Schreiber's Secret (28 page)

“If you’ll pardon the expression, Sam,” said Edwards, “I think you’re pissing in the wind.”

“I know,” Cohen sighed. “But somehow or other my friends and I wanted to make an effort. If we could prove Henry wasn’t this Schreiber monster, then the case against him might collapse.”

“The case against him is still pretty conclusive, though, even if he isn’t Schreiber,” said Edwards.

“Look, firstly, Jews don’t kill other Jews. And even if one did, would he do it in this manner? It just doesn’t make sense. Anybody in
their right mind would smell a rat. No, it all rests on whether Henry is really Schreiber.”

“I still don’t understand how Mark can help you,” said Danielle, aware that Cohen was repeating the sentiments she had expressed months ago.

“Okay, I’ll come to the point. Frankly, we’ve been stitched up. As soon as Henry was arrested, we contacted a private investigator. He came recommended, but all th
e
mumse
r
has succeeded in doing is ripping us off. It’s cost us thousands and he hasn’t come up with anything worthwhile. Frankly, I think he made up all the rubbish he’s been feeding us.”

“Like what?” asked
Edwards.

“Like Hans Schreiber died on the Russian Front in 1944.”

“Well?” asked Danielle.

“Well, it’s one thing saying something like that and another proving it. We need proof. Anyway, this investigator chap said he had found a man who could provide the evidence, but that the man wanted ten thousand dollars. Lik
e
schmuk
s
, we paid up.”

“Where’s the investigator now?” asked Danielle.

“In hell, I hope. He’s disappeared. I tried ringing his office, but they said he’d moved and hadn’t left a forwarding address.”

“That’s unfortunate, Sam,” said Edwards, “but where do I come in?”

“You’re chief crime reporter on th
e
Standar
d
. If you don’t know a reliable private investigator, then who does?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” asked Danielle. “The trial may start very soon.”

“Look, I said money was no object, and I meant it. Only we’ve got to have someone reliable.” Cohen looked beseechingly at Edwards.

The reporter tinkered with his beer glass for a few seconds. “Sam,” he said, “I think you’ll be wasting your money, but I know a good man. You need someone who speaks German fluently. I do, but I’m not a private eye. Let me speak to this guy. He may be willing to take the case on. Give me your phone number and I’ll contact you within the next few days.”

“Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate it. Now let me order some food. Even if you’ve already eaten, you can still find some room for a little pasta, no?” He turned to Danielle. “Don’t tell th
e
shu
l
elders,” he winked. “They’d kill me if they knew I was eatin
g
treyf
e
.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Sam,” she smiled. “But if you’re going to be a naughty boy and eat non-kosher, you shouldn’t do it on the doorstep of your synagogue.”

“Are you kidding?” beamed Cohen. “And miss out on the best lasagne in town?”

A week elapsed before Mark Edwards managed to make contact with Bill Brown. The private eye had been involved in infidelity surveillance, the least favourite of his occupational pursuits.

“It beats me why the buggers bother, Mark,” said the detective, welcoming the reporter to his office off the Strand. “I mean, they usually end up paying me a lot of money to confirm what they already know. There’s no stigma attached to divorce nowadays. Anyway, enough of my problems. How can I help you, old buddy?”

Edwards smiled. Brown was a character, a gumshoe from the old school. Creeping towards his fifties, he was about the best private eye around. His work was thorough and
methodical,an attribute no doubt passed on by his late father, an ex-German prisoner of war named Ludwig Braun, a Dornier navigator whose plane had been shot down during a night raid on London. After the war, Braun had decided to stay in England after meeting and marrying a local girl. He had changed his name to Brown shortly before his eldest son William was born in 1947. Brown Senior had insisted on speaking mainly German to his three children. He even taught them to read and write fluently. He had forecast th
e
Wirtschaftswunde
r
and that new business opportunities would open up for anybody who was bilingual. Ludwig had been more than a little disappointed when Bill had joined the local constabulary in their home town of Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. He had progressed to detective and fifteen years ago had branched out on his own. “At least I’m in business for myself,” he had told his father. Ludwig had died in 1991 still unable to fathom a son who dealt in other people’s dirty washing and had never married to provide him with grandchildren.

“Bill,” the reporter began, “you must have heard about the Henry Sonntag case.”

“Sure. Guilty as hell, so my sources tell me.”

“Maybe. But there’s a guy with a lot of money who wants you to prove that this Sonntag fellow is not the Nazi war criminal Hans Schreiber.”

Brown laughed. “I usually get paid to prove the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I can’t go into detail, but, as you know, there are still a few suspected war criminals at large in the UK. I’ve been employed to keep a watching brief on some of them.”

“Who by?”

“Mark, you should know better than that.”

“Sorry, mate. But on this one you’ll have the guy’s full permission to keep me completely informed on every development. I’m going to write a book on this whole affair once it’s finally over. His name’s Sam Cohen and here’s his phone number.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Brown, rising and pouring out two cupfuls of cold liquid from a bottled water dispenser. “It means I’ll have to leave everything else and travel to Germany. I’m talking big bucks here.”

“As I said, Bill, money’s no object to this guy.”

“Excellent!” Brown rubbed his hands. “I fancy a trip back to th
e
Heima
t
.”

“Come on, you’re as British as they come.”

