Book One SOULS OF THE JUST         The Holocaust in Rome, Italy, during World War II        In his Map Room in the bowels of the basement of the White House, President Roosevelt meets surreptitiously in the early days of 1942 with a coterie of his close friends and associates, both Christians and Jews. All are intent on formulating and launching a comprehensive series of actions to save and rescue and preserve the Jews in Europe.        Dubbed "The WEJ", they sit dumbfounded as smuggled report after report from inside Nazi-controlled Europe is placed in front of them. Each report details the horrors being inflicted upon European Jewry by Adolf Hitler’s minions. The members marvel at the heroic escapades of an anti-Nazi Berlin businessman who risks his life on numerous occasions to bring these reports to neutral Switzerland.        To authenticate these reports, Roosevelt enlarges the WEJ throughout Europe and initiates contacts with anti-German government leaders, with members of the Jewish underground, and particularly with Pope Pius XII and the Vatican.        It’s not until Roosevelt sends America’s first ambassador to the Holy See that he learns of how Pius and the Vatican are thoroughly involved and committed to saving the Jews in Rome itself and in Italy, and how Pius agrees with Roosevelt and the WEJ to continue throughout the war and throughout all of Europe to not sit idly by while their brothers in the Jewish faith are in danger.       Before and after the SS is ordered into Rome by Hitler in October of 1943 to round up the Jews, Pius and the Italian government and Roosevelt and the WEJ collaborate and secretly conspire, along with the German ambassador, to shelter the Jews and save them from complete and utter annihilation. Leo V. Kanawada, Jr.

The Holocaust Diaries: Book I

Souls of the JustBy Leo V. Kanawada, Jr.

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Leo V. Kanawada, Jr.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-5704-0

Chapter One

EARLY 1943 LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND

The cable car ride down the mountain always seemed faster and more hazardous to his stomach than the ride up. This ride was no different. The view, however, from the grey, stone observation chalet at the summit of Mt. Pilatus – he rationalized – was nevertheless worth every moment and every franc.

As he descended to the midway point and arrived at his favorite gourmet restaurant overlooking Lucerne, he concluded that each and every majestic, snow-capped mountain appeared just as awesome as they did as when he partook in his numerous hiking and skiing sojourns during the winter months. He cherished these peaceful weekends here in "God's Heaven", isolated from the telegrams and the cables and the phone calls that transmitted the horrors of war-torn Europe to his office in Geneva.

At the midway point, the cable car came to its typically abrupt halt. Gerhart Riegner exited quickly. He walked directly to the bar for a drink before dinner. His favorite seat – the one that provided a panoramic view of the city of Lucerne and most of the lake – was taken by a highly-inebriated German who was babbling incessantly in the face of a bored, yet tolerant, Swiss miss.

Riegner sat down next to the young woman.

"Guten Abend, Doktor," said one of the two bartenders.

"Good evening to you, too, Hans," Riegner greeted his friend of more than three years.

As director and chief administrator of the Geneva offices of the World Jewish Congress during this present period of time, Riegner became acquainted with the famous and the infamous of European society, but did not enjoy them half as much as he enjoyed associating with the local, hard-working townspeople.

"Your usual, Doc?"

"Yes, bitte."

His ability to speak, understand, and read German was not as refined as was his knowledge of French, but it was more than adequate. In fact, what he just overheard in the conversation between the German and his fraulein registered clearly in his mind – so clearly that his hand appeared frozen to his glass and unable to move to his suddenly-sealed, dry lips.

"Hey, don't you close your mouth when you eat?" she scowled, brushing crumbs from her sleeve.

"Only when I eat," the German smirked. He blew his nose and looked to inspect the result in his handkerchief.

"You're a pig!"

"Swine, my dear, are Jews. Or don't you know any?"

"You couldn't carry the bags of my Jewish friends."

She lit her own cigarette, and after taking a long, deep drag, she leaned over and blew smoke almost directly up his nose.

