The Manuscript I the Secret (6 page)

Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy

November 12, 1999, 10:34 a.m.

Francesco Martucci’s hand on my wrist seemed more a measure of desperation than a threat. He was grimacing with anxiety, and I was momentarily tempted to give him a reassuring hug. He released his grip and lowered his eyes.

“Forgive me,
signore
. I overstepped my bounds.”

“I think we’re both a bit on edge, Brother Martucci. Now, please, speak very clearly and tell me once and for all what was in the chest and what the documents you found were about.”

“The chest held an element, an artificial radioactive isotope. That’s what made it glow in the dark,” Martucci explained as we walked back down one of the cemetery paths surrounded by thick tree growth. The landscape fit beautifully with the artistic tombstones and mausoleums. “The documents in the tube were notes belonging to a war criminal named Josef Mengele, apparently the results of some experiments. He was always interested in prolonging life, what many would call ‘the formula for eternal youth.’”

“How did Mengele manage to hide it in Armenia? It was held by the Soviets, and I thought communists hated Nazis...”

“Mengele had a lot of Armenian friends. One was Dr. Paul Rohrbach, with whom, in Hitler’s era, he took it upon himself to prove that the true origin of the Armenian people was Indo-European; thus, they were considered Aryan. In fact, the German defense forces, the Wehrmacht, created the famous Armenian 812
th
Battalion, which was made up of Armenians. Before he fled to the Americas the first time, Mengele managed to get into Armenian territory. Oddly enough, with his physique he could easily pass as a gypsy. I suppose he disguised himself and pulled it off. The man was luckier than the devil himself. I never discussed these details with Claudio who didn’t learn until years later about everything that went on back then. I did not agree with what Claudio did, but he was my friend—my only friend, in fact. He was more than a brother to me.”

Francesco Martucci paused. He had been studying the ground as he spoke, but now he looked up.

Dante asked, “Do you mean that Uncle Claudio had something to do with Mengele?”

“Yes. Claudio thought he could make good money off of the discovery, and he went to South America to look for Mengele. Through some contacts at the Swiss consulate, he knew Mengele’s whereabouts. Mengele had returned to Europe in 1956. Surprising, isn’t it? He met up with his future wife, Martha, and his son, Rolf, in Geneva.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“We learned that he had not been able to enter Armenia at that point and had to return to South America. The German was by that time one of the most wanted men by the Mossad and by a Nazi hunter named Wiesenthal. Unbelievably enough, they could not track him down even though he lived in relative freedom in Argentina. When we found the chest and the documents, Claudio got in touch with a few folks in Paraguay and from there tracked Mengele to a modest home in Brazil. By that time he was one of the world’s most wanted men! But Claudio had a gift for this kind of thing. Nothing was impossible for him. On the other hand, I think it was rather convenient for the famous Mr. Wiesenthal to still have one of the Nazis most closely linked to Hitler’s regime on the run, since it fueled his cause. When Claudio found him, Mengele had just survived a cerebral embolism. The man was terribly fearful. He lived in hiding from the rest of the world. It wasn’t easy to convince him, but Claudio brought a copy of Mengele’s notes with him and finally persuaded the German to talk with him. Mengele continued his research in a laboratory in the United States where your Uncle Claudio was a partner, and it was there that Mengele channeled all his energies into perfecting the damnable formula. He experimented with Claudio, who volunteered willingly, though really he had no choice. His exposure to the chest’s contents had caused irreparable damage that only Mengele himself could slow down. Claudio was just as obsessed as Mengele was with eternal youth. One of the conditions was that he had to have a child.”

“Which explains why I was conceived,” I murmured to myself.

“Claudio had to have a child who would have his same blood type. That’s what he told me. Fortune smiled on him again, because you two were perfectly compatible, which means you could have shared any bodily organs.”
“It sounds like Uncle Claudio turned me into his organ donor.”

“Don’t say such foolish things,
signore mio
! He had the chance to take any of your organs he wanted, but he didn’t do it, don’t you see?”

