern from my uncle who had recently passed away, Tom looked stunned. “My God what an entrance you made. I couldn’t have done better myself.” He said laughing. “Have the police taken a statement yet?” I asked. “They took one last night but said they would take a more detailed statement today. Listen. I recognized one of them last night from their voice. Brunnings is a pretty small place, and I’ve lived here all my life. I’m sure that I was at school with him. He wasn’t a bad lad, just a dumbass and it makes sense that he’d join the white nationalist party. I thought about it all last night and when I came in early and started cleaning, I figured out who it was that had said that crazy stuff. I was going to mention it to the cops today. What do you think?” “That’d be a good idea, Tom. I think that we should head on over to the police station now and tell the detective in charge of the case.”

Our week in Brunnings GA was cut short through no fault of our own. The three of us met the detective in charge of the attack who took our statements and smiled knowingly as Tom told him the identity of one of the members of the hate group. “Yes, I know that lad. He’s been on our radar for a couple of years now. How do you know him, Tom?” “I’ve known him all my life,” Tom replied. “I was at school with him as well. I’d know his voice anywhere.” Jim and I flew home on Thursday for a long weekend by ourselves. The next day I got a call from Tom who told me that 3 of his old high school class had been arrested for the attack. It turned out they were part of a hate group called The Proud Boys a far-right wing group that believes there is a worldwide cabal of Satan-worshiping pedophiles who rule the world and control everything. They control politicians, and they control the media. They control Hollywood, and they cover up their existence.  And they would have continued ruling the world, were it not for the election of the new President. The reason they tear gassed Grounds for Concern on that night was the fact that Nick Brady was giving a talk and they believed that George was a member of the worldwide cabal. Having spent a most unusual evening with this delightful man I vowed to find out as much as I could about this group The Proud Boys.

CHAPTER 12

Molly

Our daughter Molly is a doctor. She works at Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda MD. She’s married to her high school sweetheart Stephen Landrieu who works for the Federal Government. He’s a Secret Service Officer and quite recently he was assigned to be one of the First Lady’s security detail at The White House. We’ve known Stephen for decades as he and Molly dated in high school. He’s been like a son to us, and they come and visit us as much as possible, even though their lives are crazily busy what with Molly’s hectic schedule as a doctor and Stephen’s constant travel with the bureau. Even though the current administration is Republican it’s nice when they visit to hear stories about where Stephen has been traveling and I have to admit it’s lovely to share Molly’s and Stephen’s lives sitting on the porch drinking a glass of wine or 2 at Savannah House after a nice dinner and knowing the person we love more than anyone in the world is safe with the one she loves. There is a lot of security built into that. Stephen had been working for the Secret Service for a little more than 15 years.

Stephen and I were clearing the dishes after dinner while Molly and her Dad were sitting on the porch ostensibly catching up but in fact were sitting side by side in silence just staring at the magnificent sunset. My relationship with my son-in-law was a very natural one. Like a mother son relationship. He’d called me Mom for years long before he and Molly were married and had attended all her graduations from her very first college undergraduate degree all the way until her final one where she earned her medical degree and consequently had known Uncle John and Aunt Rachel extremely well as they had always attended them as well. After we’d dumped the dishes, we joined the other two to catch up, have more drinks and enjoy lots of laughter. This visit like most visits these days was a flying one. Molly and Stephen had flown in this morning having taken a dawn flight, rented a car arriving at Savannah House by lunch time. Jim and I were used to their schedules and never made them feel awkward about how hectic they always were, but just made the most of the time we had together. That is family.

That evening we drank too much and as so often happens where alcohol is involved the four of us began getting a bit too verbose, as one usually does around the family. Back in World War II there was a saying; loose lips, sink ships. This was never more apt than this blockbuster conversation.  We were chatting away when Jim asked Stephen innocently how his job was going and Stephen replied somewhat hesitantly. I saw him cast a look toward Molly that was definitely a look that I took to mean was an “I’m gonna tell them,” kind of look, to which Molly instantly agreed with her eyes. “Mom, Dad,” Stephen began. “I saw something weird the other day at work. My desk is in an alcove down the hall from the First Lady’s Office in the East Wing of the White House. I was sitting there doing some work the other day when I saw the First Lady alone in the corridor. I wasn’t sure what she was doing but she appeared to be looking for an out of the way place. As she walked toward me her phone rang. At the time she hadn’t seen me. She answered the call angrily in Russian. She said just a few words in Russian использовать падение вместо but I understood exactly what she said. She told the caller not to phone her again but use the drop instead. She then hung up. It was at that moment that she noticed me. She appeared flustered and dropped her phone to distract me. What troubled me was that she spoke fluent Russian and that she had used the term drop. It was like something out of a spy movie. As she dropped her phone, I rushed to pick it up for her and the moment passed and I managed to assuage any awkwardness.  Since it happened, every time I see her, she is extra nice to me and while before she had no idea who I was she has now started calling me Stephen. It all seems very strange to me and somehow very contrived.”

I looked at Jim and then said to Stephen, “thanks for telling us. We’ve always thought there was something about those two that we didn’t trust. What do you think she’s involved in?” Stephen looked slightly uncomfortable and was silent for the longest time and then said. “I’m not one for conspiracy theories, but after I heard what she said I decided to do a bit of investigating on my own dime. I had heard a lot of rumors about how the President and First Lady met, and I had heard that he had been quite an international playboy. I first Googled Yves White the First Lady’s maiden name before she married, and I found what had been reported by the media years before that she had been educated at the Sorbonne in Paris and that during that time she’d been involved in some radical groups but after she graduated with a master’s degree in political science she had come back to the States and taken a job in a Republican think tank, which is where she met the future President.” Jim then asked. “Did you find anything that helped you understand why she knew Russian?” “Not really,” Jim answered, “but it’s funny you should ask that. I have a friend over at NSA who Molly and I were at school with and so I called him to ask if he’d heard anything through the grapevine. He told me that in year three at the Sorbonne, she had done an exchange year at Moscow State University which is where she learned to speak Russian. “Why didn’t I know about this?” I asked Ronny, and he replied that for some reason that information was not widely circulated and was on a need-to-know basis. Dad that last nugget put me over the edge and made me far more suspicious.” We both nodded our heads, and I replied, “I should say it did.”

It was getting late, and we were all exhausted and so we curtailed the discussion and then and all gave each other hugs and went to bed. The next morning Stephen and Molly had to rush so they could return their car and catch their flight home to Washington. Sitting all together having some breakfast before they left Stephen suddenly said to us, “Listen Mom and Dad, what we were talking about last night was just me talking, and I’m sure there’s nothing more to it, so please don’t worry and ignore what I said. Okay?”  Jim and I nodded our heads and Jim said. “Absolutely son, and as far as we are concerned you told us nothing.” An hour later they took their leave and we as old people spent the day remembering every element of their visit.

Molly and Stephen had recently bought a new house in Chevy Chase. Prior to that they owned a 2-bedroom condo in Falls Church Virginia. Because Molly works in Bethesda, they decided to look for a house closer to her work and after a year of hunting they found a lovely 2 story house with a front porch built in about 1910 with ample room for guests. They sold their condo in about 3 minutes flat and closed on their new house on October 1st One of the first things they did was call us and invite us to come for Thanksgiving which we accepted with delight. We hadn’t seen them since their last flying visit and so it was with a great deal of happiness that Jim and I piled into the car to drive the 10 hours to their new house in Chevy Chase. We left early on Tuesday, so we’d arrive just before dinner that night. Molly was given Thanksgiving off, something that rarely happened, and we intended to stay through the weekend and then drive home on Monday morning.

We have a short cut that we take when we drive from Pensacola to Washington. Jim like men in general tend to be in charge of the remote, directions and newspapers. I love him so much that I acquiesce to his little man quirks and even though the journey added an hour to our journey I considered it my privilege to allow such a sweet man to think he had found a new way. Actually on his new route we found a charming inn in Mayfield Georgia that we stopped at around lunchtime and ‘treated’ ourselves to a delicious meal. Our stop added an extra hour to our journey but don’t tell Jim! We always share the driving and around Fredericksburg on Interstate 95 Jim finally pulled over so I could take over. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Of course we had miscalculated that it was Thanksgiving and everyone and their uncle was heading out of town to enjoy the love of family on this wonderful American holiday. Incredibly Jim and I had no major fusses but for the last 2 hours we sat silently as we crawled to our destination in Chevy Chase.  We finally arrived at Stephen and Molly’s new house at 9:15 pm having of course texted them to go ahead with dinner without us. They ignored us and had dinner on the table waiting for us anyway. It took two stiff drinks to make the transition from the highway to our new surroundings but downing those as Stephen gave us a tour of the house did the trick, as Molly worked her magic in the kitchen and before we knew it we were sitting at the table in their new and very elegant home. It was truly a treat for us to see our kids all grown up, even though she was now in her 40’s. After dinner we moved to the living room for coffee and again the topic of the First Lady came up. This time it was my fault. I merely asked Stephen if he had found out any more about Yves White’s early life. Stephen clearly wanted to talk. “Yes,” he said “I’ve found out much more than I probably should know but I will tell you in the strictest of confidence. Okay?” Jim and I both nodded our heads. “In my job I have to leave politics at the door. I can’t allow my beliefs to interfere with my work. Having said that, as a boy growing up, I always searched for the truth and never stopped until I’d found what I was looking for. Now in this time of instant gratification we’re living in an age of TMI. There is information everywhere and there are men who peddle conspiracies, and it is increasingly hard to juggle the lies from the truth anymore.” Stephen picked up his glass and took a long sip of his wine.

CHAPTER 13

Conspiracy

While I was busy researching who the extreme right-wing group The Proud Boys were, Jim decided to run down to The Cherry Orchard Recreation Center and check it out. Over the summer we had had a couple of our friends running the reading, music and cabinet making classes and Jim just wanted to make sure that everything was doing fine. An hour later while I was engrossed in my research I heard a loud bang, and then a few minutes later I heard sirens in the distance but coming closer. Then my phone rang and Martha, my friend who had been running the reading class was speaking urgently. “Jenny. Jim’s been hurt badly. Get down to the Rec. center right away.” I stammered unsure what my brain had just heard. I was in shock. I jumped up leaving all my papers where they were and ran to the Rec. center as fast as I could. It was only a few blocks from our house but when I got there chaos was everywhere. Hoses littered the street and men in firemen’s uniforms were holding the hoses that were squirting water at what I hardly recognized as our Cherry Orchard, the safe haven we’d created for kids to hang out in. I began screaming “My husband is in there. Please help him.” But then, to my relief I saw my beautiful Jim standing next to the fire truck. When he heard my scream, he looked up, saw me and ran towards me. He hugged me like there was no tomorrow and would not let me go. I clung to him and finally when he saw the relief on my face he laughed gently and kissed me with all the passion he had had when he first kissed me 37 years ago after we first met. “What happened?” I asked him. “I was just approaching the front door when I got a phone call. I stopped and reached for my phone. The moment I did The Cherry Orchard exploded into a ball of flames. I was knocked back by the blast, but I do not know what happened or how the fire started. I do not think anyone would have been in there this early, but I’m terrified that someone was and that I was wrong.” Jim held onto me for the longest time and then I said. “Thank God you got the call when you did. It saved your life.” And we looked at each other again as the very real implication hit us both like a sledgehammer. “The reason I came running was that I received a call from Martha who told me you had been hurt. I’m so glad you’re okay.”  This was not an accident. This was intentional. We stood there for what seemed like an hour and watched the brave men and women fight the devastation that was The Cherry Orchard Rec. Center and wondered why anyone would intentionally set a fire in a place that had been built to help poor kids? As we stood there, friends came and offered their sympathy. Pensacola is a fairly small community and so most folks know each other through church, school, or clubs. We are a close-knit community, and I could see how much this action had upset everyone for us. Jim was beginning to realize how much stuff we had lost. He of course was worried about all his instruments and all the musical equipment he had been collecting for decades. I tried to assure him that the insurance would take care of the losses, but he’d built up relationships with all the clarinets, trombones violins and guitars. To say the least we were stunned. I then began assessing the loss I’d take in the Cherry Orchard Cabinet store. There was a lathe, multiple saws, sanders, planers and routers, not to mention the cabinets the kids had completed that were being displayed in the showroom. It was so disheartening. 

The entire block that housed The Cherry Orchard Center, The Cabinet company and showroom, and The Cherry Orchard Music had been demolished in less than a couple of hours. The good news was that no one was in the building when it exploded. The Fire Chief, a friend of ours for years, told us off the record that he was convinced the fire started from a detonation from a cell phone. We told him that when Jim arrived, he had received a call on his cell and within seconds the building erupted. The Fire Chief asked for Jim’s phone and then collected it as evidence, telling us that he would get back to us with an answer, but in all probability that was the trigger.

There was nothing more Jim and I could do, other than lick our wounds and so we decided to head to Celine’s to frankly have a stiff drink. No sooner were we seated and studying the menu when we heard another massive explosion. Everyone in Celine’s stopped doing what they were doing and just gazed out of the window for signs of where the explosion had come from, but we could not see anything. The second blast had ruined our appetites and so we got up and left intending to go home. As we left the restaurant, we bumped into Cynthia who was beside herself. “Oh Jenny, Jim. I just heard what happened to the Cherry Orchard, and now this. Oh my God, who is doing this to you?” “What do you mean, and now this. You must know something we have not heard yet.” I replied to Cynthia who was looking embarrassed and shocked at the same time. “I have just heard on the news that your house caught fire this morning and that it is totally destroyed. The police are there right now.” Cynthia said. I looked at her, and then over to Jim and then back to Cynthia again and said, “No. You must be mistaken. It was The Cherry Orchard Center that caught on fire. Our house is fine. We are just heading home now. Come with us and you will see.” Cynthia looked doubtful but did what I asked and the three of us walked the 3 blocks to what had been our home. Fire engines hoses, and firefighters were trying to douse the fire that already had incinerated most of our sweet home where we had lived for the past 32 years. I had been strong up until that moment, but when I saw the devastation, it was just too much. I broke down and cried my eyes out. Jim hugged me but when I looked at him his eyes were moist as well. In one morning our whole life had gone up in smoke. What were the chances that there would be 2 fires in 2 different locations that were owned by the same people? I knew of course there was no chance in hell. I knew of course both acts had been intentional, and I had a good idea who was behind this act of terrorism.   To cut a long story short our house was a complete loss. The terrorist (for that’s what they are) had broken into our lovely late Victorian clapboard house where we had lived our whole marriage and planted a bomb in the living room knowing that by placing it in that exact place would do the most damage. It blew it to smithereens leaving the small wraparound porch strangely untouched. Before Jim and I had left for our summer trip Jim had installed a mini cam security system with several cameras trained on entry points a burglar might use. For $30 a month this system alerted a company who would then notify us of a break in. So far, we’ve had no notification.

For the second time that day Jim and I spoke with our friend the Fire Chief. Sympathy was oozing out of every pore in his body. He told us that arson was likely as witnesses had already come forward to say that a loud explosion had occurred right before the fire began. Normally when that happens, he explained a gas line has ruptured but, in this case, there was no gas in the house, everything was electric. Cynthia was talking to our neighbors who were in a state of shock, and she was doing her best to comfort them. A gaggle of reporters had now gathered, each trying to get an exclusive interview. They had heard that the 2 explosions that had happened this morning were at separate locations that were owned by the same people. That was too much of a coincidence for them and they were all trying to figure out if we were just plain stupid and had set the fires ourselves, or if something far more sinister was going on. We remained silent. Speaking to the detective in charge of both cases was a man called Detective Inspector Forbes who was charming and sympathetic and took a statement from us for the 2nd time that day. “I would like to take another statement from you in the next day or two as I know you must both be exhausted.” Robbie Forbes had been a student of mine at the high school where I teach. He had been an excellent student, and I was delighted that he’d done so well in his chosen career. “Thanks Robbie, I mean D.I. Forbes. It’s good to see you again, and we look forward to talking with you soon.” I smiled at him, and he looked like a teenager again. “Thanks Mrs. Holland. It’s nice to see you again. Sorry about the strange circumstances.”

Bubba Wilkie was an extraordinary musician. He had first impressed me years earlier by walking into The Cherry Orchard Center and playing Chopin flawlessly on our stand-up piano. He had then expressed an interest in learning to play guitar. Once in a lifetime do you come into contact with a genius, and this was one of those times. Bubba went on to graduate from the University of West Florida with a degree in musicology but that was not the limit to his talent. He was such a natural guitar player he was as comfortable playing bluegrass as he was playing classical and would often wow his audiences by breaking into classical gas in the middle of a rock concert. Nowadays he had a studio in Muscle Shoals Alabama where musicians and friends of his like Eric Clapton, and Billy Strings would record, and Bubba would add tracks to many famous albums. Bubba was a classic country boy. He looked and acted the part. He weighed about 300 lbs. and had long stringy hair and was perfect for what I had in mind for him to do. We had remained friends since I saved him from himself years earlier. At the time he was strung out on meth and I got to him early enough that he could enter a drug rehab program. It saved his life actually. It wasn’t me at all. I just happened to be around and facilitated the cure. But Bubba had always been grateful and told me that if I ever needed a favor just ask. Now I did.

You may remember that Jim had had mini cams installed before we left for our summer tour. The video was streamed to a company in Pensacola that stored the data. After our house burned down, we decided not to tell the police about the mini cameras. Instead we visited the security company who pulled up the incriminating footage which showed two young men breaking into our home around 7 the morning that Jim had almost been blown up at The Cherry Orchard Center. I left the house around 6:45 am when I heard sirens in the distance. The burglars clearly were watching and waiting for me to leave. The security company gave us a video of the two men breaking in. Their faces were as clear as day and Jim immediately recognized one of them. I mentioned that Pensacola is a small city, and the chances of locals knowing each other was pretty high. The young man used to be a student at Mullins High school, and Jim remembered his name. For the next few days Jim and I investigated Calvin Combs. We found he was part of a group ARYAN NATIONS that had ties to The Proud Boys.

 I wondered aloud to Jim one evening if Bubba might be willing to infiltrate the local chapter of ARYAN NATIONS? Jim was naturally hesitant, but I overruled him and called Bubba anyway. To my delight Bubba agreed instantly. I hated to say it because it is such a stereotype, but the way he looked he was a perfect candidate to help us out. He happened to be visiting Pensacola at the time, so I was able to fill him in on what had happened. He was furious about the demolition of the Cherry Orchard Center. It was very much part of his childhood, and a lot of his good memories came from there. But when he heard about our house being bombed, he saw red. Jim and I had become very much part of his growing up, and in some ways, he saw us as his surrogate parents. The relationship was sweet, and I was so grateful to him for being willing to go out on a limb for us. He understood that the ARYAN NATION were dangerous people, but Bubba was not worried. He just wanted to bring these sons of bitches to justice. “Why did they pick on you?” he asked, which led me into a far bigger conversation than I’d planned. I told him about my uncle and how he’d left me all of his businesses one which was Grounds for Concern. When I told Bubba that it was a coffee house he laughed approvingly. I then mentioned that while we were visiting the Coffee house in Georgia it had been tear gassed while a well-known African American had been giving a lecture. “Tell you what, if I get my hands on them, they’ll be sorry.” Bubba said cavalierly. “Well now Bubba. I just want you to find out as much as you can about this group. I don’t want confrontation. Do I make myself clear?” I replied. “As a bell,” he said and gritted his teeth, but I knew what he was thinking.

Two days later Bubba went undercover. The odd thing about democracy is that the first amendment which allows free speech, allows it for everyone regardless of your racial disposition. From what I understand Bubba took on his role completely. He attended a meeting of the Aryan Nation and after spinning a yarn about just moving from Georgia to Florida he met the area honchos who fast tracked him to membership because he was clearly an enthusiastic racist. He even attended a couple of rallies, one of which he was arrested. Bubba aka Johnny Weismann (Whiteman) got a reprimand by a magistrate who turned out to be the father of the leader of the Aryan Nation chapter that had bombed our house and destroyed The Cherry Orchard Center. Two weeks into the mission I got word from Bubba that his chapter was planning a big attack on a southern Baptist church in Brent minutes outside Pensacola. They planned to bomb the church on Wednesday evening when a service was in full swing. Bubba told me the members were excited to be planning this massacre, but he felt that he had done what I asked him to do but now it was time for the police to step in and for him to step away. I agreed with him and thanked him profusely for all he had done. The following day Jimmy Weismann disappeared, and Bubba returned to Muscle Shoals Alabama. I rang Detective Inspector Forbes and told him everything we knew. He was angry at first but realized there were more ways to bait a hook and so he listened patiently to my story. He was horrified that I had put someone at risk, but when I explained that I had found out more in 3 weeks than the police department he looked deeply embarrassed and just huffed, puffed, and went red in the face. He finally calmed down and took the threat seriously. At 7:15 pm on Wednesday evening a task force was waiting in and around the Brent Baptist Church with some officers in plain clothes pretending to be congregants. Armed officers were in the ready and had the church surrounded. The bomb squad had been watching the group for some time now and already had seen two members plant a device in the chapel earlier that day. As soon as the coast was clear the bomb squad approached the device and diffused it rendering it harmless but leaving it in place for good measure. A few minutes before the service was due to start with the DEA and bomb squad in place along with a packed congregation a car pulled up to the church with four men in it. At a prearranged signal officers swooped in surrounding the car and arrested the men one of whom had a cell phone in his hand attempting to set off the bomb inside. The men were arrested without incident placed in handcuffs and driven off to FBI headquarters in Grundy. At the same moment as the four men were being arrested the FBI raided a house near Pensacola that Bubba had identified as the hub of this chapter of the Aryan Nations and arrested eleven members eagerly awaiting news of another successful bombing. They were all charged with domestic terrorism, and the bombings of The Cherry Orchard Center and a private residence owned by Mr. And Mrs. Holland of Pensacola. A video had surfaced since the bombing of the residence that identified two members of the gang breaking into the house and planting a bomb.

BUBBA WILKIE

I had never been so grateful to anyone than I had been to Bubba for being willing to put his life on the line for justice. Racism is wrong anyway you cut it, whether it’s Adolf Hitler murdering the Jews in World War II or whether it’s a bunch of white nationalists holding a rally in Charlottesville the world is not willing to tolerate it ever again. White Supremacy is on the rise again fueled by the current administration, The Proud Boys and the right-wing media that appear to enjoy fueling the fires of hatred, injustice and bigotry. Bubba grew up in a tragic situation being shuffled around to uncles and aunts after his parents were killed in a car accident. When we first met him, he was a solitary kid of 14 who impressed me by walking into The Cherry Orchard Center one morning and playing Chopin’s Prelude in E minor on our standup piano. He had been so modest, and I assumed (wrongly) that when he walked in to check out the center and saw the piano and asked to play it, that he would play a couple of notes or attempt to play chopsticks, so when he broke into a flawless rendition of Chopin’s Prelude I sat back on my heels and was utterly amazed. I knew that when he asked about guitar lessons Jim would take him as far as he could, but it was a struggle keeping up with him. So all these years later for him to show his loyalty in such a manner amazed me as much as the first time I met him. Nowadays he owns a recording studio in Alabama and since he had done me the favor had gone back home and hidden his head in his work.

After the house burned down Jim and I moved into Uncle John and Aunt Rachel’s home, Savannah House on the bluff overlooking Pensacola Bay. They had left the house and 4 acres to us, and we had been wondering what we should do about it and then the 2 explosions made our mind up for us. The house suited us down to the ground. We had always enjoyed visiting them and sitting on the porch at night watching the twinkling lights of Pensacola glisten below us and quickly found ourselves loving our new abode. We were both just the right side of 60 and figured if things went our way, we could have 20 years left to enjoy living here. One morning I was having my coffee on the porch with Jim, and we were reading the paper. Suddenly Jim looked up from the Washington Post which we still subscribe to digitally and said, “I’ve just read a music review of Bubba’s latest album by the music critic Chris Richard’s. You’ve gotta read it. It’s fantastic. Let’s pick up a copy today when we go into town.” And he handed me his tablet before I could reply. After I had read the review, I remarked how far Bubba had come since the day we met him, and Jim nodded as he got up to go and fetch the mail which had just arrived. A few moments later he returned holding in his hand a bubble wrap package addressed to me from Muscle Shoals Alabama. It was the CD that we’d just read the review of. Inside along with the CD was a sweet note from Bubba thanking us both for our kindness to him over the years and hoping that we would enjoy his new album Generous. “Let’s listen on our way into town,” I suggested, and we hurried to get ready to leave.

A lot had happened since The Cherry Orchard Center had been eviscerated. Jim and I were now living at Uncle John and Aunt Rachel’s home. When it had first been built back in the early 1900’s by Aunt Rachel’s Great Grandparents it was the tradition that stemmed from Great Britain to name your houses as a sign of good luck. They decided to call it Savannah House as it reminded them of the classic homes being built in that Georgian city at the time. The name had stuck and so Jim and I were now the proud owners of Savannah House. Currently we have 4 house guests staying with us at the house. Billy and Lucas Generation of Generation builders had arrived to help us rebuild the Cherry Orchard Center. The insurance had come through and given us permission to rebuild the recreation center, the music studio and The Cherry Orchard Cabinet Co. You may remember that Jim and I had spent a week working with Billy and Lucas Generation in South Carolina on the Hope House and on our final day in SC had attended Lucas’s wedding to his longtime beau Adam. Something just gelled with us and Billy and his lovely wife Sharon and having spent a lot of time with them on the building had become good friends. After the Cherry Orchard Center burned down, we contacted Generation Builders and asked them if they would consider helping us rebuild. Their schedule was fluid and so they jumped at the chance and drove down and started work on the building about a week ago. We invited them to stay with us during the building, and so this morning as we climbed in our car to listen to Bubba’s new album Generous, we were heading to help the 4 of them as we rebuilt our somewhat shattered but lucky lives.

A great deal has been written about the wonderful music that was recorded in Muscle Shoals Sound Studio. The Rolling Stones are amongst their alumni in addition to Aretha Franklin, Paul Simon George Michael, Wilson Pickett, Willie Nelson, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Joe Cocker, Levon Helm, and Cat Stevens. Cher's sixth album was titled 3614 Jackson Highway (1969) and this became the informal name for the studio in 1969. Generous, Bubba Willkie’s latest was a brilliant album. Rarely does something grab you by the throat and not let you go until the final note resonates through your soul. 12 songs that made you ache with sadness, cry for joy, and yearn for more. Bubba had come a long way. His artistry was stellar, the songs intelligent with just a hint of melancholy, yet all the while managing to insinuate a feeling of hope throughout the album. I hadn’t seen Jim cry since the death of his mother 12 years earlier but today traveling to work at The Cherry Orchard, I saw him cry tears of hope as he listened. “How can one man evoke so much emotion,” he asked as he wiped his eyes and blew his nose. The life of an artist is complicated. Experience translates into music. Clearly Bubba’s time with the Aryan Nation had unleashed the animal inside and all the hatred he felt for xenophobia was converted into magnificent melody. Generous would take its rightful place atop Billboard for months to come.

We parked the car arriving around 8am and Billy and Lucas were muscling into place a massive, laminated RSJ. The previous week we had spent clearing all the fire damage so that as the drawings were being finalized, we could then concentrate on building back what we once had. Billy and Lucas as always were the pros on the job. Years back they had learned to read plans and always had a clever way to get the job done without some of the noise that is so evident on building sites today. On occasion the architect would make a mistake, and Billy was always the first to notice, but rather than get angry with him or call him stupid, Billy would simply make the changes knowing the building inspectors would approve them. I loved having the Generations as house guests and Adam, who we didn’t know quite as well had been a welcome addition. One of the things that every building site must have is an excellent sound system, and Jim, being a fine music teacher, had just that. The day before our guests arrived Jim put one of his prized possessions in his car to produce after the building had started. All builders love their music, and I challenge anyone to a duel at dawn if you disagree. On the first day he brought in his system and every country album he could find and blasted the Chicks, Garth Brooks, and the Stones throughout the job site. The atmosphere was set for a happy build as the six of us pounded nails, built walls, while listening to good music that drove us toward perfection and pushed us never to accept second best.

On the day we arrived with Generous, Bubba Willkie’s new album we waited until the final hour of our workday and then Jim put it on and cranked the sound. It took a moment for the 4 of them to react but quality generally has a way of winning over everything. “Listen to that guitar,” “I’ve never heard anyone play guitar that good,” “this boy is good.” General consensus? A big thumbs up. Jim then told the Generation’s Bubba’s story and how we’d taken the kid under our wing in this very place we were rebuilding now, and then told them for whom his parents had worked. It was a truly heartfelt moment, but when I concluded the story by telling them what he had done for us by going undercover and exposing the Aryan Nation for the racists that they were, Sharon came over to me and gave me the biggest hug. That evening we sat on our porch at Savannah House overlooking Pensacola Bay, drinking wine, and smoking a joint. The day had gone well and the build was doing fine and would be on schedule as long as nothing tripped us up. We were actually rebuilding all three store fronts on canal street, the Cherry orchard center, the Cherry orchard music studio, and the cherry orchard cabinet company. Billy and Lucas had agreed to stay for a month before they’d have to get home and start their next house but felt they could get all three units started so we could then do the finish work. That was fine with us. It was so nice that we were sharing time with our friends. The building inspector had already been and signed off on the initial work and had already shown that he approved of the work that Generation Builders conducted and so I had no doubt that the building would go smoothly. Our home, however, was not so fortunate. Building codes have changed significantly since it had been built in the early part of the century and it was considered to be a complete rebuild. The old building would have to be torn down, and a new structure would have to be built. We’d heard from the insurance company, and they had agreed to pay for the razing of the building and would pay a percentage of the new build. Jim and I contracted with a demolition company to raze our home, but we wanted to think about building a new house on the site. Our neighbors, who over the years had become good friends with us had offered to buy the property just to extend their land. We’d told them that we wanted to think about it and would let them know at the right time.

Meanwhile in Muscle Shoals Alabama the local chapter of the white supremacy group Aryan Nations had just found Johnny Weismann living amongst them. An emergency meeting was set up, and they were discussing what should be done with Bubba Wilkie. One of them had seen a picture of Bubba touting his new album and recognized it from a flyer that the Florida chapter had circulated after they had all been caught in the twin bomb debacle in Pensacola. Turned out this guy had ties to the area and was also a musician. The Aryan Nations frowned on having traitors in their midst. Weissman must be dealt with in the most severe of ways. They had to teach this hippie a lesson, so thugs were sent.

And so it was three nights later that three loyal members drove to Bubba’s home on Petrie Avenue at 3am and broke in while Bubba was sleeping. He was awakened roughly by one of the thugs placing a plastic bag over his head and trying to suffocate him while the other two sat and watched as Bubba fought for breath. Now Bubba was a big guy and had no intention of giving up without a fight. The thugs miscalculated how strong he was and assumed he would just lie down and die. Bullshit. Bubba, with a lifetime of fighting behind him took his one free hand and clawed at the plastic bag. He managed to rip a hole in the bag which freed him up to conduct a fair fight, 3 against 1. He shoved thug number 1 who fell unceremoniously onto the floor and then Bubba picked up thug number 2 and while punching him threw him up against the bedroom wall successfully knocking the air out of him and then he grabbed thug number 3 and pulled him by the hair and throat until he was crying like a baby to stop. He then took a roll of duct tape and gagged and bound all three of them together, called the police and made himself a cup of coffee while he waited for them to arrive. Bubba could take care of himself.  So, angry by their unsuccessful murder attempt the Aryan Nation chapter chose an alternative route. Two days later while walking down Main Street Bubba was abducted in broad daylight by two members of the Aryan Nations gang who shoved him into a van and drove away without anyone noticing.

Billy and Lucas liked to get to work before daybreak. Especially in Florida as they took advantage of the cool mornings, and so round 5 am the four of them would climb into the Ford F 350 and head to the all-night convenience store and buy sausage egg biscuits and large coffees and be at the job site by 5:30. Jim and I liked to relax into the day and preferred to wake up, have coffee on the porch and read our newspapers. I was drinking my second cup when a news bulletin announced a local boy and famous musician had disappeared from his studio in Muscle Shoals Alabama and that police officers were worried foul play was involved after a recent incident when 3 members of a white supremacist group broke into his house and attacked him while he was sleeping. “Mr. Wilkie overpowered the three intruders tied them up and called the police, whereupon the three men were arrested.” A radio reporter went on to explain. “It is thought that the Aryan Nation White Supremacist group in Muscle Shoals is responsible for Mr. Willkie’s disappearance. Police are investigating.” I almost stopped breathing when I heard the announcement, turned to Jim, and began to cry. He got up and gave me a hug as I said, “oh my God Jim what have we done? We must save him, but how?”  We piled into the car and drove hell for leather to the Cherry Orchard when we arrived, we were in quite a state and Sharon had to calm me down so I could explain what had just happened, and our involvement in this whole mess. Billy listened to the whole sorry tale then said bluntly. I’m not proud of it but I have friends who belong to white Nationalist groups. Sharon and I have never cared about the color of a person’s skin, so we never joined any of them, but we grew up with a number of really hateful folk who have done things that make my skin crawl. I know Lucas and Adam aren’t racists either. I tell you what, if we’re going to act, we need to act fast. The Aryan Nations are a vicious group who will stop at nothing to make their point. Are you willing to head to Alabama today?”

Billy was a man of his word and within 30 minutes he’d called a friend who had a friend who was a senior in the Aryan Nations who after Billy explained that Bubba had made a mistake and had acted out of loyalty to innocent friends whose business shouldn’t have been destroyed out of pure vengeance, and that he was just helping out 2 old people who had helped him when he was a kid. Something Billy said must have struck a note of sympathy and the friend on the phone told him to call back in an hour and he would have a plan. I listened in amazement at the deft way Billy manipulated his friend. With the ease of a master negotiator, I knew I mustn’t ever get on the bad side of Billy Generation.

Billy called his old friend back and the guy confirmed that the Muscle Shoal chapter of the Aryan Nations had indeed snatched up Bubba. I realized this situation could have got out of hand really easily if these guys hadn’t been willing to give and take. The deal was that in order to save face and save arrests the Aryan Nation would hand over Bubba at the house in Muscle Shoals where he was being held. No police or press but just us 6. Bubba would then let the authorities know he’d gone to the Smokey Mountains for a few days to play music with some friends but forgot his phone. The Proud Boys would then forget about hassling Harriman Holdings and Grounds for Concern and as far as they were concerned, they’d never heard of Bubba Wilkie aka Johnny Weismann. We hit the road fast. The drive time was about 5.5 hours but with Billy driving we made it in five and cruised by the house where Bubba was being held. After one pass we pulled up to the curb and the six of us got out and walked to the front door. After a minute, a guy answered and waved us in. Billy did most of the talking and after a few more minutes Bubba was retrieved from the basement. I was shocked by his appearance. He looked like he’d been worked over well. His face was bruised up but the moment he saw us he got a big smile on his face and came over to me and gave me the biggest hug. “I think I’ll stick to music in the future,” and he grimaced clearly remembering what they’d done to him. “Good idea,” I replied. Then Billy having completed the deal nodded to the man in charge said to us, “let’s get going, shall we?” It didn’t take a second bidding from us as we headed to the car and our escape from these awful people, thankful for Billy’s quick thinking. We drove to Bubba’s house on Petrie Avenue. It was a mess, but we tidied it up and an hour we left Bubba happily resting at home we were racing back to Savannah House for a drink.

NICK BRADY

We had last seen Nick Brady when he’d given a talk at Grounds for Concern in Brunnings GA on the infamous night that the coffee house had been tear gassed by a group of white supremacists belonging to a hate group called The Proud Boys. After the attack Jim and I decided to make the best of our time and invited him to have dinner with us at a charming little restaurant called Brady’s a few blocks away from the coffee house. No one was mortally injured in the attack and so the three of us struck out and tried to recover what had been a truly informative and interesting talk. Nick Brady is a well-known African American MSNBC contributor who over the past few years has written several less than flattering books about our current President. He is a Pulitzer Prize journalist with the New York Times and so his questioning the motives of the President was apropos. When we parted company with this delightful man, we gave him our phone number if ever he wanted to get in touch with us.

“Hi Jenny, this is Nick Brady speaking. I met you in Brunnings a few weeks ago.” The call woke me from a daydream I was having where I was sitting in my old house with the sun streaming through the window and smelling the sweet scent of our ancient azalea bushes. “Oh, hi Nick, how lovely to hear your voice. What have you been up to?” I replied. We spent a few minutes catching up and then Nick told me the reason for his call. “When we were having dinner, you told me about a young protégé of yours who’d become a well-known blues musician. Was his name by any chance Bubba Wilkie?” “Yes, it was. Why do you ask?” I knew the answer to my question but what he said next surprised me. “I read Chris Richard’s review of his new album in the Post a couple of weeks ago and that same day I went out and bought the album and it hasn’t been off my player since. I love the album, but that’s not why I’m calling. Last night I was flicking around YouTube when I found a video that I think may interest you. It involves your friend Bubba. Someone must have recognized Bubba who was visiting a music store in Germantown Maryland called Chuck Levin’s Music and began videotaping him. Outside the store was a homeless guy just sitting on the sidewalk. Bubba seemed to know him and began talking to him. The next thing I saw was the homeless man walking into the store with Bubba. I followed them and pretended to be looking at guitars but was paying attention to what Bubba was doing. The homeless man looked embarrassed but stayed with Bubba until he found a violin he liked. He passed it over to the homeless guy whose eyes lit up when he saw the violin. This scruffy unwashed soul who had been asked to leave the music store several times apparently over the past few days began to play. I knew the piece he was playing but couldn’t remember its name. He played it though with his eyes tight shut and a big crowd gathered. When he was finished, he opened his eyes and saw the crowd giving him a standing ovation. He smiled modestly and turned to Bubba and said, “I love it. Are you sure?” and Bubba nodded his head and gave the man serving them his credit card along with half a dozen sets of guitar strings. “Ring it up please.” Afterwards the delighted man went back outside with his new violin to play some more outside the shop, I approached Bubba and introduced myself as a mutual friend of yours and asked if I could have a minute of his time. He told me sure.” I had been listening intently but had more questions but wanted Nick to keep telling his story. “Go on Nick,” I urged. “Well, it turned out Bubba recognized him as one of Jim’s former students. He is a guy called Craig Rather and Bubba first met him at the Cherry Orchard when they were rehearsing a piece for the orchestra that Jim had formed.” Hang on a sec, Nick, let me put Jim on the other line so he can hear this too.” I called Jim over and he listened on the extension while Nick told us all about the kindness that Bubba had just done for his old student Craig Rather. “Hi Nick, how are you?” Said Jim. “I remember Craig very well. He was frankly one of my most talented students. What happened?” “Well,” Nick continued, “apparently Craig hit several bumps in the road and one thing led to another and before he knew it he had lost his job at a bank in Rockville and then lost his apartment and found himself living on the streets playing violin to passersby so he could earn a few bucks to eat. This went on for some months. He found a safe place to sleep under a bridge with a few other people but one night he went to sleep and woke to find his precious violin had been stolen. It hadn’t been a valuable instrument, but it represented a lifeline for Craig who needed it these days to make his living as a street performer. So, he spent a few days feeling sorry for himself and then decided to take a pilgrimage over to Chuck Levin’s in Germantown. He had an instinct that if he could get there everything would work out fine. 2 days later Bubba showed up, recognized him from the old days and bought him a new violin.” Nick took a breath. “What a story,” I said. “I’m so glad Bubba was able to help. That just tells me I was right about Bubba.” “What do you mean?” enquired Nick. So, I decided at once to tell Nick what had just happened to us and tell him how Bubba had stepped up and helped us catch the thugs who’d done the bombings that destroyed our home and business. I then told him how after Bubba’s album Generous was released a member of The Proud Boys had recognized him as the plant, we had placed in their group to spy on them and had kidnapped him in Muscle Shoals. White Supremacy it seems has no geographic boundaries other than the geography of stupidity. “So, what became of Craig Rather?” I asked Nick. “Last I heard he was wowing audiences in Maryland. His sister who’s a teacher in Montgomery County schools found him and he’s now staying with her until he can figure out what to do with his life. He’s a smart guy but he just needed a helping hand to get him back on the straight and narrow. I gave Bubba my card when I spoke with him. I would like to ask him on my MSNBC show to play a few songs from his CD. I think my audience would love his music, but I think he’d be too shy to accept from me, so I was wondering if you’d mind asking him for me?” “No of course not Nick. I’d be happy to ask him for you. I think that’s a great idea by the way. I’ll do it right now and call you right back.” 10 minutes later I had spoken to Bubba who loved the idea and looked forward to hearing from Nick as soon as he had an available date free. It’d mean that Bubba and his 4-piece band would have to travel to NY where Nick’s show was taped but as Bubba was on the road continuously that really wasn’t much of a problem. Nick Brady had figured that Bubba’s raw blues style would be a huge hit for his show and would complement the political narrative by giving a new dimension. I heard from Bubba a week later that the show had been booked for early November and was to be shot at NBC’s Rockefeller Center live at 8.00pm. The following day Jim and I got an official invitation to attend the event. I called Nick straight away. “Nick, it’s Jenny. How are you.” “Very well thanks.” “I’m calling to accept your kind invitation to us to come and watch your show when Bubba will be performing.” “Oh that’s great Jenny. I’m glad you can come. I’m looking forward to this new format,” Nick replied. “You must allow me to repay your kindness in Georgia and let me take all of you out to dinner after the show. Maybe a place that is casual but fun?” “Oh that’d be great. We’d love that. We will be in touch before the day. Thanks again and take care till then.” I hung up and went to tell Jim the news.

The renovations on the Cherry Orchard are now finished. Our friends the Generations had done an incredible job rebuilding the three buildings and because of the building codes had replicated the frontage on Canal Street like it was the original. Inside was another matter. Billy Sharon and Lucas had to get home in order to start their new house next to the Hope House, where Adam and Lucas were now living. Adam worked in downtown Charleston as a draughtsman and so they left the finish work to Jim and me. I was looking forward to messing around with the drawings I had seen Jim scribbling secretly for his new music studio. 

We hadn’t seen too much of Cynthia Hawkins recently, but that was actually a good thing. No news was good news. She had her way of doing business and I had grown to trust that if there was a problem, she’d let me know. The business was doing fine, and I certainly didn’t intend on buying any distressed companies any time soon so was happy to let Cynthia do her own thing.

