The Heritage Paper

Chapter 62



They drove past the hordes of people outside the gates of the estate with help of the police escort. The gates opened and they pulled up to the grand front entrance.

Youkelstein and Aligor exchanged no words as they were whisked into the mansion.

“It’s such a beautiful day, Otto,” Youkelstein broke the silence. “I’m surprised you didn’t choose to walk instead of ride … in your chair.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ben.”

“I saw you leaving from your visit to Eva Braun’s luxury cell, very much on your feet. And she only had one visitor in the log last night, who happened to sign in under the name Otto. It’s a name that would be hard to trace, but one I’m quite familiar with.”

Aligor didn’t flinch. He just smiled. “And they say I’m the great spy.”

Youkelstein wasn’t as good at keeping his emotions in check. He always wore his fiery passion on his sleeve, and seeing his onetime kindred spirit here—up close—he felt a fire burn in the back of his throat. “I don’t understand. You were there with me at Terezin! I saw you beaten by the Nazis until you spit up blood.”

“I was in so many places and called so many names. I was once Petey O’Neill from Ireland, and then of Brooklyn. I was Agent Peter Jansen in the British SIS. And I’ve been known as Aligor Sterling since 1944.”

Youkelstein would have thrown up, but he was certain he had no insides left.

“I won’t rehash the story of the brilliant escape-pod designed by the Führer, codenamed Apostles. I’m sure you’ve gotten your fill of that the last few days. And your instincts were correct to believe in Ellen.”

Aligor wheeled into a large office and the door shut behind them. He took a seat behind a large mahogany desk.

Youkelstein sat across from him. He looked right through his old friend, and out a large window behind the desk. It displayed a great view of the enormous front lawn, which led to the sturdy gates. Behind those gates was an unsuspecting world they were preying on.

“I was suicidal after Esther’s murder and you saved me. You healed my soul.”

Aligor smiled. “I saved your life in much more tangible ways than that, Ben. You see, my boss was the Reichsführer-SS Himmler. And as usual, he was only concerned with saving his own ass. So for PR purposes he worked a deal with Switzerland to release a number of Jews from concentration camps in December of 1944. Of course, he also got a nice sum in one of his Swiss bank accounts for his efforts. Himmler never did anything for free—even save himself. You weren’t originally on that list, Ben, but I made sure you ended up being released.”

Youkelstein wasn’t feeling very grateful. “So everything has been a lie?”

“It became quite obvious that the war would end badly for Germany. So we were forced to put the Apostle plan into motion, and the Führer honored me by offering me a large role in launching the operation. My American cover was that of a young Jewish doctor from a wealthy family in Prague, who had been incarcerated by the Nazis. I’ve always been a firm believer in research—so I did time at Terezin preparing for my upcoming role.”

Youkelstein wanted to stab him in his sardonic smile. Kill him in cold blood, just like the Nazis did to Esther. But it wouldn’t help. Aligor was just a piece of the machine, and he had to stop the machine from rolling uncontrollably down the hill.

The room began to spin. The book-cased walls were whizzing by like he was looking out the window of a moving subway car. But it stopped just as quickly. Something had caught Youkelstein’s eye, and the world froze. Like a hypnotic sleepwalker, he struggled to rise to his feet and shuffled to the large painting that hung on the sidewall of the office.

Aligor noticed the source of his attention, and glowingly stated, “It’s the 1959 wedding of my ‘sister’ Erika and Joseph Kingston.”

And to show off their macabre humor, the wedding photo was shot to the exact look of Da Vinci’s painting of The Last Supper.

“It was the last time all of the original Apostles were together,” Aligor said with a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “The only ones not present were that swine, Martin Bormann, and sadly, the Führer himself. It felt a little empty without him there.”

Youkelstein’s nose was now practically touching the photo, reviewing each person with diligence.

“All the way on the left,” Aligor pointed from his seated position, “is our photographer, Rose Shepherd.”

“Eva Braun,” Youkelstein mumbled.

“Next to her is our head of security, Gus Becker, a police officer from Rhinebeck. Even in the United States there was a lot of threats directed at a wealthy Jewish family like ours, and Gus did a great job of keeping the event safe.”

“How sad that Heinrich Müller was forced to do the grunt work at his own son’s wedding.”

“He was very proud of Josef, as were the groom’s parents—the Kingstons. A blue-collar family from here in Long Island. Frank was a fisherman, while the groom’s mother, Mary Kingston, was a brilliant pilot and intelligence agent who worked under me. She flew Hess and Josef to safety out of Germany years earlier. She was a vital member of the group, and it’s sad that she didn’t live to see this day.”

Youkelstein remained fixated on Frank Kingston. It was Rudolph Hess.

“I must say, Ben, that your analysis in your book that declared the prisoner in Spandau a fraud, was right on the money. I was glad I pulled the strings to get you in there to examine him. The more conspiratorial you became, the more it hurt the credibility of your arguments, even if you did have evidence on your side.”

Youkelstein always thought it was fishy that the prisoner refused to see his wife and son until twenty-five years after his imprisonment, but was willing to be examined by a forensic doctor for a book. He felt sick, realizing that those he hunted had mocked him.

“It was the easiest analysis I ever did. Apart from the fact that the flight plans, auxiliary tanks, and maps of the route didn’t add up, Hess had received a rifle wound to the lung in World War I that was so severe that he spent a month in the hospital, yet the prisoner in Spandau had no scar on his chest. And perhaps the most damning evidence of all, was that many of Hess’ fellow Nazis called out this stand-in as a fraud at the Nuremberg Trials. There is no doubt in my mind that it was an imposter—but I can’t figure out why this man was willing to sacrifice his life for a lie.”

“When he agreed to parachute into Scotland on May 10, 1941, pretending to be Hess, I don’t believe he understood the long term ramifications. But he knew if he chose to talk, Himmler would be able to get to his family. They were all afraid of Himmler and his sippenhaft.”

Youkelstein’s focus trailed back toward the center of the wedding table, zeroing in on the man pretending to be Aligor’s father. When he pulled away the layers, Youkelstein felt like he had been set on fire. He couldn’t believe it.

Aligor wheeled beside him, inches from the photo. “And of course you remember my father Jacob Sterling. I’ve never seen him look so proud as he did that day. But I guess it’s normal for a father to feel that way the day he gives away his daughter.”

Youkelstein peered at the man in the photo. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and looked different without his Charlie Chaplin mustache. He’d seen Jacob Sterling thousands of times—his picture still hung on the walls throughout Sterling Publishing—he’d even broken bread with him in his home. But he never looked at him like this. In this new light, the forensic surgeon in him noticed possible plastic surgery, but it was undeniably him.

“I sat right next to him when you invited me to spend the holidays when I first came to the States. I can’t believe I celebrated the holiest of days with the devil himself!”

Himmler.