2

Magda Hahne had nearly died in childbirth. Her one child, Rolf, had earned the enmity of his father because Magda could no longer conceive. Rolf, born in 1886, was the darling of his mother. She not only doted on him but also kept him safe from his father’s wrath. As a youngster, Rolf excelled in school, proving himself adept at languages; he was also a gifted singer. Erik Hahne, barely literate, hated his son all the more for his achievements—and for his fear of dogs. Although an immigrant by choice, the father loved all things German and had come to despise the freewheeling life in America. Ignoring the pleas of his wife and son, he moved his family from Philadelphia to Umfel, Germany, his place of birth. On Rolf’s tenth birthday, his father took him mushroom picking in the woods near the village. A German shepherd came bounding through the woods, his master out of sight. The dog, sensing Rolf’s unease, growled at the boy, who retreated and cowered. Erik Hahne drove off the dog, removed his belt, and beat his son into unconsciousness. His explanation to Magda was that the boy had been cowardly. Magda moved out of the house and into another, taking Rolf with her. To keep Erik from being arrested, she never reported the crime. Rolf’s back had been savagely striped and his left ear mangled. When he recovered, he barely spoke, and his father, having taken seriously to drink, rarely saw his wife and son again.

At the start of World War I, Rolf enlisted. He trained with a purpose and hardened his body into a killing machine. By the end of the war, he had acquitted himself bravely and, miraculously, escaped injury. When his mother asked him had he killed any enemy soldiers, he replied, “I did what I was ordered to do.” Having no taste for village life, he remained in the army and, with his superior’s recommendation, applied to the SS Intelligence Service, where he was interviewed by Ernst Eicke, whose first question was:

“Is there anything good that can be said about Jews?”

Misunderstanding, Rolf replied, “A Jewish doctor in Philadelphia delivered me and saved my mother’s life.”

Eicke flew into a fury. “Do you want to work for the SS or not? The Jews are vermin! If not for your knowledge of America and English, I would send you to a camp for reeducation.”

Rolf Hahne apologized for his weakness and swore to uphold SS standards. Eicke, not entirely sure of this new man, assigned him to kill a “hymie.”

“If he’s an intellectual, all the better.”

“The means?”

“Use your imagination and report back here when it’s done.” Making his way to a local medical center that employed Jewish doctors, Rolf waited in the lobby for one of the physicians to exit. But each time a chance presented itself, his resolve weakened and his hands trembled. To one side of the lobby stood a pharmacy. A young boy, perhaps five or six, clung to his mother filling a prescription for a pain killer. The boy had just come from a dentist’s office. He was complaining about his jaw hurting. Reflexively, Rolf approached one of the pharmacists, a pretty young woman, and asked to buy a dentist’s pick.

“A pick or a scaler? They’re different, you know. The first removes stains and the second dislodges food.”

“Pick.”

“They come in sets of four and twelve.”

“Four.”

“We have stainless steel picks with nonslip grooved shafts. They’re the best.”

“I’ll take them.”

She wrapped up the package, and Rolf left. On the street, he slipped one of the picks up his sleeve and pocketed the other three. He then made his way to a small neighborhood synagogue that he had often passed. It seemed as though every lamppost was flying a Nazi flag, and some stores had painted on the glass front the word “Juden.” The synagogue, perched between a bakery and a fish store, serviced a poor Jewish area of Berlin. The doors to both shops were open, and the customers’ voices carried into the street. Women in shawls were buying rolls and challahs. An older woman was haggling with the fish merchant over the price of a river trout. The mingled scents of fresh bread and herring followed Rolf into the shul. Unlike the churches of his youth, this building smelled of prayer and parchment. He knew enough to take a yarmulke from a basket at the front door. The rabbi, a slight, sad-faced man, no doubt made sadder by recent events, was addressing a congregation of three, all silver-haired elderly men. Rolf seated himself at the back of the small sanctuary and rocked in unison with the others. Waiting until the other congregants had left, Rolf asked the rabbi if he could have a word with him in private.

The rabbi gestured toward a side door. “Please . . . in my office.”

Rolf feared that a secretary might be present, but to his relief the room, with its battered rolltop desk and swivel chair, was empty. On one wall, a large white oval ceramic displayed in black lettering the Ten Commandments. The rabbi removed his tallith, folded it neatly, and turned his back to store it in a small wooden chest. Rolf took that moment to noiselessly come up behind the rabbi and drive the pick into the side of his neck. As the rabbi lay gasping, Rolf removed the tallith and placed it over the dying man’s face and suffocated him. Leaving the pick in the rabbi’s neck, Rolf slowly strolled to a streetcar and found his way back to his barracks.

The next morning, he reported to Ernst Eicke on his previous day’s work. “I suspect it will make all the papers.”

Eicke sneered. “A fifth of them are owned by the swine.”

Indeed, the Berliner Morgenpost, a Jewish-owned newspaper, reported the story in headlines, and the writer emphasized the cruelty of the crime and the barbarism of leaving the dental pick lodged in the rabbi’s neck.

The SS authorities, pleased by Rolf’s cold-bloodedness, took Ernst Eicke’s advice and assigned Rolf to work with Hans von Tschammer und Osten, the leader of the Reich Sports Office, which was planning, with the SS, to assassinate a few key U.S. figures who supported boycotting the Berlin Olympics. Although Rabbi Stephen S. Wise was high on their list, as were Jeremiah Mahoney and Ernest Lee Jahncke (one of only three U.S. members of the International Olympic Committee), these men were unassailable; a second list had the names of “traitors” who could hurt the German-American cause. Among them appeared the names of Americans sympathetic to the boycott, as well as Abner Zwillman and Arietta Ewerhardt.