 The day arrived when we were heading to NYC to watch the Nick Brady Show on MNSBC where Bubba would be giving an interview and performing 2 of the songs from his Generous CD. We got to Rockefeller Center early in order to meet Nick and get the lay of the land. Jim and I were nervous for Bubba to do well. He’d had a lot of experience but not in front of a TV audience. His power was the feeling that transmits across the footlights, and we were worried that the cold TV studio might make him clam up. Nick didn’t have a live audience but just a desk with a couple of chairs a fancy back drop that gave the impression he was in a house overlooking Central Park and New York City, and cinematographers, soundmen, makeup, managers and one or two people like us sitting on the sidelines. They had created a live music set for Bubba and his band so that after his interview Bubba could join the band and perform one number then come back later in the show. We grabbed 2 seats and sat twiddling our thumbs until Nick appeared briefly and said hi after which Bubba and his band strolled on and said hi as well. Everything was very casual.

The moment came and everything hushed as the announcer announced the beginning of the hour and then we saw Nick appear on full screen smiling and welcoming everyone to his show. He had a couple of remote interviews with guests who were in different parts of the country, and then he went to a commercial break which was when Bubba came into studio A and sat in the second chair. “Tell us how you came to be a musician. Bubba smiled. “My parents were killed in an automobile accident after the car they were driving was hit by a drunk driver. They worked for The Allman Brothers Band and were heading home after a gig. I was sent to live with my Grandparents. My Grandma taught me how to play classical piano and then one day I was walking in downtown Pensacola when I saw a cool store that was also a rec. center. I went in and met the owners, and I asked if Jim could teach me guitar. He agreed, and the rest is history. I fell in love with the guitar and ended up taking a degree in music. While I was at West Florida University, I formed a blues band and we gigged around for a few years and then I met Eric Clapton who asked us to open for his band, and it just kind of moved on from there.” Jim and I were so proud of Bubba that evening. He was confident, articulate, and charming and won over the heart of Nick who turned out was a guitarist himself. Before we knew it the interview was over, and they had gone to commercial and all of a sudden Bubba was being introduced for the first of his live performances. That night the band was on fire. The first song they played was a fast blues number called Rendition. From the first bar I knew there was a certain wonderful homespun quality to the song. Bubba’s gravelly voice was the perfect counterpart to the tight musical background of this well-rehearsed band and as I listened, I began to understand the complexities of Generous. The final notes filled the small studio with a feeling that every listener including me just wanted more. And a couple of segments later we got what we had asked for. Once again Bubba took to the stage and this last song, if ever there had been any question, showcased him and his band’s extraordinary talents. The song a heart wrenching angst ridden blues number belonged in a smoke-filled club at 2:00 in the morning with couples dancing cheek to cheek as Bubba growled about navigating the crocodile infested waters of life. Still waters run deep, and you could hear a pin drop as The Bluesmen performed their second song. About 20 people were in the studio that night and when the final note of Generous died away all of a sudden everyone began to applaud. We’d been so caught up in the intensity of the emotion that our release was like that of an arena gone wild. Nick was clearly delighted, and the final camera shot was of him literally running to the band and giving Bubba a big bear hug.

After the show Bubba took us all out to a great restaurant in Manhattan called Sergio’s and we drank and ate and told stories of the road and laughed until our sides hurt, when we finally thanked our host and told him to get in touch when he came south. This night was a night to remember, and Bubba was about to become a huge star. We took our leave of Nick and Bubba and the Bluesmen and went back to our hotel where we were sleeping that night, and the following morning woke and took a plane home to begin the next chapter of what had turned into quite an adventure

CHAPTER 14

Oberfuhrer Erich Stangl

For the past year I’d been going through Uncle John’s documents. I’d always known he was a prolific note taker, but I had no idea the extent of his personal library. It was massive and a feat of his organizational genius. One of Cynthia’s jobs in her last few years before he died was digitizing his records. She’d done a formidable job and had made my life a lot easier. His records went back to his work with Esau Metzler tracking down Nazi’s who’d slipped into the U.S. unnoticed on forged papers. For the first time I understood how he and the team of survivors had managed to find a needle in a haystack and then track the man down find his new identity and then deal with the problem. Cynthia managed to list all the wanted war criminals in alphabetical order and include an official Nazi photo, at which camps he worked at his known aliases and where possible had produced immigration papers into the U.S. The list was comprehensive and included the dates each person had been found and the time and place where they’d been ‘terminated.’ It was without question a document that any prosecutor would have loved to get his hands on.

Ober Führer Erich Stangl

 The files on most war criminals had been closed which meant that Uncle John, Esau Metzler, and their team of vigilantes had taken care of them, but there were a few left on the list that had never been located. One of those individuals was a Nazi who had been third in command at Sobibor death camp named Ober Fuhrer Erich Stangl.  With Ober Fuhrer Stangl’s resume was a photo taken by the German high command of a young man in an SS uniform of a man that I knew. In the photo he was much younger than the man I’d met a year or so earlier, but the steely blue eyes and blonde hair gave him away immediately. It took me a moment to remember his name, but he was one of the residents at Sunshine Assisted Living in Houston TX where I’d had such a wonderful week. I remembered him now. His name was Eric Stingle.

I picked up the phone and rang Sally Jenkins, the capable director of Sunshine. After two rings she answered. “Hello, you’ve reached The Sunshine Assisted Living Center this is Sally the director, how may I direct your call?” “Sally this is Jenny Harriman. How are things at my favorite center?” I asked. “Very well Ms. Jenny,” she replied. “What has been going on in your life?” I paused as I didn’t want to freak her out right away. “I’m calling to find out if one of your residents, Eric Stingle is still with you?” I began. I knew that Eric Stingle had to be pushing ninety. “It’s funny you should ask that,” replied Sally. “I’m afraid that he’s going downhill fast. He’s 92 and while his mind is still good, I’m afraid his body is giving up on him. Why do you ask?” I paused again and then made a snap decision. “Listen Sally, I’m flying to Houston today and I’ll explain when I get to you.” By this time Sally knew me well enough not to ask any more questions and so she said, “Great I’ll see you when you arrive.” I hung up and immediately booked a flight to Houston. There was one leaving at 3:00 pm and by 6:00 pm ET I was at the car rental place in Houston. I called Sally from the airport and asked her to wait for me at the center. When I arrived, she greeted me with grim news. “Eric is slipping in and out of consciousness. If you want to talk to him, you probably need to hurry.

Sally led me along the hallway to Eric’s room. When I entered, I saw a frail old man lying on his bed sleeping fitfully. I knew what I had to ask him but had no idea if he would be cooperative. I asked Sally if she’d mind me being alone with Eric and she shook her head and told me it would be fine. I sat on his bed watching this old man sleep and wondered how he’d react when I told him I knew who he was. Would he be defiant? Would he deny it? He woke up ten minutes after I arrived. He smiled when he saw me. I wasn’t sure if he even knew I’d been away for almost a year. “Mr. Stingle, do you remember who I am.” I asked. He nodded his head and said, “yes you would read to us in the common room every day. I always enjoyed that.” I nodded back. In the meantime I had placed a recorder on his bedside table and switched it on. “I’m aware of who you are Herr Stangl. Would you like to talk about it?” I asked as gently as I could. Then all of a sudden, a look of relief came into his eyes, and he began crying. “Yes, I think it would help a lot,” he answered. “I’d like to record my conversation with you if you don’t mind.” I asked and he nodded his head. “That’d be fine.” By now he was sitting up in bed and so I propped up a couple of pillows behind him. Just then Sally knocked on the door and brought us 2 cups of tea and some biscuits. She put them down and seeing that old Mr. Stingle was fine left us to our chat.

“It was 1936 in Berlin. I was a young man. I joined the SS which was also known as the Waffen SS the main agency of security, surveillance, and terror in Germany. We had orders to arrest and detain any Jews who were not following the new laws that had been implemented by the Fuhrer. By 1936 Jews were not allowed to walk on the sidewalk but had to shuffle along in the gutter and so if we caught one violating the law, we would beat them and then arrest them. Over several years I rose quickly through the ranks and by the time war broke out in 1939 I’d become a Hauptsturmführer and had been sent to work at Chelmno concentration camp in Poland. It was the first extermination camp and was specifically intended for no other purpose than to kill Jews.

By the time I arrived at Chelmno I was convinced I was doing the right thing. As far as I was concerned the only good Jew was a dead Jew. By the end of the war Chelmno had killed 180,000 Jews. I killed many Jews during my time in the Waffen. I worked at Treblinka, Chelmno, and several other death camps and at the time felt I was doing the right thing. Years later after I had arrived in the United States, I came to realize the error of my ways. I’ve always felt so guilty for murdering all those innocent people. If I could take it back I would, but I can’t. All I can do is try to make amends with the time I have left on this earth.” Eric had been talking for about an hour now and was clearly exhausted and so I turned off the tape recorder, picked up the teacups and excused myself from his room.

Even before I’d closed the door, I could hear that he was asleep. I walked out to the kitchen to drop off the cups and Sally was sitting at the table looking deeply concerned. “Do you mind telling me why you’ve come to see Eric?” she asked me in a very nonjudgmental way. “Of course not Sally. The reason I came so quickly was because you told me of his deteriorating condition and so I wanted to hurry before it was too late. It turns out that Eric during the war was a high-ranking Nazi who worked in a concentration camp that murdered Jews. After the war he fled to the States using forged papers and entered the country illegally. I found out about him quite by accident when I was looking through my uncles’ papers and happened to recognize his photo from my time here. He’s aware he’s dying and appears eager to talk about it. He is riddled with guilt over what he did and wants to get it off his chest before he dies. He told me exactly that.” Sally looked at me and started to cry. “For the last ten years Eric has lived with us at SAL. He’s a good man but I’ve always known he had a secret past. He would never talk about his early life and the other men here thought that strange. I think that you’re correct that you coming here has been fortuitous. He’s not a religious man and he needed to talk with someone so he could make peace with his maker.” Sally then stood up walked around the kitchen table and gave me the biggest hug I’d ever received. “Thank you for coming all this way to bring peace to this man.”

It was late by this time, and I was exhausted, so I headed back to my hotel to get a good night’s sleep. Before I laid my head down, I called Jim and told him I loved him. The next morning after I’d eaten a hearty breakfast at the Hampton Inn I drove over to Sunshine where I was met by an ambulance in the driveway. Being fairly certain of what I would find I walked into Sally Jenkins’ office to find her sitting there with a blank look on her face. “Sally, what’s happened?” I asked. “Eric Stingle died in his sleep last night.” She said and burst into tears. This time it was my turn to go over to her and put my arms around her and give her the biggest hug she’d ever received. Uncle John had clearly recognized Stingle when he had first toured Sunshine and had decided to buy it based on that knowledge. Once again there were no accidents in John Harriman’s life. Uncle John had clearly made a decision that having met Eric Stingle for whatever reason, he decided to let him live.

I flew home that afternoon and the plane touched down at our sweet little airport at 6:15 pm as the rush hour was starting to fizzle out, I hailed a taxi to take me home to Savannah House. I looked up at the sky as I got into the cab and smelled the rain that had come and gone today and thought to myself how lucky we were to live in such a glorious place. I couldn't wait to see Jim's face again. As I sat in the cab, I realized how fortunate I had been in my life.

 CHAPTER 15

Thanksgiving in Paradise

Jim and I were visiting our daughter Molly and her husband Stephen for Thanksgiving at their new house in Chevy Chase just over the Maryland state line in Washington DC. We’d just had dinner, and Stephen was reminding us that several months ago, how he had heard The First Lady receive a phone call where she had angrily replied in Russian. It had surprised him that she spoke Russian and as her Secret Service Agent had made him suspicious. “I have to be very careful so as not to let anyone know that I am investigating Mrs. Cramer.” Stephen said. “Nothing must ever be traced back to me now I suspect her of nefarious actions. I use burner phones, with heavily encrypted software. Something about her conversation bothered me enormously. You may remember that she told the caller to использовать падение вместо. “I’m sorry Stephen,” I interrupted. “I can’t remember what that means.” Stephen smiled and then said, “what she said was, “never call this phone again. Use the drop instead.” I nodded and thanked him after he’d reminded me. “I then had to figure out my next move,” he continued. “I’m Secret Service and I took an oath that I would solemnly swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that I would bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I take this oath freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion. Having thought about it I realized I would be derelict in my duty not to move investigate her behavior. But I knew I had to get some help with my problem, and I knew I had to ask someone who I’d trust with my life. And so I chose my friend from the NSA Ron Classon.”

Ron Classon had grown up with Molly and Stephen. His parents actually lived about 3 blocks away from us. Molly and he were not close friends in high school, but Stephen had a group of guy friends who used to hang out and go to the mall on Friday nights and do their best to get into trouble. It was not until Molly and Stephen were married that Molly got to know Ron. He never married but after law school (Georgetown Law) he applied to the F B I to become an agent and was accepted. As a successful agent he then applied to the NSA. Given his remarkable career he was fast tracked and became an operative with legal and cyber capabilities. Ron and Stephen maintained their friendship long after their childhood ended and given that they were both working in a form of security found their friendship became even greater. Molly as well had grown very fond of Ron. Because Ron Classon had grown up with Molly and Stephen it wasn’t unusual to see Ron and Stephen shooting hoops at Ron’s house in McLean Virginia his childhood home which he had inherited from his parents some years before after they passed away.

The NSA is a national-level intelligence agency of the US DOD, under the authority of the DNI and is responsible for global monitoring, collection, and processing of information and data for foreign and domestic intel and counter intel purposes, specializing in a discipline known as signals intelligence (SIGINT). The NSA has to protect U.S. communications networks and information systems and relies on a variety of measures to accomplish its mission the majority of which are clandestine. Originating as a unit to decipher coded communications in World War II, it was officially formed as the NSA by President Harry S. Truman in 1952. Since then, it has become the largest U.S. intelligence organizations in terms of personnel and budget. The National Security Agency currently conducts worldwide mass data collection and has physically bugged electronic systems as one method to this end. The NSA is also alleged to have been behind such attack software as Stuxnet, which is a malicious computer worm, first uncovered in 2010, thought to have been in development since at least 2005 which severely damaged Iran's nuclear program. The NSA, alongside the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), maintains a physical presence in many countries across the globe; the CIA/NSA joint Special Collection Service (a highly classified intelligence team) inserts eavesdropping devices in high value targets SCS collection tactics also encompass surveillance, burglary, wiretapping, breaking, and entering.

Ron Classon, given the severity of the problem that Stephen had stumbled upon was precisely the kind of friend that Stephen needed in an operation such as this. Sitting across from one another at the 29 Diner at the intersection of CR123 and CR29 in Fairfax, Ron and Stephen were discussing what they had found out. Since the First Lady’s phone call Ronny now had a tail on her senior staff to see if any of them were involved along with the First Lady. Ron had found out early on in the investigation that because of the First Lady’s high profile it was impossible for her to have a drop box outside The White House grounds.

Her Secret Service detail, including Stephen, stayed with her at all times and so it seemed impossible for her to slip away and do something clandestine. After weeks of nothing happening, he looked into the possibility that in fact her drop box could be digital. It didn’t take him long to discover that he could be right. Part of his job description was to bug electronic apps like the now famous WhatsApp device that has been abused by many politicians as a safe way to secretly contact those who you don’t want to advertise, you’re contacting. The two friends were meeting to decide if it was too risky to bug The First Lady’s phone. Ron was not conducting a formal operation and while he would lay down his life for his best friend, he wanted to be cautious. “Is there any other way you can think that she might be contacting someone without anyone knowing?” Stephen asked. Is there any way you could get me the phone she received the call on?” asked Ron and Stephen thought for a moment and then nodded his head. “Yes, I think there may be a way. It’d be risky but if I’m careful I should be able to pull it off.” “What are you suggesting?” replied his friend. “I’ll need to look in her pocketbook, find the phone and then while she is out of the room insert a thumb drive into it and make a copy of her hard drive. Start to finish it should take no more than 5 minutes. If I manage to do it, how would that help you?” Stephen asked his buddy. “Her phone is clearly encrypted, so once I get my hands on the hard drive, I’ll find a way to bust the encryption and then I will find the call that came in to her on that day, and God willing I’ll be able to see if it is a private number or a burner phone. If it’s a burner phone, we are back at square one so let’s hope that the person who called was stupid enough to call on his actual cell.” Ron and Stephen sat in the diner for a while longer chatting about old times and the fun they’d had as kids then got up paid their bill and walked out to the parking lot.

It had been a couple of weeks since they’d seen each other but Stephen did manage to get a copy of The First Lady’s hard drive which he dropped over to Ron’s house two days after they met. During those couple of weeks The First Lady flew with her husband The President to a G20 conference in Geneva. Stephen had flown on Air Force One as well as the other members of the Secret Service detail. Most of them got on well and they spent the time on board chatting and playing cards. When they arrived in Geneva The President and First Lady were escorted to the Presidential car named the Beast because of the fact that there was an attack on the President the car is impenetrable. Stephen and his fellow Secret Service Agents tucked into the Presidential cavalcade traveling in matching black Ford Explorers to the hotel where they were staying for their four-day tour. The G20 is an annual conference that includes leaders from Saudi Arabia, Germany, France, and Italy. Of interest to Stephen Landrieu was the Russian contingent. He wanted in particular to see if Yves behaved differently in front of them so he could try to figure out if she was a Russian asset or not. On the first night there was a cocktail party where all the country’s leaders and diplomats were invited. After the party there was a more formal dinner given by the Swiss Embassy. At dinner sitting next to Yves Cramer on her left was the Russian foreign minister, Igor Subkov a man of about the same age as her. Their body language was stiff and awkward, as if they knew each other but were being cautious which made Stephen suspicious, and he made a mental note to check him out. That night alone in his room he fired off a text to Ron Classon. “Arrived safely. Met Russian foreign minister Igor Subkov. Back home Thursday. S.” The only unusual event that happened was that the President who was sitting between France and Italy got up during the meal and had an hour long talk with the president of Russia. The press asked him the following day what they talked about, but he refused to answer their questions.

Stephen returned home to chaos on Thursday to find the house empty and Molly pulling double duty at Walter Reed as there’d been an accident on the beltway involving a tractor trailer and a bus carrying 56 Japanese tourists. The casualties had been divided up between 7 local hospitals and it looked like Molly would be pulling an all-night shift. Stephen got home around 6:30 pm and watched tv for a while until the phone rang. It was Ron Classon. “I need to see you as soon as possible. Can you meet me at our usual place?” He asked. His voice sounded urgent. “Sure thing Ron, I’ll meet you there in half an hour if you like?” “See you then,” and he hung up. Stephen wrote a note to Molly just in case she had been able to get off work then jumped in his car and was sitting in the diner when Ron arrived. “What’s so urgent?” he asked his friend. Ron sat down and ordered a coffee then replied, “I got your cryptic text the other day and figured you were asking me to track down Igor Subkov. Was I right?” Stephen nodded. “Well, I did, and you will never guess where he went to university?” “Was it Moscow State?” I enquired. “Nope” Ron answered starting to enjoy himself now, “it was The Sorbonne in Paris, and he was enrolled at exactly the same time as Yves White. Also, he dated her for a short time and was a political activist like her. By the time Yves went to study at Moscow State Igor had left the Sorbonne and was living back in Moscow. By that time, he was a member of the SVR the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Igor Subkov is currently a member of the Russian Embassy right here in DC. My bet is that he is the First Lady’s handler.” “But why?” Stephen asked. “Why on earth would she jeopardize everything?” Ron thought for a second and then explained the process to Stephen. “The recruitment process typically begins with "spotting". Spotting is the identification of targets, or people who appear to have access to information or are politically simpatico for a support role. It appears that Yves White was one of those targets. I’m willing to bet a year’s salary that Igor Subkov’s job was to recruit young Yves White.”

In the meantime, Damian Sullivan (aka Billy Green aka Barry Kemp aka Henry Miller) had arrived in Chicago

CHAPTER 16

Chicago Damian Sullivan

An arrest warrant had been issued in Atlanta for Heinrich Mueller aka Billy Green for obtaining a federal job under false pretenses and so the moment Billy Green caught wind that his false identity had been discovered he once again reinvented himself and disappeared. A month after Jessie’s article came out an arrest warrant was issued for Heinrich Mueller for obtaining a federal job under false pretenses and for perjury as when he was sworn in he took an oath to uphold the constitution.

Meanwhile Damian Sullivan made it safely to Chicago, found an apartment to rent on his first day and then concentrated on changing his appearance. He dyed his hair and after a few days of travelling, having not shaved, he decided to grow a beard. When it had grown longer, he dyed the beard and mustache the same color as his hair. These changes made all the difference and made him a brand-new person. As a young man before the war he had taken a job as an electrician when he was at the University studying to be an engineer. Damian decided he’d like to try his hand at becoming an electrician in the booming Chicago building industry and so he applied for a 6-month refresher course to become a licensed electrician. The school was a trade school that was an adjunct to the University of Chicago. The main difference was that it being a trade school, it didn’t offer a degree course because the course only lasted 6 months and was designed to be a money spinner for the University. Damian at 52 years old was considered to be an adult Ed student. With that millstone around his neck came the inevitable questions. “What did you do before this?” or “how old are you?” Damian Sullivan had learned not to get caught up in the petty minds of others and just went about his daily existence methodically. Ever since he’d been razzed in Atlanta about his strange accent he decided to try to lose as much of the guttural intonation as possible. He enrolled in a diction class at the same college and took diction lessons four times a week for the 6-month duration of his electrical course. He found that he loved working with his hands. It had a calming effect on him and when his class took their exam he passed with ‘flying colors.’ As a bonus his diction lessons had all but erased his heavy German accent. He now had a mid-Atlantic accent so people who first met him couldn’t tell if he was German but thought he might be a Brit who’d been living in the US for a number of years.

The trail had grown cold for Moe Berger. Billy Green could have gone anywhere from Atlanta, so Moe was stuck. However he was a patient man and had a feeling that Mueller would appear on his radar eventually. He had been disappointed that the article that Jessie Daniels wrote had not produced any leads. It was as if the man had fallen off the edge of the world. The arrest warrant was now officially a cold case and unless someone phones in a tip there was not much anyone could do. Moe decided to call his old friend John Turley who he’d known since they’d first met at Mauthausen concentration camp. In the first year John had saved Moe’s life countless times and Moe had repaid his fellow inmate several times as well. The thing about concentration camps was that none of the prisoners had a road map for how to behave. The reality was terrifying. Inmates lived their lives as servile docile zombies. There was no room for mistakes. You generally learnt by other inmates’ mistakes. For instance, the guards heavily regulate your calories. 1200 calories recognized as a starvation diet was the normal if you worked hard labor for 12 hours a day which most inmates did. A crust of bread and watery soup was often all you’d get, and so if you could get some extra food that’d be a bonus. The trouble was that if the guards caught you getting extra rations, they shot you. No questions asked. And so John Turley and Moe Berger learned the hard way through the school of life. They survived 4 years of starvation, torture, and abuse by bullies like Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller who on a whim would shoot you and then would permit his Alsatian to maul the man just to make sure. The SS officers redefined sadism which was why when John and Moe survived and emigrated to the US, they both decided to spend their lives tracking down Nazi war criminals and bringing them to justice. 

Hello John, this is Moe. How are you? I’m calling you for a favor.” “Hello Moe, it’s good to hear your voice. What can I do for you?” “Well as you may remember I’ve been tracking Heinrich Mueller, for a couple of years now since he disappeared from Detroit after the immigration hearing you held in 1970. I tracked him across the US from Virginia to North Carolina, finally locating him in Atlanta where it turned out he was working as a prison guard. A reporter investigating abuse at the prison exposed his abuses and wrote an article on him which I saw along with his picture but damn me if as soon as the article was published, he disappeared again. John, I need your help. The case has gone cold again and I’m hoping that you’ll agree to help me and Sophia Engelmann search for him. At this time we have no idea where he went, but it’s been over 6 months now and I’m hoping he’ll make a mistake soon and show himself. Will you help us, John?” “Yes of course I will Moe. I’d be proud to be part of your team. Let’s catch the son of a bitch.”

Meanwhile Damian Sullivan was starting the happiest time of his life. He was living in Chicago and had his electrical contractor’s license. He was officially self-employed and owned his business which he ran out of his apartment with just a phone and an answering machine. He was as busy as he wanted to be working when he wanted and answering to no one. He had managed to successfully change his appearance by maintaining his new beard and hair coloring and by adding 25 lbs. to his physique. Notoriously private Damian recently had acquired a lover. A woman ten years his junior Amy Gordon was a widow who’d lost her husband 5 years earlier in a fiery motor bike accident. Damian met her in church. He’d always been a devout Christian and had met Amy at his weekly bible study meetings. It has always been an oxymoron that Nazis who were responsible for murdering millions of innocent people claimed to be highly religious. It took Damian about five months to summon up the nerve to ask Amy out on a date but one Saturday the church decided to have a social and Amy had made noises that she’d enjoy attending and so Damian faced the situation and invited her. Strangely enough he thoroughly enjoyed himself. When he’d been younger, he’d loved to dance especially when he worked at Auschwitz because there were some female guards who loved to socialize. Aaah those were good times he thought to himself.

Chicago, like the rest of America, was exploding in the 1970s. The building industry was booming and work for Damian was plentiful. For two years he never stopped. He played hard and he worked even harder. Thing with Amy went from good to great in that time, and he found himself sharing her bed on multiple occasions, generally after a great night out with her. Amy was a gentle woman deeply scarred by the death of her husband and so she took great comfort in the fact she had met such a sweet and gentle man. One night after going to the pictures they ended up at her place and after making love to her Damian chatted to her for a while and then they both went to sleep. Around 2:00 am Amy was woken by Damian having a violent nightmare. He was shouting in German over and over again, “stirb du jüdische Schlampe.” The next morning at breakfast she told him what she’d heard and asked them what the words meant, and he thought about it and then told her he wasn’t sure, but that he must have been dreaming about nonsense. A few nights later he stayed over again. This time the same thing happened only worse. Damian was shouting at someone in German. Amy couldn’t understand what he was saying but did understand one word he yelled. That word was Schweinhund which she recognized from films as meaning bastard or pig dog. The following morning she mentioned that he’d been having another nightmare and was speaking again in German. “I didn’t know you spoke German honey,” she said to him as he was drinking his coffee. “I don’t,” he replied and stood up left to head to work.

Moe Berger, Ismael Gerstein, John Turley, and Sophia Engelmann were meeting in Bill Reins office in Washington DC. It had now been over 18 months since Billy Green aka Heinrich Mueller had gone to ground and they were at an impasse. Sophia had recently got permission to blanket all the major cities in the Midwest with a poster that read “Have you seen this man?” with a picture of Heinrich Mueller below and then a number to call. Simple, powerful and often effective. One of the Midwest cities she had targeted would be Chicago. As she showed the mockup poster to her colleagues John suggested having a sketch artist draw a picture of Mueller as he might look now in 1973. “Good idea John,” replied Sophia. “I’ll get right on it.”

A few days later the advertisement was placed in eleven daily papers in the top Midwest cities in the US. Within a day the tip line was inundated with calls from concerned citizens who were certain they’d seen Mueller living in their neighborhood. Amy Gordon who’d been going over and over the nightmares that Damian had been having. She had dropped into the library and checked out a German to English translation book and found that the phrase her boyfriend had been saying over and over meant “Die you Jewish bitch.” She left the library and went to work. When she got home her phone was ringing as she walked through the door. On the third ring she answered it. It was Damian calling to invite her to the church social on Saturday. Amy accepted the invitation gracefully but was still deeply concerned about the nightmares her boyfriend had been having. It made no sense. They had now been dating for almost 2 years and in the main seemed to be quite compatible. But Amy knew nothing about him. He rarely talked about his past and when he did it always seemed vague, never giving her any specific details. The more she thought about it the less she liked it. She’d been burned by men a few times in her life, and she’d vowed never to let it happen again.

The following morning, she was reading her newspaper and almost had a heart attack when she saw the headline on the fifth page, “Have you seen this man?” below the caption was a picture of Damian Sullivan. She dropped her spoon on the floor as she began to tremble. Why was Damian in that picture dressed as a Nazi. Amy couldn’t take it in. I’m in shock, she thought to herself. And then she looked at the 2nd picture, a drawing, guessing what he looked like 25 years later, a bit heavier but without question Damian. Below the photo was a phone number. She wrote it down. Sitting in her kitchen Amy allowed the shock to roll over her and then realized what the Nazis had done to an entire race Damian’s nightmares all made sense to her.

Amy Gordon was like their little sister. As she walked in to Kitty’s Lounge half a dozen bikers saw her and yelled hello and waved for her to come over. They all loved this woman who’d been married to their biker friend. They surrounded her as she approached them hugging and kissing her. It’d been too long. After they got her a drink, they talked to her about old times remembering the funny moments and good times until they remembered the tragedy when a very drunk Big Dog (Amy’s husband) had accepted a dare from an equally drunk stranger. The dare didn’t pan out and Big Dog was killed at 3 in the morning traveling over 100 mph when he hit an oncoming tractor trailer. These men were serious bikers and looked the part. If Amy had brought any one of them home to meet her parents, they would have called the National Guard. But every guy was a gentle giant, and Amy knew that every one of them was honorable and would be there for her if times got hard. Now times were hard for her, and she needed their help.

She sat down with her biker friends and showed them the newspaper wanted poster. When they’d all seen it, Fat John asked who the guy was. After a slight pause Amy said, “that’s my boyfriend Damian. I’ve been dating him for the past couple of years. He’s clearly on the run and is living under an assumed name. He’s an electrician and the name he goes under is Damian Sullivan. If he’s who they say he is, he’s a Nazi war criminal who managed to come to the States and start a new life. I’m scared and I need your help because I don’t know what to do.

In the meantime the newspaper tip line had been producing results in Chicago. Four people had called in and identified the picture as an electrician called Damian Sullivan. One of the tips was from an old man who mentioned that the guy lived in his building and was named Darryl or Damian or something like that. The good thing was that he provided an address. It took a few days for the tips to get back to Moe and John Turley but when they did the two decided that they were credible enough to fully investigate. The first thing John Turley did was to check if Damian Sullivan had a current electrical license with the city of Chicago. It turns out that he did and that his address was the same one the old man had given. Moe Berger spoke to two people who had called the tip line and they both confirmed that a man called Damian had collaborated with them on a new building in the past few months, and that Damian had a striking resemblance to the Nazi in the wanted poster they had seen. The fourth tip was less credible and after listening for a few minutes John Turley thanked the woman and scratched her name off the list. John and Moe were excited as this was their first break in 18 months. They phoned Sophia Engelmann who gave a whoop of joy when she got the news. “Let’s fly to Chicago and surprise the guy.” She suggested.

CHAPTER 17

The Letter

We arrived home to our little house in Pensacola after being away for the better part of the summer visiting 6 of the 107 businesses that I had inherited from Uncle John. Upon walking through the front door we were met with an avalanche of mail that had piled up in the six weeks we’d been gone. Amongst the mail was a letter from Uncle John’s attorney Jerry Ludlow. Having looked through the mountain of mail I poured myself a nice cup of tea, sat in my favorite chair in our lovely sitting room that overlooked the park and began to read the letter that Uncle John had written to me, which had been held back intentionally by Mr. Jerry Ludlow esq. As I read it I began to understand why he had held it back until now. 

My Dear Jenny, 

By the time you read this you will have already met Cynthia Hawkins who will have filled you in on your future responsibilities regarding Harriman Holdings. I am hoping you will have decided to visit a number of your new businesses and are beginning to understand my reasons for what I have done. I fear that my cousin, your father and I did not tell you the whole truth about my background. We had led you to believe that our grandparents emigrated to America in the early 1900s and that we had both been raised here. That was not strictly true. In fact we were both born in Berlin in 1928 just two months apart. Our parents were German Jews. Your father escaped to America with his parents and sister in 1938 just before the war began. My family were not so lucky. When the war began the Germans started arresting Jews and sent all German Jews to labor camps. I was sent to Krakow and then in 1941 to Buchenwald which was a Nazi concentration camp. After being loaded like animals onto a cattle train we traveled for 3 days without food or water until I arrived at Buchenwald where my father and I were separated from my mother and sister who sadly I never saw again. I learned later that my mother had managed to survive for two years until 1943 when she was taken with a group of about a hundred women who were shot and buried in a mass grave. My sister Hannah, a sickly child contracted typhus a month after arriving at Buchenwald and died shortly afterward. I was 12 years old and was expected to work as hard as a grown man. I would only see my father occasionally because we lived in separate barracks. Buchenwald was not specifically a death camp like Auschwitz or Treblinka. It didn’t have any ovens but was one of the oldest camps in the Nazi system. It had been built in 1937 to house communists, and political prisoners but after the war began in 1939 it began accepting German Jews from the ghettos. Buchenwald had a reputation of working prisoners to death, and I saw thousands of Jews starved and beaten to death. I decided that I would survive, if for no other reason than to bear witness to the atrocities I had seen. When finally we were liberated by the Americans in 1945, I was the only member of my family still alive. My father had died at the hands of a severe beating from a Nazi guard who for no other reason than my father did not lower his eyes when spoken to beat him with his club until he collapsed and died in front of the entire barracks. The anger was palpable amongst his “roommates,” as my father was known to be a sweet humble man who had never met a stranger in his life. Before your parents left Berlin in 1938 my parents gave their important papers and valuables to them asking them to give their wills to an attorney when they got to the United States. Everything else you have heard about my dear parents was dreaming on my part. I’m so sorry I misled you.  After we were liberated, I spent time at an American refugee camp where we were treated well and fed three square meals each day. I regained my strength and applied for a visa to come to America. I lied about my age because actually I was only just seventeen. Because of my incarceration and the hardship I’d had to endure I looked much older than seventeen. I gave my cousin’s name, your father, as a reference and eventually arrived in America.  From here my story gets complicated. You must understand Jenny, that even though I was only seventeen, because of my experience in Buchenwald it was impossible for me to go back to school and so as soon as I turned 18, I left your Grandparents home and struck out on my own. I moved to New York City and slept rough on the streets for a few weeks and then got myself a job washing dishes at a restaurant in Times Square. I earned enough to rent a one room flat and worked hard. I found a second job on a building site in the day, and before I knew it I’d found a third job. Even so with working three jobs my life was much easier than it had been in the camps. Everywhere I went my camp tattoo identified me. Some were sympathetic but others treated me with huge disrespect. One day on my third job as a janitor at a building in Manhattan a prosperous looking tenant recognized me from Buchenwald. He too was a survivor and greeted me like I was a long-lost friend. “My name is Esau Metzler, and I live in 34B. If you need anything, please knock on my door. You’ll always be welcome.” I thanked him and went about my day. Two days later I ran into him again and he repeated the offer. Once again, I thanked him and tucked his offer away in my memory vault. A week after my last meeting with the man I saw him being interviewed on local TV. I watched mesmerized by what he had to say. It turned out that he was a prominent attorney and was being interviewed because he’d recently recognized a Nazi guard walking free as a bird in Central Park. He had confronted the man who denied that he had ever been a Nazi guard. It got Mr. Metzler thinking that if one Nazi had managed to enter the US with forged papers then how many others had possibly done the same?  The next day I knocked on Mr. Metzler’s door. That fateful knock on his door is why my dear Jenny I’m writing this long missive to you. Esau Metzler had initially reported the Nazi guard that he recognized in Central Park. That day he followed the man to his building in Manhattan and paid the building superintendent to give him the name of the man he’d followed. Money talks and within days Harry Wilkes aka Friedrich Hansel the guard from Buchenwald had been reported to the immigration authorities. Mr. Metzler waited and waited to no avail and finally, having waited six months paid Mr. Harry Wilkes a visit. When Esau Metzler confronted Friedrich Hansel, his accusations were ignored but only after Hansel had called him a dirty little kike and shoved him up against the wall, Metzler called the police who arrived at the apartment and took a police report. The upshot was that Esau Metzler was arrested and charged with harassment. After my first visit Esau Metzler and I became friends and over the next several years we decided to look into finding out how many Nazis had emigrated to America with forged papers. We put together a rag tag group of survivors some of whom were law enforcement professionals. Esau was a lawyer and had access to all kinds of records. I had no idea how, and I never asked him how he had managed to appropriate the records. But within 2 years we had a list of forty-three known Nazis living in the New York area. We were now holding meetings every week at his apartment, and up until that point had simply conducted research into the backgrounds of the forty-three suspected Nazis. One of the men at the meetings was a man called Bill Rein. He was a Ravensbruck survivor. I first met him at Esau’s apartment where all of us survivors met each week. We were now at a crossroads. Was our next move to become judge and jury or should we behave like law abiding citizens and hand the suspects over to the immigration authorities? Considering that Esau Metzler had been arrested the last time he’d tried to abide by the law, we chose the former by a unanimous vote. The problem was that we were not really vigilante types and even though indescribable violence had been done by Nazis to over six million Jews during World War II it seemed impossible for us to exact a similar fate. Each one of us who had been in the camps had watched repeatedly as the cruel and sadistic camp guards tortured and killed prisoner after prisoner for no reason other than their own perverse cruelty. If we were to engage on this vigilante endeavor, we had to move past our own abhorrence for violence and once we had passed a sentence on the individual, we had to carry it out knowing we were doing it for all the Jews who had died in the camps.  Esau Metzler was an extraordinary man. Not only had he suffered years of torture within Treblinka and Majdanek, but he was a survivor. That in itself was a miracle. Both he and I shared that luxury where so many other Jews had not been so fortunate. After he arrived in New York he became eligible to renew his law license and sat for the NY bar exam which he passed with excellence. He became a prominent attorney in NY working for a Jewish company Alpert, Schloss and Weintraub that specialized in lawsuits brought by survivors of the camps against the German government and wealthy industrialists such as Bayer, Mercedes, Audi,  Allgemeine Elektrizitäts Gesellschaft, AEG, Bayerische AG (BMW), Berger, Adlerwerke AG Bergwerks Industrie AG, Daimler-Benz AG, Krupp Ironworks, Goldfisch Gruen & Bulfinger, Koch and Mayer, Henkel & Cie, the Heinkel aircraft factory, Zuffenhausen, the Kessler factory, Röchling group and the Messerschmitt AG. Most of these companies had directly or indirectly been involved in using Jewish slave labor in their factories.   In the course of his litigation against some companies that had been accused of using Jewish slave labor he came across a statement from a survivor who mentioned a term that he’d never heard before which piqued his attention. It was Operation Paperclip. He discovered it referred to files that had been originally attached to alleged war criminal’s files which had been removed at some point by someone yet to be determined. Esau decided to investigate why so many war criminals had missing files. The name paperclip was a reference to the imprint a paperclip leaves after a document is removed from a file. After months of searching Esau Metzler managed to figure out what this suspicious looking file was all about. Operation Paperclip was a secret program created by the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency and largely carried out by special agents of the Army Counterintelligence Corps, (CIC) in which more than 1,600 German scientists, engineers, and technicians, such as Wernher von Braun and his V-2 rocket team, were taken from Germany to America for U.S. government employment, between 1945 and 1959. Many were former members, and some were former leaders, of the Nazi Party.   The primary purpose for Operation Paperclip was U.S. military advantage in the Soviet–American Cold War, and the Space Race. The Soviet Union was more aggressive in forcibly recruiting more than 2,200 German specialists, a total of more than 6,000 people including family members called Operation Osoaviakhim one night on October 22, 1946.   The Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) established the first secret recruitment program, called Operation Overcast, on July 20, 1945, initially "to assist in shortening the Japanese war and to aid our postwar military research". The term "Overcast" was the name first given by the German scientists' family members for the housing camp where they were held in Bavaria. In late summer 1945, the JCS established the JIOA, a subcommittee of the Joint Intelligence Community, to directly oversee Operation Overcast and later Operation Paperclip. The JIOA representatives included the army's director of intelligence, the chief of naval intelligence, the assistant chief of Air Staff-2 (air force intelligence), and a representative from the State Department. In November 1945, Operation Overcast was renamed Operation Paperclip by Ordnance Corps (United States Army) officers, who would attach a paperclip to the folders of those rocket experts whom they wished to employ in America.  In a secret directive circulated on September 3, 1946, President Truman officially approved Operation Paperclip and expanded it to include one thousand German scientists under "temporary, limited military custody." 

Our little group that discovered the forty-three suspected Nazis that had managed to avoid capture after World War II but were not part of Operation Paperclip but were just ordinary Germans who had been swept up in the anti-Semitism of the 1930 Hitler era, were now just trying to rebuild their lives. Some of them turned out to be pencil pushers too scared to face the beast while others were actually guards at Nazi concentration camps responsible in many cases of committing atrocities on Jews, for which they were still accountable. 

I won’t go into more detail concerning this matter but suffice it to say that during the remainder of my lifetime 6 of the 43 were found to be innocent of any wrongdoing, but 37 Nazis living in New York State disappeared never to be seen again. No trace was ever found, and they were never missed. I’ve spent years trying to make up for what I endured at Buchenwald. Please don’t think any less of me. What we did was technically illegal I know but each one of us knew that those very same people had swindled their way into our beautiful country and intended to do America harm just like they had caused harm to all of us in the camps. These mass murderers were very well organized and were planning the Fourth Reich within our midst and had to be stopped. We were still at war. 

As I’m sure you’ve now realized I didn’t grow up in Chantilly VA. as I told you and my mother was not the heir, I told you she was. My parent’s names were in fact Wilhelm and Sophia Harrimann and along with my sister they died in the camps during the war. I spent 4 years at Buchenwald and never saw my family again. I’m so sorry I lied to you when you were young, but it was the easiest way to explain my background to you so as not to scare you.