A lightning bolt of memories split through my brain, from times when I was just beginning to make sense of the world. Uncle Claudio, or rather, my father, liked to travel with me. Once he took me to the United States to visit a man who, he said, was an old friend. And he really was an old man, or at least he seemed so to me at the time. I have very happy memories of him. After that trip, Uncle Claudio started taking blood samples from me. Sometimes when he would come by the house, he would have a syringe and say he was worried about my health. I never minded the pricks because afterwards he always took me out for juice or ice cream. The servant who often came with him would hermetically seal up the tube of my plasma and take it away, and Uncle Claudio—even now it is difficult to think of him as my father—and I would go for our outing. The last time that happened at our house, he and my mother had a very heated discussion. Afterwards, he never came back. But I would get away with Quentin to see him, and it did not bother me that he kept on drawing blood. I loved him so much I would have done anything to make him happy.

“How did Mengele get into the USA?” I asked, emerging from my reverie.

“That was the easiest part of all. The president of Interpol was a former Nazi. He arranged everything. You have no idea how many of those...
people
...held important international positions in the postwar era.”

“I think I’m getting the picture. Did Mengele get what he was after?”

“He was on the verge. Claudio began having lung failure. Even so, I don’t know if you had noticed, but your father—Claudio—looked extremely young for his age, sixty. He could easily have passed for forty. Mengele died, and the research remained unfinished. Claudio stopped receiving treatments, and his illness slowly began worsening.”

“I thought Josef Mengele died in Brazil in the late 70s. I read that somewhere.”

“Yes, that’s what was reported. But Josef Mengele actually lived to be eighty-two years old; that is, he died six years ago. Ever since then Claudio’s health began to decline, though it wasn’t obvious at first. He held onto all of Mengele’s research documents since they were partners. And the radioactive isotope that set off this entire wild goose chase is still in the original chest, which they kept for old time’s sake. Claudio wanted to continue the research with the US-based pharmacological group where he was partnered. They were interested in Mengele’s work, and they even studied Claudio since he was living proof of what was possible, but things didn’t work out. Apparently there was a big blow up when two of the partners of Jewish background learned about the origins of the research. Things dragged on and on, unfortunately for Claudio. But believe me, Dante, it is possible. All the studies were based on him and several others. The thing is that none of the other subjects demonstrated such positive results as Claudio did. He had a particular genetic mutation that meant that, in his organism, stem cells regenerated tissue at an uncommon rate. And you are genetically similar to your father. Only you can carry on the work that cost your father his life. Do you understand me now? Do you know what this would mean for humanity?”

“Of course. Population explosion,” I quipped, though the irony was lost on Martucci.

“Don’t be naïve, Dante. The formula would only be available to a small, select group. NASA would be keenly interested in it for their long-term space explorations, just to mention one example. The thing is that, before his death, Claudio hid several pieces of essential information, and, according to him, you are the only one who could find them. He told me so himself. It grieves me that he did not trust me with it, but I understand, because I know I’m not long for this world.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback.

“I was also exposed to the radiation, though to a lesser degree. That’s why my lungs no longer work as they should.”

After this conversation I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Martucci was one of the most gullible people I had ever known. He had a blind faith in other people’s honesty. How could he think Uncle Claudio would limit the sale of the formula to just a select few? Knowing my uncle, I was confident that his haste to make it a reality was driven by the desire to turn the formula into a cash cow. Yet perhaps I thought along those lines because I felt cheated. I would rather have been the product of love.

Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy

November 12, 1999 – 11:00 a.m.

Francesco Martucci and I had arrived at an imposing mausoleum that reminded me of the one in which Uncle Claudio’s remains now lay. I halted for a moment with the strange sense that I was being watched. Subtly I turned and caught a glimpse of a silhouette between the gravestones and the spindly cypress trees. A man holding a book was walking around enjoying the vegetation—an American tourist. You can spot them a mile away.

Brother Martucci looked in the same direction with no attempt at subtlety.

“We had better be going.”

I smiled like we were having a totally normal conversation, feigning interest in the spotted cat that had recently crossed our path. Still smiling, I said, “I don’t know why, but I feel like someone’s following us. There can’t be many rats around here,” I added, for the sake of banal chatter.

“The cat population in this cemetery grows by the day, but no one does anything about it. The place is completely run down,” Brother Martucci stated.

We turned and began our way back down the path.

“So you’re saying you think I know how to find the part of the document that has the formula. What if I tell you I haven’t the faintest clue?” I asked, my voice lowered.

“You probably know but just don’t realize it.”