“Yeah, but I still have an affection for my old man’s birthplace. It’s a little village about fifty miles south of Berlin. Nice place. I’ll try and visit it again while I’m there. Especially as it’s an all-expenses-paid trip.”  Edwards smiled. He could not help thinking how much Brown reminded him of good old Jim Pottage. They both had country accents, although the investigator’s East Anglian twang was less pronounced. The man before him was also much slimmer, younger and more fit than Pottage had been. However, both men had a predilection for bowties.

“Look, Bill, my girlfriend and I are going on holiday next week. Here, I’ve written down the dates. If anything interesting happens before then, keep me informed. You’ve got my address and my phone numbers.”

“What if something crops up while you’re away?”

“Just post the info to my home. Danielle and I don’t want to be disturbed. We really need this break.”

“Hmm, Danielle ...” Brown beamed. “What’s she like?”

“You lay off her, you old dog. You confirmed bachelors are all the same.”

“Ah well,” the detective sighed, “I suppose I’ll have to settle for the professional fräuleins while I’m away. All the fun and none of the responsibility.”

“If you can tear yourself away from them for a while, where do you think you’ll start?”

“Berlin Documentation Centre, I suppose. That’s where they keep all the SS records.”

“Oh, there’s just one other thing,” said the reporter. “There’s a good friend of mine, a guy named Dieter Müller. He’s genned up on this business even more than me. He’s a professor over here researching a thesis on the Holocaust. Here’s his number
.
Auf ihn istVerlas
s
.”

“Totally?”

“Yes, you can rely on Müller totally.”

Münster, January 1940

“Send in the next one, please, Nurse.”

Dr Wolfgang Schreiber admired the hourglass figure of his assistant as she left the room to collect the next raw recruit for induction into the SS. The woman was nothing if not efficient.
Prussian to the core.

The good doctor had achieved the dubious distinction of being the man responsible for making sure that only the finest specimens of young German manhood joined Adolf Hitler’s élite. Other doctors had regarded this task as mundane and boring, having very little to do with medicine and much to do with paperwork. But at forty-one years of age, the position represented to Dr Wolfgang Schreiber the pinnacle of his achievement.

Indeed, that he was induction medical officer at the SS base in Westphalia’s historic capital was by no means fortuitous. The good doctor had inveigled his way into the job, thankful that the competition was weak and disorganized. All things considered, his need had been greater than theirs.  And now the physician was about to reach the climax of his ambition. The file in front of him bore a familiar name. Even the nurse had commented that the new recruit was his namesake. Schreiber was a common name in Bavaria, though less so in North Rhein-Westphalia. However, unknown to his nurse, and anyone else for that matter, this recruit was far closer to Wolfgang Schreiber than a mere namesake. This recruit was his son.

Hans Schreiber entered the room shivering, naked apart from a pair of black silky shorts. Despite the cold, he stood smartly to attention. They had rehearsed the scene over and over.

“Name?!” barked Schreiber Senior.

“Schreiber, Hans, Herr Doktor.”

The physician ticked the appropriate box. “Age?”

“Eighteen, Herr Doktor.”

They then went through the ritual of ascertaining date of birth, address, occupation, medical history and other salient facts which were already on the sheet in front of the doctor but needed to be tallied with the response of each recruit.

Wolfgang Schreiber then used his stethoscope to ensure that Hitler’s finest suffered from no heart or chest ailment. The recruit before him was A1. Nevertheless, the good doctor downgraded the boy’s profile and wrote “Asthmatic. Non-combat duties advised.” The boy had desperately wanted a combat division, and it had taken all his powers of persuasion to make clear that this would not have been in his best interests because of a certain physical impediment. Damned Hitler had made such a big thing about it. God knew
, it would be hard enough for the boy to hide his manhood. At least being in a non-combat unit might give him half a chance. With any luck he might even be stationed close to home with a clerk’s job.

“Oh, Nurse?”

“
Jawoh
l
, Herr Doktor.”

“Be kind enough to bring me some papers I left on the table in my office. They’re in a red folder. Don’t worry, I’ll finish with this one.”

“
Jawoh
l
, Herr Doktor,” repeated the nurse, and wheeled away in disappointment. If the truth be known, she hated missing any short-arm inspections and the tattooing. For she despised men and to see them embarrassed and in pain gave her no little pleasure.

“Give it two minutes, Hans, and then get out of here.”

“But, Father, what about the tattoo?”

“Forget the tattoo. Where you’ll be posted they’ll never need to know your blood group.”

“But ...”

“Trust me, Hans.”

Schreiber Junior looked hard into his father’s blue eyes. He was about to protest further, but the memory of an incident in a school shower stilled his tongue.

“Thank you, Father,” said the boy dully.

“God bless and keep you, my son. Write as often as you can.”

“I will, Father.”

And with that, Hans and Wolfgang Schreiber parted company. The good doctor was not to know that the next time he would see his son would be at the end of the most devastating war in history, and that their meeting would prove cathartic for both of them.

CHAPTER 14

This is the way to Theresienstadt

which
thousands have wearily walked.

Each one of the thousands has suffered

the same injustice, from the first to the last.

They marched along, with their heads to the ground,

the Star of David pinned to their breasts,

their
tired feet sore and covered with dust,

their
tortured souls torn with pain and unrest.

Harassed by orders,
their wound-stricken

Hands carried their heavy burdens.

O endless road in the summer heat

that
burned in thirsty throats.

This is the road to Theresienstadt,

drenched with the blood of our hearts,

where
greybeards, dying from agony,