Schreiber's Secret (21 page)

“I’ll say it in English, although it sounds much more powerful in German. It goes like this: ‘I swear to thee, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich, loyalty and bravery. I vow to thee and to the superiors whom thou shalt appoint obedience unto death, so help me God.’”

“Notice they always include God in it somewhere,” said Danielle. “The godless always claim God is on their side.”

“Pretty good old English, Dieter, old man,” chimed in Pottage, in an attempt to keep the conversation lighthearted.

“
Dank
e
. I just love Shakespeare.”

“I’d like to know more about the SS,” said Edwards. “I don’t want to assume anyone’s guilt just yet. Let’s concentrate on a man named Hans Schreiber. I’d like to know more about what his military background might be.”

“
Bitt
e
. I should think he was a member of a Totenkopf unit. They were called that because of the skull and crossbones insignia on their collars and caps. It affirmed a special willingness to die for the cause. They were formed to guard the concentration camps.”

“Not much chance of dying for the cause in one of those,” said Danielle, tilting her head to her right, her voice now heavy with sarcasm.

If the professor was upset by Danielle’s attitude he did not show it. He knew he was the expert among them and he was there primarily to relate facts rather than express opinion. “To begin with,” he continued, “most of the inmates were Communists. But Jews soon began to follow, along with gypsies, homosexuals, petty criminals and dissenters of all types. As the net was cast wider, there was a need for more camps. Dachau was followed quickly by Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen, then Belsen, Mauthausen and Theresienstadt. The number eventually grew to twenty main camps with sixty-five satellites. Most of them were in Poland. Of course, Auschwitz was the biggest and most infamous.”

“What sort of men guarded the camps, Dieter?” asked Edwards, impressed with his friend’s expertise.

“They were a mixture, really. Of course, the camps attracted their fair share of sadists. But once the war got under way, there was a constant interchange of personnel between the fighting formations and the concentration camp guards. Men no longer considered fit for frontline duty because of wounds or ill-health were regularly transferred to camp guard duties. Their places would be taken by younger and fitter men from the camps.”

“So Schreiber might have found his way to the Russian front?” suggested Edwards.

“Not if he was clever. SS officers did all they could to stay in the camp system, especially when things started going seriously wrong. By late 1943 an intelligent man could see the writing on the wall.”

“What happened to these guards at the end of the war?” asked Danielle.

Müller relit his pipe before answering. “Many SS soldiers stripped their uniforms of identifying insignia to avoid the persecution they knew they would suffer when taken prisoner. The Totenkopf had less than one thousand men and a few tanks left at war’s end. They surrendered to the Americans near Linz on 9 May 1945. Most of the division’s officers and men were handed back to the Russians. I don’t think any of them would have survived.”

“They didn’t deserve to,” said Danielle contemptuously.

“Anyway,” Müller carried straight on, “I think our man Schreiber must have, as you English say, done a runner long before that.”

“What about Odessa?” asked
Pottage. Having read Frederick Forsyth’s book and seen the film, it was about the only contribution he felt he could make to the discussion.

The professor smiled at his ruddy-faced companion. “Oh, I think Schreiber was too small a fish to have been assisted by the Odessa network. It was largely run from Madrid with Franco’s tacit approval. It used millions of pounds sterling from plundered Jewish bank accounts and sales of stolen works of art. Odessa’s aims were to get known wanted war criminals to places of safety beyond normal legal reach. It provided funds for legal assistance for SS men brought to trial and then helped establish them in commerce and politics in postwar Germany. It also provided a sort of social security net for those of the lower ranks who had given earlier service and had fallen on hard times. Schreiber might have fallen into this category.”

Danielle stared coldly at the German. “Tell me, Herr Müller ...”

“Dieter
,
bitt
e
.”

“Tell me, Dieter, as a German, do you believe old Nazis should be brought to justice?”

“Ahem,” coughed Pottage, “I think I must be going. This is all getting a bit too cerebral for me, m’hearties.” The rotund reporter downed the last drop of his whisky, twiddled his bowtie apologetically and bade them an unsteady farewell.

“Sure you’ll be all right, Jim?” Edwards called after him.

“Abso-bloody-lutely, dear boy.”

While her companions smiled, Danielle kept her eyes fixed on the German. She wanted to know what made the “innocent” generation tick.

Müller returned her gaze with steel-blue force. “Look, I have dedicated my life to the cause of knowledge of this era. For many people the war was the most vivid experience of their lives. But the passage of time can be helpful to the defence. I mean, it is credible for a defendant to say, ‘I simply don’t remember the details.’”

“You haven’t answered my question, Dieter,” Danielle pressed. “I am
speaking to you as one who firmly believes that the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the sons. I understand you were born after the war so you should not feel under any threat.”

The professor shifted uncomfortably in his chair but quickly regained his composure. “Look, my dear, because of the 1991 Act, old Nazis living here can be punished. Therefore it is immaterial what I believe, but I shall try to explain my position to you nevertheless.”

Edwards leaned forward in his chair. He glanced at Danielle. Her emerald eyes sparkled with an eagerness that he shared. They both wanted to know what made the “new” Germans tick.

“Every man is a product of his time,” Müller continued. “Except for a few isolated incidents, the Germany of today is not the Germany of yesterday. There was
a frenzy in Hitler’s day. Even those who would never have lifted a finger against another human being believed in him. He lifted Germany from its post-First World War depression and created a strong and vibrant economy. Do you agree?”

Now it was the turn of the English pair to shift uncomfortably. Müller was beginning to sound like an apologist for the Third Reich.

“That may be so,” said Edwards, “but the price was too high.”

“Precisely,” the professor smiled. “Hitler failed to hold the moral high ground. And that leads us back to the call today to prosecute old Nazis. The question is whether to do so holds the moral high ground.”

