Nemesis: A Tragi-Comedy

NEMESIS

A TRAGI-COMEDY

A NOVEL BY

MELANIE LOWY

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© 2017 Melanie Lowy. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 08/04/2017

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0147-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0148-2 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

In grateful appreciation of my son, Alexander Joseph, for his invaluable assistance, both editorial and technical.

Sixty years on. Would it were sixty years back.

It was then that the world was still alight with the sun of their laughter.

Minutes before the skies, the meadows, the flowers turned black –

Seconds before the chaos, the scream – the terrible ‘after’!

ML

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

BOOK TWO

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty- One

Epilogue

FOREWORD

The tale I am about to relate is the absolute truth. However, that does not mean to say that all the events happened as portrayed even though I may have been genuinely convinced at the time that they did. The truth on that score is -who knows? There are still times when I am willing to swear that every single detail told here is gospel. But unfortunately, at other times, reason and logic fight a battle to the death with what suddenly looks like figments of a febrile imagination. –

One thing is indisputable. Whatever did not take place should have. And that which definitely occurred has made the world at large a little more acceptable and less menacing. Even though, in a cruel and unforeseeable way, it has shattered my own.

PROLOGUE

‘Wo Musik ist, lass dich nieder

(Where there’s music stay around)

Böse Menschen lieben keine Lieder’

(The wicked have no ear for pleasant sound)

Old German proverb (loosely translated)

If only I were not blessed with memory. If only I could not see before me as though it were yesterday, every single stick of furniture in our apartment in Munich; hear every song my father sang; still smell every enticing odour emanating from my mother’s ‘Eintopfgericht’ soups. If only – but I can and I do and it lingers and will not be dispelled.

As I saw it, Jacob Jabot was all the rogues and murderers rolled into one. By his twisted, evil perversion of the truth, he and his ilk have made themselves personally responsible for every atrocity they deny. Moreover, it is thanks to the likes of him that the likes of me have lost every ounce of trust and belief in what is euphemistically called ‘humanity’.

I had been carefully researching the bastard’s movements and plans for weeks with the assistance of various people in the know. And I had finally hit the jack-pot when, on discovering that he was due to fly to Hitler’s favourite city Munich, something he did frequently, I would this time manage to take a short trip myself. After all, for my purposes, all I required was twenty-four hours, if that.

This was only the second time since my hasty exit that I found myself in my own birthplace. I felt at once intoxicated with the heady sensation of belonging – and nauseous at the recollection of the thwarted outcast. I felt both choking love and violent loathing. I recognised or thought I recognised every nook and cranny though I would later learn that most of what I thought I recognised had actually been obliterated but had been brilliantly reconstructed in exact replica so that Munich had retained in full its medieval character.

It was a truly inspired procedure and one I wished had been applied to London. It was almost impossible to differentiate between genuine pre-war and buildings ingeniously reconstructed. The result was a Munich that looked much like its former self. To me she remained, like a controversial but highly talented musician, a city that never ceased to pluck at my heart-strings. Somehow, she was still a part of me.

My scheme was wild, hastily planned. Well, to be honest not really planned or thought out in detail. A little mad? Of course it was. But I did not doubt that I had to go through with it. In fact, I was convinced it was my duty and that I must not fail. I simply took off as if under hypnosis.

Tolstoy graphically depicts the hideousness of war in his masterpiece ‘War and Peace’. Maupassant in ‘Boule de Suif’ speaks of ‘victorious armies slaughtering all who resist, making prisoners of the rest, looting by right of sword and thanking their god by the sound of cannon – all these are terrible scourges’ he goes on to say ‘which undermine our belief in eternal justice’ – eternal justice! What words, one wonders would these great men have come up with in the face of Nazi bestiality? Or like so many, would they have lost their muse altogether? Primo Levi found the fewest right words. But then, Primo Levi had been a first-hand witness. And ultimately Primo Levi’s spirit crumbled like so much sand through fingers, until even this bravest of men could face life no longer.

