The Night, The Day (6 page)

chapter 6

M
artin Rosen suppressed a yawn.
He was finding it difficult to concentrate on his first patient of the day. The past few nights had been fraught with tossing, turning, and ruminating over just about everything: Katherine, Elizabeth, Nancy Hartledge of San Francisco, and the newest member of the cast, Cheryl Manning. It had already been a few days since he’d met her, but she was still fresh in his mind.

“You okay, Doc?” the man on the couch across from him asked.

“Pardon?”

“I asked if you’re all right.”

Embarrassed, Martin snapped back to reality. “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, sounding a bit tentative. He looked at the clock. Five minutes remaining to the session. He’d spent close to an hour with this man and hadn’t offered a thing.

“You sure? ‘Cause you don’t seem yourself today.”

Martin realized that he should have known better than to try to fool this particular patient. “I’m sorry, Dan. I’ve been having a few long nights, not much sleep.”

“I know the feeling, Doc, believe me.”

Martin looked at his patient and smiled. Dan Gifford had been seeing him for just over a year. Their relationship was good, perhaps one of the best doctor-patient relationships Martin had ever had. Martin even occasionally speculated on how they might have wound up great friends, had they met under other circumstances.

Dan Gifford felt a similar connection, which was what kept him coming back. He’d been to two other therapists before Martin, and neither had lasted beyond three sessions. He was about to give up the search, when a friend from AA gave him Martin’s card.

When he first started seeing Martin, Dan Gifford had six months of sobriety under his belt. At 46, he was the Chief Assistant District Attorney of the organized crime bureau of the Queens County DA’s office, where he’d worked for the past twenty years. His daily existence was a deluge of stress and, while he had been thriving professionally, his personal life was in shambles. His drinking problem, the last vestige of a serious mixed substance-abuse habit that he’d picked up during the Vietnam War, had lingered long beyond the opiates, which he had managed to kick as soon as he returned home. He discovered later, in his treatment with Martin, that the alcohol had really been a deeper problem, one that had started long before the war, during his teenage years and maybe even earlier. His father and grandfather had also been alcoholics.

The actual reason Dan had sought therapy went beyond the alcohol. His wife had gotten involved in Al-Anon while he was still drinking, and had left with their 6-year-old son about a month before he started going to AA meetings. Dan wanted them back and knew he had a lot more to work on than just giving up booze. Enter Martin Rosen.

Dan appreciated Martin’s perspective on things, the shrink’s wry sense of humor, and that Martin knew what it was like to lose a wife and child. In the time that they had known each other, Dan had learned that Martin enjoyed golf, fine food, action movies, and an “occasional” drink. It was generally
verboten
for therapists to divulge personal information, but Martin saw the rules of “the old school” as too clinical for his liking. He preferred relaxing with patients and relating to them as humanly as possible.

Martin found Dan fascinating. First, there was Dan’s service in Vietnam as a naval intelligence officer. Dan never actually spoke of details – most of it was highly classified and not necessarily relevant to the treatment – but Martin knew that naval intelligence officers were regarded as the cream of the crop.

Dan’s current job, prosecuting organized crime figures, also captivated Martin. The commonality of their vocations, both being immersed in probing and analyzing the proclivities of the psyche, was often striking. Dan had some ideas of his own regarding human behavior, and Martin had always found them edifying.

“So, you were telling me about your meeting with Stephanie,” Martin said, referring to a dinner date Dan had with his wife the night before. Dan often scheduled his get-togethers with Stephanie the evening prior to his therapy session so the details would be fresh in his mind when reporting them.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t go as I’d hoped. This case I’m on is just eating me alive. I can’t break free from it, not even for a second.”

Dan was referring to the trial of one of the city’s most notorious Colombian drug lords, Miguel Domingo. Dan was the lead prosecutor and had spent the past year preparing for the trial, which had begun three weeks earlier. He had personally managed to turn a key witness, Domingo’s former lieutenant, Roberto Alvarez, to testify for the state. At present, Alvarez was in protective custody, and only Dan, four hand-chosen NYPD officers guarding Alvarez, and the DA himself knew the location of the safehouse.