“I can understand the first list,” said Rolf, “but where does the second come from?”

“Wiretaps. One of our agents works in the New Jersey telephone exchange and has been keeping tabs on Fräulein Ewerhardt.”

Rolf Hahne was taking coffee with Hans von Tschammer in the latter’s office and reviewing his orders, which included passing for von Halt’s aide-de-camp and joining the German delegation that would meet Avery Brundage, the head of the American Olympic Committee, in Sweden, and that would then return with him to Berlin.

“I see from your notes,” said Rolf, “that in 1930 Brundage initially opposed the choice of Berlin for the 1936 Olympics. He wanted Barcelona.”

Hans’s smile bore a disconcerting resemblance to the one exhibited by Hitler, whose portrait looked down imperiously from the wall. “It took some doing. At the time, Rome and Barcelona were in the running. But that buffoon Mussolini ruined Rome’s chances. Fortunately, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) met in Barcelona to decide. I say fortunately because by April 1931, Spain was descending into chaos. Some of the delegates couldn’t even make it to the meeting. So the IOC decided on Berlin, which they praised for its orderliness. And that,” he said proudly, “was even before the Führer came to power and imposed real discipline.”

“I will study the notes on Brundage before we leave for Stockholm. One can never be too prepared.”

On first meeting, Hans von Tschammer had liked the young man. Rolf had blond hair and blue eyes, the embodiment of Nazi youth; he stood over six feet, mostly muscle. Except for the scars on his back, which raised a few eyebrows, he exhibited flawless Aryan skin. At the suggestion of von Tschammer, Rolf had had his back tattooed with an Iron Cross, which effectively disguised his welts.

Hans replied, “It is the wise man who prepares in advance. Now I want you to meet Karl Ritter von Halt, who will be in charge of the meetings with Brundage. Like you, he speaks perfect English.”

Avery Brundage set sail for Europe on July 29, 1934. Given his wealth and his stature, he traveled first class. Even the few famous people sailing on the same ship paid due deference to this man who felt himself charged with the responsibility of seeing that the Berlin Olympics took place, and that its detractors, whom Avery regarded as principally Communists and Jews, would not prevail. He ate at the captain’s table, danced with socialites in the ballroom, took the air on deck with his wife, Elizabeth Dunlop Brundage, and swam two miles every morning in the ship’s pool. A former decathlon athlete, he prided himself on being trim, forceful, and honest. His critics would have agreed with the first two qualities, and would have snickered at the third.

A skirt chaser, he eyed all the pretty women on board, accompanied one to her stateroom, poured her champagne, and then turned out the lights. He felt that most of the passengers were not his equals. Having risen from poverty to wealth, he had little patience for the out-of-work and those on the Roosevelt dole, as he called it. He often said that with self-discipline and hard work virtually anyone could succeed. His was a Calvinist work ethic joined to a roué’s morality. In his late forties, he regarded himself as a self-made man, having overcome a broken home and poor eyesight to earn a college degree in civil engineering and start his own construction business. He regretted only two things: the day that he learned his myopia would require him always to wear glasses (he was ten), and the day, in the 1912 Olympics, that he quit the decathlon before the last event, the fifteen-hundred-meter race. He was exhausted, having already competed in the pentathlon, but others, he later told himself, were equally tired and had finished the race. To excise the memory of having given up, he dedicated himself to remaining steadfast when opposed, lest he regard himself once again as a quitter. Now he and Elizabeth, a plain, retiring woman with impeccable manners, were sailing for Europe, where he would argue that sports and politics must live in separate realms.

Dario Lorca, whose Castilian family dated back to the twelfth century, invited the Brundages to dine at his table. The ballroom was all chandeliers and waiters in stiff uniforms and a five-piece ensemble playing Viennese music and two professional dancers gliding across the glistening floor. Avery appeared in a white linen suit, sporting a boater banded in red, and Elizabeth in a light pink, long formal dress. Dario’s table, the most elegant, included Baroness Annuska Polanyi from Hungary, Count Stefan Galati from Rumania, and Francesca Bronzina, an Italian singer, all of whom had left the United States with a sense of foreboding, but for different reasons. Having seen the ravages of the Depression in America, they wondered out loud how Roosevelt could persuade his southern and conservative colleagues to take the steps necessary to end the chronic joblessness. The only person in the group who did not believe in collective action was Avery Brundage, who equated the New Deal with hated socialism, and said so, to the chagrin of his wife.

Mrs. Brundage touched her husband’s arm and excused herself, complaining of seasickness. Avery wondered whether she was truly ill or just escaping from a discussion of politics.

The baroness, dressed in a frilly gown, an outdated boa, and with feathers in her hair, felt certain that it would be better for her to move her mother and two brothers to France than to wait until the feckless Hungarian government settled the disputes between Russophiles and Ukrainophiles and became autonomous from Czechoslovakia. “The country is paralyzed and ripe for a dictator. Then what’ll happen?”

Brundage replied, “Look at all the good that has come from Hitler in Germany. Maybe a strongman is the answer. America could do worse than electing a Hitler.”

The baroness raised her plucked eyebrows, lifted her chin, and protested, “The man is a barbarian, a monster. He hates the upper classes and the intelligentsia, probably because he is a guttersnipe.”