Jabot, perhaps because I knew more about him than about any of the other revisionists out there, had been sticking in my throat - a bone that simply would not go down. The monster had to be eliminated. Him or me, nothing else would do. I had reached a state of tremendous animation at the mere thought of my scheme. I was embarking upon the most momentous trip of my life and my anticipation was that of someone who was to be awarded a coveted prize. –

As I have said, I was well acquainted with Jabot’s plans in Munich. I did not have my own, murky sources for nothing. He was to be here alone; only what was not entirely clear was whether he was due to speak or merely to attend one of the many neo-Nazi gatherings which were presumed secret but at which he had been caught countless times on video. What I knew for certain was that he was booked to see ‘Götterdämmerung’ this night at the ‘Münchner Opernhaus’. What his plans were for later was neither here nor there, for the simple reason that I had every intention of taking care of that matter.

I thanked heaven that he was no lover of Schubert, Mozart or Offenbach, (of course, he would not deign to consider Mendelssohn worth listening to with his exalted ear!) because I would have found it damnably hard to kill anyone to the strains of their inspired music. Imagine dispensing of someone to Schubert’s A Major Sonata – unthinkable! Or Haydn’s Cello Concerto, Beethoven’s Pathètique simply impossible.

But all that blood; I hadn’t reckoned with having to cope with such an overpowering stench that had stalked the whole room like an invisible phantom. It was hideously reminiscent of the slaughterhouse I had drifted into as a small child and not been prevented from watching stupefied as pig after pig was butchered and bled: a recurring scene and odour throughout the years; as potent today as all those years back.

How easy it was with Wagner. How fitting. Even long before I had learnt of the composer’s virulent anti-Semitism I had been unable to take to such Teutonic thunder. For anyone who had witnessed Nazi hordes tramping through the streets of Munich, much of Wagner’s music was simply a tonal Third Reich. Without my having been consciously aware of it I had simply never learned to love any of his musical odes to Fascism, something that only struck me much later; which was what Wagner’s music represented for me. Much as I tried to be unbiased and much as I loved German music in general, Wagner was one bridge too far. Maybe if Barenboim or Solti had been living in thirties Germany, they too would have been a little less impressed. To Jacob Jabot he must certainly have been the stamp on his own perverted convictions.

On and on blasted Wagner, on and on the ‘Niebelungen’ twirled, arrogantly out-shrieking all other noise. No, Jabot had not had his fill of Teutonic megalomania, not he. More Wagner as soon as we entered his apartment, for him most likely the ultimate aphrodisiac, for me exactly what was required: the ultimate spur to shut him up once and for all as I grew more and more incensed.

Yes, I really had succeeded beyond my wildest dream. He had shuffled into my spider’s web as unsuspectingly as an innocent Jew mounting that fateful cattle-truck that would take him to Hitler’s inferno. With one difference: he was guilty, guilty of making a mockery of truth, of denying the truth. Can there be a more heinous crime?

It was not easy wrenching my gaze away from the motionless heap on the floor, its blood drip dripping as though from a tap, colouring the white shag-pile carpet a stunning, beetroot mess. That boisterous, self-assured, bullet-headed creature of moments ago was no more. Instead, an absurdly composed face with scarily steely eyes simply held me mesmerised. I longed to shut those eyes but knew I must not touch, just as I could not silence Wagner.

In fact, I gave an inward chuckle as I realised that Richard Wagner had become my accomplice, his din drowning out the muffled shot from my gun. And so, I casually dropped the smart, silvery little .38 calibre into the silver lamé bag that had lain innocuously upon the carved rose-wood table and that matched my pretty evening shoes. I had placed the bag there when? It seemed like in another time. My hands were steady. It was all just a touch unreal though, as if I were standing outside myself watching, watching through a peep-hole. –—

That insolent look he had tossed over me as though wrapping me in a soiled blanket as I had inched into the seat next to him during the interval. That was, however, when I knew I had him and that there was no going back. He wanted to go all the way, that was evident. Well, so did I, – except that mine was in an entirely different direction. I owed it to all the martyred he defiled every time he opened his lying mouth, this so-called historian expert on the Third Reich. I owed it to them all to shut that fetid mouth for good!