"Bitch!" His voice rose, making it easier for Riegner to hear. "Maybe your Jewish friends here will soon be begging you to carry them as well as their bags just like the swine we will soon be transporting from France and Slovakia and Italy and –"

"What?" she gasped.

Riegner did a similar double-take, watching the reflection of the German in the mirror behind the bar. It was then that he noticed the swastika pin in the lapel of his double-breasted, blue suit – and his tie, which boasted several liquor stains.

"Not – what! Swine! Jew swine! After we finish deporting them to Poland, I hope we come here next. You'll need a strong back for all of your friends' baggage. Actually, since you do most of your best work on your back as it is, you could be ready at a moment's notice, couldn't you?"

"Nazi bastard!" She grounded out her cigarette on the back of his hand, dropped the butt into his drink, spun off the stool and, while his screams filled the room, pulled him backward and flipped him onto the floor. As she strutted out, she maneuvered her tight-fitting skirt back into its proper place.

Riegner stared at the fallen German.

Within a few seconds, a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman, also a German, helped him to his feet.

"Why must you speak so?" He spoke practically in a whisper, but not so soft that Riegner couldn't hear. "You not only cause yourself trouble, but you cause us trouble. There are things that the world need not hear or know just now. These things are difficult enough to accept even for the few of us Germans who do know."

He slapped him gently on his back. "Now, let's get back to the Gutsch. Ja?"

"Ja, Herr Eichelberger."

Eichelberger paid the German's bill. They left the bar and queued up with about a dozen people waiting for the next cable car that would take them to the bottom of the mountain – and Lucerne.

"My God in heaven!" Riegner said under his breath.

He watched them as they spoke to each other. He mumbled to himself, "Eichelberger? Nazis don't look like that. The German, sure – but not Eichelberger."

"Hans, my bill, bitte." Leaving more francs than necessary, he waved, "Auf Wiedersehen", and got on line behind the two Germans.

Riegner was also staying at the Hotel Gutsch.

He followed Eichelberger through the low, cave-like walkways of the Hotel Gutsch. They led to the hotel's magnificent stone-covered patio, which was situated high above the lake. It sported one of the most spectacular vistas of Lucerne and its covered bridge, the Kapellbrucke. From this side of the mountain, Riegner felt that he could almost reach out and touch it.

The sun had already set and the night air was chilly, causing Riegner to wear a heavy woolen sweater. He and Eichelberger had both ordered a cappuccino. They were also alone, seated at separate tables. But not for long.

Riegner made the first move.

Eichelberger sat with his back to Riegner. His table butted up against the three-foot-high stone fence that surrounded the patio.

Riegner moved to the table next to Eichelberger's, taking the seat that caused their backs to practically touch each other. He put his cappuccino on one of the hand-made, lace placemats. Suddenly, before he could even utter a greeting, the hair on his arms stood erect and a chill brought goose bumps to every inch of his body.

"Good evening, Doctor Riegner," Franz Eichelberger said, without turning to acknowledge the intruder who had invaded his peaceful space.

Riegner swallowed loudly and failed to form even a sound – not even a guttural, rudimentary response in reply.

"I frightened you, yes? Forgive me. I do not wish to upset you. I only want you to know that I have come here to Switzerland and the Hotel Gutsch to see you. Please, do not turn around. Just listen carefully."

"I'm listening," said Riegner. Eichelberger's German accent was apparent even though he spoke softly. "What's going on?" Riegner said to himself as he began to shiver somewhat. The evening chill and the sudden surprise of the moment overtook him. "What does he mean that he came to see me?" he wondered.

"This is not the proper setting for the two of us to talk. Meet me later tonight at exactly twenty-three hundred hours in the middle of the Kapellbrucke."

Before he could answer, Eichelberger had vanished.

The shops had closed for the evening in Old Town. Some tourists still relaxed with desserts and drinks at the outdoor cafes that lined the banks of the rapidly, rushing Reuss River.

At this point, the river tumbled over the spillway as it weaved a trail from Lake Lucerne to the lower elevations. The sound from the cascading waters echoed not only from the walls of the buildings, but pervaded the emptiness of the covered walking bridge.

