Schreiber's Secret (26 page)

Edwards rose from his armchair and moved across the room. He knelt in front of her and took her pale slender hands in his. Gently, he kissed them.

“Darling, I love you,” he said softly. “We all make mistakes.”

“What shall I do?” she asked, withdrawing her hands and running them through his hair.

“About what?”

She breathed deeply. “About going to see Sonntag in prison.”

“Hmm, well, I don’t think it’s worth it now.”

Danielle was about to concur, but then hesitated. In a way, Sonntag had betrayed her. Why shouldn’t she face him with that betrayal? “I still want to see him, Mark,” she said firmly.

“Look, I don’t think you should, Dani. You might lose your temper and that’ll be the last time I get any help from Brixton’s finest.”

“I promise I won’t make a scene, Mark. I just want to see the look in his eyes.”

Mark Edwards knew that his lover would not rest until she had confronted Sonntag. “Okay,” he sighed. “Just play it cool.”

CHAPTER 12

It was almost four weeks later when Danielle Green, with a little help from a very close friend, managed to get permission to visit Henry Sonntag in Brixton prison. Four weeks in which she had wrestled with herself over whether it was even necessary. Mark had delved deeper into the story and psyche of Herschel Soferman in preparation for the book he was planning to write after the trial. She too had visited Soferman at his home. His sincerity was plain. True, Henry Sonntag’s story had also been convincing and moving. Yet for all its coherence, it now seemed full of holes. In retrospect, she felt that
a certain coldness had emanated from the man whose cause she had supported. She had half wished that he would decline her request. But he had intimated that he would be pleased to see her.

Thus it was with heavy heart and not a little trepidation that Danielle, a letter of permission from the prison governor in her hand, entered the portals of one of Britain’s most depressing institutions. She had done a little research on the place. Built in the early part of the nineteenth century in southwest London, the prison was still a nightmare both for the incarcerated and their guards. Brixton was forever overcrowded and now housed six hundred prisoners in a space designed for five hundred. But its worst aspect was that it was used extensively to house prisoners on remand. Many an innocent man had spent months cooped up in an environment totally unsuitable for the purpose. English law was predicated on the basic tenet that an accused was presumed innocent until proven guilty. And yet any man awaiting trial in Brixton might assume that the law had conspired to punish him pre
-emptively.

“Pretty grim here, isn’t it,” she said to the burly prison officer accompanying her to the top security D-wing of the complex.

“You can say that again, miss. We’ve got some hard cases here, though. Your man’s a Category A.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, whenever he has to be moved he gets an armed escort. Can’t be too careful with Category As, you know.”

“At seventy-odd, I shouldn’t think he’d prove very dangerous.”

“Ah, but he might have powerful friends who would want to spring him.”

Danielle half smiled. Henry Sonntag was probably about the most friendless man in the world right now.

“Anyway,” the man went on, “he’ll be happy enough in D-wing.”

“In what way?”

“He’ll have a cell all to himself. He won’t have to put up with all the scroungers looking for a touch. He’s wealthy, ain’t he? Most of the plump chickens prefer to be on their own.”

The prison officer led her into a small room with mournful beige walls. In the centre was a grey table, its tubular legs bolted to the floor. She was invited to sit on a regulation plastic seat on the near side of the table.

“I’ll be leaving you now, miss. One of my colleagues will stay in attendance during your visit.”

“How long have I got, Officer?”

“We usually give you fifteen minutes, miss. But it’s not like the other wings. We’ve got a bit of leeway here.”

“Thanks.”

The officer nodded and left the room. Almost at the same moment the door at the far end opened and Henry Sonntag, his face as pallid as his grey prison garb, was led in. He gave her a cursory nod and shuffled forward to take his seat opposite her. He looked so different now. Maybe it was the drab clothes. His manner portrayed total dejection. The yellowy-white hair was still perfectly groomed, but the lines on Sonntag’s face seemed deeper. The man before her seemed to have aged ten years. He did bear a resemblance to Soferman, but she thought this had been exaggerated somewhat by others. Plastic surgery was not that good.

“Hello, my dear,” he smiled weakly. “I’m glad they gave you permission to see me.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

Danielle realized she had to control her antagonism. She was not there simply to berate the man. She wanted his explanation. “I mean, we only met once. I’m hardly what you might call a close friend.”

“Yes, Danielle, but I told you more than I ever told anyone before.”

“That’s fine, as long as we can assume that what you told me was the truth.”

“It was the truth.”

Danielle looked long and hard into the beady brown eyes. “After all that’s happened, you can hardly expect me to believe that.” Sonntag swallowed and then stared back at her with a passion born either of self-righteousness or indignation. “Danielle,” he said slowly, “I want you to believe me. I swear to you that I did not murder those two men.”

“That’s a bit hard to swallow considering the evidence.”

“Look, there is an explanation for everything.”

“I’m sure there is,” she said with biting sarcasm.

“Ach ...” He threw up his arms in exasperation,
“
Es ist zum Heulen, Verrücktwerden, Ausder-Haut-Fahre
n
.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

Sonntag ran his spindly fingers through his hair. “I apologize, Danielle. I said that I feel my head is going to burst. I know how everything must seem to you. It’s my lawyer, you see. He says I must not say anything to anyone until the trial.”

“Okay, so don’t tell me why you were all set to fly to Rio soon after Plant’s murder. It was a business trip. Just tell me why your house was so full of Nazi memorabilia.”

Sonntag looked up at the high grey ceiling for a few seconds and then stared squarely at his inquisitor. “I collected all those things in order to focus my hate.”

“On what?”

“On him.”

“On who?”

“On Hans Schreiber.”

“But you are Hans Schreiber.” There, she had said it.

“Who says I am?”