“It would be rather amazing to possess the secret to eternal youth. It could be used in so many ways. Its worth would be incalculable.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Claudio,” Martucci smiled. “I will only go so far as to give you the tube with the original documents. All the rest you’ll have to find on your own. Soon Claudio’s will and testament will be read. It goes without saying that you are the sole inheritor.”

I made no comment. It seemed like years had passed since I had returned to Rome. I had learned so many shocking details about the life of Uncle Claudio—it was still too soon to think of him as “my father”—, and in many ways I felt like I was just now starting to grow up. I felt some unseen force compelling me to be like him.

“Do you know what, Martucci? Just a few days ago, all I cared about was getting enough money to pay Irene back. Now it seems that Uncle Claudio’s legacy is much more than just money. Way more. And on that note, I think I’d rather keep calling him my uncle.”

“Wonderful. That is exactly the change my good friend Claudio would have wanted to see in you. And you can call him whatever you like; it’s your prerogative. I only request that you be extremely careful. I know that there are people willing to do any and everything to get their hands on that formula, and they will surely be watching your every move. There is so much at stake,
carissimo amico mio
. So very much.”

“Just who are these people? From what you said about the group interested in the formula, two Jews were against it.”

“Exactly. They would like to make it disappear so that there are no traces left of the studies and research of Josef Mengele. To a degree, their position is entirely understandable, given what all was involved in the research. But they are fanatics driven by vengeance. Claudio escaped two assassination attempts. And they know me, which is why I did not want them to think that you and I were in contact. Likely they think that if the formula is ever successful, Mengele will go down in history as a great benefactor of humanity.”

The Search for Josef Mengele

1975–1976

On the return flight, Claudio Contini-Massera could not stop thinking about how to track Mengele down. If he had left documents hidden in Armenia it was because he had been unable to retrieve them. In certain circles tied to Nazism, it was rumored that he was in Paraguay. The current dictator of the South American country was quite chummy with several Germans in the postwar era, especially Hitler’s sympathizers, though Claudio suspected his interest in them was more economic than philosophical. He would begin his search there. He had a few contacts in the Stroessner government, and it was time to make a few calls.

As soon as he arrived in Rome, he made photostatic copies of each page of the documents in the tube and stored the originals in his safe. He was certain that this discovery would revolutionize science. From what he could tell, they had unearthed Mengele’s detailed studies and notes from experiments done on twins in Auschwitz. They were written in Latin, which, as luck would have it, Francesco could read, though Claudio’s poor friend had been horrified and had refused to continue translating.

Claudio wondered what a Nazi who wanted to hide away would do. Fly under the radar, naturally. He would use another name and have contact with other Germans. Despite his best intentions and all-consuming curiosity, Claudio could not set out at once to look for Mengele. The details of the Business and daily life as well as the long delays between phone calls and letters of inquiry dismayed him with constant delay. In time, Claudio discovered that Mengele and his wife had divorced, that he had a son named Rolf, and that his last appearance in Europe had been in 1956. Perhaps he had intended to return to Armenia and recover the documents, but something serious must have stopped him. Claudio learned this last detail in conversation with a friend in the Swiss embassy who seemed in the know about what had gone down back in 1956, given all the fuss the German government made in the attempt to prove it was not acting as a cover for fugitive Nazis. The fact is that Bonn never put forth the effort nor acted with the necessary diligence. The West German embassy in Asunción discovered that Mengele was living in Paraguay, yet when records were requested from the Paraguayan Ministry of the Interior, the embassy claimed that all they received were some irrelevant documents. So they said.

By the time he was finally able to plan his trip to Paraguay, Claudio was convinced that Stroessner’s government was hiding Mengele. He would start there. Ten months after the original discovery, now in Asunción, he got in touch with Alejandro von Eckstein, a personal friend of President Stroessner. Boasting recommendations from the Swiss government, Claudio had no trouble locating and gaining an audience with von Eckstein. He obtained information much easier than he would have imagined possible regarding some of Mengele’s friends. He headed about twenty miles north of Encarnación to the border town of Hohenau. The town was an exact replica of any number of German villages; except for the swaying palm trees all around, Claudio would have sworn he was in Europe. He entered a bar, went to the counter, and ordered a beer.

“Good afternoon, what a nice place you have here,” he said in German.

“Good day...yes, thank you. It’s a peaceful little town,” the man across the counter answered.