He was early. The bell tower had just sounded its chimes. It was 10:45 P.M.

He smelled the sweet aroma from Eichelberger's pipe tobacco before he actually saw the figure leaning against the railing in the middle of the wooden walkway. He was looking pensively into the swirling river. Eichelberger, too, was early.

"We both believe in punctuality, I see," Eichelberger said as he turned to greet his contact. He smiled at Riegner, but neither offered to shake the other's hand. They leaned on the wooden railing, side by side, gazing into the rapids.

Riegner said nothing.

"Does the smoke bother you?" asked Eichelberger.

"No."

"Good. Would you believe me when I tell you that our glorious Fuhrer does not allow me to occupy the same room with him unless I park my pipe and tobacco in an outer room?"

"God, he knows Hitler," Riegner said to himself, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. "Why does he want to see me? Did he follow me up Mount Pilatus? Who was his friend in the bar? Again and again, why me?" One question after another crossed his mind.

"You are an acquaintance, an associate, of Adolf Hitler?" asked Riegner.

"Yes."

"But, I gather, not a friend."

"That is correct."

Riegner picked some slivers of wood from the railing. He threw several into the stream. One he kept to clean under his fingernails – a nervous habit, but one that helped him to focus on his thoughts.

"Herr Eichelberger –" Riegner was cut off.

"Call me Franz."

"Franz. Yes. Thank you. Franz, would you – Oh, by the way, my first name is Gerhart."

"Yes, I know." Eichelberger turned and smiled at him.

"Damnit, Franz! What the hell is going on here? Why is it so important for you to speak to me?"

Eichelberger stared into Riegner's eyes as he lit his pipe for the second time. "Shall we walk and talk?"

Riegner followed and listened attentively.

"I know of your position," Eichelberger began, "as director of the Geneva office of the World Jewish Congress. And likewise, I know of your vast network of contacts throughout Europe – and of Roosevelt's, and of the Vatican's, and – Well, I learned about you from my contact in London."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I have the luxury of being able to leave Berlin at will. And since I travel to Switzerland on business several times a month – no questions asked – you became an obvious choice.

"I own and operate one of the largest munitions plants in Germany. We are located just east of Berlin on the southern bank of the River Spree. Over thirty thousand laborers work for me and, of course, for the Third Reich. In Berlin and to my friends there – my office, our headquarters, is on Kurfurstendamm Strasse –"

"I know the area well," interjected Riegner.

"– I am a model member of the Nazi Party. To you and to the Allies, I am as repulsed by Hitler and his thugs as is Churchill himself."

They stopped near a concession stand. There were several on the bridge. Eichelberger continued.

"I don't expect you to trust me and believe all that I will tell you. You would be a fool to do so."

"Correct!"

"Yes. So, when you wish to check my veracity and my resolve, call your contact in London. Ask him to call Ten Downing Street, using the code name `JUDAS'. When that operative gets on the line, you will learn of my actions over the past few years."

"Okay. I understand. What next?"

"You will discover from London that I have open access to Hitler's headquarters, not only in Berlin, but also in Berchtesgaden. You will also discover from JUDAS that I have relayed through my contacts several highly significant top-secret pieces of information of military importance.

"Now, however, the story of European Jewry needs to be transmitted to the Allies and the rest of the world. Suffice it to say, Gerhart, that my Jewish ancestors – those who still survive – and the fate of the entire Jewish population in Europe could depend upon the immediate and future association of you and me."

"What's going on, Franz?" Riegner whispered.

"What has happened, what is happening, and what will happen is a tragedy of the first order. I have chosen you to relay my information to your contacts in England and the United States, and to all Jewish organizations, to Churchill, and – of utmost importance – to Roosevelt himself.

"They must believe what I tell you. However, my fear is that my information will seem beyond belief, an absurdity, prefabrications from demented minds."

Eichelberger paused, taking a moment to watch the slow moving clouds cover the formerly bright crescent moon. Then, turning to Riegner, he asked, "Shall we have a coffee?"

"Yes. Fine. Lead the way."