“You know who. Herschel Soferman.”

“Herschel Soferman is dead, my dear.”

“Herschel Soferman is not dead. I have met him and you know that he is going to give evidence against you.”

“Damn my lawyer. I know Herschel Soferman is dead because ...”

“Because what?”

“Because I AM HERSCHEL SOFERMAN!”

As Danielle sat transfixed by both Sonntag’s words and his vehemence, the prison officer moved swiftly to place a restraining hand on his ward’s shoulder. “Calm down, Mr Sonntag, or we’ll have to terminate this visit.”

“It’s okay, sir,” beseeched the elderly man. “Please, a few minutes more.”

“Another minute and you’ll have to leave, miss.”

“Th-Thank you officer,” she stammered, trying hard to regain her composure. “I won’t be much longer.” She turned back to Sonntag and leaned towards him. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“Herschel Soferman died in Theresienstadt because that’s where his spirit died. When I escaped from there I used another name.”

“Then who is the man calling himself Herschel Soferman?” Danielle asked disingenuously.

“He, my dear, can only be one man: Hans Schreiber.”

Straelen, 9 November 1938

“But, Father, it was a Jew-pig that assassinated our diplomat in Paris,” protested Hans Schreiber. “We must take revenge.”

Dr Wolfgang Schreiber looked wearily at his son. Resplendent in his SA brownshirt with its swastika armband, the boy was so proud of himself. In fact, Schreiber Senior had never seen him so happy. “I’d rather you didn’t mix with that rabble, son,” he sighed, knowing that his plea would fall on deaf ears.

“They’re not a rabble, Father,” Hans protested. “They are only carrying out the express wishes of our glorious Führer. What can be wrong in that?”

“Look, my boy, we live only a few kilometres from the Dutch border. This is not Berlin or Bavaria. In general, people around here are pretty tolerant.”

“I am seventeen, Father, and I’m old enough to realize who has been responsible for all the troubles of Germany since the war. It’s all the fault of the Jews. Why would all those laws have been introduced if it hadn’t been their fault?”

Wolfgang Schreiber was well acquainted with the Nuremberg Laws passed three years earlier. They sought to determine the purity of German blood and were especially harsh on the Jews. He was against the Nazis and their laws, but the whole country seemed to have been whipped into a fervour by Hitler and his henchmen. The youth, especially, had been intoxicated by the uniforms, the banners, the parades.

“Oh, let him go,” said Fr
ä
u Inge Schreiber, entering the kitchen. “Boys will be boys. Anyway, the Jews deserve a lesson, don’t they?”  Schreiber Senior swivelled to face his wife. She was truly beautiful: tall, graceful and with the Nordic features so beloved of their nation’s leader. She was the perfect country doctor’s wife. He was so besotted with her he could forgive her everything, including her politics. The good doctor was just about to reply when a motor vehicle began to hoot urgently outside.  “It’s Franz and Helmut and the rest of the boys,” exclaimed Hans excitedly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Take care,” Inge Schreiber called after him.

Her husband watched their son dash out of the front door. Dr Wolfgang Schreiber knew he was a weak father. He also knew that the boy had to be protected from
himself.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Hans called back. “I’m just going to knock a few heads together.”

The young man hauled himself aboard the open-top tender. It was adorned with red, white and black swastika flags. “Here, make room for me, boys,” he cried. There must have been about fifteen of them crowded onto the back of the small lorry.
“
Juden Raus, Juden Rau
s
,” they taunted as the vehicle lurched forward. By the time they were travelling along Kuhstrasse they had broken into the rousing choruses of the “Horst Wessel” song.

There were only four Jewish families in Straelen at the time, and they had the addresses of each. The brownshirts approached the first house just as the streetlights came on. A light drizzle had begun to fall, but it failed to dampen their enthusiasm
.
“Juden Raus,
”
they chanted again, but none of the youths was sufficiently emboldened to leave the vehicle. Instead, they satisfied themselves with throwing bricks through windows.

It was only when they had reached the home of the Mendels on the aptly renamed Adolf Hitlerstrasse that the mood turned
more nasty. Both Mendel brothers, Oskar and Eduard, happened to be tinkering with their car.  “Come on, let’s get them,” screamed Hans. “Let’s teach these Jew bastards a lesson.”

The brownshirts leapt from the tender before the brothers could haul themselves out from under their car. Although both in their early thirties and no weaklings, the two Jews were no match for their attackers, who were armed with truncheons and sticks. They were pummelled into a bloody pulp. After a few minutes, the fascists tired of their sport. “Let’s drive to Krefeld,” suggested one. “There’s a synagogue there. We can make a bonfire.” It was more than three hours later when Hans Schreiber arrived home.
His face was blackened by soot and his uniform covered in grime and bloodstains. Tired but elated, he told his parents excitedly about the night’s events, revelling in every detail.

“There’s one other thing, Father,” he said finally.

Wolfgang Schreiber raised his eyebrows in abject resignation. What else could there be to wreck his day?

“As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m going to enlist in the SS.”

The good doctor looked into his son’s stern eyes. He knew then that nothing would prevent Hans from doing whatever he wished. He knew that he would have to compromise his own principles in order to protect his son; and that, in order to do so, he too would have to join that loathsome organization.

London

Mark Edwards was slipping into the peaceful oblivion that always followed the tenderest of lovemaking. He was thankful to have had a diversion from the endless discussions they had had about Henry Sonntag and Herschel Soferman. He had regarded Sonntag’s revelation as almost inevitable given the untenable situation the man now found himself in. Soferman too had expressed little surprise. “What did you expect?” the old man had shrugged. Edwards had debated with Danielle, pointing out that the evidence against Sonntag was far too weighty to be undermined by what most people would regard as a cheap ploy.