Flight from Berlin (28 page)

After lunch Eleanor returned alone to the Records Office to run her eye over the remaining pages of the register.

A dead loss,
she thought. By the time she had reached the
Z
entries in the final columns, she had her coat on ready to leave. She closed the register with a thump, returned it to the librarian on the issue desk, and was through the lobby door to the street when something made her slow and stop in her tracks.

Without thinking, she turned around and began to walk back.

She couldn’t have said where this feeling came from. Some sense was making her react to whatever she’d seen a moment ago. Years of swimming had taught her to trust her instincts.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the librarian. ‘May I see that register again?’

Eleanor turned immediately to the final page, and her eye went straight to it. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

The very last entry, on the very last line, was for the Zavi-Landau Bank, a private concern whose registered business address was 20 Idol Lane, London EC3. An asterisk next to the name referred her to a note at the end of the entry in tiny print: ‘*subsidiary of Liebermann-Landau Bank GmbH, Berlin.’

Chapter Thirty-two

I
f the Zavi-Landau Bank had chosen its registered City premises with the intention of discouraging visitors and deterring business, it could not have done much better than Idol Lane. But for the brass plaque over the bell, no passers-by would have known it was there, even if they had walked down the ancient passageway every day of their lives. The tall Georgian building, darkened by centuries of smog, shared the bend with a draper’s shop and a sliver of a timber-framed drinking establishment, from which came low laughter and the smell of stale beer.

The bell produced no sound they could hear, so Denham struck the wrought iron knocker, so heavy he could barely lift it. The blow reverberated.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Eleanor said.

Denham wondered with a sudden embarrassment how they were going to handle this. They had nothing but a number and a key, and no document to prove that they’d come at the behest of an associate of the bank. And so he found himself smiling inanely at the bearded young man who opened the door.

‘You have an appointment?’ he asked, giving them each a wary look. He wore a black silk embroidered waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black frock coat.

‘We’ve come on behalf of a German client,’ Denham began, ‘perhaps even a director of the bank’s . . .’

The man glared at them, his jaw tensing very slightly.

‘ . . . whose name is Jakob Liebermann . . .’

The listener hesitated, resolving some internal dilemma, then said, ‘Please come in.’

They followed the man into a dim vestibule that led to a small old-fashioned banking hall with a polished wooden counter. Beyond that was an office area of desks, each lit by a green banker lamp. The four or five clerks working there were dressed the same—wearing black silk waistcoats, white shirts, and yarmulkes. One was making heavy work of a mechanical adding machine, whose noisy
tap
and
clunk
filled the room.

The young man showed them into a wood-panelled, windowless salon furnished with high-backed leather armchairs. He turned on the lights, asked them to wait, and left. They sat down, looking around. On the wall was a lithograph of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. A small brass bell lay on the coffee table in front of them.

Eleanor said, ‘I’ve got the creeps already—’

‘I am Abner Landau,’ said a papery voice. A stooped man stood in the door. Watch and chain, white beard, and pince-nez gave him the air of a senior judge. He did not offer his hand. Behind the low white bristles of his eyebrows, his eyes were anything but welcoming. ‘Please understand that we avoid using names here for our clients’ own protection. Our services are conducted with discretion and, whenever possible, anonymity. But since Mr Liebermann’s name has been
aired
, and because Mr Liebermann is not exactly a client, what is your business on his behalf?’

Denham felt himself back at school. ‘Mr Liebermann is under house arrest in Berlin,’ he said. ‘I . . . believe he’s given us custody of his assets at this bank.’

‘I see. And naturally you’ve brought a notarised power of attorney voluntarily signed by him . . . ?’

Denham blushed.

‘ . . . Or a deed of transfer putting his accounts into another name?’

‘Nothing like that.’

The old man eyed him coldly and stepped slightly to one side, as if to show them out.

‘Then perhaps you have no business here after all.’

‘Sir, he gave us a key,’ Eleanor said. ‘On the last occasion we saw him. It was all very desperate. We’ve been trying to get his family out of Germany.’

‘We have nothing in writing,’ Denham added.

