“Since you brought up your father-is it true he fought for the Germans?”
Following a pause, Isaak nodded. “He was discharged early on, after being wounded. It happened before I was born. He rarely spoke of it. All I know is that he’d experienced enough of the German cause to want to leave the country for good. To seek out a better life somewhere else.”
Vivian gritted her teeth. The excuse sounded almost scripted. “If that’s the case, if America was so grand, why didn’t you stay?”
“Had it been up to me,” he insisted, “we would have. After my father died, my mother didn’t want me quitting school in order to work. A few months later we moved in with her sister’s family, back in Germany, just as I told you.”
“No,” Vivian reminded him, “you said it was Switzerland.” He conceded with his silence, and added, “Vivian, you know why I was afraid to tell you that. I swear, I have never lied to you about anything else.”
“Is that right? You would swear it to me?”
“Yes.”
“On what? Your father’s grave? The lives of your family? Of course, I’m referring to the family you had vowed weren’t Nazis.”
He hesitated for a second, then peered straight into her eyes. “And that was the truth.”
On the contrary, according to Gene’s report, it was a flat-out lie, now told directly to her face. It took concerted effort to keep Vivian from shouting her retort.
“I’m afraid your file disagrees. It says they’re officially members of the Nazi Party. ‘Devout members,’ I believe it said. And that your cousin was even part of some Aryan birthing program.” She fisted her hands on her lap, unsure which component disgusted her more. “Then again, with the articles you’ve written, about your superiority over filthy Jews, you were probably the one who convinced her to join.”
Isaak’s expression hardened. The scar on his cheekbone gained a menacing air. He exhaled heavily several times through his nose, a valve ready to burst.
She had gone too far.
“Let’s go,” he said, seizing her elbow.
Internally she shrank; outwardly she froze.
Another shush traveled across the balcony, a reminder of potential witnesses.
“If you have anything to tell me,” she said in an undertone, concealing the crack in her voice, “you can say it right here.” She readied herself to scream, but Isaak released his hold. His anger deflated and his body sank into the seat. His face turned to the screen.
When he spoke, it came as a ragged whisper. “An SS officer came to the house. He claimed to want information about me. It was the duty of the Gestapo, but Gertrud let him in. She was the only one home when he forced himself on her.”
Vivian remained silent as the pain, the guilt, of this rippled across Isaak’s face.
“As the mother of a bastard child, she would have been disgraced. But as the mother of a pure Aryan baby by a leader in the Reich, she was a national treasure. Just days before I came home, my relatives decided they had no choice. They finally gave in and joined the Party. They did it to reduce suspicions on all of us, but mostly for Gertrud. To help secure her admission into the Lebensborn program.”
Reflections from the projector mottled Isaak’s skin-but did not hide his opinion of the human thoroughbred system. “After all that, the baby was stillborn. I suppose, in some twisted sense, that was God’s way of showing mercy.” He glanced toward Vivian. “You know what ‘Lebensborn’ means, don’t you? The ‘Spring of Life.’ Ironic, don’t you think?”
With a look of disgust, he didn’t wait for her to comment. “Before long, my uncle was ordered to publish only articles approved by the Party. Stories that showed the Nazis in a favorable light, of the Wehrmacht gaining ground, winning the war.”
Vivian couldn’t deny it: The more Isaak shared, the more her skepticism waned.
She straightened with a shudder, wary of being fooled again. “I saw one of your articles,” she broke in. “It was your name on it. Your words.”
Isaak solemnly met her eyes. “My name, yes. Not my words. After I was arrested, my uncle wrote several articles that he printed as being mine. He presented them as evidence that I was a good, loyal German. He told everyone I secretly despised America ever since my father died in a factory there, a result of mistreatment and carelessness. Best of all, my uncle blamed the accident on a Jew. None of that was true, of course. But he was willing to say anything to protect me, and apparently so was Professor Klein.”
From the reference to the instructor, Vivian recalled details of Isaak’s benefactor, a war profiteer whose reichsmark were soaked with blood. “What about your ties to Mr. Mueller? And the source of his money?”