“I would argue that it does,” said Danielle firmly.

“Out of revenge?” asked Müller with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, you mean the eye-for-an-eye canard that’s always levelled against us,” she replied swiftly. “No, not revenge, Dieter. Justice.”

“Ach, so,” the professor sighed. “Justice.” His steely blue eyes met hers square on. “Justice cannot be done to the dead, and when people talk about justice to the dead they mean retribution for the wrong which has been done to them. Retribution and justice are two very different things. Indeed, would justice be served by trundling a few of these dotards into the dock and then have them stumble out again into prison? Most of them would be acquitted through lack of evidence anyway. Justice should not be about
trials which are show trials or fiascos. The difficulties of survivor testimony are painfully obvious, especially over identification. I return to the trials of Demjanjuk and the rest. It is pathetic to see old and infirm people in the dock or the witness box, disputing with agonized emotion about who is speaking to whom. I am not saying that war crimes should be forgiven. I just do not think we will be better off by purging a few criminals who already have one foot in the grave.”  Danielle’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared. Müller’s views were no different to those she had heard from many leading lights of the British establishment. The Holocaust cast a shadow over everyone, guilty and innocent alike. How convenient if it were simply swept under the carpet.

“As a Jew,” she said passionately, “I must believe that the murderers of Jews should be brought to justice.”

“Even Henry Sonntag?” asked Müller, his eyes narrowing.

“I believe that Sonntag is innocent. However, if it is proven that he is guilty, then the full weight of the law should be imposed.”

“Guilty of what? Murdering a fellow Jew over money, being the Butcher of the Small Fortress, or both?”

“I think we should stick strictly to the general issue of Nazi war criminals,” Edwards interceded. He could sense that the argument was about to overheat.

“Yes, let’s,” said Danielle, her voice once again heavy with sarcasm.

“And let’s get back to the moral high ground. The Nazis murdered not only Jews but non-Jews as well. This goes right to the crux of what society is all about. No society that condones murder can survive. How can we let these criminals live out their lives in tranquillity? You might as well say to the prospective murderers of today: ‘
Anything goes, boys. Go ahead – you might get away with it.’”

“What if a prosecution proves unsuccessful?” the German asked, seemingly unfazed by Danielle’s conviction.

“Even an unsuccessful prosecution is better than leaving them alone,” she replied. “No government should countenance the murder of innocent men, women and children. Governments must protect the lives of their citizens or they are not worthy of the name.”

“Bravo, Fräulein Green,” beamed Dieter Müller. “I applaud your tenacity even if I do not agree with your views.” The German then extracted a loaded briar from the hip pocket of his brown tweed jacket and spent the next few seconds lighting up. The caramel aroma of Clan soon dominated the atmosphere around them. “It’s my round, I believe,” he said, rising. “Same again?”

Edwards looked at Danielle with eyes that begged an opinion of their companion. He himself felt a little out of his depth. Both sides had made valid points, and yet he knew he would take Danielle’s if push came to shove. “Well?” he asked eagerly as the German chatted with the barman a few feet away.

“In a way I’m glad his views are opposed to mine,” she said. “I don’t think I could stand a German who sided with me completely. It would smack of condescension.”

“He’s pretty genned up, you know. He’s a university professor back in Deutschland. Is there anything else you’d like to ask him?”

“Sure. Plenty. I’d like to know how Jews or Nazis or both managed to get into this country after the war. I’d like to know all about the neo-fascism that is rising once more in his country. I want to give your friend the professor the third degree.”

“Well, here’s your chance. He’s coming back.”

“I decided to try a Guinness,” said Müller affably as he downloaded their drinks. “It’s so very different from other beers. Not very popular in Germany, I’m afraid. There people like
to ...”

“Conform.”

“Well ...” Müller drew nervously on his pipe but kept his gaze locked firmly on his female interrogator. “I wasn’t going to say so, but yes, I suppose you are right.”

The prickly tension between the pair was tangible, and Edwards felt Danielle was going a little over the top. “Ahem,” he coughed, “as you both know, I spent a couple of summers in Germany as a student. It was a great place then. You know, it was in the middle of th
e
Wirtschaftswunde
r
– that’s the economic miracle, darling – and there was this amazing buzz about everything.”

“Where were you staying?” asked the professor.

“With an exchange family in Düsseldorf.”

“Ah,” sighed Müller, “what a joy to stroll down the Königsallee on a summer’s day and drink in Germany’s postwar achievements.”

“I’d never seen such wealth in what is after all only a provincial city,” said Edwards.

“Yes,” beamed Müller with pride, “and to think that ninety per cent of it was destroyed in the war. The Ruhr is our industrial heartland and it came in for a battering.”

“So did Coventry,” said Danielle, eager to puncture the German’s pride. “First.”

For a moment the professor’s steely look threatened to overcome the bonhomie with which he had parried her thrusts. “Of course, my dear,” he replied, his voice taut and defensive, “I fully understand that he who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind.”

“Look,” interjected Edwards with a glance that told Danielle she was out of order, “we’re all on the same side now and we might as well concentrate on the matter in hand. I’d like to know more about how someone like Sonntag, assuming he is what the police and Soferman say he is, could have come to this country.”

“Hmm,” said Müller, his voice softening now that his expertise and not his opinions were being call
ed upon, “I’m sure I can spread some light there.”  He took another sip of Guinness and licked the froth from his thin lips. “You must understand, my friends, that at the end of the war Europe was awash with millions of refugees. In the ruins of Germany there were also slave and forced labourers, liberated prisoners of war and ethnic Germans who had fled the Red Army. Of course, there were also Jews, although before you say it, my dear, there were not so many left.”