I founded Harriman Holdings for the express purpose of helping people less fortunate than myself. Your Aunt Rachel endowed seed money to get the business started, and initially I used it as a front to hunt down Nazis and take care of them but as time went on, I found that the workers who bust their butts were getting a raw deal. Unionization was in its infancy and so I started buying distressed companies and turning them into profit sharing companies. The more companies I saved there were always 20 more that needed saving. It was an endless cycle but I loved doing it. I had seen such destruction as a boy so now I wanted to make amends as best I could.  I truly am sorry that I misled you, Jenny. It was never my intention to do so but at the time your Dad and I thought that if we created a story about how my Parents met in Massachusetts it would somehow cement our family legacy and add credence to my life here as a boy. How wrong I was. I learned during my life that honesty is the best policy, and I’ve tried to live that way ever since. I’m so proud to have known you dear Jenny, and hope you’ll continue to bring light and love wherever you go. My gift to you is introducing you to all the good people I came to know and love during my last forty years on earth. Good luck with it all. I love you.  

Your ever loving, 

Uncle John. 

P.S. I’ve attached a newspaper article for you to read where I was interviewed in 1963. It explains my early obsession of working on old cars, where and why it started. I hope you find it interesting.

I wiped a tear from my eye as I finished reading Uncle John’s letter. Vigilantism is wrong no matter how you look at it. I would have preferred that Esau Metzler, my Uncle and the entire team of survivors who had been part of the vigilante mission had obeyed the law and simply passed over the names of known Nazis to immigration authorities, but what was done was done. I’m so glad that Uncle John survived Buchenwald and that he lived long enough to do as much good as he did.

For that I’ll always be proud. I’ll remember Uncle John for the man I knew growing up, the man I got to know as an adult and the man who thousands of grateful employees came to know as a generous man with a huge heart and a ready smile. A man who was always willing to offer a helping hand. His legacy will live on.

I NOW REALIZED WHO MY UNCLE JOHN WAS

NB. Clipping of a newspaper article that was published in 1963 about Jewish prisoners who had survived the Holocaust and come to live in the United States. Here is Uncle John in his own words: 

“I was only 12 years old when I was sent to Buchenwald. Prior to that we lived in the Krakow ghetto for 2 years. Before that I lived with my parents and little sister in Berlin. Ever since I was small, we weren’t allowed to play outside. My father owned a 1920 Mercedes-Benz Nürburg 450 K Sport-Roadster that he had bought several years before I was born from a friend. The car was in pieces, and he was rebuilding it. My parents owned a 5-level townhouse in Berlin that came with a garage on the lower floor and after work he would retreat to his workshop spending a few hours every night restoring it to its former glory. When I was about 6 I would go down to the garage and watch as Dad would remove parts of the car and then clean them up and replace them. After about 6 months of watching him, he showed me how to remove parts, clean them and replace them. By 7 years old I was able to rebuild (with his help) the entire brake assembly. I loved doing that with my father. He was patient and would explain everything to me. As I grew older, I would strip parts of the car down in order to restore a rusty part by sanding it down to bare metal and then learning how to prime the part and paint a few coats. I ate, slept and breathed car restoration. In 1938 in Berlin it was all a 9-year-old Jew was allowed to do. I had books on how to break down a motor and put them together again. I memorized it all knowing that one day when I was faced with the task of fixing up an old car, I would be able to do it in my sleep.  My 12th birthday came in April and mother and father gave me a book on old cars. It was a picture book that gave diagrams of engines and the best way to break them down and put them back together. About 6 months later one Tuesday night I was reading how to dismantle an MG engine. I had memorized most of the engines featured in the book when I heard the unmistakable sound of brown shirts assaulting our building. I ran down the stairs to find my parents and little sister Hannah standing in the living room with Nazi guns trained on them. My mother and sister were crying. The Nazi’s told us to pack one bag each and be ready to leave in 10 minutes. We were too scared to do otherwise. We were arrested and herded into a lorry and driven to SS headquarters where we were remanded for several days. Then we were put onto a freight train with hundreds of other people and traveled for two days and nights while crammed into a tiny cattle car with what seemed like thousands of people young and old alike. We were given a bowl of soup and some stale bread and were only given buckets to use as bathrooms. It was so tight in there that we had to sleep standing up leaning on one another. When we eventually reached our destination, we had to leave the train and walk down gangplanks until we were standing on the platform where dozens of soldiers with guns and big dogs were barking at all of us. We stood on the platform. I was scared. We had arrived at a place called Krakow in southern Poland. The Kraków Ghetto was one of five major metropolitan Jewish Ghettos created by Nazi Germany in the General Government territory during the German occupation of Poland in World War II. It was established for the purpose of exploitation, terror, and persecution of German Jews, as well as the staging area for separating the "able workers" from those who would later be deemed unworthy of life. The Ghetto was liquidated between June 1942 and March 1943, with most of its inhabitants sent to their deaths at Bełżec extermination camp as well as Płaszów slave-labor camp, Buchenwald, and Auschwitz concentration camps. The Nazis then marched us to the ghetto that would be our home for the next 2 years. We were allowed to stay together, and they put us in with 5 other families in a cramped flat overlooking a hastily built wall that imprisoned us from the main city. Most people in the ghetto were Jews. After a few months of intolerable conditions some of the Elders complained to our captors. Their complaints were heard and one night two hundred Jews were taken from their apartments and shot as a lesson for their complaining. The level of cruelty by the Nazis knew no bounds. We lived in Krakow for almost 2 years and then one night we heard the all too familiar sound of German soldiers marching toward us. We were placed in lorries and taken to the train station where we waited an eternity and then were loaded onto cattle trains once again. This time we rode for 2 days until we arrived at a grim place called Buchenwald. We were greeted by similar Nazi soldiers with their fierce Alsatian attack dogs who were strutting up and down the platform barking orders and separating families into different lines. Babies were snatched from their mother’s arms and old men and women were put back on the train to go to another destination; who knows where? There were also men in striped pajamas whose job it was to collect the suitcases. I didn’t understand what was happening and felt scared. Before long I marched off with some other people who had been on the train with me and went to a big building with lots of bunk beds. I was told to find a bed and found a top bunk at the end of the building. My father was nowhere to be found and I was worried for him. That night I cried myself to sleep and was woken by what would become a normal part of my everyday routine. It was still dark outside, but everyone was scurrying around like mice and at first, I couldn’t figure out why. Eventually I realized that our food had arrived, and everyone was hurrying to get to it before it was all gone. Everyone was wearing striped pajamas like I’d seen the men wearing who were sorting the luggage when we first arrived. I jumped down from my bunk and headed toward the line of men and thanks to the kindness of the man doling it out got the last bowl of soup and crust of bread. “You better eat slow boy. That’s the last food they’ll give you until tomorrow morning.” He said and I smiled gratefully to him. “See you tomorrow then,” I said trying to sound light and breezy but actually feeling terrified inside. “Sure thing.” At that moment, the doors to my barracks were flung open and four guards with rifles slung over their shoulder walked in and started to shout, “raus, raus,” which in German meant literally, “out out.”  That was the signal for our day to begin. We lined up to be counted and then were marched out of the main prisoner gate and marched in formation for about an hour until we arrived at a factory where we were signed in and then taken to our workstations where we assembled weapons for the third Reich for 12 hours a day. There were a few other boys in my work detail, but I wasn’t able to get near to them to make friends. At 6:00 pm we would all congregate outside the factory and then be marched back to the camp which we would get to by 7:00 pm. This would be my routine for the next 4 years. We worked 7 days a week 12 hours a day plus two hours walking there and back. We had no breaks and ate just once a day at 5:00 am. That first day to say I was tired would be an understatement. I was exhausted and it got no better with every passing day. The wear and tear to my psyche was constant. I watched as the guards would pick on one guy for no reason and beat him to death. I made a deal with myself that I was going to come through this alive if for no other reason than to tell the world what these monsters had done. I saw my dad every now and again but because he was in a separate barrack, I never was able to sit and have a conversation with him. Because I found out later that Buchenwald was for men only and I heard that Mom and Hannah had been sent to Theresienstadt a hybrid concentration camp and ghetto established by the SS during World War II in the fortress town Terezín, located in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. The days passed and turned into weeks and then months. The routine stayed the same. It got to be a game with me to see if I could outwit the dumb German guards who knew one thing only. Cruelty. I was so tired. I was never able to recharge my batteries. That is when it came to me. What makes a car run? A battery of course. And how does it stay charged once the engine is running? I’d just learned about that in my book about cars. The alternator! That night I climbed into my bunk, closed my eyes and forgot all about the terror that met me every single day at Buchenwald and so in my imagination I stripped the alternator so I could rebuild it and make it brand new. That night for the first time in months I fell asleep and dreamed I was running through a meadow of flowers. Over in the corner of the field my Mum and Dad and Hannah were sitting on a blanket smiling and having a picnic. It was like a veil had been lifted. That day I thought about what I could rebuild tonight as I drifted off to sleep. One thing I now knew. This was the only way I would survive this nightmare. I walked to work that day with a new sense of purpose and spent all day planning what part of my automobile I would deconstruct, clean up and then rebuild. It became my mission in life. I would spend all day daydreaming about what car I was going to dismantle that night and then I would go over in my mind what every working part of a car there was. Then I’d plan the rebuild. Generally I would only stay awake long enough to remove a part and begin to dismantle it before I fell asleep. Then I would dream of happy things before I was woken from my reverie with a jar. I learned to ration my crust of bread into three meals which helped my exhaustion a lot. I had to drink the broth for breakfast at 5, but I’d stash the bread in my pockets to eat later.  I made friends with a lot of my fellow prisoners, and once the nice man I’d met on my first morning slipped me a piece of dark chocolate that I made last for three days. Other men would try to help me when I was having a bad day, but even though I was just a boy I was expected to behave and work as hard as an adult. As I became better at my daydreaming, I organized them into leagues. The premier league was all the cars I really loved, like BMW and the Mercedes Benz. The second tier were cars like Volkswagen, Volvo, and Skoda and the third tier was the old Junkers that needed immense work done to them which if done properly might elevate any of them up a class. It all took a lot of planning on my journeys back and forth to the factory. Unfortunately, there was little time to plan during the 12 hours I was at the factory. If I lost concentration my work would suffer, and I would make a mistake. Mistakes were not tolerated. If a worker made a mistake and it was discovered the punishment was death and we all knew that.

Inmates were flogged or killed for the smallest of infractions. For instance, stealing the pigs’ food from the pigsty, or removing your gold teeth to buy bread, or getting a second helping of food at mealtimes and horror of horrors putting your hand in your pockets. A flogging table was set up during roll call. It was called the goat, and prisoners who were to be flogged had to place their feet in a box thereby immobilizing them and were required to count each lash. If they lost count the lashing would start again and we had to thank the guard for each lash we received. The guards were such sadists that a single flogging could take hours as the rest of the barrack would remain at attention. Another form of torture was known as punishment by "the post" that involved tying prisoners’ hands behind their backs with chains attached to hooks, then raising the chains so the prisoners were left dangling by the wrists. If their shoulders were too damaged afterwards to work, they would be shot. Prisoners were subjected to the post for helping a prisoner who had been beaten, or for picking up a cigarette butt. To extract information from inmates, guards would force the inmates’ heads onto the stove, and hold them there, burning their faces and eyes. The punishment block was a prison within the prison, reserved for inmates suspected of resistance activities. Cell 14 was a what they called in German a Stehbunker or a standing cell. Split into four sections, each section measured less than 1.0 m (11 sq. ft) and held four prisoners, who entered it through a hatch near the floor. There was a 5x5 cm vent for air, covered by a perforated sheet. Jorge Strzelecka a Polish historian and author wrote that prisoners had to spend several nights in cell fourteen; Wiesław Kielar spent four weeks in it for breaking a pipe. Several rooms in block 13 were deemed the punishment branch of the police at Buchenwald. There were also special treatment cases for Poles and others regarded as dangerous to the Third Reich.

Eight hundred to a thousand people were crammed into the sleeping compartments of each barracks. Unable to stretch out completely, we slept there both lengthwise and crosswise, with one man's feet on another's head, neck, or chest. Stripped of all human dignity, we pushed and shoved and bit and kicked each other in an effort to get a few more inches' space on which to sleep a little more comfortably. But we didn’t have long to sleep. Morning came too soon.

Beatings were commonplace, especially at roll call. Many times a prisoner would be singled out for failing to answer a question correctly and given the choice to shoot himself or another inmate. Other methods of extermination of prisoners who were sick, unfit for further labor or as a means of collective responsibility or after escape attempts, included beating the prisoners to death by the SS guards and Kapos, starving them to death in bunkers, hanging them or mass shootings. At times, the guards or Kapos would either deliberately throw the prisoners on the 380-volt electric barbed wire fence that surrounded Buchenwald or force them outside the boundaries of the camp and then shoot them on the pretense that they were attempting to escape.  Another favorite way of killing inmates was to force them to take icy showers. More than 3,000 inmates died of hypothermia after being forced to take an icy cold shower and then left outside in cold weather. A large number of inmates were drowned in barrels of water at Buchenwald. I filled my nights with dreams of rebuilding old cars and my days with planning my forthcoming dream.

So I found the best way to plan my nighttime schedule was walking back to the camp. When we got there, I went straight to my bunk and lay down. Morning would always come way too soon and so for the first hour or two I thought about the cars I had seen that I had fallen in love with. The Duisenberg was a great full-sized car, elegant and sophisticated. A car that I’d love to strip down. Also the MG sports car that I’d been reading about the night we were arrested. The one I had seen was an MG PB 1931 sports model with a six-cylinder engine. I had undressed that car a dozen times since I’d been at Buchenwald. I must stop thinking like that or people might talk. As I lay there, I laughed to myself at how silly I was behaving. After thinking about my favorite cars I would then think about one kind of engine and would decide to strip it down. The process never failed. After eating my last crust of bread I’d drift deep into my imagination and would invariably fall into a deep sleep and dream about my family back in Berlin in happier times. Generally if I timed it right, I could sleep through the night, and then at 5.00 am my nightmare would begin again. I managed to live that way for 5 years until finally on April 11th, 1945, the US army liberated us. We’d heard rumors a week earlier the Americans had liberated one of Buchenwald’s subcamps called Ohrdruf and our captors had evacuated many of the prisoners to Buchenwald and forced them to burn incriminating evidence and so we knew something was about to happen. 28000 prisoners had either recently been evacuated been shot or forced to go on a death march. When the US army finally arrived at Buchenwald there were just 21,000 of us left as most of the SS guards had fled the moment news got through, we were about to be liberated. I remember exactly where I was at the precise moment the US stormed the gates.

On April 9th, 1945, I saw the guards who walked us to the factory leave by the main gates along with dozens of other guards. I was standing at the window to my barracks wondering if this could be the moment, we had been longing for but frozen by fear that they would come back at any time and continue their killing. Over the past few weeks prisoners had been mysteriously disappearing at the rate of hundreds a day. We weren’t sure if they were being evacuated or killed, but you have no idea the relief we felt when the Americans rolled into the camp.  That first night in the refugee camp sleeping on a cot with a mattress for the first time in five years was a feeling I’ll never forget. The Americans had been good to us and fed us well and I felt as if I was a liberated swallow after a lifetime of captivity. I’d been10 when I arrived at Buchenwald and now, I was 15 going on 30. In many ways I was an old man. The guards had never made any allowance for the fact I was a child. They expected me to work as hard as every other man there and if I couldn’t they’d shoot me. It took me months to assimilate after my release, and the only thing that seemed to help me was my big imagination that allowed me to build, destruct and rebuild any car of my choosing.”

CHAPTER 18

Johann Sebastian

“May we not speak of a revolution when the chaotic conditions brought about by parliamentary democracy disappear in less than three months and a regime of order and discipline takes their place, and a new energy springs forth from a firmly welded unity and a comprehensive authoritative power like Germany never before had? So great was the Revolution that its intellectual foundations are not even understood but are superficially criticized by our contemporaries. They talk of democracies and dictatorships; but they fail to grasp the fact that in this country a radical transformation has taken place and has produced results which are democratic in the highest sense of the word, if democracy has any meaning at all.

With infallible certainty we are steering toward an order of things in which a process of selection will become active in the political leadership of the nation, as it exists throughout the whole of life in general. By this process of selection, which will follow the laws of Nature and the dictates of human reason, those among our people who show the greatest natural ability will be appointed to positions in the political leadership of the nation. In making this selection no consideration will be given to birth or ancestry, name, or wealth, but only to the question of whether or not the candidate has a natural vocation for those higher positions of leadership. That was a fine principle which the great Corsican enunciated when he said that each one of his soldiers carried a marshal's baton in the haversack. In this country that principle will have its political counterpart. Is there a nobler or more excellent kind of Socialism and is there a truer form of Democracy than this National Socialism which is so organized that through it each one among the millions of German boys is given the possibility of finding his way to the highest office in the nation, should it please Providence to come to his aid.”

Adolf Hitler’s speech in Berlin 1938

 I was born Johann Sebastian Harrimann (my father loved the music of Johann Sebastian Bach) in Berlin on April 25, 1930, the second child of Wilhelm and Sophia Harrimann. My father was an engineer with a degree from Berlin University. He met my mother, an undergraduate in advanced classical literature in his second year at the university and they began dating shortly thereafter. Her parents were devout Jews and suggested that my father convert to Judaism. He resisted and they were eventually married in the church in our neighborhood. It was a Christian marriage held 3 months after they both graduated from Berlin University. My Nanna and Gramps attended the wedding, and while they had wished my father had converted to Judaism, were most gracious when he decided to remain Christian. They both were Berliners born and bred. I have very fond memories of sitting on my Gramps’ knee as he held court at family gatherings with him laughing and telling jokes while Nanna made sure that everyone felt welcome. My mother and father visited them every week on the Sabbath, and I remember celebrating all the major Jewish holidays with them. We were a happy family. My Christian Grandfather, “Papa,” was a most serious individual. Clearly a kind man both he and “Gamma,” adored my sister and I and used to love taking us to special events such as the opera, the ballet, and attend Adolf Hitler rally’s much to the annoyance of my parents’ I found out later in life. It wasn’t that Papa was a Nazi it was simply that as a German he respected the new Chancellor and wanted to give him a chance.

In 1925 Adolf Hitler was sent to prison for treason for his part in what became known as The Beer Hall Putsch a failed coup by the Nazi Party to grab power in Munich in late 1923. Two thousand Nazis led by Hitler marched to the Field Marshall’s Hall where they were confronted by police which resulted in the deaths of 16 Nazis and 4 police officers. Hitler was wounded in the fracas but was spirited away to safety but was arrested two days later and charged with treason. He was sentenced to 5 years and sent to Landsberg prison where he wrote and dictated Mein Kampf expressing his nationalist sentiments to his cell mates Emil Maurice and Rudolf Hess. On December 24, 1924, Hitler was released after serving just 9 months in prison. Once released, Hitler redirected his focus towards obtaining power through legal means rather than revolution or force, and accordingly changed his tactics, further developing Nazi propaganda.

When Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in 1933 the country was suffering a terrible economic depression and the speeches, he gave to the German people were initially hopeful and full of promise. Adolf Hitler was many things but one of his supreme attributes was that he was a brilliant orator. However his speeches became darker and darker as time went on and the Nazi Party gained more traction after he became Chancellor and the beliefs that he’d written about in Mein Kampf became his reality. After 1934 Hitler began initiating anti-Semitic policy that removed Jewish rights. The SA was a paramilitary organization that the Nazi Party created in 1921 to sow division wherever they were needed. Known as Stormtroopers or Brown Shirts they were the first on the scene at political rallies when the crowds could become rowdy. The SS on the other hand created in 1935 became Hitlers’ bodyguards.

We lived in an upper middle-class neighborhood in Berlin. My father owned his own company which built residential buildings in Berlin. His expertise was building elegant town homes for affluent German families, and we lived in a 5-level town home that he had engineered and then built some years before I was born. My sister Hannah, 2 years older than me was my best friend, and we would play for hours racing up and down the stairs playing hide and go seek. I had a couple of great hiding places under the stairs, but my favorite one was in the garage where I liked to hide under the car my father was currently rebuilding. His greatest hobby in life was to tinker with old cars he had bought in bad condition and rebuild them. Currently he had a Mercedes Benz touring car “on his table,” and was busy completely rebuilding it from the ground up. Over the past two years I too had developed a taste for cars and was learning as much as I could with the help of books I had been given. Hannah had no interest in cars and so our relationship was limited to running up and down the stairs chasing each other and playing hide and go seek. She sadly was a sickly child and spent a lot of time away from school and visiting doctors. My mother was an angel spending inordinate time with both of us making sure we were loved and well cared for. She didn’t have a job and spent her time doing charity functions and raising money for good causes. She had no interest in politics, and I would sometimes hear them talking about the Nazi’s.

One day my father and I were happily working on his car when he asked me if I’d like to go to a Hitler rally on Saturday. I was 10 at the time. The year 1937. I willingly agreed and me and my Dad set off to listen to the Chancellors speech. Even at 10 what he said that afternoon made my blood run cold.

“One thing I should like to say on this day which may be memorable for others as well as for us Germans.” Adolf Hitler’s voice boomed through the loudspeakers. “In the course of my life I have very often been a prophet and have usually been ridiculed for it. During the time of my struggle for power it was in the first instance the Jewish race which only received my prophecies with laughter when I said that I would one day take over the leadership of the State, and with it that of the whole nation, and that I would then among many other things settle the Jewish problem. Their laughter was uproarious, but I think that for some time now they have been laughing on the other side of their face. Today I will once more be a prophet: If the international Jewish financiers in and outside Europe should succeed in plunging the nations once more into a world war, then the result will not be the Bolshevization of the earth, and thus the victory of Jewry, but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe!”

That day walking home just 8 months before Germany invaded Poland thereby starting World War II my father and I had the most serious discussion of my life. I knew of course that my mother was Jewish because we all would visit my Grandparents’ every Saturday and celebrate with them, but what I didn’t understand was what I had heard in the voice of Chancellor Hitler. I didn’t need to know the meaning of annihilation to recognize the hatred in his voice when he mentioned Jewish people. When we got home my father invited me into his office and asked me to sit down. He had his serious voice on as he explained to me the state of affairs at home in 1937. “Because I am Christian, we have always registered as such. In September 1935, the Government passed some laws called The Nuremberg Race Laws, which excluded German Jews from citizenship. “But Mother is Jewish. Does that mean that she’s not allowed to be married to you?” I asked my father. “As far as the Nazi’s are concerned your mother is Christian,” he answered. “What about Gramps and Nanna? Will they have to leave Berlin?” My wheels were turning like a merry go round. “Can we still see them?” “Yes of course we can Johann. All of these new rules will be struck down as soon as we have the next election and vote in someone new. Don’t worry son, we will soon sort it out.”

After that talk with my father I paid much more attention to what was happening in my part of the world. I noticed immediately that some of my friends were not in school anymore and so I asked my teacher where they had gone. He told me the Mayor of Berlin had been ordered not to admit Jewish children into the schools until further notice. I went to my Dad and asked him to tell me what Chancellor Hitler meant in his speech that day when he talked about settling the “Jewish problem?” My Dad slowly sat down and lit his pipe and looked at me with a look I’d never seen on his face before. “Son until I heard that speech, I had been a supporter of Chancellor Hitler. He spoke sense and he wanted the best for all Germans. But this time at his rally I was horrified by his tone and rhetoric. I’d never heard him speak that way before. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention or maybe I was working so hard and just didn’t realize the policies he was initiating were all so vile and anti-Semitic. I have decided that I cannot support this person. We simply must do everything in our power to rid Germany of this awful man.”

Over the next year things worsened. In January, a new law came into effect banning Jews from changing their names. In February auctioneers were excluded from that profession. In March, The Gun Law banned Jews from being Gun Merchants, and in April the Reich required all Jews to disclose property in excess of 5,000 Reichsmarks. In July the Reich banned all Jews from going to health spas and in August they ordered Jews bearing non-Jewish names to adopt an additional name. Israel for men and Sara for women. In October, the Reich invalidated all passports held by Jews and insisted they must surrender their old passports which would only become valid again after the letter J had been stamped on it. November ordered all Jewish businesses to be closed and in December the Reich cancelled all state contracts held with Jewish firms. I was starting to see the writing on the wall as war approached. Jewish families I’d known all my life were leaving Berlin and the brown shirts were targeting businesses by painting vulgar signs on the windows. Jews could not sit on public benches or go to the park anymore. They were not allowed to ride their bicycles on the streets, and I was scared. I knew I was half Jewish and I had no one to turn to, so I decided to ask my father what could be done. After my last serious conversation with him I was worried he would overreact and so I gritted my teeth and knocked on his office door. “Come in,” came Dad’s voice from behind the thick oak door. “Hi Dad. Could I have a word with you?” I asked. “Sure son. What can I do for you?” he replied. “I’m scared about what I’m reading,” I started. “I’ve noticed that a bunch of my friends from school have disappeared. They are all Jewish and I’ve heard that Herr. Hitler has stopped Jews going to the park and doing normal stuff. I’m scared for Gramps and Nanna if they’ll get in trouble for being Jewish, and I’m worried that Mother could get in trouble as well.” My father sat there at his desk deep in thought before he answered. “Johann, since the last time we talked after I took you to the Nazi rally, I have been doing some homework. I have found out that it appears far worse than we originally thought. Gramps and Nanna because they are documented Jews have made plans to go to Geneva in Switzerland. They will be leaving by train on Sunday and will stay there until they are safe to come home again in a few months. We are all going over to their house on Saturday for a farewell dinner party.” I felt relieved as that had been one of my worries. “Are they allowed to travel out of Germany,” I asked. “Yes, their passports have been stamped and I don’t think they’ll have any problems. We of course will look after their house for them while they’re away on holiday.” “Thanks Dad. That makes me feel much better knowing that they’ll be safe.” I was now sitting down on the opposite side of his desk. He looked across it and smiled at me. “You’re old enough to hear this my boy. I trust you with this information because we’re living in most uncertain times, and I want you to be fully informed. I have wrestled with whether I should tell you, but you’re smart and I think the expression “forewarned is forearmed” applies in this circumstance and so I have decided to tell you how the government intends to manage the situation that our family appears to be in.” He looked up at me and relit his pipe, and then continued. “In 1935 the Nazi Party held their annual rally and called it the Nuremberg Rally. At the rally the Reichstag, which is the German parliament, enacted what became known as The Nuremberg Laws. Part of what they passed was a new law called the Mischling Test that was applied to determine whether a person was a Jew or a Mischling (mixed blood). This law was passed on September 15th, 1935. The 2 laws they enacted that week were the Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor, which forbade marriages between Jews and Germans and a revised law from 1933 called the First Racial Definition. This second law Johann is the one that applies to us. It means that a person is regarded as a racial Jew for the purposes of the law if he or she has one Jewish parent or one Jewish grandparent.”

“Now son, I don’t want you to worry about this because your mother converted to the Christian faith when we were married, much to the disappointment of Gramps and Nanna. But given what the Third Reich has ordered it’ll be far safer for us to live in Berlin for a few months until the war ends. Do you understood what I’ve been saying Johann?” My father leaned back in his chair and took a long puff of his pipe. “Yes, I understand what you’ve told me, but isn’t it important to tell the truth? If we lie, could we get in trouble?” I spluttered. “Telling the truth is important Johann, but in this case this trivial lie will help us all from any harm. Always be proud of your Jewish heritage, son, but at this time unless something changes, we should go about our lives as normally as possible and go to Gramps and Nanna’s house on Saturday to wish them a safe journey.” My father then did something he rarely did. He stood up and walked around his desk and put his arms around me and thanked me. “I’m proud of you Johann for having the courage to come and talk to me about this. I know how hard it must have been for you to do that. I’m proud of you son, and I don’t want you to worry about this.

That Saturday we said goodbye to Nanna and Gramps. They took the train to Geneva and once they were settled in their new apartment, they wrote to us giving us their new address and telling us how much they loved us and missed us. It seemed strange not to see them every Saturday. Meanwhile our life continued much the same. My best friend was still my sister Hannah and while we were both getting a bit old to play Hide and Seek, we still enjoyed reading together and listening to the music we loved. I was spending a lot more time with my Dad helping him fix up his 1920 Mercedes Nurburg 450 K sport roadster. Recently he’d let me help him rebuild the carburetor and so I could learn he had bought me a book at Christmas which I studied voraciously so by the time I rebuilt it I could do it blindfolded. I had found my passion, and I loved learning about old cars. I knew what I wanted to do with my life now. It also brought me closer to my Dad which I loved. It was a twofold win. Back then there were no computers, so everything was done by trial and error. If one made a mistake, it was back to the drawing board, and it was a wonderful way to learn. I had been collecting books on engines for a couple of years now and had become fascinated in the different designs. For instance, the British made high performance engines, but the quality was sometimes imperfect, whereas the Germans were experimenting with a rotary engine which was a new kind of design. The Mercedes Benz in my opinion was one of the most advanced cars in the world. And I could build a carburetor! Joy, life was good.

In September 1939 Germany invaded Poland and World War II officially began. The papers in Berlin announced the news. GERMANY INVADES POLAND. That morning my father decided to miss work and stay at home with us. Around mid-morning my parents called Hannah and me into the sitting room and told us what happened in the early hours of the morning. My father explained that Adolf Hitler spoke to the German people in a radio speech that the invasion had been a defensive action and that he had ordered his forces to defeat Poland so that the German people would gain Lebensraum or living space. I remembered that my Dad had explained what Lebensraum a few weeks was before, and my father looked at me and smiled when I reminded him I could see that he was proud of me for remembering.

“A political ideology,” he continued, so Hannah would understand as well, “is a certain ethical set of beliefs of a social movement such as Nazism that let you know how society would work offering a cultural blueprint for a certain social order,” he went on. Maybe some of the concepts were over my head, but what I understood was that Adolf Hitler was using Lebensraum as an excuse to take over Europe in order to create a master race no matter what the cost. Even at the age of twelve, I knew his plan was diabolical. I knew my parents were good people and they would do everything in their power to protect Hannah and me. I spoke to my father a few days later when we were messing around in the garage, and he explained again in words of one syllable. This time I got the gist. And the gist was that Adolf Hitler intended to create a “Master Race” and that did not include any of us.

Following Adolf Hitler's rise to power in 1933 Lebensraum became an ideological principle of Nazism and gave justification for the territorial expansion into Central and Eastern Europe. The Nazi policy Generalplan Ost ('Master Plan for the East') was based on its tenets. It stipulated that Germany required enough living space necessary for its survival and that most of the native populations of Eastern Europe would be removed including Jews Polish, Czech Russian, and other Slavic nations who were non-Aryan. Suddenly life changed for us in Berlin. Nazis patrolled everywhere. People I’d known all my life disappeared every day. War has a habit of doing that I’m told. Carrying ID cards was an essential part of our life now. Curfews from dusk to dawn became standard and all registered Jews were required to wear the Star of David on their outer clothing at all times. We as a German family were shielded from many of the rules but one day an official looking letter arrived from the Nazi Gestapo HQ demanding that my mother and father show up for a meeting with the SS., I heard my parents discussing it after we’d gone to bed one night. My mother was crying, and it broke my heart to hear her like that.

They showed up on the appointed day while Hannah and I were at school. When we returned home my father was sitting in his office looking extremely serious. We’d both been worried for our parents. We’d heard horror stories about Gestapo tactics and had been concerned how mother would do under duress. And so as we entered my father’s office, we knew our worst fears had been realized. For the first time in our lives my father talked to us like we were adults. “The Gestapo discovered, I don’t know how, that your mother is Jewish and is the daughter of Gramps and Nanna who are registered Jews. Your mother didn’t deny it but explained to her interrogator that 15 years ago she converted to Christianity when she married me. The Gestapo has arrested her and at the moment is in custody at SS Reich Main Security Office on Printz-Albrecht-Strasse. I have hired a lawyer to have her released and the hearing will be later today.” Hannah and I sat dumbfounded. My sister started to cry and I finally found my voice. “Will she have to stay in prison?” I asked. “Our lawyer is a Nazi Party member and a friend, and if anyone can get her out he can. Let’s all have faith okay.” My father answered as calmly as he could. That evening much to our collective joy our mother came home having been successfully “bailed out” by our father’s Nazi Party lawyer.

I found out years later that the Gestapo had tortured my mother and tried to make her denounce her Jewish faith and swear allegiance to Adolf Hitler. This of course was just a ploy so they could arrest our entire family at a later date.

Nevertheless for the next few weeks we lived in the calm belief that we would be left alone until one night around 3.00 am Hitler’s Stormtrooper’s banged on our front door waking all four of us up and proceeded to ransack our beautiful house much to the anger of my Dad who received a severe thrashing from the SS soldiers after he complained about the treatment we were getting while we all watched in horror. After about an hour of standing around in our hallway a senior officer gave the order, and we were marched out to a waiting lorry and were loaded into the back of it and driven to where my mother had been imprisoned several weeks before at the SS Reich Main Security Office on Printz-Albrecht-Strasse. We were put in 2 cells. I shared a cell with my dad and my mum shared a cell with Hannah. This gave me a chance to talk to my Dad and try to understand why the Nazis doubled back on their agreement. This time he had no answers.

We’d heard that Jews were being sent to ghettos all over Europe. I discovered that a ghetto was a part of a city in which Jews were sent to live, typically as a result of legal, pressure. The ghetto was typically walled off so that the Jews were unable to escape and were ordered to live with thousands of other Jews in extremely tight conditions. I talked to Dad, who was a great optimist, who told me to be patient and that this mistake would be cleared up in a few days, so not to worry. But worry I did. It made sense to me that the Nazis had found out that my grandparents were Jews, and our mother was their daughter and thus in their eyes we were Jewish except for my Dad who was Christian but had been arrested for harboring Jews. It made no difference that in fact he was harboring his own family in his own home. The Nazis weren’t known for their subtlety.

About 4 days after we were arrested, we were loaded onto a lorry and driven to the station. There were thousands of people lined up on the platform and we were ordered off the lorry and unceremoniously pushed onto a cattle car where we had to wait for hours until finally the train began to move. We traveled for three days and nights crammed into a tiny cattle car with what seemed like hundreds of people young and old alike. We were given a bowl of soup and some stale bread and were only given buckets to use as bathrooms. It was so tight in there that we had to sleep standing up leaning on one another. When we eventually reached our destination, we had to leave the train and walk down gangplanks until we were standing on the platform where dozens of soldiers with guns and big dogs were yelling at us. We stood on the platform. I was scared. We had arrived at a place called Krakow in southern Poland. The Kraków Ghetto was one of five major metropolitan Jewish Ghettos created by Nazi Germany in the General Government territory during the German occupation of Poland in World War II. It was established for the purpose of exploitation, terror, and persecution of German Jews, as well as the staging area for separating the "able workers" from those who would later be deemed unworthy of life. The Nazis then marched us to the ghetto which became our home for the next 2 years. We were allowed to stay together as a family, and they put us in with 5 other families in a cramped flat overlooking a hastily built wall that separated us from the main city. Most people in the ghetto were Jews. After a few months of intolerable conditions many of the Jewish Elders complained to our captors. Their complaints were heard and one night 200 Jews were taken from their apartments and shot as a lesson for the Elders complaining. From then on no one complained. We lived in Krakow for almost 2 years and then one night we heard the terrifying sound of SS soldiers coming for us to take us to another place.

In the 2 years that I lived in the Kraków ghetto I’d grown up a lot. I was now 13 years old and was starting to become interested in girls. I’d made a few friends there but couldn’t allow myself to get too close for fear that they would disappear. I’d managed to smuggle in a soft cover book on car engine rebuilding and had read it so many times it was now a dog-eared apology for the one my parents had given me a couple of Christmas’ ago. I could now rebuild a car engine like a BMW or a Mercedes in my sleep and couldn’t wait until the war was over to try. I had recently become interested in fighter plane engines like the Messerschmidt and the Spitfire after reading an article about those two planes in a magazine I’d found in the trash. The fact was those engines weren’t so dissimilar to a high-performance car engine. My dear mother was stoic, and clearly felt bad for telling the Nazis everything she had. But the way I figured it; she’d had no choice. She’d been tortured. My father had been in the middle. His only crime was that he had fallen in love with a woman who was Jewish. Hannah was still my best friend, and we would laugh about the wonderful games we used to play together at our house in Berlin. She was 2 years older than me and had chronic asthma. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe and because we had no doctors or medicine to help there were times when we all thought she was about to expire.

I liked one of her friends called Ingrid. She was very tall and had long dark hair that often covered her eyes. Sometimes I would dream about her. My favorite dream was where we were walking along the banks of the river Danube holding hands. It was a moonlit night, and she turned to me and with a sweet smile on her face she leaned over and kissed me. I’m afraid my dream didn’t last long as she and her family were shipped off to a camp just a month after I met her.

In 1941 my father and I were sent to Buchenwald which was a Nazi concentration camp. After being loaded like animals onto a cattle train we traveled for 2 days without food or water until we arrived at Buchenwald. My sister and mother I found out years later were sent to Auschwitz. They were first sent to a camp called Theresienstadt, as Buchenwald originally didn’t take in women. The camp where my mother was finally sent was called Auschwitz which I first thought was just one big concentration camp. In fact there were over 40 camps. The first one was known as Auschwitz I, which was where arriving prisoners who were not to be gassed immediately were sent. The second camp called Auschwitz II-Birkenau was a concentration and death camp built with several gas chambers and the third was called Auschwitz III-Monowitz, a labor camp created to staff a factory for a sub camp which the IG Farben company built so they could have slave labor for their factory’s that manufactured rubber products, chemicals, and many other products. In addition to these main camps there were forty-four subcamps such as Harmense, Budy, Golleschau and Bobrek. These camps and sub-camps became a major site of the Nazis' Final Solution to the Jewish Question.

After Germany started WWII by invading Poland in September Hitler converted Auschwitz I which had been an army barracks into a POW camp. First criminals established the base, but the camp soon got a reputation for sadism, torture and executing prisoners for the most trivial of reasons. The first gassings of Soviet and Polish prisoners took place in block 11 of Auschwitz I around August 1941. First of all my mom and sister were taken to a camp called Theresienstadt which served as a transit camp for German Jews from which the women were deported to killing centers, like Auschwitz. Many years later I learned that Hannah had died in Theresienstadt of typhus which she contracted just 2 months after she arrived. Shortly after Hannah died my mother was transferred to Auschwitz where she managed to survive for two years until 1943 when she was taken with a group of about a hundred women who were shot and buried in a mass grave.

I was 13 years old and was expected to work as hard as a grown man. I would see my father occasionally because we lived in separate barracks. Buchenwald was not specifically a death camp like Auschwitz or Treblinka. It didn’t have any ovens but was one of the oldest camps in the Nazi system. It had been built in 1937 to house communists, and political prisoners but after the war began in 1939 it began accepting German Jews from the ghettos. Buchenwald had a reputation of working prisoners to death, and I saw thousands of Jews starved and beaten to death. I decided that I would survive, if for no other reason than to bear witness to the atrocities I’d seen. When finally we were liberated by the Americans in 1945, I was the only member of my family still alive. My father had died at the hands of a severe beating from a Nazi guard who for no other reason than my father did not lower his eyes when spoken to beat him with his club until he collapsed and died in front of the entire barracks. The anger was palpable amongst his “roommates,” as my father was known to be a sweet humble man who had never met a stranger in his life. I like to remember him as the man who helped me learn to be a good and honorable man who gave me my passion for rebuilding old cars. My years at Buchenwald were a holy living hell. Imagine where you live being stripped of all your neighbors that you’ve greeted each morning for years. Lawyers, artists, poets, dentists, teachers’ mathematicians, scientists, chefs, mail carriers, engineers, doctors’ homemakers, and children all disappeared with no trace. Every one of the 44,000 camps was filled with those people. Folks from all levels of society. Normal people arrested for no reason and brought to this awful place where they were expected to survive amongst their peers in conditions worse than anything imaginable, where they were thrown away like garbage in the dustbin of humanity stripped of their dignity possessions and their livings and then forced to endure years of torture and beatings in living conditions worse than anything you’d never want for your worst enemy. And we were the lucky ones? Those who hadn’t been so lucky had already been sent to the gas chamber.

At Buchenwald there was something known as the death wall, which was an execution area for criminals who had been sentenced to death by the SS. On one occasion a group of 151 accused were stripped naked and led to the wall one by one and shot in the back of the head. An estimated 4500 Polish political prisoners were executed at the wall. In addition a further 10,000 Poles were executed without being registered. SS officer Perry Broad wrote in his diary, "some of these walking skeletons spent months in the stinking cells, where not even animals would be kept, and they could barely stand straight, yet, at the last moment, shouted 'Long live Poland', or 'Long live freedom.”

Day to day living conditions at Buchenwald was chaos mixed with misery. One moment an inmate was cruising along within the bounds of his new norm and the next moment because of a tiny infraction of the rules like forgetting to lower your eyes when a guard walked by you may find yourself being beaten within an inch of your life. Highly regarded Judges, Doctors, Composers or Teachers who just happened to be Jewish were reduced to living like animals. This was my new normal and I intended to survive so I could tell the whole world what these monsters had put us through.

Adolf Hitlers insanity has boomeranged around the world for a one hundred years. When he came to power in 1933, he already had his vision firmly planned. His hatred of Jews stemmed from multiple sources beginning with his belief they were responsible for Germany being defeated in World War I in 1918. In addition to Jews, other groups that were targeted for his hate and victims of his genocide were gypsies, homosexuals, addicts, disabled, political opposition, communists and any critic of his Nazi party.

Adolf Hitler grew up in Vienna and the story goes his grandfather Alois Hiedler was Jewish. Herr. Hiedler deserted his family causing animosity within the family that reportedly began his grandson’s hatred towards the Jews. A more likely reason for his hatred is that he and hundreds of thousands of Germans felt stabbed in the back by the Jews and pinned the blame on them for losing World War I. No matter the reason, the facts remain the same. Adolf Hitler decided to murder a complete race for no reason. The book he wrote in prison in 1925 Mein Kampf describes the process by which Hitler became antisemitic and outlines his vision for what he wanted Germany to become. He used the main thesis of “Jewish peril", which posits a Jewish conspiracy to gain world control. The narrative describes how he became more antisemitic, and military minded especially during his years in Vienna. He speaks of not having met a Jew until he arrived in Vienna, and that at first his attitude was liberal and tolerant. When he first met the antisemitic press, he dismissed it as unworthy of serious consideration.  Later he accepted the same antisemitic views, which became crucial to his program of national reconstruction of Germany.

Mein Kampf has also been studied as a work on political theory. For example, Hitler announces his hatred of what he believed to be the world's two evils: Communism and Judaism.

