The Sins of the Father
Dr. William Brown turned off the lights in his office and examining room but left the table light in the reception area on, just in case he had to return in the middle of the night to deal with an emergency. Then he shut and locked the door behind him. It was only 4:00 p.m., but the sun was already starting to dip below the western horizon. Dr. Brown buttoned his jacket against the cold and walked across the driveway that separated his home from the renovated barn that housed his medical practice.
Not a bad commute, he thought as he walked the thirty yards or so to his front door.
The scent of roast chicken welcomed him home. No doubt his wife, Vera, had also baked an apple pie for dessert.
As the doctor walked into the living room and started a fire, his wife brought him a cup of hot spiced cider.
"Frances called today," she announced. "She is bringing a friend home for Thanksgiving. He's an exchange student from Germany."
"Did she mention how things are going at school?"
"She said she hasn't gotten a grade lower than ninety-five all semester. But then our daughter always was the smart one."
"Stuart did pretty well in college, too," William pointed out. "He just had to work harder at it. With Frances, it comes naturally."
A timer went off in the kitchen, and Vera returned to her cooking. Dr. Brown sat in his rocking chair and thought about his life. Thanksgiving was only a week away, and he indeed had a lot to be grateful for. He was sixty-two years old and in perfect health. He'd been happily married for thirty-five years and had fathered two wonderful children. In short, life was good.
* * *
"You stay in bed and rest, and take two of these pills every four hours," the doctor told Mrs. Bellamy and handed her a bottle of red and yellow capsules. "By the end of the week that congestion in your chest should be cleared up."
"Thank you so much, Dr. Brown," the woman said and went out to the reception area to pay her bill.
Dr. William Brown was one of a vanishing breed: an old-fashioned family doctor who still made house calls when necessity demanded. His type was extinct in today's world except in those small, rural communities where going to a church social was considered a night out on the town. Such a place was Maple Brook, New Hampshire. It was a picturesque, Currier and Ives community where the residents lived a Norman Rockwell existence. People knew the names of all their neighbors, crime was practically nonexistent and children were still taught to say "please" and "thank you."
Dr. Brown had lived in Maple Brook since he was a small boy, and except for his years in college and medical school, he never left it. He knew everyone in town, and they knew and respected him. He brought most of the town's children into the world. He saw them through measles, mumps and chicken pox. He took out their tonsils and cured their first cases of acne. He also had to deal with the more serious illnesses of their parents: heart attacks, strokes and cancer. He knew the joy and miracle of childbirth and the grief and helplessness of death.
"Excuse me, William," said Mrs. Walters, his nurse-receptionist.
"What is it, Ada?" he asked.
Only in front of patients did they address each other formally.
"There is a man on the phone who insists on seeing you this afternoon. I told him that since it was the day before Thanksgiving you were only seeing emergency cases. He said it was of the utmost importance that he sees you. Yet when I asked the nature of his problem, he wouldn't tell me. Said it was a personal matter he'd discuss only with you."
Dr. Brown smiled, thinking the man's ailment must be sexual in nature. Why else would he refuse to tell the nurse about his symptoms?
"I'm sure the man sincerely feels his problem is an emergency. Go ahead and schedule an appointment."
The morning had been cold, and the sky was the color of slate. As the day wore on, the temperature dropped steadily.
"Looks as if it might start snowing any minute now, Ada. If you want to go home early, I can handle things here for the rest of the day."
"Thank you, but you only have one more patient: that strange man who phoned this morning. When he comes in, I'll have him fill out the new patient form. Then I'll notify your answering service that you've left for the day, and I'll head on home."
"Fine. Oh, Ada, if I don't see you before you leave, have a good Thanksgiving."
"Thank you. You, too, Doctor."
The new patient arrived five minutes later. He was not a resident of Maple Brook—of that Dr. Brown was sure. In fact, if he had to guess, William would probably say the man was European rather than American. His English was excellent, with almost no discernible accent, but his mannerisms and style of dress were distinctly foreign.