The table was on the Old Town side of the river. The spillway was just below them. Two cups of cappuccino from the small bar near their table were promptly brought over to them by an overweight, overtired waiter of the grandfather variety. Riegner made a mental note to remember to tip him over and above the amount that would be included in the bill.

Only three other persons occupied tables – a young couple, obviously lovers, and a middle-aged man, slouched in a chair near the cafe entrance, his hat tilted over his eyes, seemingly intent on sleeping there for the entire evening.

"Gerhart?"

"Yes, Franz?"

"We do not have too much time left. I am happy that we met this weekend and, after you `check me out' as you say, I would like to meet again next weekend. I trust you and trust that you will relay the weekly reports that I give you to the world Jewish community and Roosevelt."

Riegner nodded his approval.

"Tomorrow – or is it already Sunday – tomorrow, we will drive back to Berlin."

"WE?" Riegner querried.

"Yes. My driver, my chauffeur, he was the loud-mouth drunk who you saw thrown to the floor in the restaurant up on the mountain. He is extremely loyal to me. Has been with my family for over a decade."

"He also seems loyal to Hitler and the Party line."

"Yes, unfortunately. Unfortunately, too, he knows a great deal because of his close association with me. You, no doubt, were as shocked as his young lady was when he blurted out what will occur next week in Paris."

"Yes. That was going to be one of my next questions."

"Well, that was going to be one of the top secret pieces of information that I wanted to transmit to you this weekend."

"I still don't fully understand what will be happening in Paris next week."

"I know. What I will tell you will shock you. It will also help you, in your own mind, to make up your mind whether or not to trust me and believe me.

"What I tell you will take place next week, and hopefully this piece of information – keep in mind that it is only part of an even more horrendous program that I will tell you about at a later date – hopefully, Gerhart, it will convince you to meet me here in Lucerne, or in cities nearby, on a weekly basis and be my contact to the outside world."

"Go on."

"Okay, Gerhart. Next week, a mass `roundup' as you say will begin. A mass roundup of tens of thousands of Jews, not only in Paris, but also in Belgium, Holland, and in other areas of France."

"My God!" Riegner said softly under his breath.

"Children will be separated from their parents. Deportation will be by train. And their final destination will be – Poland."

In the conversation that ensued, both men knew of the mass executions of Jews in Poland and Russia, particularly since the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in June of 1941. Eichelberger described the shootings by the Einsatzgruppen of hundreds of thousands of Jews.

"Last week," Eichelberger reiterated, "we intercepted a report from the Polish government-in-exile. It told that seven hundred thousand Jews had been massacred by German soldiers since the invasion of September, 1939. In one city, Chelmno, mobile gas vans were used. Ninety Jews at a time were stacked in a van and killed by carbon monoxide poisoning. Sometimes, one thousand Jews were killed in one day."

Riegner sat in stunned silence.

"It is going to get worse, Gerhart. Worse."

Riegner still said nothing.

"Look – uh – we have spent enough time in this place. We should leave. Let's meet next weekend, but not here in the city.

"On the north side of the lake about twelve kilometers out of town, there's a lovely, small hotel – the Hotel Schloss. It looks like a Swiss chalet. It's on the left side of the road and a miniature castle is on the right. Meet me on Saturday at twenty-hundred hours in the indoor pool."

"Fine."

"Good. You leave first. Don't worry about the check."

"Okay. Until next week, then."

"Yes. Until next week. Auf Wiedersehen, Gerhart."

"Auf Wiedersehen, Franz."

Neither shook hands as Riegner left to make his way back through the tables. He waved good-bye to his elderly waiter. Suddenly, he stopped – his arm appearing to freeze in midair.

He noticed that the man who seemed to be sleeping in the rear of the cafe was approaching Eichelberger, who was still seated at their table. He was close enough to see the man snap to attention in front of Eichelberger, give the Nazi salute, and quietly say, "Heil Hitler, Herr Eichelberger."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Holocaust Diaries: Book Iby Leo V. Kanawada, Jr. Copyright © 2010 by Leo V. Kanawada, Jr. . Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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