Haven’t we – surely we have met before? Jabot’s veiled eyes of an indeterminable smudged grey swept lazily over me.

Oh dear I chuckled softly so as not to be overheard by the people in front just leaving their seats. Hardly very original, and I treated him to what I hoped was one of my most devastating smiles, not forgetting to make full use of my much-complimented green eyes, an unfailing winner in the old days, especially as now adorned with unnaturally long, false coal-black lashes. What a cheap tart I must have looked with my newly tinted ash-blonde tresses, woefully over-teased and worn in a wild frizz I thought just right for the part. Cheap and flash, perfect, the easy lay. If Philip had chanced by he would not have recognised me, but of Phil later, much later. ––

No, no – really, Jabot insisted still wrinkling his brow in an intense effort at recollection. But then again maybe not he was happy to concede. One does meet – I mean if we had met before I would not have let you forget me, such a sexy young lady!

Marvellous how he piled it on and with what nauseating conceit, convinced the old hooker would fall over backwards at these back-handed compliments. And had I been what I was supposed to be, no doubt I would have done.

What part of England are you from Fräulein – or is it Gnädige Frau? Your German is excellent but I am a veritable Professor Higgins where accents are concerned, even if I say so myself. He boasted.

Yes, so it seems. I was delighted that I had managed to sound so native English when in truth I spoke German with less of an accent than I did English and certainly with less than his own. Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I coaxed coquettishly.

Ach, nothing much to tell; maybe later when we get to know each other better. If looks could strip every single piece of clothing off you!

Schon gut I acquiesced readily thus giving him the green light. And so, Jacob Jabot had cooked his own goose with the skill of a Michelin Star chef.

I had been on some previously undiscovered stratosphere as I pulled the trigger. To compare it to an orgasm would never do it justice. I had soared undreamed of heights. Now my head still in the clouds, my limbs were leaden, as though chained to the floor. That sickly-sweet smell of the blood swiped and lashed my nostrils until I was sure I would throw up.

Somehow my legs obeyed and carried me down the wide marble staircase that separated me from the outside world. The cool, lapidary aroma transporting me back to early childhood, gave me a sense of rediscovered security. Now through the stately old oak portals past which the Nazi hordes must have tramped innumerable times – and I was outside, slapped to full consciousness by Munich’s razor-sharp air. And mercifully Wagner was finally out of earshot too.

It was well after two in the morning. Not a soul was in sight. I was grateful that Jabot’s flat was situated in a salubrious neighbourhood where the good ‘Münchner Bürger’ went to bed and rose at a respectable hour. Only the occasional all-night tram could be heard clack clacking from afar. Eerily not even a car made its way up or down the street. Maybe it was ‘verboten’ I told myself sardonically, filled with a kind of righteous rage I had not experienced in years. I would obviously not have taken a taxi anyway, but there was certainly none in sight.

This was a respectable, up-market part of town near the ‘Englische Garten’. Jabot probably owned the flat. It was all part of his act. Was he not a respectable historian? He hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed at bringing what to all the world must have looked like a prostitute up to his flat though, had he? But then, maybe that was perfectly acceptable around here for all I knew. What did I know of today’s Munich?

I hadn’t done too badly though. That opera-loving tart so keen on the fat-bellied, bald, over-perfumed stranger - not a bad piece of Grand Guignol either. I could have killed him just for smelling the way he did, because I was almost certain it was Philip’s Ralph Lauren Polo – yes, the self-same Cologne I generally bought Phil - and then deafening me with his Wagner mania. –

I hugged my bag close. I had paid a preposterous price for it at a sale in the Bond Street Chanel boutique. But now I loved it dearly and thought it cheap at the price. And so my steps became more resolute as I neared the Sendlingertorplatz. From there it would be only a short stroll back to my Five Star Hotel Königshof. They generally took precious little notice of their guests’ comings and goings; very discreet.