"What seems to be your problem, Mr. ...?"
"Masters. Fritz Masters. And I don't have a problem."
"You told my nurse that you had an emergency," the doctor pointed out.
The physician found something disturbing about Masters, an arrogance that seemed completely out of place in the homespun, Marcus Welby atmosphere of Dr. Brown's office.
"I never told her I was sick. I told her it was vital that I speak to you."
"Okay, then, if you don't mind, please say whatever it is you have to say. I want to go home and spend some time with my family."
Masters smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth and humor.
"That is precisely the subject I want to discuss: your family."
Dr. Brown sighed.
"If this is about life insurance ...."
"I'm no salesman," Masters replied indignantly. "I am an aristocrat by birth. I have come here to share with you some information I've unearthed about your parents."
The doctor was intrigued. His parents had died when he was an infant, and he had been raised by Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, a childless couple that lived here in Maple Brook.
"How much do you know about your parents, Doctor?"
"Not much; I was too young to remember them. I only know my grandparents felt they were too old to raise me, so their church found a family to take me in."
"Those two elderly people were not your grandparents. They were loyal servants of your father. For your own safety, they smuggled you out of Germany and into Switzerland where they left you with an international organization that found homes for those orphaned in the war."
Dr. Brown was fascinated. The Lowes had not told him anything about his parents, probably because they did not know much themselves. But he had always assumed that his parents were Americans.
"Did my mother and father die in some German concentration camp?" he asked his visitor.
Masters turned pale, and his eyes bulged.
"Do you think your parents were Jews?"
Oh, dear God, Dr. Brown thought, please don't let this arrogant ass tell me my parents were Nazis.
"Nein, nein! Your parents didn't die in the camps," Masters exclaimed as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. "This is a copy of your birth certificate."
He handed the photocopy to Dr. Brown.
"You were not born William Brown. Your real name is Wilhelm Braun."
Dr. Brown stared at Masters but did not utter the words that were screaming inside his mind: "No! No! Don't say it. Go away. I don't want to hear what you've come to tell me."
"You can see that, according to the birth certificate, you were illegitimate, but your father married your mother shortly after you were taken away."
"Thank you very much for the information, Mr. Masters," Dr. Brown said hastily, trying to get the man out of his office before he offered any more startling revelations. "I'm afraid I really must be getting home now."
But Masters held his ground and triumphantly delivered the coup de grâce.
"You are the son of Eva Braun and Adolf Hitler."
"I've heard enough of your insane ravings, Masters."
"I have all the necessary documents to prove my claim."
"Get out before I phone the police."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Herr Doctor. I'm sure you don't want me to tell everyone in this quaint little town about your true identity, least of all your wife and children."
"So, that's it. If you think you can blackmail me with your preposterous story, you're wasting your time; I don't have much money."
"I'm not interested in money. I come from an old and wealthy family. Even though my father lost most of the capital during the war, I've made quite a few wise investments and have replenished the family fortune."
"Why did you come here then?"
"I have always been a great admirer of your father."
"Don't call him that."
Masters smiled, nodded his head and continued.
"I have spent most of my life studying the Third Reich and, in particular, your fath—, sorry, the Führer. I have concluded that if we could find another man such as him, the German people could form a New Reich."
"You must be mad! The world would never tolerate a repetition of the atrocities committed under Hitler's regime."
"We would not make the same mistakes as our fathers did. What is that old saying? Something about those who do not learn from the mistakes of the past being condemned to repeat them. Anyway, there would be no labor camps or mass extermination. The Jews would be perfectly safe this time."
"Aren't you forgetting that what held the Third Reich together was their belief in the supremacy of the Aryan race and their hatred of the Jews? Or have you decided to focus your racial intolerance on another group of innocent people?"
"It wasn't hatred that held the German people together; it was love."