“Is there somewhere I can get some groceries?” Claudio asked, trying to drum up a conversation.

“Of course. Two blocks up there’s a store that sells groceries and hardware.”

“Ah, how I would love to live somewhere like this, far from the city but with the feel of European countryside.”

The bartender smiled proudly. He was pleased that Hohenau should be considered a desirable location.

“There’s a reason they call it ‘New Bavaria.’” The bartender raised his chin for emphasis.

“Do you know of any land for sale around here?”

The man masked a smile and looked at Claudio closely.

“If you would like to move here, you should talk with Mr. Alban Krug. He’s in charge of our landowner’s society.”

“And where might I find him?”

“At his farmhouse, up north.”

The man started polishing the bar, indicating his preference to end the conversation. Claudio had predicted as much, and the shift revealed to him the superficiality of the paradisiacal pretext of the place. It was a show in which the actors had not yet quite gotten used to their roles.

“Up north...any landmarks to guide me?”
“It’s the Krug place. You can ask along the way.”

Claudio got back in the truck he had rented and, after making a few more inquiries, headed down highway Hohenau 4 from Caguarene toward the Krug estate. The enormous white stucco house had a huge red gabled roof and a wrap-around columned porch. Together with the well-manicured lawn bursting with geraniums, it was very clear what kind of people lived here. Claudio got out of the truck and approached the massive wooden front door.

A stocky gray-haired man appeared in the entryway as if expecting his arrival.

“Herr Alban Krug? Good afternoon. I’ve come on behalf of Alejandro von Eckstein,” Claudio said, holding out two cards. “I’m Claudio Contini-Massera.”

Alban Krug’s face began to relax as he read the cards.

“Come in,” he invited, stepping to the side. “What can I do for you?”

“What a beautiful home, Herr Krug,” Claudio observed, sidestepping the German’s question.

“The weather is good to us here, and the countryside, as you can see, is a piece of paradise,” Krug answered with a wide smile. “Are you interested in some property?”

Claudio weighed his words carefully. He gathered that the bartender had alerted Krug about his arrival.

“I am here on a special mission. I need to locate Josef Mengele.” Claudio took the risk of being direct.

“I don’t know him,” Krug responded brusquely.

“Mr. von Eckstein assured me you could give me some indication of his whereabouts. I absolutely must see him. I am not a Nazi hunter, I assure you. Just the opposite.”

“And supposing that you were a Nazi hunter, as you say, you wouldn’t let on to it, now would you? Let me make one thing clear: I am not and have never been wrapped up in anything having to do with the Nazis.”

Claudio was silent. His eyes took in the entire house looking for something to grab hold of, and he landed on a display case full of huge blue morpho butterflies. Krug shifted uncomfortably in his chair, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

“You are correct, Herr Krug. Hypothetically speaking, if I told you I was the only person who could help Dr. Josef Mengele get out of trouble, would you help me find him?”

“Hypothetically speaking, perhaps. Regardless, I don’t see why you’ve come to me.”

“Mr. Werner Jung and Mr. Alejandro von Eckstein, who helped the doctor obtain Paraguayan citizenship, had no qualms about sending me your way. You can read the cards for yourself, Herr Krug.”

The German sighed and released a stream of cigarette smoke. Finally, he caved just a bit.

“Why didn’t you try his family, in Lundsburg?”
“They wouldn’t have helped me. And since I’m here, any help you can offer would be of great service.”

Krug seemed loathe to comply. He tugged at his chin and, after thinking it over, decided he would have to make inquiries first.

“I need to make a few calls.... I’m not even sure Mr. Mengele is still in Paraguay. Anyhow, if I find anything out, I’ll let you know in a few days.”
“Much obliged, Herr Krug. I’m sure that Mr. Stroessner will be very grateful.”

Krug peered at him with an inscrutable expression, as if the president’s name unsettled him.

“There’s no need for intimidation. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

“You misunderstand me, Herr Krug. I’m not trying to intimidate you. In all seriousness, the president is very keen on my finding Mengele,” Claudio hazarded.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’ve only just arrived, and I came straight here.”

“Come back in two days. Maybe I’ll know something by then.”

Back in the town, Claudio found a room at an inn. He put his things away, except for the documents which he kept with him in the truck, and went out again to see the area. After another visit to the bar, he returned to his room and stayed there until the two days had passed. He returned to Krug’s estate, and, as soon as he saw Krug’s face, he knew there was news.