“Look at all the improvements that Mussolini has brought to Italy,” said Signorina Bronzina, who seemed to prefer a liquid diet of champagne to the main course. “I know people scoff at the idea that Il Duce has made the trains run on time, but the fact is that he has. And some of the train stations are architectural monuments.”

Exuding nobility in his English-styled tuxedo, Dario mumbled, “The man’s a buffoon.”

“Non sono d’accordo,” said Francesca rather proudly, arching her back and extending her ample bosom, which was at war with the stays of her corset and her elegant dark blue gown. She had won more than a few arguments by thrusting her chest into the fray.

Dario Lorca, who spoke six languages fluently, including Italian, responded, “Il uomo é un pavone.”

Brundage, like most men of his midwestern class, spoke only English, equating multilingualism with spies. “He seems to have put the Communists where they belong: in jail.”

“He was one himself before he became a nationalist,” Dario said.

Avery’s expertise was business and sports, not history, and he felt out of his element. In his correspondence with the German Olympic Committee, he had made it clear that he would, at all times, need a German translator, one who understood colloquial American diction. He hazarded, “At least Mussolini saw the light. A great many people in America have yet to do so.”

Count Stefan Galati, silent during the discussion, smoked one gold-tipped Turkish cigarette after another. Dario turned to him:

“Count, you have recently been to both Italy and Germany. What is your impression?”

Galati’s English was of the British variety, formal and terse. He blew a cloud of smoke through his nose and said, “Yes, like you I have been to both countries. I don’t suppose our opinions differ much on the matter of fascism. Italy is authoritarian and Germany totalitarian. Distinctions with a difference.”

“Ah, then you agree with me,” said Francesca, running a hand through her long, blonde hair, “that Benito is not so bad.”

“If he ever runs afoul of Hitler,” replied the count, “Italy will be doomed.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the baroness, massaging her neck as if to dispel the wrinkles.

“The Italians are laughter and food,” answered the count, “the Germans, mirthless and maniacal.”

Reciting her words as if trilling up and down a scale, Francesca recounted singing in Vienna, Berlin, and the Rome opera house with both Mussolini and La Sarfatti present.

“Who is Sarfatti?” asked Brundage.

“Benito’s favorite mistress,” said Francesca.

Brundage seemed uncomfortable. “I don’t approve.”

Dario looked nonplussed. “Of what?”

Like most men who preach morality but practice its opposite, Brundage answered self-righteously. “I believe in the sanctity of marriage.”

Dario laughed. “As Shaw remarked: ‘Confusing monogamy with morality has done more to destroy the conscience of the human race than any other error.’”

The guests tittered; all but Brundage, who asked, “Is that George Bernard Shaw?” Dario nodded. “Wasn’t he a socialist?”

“My dear Mr. Brundage,” said Dario, “I think that you have an idée fixe about socialism. Hitler’s party is the National Socialists, and yet you seem to have no qualms about Germany.”

Discomfited by this remark, Brundage suggested that now was not the time nor the place to continue the discussion. He would gladly meet Dario for a walk on the ship’s deck to continue it later, perhaps tomorrow. The next day, as good as his word, Brundage invited Dario to join him for a stroll. A hot day, the calm sea offering no cooling breezes. Avery fanned himself with his straw hat, sweating from his white blazer jacket and striped linen trousers. Dario wore a cotton tan suit. Both men were tieless.

“Damn hot,” Brundage said.

Dario, carrying a Derby walking cane with an ebony shaft and a pewter collar, pointed it toward the ocean. “Calm one minute, feverish the next, like the human condition.” He paused to study the pewter. “Needs polish.” Again he paused. “In 1930, you opposed Berlin and supported Barcelona. What changed your mind?”

Brundage studied Dario’s face for a minute and then exclaimed, “I thought I had seen you before. You were an observer at the 1930 meeting that chose Berlin.”

“Quite right, and I am now a supporter of the People’s Olympics in Barcelona.”

A dyspeptic Brundage replied, “You’ll never be able to compete.”

Dario shook his head. “Perhaps not, but we will at least have made a statement about our disapproval of the Nazi Olympics.”

“Why do you object to Berlin? Is it Spanish nationalism?”

“No, racism.”

Brundage breathed deeply. His next words would take some courage. “My dear Señor Lorca, I have been told that the main reason for the Aryan movement in Germany is that the Jews, who hold a prominent position in the affairs of German life, have misused their position, as Jews often do.”

Dario tapped his cane on the deck, as if asking an audience for quiet. He then wordlessly turned and walked away from Brundage.

“Have I offended you?” asked the American, calling after him.

Dario stood motionless. “Avery, if you will allow me to call you by your first name . . .”

“Please do.”

“I have visited Germany, you have not. Let me tell you that Adolf Hitler is not what you think. You may admire him, but he would not admire you: your poor eyesight, your thinning hair, your education, and, most of all, your money. He despises the wealthy, though he does not hesitate to use them, just as he will use you.”

Never having been spoken to in this manner, Brundage expressed his resentment, as he always did, by stiffening his already ramrod straight back and insisting that the principal opponents of the Berlin Olympics were Communists and Jews.

“You are sadly out of step with history,” said Dario. “Those arguments were tried—and failed—in the last century. I will tell you what you are lending yourself to.” By this time, a number of passengers had gravitated toward the two men, who still stood apart, arguing. In addition, the baroness Polanyi, who had been relaxing in a deck chair and reading a book, put down her lorgnette, and stared incredulously.

“Perhaps it would be better,” said Dario, “if we separated.”

