QB VII (23 page)

He is imprisoned in the grandeur of an apartment in the Parliament looking out on the Thames. From here he heads over a hundred committees for legal reform, for trustee of public funds, for overseeing legal education, for obtaining legal aid, for patronage of hospitals and colleges and law societies and charities. As though this were not enough Lord Ramsey and all the Lord Chancellors before him are bound and tied with constant ceremonial demands. For all of this he receives the annual salary of some thirty-five thousand dollars.

Yet, as traditional “keeper of the King’s conscience” he is inheritor of an era of greatness bowing neither to tension or tragedy, nor showing public exuberance. Dignity, that is the keynote. The keeper of tradition.

Yes, the average Londoner who saw all of this on this day could scarcely believe that any dynamic changes were in the making.

The new legal year was formally under way. Ramsey greeted all of his judges and all of his barristers, whom he knew from long personal and professional association. He was approached by Anthony Gilray, King’s Counsel.

Ramsey had on his desk the nomination of Gilray to judgeship in the High Court. He thought it would be a good appointment. Gilray was as sound as the pound sterling. Ten years earlier, one of Ramsey’s first duties as Lord Chancellor had been to promote Gilray from junior to K.C. “Takes silk” they called it when one became a King’s Counsel. Gilray had been far above average in his parade of court hearings. When his appointment as judge went through in an automatic manner, Gilray would be knighted as all of England’s high judges are and he would be sworn in to a seat in King’s Bench Division of the High Court.

“Lord Ramsey,” Anthony Gilray said, holding out a thin hand.

“Hello, Tony, good to have you back from the Army.”

“Good to be back.”

“How does it look to you?”

“Oh, about the same. England never changes.”

2

January 1966

M
R.
B
ULLOCK, THE MANAGING
clerk of Hobbins, Newton, and Smiddy, contacted Mr. Rudd, the clerk of Sir Robert Highsmith, Q.C., and arranged a consultation in chambers at 4 Essex Court, Middle Temple.

In the years that had passed, Robert Highsmith had risen in stature to one of the greatest libel lawyers in England and because of his continued work with political prisoners had attained knighthood.

Despite his status, he doted on impoverished furnishings in a room with peeling walls, a broken down overstuffed sofa, threadbare carpet, and a portable electric heater to augment the inadequate gas burner. The one item of elegance, as in most barristers’ chambers, was the desk, a great leather-topped Victorian partner’s desk.

However, parked in his space below was a new Rolls Royce.

Sir Robert Highsmith and Sir Adam Kelno penetrated the barrier of years with searching looks of remembrance. Sir Robert was grayer, heavier, and not quite so disheveled. A copy of
The Holocaust
lay on the desk. “There seems to be very little question but that you’ve been libeled. Offhand one would think it would be impossible for them to defend. However, we must take into consideration that the offending passage occupies one paragraph of a seven hundred page book. Would the general public identify you, a knighted English citizen, as the same person mentioned in passing as a doctor of unidentified nationality in Jadwiga?”

“Perhaps not,” Adam answered, “but my son recognized me, as well as my ward.”

“In seeking damages the sting of the libel will weigh heavily and may be exceedingly nominal.”

“The damage is inside ... here. ...” Adam said, pointing to his heart.

“What I am saying is that we may be opening up a Pandora’s Box. If, mind you, the other people decide to fight, are we certain that we will come out of this untainted. Are our hands completely clean?”

“No one should know that better than you,” Adam answered. “I think these words were deliberately put into the book as part of the same plot to harass me to my death. At least now, I have a chance to fight back, not in a mock court in Poland, but under British justice.”

“Isn’t it rather unlikely they are going to fight this?” Richard Smiddy asked.

“If we make our demands too heavy, they may be forced to fight. It depends on what Sir Adam is really seeking.”

“Seeking? Aside from the hell of Jadwiga I am in Brixton Prison and in exile in Sarawak for seventeen years. I am there because of them. I have done no wrong. What do you think I should be seeking?”