The closer I came, the more exhilarated I grew. It was over. It was really over. I was free. We were all free of at least one more demon - the one that had gained the most notoriety in recent times with his twisted ‘historical’ oeuvres; who spat with sickening relish in the faces of the few survivors and every single bruised Jew alive.

Who would have guessed it? Who would have guessed I had just returned from a rendezvous with a man I had sent to hell? If I had shouted it out loud, as I would dearly have wished, would anyone have given it a second thought? Of course not, just another inebriated foreign tart. Munich had its fair share of them.

It had all gone with conveyer-belt precision. I was absolutely certain that no one had noticed our short chat at the theatre before I made my discreet exit, having made a date with him to meet after the opera at the corner of Herzogrudolfstrasse. With satisfaction, I noted how the mention of that particular street had taken him just the slightest bit aback. Or was that mere wishful thinking?

Herzogrudolfstrasse? he had repeated wrinkling his brow as though desperately trying to recall something.

Yes, there’s an exclusive little dress shop there I’m mad about. And besides, it’s just a short walk from here. I explained innocently. Very convenient for me as I’m staying at the old Vier Jahreszeiten. I had gone on to lie. And it’s where my beloved old school used to be! I burnt with desire to inform him.

The Vier Jahreszeiten was probably Munich’s most exclusive hotel to this day. It was situated only a few yards from the corner of my chosen street and had never lost its renown since the Nazi era when Hitler and his entourage would frequent it. Still standing proudly where it had always stood whether untouched by bombs or not was impossible to tell. Fact was that now it was as elegant and exclusive as ever.

Ah, now that’s a fine hotel! He had mumbled eyeing me with renewed interest, as he nodded in agreement with the arrangement. He must have known, if anyone did, that the Herzogrudolfstrasse had housed not only one of Munich’s major synagogues destroyed on ‘Kristallnacht’ but also the ‘Jüdische Volksschuhle’, my own Jewish school, which had stood directly in front of the synagogue and had gone up in flames with it, never again to be rebuilt, of course. I derived enormous perverse satisfaction from fixing our meeting-place there. Naturally he would not want to be seen in the hotel with me any more than I with him.

So, it was that from the corner of Herzogrudolfstrasse, that cherished haven of my earliest childhood, that the hateful creature would blithely amble with me towards his own destruction – let the arch-fixer of the truth try to deny that in hell!

Back in the pleasing comfort and warmth of my hotel room, I undressed and took a hot shower. I thought of Philip and longed for his embrace and vowed that I would make sure he would never wear ‘Polo’ again because I was sure that I had recognised it on Jabot. Then, clad in one of his favourite satin night-gowns, clinging and sexy, I poured myself a well-deserved glass of Chablis Premier Cru from a new bottle I had left standing ready on the table. I drank with an unquenchable thirst.

L’Chaim! To life!

I awoke with a jolt and sat bolt upright in the huge king-size bed. How long had I been asleep? I looked about me lost and confused. The room was comfortable in every sense and yet had about it an air of austerity. I had deliberately chosen not to stay at an American hotel, determined to savour, to rediscover the peculiarly German atmosphere. And I was not disappointed on that score. Then my heart gave a lurch. I suddenly remembered or better endeavoured to remember. But what exactly was it I remembered? My head was a jumble of conflicting scenes: some harrowing, some beyond my comprehension. The fog in my head grew denser, the more I tried to straighten things out. And suddenly I was not sure whether I was attempting to reconstruct a dream or reality –.

I had a clear enough vision of Jabot on the ground soaking in his own blood. But then again, I had fantasised for so long about his death that now I found myself agonisingly confused. What was reality? I could not recall the noise of the actual shot – or the moment he had slumped to the ground. Was he sitting or standing?