As a gesture of reconciliation, Brundage took the Spaniard’s arm, and they strolled down the deck. “Dario, believe me: Barcelona is a dead issue. Why continue?”

“I will tell you. The Berlin Olympics are not about sport but about Nazi propaganda. Every building, every anti-Semitic poster being removed, every newspaper report . . . all of it is designed to impress the foreign visitor, people like you. Then you will return to the United States and praise German wealth, order, security, hospitality, and organization. Your German hosts will not have shown you the concentration camps and the countless number of democrats and poets and intellectuals who are languishing behind barbed wire. So I beg you. When you arrive in Germany, ask to see the prisons and camps, ask to speak to gypsies and Jews, ask to see the training facilities for non-Aryans. Leave the Olympic site. Go off alone and walk down the side streets and avenues. Do you know what you’ll see? Frenzied brown-shirted thugs roaming the avenues, arresting and assaulting, even murdering, any person who they think violates the purity of Aryan blood: Jews, gypsies, cripples, the blind, socialists, Communists, dissenting Christians. And the police will not lift a nightstick to help. Nor will judges convict or sentence any of these barbarians. They fear for their own lives. You will see broken windows and stores painted with anti-Semitic slogans. You will see Nazi flags fluttering from every building and lamppost. You will see children dressed as soldiers, and their parents wearing Nazi pins and heiling their neighbors. And then there’s the noise. Trucks regularly pass through the streets blaring Nazi slogans and propaganda. And it seems as if every building in Berlin has a loudspeaker playing martial music. You cannot but conclude that you have reached a level of hell that even Dante would find unimaginable.”

Brundage, never having read Dante, could say only, “They are compensating for all the bad years . . . lifting their spirits.”

“With murder and mayhem?”

Feeling at a disadvantage owing to his lack of languages and familiarity with Germany, Brundage decided to break off the discussion. But as was typical of the man, he wanted to have the last word. “I will say just this,” Avery declared adamantly, “Hitler and his party have halted Communist gains in Western Europe, and to my mind, Communism is an evil before which all other evils pale. For that reason alone, Berlin deserves to host the Olympics.” Now red in the face, he stopped to catch his breath and adjust his glasses. He then added, “I fervently believe that amateur sport and fair play can rise above sectarianism and put an end to national hatreds.”

This last comment, a non sequitur, led Dario to say what he did. Making no attempt to hide his contempt for this provincial, bigoted American, he calmly remarked, “You mention politics and sport in the context of the Berlin Olympics, but you fail to indicate that the real issue is not Communism nor amateur athletics but humanity, for which you seem to have little regard.”

The men parted. They never spoke again and dined at different hours. The count and baroness joined Dario; Elizabeth and Francesca joined Avery. As if in response to the roiling opinions of the passengers, the sea grew stormy, so that by the time Brundage arrived at the International Amateur Athletic Federation (IAAF) meeting in Stockholm, he complained of a queasy stomach. In need of moral support, he found it in Karl Ritter von Halt, a bronze-faced diplomat and steadfast Nazi, whose tipped nose bore a passing resemblance to Bob Hope’s. The round-faced Brundage and the sunken-cheeked von Halt had competed against each other in the 1912 Olympics. Five years later, the German government honored him with a nobleman’s title for acquitting himself bravely during World War I. A member of the International Olympic Committee, he was told to shepherd Brundage through the Stockholm meeting and serve as his interpreter and guide in Germany. Their common values—the virtue of amateur athletics and the superiority of the Aryan race—led to an enduring friendship.

In Stockholm, the IAAF meeting took place at a villa outside the city. Rolf Hahne drove. Autumn’s bright arrival had turned the woods red, yellow, and orange. Von Halt asked Brundage to tell the other delegates the position he’d taken before leaving the United States. “The German committee is making every effort to provide the finest facilities. We should see in the youth at Berlin the forebears of a race of free, independent thinkers, accustomed to the democracy of sport, a race disdainful of sharp practice, tolerant of the rights of others, and practicing the Golden Rule because it believes in it.”

After the meeting, Avery and Elizabeth joined four German officials for lunch in Stockholm. One of the guests was Jewish, Justus W. Meyerhof, a member of the Berlin Sports Club and the IAAF. When the talk turned to politics, Elizabeth excused herself to walk on the terrace. Brundage was shown documents to prove that German-Jewish athletes were welcome to participate freely in sports and to train for the Olympic team. Avery asked Justus if the documents were accurate.

Meyerhof answered obliquely. “As a non-Aryan, I offered to resign from the Berlin Sports Club, but my offer was not accepted. I was seldom as proud of my club as at that moment.”

Brundage, visibly impressed, repeated, “Just as I thought, just as I thought.”

That night the Brundages had dinner in Stockholm’s Gyldene Freden restaurant, a warren of small cozy dining rooms. Accompanied by von Halt and three other men, one of whom had brought his wife, the Brundages and the others ordered sauerbraten, schnitzel, rouladen, and rippchen. After the meal, the men asked for permission to smoke. The two women excused themselves. Von Halt asked Rolf, posted outside the dining room, to look after them. Brundage called for champagne, and toasted his German colleagues and “pure sport, which rewarded the natural aristocracy of ability and pointed to the right principles for the proper conduct of life.”

Ritter von Halt asked about the state of the proposed boycott in America. “As you heard from Meyerhof, we do not discriminate against Jewish athletes.”

Brundage scoffed. “Who are the Jews to complain? I don’t hear them saying anything about the condition of the Negroes in the South.” A poor public speaker, Brundage often strained reasoning and misdirected his words, as he did now. “Besides, America is a free country. My own country club won’t admit Jews.”