“Very well,” Sir Robert said, “but I’m going to have to take the position of tempering your passion with the reality of the situation. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through it all again, Sir Adam. Let’s hope they’ll be sensible.”

In the anteroom, Smiddy made mention to Mr. Rudd to contact his clerk, Mr. Bullock, to set the fees. Smiddy and Adam Kelno walked from the Temple and stopped before the onrush of black taxis and red double decked buses racing up and down the Strand past the statue of the griffin marking the Temple Bar. Over the street the ominous gray stone of the Law Court seemed to glare at them.

“Mark my words, Sir Adam, it will never get into that court.”

Abraham Cady &

Shawcross Publishers, Ltd.

& Humble, Ltd. Printers

c/o David Shawcross

25 Gracechurch Street EC 3

Hobbins, Newton & Smiddy

Solicitors

32 Chancery Lane

London WC 2

Sirs:

Since our initial communication we have been instructed by our client, Sir Adam Kelno, M.D., to inquire:

1. If you are prepared to make a statement of apology in open court.

2. What proposals you have to make to indemnify Sir Adam Kelno for expenses incurred in this matter.

3. What are you prepared to do in removing all copies of
The Holocaust
from all bookstores and ensuring that no mention of Dr. Kelno is made in any future editions.

4. What proposals you have to make by way of damages for the grievous injury done his honorable name.

In that these charges against Sir Adam Kelno are totally without foundation it is impossible to imagine a graver libel upon a professional man in his position.

Since our client requires a statement in open court it is mandatory to issue a writ and we would like to ask you to give us the name of your solicitors who will accept service.

Yours faithfully,

Hobbins, Newton, and Smiddy

3

I
N
S
AUSALITO,
A
BRAHAM
C
ADY
scrutinized his voluminous notes, then wrote to archives, individuals, and historical societies in Vienna, Warsaw, New York, Munich, and Israel for information. The name Kelno had meant little or nothing to him in the context of the massive book.

In London, the small conference room of Shawcross Publishers was converted into a sort of war room. First, Shawcross dug up all the history of the extradition proceedings against Kelno.

His first major discovery was that Dr. Mark Tesslar was still alive and on the permanent staff of the Radcliffe Medical Center in Oxford. The years had neither diminished nor blunted his feeling. Looking beyond Tesslar’s accusations, he felt they were basically truthful and this spurred him to widen his own investigation.

Shawcross turned most of the publishing operation over to his son-in-law, Geoffery Dodd, and his daughter, Pam. Their son, Cecil, was just beginning in the business. Shawcross took young Cecil as his own personal staff on the investigation.

The starting point was the war crimes indictment of SS Colonel Dr. Adolph Voss, chief medical officer of the prisoners of Jadwiga Concentration Camp. Unfortunately, Voss never came to trial, he committed suicide in prison. None the less the prosecutor in Hamburg had a list of two hundred prospective witnesses.

The indictment and the prospective witness list were almost twenty years old. Many on the list had died, others had moved or disappeared. Yet Shawcross took a crack at everyone in a correspondence carried out in ten languages. Huge charts blanketed the wall of the conference room plotting the progress and answers to every inquiry.

A smattering of information drifted to London. Most of it was discouraging and shed no light. No one seemed to be willing to state they could identify Adam Kelno and they were even more positive on the point that the surgery in Barrack V was a total secret.

Inquiries to Poland went unanswered. The Polish Embassy in London was evasive. Shawcross concluded that a policy was yet to be set by the Poles in the matter. Cautious bureaucrats from the embassies of the Eastern European countries drown the inquiries in red tape. After all, Abraham Cady was a known anti-Communist writer.

Four months passed. The wall charts were dead-ending the majority of inquiries. Only a few threads, the meagerest clues from Israel, kept the project from collapsing.

And then came a staggering body blow.