In the book Hitler blamed Germany's woes on the parliament of the Weimar Republic, the Jews, and Social Democrats, as well as Marxists, though he believed that Marxists, Social Democrats, and the parliament were all working for Jewish interests. He declared that he wanted to completely destroy the parliamentary system, believing it to be corrupt in principle, as those who reached power were inherent opportunists. While historians dispute the exact date Hitler decided to exterminate the Jewish people, few place the decision before the mid-1930s. First published in 1925, Mein Kampf shows Hitler's personal grievances and his ambitions for creating a New Order. Hitler also wrote that The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a collection of forgeries pretending to unmask the nature of the Jewish people, was an authentic document. This later was part of a Nazi propaganda effort to justify persecution and annihilation of the Jews. “If ever a piece of writing could produce mass hatred, it is this one. This book is about lies and slander.” Elie Wiesel, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate.

Ian Kershaw points out that several passages in Mein Kampf are undeniably of a genocidal nature. Hitler wrote "the nationalization of our masses will succeed only when, aside from all the positive struggle for the soul of our people, their international poisoners are exterminated", and he suggested that, "If at the beginning of the war and during the war twelve or fifteen thousand of these Hebrew corrupters of the nation had been subjected to poison gas, such as had to be endured in the field by hundreds of thousands of our very best German workers of all classes and professions, then the sacrifice of millions at the front would not have been in vain."

The racial laws to which Hitler referred resonate directly with his ideas in Mein Kampf. In the first edition, Hitler said that the destruction of the weak and sick is far more humane than their protection. Apart from this allusion to humane treatment, Hitler saw a purpose in destroying "the weak" in order to provide the proper space and purity for the "strong".

This attitude was telegraphed across history and put into effect as he cleared Europe of vagrants, homosexuals, disabled, elderly, gypsies, drug addicts, communists and Jews. By the time Hitler managed to get his teeth into Europe he created 44,000 concentration camps many of them extermination camps with members of his Nazi party willing to do whatever his bidding dictated. Adolf Hitler managed to brain wash an entire nation to do his bidding and those that refused received a similar fate as the 6,000.000 Jews who were killed by his henchmen.

When my father and I arrived at Buchenwald, we were greeted by the same looking Nazi guards with their fierce attack dogs who were strutting up and down the platform barking orders and separating families into different lines. Babies were snatched from their mother’s arms and the old men and women were put back on the train to go to another destination, who knows where?  There were also men in striped pajamas whose job it was to collect the suitcases. I didn’t understand what was happening and felt scared. Before long I was led off with some other people who had been on the train and went to a big building with lots of bunk beds. I was told to find a bed and found a top bunk at the end of the building. My Dad was nowhere to be found and I was worried for him. That night I cried myself to sleep and was woken by what would become a normal part of my everyday routine. It was still dark outside, but everyone was scurrying around like mice and at first, I couldn’t figure out why. Eventually I realized that our food had arrived, and everyone was hurrying to get to it before it was all gone. Everyone was wearing the same uniform as I’d seen the men wearing who were sorting the luggage when we first arrived. I jumped down from my bunk and headed toward the main throng of people and thanks to the kindness of the man doling it out got the last bowl of soup and crust of bread. “You better eat slow boy. That’s the last food they’ll give you until tomorrow morning.” He said and I smiled gratefully to him. “See you tomorrow then,” I said trying to sound light and breezy but actually feeling terrified inside. “Sure thing.” At that moment, the doors to my barracks were flung open and 4 guards with rifles slung over their shoulder walked in and started to shout, “raus, raus,” which in German means, “out out.”  That was the signal for our day to begin. We lined up and were marched out of the main prisoner gate and marched in formation for about an hour until we arrived at a munition factory where we were signed in and then taken to our workstations where we assembled weapons for the third Reich for the next 12 hours. There were a few other boys in my work detail, but I wasn’t able to get near to them to make friends. At 6:00 pm we would all congregate outside the factory and then be marched back to the camp which we would get to by 7:00 pm. This would be my routine for the next 4 years. We worked 7 days a week 12 hours a day plus two hours walking there and back. We had no breaks and ate just once a day at 5:00 am. That first day to say I was tired would be an understatement. I was exhausted and it got no better with every passing day. The wear and tear to my psyche was constant. I watched as the guards would pick on one guy for no reason and beat him to death. I made a deal with myself that I was going to come through this alive if for no other reason than to tell the world what these monsters had done to us. I saw my dad every now and again but because he was in a separate barracks, I never was able to sit and have a conversation with him. Because I found out later that Buchenwald was for men only and had heard that my mother and my sister Hannah had been sent to Theresienstadt a hybrid concentration camp and ghetto established by the SS during World War II in the fortress town Terezín, and then after my sister had died there of typhus, my mother was moved on to Auschwitz. The days passed and turned into weeks and then months. The routine stayed the same. It got to be a game with me to see if I could outwit the dumb German guards who knew one thing only. Cruelty. I was so tired. I was never able to recharge my batteries.

That’s when it came to me. What makes a car run? A battery of course. And how does it stay charged once the engine is running? I’d just learned about that in my book about cars. The alternator! That night I climbed into my bunk, closed my eyes, and forgot all about the terror that met me every single moment of every day at Buchenwald and so in my imagination I stripped the alternator so I could rebuild it and make it brand new. That night for the first time in months I fell asleep and dreamed I was running through a meadow of flowers. Over in the corner of the field my Mum, my Dad and Hannah were sitting on a blanket smiling and having a picnic. It was like a veil had been lifted. That day I thought about what I could rebuild tonight as I drifted off to sleep. One thing I now knew. This was the only way I would survive this nightmare. I walked to work that day with a new purpose and spent all day planning what part of my automobile I would deconstruct, clean up and then rebuild. It became my mission in life. I would spend my waking hours daydreaming about the car I was going to dismantle that night and then I would go over in my mind what every working part of a car there was. Then I’d plan the rebuild. Generally I would only stay awake long enough to remove a part and begin to dismantle it before I fell asleep. Then I would dream of happy things before I was woken from my reverie with a jar. I learned to ration my crust of bread into three meals which helped my exhaustion a lot. I had to drink the broth for breakfast at 5, but I’d stash the bread in my pockets to eat later.  I made friends with a lot of my fellow prisoners, and once the nice man I’d met on my first morning slipped me a piece of dark chocolate that I made last for three days. Other men would try to help me when I was having a bad day, but even though I was just a boy I was expected to behave and work as hard as an adult. As I became better at my daydreaming, I organized them into leagues. The premier league was all the cars I really loved, like BMWs and Mercedes Benz’s. The second tier were cars like Volkswagen, Volvo, and Skoda and the third tier was the old Junkers that needed immense work done to them which if done properly might elevate any of them up a class. It all took a lot of planning on my journeys back and forth to the factory. Unfortunately, there was little time to plan during the 12 hours I was at the factory. If I lost concentration my work would suffer, and I would make a mistake. Mistakes were not tolerated. If a worker made a mistake and it was discovered the punishment was death and we all knew that. So I found the best way to plan my nighttime schedule was walking back to the camp. When we got there, I went straight to my bunk and lay down. Morning would always come too soon and so for the first hour or two I thought about the cars I had seen that I had fallen in love with. The Duesenberg was a great full-sized car, elegant and sophisticated. A car that I’d love to strip down. Also the MG sports car that I’d been reading about the night we were arrested. The one I had been reading about was an MG PB 1931 sports model with a six-cylinder engine. I had undressed that car a dozen times since I’d been at Buchenwald. I must stop thinking like that or people might talk. As I lay there, I laughed to myself at how silly I was behaving. After thinking about my favorite cars I would then think about one kind of engine and would decide to strip it down. The process never failed. After eating my last crust of bread I’d drift deep into my imagination and would invariably fall into a deep sleep and dream about my family back in Berlin in happier times. Generally if I timed it right, I could sleep through the night, and then at 5.00 am my nightmare would begin again.

Some Jews and non-Jewish Poles were assigned positions of authority as functionaries, which gave them access to better housing and food. The camp elite included barracks clerk, a Kapo overseer, a barracks orderly, and several trusties. Wielding huge power over other prisoners, the kapos developed a reputation as sadists.  Very few were prosecuted after the war, because of the difficulty in determining which atrocities had been performed by order of the SS or had been conducted because of their own sadistic tendencies.

Although the SS conducted much of the cruelty, a lot of the work was done by a group known as the Sonderkommandos (special squad).  These were mostly Jews but they included groups such as Soviet POWs. They removed goods and corpses from the incoming trains and led inmates to their barracks.

Because the Sonderkommandos were witnesses to the random killing that went on at Buchenwald they lived separately from the other prisoners, although this rule was not applied to the non-Jews among them. Their quality of life was further improved by their access to the property of new arrivals, which they traded within the camp, including with the SS. Nevertheless, their life expectancy was short; they were regularly killed and replaced. About one hundred survived to the camp's liberation. They were forced on a death march and by train to a nearby sub camp where three days later they were asked to step forward during roll call. No one did, and because the SS did not have their records, several of them survived.

Inmates and prisoners were tattooed with a serial number, on their left breast for Soviet prisoners of war and on the left arm for civilians. Categories of prisoner were distinguishable by triangular pieces of cloth sewn onto on their jackets below their prisoner number. Political prisoners, mostly Poles, had a red triangle, while mostly German criminals wore green. Asocial prisoners, which included vagrants, prostitutes, and Romani gypsies, wore black. Purple was for Jehovah's Witnesses and pink for gay men, who were mostly German. An estimated 5,000–15,000 gay men prosecuted under German Penal Code Section 175 (proscribing sexual acts between men) were detained in concentration camps, of whom an unknown number were sent to Buchenwald. Jews wore a yellow badge, the shape of the Star of David, overlaid by a second triangle if they also belonged to a second category. The nationality of the inmate was indicated by a letter stitched onto the cloth. A racial hierarchy existed, with German prisoners at the top. Next were non-Jewish prisoners from other countries. Jewish prisoners were at the bottom. Deportees were brought to Buchenwald crammed in wretched conditions into goods or cattle wagons, arriving at ramps near the railway station.

The day began at 4:30 am for us when the block supervisor sounded a gong and started beating inmates with sticks to make them wash and use the latrines quickly. Sanitary arrangements were atrocious, with very few toilets and a complete lack of clean water. Each bathhouse had to service thousands of prisoners. In my block two buildings containing toilets and sinks were installed in 1943. These contained troughs for washing and 90 faucets; the toilet facilities were "sewage channels" covered by concrete with 58 holes for seating. There were three barracks with washing facilities or toilets to serve all the barracks.

Prisoners received half a liter of coffee substitute or a herbal tea in the morning, with a small crust of bread and a bowl of foul looking liquid that passed as soup. This had to last us for the next 24 hours. A second gong heralded roll call, when inmates lined up outside in rows of ten to be counted. No matter the weather, we had to wait for the SS to arrive for the count; how long we stood there depended on the officers' mood, and if there’d been escapes or other events attracting punishment. Guards might force the inmates to squat for an hour with our hands above our heads or hand out beatings or detention for infractions such as having a missing button or an improperly cleaned food bowl. The inmates were counted and re-counted. After roll call, we walked to our place of work, five abreast, to begin a working day that was 12 hours long, longer in summer and shorter in the winter.  A prison orchestra was forced to play cheerful music as we left the camp. Kapos were responsible for our behavior while we worked, as was an SS escort. In my case I was chosen to work in a nearby factory but much of the work took place outdoors at construction sites, gravel pits, and lumber yards. No rest periods were allowed. One prisoner was assigned to the latrines to measure the time the workers took to empty their bladders and bowels.

A second roll call took place at seven in the evening, in the course of which prisoners might be hanged or flogged. If a prisoner was missing, the others had to remain standing until the absentee was found or the reason for the absence discovered, even if it took hours. Jews were not allowed to receive mail. Curfew was marked by a gong at nine o'clock.  Inmates slept in long rows of brick or wooden bunks, or on the floor, lying in and on their clothes and shoes to prevent them from being stolen. The wooden bunks had blankets and paper mattresses filled with wood shavings; in the brick barracks, inmates lay on straw. 

Sunday was not a workday, but prisoners had to clean the barracks and take their weekly shower and were allowed to write (in German) to their families, although the SS censored the mail. Inmates who did not speak German would trade bread for help. Alert Jews tried to keep track of the Hebrew calendar and Jewish holidays, including Shabbat, and the weekly Torah portion. No watches, calendars, or clocks were permitted in the camp. Only two Jewish calendars made in Buchenwald survived to the end of the war. Prisoners kept track of the days in other ways, like obtaining information from newcomers.

I managed to survive Buchenwald for 4 years until finally on April 11th, 1945, the US army liberated us. We’d heard rumors a week earlier that the Americans had liberated one of Buchenwald’s subcamps called Ohrdruf and our captors had evacuated many of the prisoners to Buchenwald and forced them to burn incriminating evidence and so we knew something was about to happen. 28000 prisoners had recently been evacuated been shot or forced to go on a death march. When the US army finally arrived at Buchenwald there were just 21,000 of us left as most of the SS guards had fled the moment news got through, we were about to be liberated. I remember exactly where I was at the precise moment the US stormed the gates. On April 9th, 1945, I saw the guards who always walked us to the factory leave by the main gates along with dozens of other guards. I was standing at the window of my barracks wondering if this could be the moment, we had been longing for but was frozen by fear that they would come back at any time and continue their killing. Over the past few weeks prisoners had been mysteriously disappearing at the rate of hundreds a day. We weren’t sure if they were evacuated or killed, but you have no idea the relief we felt when the Americans rolled into the camp. That first night in the refugee camp sleeping on a cot with a mattress for the first time in four years was a feeling I’ll never forget. The Americans had been good to us and fed us well and I felt as if I was a liberated swallow after a lifetime of captivity. I’d been 12 when I arrived at Buchenwald and now, I was 16 going on 30. In many ways I was an old man. The guards had never made any allowance for the fact I was a child. They expected me to work as hard as every other man there and if I couldn’t they’d shoot me. It took me months to assimilate after my release, and the only thing that seemed to help was my imagination that let me build, deconstruct, and rebuild any car of my choosing. And of course, to carry out my promise never to stop looking for the Germans who were put in charge of the 44,000 camps where millions of Jews were killed, imprisoned, tortured, and degraded. One of the first things I did when I became a U.S. citizen in 1946 was change my name from Johann Harrimann to John Harriman.

Thanks to the people who tracked down the war criminals and for their dedication in hunting down Nazis who had blood on their hands who in the chaos of post war Germany managed to escape justice and flee to Argentina Brazil and the U.S. These brave people many of them survivors themselves never stopped looking for the Nazis and managed to capture Adolf Eichmann, Dr. Mengele and dozens of others and bring them to justice for their crimes.

Simon Wiesenthal was a Holocaust survivor, Nazi hunter, and writer. He studied architecture and was living in Lwów at the start of World War II. He survived the Janowska concentration camp from 1941 to September 1944, Płaszów concentration camp from September to October 1944, the Gross-Rosen camp, a death march to Chelmno, Buchenwald, and the Mauthausen camp in 1945. After the war, Wiesenthal dedicated his life to tracking down and gathering information on fugitive Nazi war criminals so that they could be brought to trial. In 1947, he co-founded the Jewish Historical Documentation Center in Linz, Austria, where he and others gathered information for future war crime trials and aided refugees in their search for lost relatives. He opened the Centre of the Association of Jewish Victims of the Nazi regime in Vienna in 1961 and continued to try to locate missing Nazi war criminals. He played a small role in locating Adolf Eichmann, who was captured in Buenos Aires in 1960, and collaborated closely with the Austrian justice ministry to prepare a dossier on Franz Stangl, who was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1971.

Tuviah Friedman: Tuviah Friedman (23 January 1922 – 13 January 2011) was a Nazi hunter and director of the Institute for the Documentation of Nazi War Crimes in Haifa, Israel. Friedman was born in Radom, Poland, in 1922. During World War II he was imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp near Radom, from which he escaped in 1944. The following year he was made an interrogation officer in Gdańsk jail. From 1946 to 1952 he worked for Haganah Wien in Austria, as Director of Staff of the Documentation Center in Vienna, where he and his colleagues hunted down numerous Nazis.  Afterwards, in Israel, he played a role in the capture of Adolf Eichmann

Beate Auguste Klarsfeld is a Franco-German journalist who, along with her French husband Serge, became famous for their investigation and documentation of numerous Nazi war criminals, including Kurt Lischka, Alois Brunner, Klaus Barbie, Ernst Ehlers Kurt Asche, amongst others.

Ian Sayer: Ian K. T. Sayer is a British entrepreneur, World War II historian author and investigative journalist. His Sayer Transport Group became part of the British and European overnight door to door express parcels delivery industry. He is a World War II historian and studies Nazi documentation. He is author of Nazi Gold; The Story of the World’s Greatest Robbery remains the only private individual to have been responsible for the location and restitution of Nazi gold. That claim remains unchallenged. As a Nazi hunter, he has also tracked down a number of Nazi war criminals, including SS General Wilhelm Mohnke whose wartime activities were investigated by the UK, German, Canadian and American governments. He currently acts as the curator to the "Ian Sayer Archive", a collection of World War II documentation, which assists in providing information to institutions, historians, authors, and researchers of the period.

Yaron Svoray: Yaron Svoray an Israeli former police detective, author, and lecturer, most notable for his work against Neo-Nazis. Svoray infiltrated Neo-Nazi groups and contributed to the arrest of Nazi war criminal Erich Priebke and has also been active in searching for treasure looted by the Nazis.

Elliot Welles: Elliot Welles (birth name Kurt Sauerquell; 18 Sept.1927 – 28 Nov 2006) was a Holocaust survivor who for more than two decades until his retirement in 2003, directed the B'nai B'rith Anti-Defamation League's task force on Nazi war criminals. Welles was a survivor of both the Riga Ghetto and the Stutthof camp in German occupied Poland. Welles is known in particular for his work on the case of Boļeslavs Maikovskis, who’d been charged with ordering the arrests that led to the mass execution of 200 Latvian villagers during the war. A native of Latvia, Maikovskis was sentenced to death in absentia by a Soviet court in 1965. He continued to live quietly in Mineola, New York, where he had settled after the war, before fleeing to Germany in 1987. Because of Welles' tireless work on this case, Maikovskis (then 86) was put on trial in Germany in 1990. The trial was suspended in 1994 because of Maikovskis' failing health. Maikovskis died two years later. Another well-known case that Welles assisted with was of Josef Schwammberger, a Nazi labor camp commander, who he helped extradite from Argentina where he had been living for at least 40 years

Efraim Zurof: Efraim Zuroff (born August 5, 1948) is an American-born Israeli historian and Nazi hunter who has played a key role in bringing indicted Nazi and fascist war criminals to trial. Zuroff, the director of the Simon Wiesenthal Center office in Jerusalem, is the coordinator of Nazi war crimes research worldwide for the Wiesenthal Center and the author of its annual "Status Report" on the worldwide investigation and prosecution of Nazi war criminals which includes a list of "most wanted" Nazi war criminals.

Elie Wiesel: Elie Wiesel was a Romanian-born American writer, professor, political activist Nobel laureate, and Holocaust survivor. He authored 57 books, written mostly in French and English, including Night, a work based on his experiences as a Jewish prisoner in Auschwitz and Buchenwald concentration camps.

CHAPTER 19

The First Lady

Ron Classon was explaining how Russia chooses a target to become a foreign asset to his buddy Stephen Landrieu, Molly's husband and the Secret Service agent to the First Lady. “This person can be developed over a period of time before the approach is made or it could be made "cold". Background research is conducted on potential agents to identify ties to other foreign intelligence agencies or in the case of Yves White she was young, idealistic and American which was the trifecta for any member of Russian intelligence. And so when she began dating some unintelligent douche bag the SVR could not believe their luck. What I can’t figure out yet is how Igor and Yves communicate with each other. Suffice it to say I’m working on that.” Ron paused to take a sip of coffee. “Jesus Ron, what you’ve found out is nothing short of miraculous. We are going to have to be incredibly careful from here on out. If anyone finds out that the First Lady is a traitor and possibly the President as well, the DOJ will be all over us like a wet blanket. We must not say a word to anyone.” Stephen said as he looked around the diner to make sure that no one was listening. “What do you think our next strategy should be Ron?” Stephen asked his friend. “I’m going to keep my eyes and ears open and see if Igor slips up again. He’s done it once. Let’s see if he’ll do it again.” Ron had been busy since Stephen had traveled to the G20 in Geneva and had broken the encryption on the First Lady’s phone. “The phone call in question that she received was from a burner phone and so it might not have been any use to us except for the fact that there is an ID on every burner phone, and while I cannot be sure that Igor Subkov was the caller the phone was purchased from a 7/11 store just seven blocks from the Russian Embassy. I went to that 7/11 and bribed the manager to let me look at his CCTV tapes and after 4 hours of looking Subkov appeared and was seen buying a dozen burner phones. I have a copy of the tape for the future if we need it.

 In the meantime, let’s try to find out if Guryev has anything on the President. I’d be willing to bet it is of a sexual nature.” Ron then looked at his watch and stood up. “Good to see you Stephen and I’ll let you know if I find anything else out.” And with that they both plonked down a couple of bucks on the table and headed to their cars.

 Yves White was raised by God fearing parents in Flame Iowa. Her father worked for the DMV as a counter clerk. It was his job to welcome residents who had applied for a driver’s license. He made sure they filled out the forms and took the eye exam if they were just renewing their license but if they were applying for a new license his job was to give them a written test as well and then once that was passed, he would turn them over to the driving instructor so they could take the driving test. In the main it was a no stress job, but Yves’ father had a bad temper and if he’d had a rough day would take it out on Yves mother who was the sweetest woman in the world. When Yves was 15, she went to her mother and told her to leave her husband. Yves mom was a timid woman who was terrified of his violence toward her and finally one day told Yves they were leaving and going to stay in a woman’s shelter one town over. Yves had her best friend Gail drive them both over to the shelter who welcomed them with open arms. When her dad got home that night, he found them gone and went over to his neighbor’s house who told him he’d seen Mr. White’s wife and daughter getting into Gail’s car that afternoon. He drove to Gail’s parents’ home and scared young Gail into telling him where she had driven them. Two hours later Mr. White had picked up his wife and daughter after creating holy hell at the shelter and driven them home and locked both of them in the basement. After a few days Yves’ mother was allowed to resume her wifely duties. Yves on the other hand was put on restriction and not allowed to go out with her friends. He blamed her for being a bad influence. Two months later Yves arrived home from school to find her mom beaten to death in the living room. White tried to tell investigators there had been a break-in and his wife must have disturbed them in the course of their robbery. That suggestion held water for less than 5 minutes as the DMV told police that Rob White had called in sick that day. White was subsequently arrested and charged with second degree murder and after a short jury trial was sentenced to 25 years in prison. Yves White a beautiful young girl of seventeen moved to Chicago where she hustled a living for a few years and then met an older wealthy man who promised to educate her in exchange for sexual favors. When Yves was 20 the man went to live in Paris and asked her to come along. She agreed but told him she would only go if he rented her an apartment and helped her enroll at The Sorbonne. The old man was so besotted with her that he agreed to her requests, and before she knew it Yves was enrolled at the Sorbonne and was living in a charming left bank flat off the Rue St. Germaine where the man would visit once a week and then return to his large house and mousy but very wealthy wife.

Yves first met Igor at a University rally. Students at the Sorbonne were encouraged to be anarchists, and that day were demonstrating anti-American capitalism. Yves stood out in the crowd because of her beauty but Igor had already targeted her as a possible Russian asset. He was in fact already an intelligence agent for the SVR and his job was to reel her in as smoothly as possible. Because of her past she was ripe for the plucking, and it took Igor less than three weeks to get a commitment from her. By the time she’d enrolled at Moscow State University she was already in his pocket. Igor fed her the party line. Sitting in a café near Red Square in Moscow Yves was drinking coffee with Igor and a man she’d recently met named Stanislav Petrov who was part of Guryev’s inner circle. “There is an American who could be useful to the cause. I need you to get close to him. He is a weak man who has been trying to do business with us for many years now. So far, we have thrown him a few bones but that is all.” Petrov was speaking directly to Yves White during her years exchange from the Sorbonne to Moscow State University. “Do you think you can handle that?” Yves nodded her head while taking a sip of coffee then blurted out, “Yes, I’d be honored sir.

CHAPTER 20

ESCAPE FROM DARKNESS

He awoke in darkness. At first his mind couldn’t take it in. He had no idea where he was. Now he was fully awake and was using his hands to feel around. As far as he could figure he was lying in a wooden box. It was pitch black. He continued to feel around and finally realized he was lying in a coffin. It appeared to measure about 3 feet wide by 6 feet long. Suddenly as he was feeling around his new living space, he touched several objects lying alongside the right side of his body. The first thing he picked up was a box of matches. It was full. He was unable to sit up as the headroom was extremely low and so in a lying position, he struck one of the matches. He wasted a few of them getting used to the blinding light it gave out but finally he was able to determine his new geography. The two other things that had been left along with the box of matches was a loaf of stale bread and some watery soup that when he sipped it tasted like old feet. After a moment more he noticed a plastic pipe above his head. He could feel air coming in which suggested to him that he was buried underground and that this 1-inch plastic pipe was all that stood between him and death. He had no idea how long he had been down there. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the food ration was the same one that Jews had received as their daily rations in the camps. He knew that at some point his captors would replenish his provisions. That was when he would strike.

Moe Berger and John Turley flew into O’Hare airport from Washington. They were staying at the Marriott hotel in downtown Chicago where they were meeting Sophia Engelmann for dinner. She had flown in from Florida. As all three had been survivors they never took any meal for granted. Each of them had known starvation during the four years of captivity they had endured and remembered their diet of filthy soup and stale bread like it was yesterday.

He eked out his food for as long as he could. He slept most of the time. When he awoke, he could hear dogs barking and it reminded him of his time in Mauthausen. They’d removed his wristwatch so he couldn’t see what time it was. He knew to ration his food and when it ran out, he began to panic. He fell into an exhausted sleep and when he woke up not only could he hear dogs barking but he could also hear people screaming. He had heard screaming like that before when he had sent the Jews to take a shower. Being confined in his tomb it suddenly terrified him whereas before at Auschwitz it had brought him great pleasure hearing Jews die.

The three Samaritans rented a car the next morning and drove over to the address that the old man who called in the tip had given them. They knocked on his door and after a while the old man answered it and invited them in. He was a man of about 77 years who had lived in the building for decades. The apartment had a nice homey feel to it and Mr. Wilson had his main chair positioned in front of the window so he could see every one coming and going. He told them that he was a widow and that his wife had been dead ten years now. After the ‘necessaries’ were dispensed with the tools turned to Damian Sullivan. Mr. Wilson told them that he couldn’t believe it when he opened up his newspaper and staring back at him was his next-door neighbor. Damian had changed his hair and had put on some pounds, but it was definitely the man in the poster. Moe, John, and Sophia asked if Sullivan was at home now and Mr. Wilson told them he hadn’t seen him for some time now but that wasn’t unusual as he had a lady friend that he spends a lot of time with. Mr. Wilson then made an offer that the three could not refuse. He told them that he was the unofficial superintendent of the building and collected rents and did odd jobs when needed and had a key to Sullivan’s apartment. Would they like to have a look around? Mr. Wilson produced a key and gave it to Sophia who he’d taken a shine to, and the 3 of them went in and looked around. They came away with extraordinarily little as he was clearly living a most Spartan life and returned the key to Mr. Wilson who very kindly had dug out Damian’s girlfriend’s name and address. They took their leave giving their hotel phone number and Mr. Wilson promised to ring them when Sullivan returned.

Sophia Engelmann had worked for Simon Wiesenthal for years tracking down Nazi war criminals. She had proven herself to be invaluable in catching Nazis who had avoided capture after World War II.  Simon Wiesenthal KBE was a Jewish Austrian Holocaust survivor, Nazi hunter, and writer. He studied architecture and was living in Lwów at the outbreak of World War II. He survived the Janowska concentration camp, the Kraków-Płaszów concentration camp, the Gross-Rosen concentration camp, a death march to Chemnitz, Buchenwald, and the Mauthausen-Gusen death camp. After the war, Wiesenthal dedicated his life to tracking down and gathering information on fugitive Nazi war criminals so that they could be brought to trial. In 1947, he co-founded the Jewish Historical Documentation Centre in Linz, Austria, where he and others gathered information for future war crime trials and aided refugees in their search for lost relatives. He opened the Jewish Historical Documentation Centre in Vienna in 1961 continuing to locate missing Nazi war criminals. He played a small role in locating Adolf Eichmann, who was captured in Buenos Aires in 1960, and collaborated closely with the Austrian justice ministry to prepare a dossier on Franz Stangl, who was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1971. Sophia never met Wiesenthal but had been recruited by Esau Metzler the lawyer who had befriended John Harriman in New York when John was a maintenance man at Esau’s building. It turned out that Esau Metzler and John Harriman had both been prisoners at Buchenwald concentration camp in Poland during World War II.

Captain John Barnes aka Fat John was one of the troops who in April 1945 helped to liberate Buchenwald from the Nazis. He was part of the US 6th Armored Division that along with the US 89th Infantry Division and the 4th Armored Division overran Ohrdruf a subcamp of Buchenwald and liberated 10,000 inmates. One soldier from the 4th Armored Division said, "We walked into a shed and the bodies were piled up like wood. There are no words to describe it." As American forces closed in on Buchenwald, Gestapo headquarters at Weimar telephoned the camp administration to announce that it was sending explosives to blow up any evidence of the camp, including its inmates. The Gestapo did not know that the administrators had already fled. A prisoner answered the phone and informed the headquarters that explosives would not be needed, as the camp had already been blown up, which was not true. A detachment of troops from the 6th Armored Division, and under the command of Captain John Barnes, arrived at Buchenwald on April 11, 1945, at 3:15 p.m. (now the permanent time of the clock at the entrance gate). The soldiers were given a hero's welcome, with the emaciated survivors finding the strength to toss some liberators into the air in celebration. The liberation had a profound effect on John Barnes. Until that point, he had been fighting Nazis and obeying orders. He’d heard rumors that Jews were being exterminated in faraway concentration camps but until he walked into Buchenwald, he had no idea what these poor people had suffered through. After the war ended, he came back to Chicago and picked up where he’d left off. By day he was the manager of a hardware store and on weekends he did what he loved most and rode Harley Davidson motor bikes. He was part of a group who’d meet most nights after work at Frank’s, the bikers’ bar and chat casually, tell lies and have a good laugh. From what he’d witnessed, he’d seen enough misery. But now his friend was in need, and he wanted to help her.

They camped outside his apartment and watched until he left for work. As he walked by their van Mikey D 300 lbs. of sheer muscle grabbed him by the neck and quick as a flash threw him in the side door where Bear was waiting with a syringe which he injected into Mueller’s neck. The van then drove to Fat John’s farm where they pulled into a large barn where an empty coffin was waiting patiently. Near the coffin was a sound system with large speakers. The unconscious Nazi was lifted from the van and placed in the coffin with a box of matches, and enough food and water for a day or two. The three men then nailed the coffin lid on which had a small hatch to give him food in the future and a 1-inch pipe to administer air. Fat John, Mikey D and Bear left the barn and headed for work.

Fat John had grown up on the farm where he now lived and inherited the 20-acre holding when his parents died a few years earlier. John was a bachelor and had never married. He loved his free styling lifestyle too much to mess it up with his wife and kids. After what he had seen in the war, he didn’t want to be responsible for bringing kids into such a fucked-up world. In preparing to help his friend Amy Gordon he wanted to give the impression to his prisoner that he had been buried in a grave and that mounds of dirt were above his head and the 1-inch air pipe was all that stood between him and suffocation. The diet he had arranged for Heinrich Mueller was identical to the one that all the Jews had been fed in the camps that he worked in. Fat John had earned his nickname a few years after he got home from the war. He picked up with his friends who had all made it through the war, and John developed a taste for ribs and beer. It didn’t take long for the pounds to show on his frame and one day at Frank’s his friends noticed the extra pounds. In a way it was a badge of honor for John after what he’d witnessed and so the name stuck. Shortly after Amy asked for help, he produced the idea of kidnapping Mueller and then scamming him into believing he had been buried alive. He owned a backhoe and attached the coffin using straps so he could lift the coffin up by six feet and give the impression that the coffin was being raised out of a grave. He recorded the sound of someone shoveling dirt onto a cassette giving the impression that someone was digging Mueller out of his grave and once the cassette ended, he’d lift the coffin up with the backhoe. This was all done for effect and designed to scare the guy. Also he recorded a cassette of barking angry dogs, and one of the people screaming in terror. The object of all this subterfuge was to emulate the fear that Heinrich Mueller instilled in thousands of Jews during his tenure at a number of concentration camps. Once the coffin had been lifted into the air, always at night and in the pitch-dark Fat John could open the hatch of the coffin lid and slip some food in for the prisoner.

Heinrich Mueller was many things, but stupid was not one of them. The first couple of times he was lifted in the air it was convincing and when the food appeared through the hatch something didn’t seem right. As he was lowered back into the grave and then heard dirt being shoveled on top of him, he never felt the vibration of the earth hitting to lid of the coffin. As the tape of the screaming started up again and the dogs began to bark, he used his legs to kick at the lid of the coffin. He figured if dirt was on top of him then the sound would be a dull thud but as he knocked it sounded almost hollow. It took him hours but finally he felt the coffin lid begin to give. The thought that he might see freedom again gave him strength and he continued to kick. Suddenly the lid started to give and within moments he had managed to free himself from his prison. Sitting up he looked around and it was daylight. He wasn’t in a grave at all but in a large barn with a backhoe attached to the coffin with straps attached so it could be hoisted up and down at will. It was all an elaborate scam. He couldn’t figure out who had done it to him but it really didn’t matter. The reality was that once again he had been found out and once again it was time for him to move on and hide like the rat he is.

Mr. Winter’s sitting at his window had seen the whole thing. When he saw a man grab his neighbor and toss him into a grey van, he took note of the license plate and wrote it down. Clearly someone else had seen the newspaper report too. Frankly, good riddance. Mr. Winter placed a call to Agent Moe Berger at the Marriott and left a message. Moe called him back after they returned from talking to Amy Gordon Damian’s girlfriend. “What can I do for you Mr. Winter?” he asked. The old man wanted to talk about the weather, but Moe was tired and wanted to end his day with a drink at the bar downstairs. He interrupted Mr. Winter’s diatribe telling him that he only had a minute to talk and so Mr. Winter told him he had seen Heinrich Mueller abducted earlier that day. All of a sudden Moe wasn’t tired anymore. He asked Sophia to get on the extension phone so they could both listen and then they listened to Winter’s telling of the kidnapping. After Winter finished Sophia thanked the old man for his patriotism and got the license plate number, promising to be in touch.

“I first met Damian at my church just a block away from here,” Amy Gordon began. She was talking to Sophia Engelmann, Moe Berger and John Turley who had been patiently sitting outside her apartment waiting for her to return from work. Amy was an ER nurse at Chicago Memorial and was clearly unwilling to talk to the trio who knocked on her door just moments after she returned home. It took a lot of coaxing. No one likes to be made a fool of and Amy felt that this man had conned his way into her heart. Not only that but she’d been dating the man for almost two years now. They had talked about getting engaged and now she felt like a fool. It took Sophia’s wit and charm to convince her to talk to them. Only after Amy learned from Sophia that all three of them were locked up in the camps that he worked at and survived 4 years of his torture and abuse. When she heard that she broke down and started to cry. He is a monster, she wailed. And that is when she told them about her biker friends and how they had agreed to help her. She didn’t know what they intended but she knew what they were capable of. The intrepid trio thanked her sincerely as they left to go home to the Marriott after a busy and frustrating day. That was when Moe received the call from Mr. Winter’s and subsequently learned that Heinrich Mueller had been abducted that morning outside his apartment and that Mr. Winter witnessed the whole kidnapping and had also managed to get the license plate number of the van driven by the abductors. As they put all the pieces of the puzzle together the trio bet that when they ran the plate number it would belong to one of Amy Gordon’s biker friends. They were right.

Mueller was in the fight of his life. He had escaped from his tomb and was now peering out of the barn and looking at an unfamiliar landscape. He could be anywhere. His best chance of survival would be to get back to his apartment where his escape kit was stashed. In it he had new identities, money and drivers’ licenses. He couldn’t contact Amy as she was probably the person who’d had him abducted. Mr. Wilson was a nosy old bugger who lived in his building but could not be trusted. He found an old pair of overalls hanging in the barn so decided to change into them then walked to the road to look for help. He didn’t have to wait long. An old pickup truck approached him, and he put out his thumb. The man stopped and asked Mueller where he was heading. “Chicago,” he replied. The man shook his head and told him that’s in the other direction. I’m heading the other way. He then asked him how far is Chicago? The man replied, “about 10 miles I guess.” Mueller thanked him and the man drove away. Mueller then crossed the street and put his thumb out again. He waited about 30 minutes until finally an old couple in a Buick stopped and offered him a lift. He jumped in the back seat and listened to their inane chatter until finally he recognized where he was. He thanked them and then walked a few blocks to the backside of his apartment building. He found a grassy knoll and waited and watched until he was absolutely certain no one was casing his place and then walked over to Mr. Wilson’s door and knocked. As soon as he answered quick as a flash, he pushed his way in and grabbed Wilson by the throat and told him not to make a sound. When Wilson realized the gravity of the situation Mueller sat him down in his chair and then walked over to the phone and ripped it out of the socket. Mueller asked him if he had any rope, and he nodded his head and told him where to find it. Having trussed him up and gagged him so he wouldn’t be able to yell for help, Mueller asked for the key to his apartment next door. Wilson signaled that it was in the dish by the door and so Mueller grabbed it as he left and opened up his apartment.

He’d created a hiding place that no one would ever find. It was behind the fridge and hidden in a cavity between the wall studs that had been recently sheet rocked over. It took Heinrich Mueller less than 5 minutes to reveal his hiding place. He gave a big sigh of relief as he retrieved his stash and took it with him as he went to his bedroom to change and pack a small case. 15 minutes later having showered and changed, he returned to Mr. Wilson’s apartment and returned the key. He’d considered killing him but decided against it as he didn’t want the extra trouble and so he told him he’d remove the mask on the condition that he didn’t yell, and he’d call someone to free him when he was out of the area. 30 minutes after he had knocked on Mr. Wilson’s door, he was walking to the bus station where he got on the first bus heading west. An hour and a half later John Swansea arrived in Rockford IL and stopped in at Brady’s Used Autos where he purchased a 1967 Mustang hardtop with a 390 V8 engine. An hour later John Swansea was heading west on interstate 88 to Iowa City Iowa. He stopped by the side of the road at 3 pm and made a call from a phone box to 911 and told them that Mr. Winter was tied up in apartment number 3 879 Dufresne Avenue in Chicago and needed help. When the operator asked him what his name was, he hung up.

That night he booked into Howard Johnson’s Inn and for the first time in months felt free as a bird. He woke up early and decided to start driving right away and so as he checked out, he grabbed a cup of coffee at the front desk. “Thank you for staying with us at Howard Johnson’s Mr. Swansea. We look forward to seeing you again real soon.” And the girl smiled an insincere smile. That day John Swansea drove 742 miles until he arrived in Cheyenne Wyoming where he booked into the Howard Johnson’s Inn. Mueller was nothing if wasn’t consistent. He liked to do everything the same and the fact that he always stayed at the Howard Johnson Inn was comforting to him. He’d meant to buy another Volvo but Brady’s Auto didn’t have one in stock, so he had to settle for a car that was not his favorite, yet it had enormous muscle.

Moe Berger, John Turley, John Harriman, Ismael Gerstein, and Cynthia Hawkins (Sophia Engelmann) and Bill Rein were long time operatives of the Nazi Hunter division of 24 B. My Uncle John and Bill Rein had first met when Uncle John was doing maintenance at Esau Metzler's apartment building in New York when he first arrived in the United States. 

CHAPTER 21

Esau Metzler

Esau Metzler was a German Jew, the son of a prominent family from Berlin. Both his parents were doctors. He grew up going to the finest schools and in 1935 graduated from Humboldt Universität zu Berlin, abbreviated HU Berlin, with a degree in law. HU Berlin also has a medical school where Esau’s parents had attended. When Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in 1933 his racial cleansing began to bubble to the surface soon after his appointment. Initially German Jews part of the fabric of German society were not shunned but over time Hitler’s policies became stricter with many of the basic rights of citizens being removed. Initially in order to help create his master race Hitler arrested Germans who served no useful purpose to the Third Reich. (Nazi Germany was also known as the Third Reich, which alluded to the Nazis’ perception that Germany was the successor of the Holy Roman and German empires.) The Aryan Master Race was conceived by the Nazis who graded humans from pure Aryans to non-Aryans (who were considered to be Untermensch or subhuman). At the top of the scale of pure Aryans were Germans and other Germanic peoples, including the Dutch, Scandinavians, and the English. Latins were thought to be somewhat inferior but were tolerated, and Italians and French were thought to have a suitable mixture of Germanic blood. The subhuman races included Gypsies, Jews, Slavs, Poles, Russians, mentally retarded Germans, and Germans with debilitating physical deformities. In ’39 Hitler signed a euthanasia decree giving permission to certain physicians to carry out mercy deaths to patients who’d been deemed incurably sick. On 1 September 1939, Adolf Hitler’s Doctor Karl Brandt and Reichsleiter (the second highest political rank of the Nazi Party) Philipp Bouhler implemented a program and named it Aktion T4.

