Black Balloon

Chapter 13

It was two weeks before Christmas when Frank Gendelman used his considerable influence to earn himself a short leave of absence. He told his supervisor, Hank Campbell, that his mother had died, not technically a lie, he just failed to mention that it happened 40 years ago. The death of an immediate family member was one of the few excuses that would suffice for such a request. Even the death of a parent would not have been a sufficient excuse for most of the low-level employees, but Frank enjoyed special privileges. Before departing he was subjected to a thorough physical examination and subsequently driven to San Diego where he boarded a Douglas DC-6.

The next day, he walked into what had once been his home, but for the past three years was nothing but an empty house, slowly rotting away in the mountains of Shasta County, California. He still owned it, even paid a kid to maintain the property, but it wasn't his home anymore. It had never much felt that way, anyhow. Now it was nothing but an expensive storage building, somewhere to keep the things he no longer needed but couldn't bear to part with, artifacts from an old life.

In the garage sat his powder-blue Cadillac Eldorado Convertible, exactly as he'd left it. He'd purchased the car shortly before beginning the Black Balloon project and had only driven it a handful of times. It had been parked ever since. Well, except for the ten miles a month that Henry put on it. In addition to his lawn maintenance duties, he paid the kid a small stipend to drive the car, change the oil, and wash and wax her on occasion, because nothing ruins a vehicle faster than leaving it to sit. Although, a glance at the odometer and some quick math told Frank it had been driven slightly more than requested, but this was ok. She was a beauty: Chrome everything, black and tan leather seats, white wall tires. If only he ever got to drive her.

In Frank's bedroom closet, behind the row of hanging suits that no longer fit (because they were too big) he found what he was looking for: a fireproof wall safe. Its combination was a set of numbers he couldn't possibly forget. Even in his dementia addled 90s, he'd know them by heart. They were carved into his soul like a lover's name into an old oak tree: 14 left, 12 right, 38 left.

The safe contained neither money nor expensive jewelry, only documents; three birth certificates among a handful of other things:

Inger Shaltiel, born 12 July, 1895 Frankfurt, Germany

Werner Auerbach, born 1, August, 1935 Berlin, Germany

Lucie Auerbach, born 14 December, 1938 Berlin, Germany

Also in the safe was his old operator's license from the motherland, his marriage certificate, and a dozen photos, the few things he'd managed to retrieve before his departure at the end of the war. He couldn't bear to look at the pictures so he placed them face down on the floor while he searched. His objective did not take long. When he was done, he locked the safe and made a phone call to a friend of his, one of the first people he had met upon his arrival in America, Ronald Epler. Epler worked for the government, but which branch Gendelman didn't know, possibly a shadow organization not on any official ledger, funded by the nation's "black budget." Epler's job was assigning aliases to former Nazis and various other men with reasons to disappear, a job he was exceptionally good at. The two had stayed in touch after their business was concluded, and Epler gradually earned his status as one of the few men in the world that Frank Gendelman trusted.

Later that day, Gendelman drove to the Sears Roebuck and purchased three suits, two sets of casual wear, and a variety of other men's necessities: socks, underwear, and a winter coat. He hoped the cashier would take no notice that the slacks were too short for him and the shirts too narrow. She didn't. He then visited the local bank and trust and withdrew $2,000 cash from his savings account, telling the girl at the front desk it was to purchase a car for his grandson, the boy's first vehicle. She smiled and said he was a lucky young man to have such a generous grandfather.

His next stop was a hundred miles West to Carmi Lake where he spent the night, something he hadn't done in years. It took him half a day to get done what he needed to, much longer than he had anticipated, but get it done he eventually did. Then, with his business concluded, he travelled back to Shasta and found everything he'd requested waiting for him in the mailbox. He stopped next door and said hello to Henry, who was no longer a teenager but still happy to upkeep Frank's home for their usual monthly rate. Frank told Henry he was in town for a few more days but that he would be leaving Friday and taking the Cadillac with him. He wouldn't lower the amount he paid Henry despite no longer requiring the automobile related duties. Henry was disappointed. No more joy rides in the Eldorado, taking girls to the drive-in on a Saturday night.

Friday morning, with the first rays of sunshine breaking through the pines and the world asleep, Gendelman locked the home's front door, dropped the key in Henry's mailbox along with a note, and headed South on 273. He would never be back. It would take him most of the weekend to drive back to base. As a young man he would have driven straight through but in his seventies it was too much.