The other men were too polite to question Brundage’s logic, but one of them asked, “In your opinion, will the Negro athletes compete?”

Now much in his cups, Brundage said, “Their own newspapers object to a boycott. They want their Sambos to show just how good they are, though I suspect that the Aryan athletes will eclipse them.”

On September 12, the Brundages arrived in Germany at Konigsberg in East Prussia. Karl Ritter von Halt and Rolf Hahne had preceded them to prepare for Avery’s visit. Taking a train to Berlin, the Brundages checked into the Kaiserhof Hotel, as the guests of the German government. The next day, Avery was introduced to Hans von Tschammer und Osten. So well did they get on together that Avery regarded him as a soul mate. For the next five days, Brundage interviewed German officials and Jewish sports officials, but always in the company of Ritter von Halt, who did all the translating, and of other Nazis, including Rolf Hahne. When interviewing Jewish figures, Brundage’s questions never varied.

“Are conditions as bad as the foreign newspapers suggest? Are there any obstacles to Jews making the German Olympic team? Can Jews and Aryans train together?”

To the last question, von Halt explained that Jewish athletes preferred to train with their own kind. When Avery asked the Jewish officials if von Halt’s explanation was accurate, Hahne conspicuously put a hand to his holster. The Jews looked at each other, at the Nazi officials in the room, and then at Brundage. “Yes, von Halt has told the truth.” Rolf visibly relaxed and shifted his hand.

Avery smiled broadly and commented that as a matter of fact he personally believed in “separate but equal treatment,” an approach that worked in American schooling and public facilities and athletics. What was good for America was good for the Olympics.

The night before Mr. and Mrs. Brundage were to leave Berlin for the United States, they had dined well at the hotel restaurant, Elizabeth having ordered ginger glazed salmon filet with wasabi cream. An especially pretty waitress, Heidi, had been assigned to their table, and had been particularly attentive to Avery. After dinner and toasts and appreciative speeches, von Tschammer and von Halt announced that the German government, fearing for the safety of the Brundages, had arranged for Rolf Hahne to accompany them on their boat trip to the United States. More appreciative words followed. Rolf merely bowed, silently.

As Elizabeth Brundage prepared for bed, Avery stood expectantly looking out the hotel window. Before he had left the dining room, von Halt had slipped him a note. Now he waited. Soon there was a light tapping at the door. Elizabeth had already climbed into bed and reached for a book. Avery, still dressed, opened the door just a crack, enough to see standing before him the pretty blonde Heidi, who had served him liver dumpling soup, duck with spätzle and red cabbage, and a bottle of Chardonnay. She smiled and bent her index finger in a gesture of “Follow me.” Avery nodded and told Elizabeth that von Halt wished to see him.

“Don’t tire yourself,” said Elizabeth, “and if you return late, please don’t turn on any lights.”

Avery closed the door behind him and followed Heidi to an upstairs room, which shed an amber light from a small chandelier. Without so much as a word, she suggestively undressed. Brundage watched as she sat on the edge of the bed and removed her stockings, revealing a small patch of black between her legs. She slid under the comforter and smiled. He asked would she mind if he dimmed the lights. She shook her head no. Darkness.

At the dock, Rolf looked after the luggage. The Brundages had a stateroom and he a cramped single. No matter, he had space enough to review his instructions and plot a course of action. A feeling akin to pride suffused his body. The SS authorities had entrusted him to find a means to silence the loudest voices of boycott and to dig into the relationship between Axel Kuppler and Arietta Ewerhardt, whom they suspected of being in the employ of a “moral pervert,” whose pro-boycott links reached from New Jersey to California. He had come well equipped for his mission. One of his two bags held the three dental picks, a pistol, a vial of cyanide, and a small photograph of Fräulein Ewerhardt. Arrangements had been made in Germany for Axel to meet him at the dock in New York. He would soon find out whether Axel had transmitted secrets to Fräulein Ewerhardt and whether she had transmitted her information to others. To occupy his time during the ocean crossing, he lifted weights in the men’s gym and rode a stationary bicycle. Passing the women’s gym, he saw an attractive blonde woman, Francesca Bronzina. He nodded, she smiled, but he refused to follow up, focusing on the Brundages and their welfare. The German SS Intelligence Service had assigned Rolf to guard the Brundages not only to insinuate Rolf into the country for their own murderous purposes but also to see that Avery Brundage landed safely in New York. The SS had received unconfirmed reports that two Jewish commandos, dispatched from Haifa with false passports, might be boarding the boat at Bremen to assassinate Avery Brundage. Although the ship’s manifest had been carefully screened, the police found no suspicious passengers.

The first day at sea, Rolf haunted the ship trying to identify any would-be killers. Two men were sitting in deck chairs, with an empty chaise lounge between them. After several minutes, one of the men stood, dropped his newspaper on the empty chair, and departed. The other man casually reached for the paper and studied it. Were these the two? Perhaps the first had merely been doing a crossword puzzle that he failed to complete; and the second took up the challenge. Rolf watched. If the second failed to write in the paper . . . but what if he were equally stumped? Rolf needed more proof than a discarded newspaper retrieved by another.

