Long Lost Brother Read online

  Don Kafrissen

  International Digital Book Publishing Industries

  Florida, USA

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2014 by Don Kafrissen

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in

  Any form without permission.

  For information, visit our website at

  www.idbpi.wordpress.com

  ISBN 978-1-57550-052-2

  Digital Books are published by

  International Digital Book Publishing Industries

  Brooksville, Florida 34601

  IDBPI & the Digital Book logo are trademarks belonging to

  International Digital Book Publishing Industries

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Acknowledgements:

  Many people helped me write this book. First and foremost, I want to acknowledge the value of Wikipedia. It sure makes research easy and instant.

  My good friend Robbie Tielemans for his help with guns. He sure knows ‘em.

  Dr. Oded Burowski of Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, for his help with Jerusalem after WWII.

  For my friend Jim P. who is always there for me and, together we solve all the world’s ills.

  For my writer friends and our Tuesday mornings at Luigi’s.

  For my best friend and wife DIANE just for putting up with me.

  Many thanks to Jill Svoboda, my primary editor, for wielding the dreaded green pencil in her attempts to make this tome readable.

  And finally, to Johanna M. Bolton, for her many suggestions, ideas, and creative cover art.

  ●

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Except for the Holocaust. That really happened.

  LONG LOST BROTHER

  A book from IDBPI published by arrangement

  with the author.

  This book is dedicated to my grandfather

  Samuel Kafrissen

  And to his children,

  Rose, Abraham, Ancel, David and Fredrick, my father.

  The American side of the family avoided the Holocaust but many others remained in Europe and did not.

  “I am not what happened to me,

  I am what I choose to become.”

  Carl Jung

  INDEX

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  About the Author

  Exerpt from NOT MY BLOOD

  Chapter 1

  As the light changed, Saul Goldman eased his Mercedes ahead. He just managed to see the other car out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t have time to even turn his wheel. It barreled into the passenger side of his car, throwing him sideways and setting off several airbags. Subconsciously, he hoped his insurance company wouldn’t take too long to pay for repairs. That was the last thing he remembered.

  A pedestrian who witnessed the accident told the police that the tan colored car, a stolen Toyota Camry, as it turned out, never slowed down before broadsiding the Mercedes, which had just passed the crosswalk. The old gentleman was thrown against the Mercedes’ door, his head breaking a window. Several people ran to help but they couldn’t pry the door open. One slim young man threw himself through the broken window, across Saul’s lap and extracted the ignition key, shutting off the engine. He tucked the key into a pocket on Saul’s suit jacket. Then he felt for a pulse in Saul’s neck and said he was alive to those gathered around. The ambulance, which arrived no more than four or five minutes later, took Saul to Mercy Hospital.

  The teenage driver of the Camry wasn’t so lucky. Because he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, he was thrown through its windshield and over the Mercedes. He was decapitated when his rapidly flying body hit a telephone pole support wire. Immediately, several people in the crowd brought out their cell phones, busily snapping pictures of the headless teen.

  When Saul awoke, much later, his head was bandaged and he had a splitting headache. He reflected that it had been quite a while since he’d had a day off, but what a way to earn a vacation! After he flexed his arms and legs and found them working ̶ although his left shoulder was sore ̶ he looked for a doctor.

  Fumbling for the room buzzer, he pressed it. After holding it down for more than a minute, a stocky black nurse swept into the room, yanked the switch out of his hand and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “So, I see you’re finally awake,” she grumbled at Saul.

  “Yeah, I’m awake. What the hell happened?”

  Consulting his chart, she harrumphed, “You were in a car accident.” Looking up she said, “It says here that you were the one that lived. Is that right?”

  “So far,” he replied.

  “How old are you anyway, Mr. Goldman?”

  “A little older than you, sweetheart.” He sighed, “I’m eighty-eight next week. Think I’ll make it?”

  She brushed a lock of his gray hair back. “Yeah, you’ll get to the end of the week. Then you won’t be my responsibility. You keep pushing that button, though, it might just be a toss-up.”

  He touched his head, “Concussion?”

  She shrugged, “Mild. You’ll have to talk to Dr. Elliott. He’ll be in in an hour or so.”

  “Listen, Nurse Ratched, can you get me a phone, please? I‘ve got to make one call.”

  “It’s Nurse Robbins, old man, and yeah, I’ve got a phone.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a smartphone. “Here. Who you gonna call, a lawyer?”

  He gave a short laugh, grimacing in pain, “I am a lawyer, and no, I have to call the son of an old friend. Something I should have done a long time ago.”

  Saul squinted and punched in a memorized number. “Hello,” he said. “Is this Ancel?”

  Ancel Rothberg, was the son of a friend, recently deceased. His father, Hershel had been one of the lucky ones. He had been in the camps at the same time as Saul, and like Saul, had survived. But now that his father was gone, he was the only person who ever called Al “Ancel.”