Archibald Charles III of Charles, Ltd., the monolithic printing combine, puffed away in his immaculately paneled office in The City, contemplating this nasty piece of business.

The Charles empire had four great printing plants in the British Islands, a forest for paper pulp in Finland, and a conglomerate of partnerships all over the Continent.

The actual business flowing from David Shawcross amounted to a fraction of a single percentile. None the less, Shawcross occupied a special place. It was the same kind of special place he held in the publishing world as a great editor and literary master. Archibald’s father had been a close chum of Shawcross and heard on more than one occasion that this was the kind of man a publisher ought to be.

While the business relationship was unimportant in terms of the Charles dynasty, the personal camaraderie carried over when young Archibald took over as managing director and later, chairman of the board. Shawcross could count on his printers to fill his paper orders and shove a pet book ahead of the largest publishers.

No doubt but that young Charles was a credit. The stockholders were pleased at the steady rise in earnings. He thought in modern terms of mergers and conglomerates more like an American than an Englishman.

“I have Mr. Shawcross on the phone,” his secretary said.

“Hello, David, Archie here.”

“How are you?”

“Good. Mind if I pop over this afternoon?”

“Fine.”

Coming out of his magnificent skyscraper to the drab rooms of Shawcross’s on Gracechurch Street was a singular act of respect. He was pin-striped and bowlered because that’s what the stockholders expected.

He arrived at Shawcross’s, was led down the corridor past stuffy little cubicles of the editors and secretaries to the “war room.” Archibald studied the walls papered with charts. “Phased out” was encircled in red lettering. Blue stars marked some sort of progress.

“Good Lord, what do you have here?”

“I’m looking for a needle in a haystack. Contrary to public belief, if you look long enough you’ll find the needle.”

“Are you intending to publish books anymore?”

“Geoff and Pam are running things out there. We’ll have an autumn list of some kind. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

Shawcross erupted a cigar as the tea arrived.

‘It’s the Kelno affair,” Charles said. “As you know I’ve assigned one of my best people full time to analyze everything you’ve sent over. You’ve had numerous meetings with old Pearson about this.”

“Yes. Very decent chap.”

“We’ve put everything in the hands of our solicitors and have had consultations in chambers with Israel Meyer. I think you’ll go along with me when I say he’s one of the best barristers practicing. Moreover, we picked Meyer because he is a Jew and would be extremely sympathetic to your point of view. At any rate I called a special board meeting to reach a decision.”

“Well, I don’t see what decision there is,” Shawcross said. “Every day we learn another fragment about Kelno. There can be no decision when there is no choice.”

“We have a very marked difference of opinion, David. We’re pulling out of the case.”

“What!”

“We sent our solicitor over to see the Smiddy people. They’re willing to settle now for under a thousand pounds and an apology in open court. I suggest you do the same.”

“Archie, I don’t know what to say. You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“But don’t you see that picking us off one by one means they’ll demolish Abraham?”

“My dear David, you and I are innocent victims of a fool writer who didn’t get his facts straight. Why should you be responsible because Cady has libeled a distinguished British doctor?”

The chair screeched on the bare wooden floor as David pushed away from the conference table and walked to the charts. “See this, Archie. Just in the past few days. A statement from a man who was castrated.”

“Now, David, I’m not going into a debate with you. We’ve done the proper thing. Pearson, our solicitors, our barrister, and my board have studied all the information and have a unanimous decision.”

“Is that your personal feeling also, Archie?”

“I am the head of a public company.”

“In that event, Archie, you have a public duty.”

“Rot. All stockholders are the same. I’ve restrained myself while you’ve turned your house into a detective agency. I have not lifted a finger and said that you’ve got us into this. And I say again, get out of it.”

Shawcross whipped the cigar out of his teeth. “Apologize to a ruddy bastard who cut the nuts off healthy men! Never, sir! Too bad you don’t read some of the words that come from your presses.”

Archibald Charles opened the door. “Will we be seeing you and Lorraine for dinner and theater tomorrow?”