Aktion T4 was named as a contraction of Tiergartenstrasse 4, the street address of the branch set up by the Nazi party to manage the new program in early 1940, in the borough of Tiergarten, which hired personnel associated with T4 the Nazi euthanasia program, to kill terminal, physically or mentally disabled, and elderly people. Certain German physicians were authorized to select patients who were deemed incurably sick, after initiating a medical examination and then conducting a “mercy death” on them. The killings took place from late 1939 until the end of the war in 1945; between 275k and 300k were killed in psychiatric hospitals in Germany Austria, the Protectorate of Bohemia Poland and Moravia The number of victims was originally recorded as 70k, but this number was increased by the discovery of victims listed in the archives of the former East Germany. About half of those killed were taken from church-run asylums, often with the approval of the Protestant or Catholic authorities of the institutions.  Esau Metzler’s parents were not religious people preferring to heal rather than divide. Esau’s mother was a psychiatrist who worked on the psychiatric ward at The Charité, the University of Berlin hospital which is adjoined to Humboldt University where Otto and Frieda Metzler first met when they attended Humboldt University studying to be physicians. Otto and Frieda were physicians when Hitler came to power and was changing the social landscape.  Otto Metzler was Jewish and Frieda Schmidt was Christian. After they qualified Frieda became Dr. Schmidt while her boyfriend was known as Dr. Metzler. They married in 1917 and Frieda decided to keep her maiden name professionally. By the time their son Esau was old enough to attend Humboldt University to study law Adolf Hitler had already become Chancellor. By 1938 Hitlers thugs were rampaging through the streets of German cities cleansing the nation of the Untermensch by arresting thousands of sub humans who until this point had been successful business people and sending them off to labor camps and building ghettos by building walls and herding them into them and creating overcrowding, disease and death. Dr. Schmidt saw the writing on the wall when she saw Hitler making noises about invading Poland and arranged for her son and husband because they were Jews to travel to Geneva in Switzerland until the war was over. Jews were now being beaten in the streets and made to walk in the road instead of on the sidewalk and were no longer allowed to ride bicycles or congregate in the parks. In 1938 shortly before war started Otto and Esau boarded one of the last commercial trains from Berlin and escaped safely to Geneva. Dr. Schmidt stood on the platform waving goodbye to her beloved husband and son wondering if she’d ever see them again. Frieda Schmidt had never registered her marriage in Germany to Otto. They had married in Vienna Austria but had never bothered to let the authorities know in Berlin. She had mixed emotions now as she waved goodbye to her family on their way to Geneva. Part of her wished she could have gone with them, but strange though it seemed Frieda loved Germany and living in Berlin she couldn’t imagine life without her parents and all the friends she had made through her life. It was a terrible pull for her. She took comfort that as a psychiatrist she was helping her patients get better in their time of need. Esau had requested a leave of absence from law school and been granted it. His intention was to report back in the spring and pick up his classes again. Surely the war will be over soon?

In September 1939 everything changed for Frieda Schmidt. Otto and Esau were now safely in Geneva living in a small apartment on Leopold Strasse. Esau was making noises about coming home for a visit soon, but nothing yet had been arranged. Dr. Schmidt went to work as usual at the same time as she always went. When she arrived there was a note to her from the head of the psychiatric unit. She immediately went to her office. “Maria, you asked to see me?” “Yes Frieda. You have been chosen to be part of a new program the Fuehrer is starting. It is called Aktion T4. I have the details for you. Please read them carefully and get back to me. Herr Hitler intends to phase this program in within the next 2 months.” “Thanks Maria. I will look it over and get back to you soon.” And Dr. Schmidt tucked the memo away in her top pocket, meaning to read it later and went off and started her morning rounds. That night after she got home Frieda poured a glass of whisky, sat down and began to read. The memo that her boss had given her that morning told her that she had been chosen by Hitler himself to choose 20 patients from her ward to be euthanized and deem as medically incurable. The patients who Frieda had to choose from could have anything from Downs Syndrome, schizophrenia, or hydrocephalus. She kept reading and rereading the memo. That night she drank the entire bottle of whisky. Nothing could numb the anger she was feeling.

In late September, all hospitals, nursing homes, old-age homes and sanatoria were required to report all patients who’d been hospitalized for five years or more, or who’d been committed as “criminally insane”, who were of “non-Aryan race” or who had been diagnosed with any on a list of conditions. The conditions included epilepsy schizophrenia, encephalitis, dementia, syphilis, paralysis, and neurological conditions generally. Many doctors assumed that the reports were to identify inmates who were capable of being drafted for “labor service” and tended to overstate the degree of incapacity of their patients, to protect them from labor conscription. After the memo Dr Schmidt had received a week earlier, she knew the real reasons why the Nazis were asking, and it chilled her to the bone. When institutions refused to co-operate, teams of T4 doctors (or Nazi medical students) visited them and compiled the lists, in an ideologically motivated way. In 1940, all Jewish patients were removed from hospitals and terminated. As with child inmates, adults were assessed by a panel of experts, from the offices of the Tiergartenstraße. The experts had to make their judgements on the reports, not medical histories or exams. Sometimes they dealt with hundreds of reports at a time. On each they marked a plus which signified death, or a minus that signified life. Occasionally a question mark meant they were unable to decide. 3 “death” verdicts condemned the person and as with the reviews of children, the process became less rigorous, the range of conditions considered unsustainable grew broader and lower ranked Nazis began making decisions using their own initiative.

 Condemned patients were transferred from their institutions to new centers in T4 Charitable Ambulance buses, called the Community Patients Transports Service. They were run by teams of SS men wearing white coats, to give it an air of medical respectability. To prevent the families and doctors of the patients from tracing them, the patients were often first sent to transit centers in major hospitals, where they were supposedly assessed. They were moved to special treatment centers. Families were sent letters explaining that owing to wartime regulations, it was not possible for them to visit relatives in these centers. Most of these patients were killed within 24 hours of arriving at the centers and their bodies cremated. For every person killed, a death certificate was prepared, giving a false but plausible cause of death. This was sent to the family along with an urn of ashes (random ashes since the victims were cremated en masse). The preparation of thousands of falsified death certificates accepted most of the working day of the doctors who operated the centers. Frieda Schmidt, faced with an impossible decision decided to appeal to her boss Dr. Maria Volga who unbeknownst to Frieda was a loyal party member. She listened to her subordinates’ concerns and that afternoon placed a call to Nazi headquarters who promptly sent a couple of SS officers to her flat in Berlin and arrested her for treason. After days of grilling it took her father a Colonel in the Wehrmacht to get her released with a promise that she would obey all directives in future. Because she valued her life Frieda begrudgingly agreed and went home knowing that the problem with her twenty patients would need to be addressed as soon as possible unless a miracle could save them. As it happened sadly Dr. Volga was now ordered to deliver fifty patients as a punitive measure directed at Dr. Schmidt. The following Friday a number of Community Patients Transports pulled up outside the hospital and men wearing white coats collected the 50 patients who had been chosen and took them to special treatment centers where they were all shot and then cremated. Death certificates along with the ashes were sent to family members giving incorrect details about their loved ones passing. That evening Dr. Schmidt drank a bottle of vodka sitting alone in her apartment.

In January 1940 Esau Metzler returned home to finish his law degree. He had taken makeup classes in Geneva but in order to graduate Humboldt University insisted you needed to be present for the final semester and one had to take the final examination. The day of final exams came, and Esau was feeling energized. In order to protect his mother he had decided to stay at a friend’s flat in Berlin another law student called Moshe Rabinowitz. Esau felt he’d aced the exam and let his guard down. As he walked along the street to catch the bus back to Moshe’s place 2 Nazi soldiers stopped him and demanded to see his identification. Esau was proud of being Jewish but at that time in history bad things happened to Jews and so while he had been in Switzerland Esau had false papers made for him using his mother’s name. He produced his ID with the name Wilhelm Schmidt and his mother’s address. The soldiers gave it a cursory look and thrust it back at him. “Why are you not fighting for the Fuehrer?” one of the soldiers asked. “I am a student at HU,” replied Esau. “Alright then. Be on your way Herr Schmidt.” And with that warning the soldiers strode off into the night. It was enough of a wakeup call for Esau who immediately changed his mind and decided to visit his mother.

Jews were under attack by German Storm Troopers in Berlin in 1939. Curfews were enforced by threats of death for Jews caught out after hours. Esau hurried to his mother’s flat because he had an idea having just learned about the edict that the Nazi’s were enacting with regards to psychiatric patients chosen for euthanasia. He had been horrified when he learned what had happened and wished to tell his mom about a group of freedom fighters he’d met a few days earlier. It wouldn’t bring the 50 patients back that had died at the hands of the Nazi’s, but it could allow some Jews to escape the tyranny before it was too late. Esau hadn’t seen his mom since he had returned to Berlin from Switzerland so when he first knocked on her door he was greeted with an emotional welcome. Esau had always been close to his Mom and could speak to her about anything, so when he first brought up the conversation he was surprised at her reaction. “We couldn’t do that Esau. What if we got caught?” She asked. His answer surprised her. “If we get caught, we’ll be no worse off. At least we will have tried.”  “Okay son, tell me your idea.” So Esau sat his mother down and outlined his idea. “We must never get too big for our boots. If this idea is going to work, we must only allow a certain number of Jews per trip. I’d suggest a maximum of ten per trip. First, we need an ambulance. Then we need to identify it as a T4 ambulance. We will sneak 10 Jews into The Charité psychiatric wing and hide them overnight until the T4 Community Patients Transports Service arrives about 5.00 am and picks up the ten patients and drives them off to the “treatment centers,” outside the city which in fact are safe houses. Two SS looking men in white coats will accompany the patients who will be dressed in hospital nightgowns. It will of course require that you sign off on each pickup and so it will be highly dangerous for you, especially given your past run in with the Gestapo. What do you think Mom? Do you think it could work?” A smile lit up Esau’s mother’s face as she clapped her hands on the side of her armchair and replied. “I think it might work soon. Why don’t we give it a chance.” The key ingredient to this plan working was complete secrecy. It transpired that the Aktion T4 offices had become overwhelmed and a few extra trips per week would go unnoticed. Esau, having taken his final law exams now had time on his hands and he turned out to be an extremely able administrator. Because he was a Berliner, he knew a lot of people and had no trouble securing not 1, not 2 not even 3 but 4 ambulances. He got hold of a large empty lock-up where he stashed the 4 ambulances painting them identically to a T4 Community ambulance with all the correct markings and then provided each vehicle with a driver and 2 strong Aryan looking attendants with the requisite white coats to give them the air of medical legitimacy. Esau then arranged for 40 Jews from the Habonim Freedom Fighters who were already hiding in Berlin be picked up in groups of 5 from safe houses and driven directly by the fake T4 Community Transport to another safe house deep in the country where at a later date they could escape to freedom. The idea of ferrying them to the hospital was nixed early on when Esau realized that it put too many people in grave danger. This way also removed any hint that Dr. Schmidt might be involved. With clever planning Esau managed to extract all 40 Jews from Berlin and deliver them safely to a safe house 100 km outside Berlin. Because of Berlin being the hub of the Nazi regime security was at a premium. The T4 Transport was held up a couple of times at checkpoints but the moment the driver showed the checkpoint guards his official looking documents explaining that they were driving psychiatric patients to a center than the guards just waved them through.

Esau succeeded in helping over 400 Jews escape from Berlin until one day he was leaving the lockup where he’d been getting the ambulances ready for a pickup arranged for that evening when as he opened the door to leave 3 brown shirt Gestapo approached him demanding to see his ID. Esau showed them his fake ID but this time, they were suspicious and asked what was in the lockup. Esau hesitated just long enough for one of them to push their way in and see the 4 ambulances. They were savvy enough to know that something didn’t add up and arrested Esau and hauled him down to Gestapo HQ where he was interrogated for 3 days. This time no amount of stonewalling worked, and no amount of nepotism either. Esau was in trouble then and there finally admitting that his real name was Esau Metzler and that he was the son of Drs. Metzler and Schmidt. In his last interview with the SS he was told he was lucky not to be shot as a traitor but would be sent to a labor camp.

That evening after Esau Metzler had been put on a cattle transport with one thousand other Jews bound for Buchenwald, two SS officers paid Dr. Frieda Schmidt. After interrogating her for an hour but getting no satisfaction they just picked her up and threw her off the balcony of her 6th floor flat.

It wasn’t until after the war when Esau and his Dad were reunited in Geneva that Esau learned of his mother’s fate. Buchenwald was a labor camp and Esau worked in a weapons factory there for the duration of the war. Life was hard for him, but no harder than anyone else in the same camp. Being young was a plus and even though he almost died of starvation a number of times he finally was freed by the 6th armored division of the US army and stayed in a refugee camp for a few months as he built his strength back up. Finally he took a train to Geneva to meet up with his Father again who by this time was a physician at Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève. When Esau showed up at the hospital unannounced, Dr. Metzler who was on his rounds at the time burst into tears when he saw his beloved son. He took a week off immediately, spending as much time with him as possible. Otto told him on the second day of Esau’s visit about the death of his Mom, a great shock to poor Esau. They spent time together and were able to pick up where they had last left off, but the intervening years could never be restored. Esau told his Dad about ferrying Jews out of Berlin using an ambulance and Otto shared stories of letter’s he had written and received from Esau’s mother. Otto also shared that Esau had indeed aced his final law exam and was now officially a German lawyer.

After a month or so Esau became restless and decided to travel to the US where he’d been told he would be able to practice law, and so in November 1946 he left his Dad with promises that he would visit very soon and took a train to Paris and then to Calais, and a boat to Southampton where he boarded a ship for New York.

Esau Metzler fit well into NY society. It was much like the Berlin of the 30’s with culture music and laughter. The people who lived in NY were full of vitality and it wasn’t long before Esau found a niche for himself. Being from a wealthy German family Otto Esau’s father when he and Esau had first moved to Geneva transferred a good amount of his wealth there; leaving of course enough money for Frieda to live comfortably (which the Gestapo confiscated the day after they’d thrown her to her death). When Esau emigrated to NY his father setup a handsome trust fund for his son to live on, so after Esau got settled with a job he bought an apartment on the upper west side in a fashionable doorman building with an elevator. This was the building where Uncle John first found himself a job as a young man. That job changed his life and made him what he became.

I learned much later that Esau and my uncle were arrested in 1957 after an incident of a break in at a doorman-controlled apartment building in Queens when the doorman in question identified 2 suspicious looking men after they were seen surveilling the flat of a tenant in his building. The man a wealthy industrialist disappeared just a week later and was never seen again. Esau and Uncle John were picked out of a photo lineup after they were identified by the doorman and arrested on some false charge. It turned out that the industrialist upon further investigation had entered the U.S illegally in 1947 claiming to be fourth generation wealth from Monrovia when in fact he was later identified as a mid-ranking SS officer who had worked at Dachau concentration camp. His job was to sort through all the valuables that the Nazis collected from the Jews as they arrived at the camp. Franz Mueller or Frank Miller as he became known in the U.S. would melt down the gold he confiscated and turn them into gold bars which he would then deposit each day at a bank in Munich just 12 miles away from the concentration camp. Franz managed to siphon off some of the gold and hide his bounty in the massive vault in his office. Every couple of days he would load up a lorry with the gold bars and deliver them under heavy guard to the Nazi bank in Munich, Deutschebank. The gold bars he had siphoned off he would carry one by one and put in the trunk of his own staff car and then drive to Munich following the lorry carrying the big deposit and then after he had deposited the bullion for the SS at Deutschebank would part ways and drive his little stash to his bank the Baader Bank AG. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. The Gestapo did not take kindly to one of their own stealing from them. If he was caught, he’d be shot on the spot and so he devised a plan that was foolproof (as long as he didn’t get drunk one night and blab to his Nazi buddies.

Ironically, it was a Jew that tripped him up. Germans are a meticulous people and one of the important ingredients in the scheme the SS were engaged in was that attention to detail was vital. Thousands of Jews were being processed every day with most of them being murdered within 30 minutes of arriving at the concentration camp. They had all been told to bring their valuables with them with the intention of stealing it from them the moment they arrived at their destination. It was a massive job to sort through all their possessions and required the help of a number of Jews whose job it was to go through the incoming Jewish prisoners’ suitcases discarding the clothing but saving the watches, rings, jewelry, paintings, and other assorted valuables. Franz kept a keen eye on his team. To steal from the Third Reich would be a death sentence for the Jews who were sorting the intake valuables. Franz managed to create an unholy alliance by keeping his Luger close to hand and shooting a Jew for theft even though the prisoners were too scared to ever steal. It made no difference Franz enjoyed the tactic to keep his team in line. Gold chains, watches rings were all put in a pile, while all silver chains statues, rings and watches were placed in another pile. At the end of the day, late into the night the gold and silver were weighed, and a report was initiated. When the bullion was melted down it had to match the weight that had been documented earlier in the day. That was done by a German Jew named Ismael who worked closely with Franz.

Ismael had owned a jewelry business in Berlin before the war and knew the gold and silver business like the back of his hand. After a short time he realized that Franz was on the fiddle. He was too scared to say anything. He had watched how volatile his boss was so kept his mouth shut, and just did his job silently. Franz continued stealing from the Third Reich and after the war managed to reinvent himself as an Industrialist. His bank account at Baader AG was finally transferred to a Swiss Bank and subsequently was used to set himself up in New York.

Ismael Gerstein survived Dachau and emigrated to New York where he eventually met Esau Metzler and Uncle John and joined the team that tracked down Nazis who had entered America illegally. It was with the 2 of them that he broke in to the sumptuous apartment on 5th Avenue of Frank Miller and stole some items that conclusively identified him as being Hauptmann Franz Mueller the monster who carried his Luger pistol and enjoyed shooting Jews randomly while they sorted through the valuables at Dachau. Esau and John were picked out of a photo lineup, but Ismael was never identified and while Esau and Uncle John languished in jail, he spent his every waking hour trying to dig up more evidence against the monster.

The charges against Esau and John were eventually dropped after the witness who’d identified them recanted. He was the doorman of Frank Miller’s building who turned out to be a survivor himself and was horrified that a suspected war criminal was living in his building. Joshua, the doorman, shortly after he recanted his testimony started attending Esau’s weekly meetings. Because of the recent publicity the gang known simply as 24B (Esau’s flat number) decided to play the Miller case by the book. One night Ismael paid Franz a visit at his flat on the upper east side. Joshua the doorman allowed Ismael entry, and he rode up to the seventh floor and knocked on the door. After a moment or two Franz answered the door, looked at his visitor and immediately recognized him. A look of terror came across his face and then he composed himself. “What do you want?” he asked his body slouching in fear. “I want a word with you,” replied Ismael. “You know who I am I presume?” Franz nodded. “Have you written your will yet?” Franz shook his head. “Then let us go to your desk immediately and let’s do it now.” Franz was starting to tremble. All of a sudden Ismael drew the German Luger he had stolen from Franz weeks earlier from his pocket. When Franz saw the gun, he understood the implication clearly and a tear ran down his cheek. “I never meant to hurt any of them,” he pleaded. Ismael stood silently. Sometimes a man knows when the gig is up, and this was one of those moments. Franz meekly walked to his desk and sat down with Ismael standing behind him, Luger in hand. One couldn’t miss the irony. Ismael, who at the earlier break in with Esau and John had snapped photographs of all Franz Mueller’s financial documents knew exactly what Mueller was worth. He provided Franz with a standard Will and Testament form and dictated to Hauptmann Mueller what he should write. He then had Mueller sign and date his will and place it in an envelope addressed to his lawyer. Ismael then dictated a suicide note admitting who he was and the crimes he had committed. After Mueller had finished writing the suicide note he handed the envelope with the will he’d just written to Ismael. “Now stand up and walk over to the French window. Open it and walk onto the balcony. Climb onto the railing and step off.” Mueller began to panic and ran towards the front door but Ismael had double locked it. Having nowhere to run Franz started to beg but Ismael cut him off. “Do you remember how you liked to kill Jews at Dachau? You liked to kill them using this very Luger. How many of them did you kill? I personally saw you kill a lot of innocent people just because you felt like it. Now is the time you must answer to God. Don’t make it any harder than it needs to be Herr Mueller. I will tell you one more time. Walk over to the balcony climb onto the railing and simply step off.”

Defeated Franz Mueller did what he was told that evening in New York. He walked over to the balcony, climbed up on the ledge as he had been ordered to do and stepped off landing on the hood of an American Buick.

Ismael Gerstein let himself out of Frank Miller, the wealthy industrialist’s apartment, arriving in the lobby just as people were beginning to react to a jumper from one of the apartments in Joshua’s building. Ismael walked by his friend Joshua the doorman onto 5th Avenue and walked home. He found the fresh air was invigorating.

Three days later Frank Millers last will, and testament arrived at his lawyer’s office. Attached to the will was a note that admitted that he was in fact Hauptmann Franz Mueller and that in the war he had been a member of the Nazi SS and worked at Dachau concentration camp and that he had been complicit in the murder of thousands of Jewish lives. In the will he apologized officially for his contribution to the holocaust and left his entire fortune to Simon Wiesenthal.

CHAPTER 22

Democracy Relies on Hope

Everything was not as it seemed. Having recently finished reading the letter that Uncle John had written me it confirmed my suspicions that still waters run deep. Esau Metzler was an important person in my uncle’s life but I had a hard time finding out what happened to him. The more I searched the less I found.

Democracy relies on society having hope. Without hope all can be lost. Look at Germany in the early 1930’s when Adolf Hitler became Chancellor.  German Jews represented less than 1% of Germany’s 67,000,000 citizens in 1933. Hitler issued a decree that suspended all constitutional civil rights and instituted a policy of coordination which meant, the alignment of individuals with Nazi goals. Joseph Goebbels the man who Hitler appointed Nazi propaganda minister, began synchronizing culture and deciding what forms of art, architecture, film, music and theater would be allowed in what was now known as Aryan culture. Hitlers ambition was to create a master race. His interpretation of that so called master race would be ideally German citizens who were blonde, and blue eyed. This interpretation was utter nonsense of course, but it fit the architecture of what Hitler, and the Nazi party were attempting to build on their lunatic race toward The Final Solution.

Starting in 1933 soon after Hitler became Chancellor of Germany Joseph Goebbels, Adolf Hitler’s minister of propaganda began bringing German arts and culture in line with Nazi policy. Book burnings by German writers became the new norm as books by Alfred Kerr, Lion Feuchtwanger and Bertolt Brecht were thrown into the flames in ceremonies in Berlin, while Nazis promoted German composers like Bach, Wagner, and Beethoven yet banned Mendelssohn and Gustav Mahler. The new order had begun. In Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich he managed to create total censorship. He and his marshals determined that Jews had no rights, were not allowed to mingle in public parks or worship in their synagogues or own businesses. In fact they were also not allowed to walk on sidewalks but had to shuffle along the edge of the roadway. Jews were dismissed from all positions of power as was the case of 3 executives working for Deutsche Bank who were fired in 1933. By 1936 Hitler had total control of Germany and had become an Autocracy.  

An Autocracy is a form of government characterized by a single leader and no toleration for political pluralism or independent media. According to other definitions, autocracies are regimes in which those who govern are selected through contested elections; autocracies are not democracies. In the 19th and 20th centuries, autocracies and democracies emerged as the world's main forms of government, eliminating monarchies, one of the typical forms of government of the time. Traditionally, in a dictatorial regime, the leader of the country is identified as an autocrat, although their title may closely resemble something similar to "leader". A common aspect that characterizes autocracy is taking advantage of their strong personality, usually by suppressing freedom of thought and speech of the masses, in order to maintain total political and social supremacy and stability. Autocracies like Hitler’s Nazi regime employed political propaganda to decrease the influence of proponents of alternative governing systems. 

I had always thought that Uncle John grew up in the United States and so when his letter informed me that he was in fact a German Jew who had been arrested along with his parents and sister and sent to a Nazi  death camp called Buchenwald and then survived years of torture and starvation, it fit my theory that all the businesses he had “saved” were businesses that had needed a second chance and in some way, shape or form were owned by "survivors." I was amazed at what I discovered about Open Horizons.

“What kind of business is Open Horizons?” I asked Cynthia. I was looking through a list of companies that Uncle John owned. The reason Horizons had caught my attention was it appeared to be a company that was running heavily in the red. “It’s a PAC, and it was one of your uncles “causes célèbres,” Cynthia answered looking a tad nervous. “I’m so intrigued,” I replied. “I think Open Horizons will be receiving a visit from me soon.” A week later I found myself aboard a plane for Washington D.C to meet the directors of this mysterious PAC.

Uncle John was a man who had voted Republican all his life: or so I thought. In fact I found upon reading Open Horizons literature on their website that it was a liberal PAC that promoted Democratic causes. (“The Open Horizons LLC hovers around historic highs with 98 members and 42 Freshman Members. This record membership makes it the largest Democratic House caucus, and New Democrats make up more than 40% of the Democratic Caucus and two thirds of the freshman class. Open Horizons is united around a set of common priorities that focus on growing the economy, embracing innovation, and promoting smart and fiscally responsible government. Open Horizon Members are committed to progress and governing. We believe leaders of both parties should work together to find commonsense solutions for the American people.”)  

I'd never really been involved in the day-to-day running of politics so wasn't aware of what a PAC was. When I googled it I found out that a PAC was an acronym for a Political Action Committee, a 527 member organization that pools campaign contributions from their members and donates those funds to political campaigns for candidates, ballot initiatives, or legislation. A PAC can work in direct coordination with a candidate and is subject to strict regulations by the FEC or state law, meaning the organization receives limited funds from groups or individuals.

Over the past few months I’d had plenty of time to think during my travels. I now realized because of the letter I had received that Uncle John had arrived in the US around 1946 and stayed with my grandparents for a short time. His parents had perished in the camps and so the story he’d told about his Dad helping him buy his first property in Washington D.C. couldn’t have been true. I’m not sure when he was contacted by the American lawyer who my Grandparents had hired for him but from what I could surmise was that Uncle John built his business by himself and sometime during the early 1950’s before my Grandparents died, they must have advised him that Jerry Ludlow’s father also an attorney had possession of Uncle John’s parent’s wills. (I later discovered that before my grandparents left Berlin in 1938) Uncle Johns parents entrusted their personal papers to them and asked if they would arrange to hire an attorney for them)

As I flew into Reagan airport, I was reminded how beautiful the city was. Following the bend of the Potomac river l looked to my left and saw the glorious Washington Cathedral rising high above the city. As a child Washington D.C. had been my stomping ground, the place my friends and I could sneak across the river and be served alcohol and be admitted to music clubs at 16. Halcyon days. But now I had put away my childish dreams and at 57 with grey hair and a desire to get to understand my uncle better, I had come to D.C on a pilgrimage to meet a group named Open Horizons.

I had recently found out that Uncle John had been arrested by the Gestapo along with his parents and sister and sent to a truly awful place, a death camp known as Buchenwald where he was the only survivor of his entire family. Those four years shaped the rest of his life. He hadn't grown up in Chantilly Virginia as he'd told us and certainly hadn't attended public school or William and Mary University in Williamsburg. That fiction he'd concocted in order I believe not to have scared all of us kids. By the time I came along Uncle John and Aunt Rachel were married and lived in the house next door to Aunt Rachel’s parents in Chantilly. Uncle John by that time was a successful businessman and Aunt Rachel was indeed the heiress to the Rockefeller fortune. As my plane touched down, I thought how tough it must have been for Uncle John, and I realized how true the saying was: You can’t judge a book by its cover. I hailed a cab, gave the address, and sat back and enjoyed the 15-minute ride into Washington D.C.

Good afternoon,” I said to the receptionist. “I have an appointment to see Chris Taylor. My name is Jenny Holland Harriman.” The receptionist, a young 20 something smiled bleakly and nodded her head. “Please take a seat Ms. Harriman, and I’ll let Mr. Taylor know you’re here.” She reached for the phone. I took a seat. A few moments later a girl walked down a long staircase. She approached me and with a somewhat insincere smile she said. “Ms. Harriman, Mr. Taylor will see you now. Please follow me.” And we walked back up the stairs arriving in a small meeting room. I sat down and a moment later a nice-looking man walked in and introduced himself. “Mrs. Harriman, how good to meet you. My name is Chris Taylor. I’d like to personally thank you and your late uncle for your generosity over the years. I had the pleasure to meet him every now and then but talked to him frequently on the phone. My sincere condolences for your loss. What is it that I can do for you today Mrs. Harriman?” “Please call me Jenny,” I began. “May I call you Chris?” He nodded. “I’m here because I wanted you to answer some things I’ve been confused about. As a child my family had picnics at my aunt and uncles’ home most weekends and we went swimming in their pool. When I qualified as a teacher Uncle John found me my first job as a high school teacher in Pensacola where they lived, and for the next 30 years my husband and I invited Uncle John and Aunt Rachel to every birthday, Christmas, and significant holiday that we ever had. During those years Uncle John, maybe because he was influenced by members of my family gave the impression that he was a died in the wool republican. My husband and I are the only democrats in the family. So imagine my surprise when Uncle John passed away and I’m notified that I’m his heir and I find out he’s been donating money to Open Horizons, a liberal political action committee. I had to come and meet you and find out if he was in fact a democrat?” I paused and stared at Chris who had a wide smile on his face. “Your uncle was one of the finest and most generous men I knew. He was the original John Doe. His presence was always front and center and he was a fearsome opponent. From those who knew him I understand that on the surface he was a mild-mannered man?” I nodded. “But when he went to war his personality became someone who resembled Attila the Hun. Thank God he was on our side. That’s all I can say. He gave to social causes as if there was no tomorrow, but always stayed in the boundaries of the FEC regulations. On a couple of occasions, which is why I knew he was a fighter, he managed to pull off a win anonymously that gave Republicans a black eye and helped us gain a significant legislative win in the Senate. No your Uncle John was far from being a Republican. In fact in 1962 he was instrumental in helping President John F Kennedy get elected President of the United States. My face must have given the look of incredulity and pride as he mentioned JFK and he actually burst out laughing. “From what I’m hearing he was clearly such a good actor he should have won an Oscar.” And I started to laugh. “Thank you, Chris. What you’ve just told me has made my day. Did you know he was a survivor of Buchenwald?” This time it was Chris Taylor’s turn to be amazed. “No I had no idea. How long was he there?” “He survived for 5 years.” I then told Chris about his remarkable life. “By the way,” I added, “did you know a friend of my uncles a man called Esau Metzler?” Chris Taylor looked at me as if I was from outer space. “Indeed I did. Esau was the founder of Open Horizons.” “How extraordinary. I had no idea. Is he still alive?” I asked and paused, and Chris Taylor interjected, “how did you know him?” I then told him the story of how Uncle John and he had met in New York after the war and discovered that they were survivors from Buchenwald. I guess it must have been Esau who introduced my Uncle to Open Horizons?” “Yes, it was. Shortly after Mr. Metzler started the PAC Mr. Harriman became a member. I tell you what Jenny, those two were a force to be reckoned with.” One of the fascinating tidbits I learned that day was that not only did Esau Metzler found Open Horizons, but the board of directors was comprised of John Turley, Moe Berger, John Harriman, Ismael Gerstein and Sophia Engelmann and Judy Schiff the seven folks who had also devoted their lives to hunting down Nazis who had come to the US illegally.  I learned so much that day and by the time I left Open Horizons Chris and I were old friends.

My visit to Open Horizons was most informative. I assured Chris that he could rely on Harriman Holdings continuing their support to ensure that Democrats would regain the Presidency and the Senate in 20/20. I had good feelings that we would win.

CHAPTER 23

Guryev

For more than twenty years now, the future President of the U.S had been attempting to do business with the Russians but each time he got close Guryev would shut down the deal. Guryev’s background was KGB. Back when Boris Yeltsin was Premier of the Soviet Union a young Guryev intervened in a political spat and became Yeltsin’s deputy. When Yeltsin was ousted, Guryev became the Prime Minister which he parlayed into a Presidency a year later. After his inauguration in May 2012 Guryev has been President ever since. The outcome was that Yuri Guryev now ran everything and only people who he approved of were allowed to make money there. Russian Oligarchs agreed to kick back a percentage of every transaction they made before Guryev awarded them the title. There is only one Oligarch for every utility in Russia. There is electricity, water, coal, oil, and gas. They all have just one Oligarch who runs the entire country, and that man is massively wealthy. Guryev is now one of the richest man in the world and had always considered TFPUSA (the future president of the U.S.A) to be a useful idiot. He was delighted therefore when he heard the news that he had been nominated to become the President of the United States and Stanislav Petrov now had a live asset who was dating this idiot. Guryev put out the word for Petrov and Subkov to step up their pressure on her and try to get Yves White to marry her prince charming.

Like most countries in the 21st Century Russia has an arm of its intelligence services devoted to cyber-attacks. The GRU is that agency. In an anonymous looking building in the middle of Moscow is a room that housed hundreds of computers and a similar amount of highly qualified young men and women whose job it was to spread disinformation to the American people using social media platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like. These young Russians would create fake identities and start posting false stories and try to make the information go viral. The Russians have been doing this to western democracies for decades but the new information that Cramer had been nominated as a legitimate candidate was too much red meat for Guryev to manage. He put out the order to step up their work on cyber-attacks.

In the meantime Guryev sitting in the Kremlin was discussing the possibility of infiltrating the GOP. “Do we have an American who is vulnerable and also has the qualifications to run a campaign?” he asked his chief of staff. “I’m not certain but let me ask around,” replied Dimitri. A few days later he came back to Guryev with an answer. “I’ve found an American who fits the criteria you requested. His name is Rick Jameson and he’s been running the Viktor Jakob campaign for the Ukraine Presidency. He is well respected having worked on several Republican campaigns over the years. Including Reagan, Dole, and Bush. An additional advantage is that he is beholden to Aleksander Toprol.” “Do you think TFPUSA would hire him?” asked Guryev. “I think he would. If Jameson offers him a deal too attractive to refuse, he would be a fool to turn it down.

Aleksander Toprol is the third wealthiest man in the world. Known as the Nickel King, he acquired Norilsk Nickel in the early 1990s. The company was named as one of the biggest polluters in the Russian Arctic, and the city of Norilsk was named among the most polluted places on Earth. Toprol went on to purchase controlling shares in the Russian giant RUSAL which is the world's second largest aluminum company. Toprol was a dangerous thug who, Dimitri told Guryev, had lent Rick Jameson over $20,000,000. Guryev would not hesitate to ‘enforce’ the debt if necessary.

Rick Jameson had done everything wrong for decades. He’d been abusing the Foreign Practices Act by not registering his business. He had been siphoning millions of dollars from the Ukrainian Presidential campaign and was under investigation by the NSA and FBI. When Aleksander sent him a text asking him to contact him as soon as possible he assumed it was about the money that he owed him. Imagine his relief and delight when Aleksander suggested that Rick should apply to the TFPUSA campaign committee for the job of Committee Chairman. “You’ve worked with him on several occasions in the past and I think you’d be an excellent fit for the campaign. What’ll win him over is if you offer your services for nothing. He’s notoriously cheap and that incentive will clinch the deal. Your offer will also give you added credibility as you’re willing to work for gratis as your patriotic duty. I will pay your fee privately. What do you think Rick?” “Well in principle I love the idea, but what’s the catch?” Rick answered. “I will need you to give me a weekly report so I can work in tandem with the Kremlin,” replied Toprol. “We are backing him and would like him to become the next President of the United States.”

Yves White could not believe her luck. Her boyfriend for the past 18 months had now entered the seedy world of politics. Even though he was still the laughing stock of New York he appealed to the dumb and uneducated American and incredibly enough had managed to con his way to a Republican nomination. This called for a huge celebration, and two days after he was nominated, he asked Yves White to be his wife. The night she accepted was a red-letter day for the Kremlin. Guryev celebrated by watching the entire GOP nomination on State TV, something which he hated watching. Seeing the naked greed and gluttony of this democratically run country made him sick to his stomach and he looked forward to TFPUSA becoming President so that he could blackmail him into dividing the American people and singlehandedly undermine the US department of Justice by hiring an unqualified Attorney General, and then doing the same to all the major Governmental departments, like the State Department, Interior department, EPA, Labor Education, DOD, HHS, Treasury, Veterans Affairs, Energy, Agriculture, Air Force, and the United States Department of Housing and Urban Development. Guryev already had a team of Russian specialists in place to help TFPUSA after he had been elected. Guryev’s plan was simple. Destroy America and all it stood for.

The wedding was spectacular. No expense was spared. Former President’s, famous actors’, artists and writers topped the guest list and when Yves White walked down the aisle dressed in a stunning Pnina Tornai a 3-piece mirror-crystal-embellished ensemble with sheer, crystal-covered strapless corset, satin mermaid skirt with dimensional flowers, and open detachable overskirt with dimensional flowers valued at a little over $22,000. TFPUSA gazed at his bride and looked in wonderment as he stood at The Washington Cathedral where they had chosen to marry. He simply could not believe that such a beauty would be willing to marry him. Yves was now on a tight leash with her Russian handlers. They’d told her he would win. That was all she wanted to know. She had never divulged to anyone that her father had beaten her mother to death and was serving a 25-year term in custody. She was happy that today she was marrying the next President of the United States.

“I’ve found something out about The First Lady.” Ron Classon started. “Let’s meet at our normal spot in shall we say 30 minutes.” He suggested. “Sure thing,” replied Stephen Landrieu. “See you there.” And they hung up. “It seems that Yves forgot to mention that her father is in prison for murdering her mother.” The two friends were sitting at The 29 Diner in Fairfax. “My God Ronny, that information is huge. Who else knows about it?” “No one as yet. I just found out myself today. What should we do with that nugget of information?”

In Russia, the Kremlin was watching a videotape of TFPUSA snorting cocaine surrounded by young girls in a club in Moscow. The man was flying, looking wild eyed and crazy. He was becoming an asset and a liability all by himself. To date he had borrowed massive amounts of money from a key Russian bank and was in jeopardy of not being able to pay the minimum payment due. Guryev had arranged for him to obtain financing from another of his state-owned banks just to offer him some breathing room. Once that loan came due in six months’ time, Guryev intended to drop the hammer.

Of course Ron Classon and Stephen Landrieu were unaware of the goings on in Moscow and at their weekly meetings at the 29 Diner they decided to step up their surveillance on the First Lady. As the most watched woman in the world it was hard to figure how she was communicating with her handler. It took Ron weeks to figure it out, but just like when he was growing up, he followed every clue and left no stone unturned. Because his friend Stephen was The First Lady’s Secret Service detail Ron asked him if he could track where The First Lady moved daily within the White House. Stephen looked at his friend and asked what he had in mind. Ron explained that because it was hard for the First Lady to move around freely in Washington, then the Russian agent would need to come to her. “What is the necessity of life, he asked his buddy? “Well food is pretty darned important,” answered Stephen. “Bingo,” replied Ron Classon.

Now the Kitchen is in the basement of The White House and 3 rooms to the east is the Secret Service main office where all Secret Service officers when they arrive each day can change. Deliveries are made weekly to The White House via a courtyard where vans can pull up, unload and drive away. It occurred to Stephen that the First Lady paid the Secret Service Office a visit about once a week. He was one of 6 officers on her detail and the more he thought about it the odder it seemed. It would have been more efficient just to pick up a phone. She claimed that she liked the exercise. One night he was lying in bed and he hit on an idea. What if her handler got a job as a delivery man and used his weekly visits to drop and receive messages at a prearranged drop between the kitchen and the Secret Service Offices. He tried to remember what was between those two rooms as he dropped off to sleep. The next day he drove to work as usual and entered the lower level of the White House through a door near his office. As he looked down the corridor, he saw the kitchen ahead of him and right between it and his office was a Men’s room and a Lady’s room. Without hesitation he strode into the men’s room searching for anything that could be a place where a foreign agent could make a drop. That day he struck out but remained very alert as to Yves’ whereabouts.

CHAPTER 24

Cheyenne. John Swansea

Meanwhile back in Chicago a massive manhunt had been launched prompted by the assault on Mr. Winter which captured the fury of Chicagoans. Unfortunately, the police weren’t as savvy as the Wiesenthal team who knew that Mueller would be long gone. Several days earlier on the day of the attack a call was placed to 911 from a rest area on interstate 80 reporting that Mr. Winter’s needed assistance. That at least told Sophia, Moe, and John he had a conscience. The mystery of where Heinrich Mueller had been for the three days he was missing was never answered but Moe felt certain that it had something to do with Amy Gordon. One thing John Turley was certain about was that now Herr. Mueller was on the run again he’d revert back to his past modus operandi. For some reason he always stayed at Howard Johnson Inn’s. Maybe he liked the beds or maybe he liked eating at the restaurant attached to the inn. Whatever the reason, it made it so much easier to track him. They now had a point from which they could start and so they checked out of the Marriott hotel, rented a car and headed west on interstate 80. They easily found the rest area where Heinrich made the 911 call and then carried on driving. They reached Iowa City Iowa around dinner time and decided to look for a Howard Johnson’s Inn to stay the night. Sure enough there was one near the highway exit and they checked in getting two rooms and met later at the attached restaurant. Not the finest fare but wholesome and edible, the three colleagues mused as to where their quarry would be headed to next. After dinner they walked into the front office and began chatting to the desk clerk. A young college student Marci hadn’t been at work 3 or 4 nights before but after Sophia Engelmann sweet talked her, she agreed to show a list of who had stayed there on those nights. It was very much against the rules, but Sophia slipped her $20 to help with her tuition. The motel on those two nights was almost empty as it was the beginning of the week, and so they printed the names of the 17 people who’d stayed there and went back to their rooms. It only took them an hour to find Mueller using his latest identity John Swansea as he was the only single male checking in on the night in question. He was driving a 67 red mustang with Illinois license plates JKY738. Moe was delighted that HoJo’s took the vehicle information as it would save them days of wear on their feet. That night they felt they’d made headway.

Amy Gordon was sitting in Frank’s where Mikey D and Fat John were explaining to her what they had done to Damian Sullivan. Fat John told her that he had been part of the team that liberated the prisoners at Buchenwald and what he saw changed him forever. “Those Nazis killed 6000000 Jews in the most cruel and sadistic way for no reason other than Adolf Hitler decided they should be killed so he could create a Master Race. Nah, that’s bullshit man. This guy Sullivan deserves everything he gets, and more. Frankly, I wish I’d taken him out when I had a chance. Amy, tell you what darling the six of us need to meet the next guy you’re interested in. It ain’t right what he’s put you through.” That night the seven of them got roaring drunk and had the time of their lives.