“I probably should have canceled with her,” Dan continued. “It’s not a good time for me to be thinking about anything.”

“When is a good time?” Martin asked.

“When I’m not sitting on a major case.”
Defensive, testy
.

“Oh,” Martin responded, unruffled. “And when is that?”

Dan sat back. “Good point,” he said in a soft, contemplative voice.

Martin looked at the clock. “It seems we’re out of time, Dan, but I do feel bad that my mind wasn’t on full speed today. How about we make this one a freebie and we’ll get together tomorrow again for a real session?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Doc. The session was great, worth every penny. Look at it this way: when I was drinking, I was still better at my job than most guys. Same’s for you, you’re better in la-la-land than any shrink I know. And I don’t have time tomorrow anyway.”

Dan handed Martin the check. “Take the money, Doc, and buy some nice lady a real fine dinner. You’ve earned it!” He turned toward the door, and added, “I’ll see you next week.”

Dan Gifford walked through the waiting room, glancing at the older gentleman who was seated and obviously waiting for Dr. Rosen. The man lifted his eyes from a magazine and smiled politely. Gifford responded with an obligatory nod as he hastened from the office.

Gifford stepped into the street, cognizant of a nagging feeling about the man he had just seen, the very same feeling he’d had exactly a week ago, when he’d last left Rosen’s office. It was the same man, the same smile, and the same sense of something familiar. Gifford still couldn’t place it, but he was certain he’d seen that face before. Perfectionist that he was, he knew he would chastise himself the moment he connected the face with a name. But for now, all he could do was excuse himself for slipping. He simply had too much on his mind.

It was only 8 a.m. and already Gifford could tell it was going to be one of those gloomy, late-September days. The forecasters had called for rain, and the sky looked like it was about to make them prophets. He had forty-five minutes to get to the Queens Criminal Court House through rush-hour traffic on the Grand Central Parkway. No problem for a chief assistant DA. He would take an alternate route, Union Turnpike all the way – it was less trafficky because it had lots of lights, but he could speed through them. No cop in his right mind would give him a ticket.

He walked toward his car, which was parked half a block down on Middle Neck Road, when he saw something that sparked his curiosity – a black, late-model Mercedes E-Class sedan parked across the street, with two men in the front seat. He slowed his pace a bit, watching from the corner of his eye. One of the men lit a cigarette, the other just sat there. The engine was off and the windows were halfway open. The car itself fit in perfectly with the neighborhood, and probably no one else would have paid it any attention. But Dan wondered about it, the kind of wondering that had made him an excellent intelligence officer and now a top prosecutor. It just didn’t feel right.

Perhaps I’m being paranoid, he mused, but these days paranoia is a healthy instinct. There were dangerous people looking for Roberto Alvarez, and he was one of very few who knew the witness’ whereabouts. He considered that the car might be NYPD protection; he wouldn’t put it past his office to secretly place him under surveillance for his own good. But using a Mercedes for such purposes was unlikely; only the Narcs used foreign cars.

He took note of the license plate as he got in his car, though he figured that if his suspicions were warranted it would probably wind up a dead end. It couldn’t hurt to check, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was a rental with a bogus credit card.

As he pulled away, he noticed that the Mercedes didn’t follow. Another person might have been relieved by that, but not Gifford. He realized there could be more than one car out there, very carefully, professionally on his tail. He was among the best at playing cat and mouse; good enough to know that there were experts who could fool even him.

