Schreiber's Secret (32 page)

This time as Blomberg paused a buzz began to fill the courtroom, almost imperceptibly at first, and then gaining momentum as reporters and visitors in the gallery comprehended the full weight of his speech. “Nazi bastard! Rot in hell, Sonntag!” and other heated curses rained down from the gallery.  “Order. Order in court,” bellowed Mr Justice Pilkington, pounding his gavel in staccato bursts. “The court will be silent,” he roared above the din. “A further outburst like this and I shall have the court cleared. Order. Order.”

This time it took a full three minutes for order to be restored and for Blomberg to conclude his opening address. The prosecuting counsel was now in full flow. A steely stare from Sir John informed him that his adversary was just as determined.

Meanwhile, throughout the mayhem, Danielle had kept her gaze firmly on the man in the dock. Henry Sonntag had remained impassive, a still and lonely sentinel surrounded by a sea of bobbing heads.

“What the hell’s happening with Brown?” asked Edwards as he sat in the Old Bailey cafeteria with Danielle and Dieter Müller at the end of the second day of a trial that was riveting the nation. “He’s got to come up with something soon.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know the trial’s started and is taking his time,” suggested Danielle.

“His German is as good as mine,” said Müller. “I can’t believe he would cut himself off completely. The German newspapers are full of it. I’ve been keeping a close watch myself. Look, I bought yesterday’s edition o
f
Die Wel
t
today.” The professor removed the newspaper from his briefcase and showed it to them. The trial had made front-page headlines.

“I just can’t understand it,” said Edwards. “Look, Dieter, I told you that he was on the verge of a breakthrough. He was on his way to Straelen and then to Düsseldorf. He must have got the information he wanted by now.” 

“I agree,” said Müller. “But sometimes things don’t go to plan. He might have been on what you English term a wild goose chase.”

“And what about that Odessa man?” said Danielle. “Maybe he’s got something to do with it.” She frowned in concern. “Oh, Mark, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

“Look,” the crime reporter said, “don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

“What are we going to do?” asked the professor. “Perhaps we should inform the police?”

“I’ve thought of that, Dieter,” replied Edwards. “If we’re worrying prematurely, we might put a spoke in it for Bill. The last thing he’d want is the German police chasing after him. Anyway, let’s analyse the situation. Bob Webb and the poofy manservant, what’s his name ...?”

“Bates,” said Danielle.

“Yeah, right. Well, they’ve given their evidence. The defence made a big play about the note and that nobody seemed to know what it meant and also the fact that the murder weapon, the gun, has never been found.”

“But they found the knife,” she said.

“Yes, but it was clean of fingerprints. Listen, they’ll try anything to get their man off. It’s only natural. So far, it’s been a plain, old-fashioned murder trial. The evidence was straightforward and damning. For those of us in the know, the question of identity is more fascinating.”

“So what do you propose to do
,
Kamera
d
?” Edwards looked squarely at his friend. “Soferman’s on tomorrow. And then this Polish priest character. Their testimonies might take a couple of days. I’ve got a feeling that this is when the real fireworks are going to start. And that’s not even counting if and when Sonntag is called to the stand.”

“So?” shrugged Müller.

“So if I haven’t heard from Brown by tomorrow evening, I’ll go to the police.”

“Are you sure we should wait that long, Mark?” said the professor. “You are getting me worried now. Perhaps he’s been attacked b
y
ein verrücktes Huh
n
.”

“A nutcase,” Edwards translated.

“One more day, then,” said Danielle.

“Okay
,
Kamerade
n
, I must be going. I’ll see you two tomorrow morning.”

“Goodbye, Dieter,” the journalists chimed in unison. They watched the professor lope out of the cafeteria.

“It must be hard for him,” said Danielle.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it must be tough being a German with all this going on.” She glanced down at the table. “Hey, he left his newspaper behind.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll give me something to read last thing at night.”  “After having sex with me, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the strength to read,” she jibed.

The following day, the tension in Court No. 1 was palpable, especially among those privy to the knowledge that a certain Herschel Soferman was being called to give evidence.

“How do you think he’ll cope?” Danielle whispered to Müller as the usher requested the court to rise.

“It depends who you mean,” replied the professor. “Soferman or Sonntag?” It was true, she thought. The ordeal would probably be traumatic for both men. She leaned against Edwards. Just the touch of his body gave her comfort.

“I call Herschel Soferman,” boomed Nigel Blomberg.

The court was hushed as Soferman entered from the rear door. He passed the dock without looking at Henry Sonntag and shuffled towards the witness box. He rose the couple of steps to the lectern, stood beneath the canopy and faced the court.

For a few seconds the tension in the air between the two men was like waiting for the first flash of lightning of a summer storm. Suddenly, and for the first time since the start of the trial, Henry Sonntag lost his ice-cool composure. Rising to his feet, he gripped the rail in front of him until his knuckles blanched. The accompanying officer moved to restrain him.

“
Hochstapler! Lügner! Mörder
!
” he bellowed.
“
Nazi Schwei
n
.”

“The defendant will restrain himself,” shouted Mr Justice Pilkington as tumult broke out in the gallery. “Order. Order.”

“What did he say?” buzzed the reporters. “What did he say?”  “He said, ‘Impostor, liar and murderer‘,” Edwards shouted above the din to those nearest him. “The other phrase you understood.”

“I shall have order,” warned the judge as the cacophony subsided. “I must warn the defendant that one more outburst like that and I shall have him removed.”

Sir John Scrivener glared at his client. Sonntag had been made fully aware of the tactics the defence would employ and the outburst was detrimental to his own interests.