John Swansea was beginning to develop a final plan. He had stayed in Cheyenne Wyoming for two days and nights sitting alone in his room. He had a map with him and knowing that the agents were chasing him decided to throw them a curve ball. On the third day he checked out of motel and drove to a car dealer where he sold his Mustang to a delighted salesman. Just like he’d done before in North Carolina he then took a taxi across town to another used car dealer and using his latest identity John Sampson, he bought himself a ‘70 dark blue Volvo cross country station wagon for cash and drove it off the lot. He drove north on interstate 25 to Casper Wyoming then continued on 25 until it merged with interstate 90 where he drove north into Montana and headed through the Crow Indian reservation to Billings where I 90 began to head north west. Ten hours later John Sampson drove into Butte Montana where he booked into a Quality Inn. He’d decided not to use Howard Johnson’s motel in future in case the Wiesenthal agents had figured out that he always used the same hotel chain. He spent the late afternoon exploring Butte and then went to dinner.

Butte is the county seat of Silver Bow County, Montana. Established in 1864 as a mining camp in the northern Rocky Mountains on the Continental Divide, Butte experienced development in the late-nineteenth century and was Montana's first major industrial city. In its heyday between the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, it was one of the largest copper boomtowns in the American West. Prior to Butte's formal establishment in 1864, the area consisted of a mining camp that had developed in the early 1860s. The city is located in the Silver Bow Creek Valley, a natural bowl sitting high in the Rockies straddling the Continental Divide, positioned on the SW side of a large mass of granite known as Boulder Batholith, which dates to the Cretaceous era.  In 1874, William L. Farlin founded the Asteroid Mine. Farlin's founding of the Mine attracted a significant number of prospectors seeking gold and silver. The mines attracted workers from Ireland, England Wales, Lebanon, Canada, Finland, Austria, Italy, China, Montenegro, Mexico, and more. In the ethnic neighborhoods, young men formed gangs to protect their territory and socialize into adult life, including the Irish of Dublin Gulch, the Eastern Europeans of the McQueen Addition, and the Italians of Meaderville.

John Sampson was feeling good. His troubles were behind him and he was pretty certain the agents would never find him. He had decided to travel to Seattle and find a job doing what old Mr. Winter had done, looking after a small apartment building, fixing things that broke down and then collecting the rent from the tenants. It would be low stress, and he could keep to himself. He would get there tomorrow and book into a motel for a week and then let his fingers do the walking. John had had a lot of time to replay his life in recent months. In 1937 when he had joined the Nazi party, he’d never imagined it would have played out the way it did. He believed every word the Fuehrer spoke and reconciled it that as an army officer it was his duty to obey orders. After a stint fighting in Poland which he hated in 1941 he was assigned to Majdanek a Nazi concentration and extermination camp built and operated by the SS on the outskirts of the city of Lublin during the German occupation of Poland. For the first time since he had joined the Nazi party, he felt useful. Majdanek had seven gas chambers, two wooden gallows, and some 227 structures in all, placing it among the largest of Nazi-run concentration camps. Although at first it was designed for forced labor rather than extermination, the camp was used to kill people on an industrial scale during Operation Reinhard. And this was something that Mueller did well and took very seriously. At the time he didn’t see the condemned Jews as human beings but simply as things that needed to be erased. It was only decades later that he was able to reflect on his crimes and see what he did was wrong. But he kept on coming back to his original excuse that he was only following orders.

The next day John Sampson climbed into his Volvo Cross Country wagon and drove the 9 hours to Seattle. From Butte he headed north west on interstate 90 through Missoula Montana in the Lolo National forest and then into Washington State with Post Falls Idaho just a few miles from the border. John’s drive from Post Falls Idaho to Seattle Washington was about 300 miles and took him a little over 5 hours to drive through the beauty of the Okanogan Wenatchee National Forest

CHAPTER 25

The Cabinet Maker

My Dad made furniture for a living when I was growing up. When he wasn’t at work at Fairfax Furniture, he liked to mess around in his garage making…furniture. Dad was a real craftsman and loved nothing more than to build us a new walnut dining table or a pine hutch for the home. I loved helping him in his shop and he taught me about different woods one would use for building furniture. At 12 he taught me how to dovetail, a technique that refers to the specific building of a drawer; a dovetail is used to securely join the drawer side and the drawer front together. Dovetail drawers are easily recognized by their distinct dovetail joint at the outside corner of the drawer. By the time I was 15 he’d taught me the basics of building furniture so when I was 16, I built a new dressing table for my mother’s birthday with 6 dovetailed drawers to complete the ensemble. My mom was delighted and surprised that I’d achieved such a complex project. From then on, my ambition was to become a craftsman like my Dad, but as I got older my ambitions changed, and I finally went to school to become a teacher.

Something I didn’t know about Uncle John was that he too loved to build things. His passion though was that he loved to restore old cars. When he first began buying bankrupt companies, he purchased a car dealership which I had chosen to visit as one of my summer drop ins, but this week I was excited to be heading to Twin Falls Idaho to visit a kitchen cabinet plant that Uncle John had rescued back in 1988. The company, Jamison Cabinet Co. was a family operation that prided itself on building quality. They would never use particle board for the kitchen boxes instead insisting on using ¾ inch plywood as it was in fact far more stable even than solid wood. They always trimmed out the boxes with solid wood again insisting on grade A woods, generally building cabinets using maple, oak, walnut, beech, or pine. Their cabinets were sought after in homes all around America. The company had been in business since 1947 when old man Jamison came back from the war and with a veteran’s loan started the company. Bob Jamison was much like my Dad. He had a passion for woodworking and turned that passion into a profitable kitchen cabinet manufacturing business. Initially Bob rented a warehouse in the industrial section of Twin Falls, large enough to house a small office up front and then several large rooms that included an assembly room, a sanding room, a 100% sterile spray room and finally a design room that allowed Bob and his few staff to assemble their cabinets with the utmost care and diligence. Bob was 28 years old when he returned to Twin Falls after the war. By 1987 he was 70 and 5 years earlier had turned over the day-to-day operations of Jamison Cabinet Company to his son Paul who was a greedy self-important man with a severe gambling problem. Unbeknownst to his father he had been raiding the company coffers in order to feed his habit and one day in July of that year was found barely alive beside his pickup truck beaten so badly that he’d be unable to work for at least a month. Investigators surmised that the beating was because of a debt due to gambling. Paul’s weakness it seemed was high stakes poker. The investigation that ensued turned up information that Bob Jamison’s company had been heavily leveraged by Paul and would have to shut down effectively right away. A team of bankruptcy experts was brought in to attempt mitigation but sadly to no avail for Paul had squandered the entire fortune his father had worked so hard to build up. In August 1987 Bob Jamison committed suicide having just been evicted from the home he and his wife had lived in for 29 years. The company was on life support with six full time employees who had been working without pay since Bob’s death in order to fill the orders that had stacked up. That was when Uncle John stepped in and bought the company. The first thing he did was fly to Twin Falls and meet with the employees. He informed them that from this point on the profits would be equally shared amongst all of them. They were all long-term employees and had a variety of talents that were all unique to the craft of building furniture.

I had taken a job in the front office helping out with whatever was needed. My first day on the job I was introduced to Sylvia the office manager, a lady in her mid-30’s who ran the office like a military boot camp. I got the feeling that underneath her crusty exterior beat the heart of one tough broad. Sylvia figured me out right from the start of my employment with Jamison Cabinet Co. “You’re not who you say you are, are you?” Her suspicions rose even higher when she saw the guilt that was written all over my face. “Where are you from dear?” I told her the truth. “I’m from Fairfax VA originally.” “How long have you lived in Twin Falls?” She asked me suspiciously. “We’ve just moved here,” I answered truthfully at which point luckily the phone rang and she lost interest in me as she answered the call. The week rushed by and nothing of great importance happened until the day before I was due to leave. Thursday Paul Jamison appeared in the office and had a heated exchange with Sylvia. It was loud and ugly and was in my opinion most unprofessional. Paul still bore the bruises of his beating and clearly the meeting was all about the attack Paul had suffered at the hands of some thugs. It seemed to me as an outsider looking in that Paul and Sylvia were in a relationship. “I told you if you went back there, they’d beat the shit out of you. How much are you into them for?” Sylvia was interrogating Paul. “I dunno. Maybe ten large or maybe more.” Paul replied. “You stupid man. You could’ve been killed. How long have they given you?” “A week,” he replied dourly. “Motherfucker. How will you find that kind of money in a week?” She asked. “You’re some kind of a dumbass.” That did it for me. I’d sat patiently by as the couple squabbled, but I knew that I had to take charge of the situation.

“Now look here both of you.” I suddenly reminded myself of my grandmother, the sweetest lady you’d ever wish to meet but God forgive you if you ever got on the wrong side of her. “Sylvia, you asked me where I came from a few days ago. What you probably should have asked was who are you? My real name is Jenny Harriman, and I am the new owner of the Jamison Cabinet Co. I’ve come here this week to check out your operation. Paul, I was so sorry to hear about your Dad’s death. From what I understand he was a good man.” Paul looked at me and gave me a look of contempt and hatred. “I dunno what you’re after, but you ain’t getting nothing more from me.” Paul took one final look around the office and stormed out. Sylvia, clearly still truly angry said, “I knew it. There was something about you that just didn’t add up. I thought maybe you were a cop, but I wasn’t sure.” “Well, “I replied, “it’s none of my business really except that I am officially your boss and have a right to know. You’re obviously still in a relationship with Paul Jamison and I would like to find out who he owes money to and if whoever it is is going to be a problem for the company?” Sylvia sat at her desk and nodded her head. “The guy is a bad dude. Oh and by the way the amount Paul said that he owes is at least twice that figure. Eddie will carry out his threat to kill him if Paul doesn’t pay him by next Wednesday.” “Well that’s kind of short sighted of Eddie, isn’t it?” I retorted.  “If Paul is dead then Eddie will get nothing. I think what we need to do is devise a plan of attack to counter anything Eddie tries. Tell me what you know about this Eddie.”

Twin Falls is the county seat and largest city in Twin Falls County, Idaho. It is 130 miles south west of Boise with the Shoshone National Park to the east. The city has a population of 44,125. In the Magic Valley region, Twin Falls is the largest city in a one-hundred-mile radius and is the regional commercial center for south-central Idaho and northeastern Nevada. Twin Falls I learned from Sylvia was the perfect location for a cabinet factory as well as being the hub of a thriving drug distribution trade. Eddie was from Boise originally but moved to Twin Falls at 19 and began selling drugs to teenagers on the streets. He was hooked up with a man named Mo Redallion, a well-known Boise drug king who Eddie had palled around with since they were kids. Mo was a vicious thug who’d kill his own Mom for a buck. He had been in trouble with the law a few times but had always managed to wheedle his way out of the more serious charges. Rumor was if you owed him a dime pay him a buck. Never try to cheat him. You’ll pay with your life.

There’s a saying in the teaching biz, “be careful who you mess with.” I’m being facetious but I just happened to have grown up in Fairfax with an absolute monster who I was in school with. Back in the 80’s Johnny had gained national notoriety as Jim Croce the singer once sang about, “being the baddest man in town.” Johnny was our local street dealer. All the kids scored pot from him on a Friday night so they could party. I admit to being one of his customers. One evening after I had graduated and was in college, I opened up the paper to see Johnny Glennis staring back at me. He had gone to College Park MD to score and had been arrested. The score was a sting and Johnny, being Johnny, fought the law, and the law won. He managed to escape and drove with his recent purchase around the Washington Beltway with dozens of police cars in pursuit. Like an idiot he had a gun in his possession which added 10 years to a potentially infinite jail sentence. It must have been a slow news day as all the networks reported his crime. When he was finally stopped, police found heroin, cocaine, speed, and a number of class A drugs that ensured my friend would be locked up for the rest of his natural life. Twelve years earlier I had been best friends with his little sister Madge. Johnny adored her and would do anything for her. One Friday Madge developed a high fever for no reason. Her parents had left Johnny and Madge alone for the weekend with only Johnny as a supervisor (duh!!). He of course was busy on his street corner selling drugs and I had come over to their house to stay the night with her. We had no phone number for her parents and around 10pm Madge started having convulsions. I was freaked out. I knew she hadn’t taken any drugs and was confused by her seizure. I laid her on the sofa and put her on her side while she was having the episode but realized that I had to do something to help her. I called my parents and pleaded with them to help Madge and take her to the emergency room. Hearing the urgency in my voice they immediately drove over, picked us up and took her to the hospital. She was checked out by an emergency physician who informed us that Madge had had a grand mal epileptic seizure. The doctor was worried and wanted to carry out more tests on Madge but when he learned that Madge’s parents were away for the weekend and Madge was ‘staying’ with us he recommended she stay in hospital overnight and then as soon as her parent’s returned home, they should set up tests for Madge to find out the implications of the seizure. As soon as Johnny found out what had happened, he was racked with guilt for not being around but suddenly this boy who had never noticed me in his life before could not have been nicer to me. He told everyone who’d listened that I’d saved his sister’s life, and he told me that if there was anything he could ever do to repay me he’d go to the ends of the earth to help.

Time marched on and Johnny’s reputation as a drug lord grew and grew. Being in prison helped the stories grow larger and larger so when he was eventually released, he was a God among men who made their livings committing criminal acts. I had never called in the favor he had promised me until this moment. I decided to call my local drug dealer Johnny to repay the favor he owed me.

Johnny, it’s Jenny Harriman from the neighborhood. Do you remember me?” I began after I’d found Madge’s number buried in my address book and chatted to her and begged for his number. “Yes of course I remember you Jenny. How are you? It's been a long time. What are you up to these days?” After we had dispensed with the social niceties I got down to business. “Johnny, I need to ask a favor of you.” “Sure Jen. Anything. After what you did that night for Madge, I owe you big time.” “I need you to fly up to Twin Falls Idaho with a couple of your associates and put the fear of God into a person up here who thinks he’s king of the drug trade. He certainly knows who you are and will listen to your advice. I will pay your airfare and accommodation for the three of you. I don’t want any violence, but I just would like you to have a little chat with him. Would you do that for me?” I finished speaking and thought how crass I must sound. Johnny answered immediately. “Let me know where and when and we will be there with bells on. Anything for you Jen, and I promise you there’ll be no violence.” The following day Jim and I were at the airport to meet Johnny and his 2 friends, who both were huge and capable of murder with a single sideways glance. Eddie looked much the same as he had done back in the day; scary. Jim and I took them to dinner and filled them in on the salient details, names, address, and reason. We then drove them back to the hotel where we’d arranged 3 rooms for them. The three of them looked quite a sight and even though Johnny was a friend he scared the life out of me. I prayed they wouldn’t screw it up. I sure as hell didn’t want to spend my remaining years behind bars. I simply had to have faith that Johnny would be honorable and stick to the plan. We left them at 10:30 pm and arranged to meet them the following evening at 8. As we got back to our room I mentioned to Jim. “I hope we’re doing the right thing. I had to come up with a plan that would scare Eddie so he would decide never to do business with Mo Redallion ever again. Who knows maybe Johnny’s little pep-talk will scare Eddie straight.” Jim smiled as he opened our door. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

I never discovered what transpired between my old friend Johnny and the Twin Falls dealer Eddie who’d threatened Paul Jamison’s life and subsequently the very existence of the Jamison Cabinet company. The only thing I do know is that Eddie moved far away from Twin Falls never to be heard of again. Sylvia removed herself from Paul’s life and committed herself to becoming an efficient office manager again, and the Jamison Cabinet Company began producing top of the line kitchen cabinets again. It appeared that prison had completely rehabilitated Johnny and by the time he was released he had become a completely different person. He met and married a fine woman. I will always be grateful to him for stepping up and helping me avert disaster at the Jamison Cabinet company. When Jim and I finally got home and picked up our life again, I called Madge and picked up right where we’d left off. She was happily married with kids and grandkids and was still living in Fairfax. It was great to get to know her again after all this time.

CHAPTER 26

The Men and Women of 24B

The six weeks that Jim and I had been away was in many ways the honeymoon we’d never had. Maybe that was the point. After our visit to the Sunshine Assisted Living home earlier in the summer where I went undercover pretending to be a recently released from prison nonviolent felon, I realized that going undercover was unnecessary, and so in some cases rather than pretend I was someone else for the week instead I proudly advertised who I was, figuring that being a fairly good judge of character I would be able to fathom how good each business was. Finally I was incredibly impressed at how and why my Uncle John had set each individual company up. It was clear as a bell that many of the company’s he saved had survivors of the holocaust as employees or owners. Where possible he offered the owners who were survivors a means to succeed. All the businesses that I visited had excellent management teams that were democratically elected by the employees. I found that in the main everyone got on well with each other, and I came away feeling certain that if there was a problem it’d be ironed out competently and efficiently. But recently I’d discovered why Uncle John had done what he had done. The letter clarified his aims and helped me understand why everything he did in life was designed to help those less fortunate than himself. Whether the recipient of his help was simply down on his luck or whether he was a survivor of the camps, Uncle John’s generosity was always prevalent. From what he told me in his letter his work with Esau Metzler, the team they founded in New York found and eliminated a number of Nazis who had managed to slip into the United States undetected and had set up their lives in the New York area. No matter how I felt about their decisions what had been done was done and nothing would change that outcome.

I realized having mulled it over that what Esau Metzler and his group did in New York was just the beginning, so I began investigating as much about Nazis coming illegally into the USA. It didn’t take me long to confirm that after World War II, the USA offered more than 1,600 German scientists, engineers, and technicians, immunity from prosecution in exchange for them agreeing to work for the country that had caught them. This was what I’d learned earlier was named Operation Paperclip which in fact had nothing to do with the work that my uncle and the men of room 24B were involved in.

I was going through boxes and boxes of Uncle John’s important papers, and I came across something that I hadn’t seen before. I knew that he’d been involved with Esau Metzler in tracking down Nazi war criminals who'd slipped into the US after the war on forged documents, but I had never seen the actual evidence that was staring at me now. In a file marked 24B I discovered a trove of 45 individual files. Every file represented the name of a Nazi war criminal living in the United States. Each file gave the Nazi’s name, age, photo, concentration camp he worked at, rank he held, his address in America and finally his current status with a notation D for dead and A for still alive. I’ve offered several random samples of individuals below for context and added notes that Uncle John had written about the disposition of each individual.

Friedrich Schmidt, 36, Sobibor, Ober Fuhrer, 317 Windmill Circle, Queens, NY 16973. D

Hans Schneider, 28, Neuengamme, Guard, 456 Shropshire Road Brooklyn NY 13245 D

Franz Mueller 47, Dachau, Hauptmann. 3791 5th Avenue, Apt 75. Manhattan NY 11275 D

Günter Schäfer, 22, Auschwitz, Guard, 7896 Finn Way, Chappaqua NY 17789 D

Franz Mueller: Looking down the list of 45 names I found a couple that I had found out about earlier. For instance Franz Mueller the Nazi whose job it was at Dachau concentration camp to collect all the silver and gold from incoming Jews and then melt the gold and silver down and make bullion and then deposit it into a Nazi bank every day. Mueller had worked out a scam whereby he stole gold for himself and then deposited the pilfered gold into a separate bank account in his own name. Had he been caught the Nazi's would have shot him on the spot. A prisoner who worked with him at Dachau noticed his pilfering and years later working for 24B Ismael Gerstein found him living in New York city and 'convinced' him to pay back the entire fortune to Simon Wiesenthal right before Franz Mueller decided to step off his 7th floor balcony landing head first on a Buick parked on 5th Avenue below.

Friedrich Schmidt: Esau and Moe had been staking out the house where Friedrich Schmidt had been living for two weeks. We’d received a tip that Schmidt had entered the US a year ago. It had taken us this long to find his whereabouts, but we finally managed to do so after we found him working for a grocery store in Queens. We had tracked him since he entered the US in New York after being released at Nuremberg where he was found guilty of war crimes and sentenced to 3 years in custody. He served his time was released and then purchased a new identity which gave him the opportunity to enter the United States with forged papers. Friedrich Schmidt was a sadist at Sobibor and was responsible for hundreds of deaths of Jews between 1943 and 1945.

We all have our own methods apparently that we prefer to use for killing and Moe Berger liked what is known as a ‘bump and kill technique.’ He waited until Friedrich came out of his house one morning on his way to work. Moe walking in the opposite direction walked toward him and feigning a trip, brushed against Schmidt’s shoulder. In Moe’s hand was a needle with a vial of potassium cyanide attached. As he brushed against him he pricked Schmidt’s arm. All it took was a tiny prick that Schmidt didn’t even feel and about 20 seconds later Schmidt began experiencing shortness of breath and then dropped to his knees and began frothing at the mouth. Moe carried on walking as if nothing had happened. No one witnessed the attack as Friedrich Schmidt lay dying on the sidewalk. Friedrich Schmidt died right there on the sidewalk a long way from Sobibor the Nazi camp where he’d worked as an Ober Fuhrer.

Sobibor was a death camp built and operated by Nazi Germany as part of Operation Reinhard. It was located in the forest near the village of Sobibor in the Government region of Poland.

As an extermination camp rather than a concentration camp, Sobibor existed for the sole purpose of killing Jews. The vast majority of prisoners were gassed within a few hours of their arrival. Those not gassed immediately were forced to assist in the operation of the camp, and few survived more than a few months. In total, some 170k to 250k people were murdered at Sobibor, making it the 4th deadliest Nazi camp after Belzec, Treblinka & Auschwitz.

Friedrich Schmidt was an Ober Fuhrer in the SS and a particularly nasty fellow. He took delight in watching Jews die and was famous at Sobibor for using a knife to slice up his victims. Knowing the precise pressure points Schmidt would enjoy walking up to a prisoner and without warning would stab his victim in a part of his or her body and then as they lay on the ground pleading for help, he would light a cigarette place his foot on their chest and watch them bleed out. 

Hans Schneider. Neuengamme was a group of a number of Nazi camps in northern Germany that consisted of one main camp, and more than 85 satellite camps. Built in 1938 near the village of Neuengamme in the Bergdorf district of Hamburg, the camp became the largest concentration camp in NW Germany. Over 100,000 prisoners came through Neuengamme and its subcamps 24 of which were for women. 

After the war ended Hans Schneider moved to the US using a pseudonym, Carl Evers. First, he fled from Neuengamme near Hamburg and made his way to Holland by way of Luxembourg and ended up living in Amsterdam where he secured forged papers in the name of Carl Evers. As Hans Schneider he'd been a guard at Neuengamme’s main camp where he had a reputation for brutality. His favorite method of torture was what was known as the hanging pole. He would tie the prisoners’ hands behind his back and then hoist him in the air using ropes that were tied to the man’s wrists. The man was suspended in the air by his arms which put undue pressure on his shoulders. He was kept suspended for hours. Many prisoners could not take the pain and died but if they survived their shoulders would be dislocated. As Neuengamme was a work camp any prisoner who was unable to do his job would be hanged or shot. Hans worked at the camp for three years and was responsible for at least one thousand deaths.

24B was currently watching two dozen alleged war criminals who had moved into the New York area. One of the operatives Bill Rein, a survivor himself had managed to track down Hans Schneider the brutal guard at Neuengamme who had delighted in torture by tying his victims’ hands behind their back and suspending them by a rope attached to their wrists. Sometimes he would add weights to their bodies intensifying the effect and increasing the pain. Bill discovered that Carl Evers, as Hans now called himself worked at the Jericho meat packing plant in Brooklyn two miles from his home on Shropshire Avenue. “Bill Rein and I followed Hans to the plant,” wrote Uncle John. “We then waited in the shadows until late at night when Hans was alone and then made our move. He was cutting up a carcass and when he was finished, he walked into the freezer to get another. We followed and confronted him in the freezer. There were frozen carcasses hanging on hooks, and just as he lifted one down, we announced ourselves. How’re you doing Hans?” I asked. The look of surprise on his face spoke volumes. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.” He started. “Nope, I don’t think so Carl. Your name is Hans Schneider, and you were a guard at Neuengamme where you liked to torture Jews using Strappado.” With that Bill Rein grabbed a terrified Hans Schneider tied his hands behind his back and hoisted him onto the hook which he’d just removed the carcass from. “You’re making a big mistake. My name is Carl Evers. As we walked out of the freezer carefully slamming the door behind us, we could hear him at first pleading and then angrily yelling epithets that was accusing us of being filthy Jews. As we left the meat packing plant his cries became fainter. They would find him in the morning. Stiff as a board.”

Günter Schäfer: was a guard at Auschwitz a complex of 40 concentration and death camps operated by Nazi Germany in occupied Poland during World War II and the Holocaust. He was a 22-year-old who joined the Hitler Youth brigade in 1935 because of his radical beliefs. He enjoyed nothing more than cracking heads together and derived joy in his work. He had hate in his heart when he was hired as a guard at Auschwitz where he was employed to help Jews as they arrived by cattle car from ghetto’s all over Poland. His job was to separate children from their parents and then lead them to slaughter. He loved his job. Günter was also a coward. He was a hero in his mind when he was dishing it out but as soon as the tables turned, he ran like a sissy. His crimes would follow him until the day he died. Günter was a killer from his early days with the Hitler Youth when he would single out a man who was walking too slowly by his own severe standards and he’d take out his Luger walk up to the man and shoot him in the temple. He would then laugh and say to no one in particular, “there that should get them moving.” His actions of cruelty were infamous too at Auschwitz where he earned the nickname “grunter the hunter.” He spent his day taking pot shots at prisoners because at Auschwitz there was no accountability for Nazi’s.

After Auschwitz was liberated, he ran home to his Mommy in Berlin and being blonde and blue eyed he looked much younger than he was so managed to avoid any unpleasant suggestions that he was a war criminal. That worked for a while until his mother, so incensed by what he’d done at Auschwitz, turned him in to the authorities. He was processed put on trial and found guilty of killing hundreds of Jews during his time as a guard but given the chaos of the times he managed to come away from his trial with a mere 18-month prison term. After he was released, he got hold of fake identification and slipped into New York as Simon Jennings where he lived under the radar until a survivor from Auschwitz recognized grunter the hunter at the place she worked. Marta Isaacs was just 17 when she and her parents were sent to Auschwitz. Her Mom was sent directly to the gas chamber, but her Dad and she were deemed fit for work and were sent to separate barracks. Marta never saw her father again but got to know Günter Schafer. Marta was young and beautiful, and Gunter liked her. Not only was he a callous and cruel young man he was also quite willing to break the rules if it suited his purpose. In exchange for certain luxuries Marta traded sex for extra food. This went on for a few months until Günter Schäfer was transferred to one of the sub-camps at Auschwitz.

On Simon Jennings’ first day working at the Sav-Mor grocery chain Marta a cashier noticed him. He was bagging groceries for a customer 3 cash registers away from hers and she recognized him right away. She was now pregnant and married to the assistant manager of Sav-Mor. Time spent at Auschwitz had not been kind to Marta and 10 years later as a 27-year-old Marta was unrecognizable as the same 17-year-old beauty she once had been. That night when she got home, she told her husband Chad who Simon Jennings was. Chad Tompkins was horrified. Of course she left out the part about her having sex with him. Chad thought about it and realized something didn’t add up. How could a German by the name of Günter Schäfer be working at Sav-Mor as Simon Jennings? It made no sense. The first thing he did the next morning was to put in a call to the Immigration and Naturalization Service to ask their advice. After a dozen transfers Chad finally got through to the right person. “Good morning, this is Moe Berger, how can I help you?” “Good morning Mr. Berger. My name is Chad Tompkins, and I am the assistant manager of Sav-Mor grocery chain right here in Chappaqua and I have an unusual question for you. We have a new employee whose name is Simon Jennings and another of our employees who was at Auschwitz, has recognized him as a German guard called Günter Schäfer. Is it possible for you to find out if it is a case of mistaken identity or is he using a false name?” Moe Berger could hardly contain his excitement because Schäfer was on the 24B's most wanted list but kept his cool and told the assistant manager that he would look into it and get back to him soon.

After he put the phone down, he telephoned 24B and spoke directly to Bill Rein. “We must be patient Moe. If we act too fast his sudden death may come back on us. Why don’t we start our investigation into him straight away and when things have settled down, we can act.” “That makes perfect sense my friend,” answered Moe Berger. “Let me get his details and pretend to open an investigation and after a couple of months I’ll say that Simon Jennings is legitimately who he says he is and we can close the case. After that we can go after Günter Schäfer with impunity.” Moe Berger had been working for the Immigration and Naturalization Service since 1948 as a field agent. He was not ambitious but considered his job to be a means to an end. His real job in life was to avenge the wrongdoings of the Nazi’s for murdering 6 million Jews in the Holocaust. His other job just gave him the ability to move around freely when investigating alleged war criminals.

Chad told Marta about the conversation he’d had with Immigration and Naturalization. They had looked into the allegations and had decided that Simon Jennings was completely legitimate and was definitely not Günter Schäfer. Marta was furious. She had seen firsthand what this lunatic was capable of. She went out the following day and bought a pistol and she brought it home with her and took it to work in her purse. She waited until Simon took a break and then she walked into the staff room and with pistol drawn she put it up to his temple while he was drinking a cup of tea. Just before she shot him in the temple Günter recognized her and a look of terror crossed his face just before Marta pulled the trigger, avenging the hundreds of innocent Jews he’d had the audacity to kill. After the kill she sat down placed the gun on the table and waited patiently for the police to arrive.

Marta Isaacs was duly arrested and charged with the murder of a German guard named Günter Schäfer who had committed war crimes against Jews at Auschwitz. Moe Berger from the Immigration and Naturalization Service testified on her behalf and given the unusual circumstance of the case the jury of 12 American men found Marta guilty but recommended a lenient sentence. Judge Ginsberg listened to the jury’s recommendation and gave Marta Isaac, who had been in custody for about a year before trial a sentence of time served and a fine of $1.00. As the balcony heard the sentence they erupted in cheers and Marta Isaacs walked out of court a free woman.

Three other alleged Nazi war criminals who’d immigrated to New York disappeared in mysterious circumstances that year never to be heard from again. They were:

 Hermann Weber, 32, Chelmno, Hauptmann. 452 Ames Road, Syosset, NY. 15798 D

Karl Meyer, 38, Buchenwald, Lieutenant. 9176 Apt 137 7th Avenue NY 15578 D

Otto Wagner, 29, Treblinka, SS-Obersturmführer. 2053 #7 East 38th St. NY 15589 D

As I looked through the files that my Uncle had written so copiously all those years ago, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the way Esau Metzler, Moe Berger, John Harrimann, Bill Rein Moe Berger, Sophia Engelmann, Ismael Gerstein and Judy Schiff all survivors of some of the greatest atrocities in the history of the world had managed to organize, create, and locate 45 dangerous war criminals who were all living under pseudonyms in the New York area and manage to make most of them pay the ultimate price for their crimes. And while I would never condone violence now having read all 45 files, I understand their desire to seek vengeance for the crimes they committed against such innocent victims.

The Men and Women of 24B are all gone now but their work lives on through the families of the survivors of the Holocaust.

CHAPTER 27

Seattle John Sampson

Henry Mitchell arrived in Seattle and reinvented himself. His emergency kit was ready for any eventuality. The kit which included new identities, driver’s license, passport assorted wigs and hair dye had enough money to keep him going which he’d amassed over the years from owning Mitchell’s Solenoid Company.

Heinrich Mueller was driving a car that he had bought a few days earlier and registered in his name John Sampson. As he drove his Volvo into Seattle, he marveled to himself at what a beautiful city it was. Yes, I’ll be happy here he thought. As he drove down the hill with the bay offering sweeping vistas he pondered where he should stay tonight. He knew that there wouldn’t be a manhunt for him, but he was smart enough to realize that the Simon Wiesenthal agents would be chasing him. I mustn’t draw attention to myself, he thought. That night John Sampson checked into a Howard Johnson’s Inn on Waters Avenue. He paid for a week in cash figuring that he could find an apartment to rent in the meantime. Once he had found an apartment, he could look for a job, something that was low key not stressful and above all nothing that might draw attention to himself. On the fourth day in Seattle he answered an advertisement for a property manager in a new low-rise block of apartments on Wisconsin Avenue close to downtown. His job would provide him with a small 1-bedroom flat on property and the job would entail collecting rent from 20 apartments and generally maintaining the property, removing garbage and fixing things in the 20 apartments that might break down. He arrived at the property and had an interview. The owner was a middle-aged Jew who Heinrich had a terrible urge to shoot. Instead he smiled and answered the man’s questions and after about 45 minutes a tour of the property was offered the job. He told Abraham Weiss the owner that he would be available to start immediately as he had just relocated to the Pacific Northwest from the east, a place called Canaan CT. Heinrich smiled inwardly to himself at the irony.

John Sampson moved into his new flat the following day and began work immediately. His apartment was scrupulously clean just the way he liked it, and he got into a good rhythm at work. He was of course ridiculously over qualified but that didn’t bother John. As far as he was concerned keeping his head low was his all-important job right now. The apartments were mainly rented by professional people who worked downtown, and John quickly became useful to them as a maintenance man and property manager. His new job was the perfect cover for a man like Mueller, and he quickly became a vital part of the building. One Friday evening Abe came by to pick up the rent from John as was his custom every month. It was in late June and Abe was wearing a short sleeve shirt. John noticed Abe’s tattoo on his inner right forearm but didn’t mention seeing it simply glossing over the incident. Abe, however, noticed that his property manager had seen the tattoo but dismissed the fact that he stayed silent as a sign of respect. John Sampson did not want to seem nosy.

Over the course of the next few years John Sampson fit in well to the Seattle lifestyle. He learned to go with the flow much more than he ever had in Detroit and wasn’t nearly as paranoid about bumping into strangers who might recognize him from his past. In Pensacola however there was a pit bull called Sophia Engelmann aka Cynthia Hawkins who had never given up looking for Heinrich Mueller. She remembered every woman he had shot and kept a record so that if the monster was ever caught, she would be able to testify against him. When Mueller was identified at the Miller Solenoid Company by Fillip Kowalski, Cynthia knew the moment she saw his picture that this was the man who had tormented her and so many others at Auschwitz and swore she would make sure that he was brought to justice. She called up Bill Rein, the investigator and old friend of Uncle John’s and asked him to see if he could find any leads.

Meanwhile John Turley who worked for Simon Wiesenthal was hard at work tracking down Heinrich Mueller’s last known whereabouts. Humans are creatures of habit and John knew that one day Henry Mitchell or whatever he was calling himself now, would make a mistake and trip himself up. Figuring that Mitchell would drive west, the first thing Turley did was take out advertisements in all the towns along Interstate 80 and 70 that asked, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?” with a current photo of Henry below. He didn’t have any luck but that didn’t deter him. He continued trying to find out as much about this longtime Nazi as he could. John Turley was an optimist.

Heinrich Mueller lived in Berlin and had joined the Nazi party in 1935. He had been instrumental in displacing hundreds of Jewish families and relocating them to a series of ghettos throughout Poland and Germany until after the war began in 1939, he was sent to Mauthausen concentration camp in southern Austria. From Mauthausen he moved to Auschwitz, Majdanek Treblinka, Dachau and finally Buchenwald. Turley was amazed at the number of camps Mueller worked at but just assumed that his bosses had just been pleased with his work.

Bill Rein was having more success tracking down Henry Mitchell. He had discovered that a man answering Mitchell’s description had purchased a 1970 dark blue Volvo cross country station wagon at a used car dealership in Cheyenne Wyoming. The man using the name John Sampson had paid cash for the car. After Bill Rein learned this, he flew to Cheyenne to interview the salesman at Scott’s Auto sales a man named Jerry Erwin. “Did Mr. Sampson also register the car with you?” Rein asked after he arrived on the lot the following Monday morning. Erwin explained, “we are a soup to nuts dealership. Our customers generally are the buy here pay here crowd, but when a customer wants to pay cash, we don’t turn him away. We like to make car buying as easy as possible and so we offer soup to nuts meaning that once the guy has bought a car from us, we can offer registration and insurance if necessary. In this case Mr. Sampson needed both.” “And so I presume you can furnish me with the license plate number?” “Yes, I can.” Jerry Erwin replied and shuffled through a stack of papers. “I shouldn’t really do this,” he began right before Bill Rein slid a crisp $20 across the desk where they were now sitting. Five minutes later Bill Rein was walking back to his rental car armed with Heinrich Mueller’s new identification. It was just a matter of time before he’d be able to trace John Sampson’s whereabouts. 

CHAPTER 28

The Circus

 I had always wanted to join the circus and so I asked Cynthia whether we owned a circus troupe. Sadly, she told me we didn’t but mentioned that Uncle John had been great friends with Ken Tripp who owned one of the oldest 3 ring circus’ in the country. They were headquartered down the road from us in Sarasota and Cynthia, knowing I’d had a rough summer offered to call them and see if I could apprentice as a clown for just a week. Before I knew it she had done the impossible and booked me for a two week stay at the Ringling HQ for a one week crash clown course and one week of performing with actual professional clowns in front of test crowds before they took to the road on their fall tour.

I was nervous and excited as I pulled up for my first day of clown school. There were a dozen other students who had signed up for the 8-week clown course, but I only would be with them for a week. I’d have to make the most of it. We met our instructor who helped us choose clown clothing from the wardrobe. I chose a multi colored wig, a loose brightly colored shirt with oversized buttons. Pantaloons two sizes too big helped make me look even more ridiculous than I felt with red and orange socks up to the knees and finished up with huge really oversized red shiny shoes that all clowns wear. My whole ensemble was topped off by ill-fitting suspenders that honked every time I touched them. A sweet lady named Freda who’d been doing makeup with the Ringling outfit forever made me up to look like a fully-fledged clown. When I looked at myself in the full-length mirror I burst into laughter. How could I have not? We spent five long days being taught what makes audiences laugh. Falling on your face is number one. A close second is running into a door, but my favorite is when a clown gets a pie in his face. I’ve always loved clown violence. I learned to ride a miniature donkey with a loose saddle so when I was in mid gallop the saddle would slip and I clinging on for dear life would be riding upside down until another clown rescued me. I was surprisingly good and had a natural flair for comedy. I also loved clowning and after a few days wondered why I had wasted my life being a teacher when I could have easily gone to Clown University to make kids laugh. I also learned how to drive those cute little clown cars. I knew that if I’d had the time, I’d have really benefited from taking the full 8-week course, but oh well this would have to do. In five days I had learned the basics of being a clown. Now I’d spend Saturday, Sunday and Monday rehearsing with the clown troupe who were under the impression I was a ringer from another circus and was joining the group and would be going on tour with the circus in the Fall. I was going to have to do the acting job of my life. The first rehearsal on Saturday was a bit dodgy. My timing was off and the routines were fast and furious but after a few practices I got my timing down so by Sunday I was actually becoming a cog in a slightly rusty machine. Then on the final rehearsal of the day everything clicked, and I went to bed exhausted but pleased I was part of a troupe that’d make kids laugh not cry. Monday came too soon, and another long day of rehearsals ensued. I had mastered my saddle slipping act and they had decided that it’d be funnier and more effective using a large horse instead of the little donkey. It took me a couple of try’s, but I eventually mastered the timing and my steed most importantly didn’t freak out. It turned out he was as docile as a mouse and the sweetest feller I’d ever ridden. Three more rehearsals gave us the confidence I needed so by the time we packed it in on Monday night we were seasoned professionals and ready for a tent full of kids the following day.

Like anything practice makes perfect, and circus’s never go on the road without testing their current show. Juggling three rings is an art in itself, and the clowns were used to create transitions between the different acts. For instance while one ring is active the second ring is being prepped for let’s say a Lion act. So in between the clowns will perform, giving the audience some light comedic relief after which the elephants may do their act in ring three. It is complicated to arrange animals to perform on cue and I was incredibly impressed at how smooth everything went. There were Lions, tigers, trapeze artists, clowns, jugglers, and countless other acts who were all waiting to give the kids the time of their lives, but it had to be timed perfectly and if one thing went wrong the whole performance could backfire. I realized I had to bring my A game even though it was just a dummy run.

To complicate matters the clowns were working the three rings. Dependent on the act that was to follow we had to kick in to high gear in any one of the three rings. Heck, it kept us on our toes. We had 3 sold out shows each day Tuesday through Saturday. I was most grateful to the suits for taking a chance on me, and I intended to be a team player and make sure the audiences loved what we were doing. I’d grown comfortable with my slipping saddle routine. It worked well and always got a huge laugh. My other big moment was making my entrance riding backwards on my friend the donkey. The kids loved that especially when the other clowns saved me by tossing me onto a big trampoline and letting me bounce. Thank goodness I’m pretty fit, that’s all I can say. Our first show was at 11:00 am and the audience began showing up about thirty minutes before. On the stroke of 11 the entire ensemble paraded into the big top and in circus fashion the ringmaster took center stage and introduced every act to thunderous and excited applause. Halfway through the show I made my slipping saddle routine entrance to huge laughter when I ended up under my horses’ belly. The kids laughed so hard but when my other clowns with the aid of a clown crane pushed me back up on the horses’ back, they whole audience clapped wildly. The funny thing about circus’s is that the main thing a clown achieves is comic relief between acts that have trained for years to even be allowed to perform their act in public. Take for instance the lion taming act. In our case Siegfried the Magnificent had worked with his 6 lions for years and had built up a loving relationship with all of them. It was a highly dangerous act to put your head in the mouth of a 400 lb. male lion. Any unusual noise may distract the lion and Siegfried had earned the trust of his Lions to minimize the dangers. Some years earlier a lion tamer had been mauled and almost lost his life. In the short time I’d been with the circus I’d gained enormous respect for the dedicated trainers and performers and was proud to work side by side with these artists.

My first show went wonderfully well. Our audiences understood us clowns and added the right degree of levity to the performance. Each consecutive show got even better with every passing day and so by Saturday, my last day with them, it was mixed with great pride and sadness as I said my farewell to show business.

I drove home that evening to be met by Billy, Sharon, Lucas, and Adam who had driven down especially to watch me perform as a clown. They came with Jim and Cynthia unbeknownst to me on the Friday evening performance and were now staying with us at Savannah House for a few days r and r. It was a lovely surprise, and the entire group was brilliantly positive about my clowning and had videotaped the whole performance in order to blackmail me at a time of their choosing.

My next port of call was to be house manager at a repertory theater company in Virginia so Jim and I would be flying there in the next few days. I was looking forward to testing out my thespian wings.