His mind was running wild, wondering if they knew what he was doing in that building. And what about Martin Rosen? Gifford entertained the possibility that the Colombians could be targeting Rosen, whether to simply kidnap and trade for Roberto Alvarez or because they believed that he might tell Rosen where Alvarez was. Either scenario seemed far-fetched, he realized, but when playing with these guys, one couldn’t be too careful. The Colombian mob rivaled only the Russians in their depravity. They would go after a man’s wife, children, friends; whatever it took for them to get what they wanted. He kicked himself for not having canceled his sessions during the trial; the last thing he wanted was to bring Rosen in on this. Everyone he came in contact with was in danger.

Suddenly, Stephanie and Dan Jr. came to mind. If he had any vulnerability, they were truly it. He knew it was also stupid to see them during all this, instead of telling Stephanie to take the kid and visit her mother for a few weeks. But he also knew that every case was fraught with danger, and that Stephanie was finished with uprooting her life. She wasn’t about to go anywhere. As for what he should do, he simply had to choose whether to have a normal existence or not. In the past, the booze had kept him from facing such conflicts. Now the things he wanted, and Martin Rosen, would no longer grant him that refuge.

chapter 7

J
acques Benoît felt confident. His
second session with Dr. Rosen was over, and he had successfully continued his pretense that everything was copacetic. Satisfied with his performance, he toyed with the idea of speeding things up a bit on his next visit. Then again, he reminded himself of the benefits of patience.
Everything in due time.

He stepped out of the building and into his limo. “Where to, sir?” his chauffeur asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, lost in thought, “just drive around.”

The limo proceeded down Middle Neck Road, and Benoît peered out the window at the pedestrians. It was a pleasant morning, and the walkways were getting busy. Benoît thought about what he was doing here, driving through this “Jewish” town, coming from his Jewish shrink.

He also thought about his own home in Sands Point, which was only about a ten-minute drive from here. When he had first moved there forty years ago, it had been a secluded enclave for upper-crust WASPS, allegedly exclusive of Jews, an ideal place for him to fit in. An even more perfect place to hide.

Over time, however, some wealthy Jews had discovered the dazzling cliffs and scenic shores of this Long Island Sound community and began buying some of its abundant properties. Benoît had found the change unsettling, but by the time it was happening, it was his fear, rather than hatred, that had plagued him. He was now long past his anti-Semitic, racist days. He had become a successful businessman, and had refused to join the “brotherhoods” or to associate in any way with his wartime cohorts who had also escaped. He was finished with the reckless, puerile ways of his youth. He wanted to be left alone, to be as anonymous as possible, free to go about his new life unencumbered.

As a man who coveted his privacy, he skillfully avoided the paparazzi and never granted interviews. So far, he had been successful, but the fear of being recognized never waned. He knew there were people out there who could expose and indict him, that at any moment his facade could be shattered. He no longer had any desire to harm them; in fact, he had grown weary of trying to understand how he had ever behaved so monstrously. But in his mind, he wished they would just go away.

He had tried to change things, had started going to church, giving more money to charities than most men make in an entire lifetime. Still, he knew his ultimate debt remained unpaid.

He thought about that debt, the crimes he had committed. He had managed to forge a new existence, but now
they
had reawakened the memories. Now he could no longer erase the evil by which he had long ago defined himself. Now he could see it all once again, and with a clarity that time would never dull.

August 11, 1943

Lyon, Vichy France

He looks at the house. He knows the people who live there. It is the home of a banker his parents have occasionally borrowed from. His father had once described the man as “decent, for a Jew.” On several occasions, the banker’s wife, a belle in every sense, was subjected to his attempts at flirtation. It is the French way for men to fraternize with beautiful women, and vice versa, be they married or not. But this woman dismissed his every advance; these Jews were so different.

The Gestapo chief turns to him. “Is this it?”

He believes it is but consults the list to be sure. The Germans admire efficiency and have no tolerance for errors. So far, he has impressed them, but one meager mistake could change all that.

The list confirms it. This is the home of Philip Saifer and family, which includes the lovely wife and two young children, a 10-year-old daughter and a 7-year-old son. The list contains hundreds of such families, addresses, names, and the exact number of members in each. Several pages in length, it has taken him and his men months to compile, and holds the destiny of well over a thousand lives.