Henry Sonntag took his counsel’s hint a
nd resumed his seat, his scowl redirected at the witness.

Herschel Soferman’s bloodless face stared at his adversary in abject horror. The witness began to break into a cold sweat.

“You may proceed, Mr Blomberg.”

“Thank you, M’Lord,” said the counsel for the prosecution, and waited for the usher to ask the necessary questions of Soferman.

“What religion are you?”

“Jewish,” Soferman croaked.

All eyes turned to Henry Sonntag. He glared at the witness, but remained silent.

Herschel Soferman placed a skullcap on his head and took the oath on the Old Testament.

“Now then, Mr Soferman,” began Blomberg, “please tell us your name.”

Soferman duly responded, the fear in his voice manifest.

“Mr Soferman,” continued Blomberg, “I want to take you back to a time of your life you’d probably rather forget; the days of the Second World War First, tell us briefly about your background.”

Herschel Soferman, already fully briefed by counsel, spent the next fifteen minutes relating his experiences in the orphanage, the raid on Kristallnacht, and generally what it was like to be a Jew in Berlin at that time. Danielle noted that the witness grew more and more relaxed as his narrative unfolded. Her own brief had been to write a colour piece on the trial. Her newspaper had two other specialist reporters covering the verbatim aspects.

“Thank you, Mr Soferman,” interrupted Blomberg. “Now there came a time when you arrived in Theresienstadt and the notorious Small Fortress there. Please tell us about that.”

The court listened agog as the witness told the story of how he had been rounded up in Berlin and transported to the transit camp north of Prague. Even Edwards and Danielle, who knew the story backwards, were once more entranced by the tale. But this did not prevent them from seeing how skilfully Blomberg was guiding his star witness.

“Now, Mr Soferman,” he said cajolingly, “does any particular Nazi in the Small Fortress stand out in your mind?”

Herschel Soferman then launched into a diatribe about Hans Schreiber’s terrible wrongdoings, punctuated intermittently by gasps from the gallery. Even hard-bitten court reporters looked aghast at Henry Sonntag. The defendant disappointed them by maintaining a steely repose.

“I think this is a good time to adjourn for lunch,” interposed Judge Pilkington when it appeared that the witness had concluded.  “The court will rise,” the usher responded.

The cafeteria buzzed with the excited chatter of those wrapped up in the only case of the day worth covering. Reporters covering other trials eyed their colleagues enviously.

“What a morning,” enthused Danielle. “Sonntag’s outburst was extraordinary. You could feel his hatred for Soferman.”

“The poor man was as white as a sheet,” said Dieter Müller, wiping some errant mashed potato from his goatee. “I felt sorry for him. But I think I’m going to feel more sorry for him later on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know Sir John would not have welcomed his client’s outburst, but it must mean he’s got something up his sleeve. I think he is preparing to challenge Soferman on the identity issue. I think we are in for some fireworks, young lady.”

“How do you think the jury’s reacting?”

“On the evidence so far, I think they can have only one opinion, especially as they would not have had Sonntag’s outburst translated. Mr Sonntag is as guilty as hell as far as they
are ...”

The professor was interrupted by the arrival of Mark Edwards. “Phew!” the journalist whistled. “I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”

“Typical English rubbish,” laughed Müller.

“How’s it going, darling?” Danielle asked Edwards.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, Dani, working on a Sunday paper. All that time to construct your masterpieces.Meanwhile, I’m slaving in order to make sure that the public of this great metropolis are kept abreast of this incredible case. Yes,” he added with mock pride, “we on th
e
London Evening Standar
d
report the news as it happens.”

“As long as it’s not after four-thirty or something,” laughed Danielle.

“She’s right, Dieter. Everything after that is a dead duck, I’m afraid.  Strictly for the morning papers. Anyway, let’s eat.”

Within fifteen minutes, Edwards had gobbled a pallid steak pie and chips and joined his two companions for the resumption of the trial.

The break appeared to have had minimal effect on the repose of the two protagonists. Henry Sonntag once again sat bolt upright in the dock and his eyes did not appear to follow the shuffling figure of Herschel Soferman as he passed him on the way to the witness box.

“Thank you, Mr Soferman,” said Nigel Blomberg, QC, once the old man had safely negotiated his way to the microphone. “Now you were relating to us the nefarious deeds of a man named Hans Schreiber. What did this Hans Schreiber look like when you saw him some fifty years ago?”

The witness’s eyes glazed as he replied. “He was blond, about six feet tall and had small brown eyes. I can never forget those eyes.”

“Do you remember anything particular about his methods of killing?” 

“Yes. After he had finished toying with his victims, especially those who participated in the contests, he would shoot them through the nape of the neck ... and then carve a swastika on their foreheads.”

Did you manage to see the kind of knife he used to carry?”

“Yes. It was an SS dagger. It had the SS motto engraved on it. Loyalty is my honour.”

“Was there anything else on the knife?”

“Yes. The initials ‘HS’.”

“I ask you to look at exhibit one, sir, the knife. Do you recognize it?”

“Yes. It is identical to the one he used to carry.”

“Now, Mr Soferman, I am going to ask you to look at these photographs of the bodies of Mr Hyams and Mr Plant. I appreciate that these may cause you some consternation, but do you recognize anything about them?” Blomberg passed the photographs to the court usher who in turn handed them to the witness.

Herschel Soferman stared at the photos for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he croaked, “They are the same methods as used by Hans Schreiber.”

The counsel for the prosecution, noting the effect that all this was having upon the jury, then reminded the witness of his visit to the identity suite at Tottenham police station.

“Did you pick out someone at that parade?”