As the second day passed into the third, Rolf decided to use Brundage as a lure. Until now, Avery had stayed well away from the deck rails, where an unseen assailant could shove him overboard. Rolf suggested that Avery, without Elizabeth, stroll to the outside railing, pause a minute, and then return to the glass-enclosed deck. If anyone made a move to follow, Rolf would of course be at Avery’s side to protect him—and might have a better idea of the persons assigned to harm Brundage. But nobody followed, and Avery returned to his wife. Standing by himself in the stern of the ship, admiring the great propellers leaving a wake behind the liner, Rolf heard a dog barking in the distance. Around a corner came a German shepherd running toward him. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. The dog playfully sniffed Rolf’s leg and turned its head, as if looking for its master. At that moment, Rolf leaned over, scooped up the dog, and threw it overboard. A few seconds later, the owner came scurrying around the corner looking for “Schatzi.” He was an elderly gentleman, well attired, and sporting a monocle. Had Rolf seen a dog? Yes, but it took off down the other side of the ship. The man had spoken in German. He thanked Rolf, bowed slightly, and disappeared.

After dinner, Rolf accompanied the Brundages to their stateroom. As always, he entered first, looked around, and then, seeing there was no danger, stepped aside to admit the couple. Outside the door, Rolf saw a young cabin boy coming his way carrying a tray of food. He stopped the young man to ask if any of the passengers had been inquiring about the location of the Brundage stateroom. The boy hesitated. Rolf flashed his SS badge and handed him a ten spot.

“As a matter of fact, since we left Bremen several passengers have asked me that question.”

“Old or young?”

“Mostly old, except for one person, who never leaves the cabin. But I don’t think . . .”

Rolf interrupted. “What about meals?”

“Good question. I have no idea.”

“Perhaps a friend . . .”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Room number?”

“It’s . . . it’s 218.”

“Not a word about this matter,” said Rolf. “I am here as a representative of the German government. Secret business.”

The cabin boy’s eyes grew as wide as portholes, and he shook his head vigorously. “Not a word, sir, I promise.” And then, still balancing the tray of food, he hastily left.

That same evening and the next day, Rolf shadowed Room 218, but no one entered or exited. So he descended below deck to the kitchen, where he found his way blocked by a small, cadaverous man who belied the belief that all cooks are fat.

“No passengers allowed,” he said in German.

Dozens of people were dashing about: cooks preparing food, scullions scouring pots, pans, and dishes, and waiters and waitresses carrying plates in and out of the kitchen. Once again Rolf flashed his SS badge. The skeletal cook forced a smile, revealing a mouth of bad teeth.

“A word, please,” said Rolf.

The cook wiped his hands on his apron and walked to one side. “Be quick, the diners are waiting.”

“Are you in charge?”

“I am the head cook, Benedict Strassen.”

“Herr Strassen, do any of the passengers require a special diet, for example, a kosher one?”

“Why do you ask?” said Benedict suspiciously.

“I am looking for a man . . .”

“For this you interrupt me. No, we don’t serve kosher.”

Rolf thought twice before he spoke again, wondering whether Herr Strassen could be trusted. “A Jewish killer. Perhaps two of them.”

Without replying, the cook waved his hand to a meat cook preparing pork chops. As the man approached, Benedict greeted him as Friedl and repeated Rolf’s question.

Friedl looked at Benedict. The head cook wiped his perspiring face with his apron. “Tell him,” said Benedict. “He’s with the SS.”

“Some rooms, not many,” said Friedl, “have dumbwaiters. We can put the food on a tray and hoist it directly to the passengers.”

Benedict added, “The shaft for the dumbwaiters was built to guarantee a person’s privacy, like royalty and diplomats and high government officials.”

“And a Jew who doesn’t want to be seen.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Benedict.

Rolf was convinced that one assassin occupied Room 218, but where was the other? Unless the cable from Palestine was in error, and only one killer, directed to kill Avery in New York, was on ship. He would have to be sure, lest he put himself and both Brundages in danger.

“Do you serve anyone else using a dumbwaiter?”

“No, only the one—who paid handsomely for the service.”

Rolf was silent.

“Ask the purser,” said Benedict. “Ach, look at the time. I have wasted precious minutes talking to you. If the passenger is a criminal, arrest the person. Don’t bother us.”

The cooks returned to their work. Rolf decided that the steamy kitchen, with its chopping block and pots and pans suspended overhead, was an uncongenial place to glean any more information. He would confront the purser about the man in Room 218, and try to learn his name, his country of origin, his special arrangements. But he knew that the man was unlikely to be traveling on an English passport, even though Palestine was a British mandate. If the man knew German, then he probably came from an Eastern or Central European country. He would know in a minute, once he heard the man’s accent.

Bernd Fuchs shook Rolf’s firm hand when Rolf introduced himself. Having worked as a purser for German cruise liners since he turned twenty, he thought that he knew the characteristics of passengers and their schemes. But he had never before met anyone like Rolf Hahne, who had materialized in a black shirt and black suit, and had assumed a stiff, resolute, and menacing posture. Fuchs always dressed in white for Atlantic crossings, even in winter: white gloves and a white hat with a black beak. He spoke several languages and particularly prided himself on his fluent English. Trained to be discreet, Fuchs was disinclined to reveal the identity of the passenger in Room 218, even when he saw Rolf’s SS badge and diplomat’s passport. Besides, he had no special love for the Nazis and, in fact, despised their arrogance and presumption of superiority.

“A person is entitled to his privacy,” said Bernd.

“Not when he intends to assassinate Mr. Avery Brundage.”

“Where is your proof?”

Rolf could hardly produce a cable that indicated some commandos might be aboard ship. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Power is a trust, and I don’t intend to abuse mine.”

