Chapter 1 1 HAMBURG, 1962 IT WAS LATE IN the season to put tables outside, but the unexpected sun had drawn crowds to the Alsterpavillon, all asking for the terrace, so that by noon the entire promenade had become one long outdoor café, people sipping coffee, wrapped in coats and mufflers against the wind coming off the lake, their faces tilted up to the sun. "You look like a turtle," Aaron said, glancing at his uncle sitting with his chin down in his coat, his great nose sticking out like a beak. "Idiots, they think it''s summer." He drew on his cigarette, a small shrug. "I''m cold all the time now." "Go to Israel." "Israel. What''s in Israel?" "Sun at least.

" "And then you''re even farther away. Another ocean. So maybe that''s the idea." Aaron moved his hand, brushing this away. "Then come back with me." "To America. To sit around and argue with you." He shook his head.

"My work is here." Aaron looked up at him. "You can''t keep doing this. Your heart--" "So then it''s something else. How can I stop? We got Pidulski. All these years and we got him. What is that worth? A man who kicked children to death. In the head, like a football.

" "Max--" "So what is that worth?" he said, his voice rising. "To get him. On trial, so everybody sees. A little heart trouble? OK. I''ll take it." Aaron sipped his coffee, a second of calm. "Max, we need to talk about this. The doctor said--" "Give up smoking," Max said.

"I''m not going to do that either." Taking a noisy puff, illustrating. "I have to go back." "You just got here." "Max." "You''re a big shot. You can take the time off." "Compassionate leave.

It''s usually a few days." "What, to bury somebody? So hang around, it won''t be long." "You told me you were dying. You''re not dying." Max shrugged again. "Anyway, it''s cheaper for you to come here than talk on the phone. Calls to America. Who can afford that?" He paused.

"I wanted to talk to you." "I know. I''m here, aren''t I?" "But you don''t talk back. Days now and you don''t answer. Who else is there? You''re a son to me." He looked toward the bright lake, taking a breath, a theatrical gesture, overcome. "Max, we''ve been over this." "But you haven''t agreed yet.

" Aaron smiled and Max, catching it, smiled back. "You want me to retire. Whatever that is. This is something you don''t walk away from, what we do. It''s not possible. For you either. We''re the only ones left in the family. Everyone else-- Think about that.

Everyone else. You don''t turn your back on that." "Twenty years." "And still guilty. Still." "It''s different for me. I never knew them." "You knew your mother.

You remember her." "Of course." But what exactly? The way she smelled when she leaned down to kiss him good night, the day''s last trace of perfume. Sitting in her lap on the train. The voice, wrapping around him like a blanket. But her face was a face in photographs now, no longer someone he knew. Max was shaking his head. "She waited too long.

Herschel was right--get out now. And she says, ''You go, I''ll come after.'' You know she wanted to keep you here with her? So think, if Herschel had agreed. You would have been killed too, like everybody else. And you think it''s not personal with you?" "Why did she stay?" Aaron said quietly, as if it were a casual interest, the question he''d been asking all his life. "She was helping people here. You know this. Herschel said, ''Save yourself.

Think of the child,''?" he said, nodding to Aaron. "But he''ll be safe with you, she says. I can''t leave now--" He stopped, the story still painful. "She thought she had more time. We all thought that. Except Herschel. The smart one. So you can thank God he didn''t wait.

You''d be a statistic. A number. Like Minna." He looked over. "She was tall, like you. That''s where you get it. And the hair." He touched his own, a few wisps.

"Not from our side." He took a breath. "Did he talk about her? Herschel?" "When the letters came." The ones that meant she hadn''t abandoned them, however it felt. "She was always on her way. Soon. Any day. And then they stopped.

" He looked up, answering the question. "He didn''t talk about her after that. He didn''t want to talk about--what happened. He said people didn''t want to hear about that." "People there. And by this time he''s Wiley. Weill isn''t good enough. More American than the Americans.

As if it would make any difference--that they wouldn''t know what he was." "He blamed himself. Leaving her behind." " Ach ," Max said, a sound of dismissal. "And what good did that do?" He shook his head. "She didn''t die because she stayed. She died because they killed her. Don''t forget that.