“Mr. Contini, Herr Josef Mengele is currently living in Brazil. From what I could gather, he has a small house on the outskirts of Sao Paulo, in a neighborhood called El Dorado. But I think you should get in contact first with Mr. Bossert.” Krug handed him a piece of paper.

“
Veilen Dank, Herr Krug,
thank you. I owe you. Please let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”

“
Hope hilft
. It never hurts to have a debt ready to call in.” Krug smiled and added, “I’m sure there’s no need for me to tell you to be extremely careful. Many people are seeking his whereabouts, and he might be alarmed at your arrival. I advise you to use the utmost caution. And this should be in the strictest confidence: call him ‘Don Pedro.’”

“I more than any am concerned for his secrecy, Mr. Krug. I assure you I will not compromise his safety.”

“I would advise you to keep a low profile. It’s a poor neighborhood, you see? An outsider with your flair will attract attention.”

A few days later, Claudio Contini-Massera was on the Alvarenga highway. It was a dusty road full of potholes that sent the truck driven by Wolfram Bossert jumping from side to side. He busied himself admiring the driver’s skill while the gentle melody of
A garota de Ipanema
filled the cab.

At street number 5555, they came to a small yellow stucco house with a roof in disrepair. They filed down the narrow tiled walkway, and Bossert knocked at the door. A few moments later, a man with a walrus mustache opened it.

The features of the man with the walrus mustache drew back into a cringe as he took in the tall figure accompanying Bossert.

“Good afternoon, Don Pedro,” Bossert greeted. “I’ve brought a friend.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Claudio Contini-Massera.”
Don Pedro returned the handshake unenthusiastically.

“And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The mustached man’s voice was caustic.

“He comes highly recommended by Herr Krug, Don Pedro.” Bossert, visibly uncomfortable, explained in effort to calm their host.

“That’s right, Don Pedro. I come in peace. I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal,” Don Pedro repeated quietly.

“Yes, Don Pedro. I have brought some documents that may be of interest to you,” Claudio clarified.

The man gave a start.

“What are they about?” he inquired cautiously.

“I found them in Armenia.”

The man’s breathing became heavy. He was clearly attempting to cover his anxiety for something that seemed extremely important to him. His eyes took on an uncommon gleam, and a trace of fear appeared on the lips half hidden by his grey mustache. He motioned them inside and showed Claudio to a chair while he led Bossert to the still-open door.

They passed outside, and Don Pedro turned to him, “How did he get here?” His voice betrayed a poorly concealed terror.

“Alban Krug sent him to me. He checked up on him and talked with von Eckstein. The man can be trusted. I wouldn’t have brought him otherwise,” Bossert assured him.

Don Pedro’s shoulders relaxed, and he looked at his friend. “Could you leave us alone awhile? I hope you will understand...”

“Of course, friend. I’ll drive around for a bit and be back in an hour.”

“Thank you, Bossert. You are a good man.”

The mustached man went back inside the little house and sat down in front of Claudio.

“Who are you?” he asked, screwing his green eyes up.

“As I told you, I am Claudio Contini...”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” the man interrupted.

“Then first tell me who you really are. I can’t talk about this with just anyone,” Claudio held his ground.

The man stood up abruptly. His haughty demeanor was out of place with his plain, albeit tidy, dress.

“You need not be afraid, Don Pedro. You must trust me. I’m here to talk business,” Claudio sought to ease him.

Don Pedro sat back down. He crossed his legs and scrutinized his visitor. Claudio felt like he was a prisoner being evaluated in one of the camps.

“How did you find those documents? Where are they? Does anyone else know?”

“The story of how I got them is irrelevant. I brought copies with me.” Claudio opened a folder and pulled out a handful of papers. “Here, take them. Don’t worry. Nobody else knows.”

Don Pedro snatched them up greedily and put his glasses on. As he scanned line after line of notes in Latin, his face broke into something like a smile.

“How I have longed to have these in my hands.... When I went back to Europe, it was impossible to get to Armenia. I spent ten days with my family at my father’s insistence. I couldn’t go against his wishes. I was already making plans for the future with my brother’s widow. It was a matter of business. I had a car accident, and things started to get out of hand. The police started investigating, and I had to get out of Germany as fast as I could.”