Rolf glanced around the purser’s office. He took note of the filing cabinets, the combination safe in the corner, the desk strewn with papers, and the lock on the door. As part of his SS training, he had been schooled in breaking and entering. The lock on the purser’s door was a Schlage, difficult to work the tumblers but not impossible. Perhaps his dental picks could serve more than one purpose. His only fear was that the papers he wanted were in the safe and not in the filing cabinets. But . . . German officials were famous for putting the combinations of locks in files labeled “Snuff.” Why they had selected that name, he never could fathom.

Fuchs felt uneasy in the presence of this SS man. To break the impasse, he suggested that he would call the ship’s main office in Bremen for instructions bearing on this matter. His superiors would know what to do.

“The matter is secret,” said Rolf.

“Then I can’t help you.”

At that moment Rolf was tempted to choke the man to death. It would have taken no more than a minute or two. The two were alone. No witnesses. But he chose to pursue another course of action. That evening, when he could try the door and the safe, he would know how to proceed.

After midnight, Rolf made his way to the purser’s office and found to his raging impatience that he could not pick the lock. Had the purser shown up at that instant, Rolf would have killed him. The door to the purser’s office had a small window, fitted with thick smoky glass. Rolf went to his room and returned with a blanket, which he wrapped around a fire extinguisher that he used to break the window. Reaching inside the door, he disengaged the lock and entered. He would have to work fast, before someone reported the break-in. Every time he heard footsteps in the corridor, he gripped the pick and feared what discovery would mean. Unequipped with a flashlight, he had to risk turning on the lights. He moved quickly, rifling through the cabinets. No file marked “Snuff.” What did his SS trainers know? They were all working from manuals printed during World War I. The safe was locked. He had often heard it said in jest that all the safe combinations in Germany were set to Hitler’s birthday: 20 April 1889. He tried 20-4-89; it didn’t work. He tried 20-4-889. No luck. Then: 20-4-1889. His last attempt was equally unsuccessful: 4-20-1889.

He entertained the idea, but only for a second, of taking a fire axe to the safe. But the noise would awaken the ship’s crew. After rustling through the papers on the purser’s desk and in his drawers, he knew that the information he wanted was in the safe. But if he had no way to access it, he would just have to assume that the man in Room 218 was an assassin—and kill him.

In the morning, the ship’s captain alerted the passengers to an attempted robbery of the purser’s office. Everyone should take special care to guard his valuables. A malefactor was afoot.

The dumbwaiter shaft ran from the kitchen to a cabin on the top deck, four levels above. Room 218 was on the second deck. If he could gain access to the shaft at level three or four, he could effect his purpose. He would have to discover who occupied Rooms 318 and 418. But first he had to gain entrance to the dressing room of the cabin crew responsible for changing linen, making beds, and cleaning berths. He confidently opened the door and confronted two young men. Before either man could speak, he flashed his leather identification case with its SS badge. Asking where the uniforms were kept, he removed a jacket and pants from the supply cabinet. Later that morning, he knocked on the door of Room 418. No answer. In Room 318, he could hear people stirring. An elderly couple were just preparing to go on deck to read. Rolf introduced himself as the new attendant in charge of preparing their room. When they asked what happened to their regular cabin boy, Rolf dangerously said that he’d taken ill. If the couple, having left the cabin, ran into the lad, Rolf knew he’d have some explaining to do. He therefore had to work quickly. With his Swiss penknife, he removed the small screws from the dumbwaiter panels. He could smell the food being prepared down below. But what if the man in 218 didn’t eat lunch or had decided to forgo it today? Rolf was unlikely to have another chance like this one. He heard the sound of wheels. A trolley in the hall. Seconds later, a polite knocking on the door. The cabin boy with his supplies had arrived to make up the room. Muffling his voice, Rolf requested that the boy return after lunch. He waited. The trolley moved on.

Several minutes passed, while Rolf opened and closed each blade in his knife. Then he fingered the vial in his pocket. He peered into the shaft and contemplated whether he had the space to lift himself, hand over hand, up the ropes. Strength was not a problem. He had excelled at rope climbing during SS training exercises. Suddenly, he heard the ropes moving. As soon as the platform passed the opening he had made in the shaft, he seized one of the ropes and stopped the dumbwaiter. Reaching for the vial, he could hear the cook’s complaint coming from the kitchen. But Rolf took less than a few seconds to empty half the vial into the cup of steaming coffee. He then released the rope to exclamations of relief from the cook.

Once he had replaced the panels, he removed his uniform, opened the room’s porthole, and threw the clothes into the sea. He then went in search of the Brundages. Avery was in the gym using a treadmill. Rolf stripped to his shorts and entered the weight room. As he cradled the dumbbells, he imagined the following scenario. The elderly couple would see the cabin boy and ask about his health. The boy would say that he was feeling fine. “But another fellow showed up to clean our room with the excuse that you were ill.” The boy would say, “But you asked me to return after lunch.” The couple would say that no such conversation ever took place. “Perhaps it has to do with the attempted robbery,” the cabin boy would say in an effort to clear up the confusion. The captain would be summoned. He would ask the couple if they could identify the man if they saw him again. “Yes, of course.” The captain would then ask the couple to attend both sittings for every meal and scrutinize every person they passed. Rolf could not afford to hide himself lest he leave Avery Brundage unguarded. A second assassin might still be on the loose.