"Love?" Dr. Brown asked, almost choking with disbelief.
"Love of Adolf Hitler. When that man spoke, the people of Germany listened. He called and they came. He led and they followed. He was a god to them. They would have done anything he asked."
"Or be sent to Auschwitz, no doubt. Admit it, Masters. Hitler and his henchman ruled through fear and intimidation."
"What do you know about it, Doctor? You weren't there. You've frittered your whole life away in this pathetic little town. What right have you to judge your father? Yes! Your father!"
"I am a doctor, Masters. I swore an oath to preserve life. That gives me the right to condemn murderers."
Masters was trying to get his temper under control, which was a lot like trying to catch a great white shark with a goldfish net.
"Dr. Brown, your father had Germany's best interests at heart, but things—may have gotten a little out of hand."
"You call the murder of six million people 'getting a little out of hand'?"
"I told you before; there will be no camps in the New Reich."
"Yes, you did tell me that. But what you haven't told me yet is why you're here. If you don't want money, what do you want?"
"If our New Reich is to be successful, we will need a leader who inspires love in the German people in the same way that Hitler did. Who better suited for that role than the Führer's own son?"
Dr. Brown stared at Masters for several minutes and then burst out laughing.
"You really had me going there for a while, Masters. Who put you up to this? Warren Singer? No, wait. I'll bet it was my old college buddy, Matt Tanner."
"This is not a joke, Dr. Hitler."
The doctor's laughter stopped abruptly.
"Don't you ever call me that again."
"That is your rightful name. You will adopt that name and return with me to Germany where you will take your place in the New Reich."
"Never. Now you've got your answer, Masters. So, off you go back to Germany or Argentina or to hell for all I care."
"There are three things you will need to remember. It's best you learn them now. One, I have the means to make you do what I want. Two, your role is that of a figurehead only; I will be the true power in the New Reich. And three, don't you dare insult me or underestimate me again. Is that clear?"
"All right, Masters. I've had enough of your games. My answer is no, and that's final. Go ahead and publish your documents, your so-called proof that I'm Hitler's son. You'll be lucky if you can find a paper other than The National Enquirer or The Globe to print it. But even if you do, you won't break me. If my neighbors turn their backs on me and I lose my practice, I'll still have my family, my home and my soul. My father—if that's who he really was—may have been a murderer, but I'm innocent. And in this country, the sins of the fathers are not visited upon their sons."
"But what about their daughters?" Masters asked menacingly. "What happened to your smile, Doctor? You're not so smug now, are you?"
Dr. Brown paled.
"If you hurt my daughter, so help me I'll ...."
"Your daughter would be only the beginning. Next would be your son and then your lovely wife. I don't want to go into any details now. Just let me say that we have perfected the art of inflicting pain, an art we learned in the camps."
Dr. Brown reached for the phone on his desk.
"Did your daughter happen to mention that she was bringing a friend home for the holiday?"
Dr. Brown quickly placed the receiver back in its cradle.
"Her friend happens to be a friend of mine—small world, isn't it?" Masters asked threateningly. "If you are foolish enough to call the police, my friend will get very angry, and he just might take that anger out on your daughter."
Dr. Brown looked down at his hands—healing hands that had set broken bones, delivered babies, eased pain and saved lives. Now when his own survival was at stake, they had become mere appendages, useless to cure the cancer threatening to destroy his life.
"We don't really want to harm your family; we would much rather have you join us without all that unpleasantness. Look around you. What is there here in America that means so much to you? The average plumber makes more money than you do. Join us, and you and your family will live in luxury for the rest of your lives. You don't have any choice, so why not make it easy on yourself?"
Dr. Brown let out a bitter laugh.
"When rape is inevitable, just lay back and enjoy it," he mumbled.
"What was that you said? I couldn't hear you."
"Never mind. Just another old adage. Maybe I'll have my wife embroider it on a sampler. Then I can have it framed and hang it on the living room wall, right under the swastika."