“Most definitely,” he responds to the chief.

It is a late summer afternoon. The men are overworked and overheated in their uniforms. This is the fifth home in what, so far, has been a long day. They have been gathering these families throughout the city for several days now, starting with the wealthy and prominent, like the Saifers.

He, too, is hot in his uniform. For years, all through his childhood, he wanted nothing more than to don the garb of a police officer. His parents own an inn on the outskirts of the city. They had always hoped he would follow in their footsteps, but his childhood had been fraught with fantasies of a different life. Catering to loud-mouthed fools, many of them Jews – cleaning their beds and bathrooms, serving their meals – it had never been for him. He needed more excitement, and he craved the deference, even fear, from others that he now enjoyed.

His hard work had gained him the rank of Captain two years earlier, just after the Germans invaded and occupied the north of France, and the Vichy regime was established to “rule” in the south. Now, having retained that position despite increasing Nazi influence over Vichy, he has what he always wanted: respect. Not only do his fellow officers and civilians revere him, even the Gestapo treats him with dignity, though he knows that is ephemeral. In his heart, he actually hates the Germans, as any self-respecting Frenchman must, but he also realizes that doing their bidding is the only way to maintain his life as it is. He must demonstrate his cooperation.

What does it matter to him, rounding up a bunch of slimy Jews for a bunch of equally slimy Germans? At least this way, France will finally be rid of one of its oldest scourges. Then, when the liberation comes – his country is always, sooner or later, liberated – all of France will belong once again to the French.

He looks at his men, expecting weariness in their eyes, yet they appear eager, waiting for his command. He wonders if this is because they know this is the last house of the day, or if they are beginning to enjoy themselves.

Including him, there are ten Frenchmen, four Gestapo police and their chief. The Nazis are spread too thinly throughout Europe; this is all they could spare for a city the size of Lyon. But he knows reinforcements are on their way.

“Proceed!” he orders.

At once, the Vichy and Gestapo policemen approach the house. They are not storming, this is not a military operation, nor do they anticipate any resistance.
The Jews acquiesce so pitifully
, he muses, though he knows they have no other options. He wonders how the banker’s wife will look when she sees he is in charge of all this.

He and the Gestapo chief remain in the street, watching. One of the men pounds on the door, yelling, “Open up, this is the police.”

He observes the banker open the door and the men force their way in. He hears the wife scream, “What is this?” And he no longer wonders what her screams would sound like. His men scamper throughout the house, as two Gestapo officers escort the banker and the wife out to the street.

The Gestapo chief steps up to the couple, looks each of them in the eye, and asks, “Where are your children?”

He watches carefully. This part he chooses to leave to the Germans; they are so adept at being cruel.

“They are visiting their cousins in Switzerland for the summer,” the banker responds.

“Liar!” the Gestapo chief yells as he whips the butt of his pistol across the man’s face.

The man falls to the ground.

He looks at the banker’s wife, wondering if she even recognizes him. She is absorbed in her fear and gives no indication. “I am the policeman you refused to sleep with,” he wants to say. Instead, he appears indifferent.

The Gestapo chief turns to her, “Where are your children?”

She remains silent. The banker is on his knees, spitting blood, but manages the words: “I told you, they are not here.”

He knows the banker is lying, as does the Gestapo chief. The children cannot be in Switzerland for the summer because that would have required transit papers, and there is no record of any such papers.

“I will ask one more time,” the Gestapo chief says.

“They are in Switzerland,” the wife finally says, tears flowing from her eyes. “We got them travel papers, illegal ones, forged. We paid heavily for them, there is no record.”

He ponders this. He knows there has been an underground market in travel papers for Jews. Now, perhaps, he has an opportunity to crack the ring and find the perpetrators. How will the Germans regard him after that? He will be a hero. He steps forward, stands beside the Gestapo chief, and says to the woman, “That is most interesting.”

