Schreiber's Secret (22 page)

A flash in Danielle’s emerald eyes told both men that he had pre
-empted her.

“For everyone in Germany,” he continued, the sadness in his voice palpable, “it was year zero. Broken streets filled with broken people. Wives looked for husbands, parents searched for their children, brothers and sisters tried to find each other. Some were lucky, but for many more there was only grief. These people ebbed and flowed like the tide. And over all this the armies of the Western allies and the international relief agencies tried to impose order on the chaos and help millions of people whose lives had been shattered. I don’t think any of us can imagine what it must have been like.”

Edwards, visibly moved by his companion’s words, swallowed hard. “Is it possible, Dieter, that an SS officer could have come to this country soon after the war?”

“From my research, I would say that it was far easier for an SS man to reach Britain than a Jew. In fact, while Germans could rightly be accused of racism before and during the war, it was the British who were the racists after it.”

Edwards and Danielle glanced at one another. Both were perplexed and not a little concerned. They remained silent as Müller paused to relight his pipe, confident in the knowledge that he now commanded their undivided attention.

“You see,” he went on, “mixed in amongst the mass of displaced persons were thousands posing as victims of the Nazis, including many of their supporters in captured lands who withdrew into the Reich with the
retreating  German forces. Screening was zealous at the beginning, but the Allies were soon overwhelmed by the sheer numbers involved.”

“How did they screen them?” asked Danielle, now hooked by Müller’s total command of his subject.

“Ah, my dear, it was all, as you say, so hit and miss. Those members of the Waffen-SS that were rounded up were checked for their blood group tattooed under the left arm. This was unique to the Waffen-SS and it was looked for by investigators at the most preliminary stage of screening. Shortly after the end of the war it was common to see long lines of half-naked German soldiers with their left arms raised, filing past the tables where the screeners sat.”

“So the real Hans Schreiber might have been caught this way?” said Danielle.

“In theory, yes. In practice, no. If we assume ...” – here Müller paused for effect – “if we assume that Schreiber did not surrender or was not captured, then he would never have had to lift his arm.”

“So if Henry Sonntag is really Hans Schreiber, he would have the tell-tale markings under his arm,” said Danielle excitedly. “That should be easy enough to prove.”

Müller nodded his head sagely. “One can safely assume that if he has the markings under his arm, then he was a member of the SS.”

“That’s it, then,” said Edwards. “Either the prosecution or the defence has to make him strip.”

“And if he hasn’t got the tattoo, then he isn’t Hans Schreiber,” Danielle stated categorically.

Müller raised his hand in caution. “One thing my research has taught me is that nothing is ever black or white. Some SS men went to extraordinary lengths to have the markings removed. It might take a microscope to detect anything. Also, I would say that from the million men who joined the Waffen-SS it stands to reason that some might have avoided the procedure altogether. Statistics, you know.”

“Anyway,” said Edwards, “we don’t know what procedural rights the police have in checking out Sonntag. They tend to go by the book just in case the charge might get thrown out on a technicality.”

“What about the Jews?” asked
Danielle. “You spoke about British racism.” The professor took another gulp of Guinness. Lecturing to the uninformed was always thirsty work. He glanced over his shoulder at a grandmother clock perched high on the pub’s flecked wallpaper. It would soon be closing time and he was eager to impart the story of British culpability and duplicity.

“You see, my dear,” he said quietly, thankful that most of the other revellers had gone home, “there were thousands of Holocaust survivors in the British zone clamouring to be taken out of Germany. They were often in the same Displaced Persons camps as their SS persecutors. Another irony was that while thousands of Balts who sympathized with and worked for the SS were allowed into Britain, Jews were consistently excluded from all labour recruitment schemes.”

“But why?” asked Edwards, feeling the first flush of shame that his nation could be party to such injustice.

Müller laughed. “Ah, the wonderful British. So two
-faced and so proud of it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Danielle, the dichotomy that struck every British Jew beginning to stab at her.
Jew first, British second. British first, Jew second. Would the defences of the latter be breached?

“Well,” continued the German, “the Home Secretary of the day cited the shortage of housing, clothing and jobs for not allowing any large-scale immigration. And, of course, a lot of the survivors were sick and elderly and would be a burden. But that wasn’t the real reason, Fräulein Green.”

Danielle felt a creeping apprehension as the professor paused to relight his pipe for what seemed the umpteenth time.

“No, the real reason, my friends, was that the Labour government was worried that the admission of Jewish refugees might provoke strong reactions from certain sections of public opinion. In other words,” and here Müller’s sardonic grin broadened further, “they were worried about risking a wave of anti-Semitic feeling amongst their own people. Ironic, no?”  Edwards tried to stretch his collar with the forefinger of a hand gone moist. He did not possess the knowledge to counter that of his German friend and, anyway, he believed him. He glanced once again at Danielle.

“It sounds par for the course,” she said simply. “How many victims did Britain accept after the war?”

“A few hundred.”

“That means ...”

Danielle cut her lover short. “That means that if Henry Sonntag is pretending to be a Jew then he was one of them. He told me he came over here as a refugee soon after the war but didn’t go into too much detail.”

“Oh, I did not know that you had met Henry Sonntag.”

“Sorry, Dieter,” said Edwards quickly. “I forgot to tell you.”

The German paused, trying hard to suppress his irritability. “I think you had better tell me. You cannot expect my input to be of, shall we say, complete value unless I have all the facts.”

“He’s right, Dani. Go ahead.” Danielle hesitated although, in essence, she knew the German was right. They needed him, if only to give another perspective to the complexities of the case. She took a deep breath and then related most of Sonntag’s story, missing out the tale of his financial success, which she did not deem pertinent.