Mr Landau’s eyes narrowed very slightly. ‘A key?’ Again he studied Denham’s face, but the scars couldn’t have given much assurance.

Eleanor opened her purse and handed it to him, together with the envelope with the number. The old man wiped his pince-nez with his handkerchief and sat down.

He examined the number and seemed to hesitate, weighing the key in his other hand, as though some fear was being confirmed.

‘So I take it you’re here to open the box,’ he said.

Denham and Eleanor looked at each other. Denham said, ‘Yes. But, forgive me, I don’t understand—’

‘Mr Liebermann’s private box at this bank is held under terms that are very specific. Right of access is reserved not solely to him, but also to the key holder.’ Mr Landau glanced at them with a curious expression, caught between suspicion and trust. ‘And as it would seem that the circumstances he had in mind when he made this arrangement have come to pass, that privilege of access . . . falls to you.’ Mr Landau had a question forming, but something held him back. They sat in silence for a moment; then he leaned forwards and rang the small brass bell. The bearded young man who had admitted them appeared in the door.

‘Mr Rosen here will take you down to the vault,’ Mr Landau said, getting up.

‘Shouldn’t we give you our names?’ Denham said.

The old man shook his head. ‘The key holder’s other privilege is anonymity. Good afternoon.’

Without offering his hand he moved to leave, but then stopped and turned slowly. In a softer voice he said, ‘If you do hear from Mr Liebermann again, please wish him well from me . . .’

Mr Rosen led them through another door. ‘Mind the steps on your way down,’ he said as they descended a spiral iron staircase. At its base, set into a brick cellar wall, was a massive door of polished steel, which he unlocked with two keys and pulled, using all his weight. Lights flicked on inside, and the gleaming vault appeared before them. They stepped over the wide rim of the door. Two walls were made up almost entirely of large steel safe boxes, about a hundred of them, each with a square lock of the same silver nickel as their key. Some type of ventilation machine resonated through the floor out of sight.

The man wheeled a low trolley from a corner and followed the box numbers along the opposite wall. ‘Here we are,’ he said, crouching to one knee. ‘Box one-four-five-one.’ He slid it out, deeper than Denham expected, from the bottom tier—‘Not too heavy this one; some of them weigh a ton, literally’—heaved it onto the trolley and pushed it through to a small, brick side room with a low vaulted ceiling. It was furnished with a table, a desk lamp, and two chairs.

‘Ring this bell when you’re finished,’ he said, pointing to a button on the wall.

After he’d gone, Eleanor put the key into the lock and turned it, glancing up nervously at Denham. ‘Well. Here goes.’

Air colder than the surrounding room seemed to breathe from the box.

She reached inside and removed a large, dark blue oilskin folder, grimacing as she touched it. It was filthy, stained with grime, and charred black in one corner, as if someone had once tried to destroy it in haste. She placed the folder on the table, beneath the yellow light of the lamp, and opened it.

Chapter Thirty-three

A
young man stared up at them, cold, clear-eyed, and fair, wearing a military tunic undone at the collar. It was a charcoal line drawing, made with some care, with the details shaded and filled and the rest a loose impression. He looked about twenty, with unkempt hair, a wispy moustache, and an impudent smile at the edges of his lips. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. In the eyes, the artist had captured sadness and vulnerability.

When Eleanor turned it over to reveal the next picture beneath, Denham gasped. The drawing was made on the back of some official headed letter paper, yellowed and spotted with age. Along the top, in a heavy Gothic font, were the words
List Regiment Hauptquartier
.

Eleanor turned the sheets of paper, the same headed letter paper. All were drawings of young men, German soldiers of the Great War from the look of their tunics and caps, perhaps sketched in barracks or the wooden billets behind the line, or in the trenches themselves.