When Room 218 stopped taking meals—first dinner and then breakfast—and had neglected to return the dishes from lunch the day before, the purser entered Room 218 and found the little-known, blonde Swedish actress Ingrid Paiken dead in a parlor chair, wearing only a dressing gown and a string of expensive pearls. A tray of rancid food stood on the tea table, and a coffee cup lay on the rug.

The news electrified the ship. A promising movie star had been on board, had been traveling incognito, and had been found dead. No one knew the reason for the secrecy or the cause of death. But gossip, which is like a choir, gives rise to all manner of voices. The explanation most often repeated was that Ingrid had been traveling to America to meet a lover, and in fond expectation of falling into his arms, had suffered a heart attack.

But the shipboard tragedies didn’t end with the young woman’s death. Less than a day before docking, the elderly couple in Room 318 had been reported missing. The only clue was traces of blood found on the frame of the porthole. Nothing of value was stolen. The man’s wallet and the woman’s purse were still in the room. Their passports were untouched. The few valuable pieces of jewelry the woman owned had been safely stored in the ship’s safe. When the question of motive arose, the cabin boy told his story of someone having replaced him to clean the room, and the cook related the trouble he’d had with the dumbwaiter. On close inspection of the shaft, a ship’s mechanic declared that the screws to the panel had been tampered with and suggested that possibly the same person responsible for the disappearance of the elderly couple was responsible for the death of the Swedish actress. The captain, aghast, wired ahead to New York requesting that a squad of detectives meet the boat.

Sitting down for dinner with the Brundages the night before docking, Rolf was introduced to a pretty, dark-haired woman whom Elizabeth had become friendly with on the crossing. Her name was Elspeth Botinsky, an émigré from Ruthenia. As Rolf listened to the conversation between the women, he heard in Elspeth’s speech a few pronunciations that led him to speak to her in German. When she responded, he could hear in her Deutsche a Yiddish inflection. It was then that he realized his error. The commandos sent from Palestine were not men, but women. One was now dead and the other sitting across from him. Before the ship docked, would he be able to get Elspeth alone? If not, she would disembark in New York, lose herself in the crowd, and stalk Avery Brundage. For the moment, she was sitting just a few feet from him. He couldn’t squander his chance. Excusing himself, he returned to his room and took the vial of cyanide and a dental pick. Back in the dining room, the passengers were eating their desserts. He would have to wait.

Later that evening, before the passengers retired to their rooms, the captain distributed champagne to toast the ship’s safe arrival, albeit under trying circumstances. The orchestra played some mood music, and several people took to the dance floor. As Elizabeth and Elspeth sipped their champagne—Rolf and Avery were teetotalers—Rolf asked Elspeth to dance. The Brundages followed. Rolf deliberately spun Elspeth around several times, until she pleaded dizziness, and he helped her back to the table, where she pushed away her champagne glass. Rolf eyed it hoping that she would take a last sip. When she lowered her head to the table, he spilled the remaining contents of his vial into the glass and urged her to finish it off—for good luck.

“No, no,” she said, “I couldn’t. My head is spinning.”

Lest anyone accidentally drink the poisoned champagne, Rolf leaped to his feet and tossed the glass over his shoulder.

“An old German custom,” he said, apologizing to the waiter who came running to mop up the broken glass and champagne.

After this public episode, Rolf decided that he would have to act below deck. With Elspeth feeling ill, he accompanied her back to her cabin. The next day, as the liner entered New York Harbor with all the expectant passengers crowding the railing and most of the steamer trunks and baggage neatly arranged for the handlers to move them by hand and by dolly to the dock, a coast guard cutter brought the ship to a halt short of its berth. Several policemen boarded and summoned all the passengers to the ballroom. Here each person was questioned as to the unhappy events that had occurred during the crossing. One person was missing, Elspeth Botinsky. Although her luggage had been brought to the deck, she was nowhere to be seen. The police made careful notes and then allowed the boat to dock and the passengers to proceed to passport control.

Rolf showed his black-covered diplomatic passport, which allowed him to carry his luggage through customs free of an inspection that might have discovered his pistol and knife and dental picks. He then waited for the Brundages. When they arrived, they asked him if he had seen Elspeth.

“One minute she was there,” said Elizabeth, “the next, gone.”

“Strange, very strange,” said Avery, and turned to Rolf. “You saw her to her cabin. Did she say anything? Did you have any inkling of something amiss?”

Rolf put his palms up gesturing innocence and said, “I saw nothing.”

A redcap carried their luggage to the curb. The cabstand was crowded. As Rolf and the Brundages waited, Francesca Bronzina also waited, out of sight. When the next vacant cab pulled up, Rolf embraced Elizabeth and then Avery, promising to ring them at their hotel. If he was needed, or if they heard from Elspeth, he could always be reached through the German consul in New York. The Brundages bundled into the backseat of the taxi, which immediately turned into the flow of traffic. Rolf waved. The Brundages never saw him again.

On leaving the pier and reaching the street, Rolf waited. Moments later, Axel Kuppler drove up, identified himself, introduced Rolf to the beautiful woman in the passenger seat, Arietta Ewerhardt, and opened the back door of the sedan for Rolf, who was delighted to learn that Axel had saved him the trouble of locating Fräulein Ewerhardt.

Once Rolf had left, Signorina Bronzina stepped out of the shadows, waited her turn for a cab, and handed the driver a piece of paper with an address in West Orange, New Jersey: the home of Abner Longie Zwillman.

After all the passengers had disembarked, an unclaimed steamer trunk remained on the dock. When the customs officials forced the lock, Elspeth Botinsky tumbled out. Her killer had left behind the dental pick used to pierce her jugular vein.