CHAPTER 29

The Secret Service

Three days later The First Lady walked into the Secret Service’s main office wanting to know something that she could have easily found out on the phone. Stephen's suspicions were now doubly aroused, She thanked him, and he heard her walking back down the corridor toward the kitchen. He eased the door open to see her walking into the Lady’s room where she stayed for about 5 minutes. It got Stephen thinking and that night he texted Ron to meet him at the 29 in 30 minutes. “I may have found the drop,” he began. “What if the delivery person is a woman? Is there any way you can find that out?” “Sure,” replied Ron. As you know everyone who comes in and out of The White House has to have security clearance. Let me find out tonight so I can give you a short list tomorrow.”

That night Stephen and Molly had a lovely evening together at home. Molly had been pulling long hours at Walter Reed and Stephen went to Giant Foods on his way home and bought a bottle of wine and a tenderloin steak which by the time Molly arrived home he had grilled to perfection. After dinner Stephen did the dishes while Molly took a long relaxing shower and an hour later, they were cuddled up on the couch watching a movie. Toward the end of the movie the hero discovers diamonds hidden in the water tank of a public toilet, and that was when Stephen experienced his eureka moment. Of course, he thought to himself. The water tank behind the toilet would be the perfect drop.

The following morning all hell broke loose. POTUS had been doing an excellent job dismantling the Interior Department by hiring an unqualified acting Secretary who would never have been confirmed by the Senate in a million years. He had been successful in placing acting Secretaries in 7 of his major cabinet positions. The State Department, Education, EPA, DOD, and Veteran Affairs, Treasury and Energy now all had acting heads not confirmed by the Senate. It was almost as if President Cramer was himself an agent of Guryev, Stephen mused. It couldn’t be, or could it? That truly would be crazy. He arrived at The White House to find utter pandemonium in The West Wing. POTUS had recently hired a man who had been accused of being a White Supremacist and had convinced the President that in order to stop immigrants from crossing the southern border he should arrest families seeking asylum and begin separating the kids from their parent’s and putting them all in cages indefinitely. Word had leaked out overnight that this was POTUS’s intention and with the press accurately reporting the facts his administration became reviled around the world except in Russia, where everything was going according to plan, and Guryev was dancing with joy. Stephen called Molly around 11 am and told her about the chaos. She’d seen the news and at first hadn’t believed it. This man is a monster she exclaimed. “I agree.” Stephen answered. “See you tonight. I love you.” At lunchtime he received the list that Ron had promised and by 3 Stephen had figured out who Yves’s Russian handler was. He texted Ron cryptically. “R 29 at 7. S. “

Initially after Yves married TFPUSA, she simply reported back to her handler what he was doing week by week. After studying her husband’s domestic policies she began to notice a pattern emerge and it appeared to emulate every Russian playbook to overthrow a democracy that she’d ever read. She knew that POTUS had great respect for Guryev and talked to him regularly, and so she began wondering if her husband might have gone over to the other side. Yves in no way considered that she was a traitor but for some reason considered it treason if her husband was doing the same thing as her. The only way he would do something like that she argued to herself was if Russia had kompromat on him. Thus continued her double life in the world of espionage.

TFPUSA sees himself as an autocratic leader. He has done his level best in the year he’s been POTUS to alienate himself from his allies like Germany, the UK, France, Japan, Canada, the Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, and Finland and cozy up to nations like the Soviet Union, North Korea, and Turkey. The current leader of Turkey had been initially elected democratically. Slowly and surely, he eroded the tenets of a democratic society by clamping down on the rights of the people of Turkey and restricting the press to write freely. He arrested journalists who disagreed with his policies and threw people in jail for saying what they believed and before long Turkey became an autocratic nation. That was precisely what Adolf Hitler had done in the 20s and 30’s. He began imposing restrictions on all Jews and made them identify themselves by sewing a yellow Star of David on their clothing. He finally prevented them from riding their bikes on the street or going to the park and refusing to allow them to walk on the sidewalk.

TFPUSA has surrounded himself with racists like Jason Millbank’s who since the beginning of his presidency had restricted Muslims from entering the USA and locked up and separated children from their parents while seeking asylum in the “home of the free.” His policies were similar to those of Adolf Hitler in the 1930s and marked a significant turning point in our democracy.

Yves’ handler, it turned out was a Russian woman who worked at the Russian Embassy and worked directly for Igor Subkov. Her name was Nastya Yishuv. As her cover Nastya delivered groceries to The White House using the name Natalie Wisdom a name the Russian Embassy had cleared for security purposes. Natalie delivered groceries to The White House twice a week on Monday and Thursday. On Monday she would drop instructions to Yves by placing them in the water tank of the restroom in the ladies’ room next to the kitchen and near to the Secret Service office. On Thursday she would pick up Yves’ answer. This went on successfully for 9 months until one day Nastya picked up a message from The First Lady asking if her husband was already an asset of the Russian Federation. She took this message directly to her bosses at the Embassy to ask what she should do.

Sitting at their usual table at 29 Diner Stephen didn’t beat about the bush. “Her name is Nastya Yishuv, and her cover name is Natalie Wisdom,” he said to his friend. How did you find that out?” Ron asked. “It’s funny you should ask that. The Russians are many things. They’re brilliant at deception and subterfuge but the one thing they’re not good at is using their imaginations. When I first saw the name Natalie Wisdom on the clearance list I had requested, it rang a bell and so I dug into the archives and found the name buried in a transcript from the Reagan era. She was a suspected operative back then and we deported her in 1987. It seems they have recycled the names they used in the past. At any rate I checked out Natalie Wisdom who actually is a GRU agent based at The Russian Embassy in D.C. and her real name is Nastya Yishuv. As you mentioned to me in the text, she delivers groceries to The White House on Monday and Thursday every week, and if I can gain access to the Ladies Room, I think I’ll find the drop box they are using in one of the water tanks behind one of the toilets.” “Amazing Stephen. I’m impressed,” said Ron “let’s bring the bitch down.” The next day was Thursday and Stephen watched the activity closely on that bathroom. Sure enough sometime around noon Nastya turned up and walked in to the Lady’s Room where she stayed for less than three minutes. Around 12:30 The First Lady appeared and ducked in to the lady’s Room where she stayed for less than two minutes. Stephen had now confirmed to himself that this was their mode of communication. Later that day he texted Ron that the mission had been successful, and the room was confirmed as the drop.

Consternation rippled through The Russian Embassy. What Yves Cramer had asked was accurate but outrageous. The President of the United States had indeed been turned and was an asset of The Russian Federation, but no one must know. They ordered Nastya to inform her asset that her husband had not been compromised.

Stephen watched as Natalie Wisdom walked into the Lady’s Room. He waited until she left and then walked in himself. He knew he had less than ten minutes to discover the drop before The First Lady would arrive to pick up her new instructions. There were 6 cubicles and a row of sinks. He ignored the sinks and went to the first stall and removed the tank lid. Nothing. The second stall yielded the same result. He went to the third stall and tucked into the water tank was a waterproof package. He retrieved it and opened the small sheet of paper inside. He had his phone ready and snapped a picture, and then swiftly folded the sheet of paper and placed it back in the waterproof package and placed it back in the water tank. As he finished putting the lid back on, he heard a sound, and he ran two stalls away and without locking the door kneeled on the toilet, so it’d seem as if no one was in the cubicle. He managed to hide just in time as a person entered the bathroom and went directly to the 3rd cubicle. Stephen could hear someone lifting the lid of the water tank and then retrieving the message and replacing the lid. The First Lady’s visit took less than 2 minutes. Stephen waited about 10 minutes and then when he felt it was safe, he left his hiding place and walked into a deserted corridor. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief. He had found what he’d been looking for. The truth.

CHAPTER 30

Cynthia Hawkins

Cynthia Hawkins was hard at work at her office in Pensacola. It was the perfect cover job for her as John Harriman was the perfect boss. He left her alone as he was on the road visiting his many businesses three weeks a month. She had joined Harriman 5 years earlier when immigration had started sniffing around her old company 24B who she had worked for since she came to the US in 1953 under her given name Sophia Engelmann. When she first came to Pensacola the local newspaper wrote a fluff piece on her which John Harriman obviously read. The reporter a young intern did some research into Cynthia’s background and learned she was a German Jew who spent several years in Auschwitz. Luckily, the young reporter reported Cynthia’s real name wrongly and called her Sophia Engel instead of Engelmann. That tiny mistake allowed Sophia to continue working covertly for 24B.

24B was started in 1946 by a group of survivors in New York, Bill Rein being one of them who upon arriving home discovered that Nazis were being set free by the English and American liberators. The Nuremberg trials were in full swing and while many of the high-profile Nazis has been found guilty and either hanged or sent to prison the vast majority managed to evade capture or receive any meaningful sentence and ended up with new identities moving to the USA, or Brazil, or living anonymously in Europe. 24B put together a team of investigators, Sophia Engelmann being one to rout out as many Nazis, expose them, and bring them to justice.

Sophia over the years had become one of 24B’s top operatives in the US and when she moved to Florida, she managed to obscure her identity by changing her name. Imagine her horror in 1953 when a cub reporter almost outed her. It was thanks to a lack of readership and that social media didn’t yet exist plus the fact the reporter misspelled her name that saved Sophia’s bacon. After she accepted Uncle John’s offer of a job, she laid low for several months and learned all about the “salvage” business. In many ways the job was ideal. Much of her work had to do with research and chasing down leads and looking through stacks and stacks of public immigration records. All very boring really, yet Sophia aka Cynthia was in her element. She had used Bill Rein as a legit investigator since she started working at Harriman, but prior to that had relied on the investigative genius of 24B.

Sitting at her desk the phone rang on Cynthia’s desk. Uncle John was in New York for a few days, and she was able to concentrate on her own accounts. She and Bill Rein had an understanding that anything she discussed with him vis a vis 24B was sacrosanct and mustn’t be discussed with John Harriman. Cynthia thought she was being clever when she made that arrangement with Bill but didn’t factor how loyal Rein was to the Harriman family. So when Bill Rein mentioned it to his friend the next time they spoke, John Harriman just laughed and told him not to worry and to do what she asked. When he’d first hired her, he had a sneaking suspicion that she was more involved than she had confessed in the interview. John Harriman given his own background approved of any efforts to bring members of the Nazi party to justice. Uncle John had never discussed with Cynthia that he was an integral part of 24B. It wasn't until after his death that Cynthia caught wind that he was in fact one of the founders.

The second ring of her phone was more insistent and so she picked it up and said, “Good morning this is Cynthia at Harriman Holding. How can I help you?” “Cynthia, it’s Bill. I’ve got a positive lead on Henry Mitchell. Do you have a minute to talk?”  “I’ve discovered he’s living under the name John Sampson. He bought a dark blue Volvo cross country station wagon from a car dealer with Wyoming plates, LDR539, and I think he’s living somewhere out west maybe in Washington State. I managed to track him as far as Spokane by talking to front desk hotel employees along the route from Detroit. People are creatures of habit, and usually stay at the same hotel chain so it initially took me a while to figure out which chain he liked, but once I nailed that I was home free.” “Oh well done Bill. That is good news.” Cynthia answered. “Let me know the moment you find him, okay?” It was none of Bills’ business after he located his quarry, but he was savvy enough to understand the ramifications.

One-week later Bill Rein called Sophia in Florida. “I’ve found him,” he exclaimed. “He’s working as a property manager in Seattle. He lives on site. The address is 1300 Wisconsin Avenue Seattle WA 97856.” Sophia scribbled down the address furiously and then repeated it back to Bill Rein to make sure it was correct. “I am most grateful to you Bill. Thanks for your work.” And Sophia hung up the phone and immediately placed the termination order with 24B.

Four days later a young tall good-looking man flew coach from Charlotte NC to Seattle WA while at the same time a dark-skinned business woman flew from Concord NH to Seattle arriving within minutes of each other at the international airport. The young man and the business woman hired separate taxi cabs to the same hotel a Marriott in downtown Seattle. Later that afternoon a woman arrived from Pensacola Fl flying in via Houston TX. She took a taxi to the Marriott and checked in. 24B was made up of a dozen or so investigators, most of them survivors of the camps who all shared the same passion. Justice. The three met at a bench overlooking the bay. Just 3 strangers sat on the bench, 2 reading their papers while the third stranger fed the pigeons. What could look more normal? Only three words were spoken and then they all left and went on with their day. The following morning a white panel van pulled up in front of the apartment building at 1300 Wisconsin and 3 people got out and walked to the front entrance. They knew where they were going and walked downstairs to the building manager’s apartment and rang the bell. When John Sampson opened the door the three pushed in, grabbing him so he couldn’t flee.

24B is a wing of the Wiesenthal Group and is responsible for covert operations, intel collection and counterterrorism. It is not a sanctioned Mossad operation and is totally separate from Israel's democratic institutions. Because no law defines its purpose, objectives, roles, missions, powers, or budget and because it is exempt from the constitutional laws of the State of Israel, 24B answers to a board of directors and is not associated officially with Israel. The three operatives were all highly trained 24B agents. One of the three was none other than Sophia (aka Cynthia Hawkins) Engelmann. They bound Mueller’s hands and feet and placed duct tape over his mouth. They then injected him with a solution that ensured he would be passed out for at least an hour and went through the small flat with a fine-tooth comb searching for clues to his past. When they were done, they rolled him up in a carpet and two of them carried his unconscious body outside and put the carpet in their panel van. They then closed the back doors of the van, climbed in and drove away. Nobody had witnessed a thing.

They drove away south from Seattle for about half an hour arriving at a private airstrip in Kent WA where they were meeting a Gulf-stream G 11B jet just west of the small town. 24B had arranged discreet flight details that allowed the jet to take off from the private airstrip with a destination of Haifa in Israel. Sophia would not be traveling to Haifa with Heinrich Mueller and the other two 24B agents but would be heading home to Pensacola to pick up her life again working for John Harriman at Harriman Holdings. The van pulled into the private airfield owned by Abe Weiss, the owner of the apartment building in Seattle where John Sampson had recently been hired as the property manager. Once 24B found out that Mueller was traveling under the name John Sampson and figured he was heading for Seattle they contacted one of their “sleeper” cells a man called Abe Weiss who needed a property manager in one of the many apartment complexes he owned throughout Seattle. 24B took a gamble that paid off and Sampson called Abe up a few days later answering the ad he had placed in the Seattle Times. The moment Sampson accepted the job 24B sprang into action and arranged for 3 agents to fly to Seattle to kidnap Heinrich Mueller and drive him to Abe Weiss’s airport in Kent so they could deposit Mueller on a jet and fly him to Israel to stand trial for the murder of hundreds of Jews in World War II at the concentration camps at which he had worked.

The van pulled into a gated community and was stopped by the guard who rang a number and then buzzed them through. Henry Mitchell was wide awake now and struggling to free himself. The more he struggled the tighter his bonds became. As they pulled onto the airstrip a Gulf-stream jet was waiting to greet them. They drew up alongside the plane and Sophia slid open the sliding back door revealing Heinrich Mueller and the other two 24B agents helping him climb down from the van. The first person he saw standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the plane was Abraham Weiss. The look of contempt he gave the man who had hired him to manage his building said it all. "This is for all the Jews you killed in Ravensbruck." Abe said to Heinrich Mueller's and spat in his face.

Abraham Weiss was 15 years old when he went to Ravensbruck. He was a Polish Jew who had spent the previous 3 years in the Warsaw ghetto The construction of Ravensbruck began in 1938 ordered by SS leader Heinrich Himmler and was unusual in that it was intended exclusively to hold female inmates and children. Ravensbruck first housed prisoners in May 1939, when the SS moved 900 women from the Lichtenburg concentration camp in Saxony. Eight months after the start of World War II the camp's maximum capacity was already exceeded. It underwent major expansion after the invasion of Poland. By the summer of 1941 with the launch of Operation Barbarossa an estimated 5,000 were imprisoned, who were fed gradually decreasing hunger rations. By the end of 1942, the inmate population of Ravensbrück had grown to 10,000. The greatest number of prisoners at one time in Ravensbrück was almost 45,000.

Abraham Weiss like Uncle John survived the horrors of living like an animal for five years and when he was finally liberated promised to spend the rest of his life bringing the monsters, he had witnessed shooting and murdering his fellow Jews to justice. It was with a great deal of pride that he stood at the foot of the steps as he witnessed a murderous Nazi being led off to answer for his crimes. 

CHAPTER 31

The Theater

The Roadside Theatre has been around since 1926. It was first opened in the middle of one of the worst depressions in American history. That however never stopped the brave men and women who volunteered their time to become one of the finest repertory companies in this land. Year after year locals with a passion for acting would put everything they had into producing plays, musicals, dramas, and even Shakespearean plays like Hamlet or Othello. The actors relied on volunteers from the community, amateur thespians who during the day were surgeons, accountants, or mailmen and by night three or four months a year were the lead actor in an Agatha Christie murder mystery. That in a nutshell is repertory theatre. I grew up going to a wonderful summer series in Middletown Virginia. They would advertise their summer season in local newspapers and my mother would buy all of us children and her season tickets. Some years would be wonderful, others less so. It didn’t matter. It was just a ritual for us. Daddy hated all that as he called it, “mamby pamby liberal nonsense” and so the four of us would pile into the Old’s Station wagon and drive 60 miles each way out to the Shenandoah Valley, eat dinner at the ancient inn attached to the theatre and enjoy the quirks in all their strange ways every couple of weeks during the summer months. The theatre troupe was supplemented by some professional imports who it seemed were hired for the entire summer. These thespians were plucked from a directory of out of work actors who without the summer work would probably supplement their lives by becoming waiters or laborers because of the lack of acting positions available.

Jim and I flew into Dulles airport as I had been hired as the house manager at the Middleburg Playhouse in the affluent town of Middleburg Virginia. Contrary to popular belief the wealthy are notoriously stingy people, however the Playhouse was well funded and attended by the affluent residents who looked forward to the annual romp with the Arts. The summer season set to run between June 13th and August 29th was just a week away and I was looking forward to my new job and getting to know the actors in the troupe. Uncle John had bought the Middleburg Players after it had been embroiled in a scandal that rocked Fox Country. The Theatre on 3rd street that ran parallel to Main Street was built in 1926, the same year the Middletown theatre was built. Built by the same architect the two theaters were almost identical except that The Playhouse was fractionally larger. The town of Middleburg tends to attract a number of wannabe’s mainly because the actual resident population Is unusually wealthy. One such wannabe man who called himself Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones who claimed to hail from the United Kingdom moved into a large home outside Middleburg that belonged to the estate of JP Morgan the renowned banker. It didn’t take long for this man to inveigle himself into the fabric of Middleburg society. Sir Reginald clearly had pedigree. He was a widower of about 74 who would tell stories about his career in the Far East and the time when he had narrowly escaped capture by the Japanese in World War II by fleeing on foot and managing to walk across the foothills of Burma into India in order to fight another day. Sir Reginald could be seen most evenings at the Red Fox Tavern in town regaling a small crowd of drinkers of his wartime exploits. After the war Sir Reginald returned to his wife, his house in London and his career as a stockbroker in the city where he had ‘reportedly’ made millions. After his wife died, he needed a change of scenery, so he came to Virginia to live with ‘his kind of people’ in Middleburg and start a new life. Obviously, his credentials appealed to the caliber of the residents of Middleburg, and soon he became a regular of the gin and tonic set. His portfolio was impressive and before long the wealthy men of Middleburg began asking him for financial tips in the volatile stock market. It wasn’t long before the tips he had suggested paid dividends and Sir Reginald began reeling the gullible men in promising big returns on their money and relieving them of their money. For a time Sir Reginald got away with it. He became involved in the Middleburg Players offering the board of the theater company for a relatively nominal amount of capital a huge return on their money. The board, some of the very men who had trusted him with their personal wealth, fell for it hook line and sinker and invested the entire business capital of the Middleburg Players with Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones including hundreds of thousands of dollars of their personal wealth. It only took one sceptic to gather the facts about Sir Reginald. The sceptic’s name was Jon Wiley, a reporter for the Loudoun Times Journal whose beat was to cover Middleburg events. Jon did a puff piece on Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones when he first arrived and it was published in the paper shortly thereafter, but there was always a little something that just didn’t make sense to the savvy journalist. During the interview Sir Reginald had told Jon he’d been educated at Harrow and Trinity College Cambridge. Jon checked and found neither school had any record of a Reginald Dornan-Jones being registered as a student. Furthermore Jon discovered the London Stock Exchange wrote a cryptic message stating they had never heard of the man. The final piece of the puzzle was a request to Britain’s National Archives that confirmed what Jon Wiley already knew that Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones had not ever served his country as an officer in the Asian conflict known as World War II.

The next thing Jon Wiley did was without alerting Dornan-Jones of his suspicions was to try and get his DNA. Jon had a friend at the Loudoun County Sheriff’s department who had promised to run them through Interpol if Jon could deliver them to him. Sir Reginald liked to hold court each morning at the Breakfast Depot on Main Street and so one morning knowing Sir Reginald would never recognize him he took a seat at the counter and ordered breakfast. He had slipped Becky the morning waitress a $20 bill to grab a coffee cup from Sir Reginald and place it in a bag so that Jon could give it to his buddy the sheriff. The plan worked like a charm and by the end of the day Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones’ fingerprints were safely in the custody of the Sheriff’s dept. some days later after Sgt. Andy Taylor had sent the prints to Interpol the results came back. It turned out that Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones was in fact a slick con man named Nigel Bogle who’d been convicted on numerous occasions of financial fraud and of perpetrating crimes against the innocent residents of small wealthy communities in the United Kingdom as well as the United States. His case was immediately referred to the criminal division of the Loudoun County police department who investigated the charges, conducted interviews with associates that Bogle had come in contact with and then issued an arrest warrant. Sir Reginald Dornan-Jones aka Nigel Bogle was subsequently arrested at his home without incident and taken to Loudoun County Jail in Leesburg VA where he was arraigned and charged with multiple financial fraud charges where he remained in jail held without bail until his trial. Detectives found that Bogle had misappropriated $2.7 million from Middleburg residents promising them large returns on their investment and supplying all of the investors including the Middleburg Playhouse phony but very authentic looking stock deeds for their “investments.” By the time Bogle was arrested the $2.7 million had been stashed away in bank account in Switzerland that the investigators had no access to. So in fact, while Nigel Bogle was ultimately caught none of the money was ever recovered.

5 years later the Middleburg Playhouse, by now just an empty building, had been purchased by Uncle John who promised to restore it to its former glory and produce once again fine summer repertory theater for the residents of Middleburg. As a boy he’d gone to a number of productions there and without question had a soft spot for local theater. And so it was that I arrived all these years later to become House Manager of this venerable old theater that a man posing as an upper-class British gent had run off with all their money. Had it not been for the quick thinking of a local reporter the man might have got away Scot free. As it happened the judge threw the book at the accused and after a short jury trial that found Bogle guilty, he was finally sentenced to 35 years in jail. Jim and I had arranged to stay at the Red Fox inn. Middleburg is tiny and it takes just a few minutes to walk the entire town. We settled into a nice room at the inn and then took a walk down 3rd street and found the Playhouse within moments. It was built in the Art Deco style of the 20’s with two doorways both leading to a central lobby located on either side of the box office. Inside the lobby there were double doors opening to the main stalls with a staircase before it that took patrons to the balcony seating. I looked at the poster that advertised the summer season and it couldn’t have been better if I’d done it myself. There was a little something for everyone. First on the roster was a huge favorite, The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie playing from June 10 – 16. That was going to have a 6-day run. Then another standard and always a favorite the musical Annie get your Gun from June 19 - 25. Halfway through the season the Playhouse intended to produce Spamalot the Monty Python musical from June 27 – July 3 and then 1776 from July 8 – 16 and then the always popular Ibsen’s The Doll House from July 18 – 24 and finally Matilda from July 27 until August 4. For anyone who has ever performed in repertory theater they know the intense work that goes into putting on just one show let alone 5 productions all in the space of two months. There is of course the set design and the rehearsals. Each actor employed generally for the entire season has to learn their lines then rehearse with other cast members in addition to performing the show twice a day 6 days a week. The pressure is mind bending, however the sound crew, the lighting crew the set designers, the carpenters, the actors and finally the directors all do it for a little money and always with great passion. Yes, thespians can be moody, but consider the reason why.

The Middleburg Playhouse was being managed by an older actor who now and again came out of retirement and gave himself a leading role in one of his productions. This season was no exception. Tom Curran had cast himself in the lead roles of the Doll’s House and also in Spamalot. I had studied Tom’s resume before I arrived. First of all I hadn’t informed him that I now owned the Playhouse and secondly, he tended to look down his nose at young actors, and I was interested to see if his attitude helped or hindered the troupe. There was a small adjunct to the main theater where audience members could enjoy a drink after the performance. There was a tiny stage where cast members would often entertain the guests to an impromptu concert, or a one person play. For example Chris who fancied himself as a top-notch impersonator liked to act out the Mark Twain one man play made famous by Hal Holbrook entitled Mark Twain Tonight where Tom Curran depicted Mark Twain giving a dramatic recitation from a selection of his writings with an emphasis on comedy. Tom had been performing his routine for many years and it always was received well by Playhouse audiences. The Studio as the adjunct was known was a good way for the Playhouse to earn extra money from drinks and sandwiches and provided an excellent “tryout” space for young troupe members who wanted a space to perform free. Tom Curran, feeling he was worth it insisted on being paid extra.

The Playhouse had rented a house for the season in order to put up the professional cast members. This year there were 9 kids, many of them still in college that made up the troupe. Some were apprentice lighting crew; some sound crew and others were actors. They came from all over the US, and we’re all paid but nominally. They were hoping for exposure and experience. They received gobs of those in spades. But they never complained and always came to work fully prepared and willing to do the job. They all lived together in the rented house down the street from the Playhouse. It was a bit like going to camp. When the entire crew arrived, they were always full of vim and vigor but as the summer season wore on, they began to tire. A few kids dropped out but in the main they stuck it out being glad they had when the season ended. Lifetime friends were made and most of them returned to college with great stories to tell. Most of the head crew, lighting, sound, carpentry all lived locally and made their livings doing what they were doing at the Playhouse, but professionally.

I took an instant dislike to Tom Curran from the moment I met him. On the surface he was a slick and smooth salesman, but underneath he was a mass of contradictions; misogynistic, homophobic, arrogant, and puerile. Many actors who never reached their potential out of laziness or lack of talent were similar to Tom Curran. The problem with Tom was that he was in a position of power. I soon learned that he took full advantage of his position. Below him in the chain of command was a lady named Crystal Case. Forty something and never married she worshipped Tom and was always there at his beck and call. Both had been hired long distance by my uncle who generally was a good judge of character. This time, however. Maybe not. My job as House manager was to coordinate between the box office and the front of house seating for each show. If there was a mix up with a reservation it would be my job to sort it out and find a seat for the wronged party. In a theater of this size that would rarely pose a problem. At the very worst I could find a chair for them. My job was fairly low stress or so I thought until the petty world of the Playhouse exploded in my face.

The apprentices arrived on June 1st and moved into their rented house on 3rd street. The following day June 2nd rehearsals were about to begin for the first show of the season, Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap. The play is a timeless tale of “whodunit,” Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap strands seven strangers at Monkswell Manor during a blizzard. But a police sergeant unexpectedly arrives, worried that a murderer-at-large is among the guests of the Manor. This edge of the seat murder mystery has been loved by audiences for over 60 nail biting years, and I was looking forward to seeing it again. The play has 8 characters including Mollie and Giles Ralston played by local husband and wife team, Eric and Gail Willow, owners of Willows Hardware in town and Detective Sergeant Trotter played by local favorite Dr. Miles Harder. The set design had been completed a month or two earlier by local architect John Johnson and was now being built in the shop behind the stage by a team of experienced carpenters and their new apprentices. I sat in the back of the stalls watching rehearsals and by day 5 the cast was raring to go. All eight members of the cast knew their lines well with just the odd mistake but nothing that a couple more rehearsals wouldn’t rectify. I must say I was tremendously impressed at how fast this first play came together, so by opening night with the set newly created and lighting and sound performing flawlessly the Mousetrap opened to a full house and went without a hitch. The apprentice kids had devised an impromptu series of comedy sketches for the Studio Café after the play and it didn’t disappoint. It was funny, articulate, and clever and the patrons having filled the small space applauded appreciatively. By the end of the night the house receipts would be substantial as would be the café receipts. The SNL parody by the apprentices was so successful that they performed it on every night after the play to standing ovations from the audiences. This, I felt, was going to be a successful season.

Annie Get Your Gun. (June 19 – June 25) was the ever-popular play about sharp shooting country girl Annie Oakley who is such a natural with a gun that she becomes the star of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show; to the consternation of the man she loves but can out-shoot, Frank Butler. Full of energy and catchy melodies, Annie Get your Gun was written by Irving Berlin. The 1946 Broadway production was a hit, and the musical had long runs in both New York and London, spawning revivals, a 1950 film version, and television versions. Songs that became hits included "There's No Business-Like Show Business", "Doin' What Comes Natur'lly", "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun", "They Say It's Wonderful", and "Anything You Can Do.” Rehearsals went wonderfully and the sets which were complex to build were finished with all the acumen of seasoned pros. The apprentice actors had written another 55-minute comedy sketch that they wanted to perform at the studio café as the main play audience wandered in after the main show to grab a drink and a sandwich if they wanted. This time however, Tom Curran refused as he had planned to perform his Mark Twain Tonight one man shows. This caused some friction amongst the kids, but they had to acquiesce. He was their boss after all. Nonetheless on the first night Tom Curran’s rendition of Mark Twain Tonight went well. Many regulars had seen him perform it before and left before the end, but it was a passable performance. My worry was that I didn’t think he could sustain the energy needed for six more shows. As it happened, I was proven right because on his third performance he collapsed near the end. He was revived by a quick-thinking volunteer who’d had medical training and taken home and put to bed. When Sean returned from dropping him off, I met him in the lobby. He took me aside when I asked him what he thought the matter with Tom was, and he looked conspiratorially to the left and right and then whispered. “He was drunk.”

The next night the apprentice kids filled in for Tom and brought the house down. Their second sketch was even better than their first and at the end of the show they received a standing ovation from the packed studio café. The kids were young, vibrant and ambitious and told me they were working on a third sketch. They performed the final days of the Annie Get Your Gun musical each night receiving even greater applause than the previous night. Tom on the other hand was jealous and was behaving like a petulant child. The thing about rep theater is that typically the show runs for six days and then with just one day off you begin performing the next play on the roster. Now because the actors tended to be the same throughout the season each one of them would have to juggle rehearsing the following play with acting live with the current one. A lot of pressure. This season was running like clockwork. We had a fantastic team who were diligent, hardworking, and passionate about their craft. Carpenters were humming along and were actually ahead of schedule putting the finishing touches to 1776 having completed building the set for Spamalot. The entire crew had become friendly, which was a joy as right before Spamalot was due to begin production on June 27th the whole crew and maintenance decided to go on a picnic on our day off. July 4th was just around the corner, and everyone wanted to celebrate the day. We met at the Middleburg Rec. center where there’s a pool, a volley ball court and grass to spread out our blankets and sunbathe, read and chill out. The friction had been brewing ever since Tom’s collapse and sadly it boiled over on the picnic. Tom Curran a man in his late forty’s had always fancied himself a lady’s man. There were several gorgeous young intern actors in the troupe who he had made passes at over the past few weeks. Two of the girls were in the comedy cabaret that had done so well. Lucy, a 20-year-old sophomore from UVA was dating Andy, another intern. During the picnic, the crew, in between swimming and eating, started playing volleyball. Tom Curran was chosen to lead the team that Lucy was on. Sean had mentioned to me that the reason Tom collapsed that night in the café was due to him drinking. That combined with an over active libido made this volleyball game a potential disaster. It started out harmlessly enough, but Tom was aggressive and unpleasant to his team mates barking orders at them and reacting badly when they lost a point. Everything bubbled over when Lucy, wearing a very revealing bikini jumped for the ball and Tom made an inappropriate remark. Everyone ignored him initially but after the third extremely sexist comment Andy reacted and told Tom to calm down. Tom became a bull in a China shop and completely lost it. He raced around the net and tried to land a punch on Andy who was too quick for him and dodged the punch. Andy did not take a swing at Tom however, but it took three beefy props guys to hold Tom back. One of them was Sean. By the time they’d calmed the situation down the game was spoiled and Tom had stormed off in a huff. After the incident Sean spoke with me again. “You’ll never believe this Jen, but that guy was drunk again. When I got up close to him, he reeked of booze. I know I shouldn’t say this, but he has a bit of a problem.”

Monty Python's Spamalot (June 27 – July 3) is a musical comedy farce adapted from the 1975 film Monty Python and the Holy Flying Grail. Like the motion picture, it is a highly irreverent parody of the Johnian legend, but it differs from the film in many ways. The original Broadway show, directed by Mike Nichols, received 14 Tony Awards nominations, winning in three categories, including Best Musical. During its initial run of 1,575 performances, it was seen by more than two million people and grossed over $175 million. Tim Curry starred as King John in the original West End production. It was one of 8 UK musicals commemorated on Royal Mail stamps issued in February 2011.

Performances in the evenings and rehearsals of upcoming shows by day. It was all go at the Playhouse. Unfortunately, the rot had set in with regards to Tom Curran’s dipsomania. Interns had no respect for their boss and his misogynistic behavior was causing deep divides in the troupe. To make matters worse the office staff of which I was a part were mistrustful of all the strange goings on at the Playhouse.

Spamalot opened on June 27th to rave reviews which helped to secure sold out performances for the 6-day run. Tom Curran insisted on performing Mark Twain Tonight all 6 nights to a lukewarm reception in the studio café. Each night he performed he was even more noticeably drunk than the night before. Like many who are intoxicated, however, he was under the impression that he had done brilliantly. Finally it took Sean to bravely film his performance on the last night and make Tom watch it when he was sober, for him to realize that he truly had a drinking problem. On the day before 1776 was about to open Tom Curran checked himself into a rehab center where hopefully he’d get the help he so clearly needed. Three days later on July 8, after some technical problems where we had to install a new state of the art sound system the inspirational musical 1776 opened once again to full houses and rave reviews. After the show because Tom Curran was ‘away’ our prodigious interns performed their third cabaret to standing room only audiences for the entire 6 days. Lucy and Andy were once again the main writers of the show.

1776 (July 8 – July 16) is a musical with music and lyrics by Sherman Edwards and a book by Peter Stone. The show is based on the events leading up to the signing of the Declaration of Independence, telling the story of how John Adams tried to persuade his colleagues to vote for American independence and to sign the document.

The show premiered on Broadway in 1969, earning warm reviews, and ran for 1,217 performances. The production won three Tony Awards, including Best Musical. In 1972, it was made into a film adaptation. It was revived on Broadway in 1997. In 1925 Rodgers and Hart wrote a musical about the American Revolution called Dearest Enemy and in 1950, a musical about the Revolution was presented on Broadway, titled Arms, and the Girl, with music by Morton Gould, lyrics by Dorothy Fields, from the book by Herbert Fields, Dorothy Fields and Rouben Mamoulian, the director of the show.  Sherman Edwards, a writer of pop songs with several top 10 hits in the late 1950s and early '60s, spent several years writing lyrics for a musical based on the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Edwards recounted that "I wanted to show the founding fathers at their outermost limits. These men were the cream of their colonies. They disagreed and fought with each other. But they understood commitment, and though they fought, they fought affirmatively." Producer Stuart Ostrow recommended that librettist Peter Stone collaborate with Edwards on the book of the musical. Stone recalled, “The minute you heard "Sit Down, John", you knew what the whole show was. You knew that John Adams and the others were not going to be treated as gods or cardboard characters, chopping down cherry trees and flying kites with strings and keys on them. It had this affectionate familiarity; it wasn't reverential.”

Adams, the outspoken delegate from Massachusetts, was chosen as the central character, and his quest to persuade all 13 colonies to vote for independence became the central conflict. Stone confined most of the action to Independence Hall and the debate among the delegates, featuring only 2 female characters, Abigail Adams, and Martha Jefferson, in the entire musical. After tryouts in New Haven, and Washington, the show opened on Broadway at the 46th Street Theatre on March 16, 1969. Peter Hunt directed.

I’d had no control over the choice of the summer season, but there had been criticism that there had been too many musicals. After watching the reactions of the audiences I disagreed with that criticism. I thoroughly enjoyed Annie Get Your Gun, and Spamalot, 1776 and the Mousetrap had rounded out the season with a jolly good Brit mystery. I was looking forward to The Doll’s House which was the next show on the roster. It was a far more severe play and would test the acting of my thespians. But I had great confidence in them all. The summer had whisked by.

The Doll House by Henrik Ibsen (July 18 – July 24) is a three-act play written by Norway's Henrik Ibsen. It premiered at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, Denmark, on 21 December 1879, published earlier that month. The play is set in a Norwegian town circa 1879. The play is significant for the way it deals with the fate of a married woman, who in Norway lacked opportunities for self-fulfillment in a male-dominated world, despite the fact that Ibsen denied it was his intent to write a feminist play. It aroused a great sensation at the time, a "storm of outraged controversy" that went beyond the theatre to the world of newspapers and society. 

Had I any doubts about the caliber of my actors in The Doll House, they were quickly extinguished by a superb dress rehearsal performed in front of the local and national media. A reporter from The Atlantic had traveled from New York to write a profile piece on young Lucy Anders and John Simms who I’d come to know and like was reviewing The Doll’s House for the Washington Post. I was somewhat confused as to how Lucy managed to grab the attention of The Atlantic magazine but figured I would soon find out. Lucy played Helen, Nora, and Torvald Helmer’s maid and although the part is fairly small, she performed it admirably. There are 11 cast members in the Doll’s House. The director was the local bank manager Christian Jamison who was able to marshal the talents of the 11 members brilliantly. I made a note to myself to use Mr. Jamison’s talents much more next year if I could manage to get him back to the Playhouse. Opening night in the shadow of a review in the Washington Post that could only be described as beyond kind secured a sold out first night. That coupled with the cabaret that followed in the Studio Café was the icing on the cake. The journalist from the Atlantic stayed to watch the revue, another rollicking hit by Lucy and Andy. As we all left that evening, we patted ourselves on the back for a job well done. Lucy and the man from the Atlantic magazine wandered over to the Red Fox for a drink and the interview. The outpouring of support we received from the local community meant the world to all of us. Repertory theater is a grass roots kind of project and relies on people in the local community getting behind it. I had been so impressed with the audiences for the whole season, but I’d been a bit nervous as to how Ibsen would be received. It is not typically the type of play that an amateur theater tackles and so I was beyond delighted when we received such an excellent review in the Washington Post. The final five days added 3 matinees because there was such a demand, and the actors went from excellent to really excellent. By the end of the run The Middleburg Players were at the top of their game. 

After The Doll’s House ended, the theater had 3 days until the final show Matilda was due to open. I decided I had to confront a problem I’d been fretting over since it had happened. I decided to visit Tom Curran at the Lightfoot Rehab Center in Upperville just five miles west of Middleburg at the base of the Blue Ridge mountains. I arrived in time for tea and found Tom sitting in the day room amongst the other residents. He and I had never really got on. He considered I was beneath him and worthy of his scorn. During my first year owning Harriman Holdings, I had spent the summer visiting a number of Uncle John’s 107 businesses, but this year, my second, I’d decided to devote my whole summer to one of my businesses and had decided on The Middleburg Playhouse which I was glad I’d chosen. I walked in to the day room and Tom Curran looked up from his book and greeted me in a fairly unfriendly fashion. “What are you doing here? Come to gloat, have you?” “Hello Tom,” I replied not rising to the bait. “I came to see how you’re doing, and I wanted to talk to you about next season.” “Why, do you want me to give you another job?” he enquired rudely. “Not really Tom. Actually I’m the owner of Harriman Holdings and I’d like to find out if you will be well enough to return next year?” Tom looked at me incredulously. “But you’re just a house manager. How can you own the company?” “Well suffice it to say Tom I do own the Middleburg Playhouse, and I would like to know how you’re doing in here and if you will be fit enough to return next season?” Tom suddenly began to understand that I was indeed his boss. His reaction was violent. “But you’re a woman. How could you be my boss? You have no experience in the performing arts.” And his voice trailed off as he didn’t have any more to say. “I will visit you again next week,” I said standing up, “and will make a decision then after I see you.” “What, you mean you’re firing me?” Tom interjected and I replied, “No Tom, that’s not what I am saying at all. But if you’re to work for me you’re going to have to get on top of your sexist behavior. This is now the third time I’ve seen it, and it doesn’t work for me. Do I make myself clear?” I walked away from that awful man and took myself out to lunch at the Upper Crust where I ate a delicious sandwich and drank a large glass of Chardonnay. I needed it.

The crew had been working overtime and they hit the opening night of Matilda running. The season with the exception of Tom Curran had gone wonderfully well and the entire crew of stage hands and acting staff were full of energy.

Matilda the Musical (July 27 – August 4) is a stage musical based on the 1988 novel of the same name by Roald Dahl. It was adapted by Dennis Kelly, with music and lyrics by Tim Minchin and directed for the stage by Matthew Warchus. The musical's narrative centers on Matilda, a precocious 5-year-old girl with the gift of telekinesis, who loves reading, overcomes obstacles caused by her family and school, and helps her teacher to reclaim her life. After a 12-week trial run staged by the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford-upon-Avon from Nov. 2010 to Jan. 2011, it received its West End premiere on 24 November 2011 at the Cambridge Theatre and its Broadway premiere on 11 April 2013 at the Schubert Theatre. Matilda has received widespread critical acclaim and box-office success, winning seven 2012 Olivier Awards, including Best New Musical—at the time, the most such awards ever won by a single show. At the 2013 Olivier Awards, the show jointly held the record with the play The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time before both were overtaken by Harry Potter and the Cursed Child in 2017 with 9 awards. Matilda still holds the record for most Olivier awards won by a musical, tying with Hamilton in 2018. At the 2013 Tony Awards, the show won five awards, including the Tony Award for Best Book of a Musical. 