That''s what this is all about. They killed her. Everybody. That''s who we do this for. Your family." "Max, I never knew them." "Listen to them now, then. You can hear them if you listen.

" He moved his hand, taking in the crowd, as if all the Weills, all the dead, were here in the crowd on the Binnenalster. "I hear them all the time. You don''t retire from that." He moved his hand toward Aaron''s. "I''ll teach you what you don''t know. The archives. It''s all about the documents. Not all that cloak-and-dagger stuff Wiesenthal talks about.

Liar. You listen to him, he found Eichmann himself. Shoved him in the car. Oh, the Mossad was there? Who would know, with Wiesenthal playing Superman?" Aaron looked over. "Max." The old rivalry, Max and Wiesenthal even sharing a Time cover. The Nazi Hunters. As if the feud were a Macy''s and Gimbel''s rivalry, with discount sales.

"All right. So it helps him raise money. Eichmann. Who cares about Pidulski? Except the children he murdered. Maybe I should do it too. Say I''m this close to Mengele," he said, pinching his fingers. "To Schramm. You could always raise a few donations if you said you had a lead on him.

Which I did once." His voice went lower, private. "Imagine, to get him. After everything. But he got away. And then he cheated me. Dead. But no trial.

No--" He caught himself drifting. "So now it''s Mengele if you want to raise money. Wiesenthal says he''s in Paraguay. No, Brazil. No, somewhere else. So here''s a check. Go find him." He stopped.

"We all do it. How else to keep going? Think how useful you would be. An American. The money''s in America. And maybe a little guilt too. A nice young American. Not some altekaka who talks with an accent. An FBI man--" "I''m not FBI.

" "So whatever it is. Which you don''t say. You think I can''t guess? ''For the government,'' except you don''t say what. So what else could it be?" He shook his head. "Herschel''s boy. Who can''t tell me what he does." "I did tell you. I''m an intelligence analyst.

" "Herschel said you were thinking of leaving the job. Before he died. That''s what gave me the idea." "What idea?" "You taking over the business." Aaron smiled. "The business." As if it were real estate. Linen supply.

"Laugh if you want. OK, not a business. But not a charity either. I have to pay my people. Elena. The office rent. Nothing grows on trees. The World Jewish Council gives something.

Then, donors. Maybe you could raise more. I don''t take for myself. A little. Not like Wiesenthal. And then pleading poverty. He puts the office in the living room. What next, a hair shirt?" He looked over.

"But he gets the donations. And after Eichmann, even more. An impresario. Show business. Not justice. That''s what we gave Pidulski, justice." "And the children are still dead." Max said nothing, squinting against the glare on the water.

"Yes, still dead." "I''m sorry. I didn''t--" Max waved his hand. "You think I don''t think about that too? What good?" He took out another cigarette. "You know what Confucius said?" Aaron looked over, surprised. "?''Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.''?" Blowing a little smoke for effect. "So maybe I''m digging mine too, I don''t know.

" He looked at Aaron. "But it''s worth it. Even if it''s that. My grave too. What else am I living for?" Aaron said nothing, watching him smoke. Like his father, the same gestures, all three of them marked by some shadow on a gene. "It''ll be like when you used to come in the summer. We''ll do things.

" Summers with Max. Sometimes just a few weeks, once a whole month, Herschel''s gift, Aaron passed from one brother to the other like a family heirloom that had to be shared. Max eager and then overwhelmed, his routine disrupted. Day trips to Lübeck, Max fully clothed on the beach, Aaron playing in the sand. A visit to the Buddenbrooks house, which Max insisted was a holy site of German literature, and which Aaron found stuffy and old. A borrowed cottage on a lake, Max reading files on the porch, Aaron trying to fish, make friends with the neighbors. Awkward, well-meaning summers. But what Aaron remembered were the good-byes, Max teary and fussing over the luggage, turning him over to the stewardess, his hands almost clutching at Aaron''s clothes, holding him back, as if he were asking for another chance.

Then a kiss on the forehead, Aaron embarrassed without knowing why, the love so desperate. "Tell me something," Max said now. "This government w.