  “Hey Saul, how are you? Is anything wrong?”

  “Who is it, honey?” Saul heard Al’s wife, Sylvia, asking in the background.

  Al partly covered the mouthpiece, “Pop’s old lawyer, Saul. I’ll be through in a few minutes, hon.”

  “I’m back, Saul. So, what’s up?”

  “Look, Ancel, I was just in a car accident, but don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve got a letter in my office you need to see. I’m at Mercy. I’ll have my
secretary bring it to me here. Can you come in the morning about ten?” The headache made Saul brusque.

  Al was silent for a few seconds. Saul could hear pages being flipped. “Jesus, Saul, I’m supposed to be in a meeting tomorrow morning. Can’t it wait?”

  “Al, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I think you should clear your schedule for a while too. This is too important to talk about on the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” And with that, Saul broke the connection. He held the phone out to Nurse Robbins. “Thanks, Toots.”

  “Anytime, Pop.” She left and Saul fell back exhausted. The headache finally claiming him, he spiraled into sleep.

  The next morning he felt much better. The headache was gone and he could sit up. A little breakfast of Cheerios with fresh fruit and some coffee and, after Carla, his secretary left, he was ready to reveal a secret he’d kept for almost seventy years.

  Yesterday’s collision had shocked him, made him aware of his mortality. Life could end in the blink of an eye. He had always been so busy with other people’s troubles that he just hadn’t had time to think of himself. He knew he’d promised to keep the secret, but despite that, he felt he’d made the right decision ̶ he needed to pass the secret on to a younger man.

  At exactly ten, Al Rothberg came into Saul’s room. Al was president of R & N Construction, one of Chicago’s busiest building companies. He was average height, 5’10”, and about one hundred and eighty pounds. Clean-shaven, he wore his dark brown hair short, and had piercing blue eyes, eyes that missed nothing from under a strong brow ridge. Today he was dressed in casual tan slacks with a dark blue chamois shirt, sleeves rolled up on his powerful forearms.

  Saul was sitting up, clean-shaven and hair brushed. Nurse Robbins had done a good job just after she came on duty at eight. “Good morning, Al.” He waved an arm. “Have a seat. You’ll need it.”

  Chapter 2

  It was a warm spring day and, before leaving home, Al had called his sister, Miriam. “Mim, it’s Al. I got a call from Pop’s lawyer, Saul Goldman, yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh?” she paused, considering. “What do you think he wants, Al?”

  “Damned if I know. He says he has a letter I need to see and that I ought to free up some time.” Al was perplexed.

  “What does that mean?” Miriam had no idea either.

  “I dunno. So, what are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, still teaching but getting ready to retire. One more year.” She sighed, “It’s getting old, Al. Since Daddy died, I just don’t seem to have the energy.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s taken me a while to process too. Have you talked to Sammy lately?” he asked. Sammy was their kid brother, a dealer at a Mom and Pop casino in Las Vegas.

  “No, not for a while. I heard he was hooked up with some roller derby girl from Las Vegas. At least that’s what he said a month or so ago.”

  “And Joanie?” Joanie was Mim and French’s daughter. French was the long gone ex-husband.

  “Great. Swell. She’s working on her Master’s at Princeton. Got another year.” There was pride in Mim’s voice, the first he’d heard in a while. Mim blamed herself for not being with their father, Herschel, when he died.

  “Good, I’ll give you a call when I get done with Saul, okay?”

  “Sure, Al. Do you want me to come with you?”

  He grinned, “No, it probably isn’t anything important. He probably wants us to do some remodeling or something. Look, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay, Al. Later.”

  “Bye, Mim.”

  * * *

  After he set the receiver down, Al sat a moment to think. It must be important for Saul to call him Al instead of his given Hebrew name of Ancel.

  Al liked the old lawyer. Six months ago, after his father had died, Al, Miriam and their brother Sammy had met in his office to go over the will. Old Herschel and his brother, their Uncle Hans, had been in the construction business with the Nowicki family before they’d opened their hardware store. The Nowickis had sponsored the brothers to come to America from a displaced person’s camp in Austria after they’d survived the war in a concentration camp called Kefferstadt, a sub camp of Dachau.

  There was a substantial amount of money left to the family, which surprised them and which they’d divided equally. Al had sold the old house and business and donated most of the furnishings to a local charity.

  Along with the will, Saul had given them a long manuscript written by both Herschel and his brother Hans. The manuscript held surprising and distressing news. It seemed that Uncle Hans was not actually Herschel’s birth brother or even a Jew, but a former Nazi camp guard. The paper described their early life, the death of Herschel’s and Hans’ families and how they had saved each other’s lives before coming to America. It was also reason enough to understand why they’d kept Hans’ background a secret, though they all were shocked. Neither Al, nor Mim nor Sammy had informed their cousins, Hans’ children, of this revelation. Or as Al said – not yet.