The gentle tap at the door could only mean that breakfast had arrived and that it was precisely nine o’clock. German punctuality!

Herein! I called, but wondered whether I had left the door unlocked last night. The waiter, however, was inside the room with his tray before I had time to jump out of bed. The door had obviously been left unlocked.

The coy young waiter did his best not to look straight at me.

Guten Tag, gnädige Frau!

Guten Tag. Bitte auf den Tisch stellen - nicht auf’s Bett! I bade with exaggeratedly poor German pronunciation not to place the tray on the bed but on the table. I was not about to reveal that I was as native as any of them. So far as they were concerned, I was English and damned proud of it. Whether out of a sense of shame that I had been cast out or undying idiosyncrasy - it was something I would never be able to shake off.

He placed the huge tray laden with a most generous display of delicacies, upon the table by the French windows after he had tactfully pushed the empty wine bottle and glass out of sight at the back of the dressing table.

That’s quite a continental breakfast! I exclaimed. A shy smile was his response as he left as unobtrusively as he had come, not forgetting to wish me; Guten Appetit!

As soon as the door shut behind him I jumped out of bed. I needed to make quite sure if that bottle was really empty. There was certainly not a drop left. I had drunk the entire bottle.

Munich – it has been a part of me all of my adult life, awake or asleep. Of late it had gained in momentum quite alarmingly, with my ever-growing resolve to rid the world of Jabot. Almost nightly Munich figured in my dreams all the more once I had discovered Jabot’s latest plan to go there.

Even in London, asleep in Philip’s arms, I had dreamed of Munich. She was my city - once the impenetrable family shell. The Munich I had known as a child: wide streets devoid of traffic, old-fashioned little shops with goods displayed willy-nilly and snappy, never obsequious typically Bavarian shop-assistants. The more intense my loathing of Jabot, the more fantastical and terrifying my dreams had become.

The radio! Let me hear what the local news had to report. I negotiated the correct button on my remote control to start the TV, not the simplest of manoeuvres. I had plenty of time. My plane was not due to leave Munich until two in the afternoon. So I could enjoy the excellent coffee and freshly baked ‘Kaisersemmel’ (rolls) at leisure whilst listening to the news. The local news would be the last. I could run a bath in the meantime and continue listening in the tub.

My body pampered by a plethora of scented bubbles, courtesy of the hotel, I felt heady once more. The excitement kept mounting at the thought of what I would be hearing at any moment. What I would inevitably be hearing. Not a flicker of fear. Of course, it had all happened. My heart missed a beat. What was that about a ‘Mord’? No, no, they were merely discussing a recent murder case of an unfortunate young Turkish man. A suspected racist attack; well, what else was new? Then they went on to talk of all manner of other Munich affairs and finally came the Sports News.

I stopped listening. They had obviously not yet discovered Jabot. All the better, soon enough they would, however, realise that something was up since he was due at one of his neo-Nazi haunts for lunch and most likely expected to treat them to some more of his diatribe. Hadn’t I had a hell of a job cyphering all that information out of Bob Belcher, his odious publisher, my so-called pal?

I left the radio on all morning while I brushed furiously at my over-teased, bleached hair in a vain endeavour to make it look a little more like its former, sleeker self – heaven knew what Phil would say! I left off make-up, immediately giving me a more respectable appearance, especially minus the false eyelashes, which I flushed down the toilet with great gusto. I looked more like my old self now, though the hair belonged to an alien creature.

As I hung up last evening’s black velvet outfit in my American suitcase, I made another strenuous effort to sort out my movements of the night before. Never had I had the slightest problem recalling anything. Why now? Why less than twelve hours after the supposed events, could I not differentiate between reality and fantasy? In my head a gramophone needle had become stuck in its groove and would not move any further. I wanted to scream.

