Grandpa Otto offered to take him in. He barely knew Grandpa Otto, his father’s father. Dad never talked to him or about him and Heinrich had only met him once when he was seven when Grandpa Otto showed up at their house unannounced. All he remembered was a portly old man with a full white beard arguing with Dad in German. Heinrich never understood why Dad was shouting at Santa Claus.

Grandpa Otto sure seemed like Santa Claus when he signed the papers that sprung him from juvvie. His parents had signed too, glad to be rid of him. The feeling was mutual.

His grandfather had his hands full taking on an obnoxious kid who liked to get wasted and steal stuff, but that behavior vanished almost immediately. Otto was a jovial old man from the old country, with a thick accent and a quick wit. It was Grandpa Otto who discovered Heinrich’s knack for languages by insisting he learn German. Heinrich had never paid attention in school so he’d never noticed his talent, but part of the deal to live with him was that he “learn the language of his Volk.”

In less than a month he was carrying on complex conversations with his grandfather. Heinrich’s self-esteem soared and the young punk and the old man got along great.

There followed the five happiest years of Heinrich’s life, during which he lived with Otto in his Manhattan apartment, graduated high school, and matriculated into City University to major in linguistics. There were birthday parties and trips to the zoo and season tickets to the Mets. There was kindness, generosity, and gentle discipline. There was everything his own parents had skipped. Heinrich couldn’t understand why his father hated this kindly old man who had done everything for him and asked for nothing in return except the good behavior that Heinrich was now eager to give.

Then lightning struck.

“NAZI WAR CRIMINAL DISCOVERED LIVING IN NEW YORK”

A banner headline in the Daily News and a photo of his grandfather entering their building, taken from across the street. Half the image was obscured by the parked car the photographer had hidden behind. Next to that was an old portrait photo of a young man in an SS uniform. Heinrich tried very hard to convince himself the two photos weren’t of the same man. Tried and failed.

Now Heinrich understood why Grandpa Otto talked about the old country all the time but never took him there. He understood why he was so vague about his past and he understood his dad kicking the guy out of their life.

Otto Müller was not his real name, which meant Müller wasn’t Heinrich’s real name either. In the dying days of the Third Reich he had used his connections to get a fake passport saying he was Czech and fled first to Argentina, then to the United States. He had settled down in New York City and the law never caught up with him until an Israeli organization that hunted war criminals tracked him down. They’d nabbed him because they had been investigating a new Pan-European neo-Nazi organization called the Purity League. Grandpa Otto had been a major donor.

It had all come out in the trial, that humiliating, terrible trial that made headlines for months. Heinrich moved out. His Jewish girlfriend dumped him. His black friends wouldn’t talk to him. People whispered when he entered a classroom. He dropped out of college.

Otto Müller did not survive the trial. He did not survive the stress of the documentary evidence and the witness testimonies.