Free The Hammer of God by Tom Avitabile Page A

good.”
    â€œI wish it were good, but Bill, I’m scared, and I need help.”
    â€œYou got it. Where and when?”
    â€œNot in your office. Can you meet me in twenty minutes, at the Lincoln Memorial?”
    â€œLittle dramatic, Pete, ain’t it?”
    â€œBill, please.”
    â€œOkay, twenty minutes.”
    Bill hung up the phone and called to Cheryl. She wasn’t fond of the “scream intercom,” and her expression showed it.
    â€œCancel the rest of my morning and my two o’clock.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThere’s nothing cabinet level and you can cover the eleven and two o’clock for me if you want.”
    â€œOh, okay. Where will you be?”
    â€œOn my cell.”
    â€œNo, where? The Secret Service is going to want to know.”
    â€œThe Lincoln Memorial.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œDramatic interlude.”
    Cheryl shrugged. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
    â€œNow you’re getting it.”

- Book II -
    THE BOX

Chapter One
    HISTORY REPEATS
    It was the best knockwurst in the neighborhood. In fact, his little stand was a six-sided, umbrella faceted jewel in the gastronomic crown of Hungary. Claude’s traditional preparation in his humble kitchen in Kivorst held the secret. He stewed the meat in three kinds of sauerkraut from earlier the previous afternoon. Each of the krauts brought out the individual flavor of the beef, pork, and veal that was knockwurst. He also added a dash of molasses, apple vinegar, and wine to the pot to compliment each. As was happening more and more, a businessman from the area was proudly buying lunch for a visiting client. He was spouting praise for Claude claiming, as many others had, that the knockwurst was just like his mother’s. The anticipation on the faces of those who knew what awaited them, with many actually rubbing their hands together like children expecting a treat, made Claude proud. And he had little to be proud of since the war.
    There was a time when he owned one of the best restaurants in Budapest. It involved thirty-three years of toiling everyday, getting up before the chickens, and going to sleep after the cows, but he loved it. Those were truly the good old days. His whole family worked in the restaurant, which kept them close and caring for each other. It provided a good life for all, obviously there was always enough to eat, and his sister, Mary, even met a doctor. It wasn’t too bad a life.
    Then the Nazis came, the dream ended, the nightmare began. Now, he was the only one left. His wife, mother, father, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, all shipped off to the camps, never to be seen or heard from again. He had a different fate because of his cooking skills. The Germans found Claude, emaciated and near death, when hunger forced him to leave his hiding spot in the root cellar of the restaurant. The Nazis had taken over the place to be an officer’s mess. He didn’t get as far as the front door when they caught him. A sniveling coward of a Nazi captain, left behind to secure the phone system of Budapest, ordered him carried off to the street to be shot. However, when the captain overheard Claude protesting that this was his restaurant, he ordered his men to halt.
    â€œCan you cook?” the captain asked.
    â€œYes… I was… the… chef,” Claude said, coughing.
    The Nazi turned his head as he ordered, “Take him to my house, clean him up, and see if he can boil water.”
    Claude became the captain’s personal cook. It was barely survival, but again where there was food there was life. Claude stayed alive by feeding the fat Nazi officer like he was the Archduke. While the Hungarian people starved under Nazi occupation, “the Pig” always had fine butchered meats and fresh vegetables for Claude to prepare every day. Many times Claude thought of adding a dash of lye to the soup or iodine to the sauce, but that would only kill Hans, the