Juan Gómez-Jurado: Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘Aren’t you going to have some water, Father?’

‘I’m not thirsty, Dr Graus.’

‘So you’re going to insist on calling me by that name. My name is Handwurz. Balthasar Handwurz.’

The priest paid no heed.

‘I have to admit you’re pretty sharp. When you got your passport to leave for Argentina, no one imagined that you’d return to Vienna a few months later. Naturally it was the last place I looked for you. Only forty-five miles from Spiegelgrund Hospital. The Nazi hunter, Wiesenthal, searched for years in Argentina, unaware that you were a short ride away from his office. Ironic, don’t you think?’

‘I think it’s ridiculous. You’re American, aren’t you? You speak German well, but your accent gives you away.’

The priest lifted his briefcase onto the table and removed from it a worn folder. The first document he held up was a photo of a younger Graus, taken at the hospital at Spiegelgrund during the war. The second was a variation of the same photo, but with the doctor’s features aged thanks to a software program.

‘Isn’t technology great, Herr Doktor?’

‘That doesn’t prove a thing. Anyone could have done that. I watch television too,’ he said, but his voice betrayed something else.

‘You’re right. It doesn’t prove anything, but this does.’

The priest took out a yellowing sheet to which someone had stapled a black-and-white photo, on top of which was written in sepia letters: TESTIMONIANZA FORNITA, next to the stamp of the Vatican.

“‘Balthasar Handwurz. Blond hair, brown eyes, strong features. Identifying marks: a tattoo on his left arm with the number 256441, put there by the Nazis during his stay at the concentration camp at Mauthausen.” A place you never set foot in, Graus. Your number is a false one. The person who did your tattoo made it up on the spot, but that’s the least of it. Until now, it’s worked.’

The old man touched his arm through the flannel bathrobe. He was pale with anger and fear.

‘Who the hell are you, you bastard?’

‘My name is Anthony Fowler. I want to cut a deal with you.’

‘Get out of my house. Right now.’

‘I don’t think I’m making myself clear. You were second in command at Am Spiegelgrund Children’s Hospital for six years. It was a very interesting place. Almost all the patients were Jewish and they suffered from mental illness. “Lives not worth living”, isn’t that what you called them?’

‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about!’

‘Nobody suspected what you were doing there. The experiments. Cutting children up while they were still alive. Seven hundred and fourteen, Dr Graus. You killed seven hundred and fourteen of them with your own hands.’

‘I told you-’

‘You kept their brains in jars!’

Fowler smashed his fist on the table so hard that both glasses toppled over and for a moment the only sound was that of the water dripping onto the tiled floor. Fowler took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm himself.

The doctor avoided looking into the green eyes that seemed ready to cut him in half.

‘Are you with the Jews?’

‘No, Graus. You know I’m not. If I were one of them you’d be dangling from a noose in Tel Aviv. My… affiliation is with the people who facilitated your escape in 1946.’

The doctor repressed a shiver.

‘The Holy Alliance,’ he muttered.

Fowler did not reply.

‘And what does the Alliance want from me after all these years?’

‘Something in your possession.’

The Nazi gestured at his surroundings.

‘As you can see, I’m not exactly a rich man. I have no money left.’

‘If I were after money, I could easily sell you to the Attorney General in Stuttgart. They’re still offering 130,000 euros for your capture. I want the candle.’

The Nazi stared at him blankly, pretending not to understand.

‘What candle?’

‘Now you’re the one being ridiculous, Dr Graus. I’m talking about the candle you stole from the Cohen family sixty-two years ago. A heavy candle without a wick, covered with gold filigree. That’s what I want and I want it now.’

‘Take your bloody lies elsewhere. I don’t have any candle.’

Fowler sighed, leaned back on his chair and pointed at the upturned glasses on the table.

‘Do you have anything stronger?’

‘Behind you,’ Graus said, nodding towards a cupboard.

The priest turned and reached for a bottle that was half full. He picked up the glasses and poured two fingers of bright yellow liquid into each. Both men downed the drinks without making a toast.

Fowler grabbed the bottle again and poured another round. He took a sip then said: ‘ Weizenkorn . Wheat schnapps. It’s been a long time since I tasted this.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t missed it.’

‘True. But it’s cheap, isn’t it?’

Graus shrugged his shoulders.

‘A man like you, Graus. Brilliant. Vain. I can’t believe you drink this. You’re slowly poisoning yourself in a dirty hole that smells of piss. And you want to know something? I understand…’

‘You don’t understand a thing.’

‘Pretty good. You still remember the techniques of the Reich. Officers Regulations. Section Three. “In the event of capture by the enemy, deny everything and give only short answers that will not compromise you.” Well, Graus, get used to it. You’re compromised up to your neck.’

The old man pulled a face and poured himself the rest of the schnapps. Fowler watched his opponent’s body language as the monster’s resolve slowly crumbled. He was like a painter, stepping back after a few brush strokes to examine the canvas before deciding which colours to use next.

The priest decided to try using the truth.

‘Look at my hands, Doctor,’ said Fowler, placing them on the table. They were wrinkled, with long delicate fingers. There was nothing strange about them except for one small detail. At the top section of each finger near the knuckles was a thin whitish line that continued right across each hand.

‘Those are ugly scars. How old were you when you got them? Ten? Eleven?’

‘Twelve. I was practising the piano: Chopin Preludes, Opus 28. My father came over to the piano and without any warning he slammed the lid of the Steinway down as hard as he could. It was a miracle I didn’t lose my fingers, but I was never able to play again.’

The priest gripped his glass and seemed to lose himself in its contents before going on. He had never been able to acknowledge what had happened while looking another human being in the eye.

‘From the time I was nine years old my father… forced himself on me. That day I told him I was going to tell someone if he did it again. He didn’t threaten me. He simply destroyed my hands. Then he cried, asked me to forgive him, and called on the best doctors money could buy. No, Graus. Don’t even think about it.’

Graus had slid his hand under the table, feeling for the cutlery drawer. He quickly withdrew it.

‘That’s why I understand you, Doctor. My father was a monster whose guilt went beyond his own capacity to forgive. But he had more guts than you. Rather than slowing down in the middle of a sharp curve, he stepped on the gas and took my mother with him.’

‘A very moving story, Father,’ Graus said in a mocking tone.

‘If you say so. You’ve been hiding in order to avoid facing your crimes, but you’ve been found out. And I’m going to give you what my father never had: a second chance.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Give me the candle. In turn you’ll get this file containing all the documents that would serve as your death warrant. You can go on hiding out here for the rest of your life.’