Müller sat through the whole thing impassively. He kept his pipe, which now contained only ash, firmly clenched between his teeth. After she had finished speaking, he withdrew the briar and emptied its contents into a glass ashtray.

“Very interesting,” he said at last. “More for what Herr Sonntag did not say than for what he did. He mentioned some incidents in the Small
Fortress which were truly horrific. The gladiatorial contests, prisoners made to eat faeces, the terrible overcrowding. And yet he never mentioned Hans Schreiber. After all, he must have come across him.”

“Yes,” said Edwards, “Dani and I also discussed that. But then maybe he didn’t want to mention names.”

“The very mention of Schreiber’s name might have meant putting a label to the thousands of devils going through his mind,” said Danielle. “Anyway, Schreiber might not have done anything to him personally. He spoke to me about the Small Fortress in almost a detached manner. As if he were a disinterested observer. I think I was all the more shocked for that.”

“I’m trying to arrange for Dani to visit him in jail,” said Edwards.

“He’ll probably be remanded to Brixton.”

“How fascinating,” said
Müller. “I don’t expect Sonntag to express contrition, but you might ask him why he never mentioned Schreiber to you.”

“There was another thing,” she said. “Following the report of the first murder – by the way, Joe Hyams was my uncle – Sonntag telephoned me and pleaded with me not to publish the article. He said I would never understand but that he would explain later.”

“Even more fascinating, my dear,” beamed the professor. “There is, as you British say, more to this than meets the eye
.
Der mutmassliche Täte
r
sounds as if he has much to hide.”

“Alleged perpetrator,” translated Edwards.

“And what about your man, Soferman?” asked the professor. “You are hoping to interview him
,
j
a
?”

“Yes, although not for publication.”

“I would be interested to hear what he has to say. I would like to meet him also, but I doubt very much that he would agree to that.”

“I think you’re probably right, Dieter. I wouldn’t even like to raise the matter with him. He’s been through enough traumas as it is.”

“So, my friend, just keep me informed. Don’t forget, I also want you to get me into the trial.”

“I told you it probably
won’t be for months yet. But the remand hearing will be at Barkingside tomorrow. Eleven o’clock at the courthouse in Cranbrook Road. Meet me there at ten-thirty.”

   
“
Dank
e
. It is very kind of you.” The German then turned his attention to Danielle. “I would appreciate your taking me into your full confidence. I have been frank with you and, sometimes, frankness can be rather off-putting. Please remember, my sole aim has been, and always will be, to search for the truth, however unpleasant it might be. That is my job as an historian.”

There followed a pregnant silence during which the two journalists considered their companion’s plea. The
German kept his eyes firmly on Danielle, for he knew his efforts were already appreciated by the Englishman.

“Time, gentlemen, please,” the landlord bellowed. They had been so engrossed that they had failed to hear the call for last orders.

Danielle fingered her empty glass nervously. Contrition did not come easily, but she did feel that she had been too harsh on the German. “Dieter,” she said, her lips pursed, “I should like to apologize for my rudeness earlier on. It was boorish of me. I’m sure we would appreciate your input on this case and, for our part, we will keep you up to date with developments. I should also like to compliment you on your erudition and your excellent command of English.”

“Thank you, my dear. My knowledge of English I owe to an excellent college in London. My knowledge of all things appertaining to the rise and fall of Nazism I owe to my father.”

“He must be a fine man,” said Edwards.

“
J
a
, a fine man,” replied Müller wistfully. “You know,” he said, changing the subject and looking squarely at Danielle, “believe me when I say that if Henry Sonntag is proven to be the killer and, therefore, Hans Schreiber, no one will be happier than I to see him rot for the rest of his life.”

Danielle returned his gaze levelly. “Dieter, I concur completely. If he is proven guilty.”

“There is another thing that perhaps we should all bear in mind,” said Müller. “It can be best illustrated by an old folk legend. I don’t know from where, but that is less important than its message.” The professor paused to make sure his audience was paying full attention. “There was a king who owned a mirror which reflected not the person’s face, but his personality. One day he offered a reward to anyone who could look into it for one whole minute without turning away. No one could.”

“Does that mean a guilty man will somehow always reveal his guilt?” asked Edwards.

“You might think so,” replied Müller. “But some people make sure the mirror is permanently covered.”

“What do you mean?” asked Danielle.

“I mean that no ex-kapo is going to tell you that he survived the death camps by being a kapo. Just as no Nazi war criminal is going to admit that he murdered people. They will have invented their own cover story and will have repeated it so often that they come to believe it themselves. The truth will be buried so deep that they will no longer recognize it.”

Danielle was just about to comment when the landlord cut her short.

“Time, gentlemen, please.”

The following morning the two journalists were already sitting in Danielle’s car in the court car park by ten-fifteen. She had slept at Edwards’ flat. Although they had made love, she had not felt fully relaxed. She could not make up her mind about Müller, and her dreams had revolved around his tale of a devastated Germany, Sonntag’s plight, and her own doubts about the veracity of everything he had told her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Edwards, noting her faraway stare.

“I think you can guess,” she replied resignedly. “The circus is about to begin and I’ve a distinct feeling I may be taken for one of the clowns.”

Edwards caressed her short blonde hair. “I think Sonntag’s in for a hard time, darling – at the real trial, I mean. This is just the remand. Perfunctory, really.”

“You wouldn’t think so by the menagerie round the front. Our colleagues are really making fools of themselves. God knows what kind of stampede there’ll be when he arrives.”