Chapter One

Tucson, 1968

“So, what’s this all about?” Sylvia Venegas strode into Helen Darby’s house. “On the phone you sounded very mysterious.” She followed her into the living room.

“Sorry if I alarmed you…but I need your advice.” The obituary page of the newspaper with Karl Muller’s name highlighted in yellow lay on the coffee table. “He was my patient…wasn’t expected to live through the weekend.” Helen stared at her. “Two days ago, as I adjusted his pillows, he reached for my arm. Then he said, ‘I don’t have much time. Please get some paper and write what I have to say.’ I did as he asked and sat beside him. At first, I thought it might be something he wished to convey to a friend or a relative.” She shook her head. “Far from it.”

“Wh-what did he say?”

“See for yourself.” Helen opened a folder, pulled out the handwritten note, and handed it to her.

My true name is Franz Dietrich. From 1942 through 1943, I participated in the extermination of thousands of Jews and undesirables at Treblinka concentration camp. Following Germany’s defeat, I, along with other SS officers, fled to South America where we assumed new identities. Later, with the help of a pro-German group known as the Aryan Knights of the Fatherland, three of us emigrated to America.

For years I lived in the shadows, fearing that someone would recognize me. Every time I read about a former Nazi being exposed and arrested, I wondered if I would be next. Thankfully, it never happened.

I have many regrets, and yes, guilt, about what I did during the war. But I can’t change the past. All I can do now is confess my sins to God and to whoever will read these words.

Karl Muller

“It’s a deathbed confession,” Sylvia said, her eyes still fixed on the paper. “Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“Just my supervisor. She reminded me that he was heavily medicated. She told me to forget about it. But I don’t think I can. I mean…sure he was medicated, but I could tell that what he said was the truth.”

Sylvia frowned. “Makes you wonder why he waited until the eleventh hour to unburden himself.”

Helen shrugged. “The question now is, what am I supposed to do? When I pressed Mr. Muller about it—moments before he passed—he gave no clear instructions.” She sighed. “In my three years of working with terminal patients, I’ve never dealt with anything like this.”

“He put you in a predicament, that’s for sure.” Brief pause. “I have an idea. I know someone… an old friend who interned at the State Department several years ago. Don’t know what he can do, but it’s worth a try.” Sylvia half-smiled. “Give me a day or so.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Helen said, relief in her voice.

~ * ~

Sylvia called Helen the next day. “I just spoke to my friend…his name is Bryan De Luca. He wants to meet you. Turns out he’d once worked with an international organization that documented crimes against humanity. He’s got your number. Good luck.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know how it went.” Helen hung up just as the phone rang again. It was Bryan.

“I assume Sylvia told you what this is about,” she said, a nervous edge to her voice.

“She said you were concerned about what your patient—an ex-Nazi—had revealed moments before he passed. A deathbed confession, she called it.”

Helen sighed. “I thought I was doing a good thing…taking down his last words.”

“I’d like to see it. Sylvia gave me your address. I can be there in thirty to forty minutes.”

“That would be great.” Helen nodded. “Look for the house with the yellow trim.”

Thirtyish, tall, with tousled brown hair, Bryan flashed a quick smile. He followed Helen into the living room. They sat across from each other.

“Would you care for some coffee?” she offered. “I made it just minutes ago.”

“Thanks, but I had a cup earlier.”

She paused, then picked up Mr. Muller’s confession and handed it to him. “Like I told Sylvia, he didn’t say what I should do with it.”

Bryan studied it for a moment. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

“You’d be doing me a favor.” She attempted a smile. “So, what next?”

“I have a friend in the State Department who might be able to help. I’ll reach out to him. It shouldn’t be too difficult to run a trace on Mr. Muller, or rather Herr Muller. By the way, did you show it to his family?”

“I never met them. According to a neighbor who ran errands for him, Mr. Muller and his family had not spoken in years. They live in Phoenix and were notified of his death by his attorney. He had left instructions that he be cremated.”

“If you don’t mind…” Bryan paused. “Let’s keep all this to ourselves. Wouldn’t want the press or even the police to get involved, at least not just yet.”

“Okay, if you think it’s best.” She let out a slow, steady sigh. “I feel a lot better. The matter is out of my hands, and I have you to thank.”

He smiled. “I should be thanking you. Sylvia’s not aware, but I took a yearlong sabbatical from the university where I teach, to work on a book that I plan to write…about the Nazis who fled to South America and other places, including the United States. They’re still out there, you know. Sadly, only a few have received the punishment they deserve.”

“Will you include Mr. Muller in your book?”

“If I can verify his information. Of course, when I’m done, I’ll have to alert the authorities in Europe or Israel. But that’s down the road.” He stood up.

She walked him to the door. “I really appreciate your coming here. I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.” She hesitated. “If it’s not too much trouble…can you keep me advised?”

He nodded. “Sure. Though, it may be a while.”

Helen waited a moment before calling Sylvia. “Bryan left about five minutes ago. Wasn’t sure what to expect, but he turned out to be a nice guy…put me at ease the moment he walked in the house. You weren’t aware, but he had an ulterior motive for agreeing to see me. He’s doing research for a book he plans to write…about Nazis who fled to other countries after the war.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s part Jewish, you know. Not sure if he lost any family during the Holocaust.”

“He didn’t mention it. Though, we really didn’t talk much. After he read Mr. Muller’s confession, he said he’d look into it.” She sighed. “I’m just glad I’m no longer involved. It’s not my problem anymore. By the way, I want to thank you for reaching out to him. If you hadn’t, I’d still be wringing my hands, wondering what to do.”

“Well, you can tell me more over lunch…on you, of course.” She laughed.

~ * ~

From his home, Bryan called his friend, Jeremy Levinson, in Washington D.C. They hadn’t talked in a while, and for the first few minutes, caught up on each other’s lives.

Finally, Bryan brought up the reason for his call. “I’m doing research on ex-Nazis who fled Germany after the war. Does the name Franz Dietrich mean anything to you? He lived in the U.S. under the alias, Karl Muller. Before he died just a few days ago, he dictated a statement in which he confessed to killing thousands of Jews at Treblinka concentration camp. That’s all l know about him, so anything you can dig up would be helpful.”

“Franz Dietrich,” Jeremy repeated. “Sounds vaguely familiar…give me twenty-four hours. I’ll check our data banks from 1945 to the present.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”