In some drawings the lads looked at the artist with a guileless expression, young faces worn down by premature wisdom, ravaged by the horrors they’d witnessed; others looked away and into the light, smiling with a slight frown, suggesting mild embarrassment. There must have been more than a hundred drawings in all, some made on small scraps of notepaper, but most on the letter paper of the List Regiment
.
Towards the end of the collection the tone of the pictures changed, becoming more naturalistic in style. In one, a lad lay convalescing from an injury; bandaged heavily around his upper chest and shoulder, he looked impassively at the viewer, a cigarette held in the tips of his fingers. The drawing dwelt on the smooth torso, the heavy arms, and the large, powerful hands. There were several more in this vein. None, as far as Denham could tell, were of officers. In one startling drawing, a crop-haired young man with a smooth face stared fiercely at the viewer, holding wide open the left side of his tunic to reveal a shrapnel wound healed above his nipple; on the right side his iron cross was pinned below the breast pocket.
Like a Teutonic Saint Sebastian,
Denham thought. Heroic, but also something else, somehow . . . A small white terrier dog featured in some drawings, sitting at the subject’s feet or being held by him.

Only the final drawing confirmed what the others seemed to be hinting at. It was another young soldier, but this one had on his army boots and felt cap, with a full cartridge belt slung over his shoulder, and nothing else, save for a bottle of beer swinging in his right hand.

‘My God, he’s—’ Eleanor said.

The descending seismographic scribble in the bottom left-hand corner of each sheet would have been indecipherable to a police graphologist, but Denham recognised it. He’d seen it before. On the watercolour hanging in Herr Liebermann’s parlour.

‘These drawings,’ he said, ‘are the work of Adolf Hitler.’

Eleanor dropped the final, nude drawing from her hand.

‘They must have been made during the war.’

She looked up, not focusing on anything, before turning to him. ‘You’re
kidding
me.’

The ventilation machine thrumming through the floor sent a shudder up Denham’s spine. He remained silent.

‘Hitler drew naked men?’ Eleanor said in an astonished whisper. There was the tremor of a laugh in her voice.

‘He does brawn better than buildings.’

‘What are they doing in Jakob’s safe?’

The final, nude drawing was the most skilled in terms of its draughtsmanship. Denham picked it up and underneath found some large, sealed buff envelopes, cleaner than the shabby letter paper. There were four of them. He opened the first while Eleanor leafed back through the drawings.

It contained the two-page sworn affidavit of one Fritz Engelhardt, a former colonel of the List Regiment of the 6th Bavarian Reserve Army, notarised in Geneva and dated January 1930. The central passage read:

Lance Corporal Adolf Hitler served under my command as a dispatch rider stationed in the List Regimental Headquarters at Fromelles and Fournes from 1914 to 1918. The artistic drawings hereto attached were confiscated by Lieutenant Karl Lippert from Lance Corporal Hitler upon the latter’s return from furlough in January 1918. Subsequently, the drawings were submitted to me privately by Lt. Lippert pursuant to an application for promotion from Lance Corporal Hitler. I was unable to ignore the evidence of the drawings and as a result promotion was refused, despite Lance Corporal Hitler holding the Iron Cross 2nd Class.

Denham read it again. It took several seconds to sink in.

The next envelope contained a dense, typewritten statement, five pages long, titled Mend Protocol. As far as he could tell, it was a transcription of the evidence of one Hans Mend, also known as ‘Ghost Rider,’ a dispatch runner serving on the staff of the List Regiment, who had known Hitler between 1914 and 1920. On the third page someone had circled one paragraph with blue ink:

We noticed that he never looked at a woman. In 1915 we were billeted in the Le Fèbre brewery near Fournes. We slept on hay bales. At night Hitler lay down with Schmidl, his male whore. We heard a rustling in the hay. Someone flicked on his electric torch and muttered, ‘Look at those two fairy brothers.’ I myself took no further interest in the matter.

He was aware of Eleanor talking about the drawings, but he wasn’t hearing her. He opened the third envelope.

Inside it were around fifteen pages of yellowed notes, written on paper headed Pasewalk Military Hospital. Some sort of case notes by the look of them, but the crabbed, obsolete style of handwriting was almost illegible. This one would take some time to decipher. One thing stood out, however. Across the top of the first page another hand had written in ink:
Dr Edmund Forster dismissed University of Greifswald Feb ’33. Arrested September ’33. Died police custody
. Denham returned it to the envelope.