Had I or had I not met up with Jacob Jabot again and blown him away with one bullet from my .38 calibre in his own flat near the Englische Garten? Then again how had I smuggled the little pistol through the customs at Heathrow? And above all – where the hell was it? I could not find it anywhere though I had searched high and low for that neat little silver gadget. Maybe it was a revolver? I didn’t even know the difference between a pistol and a revolver. But I visualised it so clearly: a lovely little gleaming silver gadget.

I must have dropped it into the river Isar last night. That’s it - now that made sense. The river was in full swell at this time of year, its green malicious waves threatening in their ferocity. They would have swallowed that little pistol, splattering and foaming with delight. Only I could not fathom where I would have bought it in the first place, even if I had managed to smuggle it through customs.

Certainly, I would have had no problem in Munich since no one took the slightest bit of notice when my luggage arrived on the conveyer-belt. But don’t they have metal detectors? Then of course, there was always the possibility that I had bought the pistol on that first stroll I took through town, after having checked into my hotel. After all, I remembered the wine-shop. The only trouble was – I could not remember going into any shop remotely resembling an armoury store if there was such a thing.

My head ached and I feared I would throw up. I was due to leave for the Airport any moment. I had to get out of Munich. Now the deadly weight was back. The burden of which I thought I had finally rid myself and the world. How awful if I had imagined it all! Had I come to Munich just to hallucinate? It was all too bizarre. And my head – it buzzed and ached intolerably. Probably from all that Chablis and who knew what else I had drunk with Jabot. It was sure to have been Schnapps. Everybody in Munich drank Schnapps.

One thing was certain: I had not eaten a bite since my arrival, having been far too preoccupied and excited. Just what did happen then last night, for heaven’s sake! I was at the Oper surely, wasn’t I? I certainly wore my fancy outfit. I think I even detected a stain when I hung it in the suitcase earlier: a liqueur stain. But I had no opera ticket. Well of course not as I had only crept in during the interval, mingling with the crowd at the bar until I found the right moment to ease myself into the seat next to him and start our liaison. He had been so easy to find in the stalls. I’m absolutely sure that that much occurred. Aren’t I?

Maybe I had not shot him. That really was not my style. For a while I had toyed with the idea of a poison ring. I had become fascinated with the case of the poor Bulgarian killed by brushing against a poisoned umbrella at a bus stop. I wore a large dress ring. But there was no opening, nothing that would hold let alone spill out a potion of poison. And if truth were told, what did I know of chemistry?

On the plane back I managed to calm down, having previously been genuinely alarmed at my state of mind. All I needed, I told myself again and again, was to leave Munich as far behind me as possible. Like no person, like no place on earth it could still cup me in its icy hand and fling me against any brick wall as though I were made of glass – to leave me crushed and a shattered.

Philip was to meet me at the hotel in the West End we had booked so that we could spend a special evening and night out in London. My visit to Munich had been easy enough to explain, if explanation were necessary. I wrote freelance articles for Jewish magazines and journals and on occasion I would be sent somewhere abroad for research. My dear partner would not have dreamed of querying anything I might tell him. That was not the nature of our relationship. My hair, however, would be another matter entirely.

I cannot deny that I was a troubled woman upon my return. I still could not tell for certain what had actually happened in Munich between Jabot and me. Worst of all, Jabot was still at liberty to ply his filthy trade. And I was more determined than ever to put a stop to him.

BOOK ONE

‘Those who believe in absurdities will commit atrocities.’

Voltaire

CHAPTER ONE

I am a woman of today; in earlier years you might even have said of tomorrow. But gradually those years seem to have caught up with me. How was I to know then that I would never see anyone from that enchanted world again? How could anyone foretell such horrors?

Was it really only weeks ago I had kissed Philip good-bye, his cleft chin stubbly and I pretending to mind?

But darling, you’ve not given me time to shave! he grumbled. My long kiss was sufficient response.

Secretly I believe that at times we were both stunned by the ardour, by the sheer passion of our relationship. We were, to all intents and purpose, of ‘a certain age’; ugh how I loathe that expression! Neither of us would see sixty again;