We had been trying to secure this musical for a while and finally received permission. We knew it must be the finale of the season and in fairness that was Tom Curran’s decision. For all my problems with Tom I knew that if he could stay off the sauce and stay away from young protégés then he was an excellent administrator. As for his love of performing I’m afraid it brought out the worst in him. The facts were simple, and the interns had proven it time and time again this summer with their brand of young, exciting cabaret that audiences lapped up. Tom Curran’s style was passé. What theater goers were looking for was precisely what the interns gave. I’m afraid that if Tom was going to stay, he would have to abide by my new house rules. What finally made my mind up was something I discovered in the last week at the Middleburg Playhouse. 

Crystal Case, Tom’s second in command handled the house and café receipts. The system was straightforward. Every morning the house receipts from the box office and the Studio Café receipts were brought upstairs to the administrative office where Crystal counted it all and then deposited it at the Middleburg National Bank every day. I say that it is straightforward because in the main it was simple math. There were 220 seats in the Playhouse at $20 each. Seniors and children $15. The maximum take therefore was $4400 for a sold-out show. Assuming there were 100 seats sold to children and grandparents, that accounted for $1500 and that represented $2900 per day times 8 shows per week which amounted to give or take about $23,200 per week. Add that to the café receipts and you will be talking a fairly good chunk of cash. I don’t know why I did it but something didn’t seem to be adding up and so I went to see the bank manager Christian Jamison, who had been such a wonderful director for The Doll’s House. He was pleased to see me when I walked into his office, shook my hand and welcomed me with a big smile. “Mrs. Holland, this is a nice surprise. What can I do for you?” He asked. I then told him who I was and that I had been working undercover for the summer. I then explained just a little about Tom Curran and that I was worried that the figures I’d seen didn’t add up and I’d like some forensic accounting if that was possible? “Of course it is possible. I will need to verify that you are in fact the CEO of Harriman Holdings. Once that is confirmed I can order an audit which should be completed in a few days.” “Yes of course you must confirm my ownership,” I answered. “Here are my details and Cynthia Hawkins will be glad to confirm my position.” Mr. Jamison smiled and told me that he knew Cynthia well and if I didn’t mind waiting a few minutes he’d call her right now. I nodded and sat there as Christian Jamison chatted to Cynthia who confirmed that I was indeed who I said I was. Having received the confirmation from Cynthia that I was the owner of Harriman Holdings Christian immediately told me that he would instruct his bank accountants to audit the Playhouse bank accounts. I asked him if he could put a rush on it and he said he’d do his absolute best. I thanked him and walked back to the Playhouse for the opening night of Matilda. It was sold out. Four days later I received word from Mr. Jamison that he’d like a word with me and so I walked down to the bank. “There are considerable discrepancies that my auditors have found with your books.” I began to reply, but he cut me off. “It appears that Ms. Case who has been making the daily deposits all summer has been siphoning off about 20% of the receipts every week and diverting it into a joint account owned by her and Mr. Curran. Her methods were very shoddy, and it took the forensic accountant only a matter of minutes to discover the theft. But there is more. It seems that this has been going on for some years. I cannot divulge the actual amount that has been stolen yet, but I can say that it is considerable. I’d advise you to call the police right away so they can place a hold on both accounts.” I rang the police immediately who took a statement over the phone then sent a detective to interview me the following day at The Red Fox where I was staying with my husband. Matilda was the smash of the season, and the interns had written a 4th show for the café, which was even better, funnier and quicker than their first three. On the last night I gave a thank you speech to all the dedicated actors and crew members and introduced myself to all of them for the very first time as the owner of The Middleburg Playhouse. I received hugs and well wishes from everyone and we all promised to stay in touch so we could emulate this year’s success next year. The administration would be changing. My decision on what to do about Tom Curran had been made for me as two weeks later he and His assistant Crystal Case were arrested and charged with fraud. 

On August 9th Jim and I checked out of The Red Fox Inn drove to Dulles airport and flew home to Pensacola where we took a much-needed vacation.

CHAPTER 32

Laughter is the Best Medicine

My final stop was a place called Glory. High up in the Blue Ridge mountains Glory was a large house with wide porches on all four sides set in 20 lovely acres of wild flowers. Everywhere you looked there was color. Brightly colored roses in manicured flower beds filled the landscape. Petunias, chrysanthemums, and hydrangeas added every color in the rainbow to the palate. It was like Vincent Van Gogh’s Flowering Garden. Beyond the flower garden there was a view of the valley below. I arrived at Glory from route 638 near a town called Bluemont Virginia. 12 miles east was Leesburg. 12 miles to the west was Berryville. Only folks who knew where they were going would ever find Glory, the rest would drive by. The house had been converted from a single-family home into a functional hospital with room for 20 beds. The hospital was full. Supplies arrived daily, medicine and food. The doctors lived on site in several huts on the property nestled cleverly between the flower beds. There were also several guest cottages on the property. The idea of building cottages originated from the four founding doctors who used to live in a commune in West Virginia. Once they had bought Glory, they realized it would be impractical for them to commute between the commune and the hospital and so being practical they decided to build a hut to sleep in on the property to save themselves the drive home. They liked what they had done so much that they built several smaller cottages over the next couple of years finally having built enough huts that they could offer the parents of some of the children a place to stay for as long as they needed

Glory had been purchased 10 years earlier by four young physicians who wanted to provide a nurturing hospital for terminally ill children so that in their last days they could experience love combined with caring for their medical needs in a safe environment. They were all employed by a Washington hospital but wanted more freedom to practice the medicine they felt would truly help their patients. One Saturday John, one of the doctors, was reading the paper over breakfast and he noticed this property for sale. He immediately contacted the realtor and made an appointment to view the property later that day. It took him 5 minutes to realize the potential this gorgeous property offered, and he made an offer then and there. It took just 3 days to have his offer accepted and, in the meantime, he ferried his three friends up to the property to see it. They all fell in love with it and began making plans. The very first visit that John made he coined the name Glory. It was the perfect name. After buying Glory the 4 of them spent 2 years preparing Glory for what they had in mind. First of all they emptied the main dwelling, taking it down to bare bones, and then began to rebuild. They knew what they wanted. They were young and fit and had construction in their blood, as the four of them had put themselves through medical school working construction. It took them a year to build a 20-bed hospital equipped with state-of-the-art equipment, kitchens, bathrooms bedrooms, and meeting rooms. Next, they tackled the cottages placing them around the 20-acre paradise. After John convinced a very conservative permitting officer in nearby Loudoun County of the necessity to build several outbuildings, they were able to complete the cottages along with running water and electricity. Two years almost to the day, Glory was opened. The four doctors quit their jobs at the DC hospital hired a full-time nursing staff and filled all 20 beds with patients. The interior of the hospital didn’t look like a hospital at all. While it had all the proper equipment to maintain lives, it resembled a flower garden. The walls were painted with bright colors by a painter and the ceilings were the colors of the sky with clouds scudding by.

Glory was a hospital for terminally ill children. All of the four doctors were pediatricians. Two of the doctors had devoted their careers to helping terminally ill children, Dr. Al and Dr. Jennie used laughter to help sick kids. By no stretch of the imagination could anyone paint Dr. Al and Dr. Jennie as conventional. Actually they were the exact opposite. They believed that laughter was a powerful antidote to stress, pain, and conflict. They felt that nothing worked faster or more dependably to bring your mind and body back into balance than a good laugh. It lightened your burden, inspired your hopes, and connected you to others, keeping you grounded and alert. The thing that separated Al and Jennie from other pediatricians was their willingness to behave in a most unusual manner. Children loved their unconventional approach. Adults, not so much. But when they roped their two friends in they received blowback from the superiors at the Washington hospital who did not approve of such unconventional behavior from their medical staff. Dr. John and Dr. Isaac on the other hand approved wholeheartedly with the approach their 2 friends used to alleviate the pain these sick kids were experiencing. John and Isaac knew that the use of humor with kids was infectious and felt that the sound of roaring laughter was far more contagious than any cough, sniffle, or sneeze. Best of all it was fun, free and easy to use. Al and Jennie taught them that the power to heal and the ability to laugh easily is a tremendous resource for surmounting problems and supporting both physical and emotional health. Which was why the 4 friends purchased Glory, to fulfill their dream.

Dr. Isaac Stern was the son of Jacob and Rachel Stern survivors of Belzec and Chelmno concentration camps. Jacob and Rachel did not know each other in the war but met when they were liberated and were living in a refugee camp in Poland in 1945. They met again in New York at a US Naturalization swearing in ceremony, fell in love and were married in 1950. Later they raised 3 boys Jeb, Moses and Isaac who all became doctors.

Glory came into the Harriman Holdings family not because it had done anything wrong, but because it’d done everything right. Uncle John was reading a newspaper article about Glory several years after it’d opened and being the kind and generous man, he was, wrote to the four of them asking if he could come and visit? He received a reply from them a couple of weeks later inviting him to visit for as long as he would like, and so he took them up on their offer. After he returned home to Pensacola, he described what he’d witnessed to Cynthia. “I walked in the main entrance, and I could hear singing. Everywhere people were dancing. The children were all in one large central room, their beds on wheels having been pushed in to the room by nurses in colorful and friendly uniforms. The children were watching a show that was making them roar with laughter. The beds had been arranged in a circle, so the actors were performing “in the round.” Three of them were playing instruments, a guitar player, a bassist, and a drummer as the last member of the troupe juggled dishes in the air. I tell you Cynthia it was a wild scene, straight out of a National Lampoon movie. After the show was finished the beds were wheeled back to their rooms, a series of 5 dormitories with four beds to each dorm based on the patient’s age and gender. When the kids had been successfully moved and parents had joined their child, the large room was empty save for me and the four entertainers who were packing up their stuff over in the corner. I walked over to them and told them how much I’d enjoyed their show, and they thanked me profusely. It meant a lot to them that someone had made the effort to thank them for what they’d done. A laugh is the shortest distance between two people, the man who’d juggled replied back to me. “Do you have a business card?” I asked, having not a clue that the people who had just performed this amazing show were in fact the very people who had invited me to stay at Glory. Then with a big smile the 4 doctors introduced themselves to me, and I felt like a total fool. Drs. Al, Jennie, John, and Isaac were the ones I’d just watched entertain the sick kids for the past hour, and they were the four madcap hero’s I’d traveled all this way to meet. “Laughter makes you feel good. And the feeling you get when you laugh remains with you even after the laughter subsides. It helps you keep a positive, optimistic outlook through difficult situations, disappointments, and loss. And that, in a nutshell is why we founded Glory,” explained Isaac. Uncle John stayed as their guest for five day inhaling the spirit that surrounded Glory. Everywhere he looked there were children that were dying. You would never have known that. The environment the 4 doctors had created was beyond anything Uncle John had ever witnessed. He knew the doctors were not practical about the nuts and bolts of running the hospital and so before he left, he offered a solution. “Let me take the burden of ordering medical supplies. I understand that you want to keep total control so I’m not offering any kind of buyout but rather offering you my assistance in creating a supply chain. If you accept my offer, I suggest that you put an order in to Harriman and I will take care of it. There will be no cost to you or the hospital.” The doctors looked at each other and then with one accord agreed to Uncle John’s generous offer. From that day on Harriman Holdings received an order from Glory once a month and we filled that order either by donation or purchase and subsequently shipped the order off to Glory. No cost.

As I pulled through the gates of Glory, I was reminded of the story that Cynthia had told me about the first time Uncle John ever met Dr. John Mehta, Dr. Jennifer Simons, Dr. Al Lewinsky and Dr. Isaac Stern and I laughed to myself. The sheer magnificence of Glory was somewhat overwhelming from the manicured lawns to the extraordinary beds of color with cottages discreetly positioned between and the massive house that sat in front of the most beautiful view one could imagine overlooking the Shenandoah Valley with the river snaking through it in the foreground. I parked my rental car near the house and walked up six steps onto the front porch which was fitted out with tables and chairs and a swing over to the left of the front door. The porch was large probably almost 20’ wide and obviously continued all the way around the house. It gave an impression of a colonial style home set deep in the savannas of Africa. I expected to see a herd of wild elephants roaming through the property but instead saw lovely lawns and flower gardens cared for by a team of local horticulturalists who kindly volunteered their skills to keep the grounds so beautiful.

I spent several glorious days getting to know the boys and girls at Glory. I saw them at their finest and I saw them at their worst. No group of individuals could have done more to make the transition smoother. When I eventually took my leave, I had just finished watching one of the daily “impromptu” performances the doctors gave to the children. I was still laughing as I drove through the gates of Glory thinking about the wacky show I’d just witnessed.

There’s nothing more satisfying than to see a 4-year-old chortling uncontrollably: to see a 3-year-old laughing so hard that his whole body is contorted by mirth: or to witness a 5-year-old giggling with such ferocity that his laughter threatens to take over his entire body. The first words out of Dr. John’s mouth as he walked in the big room were. “Anyone who’s not here, raise your hands.” And Dr. John raises his hand. All the kids follow suit. They become his mirror. That’s what I witnessed watching the four doctors work their vaudevillian magic. They used humor to tickle the kids’ minds. They fell down; took mud pies in their faces; Lost their voices. And they did all this for one simple reason. To make kids laugh. And the kids loved everything they did. And they did it with relish. A belly laugh from a kid who’s only 3 is like a standing ovation to an adult performer. And there were plenty of belly laughs to go around for everyone. I understood what Jennie, Al, John, and Isaac were doing. They were using the environment of the hospital to nurture love and comfort for the kids. To a child environment is everything. The reason they might throw a tantrum is if they feel vulnerable in a strange new place and throwing a fit is simply their way of expressing concern. This hospital was their safety zone.

While Dr. Jen and Dr. Al were singing, Dr. John, who is a surprisingly good magician could to the amazement of the children make a baseball disappear, a glass of milk appear out of nowhere and juggle three balls in the air at the same time. The doctor’s show was frenetic, frantic, and fun. And the kids loved it.

As I watched these 4 madcap doctors entertain the kids and make them forget their troubles, I realized their act was designed to inspire happiness in their audience.  As the four doctors looked into the eyes of the kids, they also were allowed to access their souls. That was the level of trust they inspired in the kids. Not everyone is so lucky. Often that privilege is reserved for parents and loved ones. Doctors not so much. And so I found myself being drawn into the simplicity of what these clever doctors had figured out years earlier. They were not doing a favor for the children. It was quite the reverse. I noticed Jennie and Al were using repetitive phrases a lot with the kids. From my Early Childhood Development classes I’d taken years before I understood the significance. Repetition is important to a small child. Actually they thrive on it. Grownups often don’t understand the developmental benefits of repetition. Why does a preschooler watch a movie dozens of times without getting bored? Kids never tire of slapstick routines. In fact they insist the doctors do them. “I love this part, Mom. This is where Dr. Jennie falls asleep, or this is where Dr. Isaac does the magic trick.” Their shows seemed to always evolve. The four that I watched did.

One routine that I watched I found myself behaving just like a kid when it started. Dr. Jennie would fall asleep at the start of the show, so Dr. John taught the kids how to wake her up. “Close your eyes real tight and use your imagination and imagine she’s singing real pretty.” He’d say, “Now open your eyes and when I count to three you yell as loud as you can, DR. JENNIE. And she’ll wake up. Here we go now. 1, 2, 3.” And the kids would yell their little hearts out, and sure enough Dr. Jennie would wake up. We’d repeat that scene several times during each show and before long as soon as she closed her eyes the kids would tell Dr. John, “she’s sleeping again.” And Dr. John would reply, “you know what to do. 1, 2, 3….” and the kids would yell, “DR. JENNIE.” And they would move on to the next routine of the show. Anything for a laugh.

A key ingredient to the success of their show was the fact that they kept switching routines. One moment they’d be juggling, the next moment singing and then a flash of magic. During their show I counted 14 two-minute sketches that they intertwined through their show.  Adults always questioned why. The four doctors always answered the same: “that’s kiddie vaudeville. Fast and furious.” They’d call it interactive theatrics, but really what it was all about was large doses of love sprinkled liberally on the children who needed it the most.

I had seen something similar when Jim and I took our daughter to England one Christmas. Jim sweetly took us to a Pantomime, a Brit tradition. If you’ve never heard of “Panto,” it’s a type of musical comedy stage production designed for family entertainment. It was developed in England and is performed throughout the United Kingdom, Ireland and (to a lesser extent) in other English-speaking countries, especially during the Christmas and New Year season. Modern pantomime includes songs, gags, slapstick comedy and dancing. It employs gender-crossing actors and combines topical humour with a story more or less based on a well-known fairy tale, fable, or folk tale. Pantomime is a participatory form of theatre, in which the audience is expected to sing along with certain parts of the music and shout out phrases to the performers. I must ask the doctors if they developed their slapstick style of comedy from seeing pantomime or had they just developed it because it worked with children? I guess it didn’t matter. The important thing was that 4 excellent doctors had decided to devote their lives to helping terminally ill children not only with their talents as doctors but also with the use of comedy and music. It truly was a winning combination and one I was so proud that Uncle John had associated himself with. Of particular interest I found the doctor’s obsession with interaction. That is a classic developmental tool that Early Childhood psychologists use to gain trust with young children. The doctors clearly understood the significance. For example. Dr. Jennie loses her voice and Dr. Al deeply worried asks his young friends in the audience if they’d help him find it for Dr. Jennie? By this time, the kids are deeply invested and close their eyes and by using their imaginations successfully manage to recover Dr. Jennie’s voice. As their reward Dr. Jennie then sings the Sesame Street song The Rainbow Connection. Her beautiful voice shines for two verses until the Muppet character Grover takes over her vocal cords and makes her sound like a gravel truck. “Oh no kids, Dr. Jennie did really well with your imagination but I’m afraid she sounds like Grover,” the kids squeal with laughter. “Let’s try just one more time, shall we?” Once again, the kids use their imaginations, and the show gets back on track. Dr. Al switches track and does a magic trick where he drinks a glass of milk. He walks across the stage and trips. The glass tips and Dr. Al falls. The front row expects to be covered in milk and they react. The audience squeals, Dr. Al lands on his face. The milk in the glass magically disappears much to the relief of the front row. Dr. Al picks himself up and bows while Dr. Jennie runs behind him encouraging the kids to do everything she’s doing. They instantly pick up on becoming a mirror and the show lurches into the next routine.

My week at Glory was probably the best time I’d had touring all the businesses that Uncle John had left me. This 20-bed hospital was all about love. Everywhere you looked you could see it peeking from behind a curtain or attacking the kids with bursts of color. Laughter was in every corner of the building. That didn’t necessarily change the outcome for the patients, but it certainly helped them remain as calm as they could. I found myself drawn to the methods used by these 4 amazing doctors who’d devoted their careers to helping children with impossible and terminal diseases. As I pulled away from this pediatric oasis Dr. John Mehta, Dr. Jennifer Simons, Dr. Al Lewinsky, and Dr. Isaac Stern were in the middle of a new show they were performing. With the car windows down I could hear the children laughing and I knew then unquestionably why my Uncle John had chosen me to carry on what he started.

CHAPTER 33

Muellers Trial

Six months later Heinrich Mueller went on trial for war crimes. The prosecution had found multiple witnesses from Auschwitz, Majdanek and Buchenwald who all gave damning testimony against him. One woman provided testimony about what she saw at Auschwitz in 1942. “She described how an orchestra played happy tunes as soldiers under the command of Hauptsturmführer Mueller separated those destined for slave labor from those that would be gassed. That night the Nazis ran out of Zyklon B gas, so Mueller ordered his squad to hurl the children into the furnaces alive.” Another witness testified that he saw Mueller shoot a young boy because he refused to give his pet dove to another SS officer. In yet another riveting testimony a survivor described how Heinrich Mueller gave the order for at least 50 women to undress and then lie down in a shallow ditch naked and then ordered his men to shoot them all. Miraculously this woman survived by playing dead, and when the Nazis left, she managed to crawl away in to the woods and escape.

“Hauptsturmführer Mueller, do you wish to say anything to this court before I read the verdict?”

“Thank you, your honor. Having heard the case against me, I find myself concerned for my hopes for justice. I cannot recognize the verdict of guilty. I understand the demand for atonement for the crimes which were perpetrated against the Jews. The witnesses’ statements here in the Court made my limbs go numb once again, just as they went numb when once, acting on orders, I had to look at the atrocities. It was my misfortune to become entangled in these atrocities. But these misdeeds did not happen according to my wishes. It was not my wish to slay people. The guilt for the mass murder is solely that of the political leaders.

I did try to leave my position, to leave for the front, for honest battle. But I was held fast in those dark duties. Once again, I would stress that I am guilty of having been obedient, having subordinated myself to my official duties and the obligations of war service and my oath of allegiance and my oath of office, and in addition, once the war started, there was also martial law.

This obedience was not easy. And again, anyone who has to give orders and has to obey orders knows what one can demand of people. I did not persecute Jews with avidity and passion. That is what the government did. Nor could the persecution be carried out other than by a government. But I never… I accuse the leaders of abusing my obedience. At that time obedience was demanded, just as in the future it will also be demanded of the subordinate. Obedience is commended as a virtue.

May I therefore ask that consideration be given to the fact that I obeyed, and not whom I obeyed. I have already said that the top echelons, to which I did not belong, gave the orders, and they rightly, in my opinion, deserved punishment for the atrocities which were perpetrated on the victims on their orders. But the subordinates are now also victims. I am one of such victims. This cannot be ignored. It is said that I could and should have refused to be obedient. That is a consideration with hindsight. Under the circumstances then prevailing such an attitude was not possible. Nor did anyone behave in this fashion. From my experience I know that the possibility, which was alleged only after the War, of opposing orders is a self-protective fairy tale. An individual could secretly slip away. But I was not one of those who thought that permissible.

It is a major error to believe that I belonged to the fanatics of the persecution of the Jews. In the entire post-War period I have been tormented and incensed that all the guilt has been shifted from my superiors and others onto me. I did not in fact make any statements which could have shown my fanaticism, and no blood guilt lies on me. In this connection the witnesses have told a great falsehood. The Court’s putting together of statements and documents initially makes a very convincing impression, but it is a deceptive one. I shall try to clarify these errors before the next legal instance.

Nobody came to me and remonstrated with me because of my official activities. Even the witness Pastor Grüber does not claim this. He came to me and only wanted relaxations to be granted, without criticizing my official activities themselves. He confirmed here in Court that I did not reject him, but simply stated to him that I had to obtain my superiors’ decision, that I myself could not take a decision.

Dr. Lösener, the ministerial director who was referred to in the proceedings, was the expert in charge of Jewish affairs in the Reich Ministry of the Interior. He has died. In his written statement of justification, which has appeared only recently, he admitted that he knew of the atrocities and that he also informed his superiors accordingly. It must be assumed that everyone in the Ministry of the Interior was thus made aware of what was going on. But no one opposed my superiors. Ministerial Director Lösener continued silently in tacit opposition and served his Führer as a well-paid judge in the Reich Administrative Court. That is the form that the courage of one’s convictions takes in the case of a prominent person. In the report he wrote in 1950, Lösener expresses views about me, according to which I am supposed to have been a primary figure in the persecution of the Jews. But these are simply emotional outbursts, without any indication of facts in which these speculations are rooted. The same applies to other witnesses. I was asked by the judges whether I wished to make an admission of guilt, like the Commandant of Auschwitz, Höss, and the Governor General of Poland, Hans Frank. These two had every reason to make such an admission of guilt: Frank, as the person who gave the orders, admitted his guilt for the orders which he gave, and balked at delegating to inferiors. Höss was the one who actually carried out the mass killings.

My position is different. I never had the power and the responsibility of a giver of orders. I never carried out killings, as Rudolph Höss did. If I had received the order to carry out these killings, I would not have escaped by using a trumped-up pretext; during my interrogation I already stated: Since because of the compulsion exerted by an order there was no way out, I would have put a bullet through my brain in order to solve the conflict between conscience and duty.

The Court believes that my current attitude is a result of being on trial and is a fabrication. A whole list of items was given which appear to confirm this. But the contradictions which exist were caused by the fact that, at the beginning of my interrogation by the police, naturally I could not remember details with precision. It was too much, what I had experienced in recent years. Nor did I resist; this is shown by the police record which is over 3,500 pages long. What I said was the first unrestrained attempt to help in shedding light on things. Mistakes did occur in this, but I had to be allowed to correct them. After sixteen or twenty years have lapsed, I cannot be reproached with such mistakes, nor should my willingness to help be considered as a subterfuge and a lie.

My life’s principle, which I was taught at an early age, was to strive to achieve ethical values. From a particular moment on, however, I was prevented by the State from living according to that principle. I had to switch from the unity of ethics to one of multiple morals. I had to yield to the inversion of values which was prescribed by the State. I had to engage in examinations in areas which concern my inner self alone. In this examination I have to ignore my sense of guiltlessness in the legal sense. And I would now ask the Jewish People on a personal level for forgiveness, and I would admit that I am overwhelmed by shame when I think about the evil committed against the Jews and the acts that were perpetrated against them.

I’m not the monster that I’m made out to be. I’m a victim of an error of judgment. I was assaulted in Seattle, and then injected in my arms and brought to the airport in Kent WA; from there I was flown out of the USA. This can be explained by the fact that I was considered to be the person who was responsible for everything. The reason for the lies is that the National Socialists of the time and others have spread untruths about me. They wanted to exonerate themselves at my expense, or to create confusion for reasons unknown to me. Oddly enough, some of the press coverage also told the same lies in an extremely exaggerated fashion over fifteen years in a most suggestive manner. This is why there is a false inference. This is the reason why l am here. I thank my Counsel, who has insisted on my innocence. I’m convinced that I must suffer here for others and must bear what fate imposes on me.”

Three days later the judges pronounced that SS officer Heinrich Mueller was guilty of all the charges the prosecution filed against him and sentenced him to a term of life imprisonment. As the judge pronounced Heinrich Mueller’s sentence the gallery erupted in approval as they cheered and applauded. Sitting in the back row of the courtroom was Sophia Engelmann and her two accomplices who had tracked John Sampson (aka Heinrich Mueller) to Seattle and put him on a private plane to Haifa so he could be tried for his war crimes. As the judge pronounced the sentence Sophia whispered to her two accomplices the 2 words, they’d spoken to each other on the bench when they first met in Seattle: Never Forget.

After languishing in a Tel Aviv jail cell Heinrich Mueller life ended one morning in 1987 when 3 prisoners approached him as he was taking a shower and stabbed him to death using sharpened plastic spoons. As he lay dying on the floor, they each urinated on him forcing him to drink their pee. All three men were survivors of the camps and remembered this arrogant Nazi strutting up and down the platform brandishing his riding crop that he’d been so free to strike Jews with if they even dared to ask him a question. The three of them felt vindicated and when questioned by authorities each told the same story. Justice for the Innocent.

Shortly after Uncle John died but before I embarked on my trip to visit some of his businesses, Cynthia approached me in the office and confessed that she had been working for 24B for many years but had successfully hidden it from Uncle John for the whole time she worked for him. I knew I’d heard the name 24B before the Heinrich Mueller case that Cynthia had been so actively involved in so after I got home that night, I began looking through the Esau Metzler files regarding Uncle John’s time with Esau in New York when they hunted down Nazis who’d come to the USA illegally so they could settle down here as law abiding citizens. I searched all evening and then finally just as I was about to give up, I found the name of Esau Metzler’s company. It was a company he had set up in New York in 1946 at his apartment. It was called 24B and was run by a group of 7 men and women on of whom was my Uncle John.

3 weeks later I was sitting on the porch of Savannah House drinking a Gin and Tonic and looking at my one true love Jim sitting across the table. We were now in the enviable position of receiving retirement checks from the school system that we had both worked our entire lives for. With the added responsibilities of running Harriman Holdings we were both working harder than we'd ever done in the past but loving every minute of our new found freedom. And we were eternally grateful to my Uncle, the boy who loved old cars.

CHAPTER 34

Clarity

Sitting on the porch of Savannah House at dawn, I watched the sun rise over Pensacola Bay and thought about all the cool adventures Jim and I had experienced since Uncle John had passed away, thanks to his generosity. His influence had been sublime and as I sat there with my cup of coffee marveling at the beauty of this moment I thought back on his life and wondered how he could have remained so upbeat and positive as his world was crumbling around him. After my uncle came to the U.S., he joined forces with another survivor from Buchenwald called Esau Metzler an attorney in New York and together they hunted down war criminals who had managed to sneak into the US avoiding any kind of justice for their crimes. Sitting on the porch soaking in the beauty of the sunrise, I realized, who was I to judge? The life he’d carved out for himself was so full of goodness hope and kindness as he’d single handedly rebuilt hundreds of Jewish owned businesses and given them new chances at success in this land of promise. In addition Uncle John and Aunt Rachel had created a blissful childhood for all the neighborhood kids by offering them use of their swimming pool on summer’s afternoons. Looking back I was heartened by the fine achievements of the 24B agents who after being led on a chase finally captured war criminal Hauptsturmführer Heinrich Mueller in Seattle and extradited him to Tel Aviv for prosecution. I thought back to the Sunshine Assisted Living Center where I’d been so beautifully treated by all the residents and staff. I had come to work there posing as a recently released felon, in order to see how smoothly the business was running. I needn’t have worried. Sunshine ran like clockwork. I then thought about Jim and my visit to another of our new businesses, a coffee house called Grounds for Concern, which during our visit was fire bombed by a right-wing supremacist group. A friend once told me “it’s not how well you do in perfect conditions but how well you do when "all is going to hell.” If I could have awarded the manager a Purple Heart for bravery, I would have done so the night the coffee house was bombed. His skills as a leader kicked in as he ran from person to person giving aid and comfort until the medics arrived a short time later. That evening I was never prouder of my employees. They reinforced the bravery that America had been founded on. The memory of that evening sparked another vivid memory when earlier in the summer I had decided to work undercover at a restaurant Harriman Holdings had recently acquired. It was a fairly new build in Herndon Virginia that had been started by the grandson of a camp survivor. After a few years of bad management it had gone into receivership and so Uncle John took it over but kept the grandson on as a manager and within a short time made the restaurants profitable again. It was a 1950s style diner called The Happy Peach Diner and I worked there as a waitress for two of the physically hardest but most fun weeks of my long life.

My thoughts then turned back to Uncle John’s earlier life when as a young boy living in Berlin at the start of World War II he and his family had been arrested by the Nazi’s and sent to live in the most appalling conditions in several different concentration camps where he managed to survive for 4 years. Sadly his entire family were murdered by the Nazi’s, but through it all he summoned his better angels and came through it a better person. I wondered how well I would have done.

Clarity of mind is a valuable asset. It’ll shore you up in the hardest of times. It’ll strengthen you in times of uncertainty and it’ll guide you through dark valleys that will lead you into sunny pastures. Knowing Uncle John had been such a privilege. I’ll always remember him when I was just 10 years old explaining why some people seemed to enjoy being bullies. Given what I later found out about him I’m amazed that he didn’t start a rant about Adolf Hitler. He certainly would have had cause. He taught me clarity, and he taught me the value of education, always encouraging me to become my better self. I became a teacher, even though my father refused to help me pay for my college, arguing that girls didn’t need to get an education. When I applied to George Mason University Uncle John helped me fill out the forms. Years later I found out that he’d taken care of a significant portion of my tuition. My father never knew but importantly would never have done that for a girl. He had no appreciation that I could ever be more than a wife and a mother. At that moment I thought of my hero Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg who fought passionately for women’s rights for over 50 years and now sits on the Supreme Court. I loved my father and was grateful to him for teaching me the joy of building furniture. But much more than that he didn’t do. I doubt if he ever knew what Uncle John went through as a survivor in the camps. My Dad was not a very elevated man.

After Jim and I married we became closer to Uncle John. I remember sitting on the porch of the house we now live in having long chats with him and Aunt Rachel. They were always interested and wanted to hear every aspect of our lives, our dreams and all our ambitions. Uncle John and I were always close when I was growing up, but it wasn’t until we moved to Florida near their house that we got to know them as adults. We shared every holiday, birthday and Christmas for 30 years with them at our table and they became our surrogate parents.

Aunt Rachel was the heir to part of the Rockefeller fortune. Her grandmother was Edith, and her mother was Mathilde who married Max Mandel (1878–1941), a French riding instructor, in April 1923. They had 3 children of which Rachel was the youngest. Born in Paris in 1932, Rachel’s parents separated soon after her birth and Mathilde moved home to a vacant house on the family estate in upstate New York. Initially she was schooled by private tutors, but Rachel was a liberal at heart and begged her mother to allow her to attend the local school. Against her family’s wishes Mathilde finally allowed young Rachel to attend primary school and so each day she would drive Rachel in the car to the local primary school where Rachel joined a kindergarten class of 14 children. She made friends immediately and it wasn’t long before birthday party invitations were being brought home so that Rachel could celebrate with her newfound friends. It was 1938 and war clouds were forming over Europe as Germany prepared to invade Poland. In Rachel’s part of the world all was peaceful. Little did she know that at that exact moment her future husband was being marched off with his family to live in a ghetto for Jews. Rachel’s childhood was idyllic, but below the surface she was hearing about the atrocities being carried out by Germans in Europe. One morning sitting with her mother in the drawing room of their sumptuous ‘cottage,’ Rachel was busy on the floor playing with a new doll when she noticed her mother crying. She jumped up and comforted her and asked what was wrong. Edith who had always taught her daughter to tell the truth blurted out that Max had been arrested by the Germans in Paris. Rachel was confused because she didn’t know who Max was. It was a few years later that Rachel found out that Max was in fact her father.

In many ways Rachel was ahead of her time. In school she was streaks ahead of her classmates and by the time the war ended in 1945 as a 13-year-old teenager she had become a passionate activist. Her mother thoroughly approved. One night they sat down to dinner and had a frank conversation about the ramifications of winning the war. Mathilde’s answer was simple and straightforward. “It will bring justice,” she said looking down at the walnut dining table. Rachel nodded her head and then asked her a question that she’d been longing to ask for over 6 years. “Who is Max?” Her mother looked up from the table and replied in 4 short words. “Max was your father.” Rachel blanched visibly as the color drained out of her face. “Why was he arrested?” she asked. Your father was Jewish, and the Nazis had been ordered by Adolf Hitler their leader to round up every Jew in Europe, arrest them and send them off to concentration camps. I discovered much later that he had been sent to a concentration camp called Auschwitz. Unfortunately there has been no word since his arrest, but we live in hope.” “Now the war is over,” replied Rachel, “is there anyone we can contact?” “Yes, there are agencies that have published lists of survivors, but so far, we’ve had no luck. Your father was a special man Rachel, and I loved him dearly.” Mathilde said. “Why did you divorce?” Rachel asked. “Your father was a homosexual,” her mother replied, “and he fell in love with a French man in Paris. He told me immediately after you were born, and we decided it would be best if we split up then so it would be easier on you before you became too attached to him.”

Some years passed and Rachel at 18 went to Harvard where she continued her political activism and graduated 4 years later in 1954 with a bachelor’s degree in environmental science effectively making it impossible for her to ever get a job as her family used to tease her. That became the family joke. Thank goodness her grandfather had left a significant portion of his fortune to Mathilde and subsequently to Rachel. The story goes that she met Uncle John at a protest rally in Washington D.C. They were arrested and handcuffed together as they were transported to the police station. At their wedding 2 years later, the cop who arrested them stood up for them and gave a speech saying that Uncle John and Aunt Rachel were the only 2 criminals he’d ever attended a wedding as an invited guest. The guests laughed politely, most of them not getting the joke. It took several years for Aunt Rachel to get Uncle John to open up about his early years. Of course she knew that the tattoo on his left forearm meant that he had been a guest at one of Adolf Hitler’s concentration camps. When they finally discussed it, she discovered he had been incarcerated at Buchenwald on Ettersberg hill near Weimar, Germany where more than 280,000 prisoners passed through the gates during the war.

For a short time Aunt Rachel taught at a high school, but she found that after her mother died, she had to devote large amounts of time to her charity work and foundations. Uncle John and she had a wonderful and fulfilled life together, and I feel so privileged to have inherited what they so generously left me.

My greatest achievement in life has been our daughter Molly. She, as you know, is now an emergency room physician at Walter Reed Medical Center. We see her as much as we can but understand that her schedule is generally frenetic. Our recent trip on Air Force One to witness their wedding renewal was the last time we had seen them. She is as you remember married to a Secret Service Agent called Stephen Landrieu, her high school sweetheart who is part of the detail that protects The First Lady. That was why Jim, and I had been invited to fly on Air Force One. We raised Molly with love and taught her the value of kindness and compassion. At a young age her dream was to help people and so her ambitions were realized when she graduated medical school. She had applied to become a doctor at a French organisation known as Médecins Sans Frontières. (MSF)

Doctors without Borders (MSF) is an international humanitarian medical non-governmental org. (NGO) of French origin best known for its projects in conflict zones and in countries affected by endemic diseases. Molly’s first assignment was in the Sudan where she spent 3 years helping people living in Sudan counter diseases like tuberculosis, kala-azar aka visceral leishmaniasis meningitis, measles, cholera, and malaria. After 3 years in Sudan Molly returned to the US and took a job at a Maryland hospital before she was chosen to work at Walter Reed.

 Shortly before Cynthia Hawkins retired from Harriman Holdings, I mentioned that Uncle John had always suspected that she worked for 24B. She laughed when I mentioned it but when I told her that Uncle John had been one of the three operatives who had been responsible for removing 45 Nazi war criminals from the streets of New York she was amazed and shook her head in wonderment. “Who were the other 2?” she asked. “Bill Rein and Esau Metzler,” I replied and once again she shook her head. “I had no idea, but I always wondered.” Cynthia retired at 83 years old. Jim and I still see her now and again pottering around town. Bill Rein passed away in 2018 of natural causes as did Esau Metzler who worked until the day, he died fighting for justice.

After my uncle passed away and after Cynthia Hawkins/ Sophia Engelmann retired from Harriman Holdings I created a foundation honoring all the fallen Jews who fell victim to the atrocities of Adolf Hitler during WWII. We named it The Cherry Orchard Foundation and built a Holocaust Museum similar to others around the world so that school children could learn about the tragic events that took place between 1939 and 1945. The Cherry Orchard Foundation has become an educational tool providing scholarships for kids around the United States. I asked my dear friend Cynthia Hawkins to become the director of the center. It took her less than 3 seconds to accept her new position.

DO NOT DROWN IN A SEA OF DESPAIR

POTUS's term of office had been fraught with controversy. He was finally replaced thanks in main to the work of Stephen and Ron. Shortly after he left office, he and the First Lady disappeared. It was rumored that Guryev had set them up in a substantial home on the outskirts of Moscow. No charges were ever filed against either The President or the First Lady.

The Founding Fathers of the United States were political leaders who participated in the American Revolution. They signed the Declaration of Independence, took part in the Revolutionary War, and established the Constitution. The Framers of the Constitution were delegates to the Constitutional Convention and helped draft the Constitution of the United States. The main Founding Fathers were John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, & George Washington.

The protection of fundamental human rights was a foundation stone in the establishment of the United States over 200 years ago. Since then, a central goal of U.S. foreign policy has been the promotion of respect for human rights, as embodied in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the U.S. Constitution was written to protect the rights of all citizens. There are 3 branches of Government that protect us in the event that one of the 3 branches tries to seize more power. The 3 branches are 1) The Executive Branch (The President) 2) The Legislative Branch (Congress) and 3) The Judicial (The Supreme Court). For over 200 years this system has worked well, but within the past 4 years Cramer has consistently attacked the rule of law. To this point Congress and the Supreme Court have managed to stop his attempts.

Some of you may wonder why I’m drawing parallels now between the strong men of the past and the strong men of today. After all what is Autocracy? It is the belief that you have the divine right to exact vengeance on your people and rule them with an iron fist. An Autocrat believes that he is above the law, and that no person has the right to question his decisions. The fact is that megalomania in present day society breeds the same results today as it always did.

Whether your name is Hitler, Idi Amin, or Cramer the outcome is always the same. Whether your brand of weapon is cold steel, hot air, or if you prefer locking children up in cages and throwing away the keys, the outcome is always the same. History will remember your reign of terror for its desecration and deadly response by the number of souls that you have killed. Hitler will not be remembered for being a wonderful family man, but for the 6,000000 innocent Jews he slaughtered for no reason other than his perverse and misguided belief that they as a race had done him wrong somehow. To date the crimes the President of the United States has committed are innumerable starting with 2nd degree murder for the thousands of Americans he allowed die in the pandemic on his watch to tax fraud that he has engaged in since and before his inauguration. But let his Presidency be a reminder to us all to never allow a candidate to be nominated by any party without agreeing to full transparency. And finally Congress must pass some new amendments regarding the powers a President wields during his time in office.

For instance, a President must not be allowed to appoint the Attorney General but must leave that duty to the Senate: If a President is found to have committed a crime, he should be subject to prosecution like any other American and if found guilty should immediately be removed from office with the Vice President taking his place. The American Constitution will save our democracy from corruption by tightening up and creating amendments appropriate to our ever-changing world.

About the Author

Tim Battersby has written 20 novels, including a trilogy having recently finished the 3rd book of The Newspaper Chronicles Trilogy. Prior to becoming a novelist Tim was a contributor for The HuffPost writing a monthly column in the Arts and Culture section profiling up and coming artists. He also wrote articles on a number of established artists including Janis Ian, Muriel Anderson, Terry a la Berry of the Arlo Guthrie Band, Eric Clapton, Mr. Bean and the always hilarious Ab Fab. Tim Battersby is a longtime musician. Endorsed by Taylor Guitars, Tim was the co-writer, guitarist, and singer for the Grammy nominated musical comedy team for children, The Battersby Duo. They performed nationally and appeared on Sesame Street, Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, and multiple children’s TV shows. For six consecutive years they performed at The Cramer House for the President and First Lady. They performed at The Kennedy Center in Washington DC, The Savannah Music Fest, The Times Union Center in Jacksonville FL, The Straz Center in Tampa FL, the Marcus Center for the Performing Arts in Milwaukee, and the Filene Center in Vienna VA. At the peak of their career they were performing to 2 million kids a year. Tim is the son of an MI6 officer in the British Intelligence Service and came to the US in 1972 and lives near Tampa on the Gulf of Mexico. He is married to Laura. They have a daughter, a son-in-law, 4 adorable grandchildren and 1 great-granddaughter

The Author thanks Wikipedia for reference and resource material offered by licensing with Creative Commons creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Dennis Nilsson / Public domain. Map. Air Force One attribution CPL Roman Gray, USMC / Public domain