  And apparently Saul now had something else to reveal. Al felt Saul appraising him as he sat attentively in the bedside chair.

  Finally Saul asked, “How did you, um, handle the folder I gave you last time? Shocked?”

  “Why, you old dog! You did read it. You told me you didn’t.” Al was confused.

  Now Saul chuckled, “No, Al, I didn’t read it. After your Uncle Hans passed away, your dad told me the story himself. So I didn’t lie. Of course, being a lawyer, I don’t mind, shall we say, skirting the truth sometimes.” Saul nodded at the younger man. “Have you told your cousins Ruthie and Margie yet?”

  “No, not yet,” Al sighed. “I’m still trying to figure out if I should. Or when.”

  Saul cleared his throat and went on, “Well, if you could handle what was in the letter, you can probably deal with this.” He handed the younger man an opened envelope.

  Al looked at the front. The postmark was from Israel. Al admired the stamps. His grandson, Benji, liked foreign stamps. Inside was a letter written in flowing, cursive script. Fortunately, it was in English. Quickly skimming it, Al noted that it was signed Arthur Levine. The body of the letter was pretty mundane, a short criticism of Israeli politics, some notes about life at the University, and expression of sadness on the death of Herschel. Last was an inquiry as to the well-being of Ancel, Miriam and Shmuel, Herschel’s children.

  Looking up, Al asked, “So? Who’s this guy Arthur Levine?” He had never heard the name before.

  Saul took a deep breath, “Al, he’s your real uncle. Isaac, your dad’s brother.

  Al was speechless. He sat on the edge of his chair looking from the letter to Saul and back.

  Saul waited, giving him time to absorb the stunning news.

  Finally Al stuttered, “But, but, Pop told us that his brother, Isaac, and sister, Miriam, died in the camps. How … how did you find out, Saul?”

  Saul had wrestled with this moment for a while. He knew it would be Al that he’d tell. He blew out his breath and said, “Al, I’ve known for a long time. Isaac asked me not to tell anyone, but after this little incident, I feel I had to. For the whole story, I think you’re going to have to talk to Isaac.”

  Al frowned, “Can I call him, maybe skype?”

  Saul snorted. “Al, I don’t know. Remember, he’s eighty-seven. But I can tell you how I met him.

  “Remember in the letter written by your Dad and Uncle? After your granddad and great-granddad were killed, your grandmom and her daughter were raped and sent to Ravensbrueck, the woman’s camp. Herschel and Isaac hid out in the streets and alleys for almost two years until Isaac killed that guy, Bruger with a cobblestone. After that, their luck ran out. The men of the town hunted them relentlessly until they were caught. At least that’s what Isaac told me.”

  Herschel, though younger than Isaac, was tall. He was sent in a boxcar with many others from their town to Dachau. He was assigned to a sub-camp called Kefferstadt, a work camp tha
t made uniforms for the German Army. Then, toward the end of the war, Kefferstadt became an extermination camp. But it was small, and eventually forgotten by the officers at Dachau and like most of the sub-camps, left on its own to survive or die.

  Saul said, “You know the story of your father and Uncle Hans, but you don’t know Isaac’s story. I met him in Auschwitz. I was there early in 1944. Isaac came in … let’s see, a little later. I remember it was fall, and he was cold all the time.”

  “But how did he get there? How did he survive up until then? Why didn’t he get back in touch with my Dad?” Al was brimming with questions.

  Saul held up a hand and shook his head, “Al, Al, I can only tell you my story. Sure, I know some pieces of Isaac’s, but you have to understand how huge Auschwitz was. It was the biggest camp. Remember, they killed more than 1,000 people a day there. A day! The camp was open for less than four years, but that’s still over 1,000 days. Can you even conceive it? More than one million at that one camp alone? You know, most slaughterhouses can’t process that many cows or pigs!”

  Al covered his eyes with a hand and muttered, “Yeah, I know, Saul. What Pop didn’t tell me, I read up on in school. It must have been horrible for you. How did you ever survive?”

  Saul’s face became blank, his stare off into the distance, the thousand-yard stare. “You survive. You do whatever you have to, to get through one day at a time. You don’t think about the future.”

  Al gently touched the old man’s hand. “Saul, I’ll never know or feel what you experienced. I can just sympathize. That will have to do.”

  “Thanks, kid.” He coughed a little, to cover his discomfort with the ghastly memories. “Let’s get to why I wanted to see you. You’ve got to go see your Uncle Isaac. You’ll have to go to Israel. He’s an old man and he wants to meet his niece and nephews before he dies. He wants to tell you why he never made contact with you.”