Schreiber's Secret (33 page)

“Yes, I did.”

“As far as you were concerned, who was the man you picked out?”

“Hans Schreiber.”

“And is that man, the man that you say is Hans Schreiber, in this court today?”

“Yes, sir. It is him,” rasped Soferman, pointing a wavering finger at the dock. “He is the butcher. He is Hans Schreiber.” The witness then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

Once more the court broke into uproar. Reporters scurried to and fro, especially those working for evening papers and wire services. Judge Pilkington was forced once more to vent his spleen. Henry Sonntag sat through the mayhem, a sardonic smile on his lips. There would be no more outbursts from him.

“Do you feel well enough to continue, sir?” the judge asked kindly once order had been restored.

“Yes, I am fine now,” Soferman replied, wiping his rheumy eyes. Danielle thought the man looked completely spent.

“You may continue, Mr Blomberg,” said the judge.

“Thank you, M’Lord, I just have one last question of this witness.” He turned to Soferman. “Now, Mr Soferman, after the war did you still have your identity card or papers?”

“No, sir.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were taken from me by Hans Schreiber after I had told him everything about myself and my family.”

“Do you recall anything in particular that he said to you at that time?”

“Yes, I will never forget those words. He said, ‘You may not look like a typical Yid, but you’re Yid enough for me.’”

“What did you understand him to mean by that remark?”

“Nothing at the time. It was only recently that I realized it meant he was planning to steal my identity.”

Sir John Scrivener jumped quickly to his feet. “We object, my Lord. This is calling for conjecture on the part of the witness.”

Judge Pilkington pondered for a few seconds. “I agree with your objection, Sir John. The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement.”

“Thank you, Mr Soferman,” said the prosecuting counsel, and sat down.  The gaunt figure of Sir John rose, more slowly. This was the moment for him to begin his ploy. In the circumstances, it was all he had. He cleared his throat.

“If it please you, M’Lord ... Mr Soferman, is it fair to say that you hate Nazis and anybody you think might be a Nazi? In fact, that you hate everything German or that might be German?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Soferman vehemently.

Scrivener smiled wanly. “Don’t you think this clouds your judgement, Mr Soferman?”

“No, I do not.”

“I remind you, sir, about the awful horrors that you say you lived through during the Second World War. You said you had been subjected to unspeakable barbarity and described those events vividly. You said you had witnessed contests arranged by this Hans Schreiber in which Jew was pitted against Jew in gladiatorial fights to the death.”

“Y-Yes,” stammered Soferman.

Edwards and Danielle were not the only ones in court to know that this was a moment of truth for Herschel Soferman. The man had said that the reporter was the only person he had told about his own participation in those contests. The two journalists realized that it might seriously affect Soferman’s credibility if he too were shown to be a murderer. They also knew that it was one thing to withhold facts when not asked, but quite another to lie under oath. A lie, however understandable in the circumstances, might undermine the jury’s faith in him. But there was also the question of whether Henry Sonntag had told his counsel about these contests. By claiming that he himself was the real Soferman,
then it was odds-on he had. The outcome rested on Scrivener’s next question.

“Would you say that the mind of anyone witnessing these contests might be affected by what they had seen?”

“Y-Yes,” Soferman stuttered again. “I mean ...”

“Yes, Mr Soferman?”

“It’s possible.”

“Did you, yourself, participate in these contests, Mr Soferman?”

The court was hushed. Herschel Soferman appeared stunned. He tried to speak but no words would come.

“I ask you once more, Mr Soferman, did you yourself participate in these contests?”

Blomberg was on his feet. “My Lord, the learned counsel for the defence is subjecting the witness to undue stress.”

Mr Justice Pilkington did not agree. “The witness may answer the question.”

“N-No,” stuttered Soferman.

“Did you not kill four men with your own hands, Mr Soferman?”

“Y-Yes... I mean, no. Oh, my God, yes.” The man began sobbing quietly.  Scrivener was aware that he was playing a dangerous game and that the whole ploy might backfire on him by making the jury more sympathetic to the witness. It was enough to have forced the man to admit that he too had blood on his hands. It was time to be more gentle. “I put it to you, Mr Soferman, that participation in those terrible contests would have tested the sanity of any man.”

The counsel for the prosecution jumped to his feet again. “We object, my Lord. Is my learned friend suggesting that this witness is insane? If he is, then let him say so clearly.”

“My observation was a general one, my Lord.”

“Please make your point, Sir John,” said Mr Justice Pilkington testily.

“Thank you, my Lord ... Furthermore, Mr Soferman, the terrible experience of being left for dead in such appalling circumstances, the difficulties you faced after making your escape, and even those encountered while establishing yourself in a foreign country would be enough to affect any human being for the rest of his life, would they not?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Soferman, visibly shaken, but regaining some of his composure.

“I would put it to you, Mr Soferman,” Sir John continued, “that your mind has been tormented for fifty years and I am afraid your judgement has become warped.”

“That is not true,” the witness rasped. “My mind is clear.” He then pointed again at the defendant and yelled, his voice a mixture of hurt and bitterness. “It is his mind that is warped.”

“The witness will restrict himself to answering the questions,” Judge Pilkington interceded.

“Thank you, M’Lord,” said Sir John. “Now, Mr Soferman, may I ask you if you have changed your appearance in fifty years, taking into account, of course, the ageing process?

“No.”

“Does the defendant look as he did fifty years ago?”

“Yes. He is much older. But it is the same man.”