"I'll tell you what, Doctor; you go home, enjoy your holiday and eat your turkey with cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie."
"With your friend there at the table ready to pull out a knife or a gun if I make a wrong move?"
"He'll behave himself; I assure you. You just spend some time with your family and think about our conversation. I'll come by Friday morning around nine for your answer."
Dr. Brown did not respond. He merely stared out the window at the gently falling snow until Masters was gone.
* * *
Frances arrived at 9:30 that night. With her was Hans Schlier, the exchange student from Hamburg. Dr. Brown had been expecting a Hitler Youth-schooled master of the Aryan race, a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Dolph Lundgren, but the young man with his daughter looked more like the neighborhood paperboy. With his long blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses and tall, lanky frame, he would blend right in with the teenage boys who bagged groceries down at Waldo's Market or pumped gas at Bud's Mobil station. After spending the evening in conversation with him, Dr. Brown had to admit that Hans—at least on the surface—was intelligent, good-humored and witty, in short, excellent company. It was hard to believe he was an associate of Fritz Masters.
Stuart and his wife, Jill, arrived early the following morning. Stuart and Hans, who shared an interest in photography and the rapidly changing field of communications technology, became fast friends before the first course of Thanksgiving dinner was served.
Vera placed the last of the side dishes on the table and sat down to eat. Her husband looked at her lovingly before bowing his head to say Grace. He thanked the lord for all his family had received and for the meal they were about to eat. But his thoughts were not on turkey with sausage stuffing.
Like Ebenezer Scrooge, the spirits of the past, present and future haunted him. The ghosts of six million people confronted him as he ate his acorn squash; and as he poured gravy onto his mashed potatoes, he thought of the brave men who had fought and died for the Allied forces. The ghosts of the past were many, but as was also the case with Scrooge—the old humbug—it was the solitary, silent ghost of the future that Dr. Brown feared most. Yet unlike Dickens' old miser, it was not his own end that terrified him. He would gladly welcome seeing his name engraved on a tombstone if he could only be sure his family was safe, that it would not be subjected to the arts of torture Mr. Masters' friends had picked up at places like Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Dachau.
"Dad ... Dad," Stuart called, trying to get his father's attention. "Earth to Dad."
The ghosts temporarily departed, and Dr. Brown faced his son.
"Now that I finally have everyone's attention," Stuart declared with a laugh, "I have an important announcement to make."
The young man reached into his shirt pocket and theatrically handed a White Owl to his father.
"Have a cigar, Grandpa."
Vera and Frances hugged Jill and bombarded her with questions concerning the new addition to the Brown family. Hans, too, heartily congratulated the parents-to-be. Dr. Brown alone remained silent, seemingly unaffected by the good news. But once again he was confronted by the ghost of the future who, this time, showed him the fate of an innocent baby who would forever be branded as a descendent of Adolf Hitler.
* * *
Shortly before 10:00 p.m., William found himself alone in his living room with Hans Schlier.
"You are a lucky man, Dr. Brown," the young German student said. "You have a lovely wife and family, a fine profession and a comfortable house—everything a man could want. I'd like to thank you for letting me spend the holiday in your home."
"You can stop the act, Schlier. My wife and daughter aren't around now."
Hans looked genuinely taken aback.
"Have I done or said something to offend you, Doctor?"
"Why don't you ask your friend Masters?"
"You know Mr. Masters?"
"Indeed, I do. He paid me a visit yesterday afternoon."
"But I do not see how that is possible. Mr. Masters was to spend the holiday with his sister in Minnesota."
Frances entered the room wearing a bathrobe and a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair.
"Fran," Hans asked, "did you know that Mr. Masters came to see your father yesterday?"
"You've met him, too?" Dr. Brown asked his daughter.
"Of course, I've met him, Dad. He's my English lit professor. He also runs the exchange student program, which is how Hans came to know him."