He puts his face an inch from hers. Still no sign of recognition. “Tell me, who sold you these papers?”

She is silent.

The Gestapo chief turns to the husband.

“Wait!” she says. “A Frenchman. I do not know his name, but I can describe him. He is short, stocky, wears glasses and works for the Foreign Ministry.”

He contemplates her response. Now he knows she is lying. The Ministry is heavily policed, with impeccable security; there is no way the papers could have come from there. Illegal papers are, however, being manufactured by the partisans. Of that much he is aware. But is she lying about the source of the papers, or about their existence altogether? Illegal papers are hard to come by, and most are so poorly done that they are of little use. The banker’s house, on the other hand, is quite large. There are many nooks and crannies in which the children could be hiding.

He looks at the Gestapo chief. “She is lying,” he declares.

“No! I am telling the truth,” she yells as the Gestapo chief turns to the two German officers.

“Take them away.”

One of the Germans lifts the limp banker off the ground and drags the man to the truck, while the other grabs the wife. She is crying and has lost her resistance; she is fearful for her husband. The other Gestapo and Vichy officers exit the house.

“Well?” he asks.

“Nothing,” one of his men answers.

The Nazis look at their chief and nod in agreement.

“What do you suggest?” the Gestapo chief asks him.

He knows this is a test of his resolve, one he will not fail. He addresses his men: “Search it again! Tear it apart if you must!”

The men scurry back into the house. The chief turns to him with a smile of approval. “I will return to headquarters with the parents. You and the others can join me there when you find the little runts.” The German is careful not to phrase his words as orders per se, but that is exactly what they are.

He nods. He is loath to be commanded by a German but realizes he has little choice. He wants to spit on this German, but for now he will do as he believes he must.

He joins the men in their search. Two hours pass. Rooms, furniture and walls are torn apart, and still nothing. He knows they are somewhere, he senses it. He also knows they are not going to be found. He calls off the search. The Gestapo will be displeased, but he will surprise them yet.

He gets into his car alone and follows behind the officers in their truck. He drives for three minutes, then pulls over to the side of the road. He knows they will wonder where he’s gone, but when he finally reappears, they will understand and praise his ingenuity.

He gets out of the car and starts backtracking by foot. It is dark, and he is able to stay in the shadows. He catches sight of the house, hides himself in a wooded area, and waits. Close to an hour passes. He could use a cigarette but is afraid the flame might reveal his presence. He is growing restless, but he will stay all night if need be.

Suddenly, after another hour, he thinks he sees movement in the house. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he is certain, yes, he is sure… there it is, the girl emerges from a basement window. He watches her help her little brother and wonders where they could have been hiding down there, but that is unimportant now. All that matters is that he has them.

Gun in hand, he sneaks up as the girl pulls her brother from the window. He knows he will not need the gun, they are children after all, but he will use it to scare them, to prevent them from running.

“Very good,” he says, revealing his presence.

The children turn to face him.

He sees the fear in their eyes. The girl has a small suitcase in her hand. He figures the suitcase has money, jewelry, or both, something to purchase safety and transit.

“What do you want?” the girl asks. Her tone is strikingly similar to her mother’s.

“What do I want?” he ponders aloud. “Well, it looks like I want you and your brother. Two little Jews who thought they could escape.” He grins. “And while I’m at it, I think I’ll take a peek in that suitcase.”

He grabs the case and slowly opens it with one hand, while his other hand steadies the gun. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He examines what looks like a fortune in cash and jewelry, then closes the bag. He knows exactly what he is going to do with it.

He is certain these children were not simply abandoned by their parents without strict instructions of where to go. The Jews have all kinds of connections and plans. He searches them and finds in the girl’s pocket a map of the southern hills. A trail is drawn in red on the map, and an “X” marks a destination. He assumes that this is some sort of place of refuge, a Jewish hideout or perhaps even a partisan base. Whatever it is, he is certain his German “friends” will make good use of it.