“Do you agree there is a remarkable similarity between the two of you?” Here it comes, thought Edwards. The fat was now about to hit the fire.

“So people tell me,” replied Soferman, and then as an afterthought, “anyway, that’s probably why he stole my identity.”

“Indeed, Mr Soferman, your positions could be reversed.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The court was rapt. Even the nervous coughing in the gallery had ceased.

“I mean that with the positions reversed, you would be in the dock and he in the witness box. Because that’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it, Mr Soferman? By your own admission, you have killed four men. Yet we maintain that it was not you who participated in those contests, but you who ordered them. You are in fact Hans Schreiber and Henry Sonntag is the real Herschel Soferman.”

“No, no,” screamed Soferman. “That’s a terrible lie, a terrible lie.”  Suddenly there was pandemonium, with Scrivener bellowing above the din, “You know all about the horrors of Theresienstadt, Mr Soferman, because you inflicted them.”

“Order. Order.”

Blomberg was on his feet, banging his fist on his lectern in unison with the thumping of the judge’s gavel. He was incensed by Scrivener’s allegations.  “Order. Order,” shouted Pilkington. “I order the public gallery to be cleared.”

It took a full ten minutes before Nigel Blomberg, QC, was given the opportunity to respond.

“M’Lord,” he began self-righteously, “these have been monstrous suggestions never made before today and quite unsustainable. They are mere speculation of the worst type and we object.”

Mr Justice Pilkington turned to the defence counsel. “Sir John, I hope you can make good these horrendous suggestions, the like of which I have never heard in a lifetime at the bar and on the bench.”

“I hear your Lordship’s comments, but at the moment I am making these suggestions upon instructions from my client and I await the witness’s answer.”

“I believe the witness has already answered, Sir John,” said the judge, “and I propose to adjourn until tomorrow morning.”

“It’s a lie,” sobbed Soferman as the ushers moved to clear the court. “It’s a lie.”

CHAPTER 16

Mark Edwards had suffered a fitful night, his mind racked by the incredible scenes in court and indecision about what to do regarding Bill Brown. He glanced at his watch. It was already seven-thirty. The sun shone weakly through a chink in his bedroom curtains. He glanced at the slumbering form of his lover. Danielle had never met the private eye and he could not therefore expect her to show the same level of concern.

He switched on the lamp at his side, his hand accidentally sweeping from the bedside table the newspaper he had begun reading the previous night. He leaned over and picked it up. As anticipated
,
Die Wel
t
was indeed full of reports and opinions about the trial. He flicked through the pages until, suddenly, his eye was caught by a two-paragraph filler at the bottom of page five.

STRAELEN – Police are appealing for help in the identification of a man whose body was found in the middle of a main road leading into this small town on the Dutch border. They believe the hit-and-run victim was probably a tourist.

A police spokesman said it was “strange” that no documents were found on the man, whom they described as blond and in his mid-forties.

The spokesman said the man wore English-made clothes, including a bowtie, and “may have been returning from a party somewhere early in the morning.”

Edwards went cold. He knew he should not jump to conclusions. It might have been anyone. But it wasn’t anyone. No one other than Bill Brown would be seen dead wearing a bowtie in the early hours of the morning. He grimaced at his own black humour.

The reporter left his bed quietly, put on his dressing gown, and made for the small escritoire in the lounge. He opened the hinged top and withdrew a large brown envelope. He extracted three photographs with “Copyright, Mail on Sunday” on the back of them. Bill Brown had had the same copies. Edwards did not know whether he would need the photographs of Henry Sonntag, but he knew now what he must do.

“I call Pastor Stanislaw Warsinski,” proclaimed Nigel Blomberg, QC.

The court was hushed as the tall and stooping figure of the Polish priest came forward to take the stand. Wearing cassock and
dog-collar, the bespectacled cleric brought an air of godliness to a trial imbued with tales of the Devil.

“My Lord, this witness has excellent command of English and we feel it unnecessary to call for an interpreter.” On the judge’s nod, Blomberg turned once again to the man in black to complete the formalities. “On which Bible do you wish to be sworn?”

“I am Roman Catholic.” The English was heavily accented.

The prosecuting counsel called for the Douai version of the New Testament. He then ascertained that Pastor Warsinski was born in Warsaw and still lived there, and that he had been transported to Theresienstadt at the end of 1941.

“Did there come a time when you were sent to the Small Fortress at Terezin?”

“Yes.”

The man of God then described the horrors of life in the Small Fortress, his story being similar in parts to that of Herschel Soferman. He had not witnessed the gladiatorial contests personally but had spoken to people who had.

“Does any particular Nazi stand out in your memory?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

“Obersturmführer Hans Schreiber.”

“What impressed you about this man, Hans Schreiber?”

“He was a sadist. The man was so evil that he shook my faith in God.”

“Could you elaborate, please, Pastor.”

“If anyone upset him he would first taunt them, then make them kneel, then ...” The old priest hesitated, as if the memory was indeed continuing to shake his faith in the Almighty “... he would shoot them through the back of the head in cold blood.”

“Did he do anything after this, sir?”

“Yes, but only if they were Jews. He would carve a swastika into their foreheads.”

“You saw this with your own eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Did this Hans Schreiber do anything to you personally?”

“Yes. He swore at me. He called me a Polish papist swine and then struck me across the face with his riding stick. But it was the Jews who suffered most.”

“Did you think you could ever forget his face?”

“No. It was the face of pure evil.”