"I can't believe anyone would let a man like that teach college."
"He's one of the best professors in the English department. Besides, I don't think the administration has the heart to turn him out. Where's an eighty-seven-year-old man with no one except a bedridden sister going to go?"
"Did you say eighty-seven? The Masters I met was about thirty-five, forty at most."
"Then, Dad, it's obviously not the same man."
* * *
Dr. Brown did not sleep that night, dreading the return of his neo-Nazi visitor the following day. Around seven o'clock on Friday morning, he rolled out of bed, just as awake and just as worried as he had been when he lay down the night before. He showered, dressed and ate breakfast as usual—some things were so routine that they required no thought at all. Vera, Frances and Hans were still upstairs sleeping as Dr. Brown donned his jacket and went outside.
A cold, freezing rain was falling, and the steps were covered with a thick layer of ice.
I'd better put some rock salt out before someone slides down these stairs, he thought.
Then after salting the front steps of his house, Dr. Brown carefully walked across the driveway to his office. Mrs. Walters had turned the heat down before she left on Wednesday afternoon, so the doctor kept his jacket tightly fastened. He sat at his desk looking at the framed photographs of Vera, Stuart and Frances and dreading the inevitable meeting that was to come. He did not have long to wait.
"Well, Doctor, have you made up your mind?" Masters asked after slithering into the doctor's office.
"I was up all night fighting with my conscience."
"A conscience is an undesirable commodity in the world of politics."
"So it seems," the doctor agreed. "And now I must ignore mine to protect those I love."
"You are a wise man, Doctor. I will immediately begin making plans to relocate you to Germany. Once you have been acknowledged as Hitler's son and rightful heir, your family can join you there."
"What about Hans? Where does he fit into all of this?"
"Who?"
"Hans Schlier, my daughter's friend and your associate."
"Oh, yes, of course," Masters said after a few moments of searching his memory. "He is harmless. He knows nothing about either you or me. In politics information is power, so I put a listening device on your telephone. I overheard your daughter telling your wife about the young man from Germany. When you attempted to call the police, I bluffed—and it worked."
"Your name isn't really Masters either, is it? You picked that up from the phone conversation, too."
"Yes. I thought it was such a fitting name for one of the future masters of the world."
"Who are you, really?"
"My name doesn't matter. Yours is the one everyone will remember."
"Hitler," Dr. Brown said as though pronouncing a death sentence.
"Yes. Now I must get going. I have many details to see to before we can announce your existence to the world." The German stood straight and tall, tapped his heels together, extended his arm in a salute and proudly hailed, "Heil, Hitler."
Dr. Brown got up and shook Masters' hand.
"I'll walk out with you, Fritz. I have a few errands to run for the wife," he announced and opened the outer office door for his visitor.
"You will be hearing from me again soon," Masters promised. "Probably no later than the end of next week. I'll be leaving for Germany tomorrow."
Patting him on the back like an old friend, Dr. Brown said, "Have a nice trip."
Then as Masters crossed the threshold onto the icy steps, the doctor shoved with all his might, sending the self-proclaimed master of the world flat on his ass. As he tried to regain his footing, Masters blurted out a stream of curses, but his bitter invectives had little effect on Dr. Brown since they were spoken in German.
"What's the matter, Masters, can't you goosestep on ice?"
He grabbed the German by the neck and, after furtively glancing around for any witnesses, he smashed the man's head against the pavement. The sound of the cracking skull was enough for Dr. Brown to know the man was dead, but he routinely reached for the arm and felt for a pulse.
* * *
"Sheriff's office."
It was Loretta Griffith, whose job it was to handle the phone calls when Sheriff Perkins and his deputy were off duty.
"Hello, Loretta. It's William Brown."
"Dr. Brown," she said amiably. "How was your holiday?"
"Fine, thank you, and yours?"
"Nice but too short. Right now, I wish I had an office job. Then I'd be out shopping today like most everyone else in town."
"Oh, yes, today's Black Friday, isn't it?"
It certainly turned out to be just that for Masters, Dr. Brown thought, appreciating the irony of the situation.
"Is there something I can help you with, Doctor?"
"Yes, Loretta. I need to get in touch with the sheriff right away. Someone has fallen on the ice outside my office."
"What do you want Sheriff Perkins for? You're the doctor."
"I'm afraid the man is beyond my help."
Sheriff Lyle Perkins arrived twenty minutes later.
"Sorry I took so long, Doc. I had to put on my uniform. Honestly, I don't know why these things always have to happen on my day off," he grumbled as though dead bodies were a common occurrence in Maple Brook.
"It was the damnedest thing, Lyle," Dr. Brown began as the sheriff followed him across the driveway. "I woke up, went to the kitchen to make coffee, looked out the window to see what the weather was like and spotted a dead body lying in my backyard. Being a doctor, I've seen my share of medical school cadavers and have had to watch some of my more seriously ill patients die, but I've never had a corpse turn up on my own property."
Perkins looked down at the body of the dead man. The back of his head was covered with blood.
"Hell of a thing to see before breakfast, Doc. Oh, well. Let's see who we've got here. Hmmm. Don't recall ever seeing him around town."
"He's not from Maple Brook."
"Who's his next of kin? They'll have to be notified."
"Sorry I can't be more helpful, Lyle, but I haven't got a clue. He's not one of my regular patients. The man phoned the office on Wednesday, demanding an appointment, and refused to give Mrs. Walters his name. Wouldn't even tell her what his problem was, which isn't surprising considering the nature of his ailment. I guess it's not uncommon for men with such diseases to go to an out-of-town doctor. Less chance of any gossip getting back to his wife or lady friend. Anyway, he came in that afternoon and filled out the new patient form for my files—you know: name, age, weight, medical history, insurance information and such. I examined him and gave him a shot of penicillin and some sample packets of antibiotics I had in the office. He paid me in cash and left. I don't know what he was doing here today. Maybe he had a reaction to the medication."
"Guess you'll never know now, will you, Doc?" Perkins commented, anxious to clear up the mess so he could resume his holiday weekend. "Could I see that paper he filled out?"
"Sure, here it is, but I don't think it'll help you much."
The sheriff read the paper, laughed and shook his head.
Doctor Brown explained somewhat sheepishly, "I'm afraid I didn't look at that form on Wednesday. Mrs. Walters had already gone for the day, so I told the man to just leave it on her desk. Ada handles all the paperwork around here."
Perkins nodded. As a rule, he, too, avoided paperwork and usually delegated that unpleasant duty to either his deputy or Loretta.
"I guess there's nothing much to be done here except wait and see if anyone reports this guy missing. If not, we'll let the state worry about where to bury him. Mind if we put Clark Kent here in your examination room until the coroner sends someone over to pick him up?"
"Not at all. I'll give you a hand taking him inside. I'd rather my family didn't wake up to the sight of a dead body across the lawn."
"You know, Doc, too bad this guy wasn't really Clark Kent like he claimed on that form," the sheriff laughed. "If he had been, maybe he would have made a better landing when he went flying on the ice."
* * *
Doctor Brown waited in the inner office until the coroner's wagon took away the remains of Clark Kent, alias Fritz Masters. Then he took the wallet, keys, rings and other personal effects he had removed from the body, sealed them in a container marked "Danger: Medical Waste" and tossed them in a receptacle filled with used syringes, bandages, swabs and disposable gloves, all similarly packaged.
"Clark Kent, huh?" he said contemptuously as he tossed the sheet of paper into the wire basket on Ada's desk. "So, you wanted to be Superman, a master of the world. Unfortunately for you, my Nazi friend, there must be more of my father in me than either of us ever imagined."
Don't be ridiculous, Salem. Your parents weren't Nazis. They were witches' familiars.
