Schreiber's Secret (6 page)

Lord Hailsham, the former Lord Chancellor, urged peers to do what was right, rather than what was popular. “Populism is the enemy of justice, freedom and democracy,” he said.

“This is not a house of wimps,” remarked Lord Shawcross, chief prosecutor at the Nuremberg trials. “Do what your consciences tell you,” he urged. Then Lord Jacobovits, the Chief Rabbi, made his contribution. It was the peers’ task to ensure the law would not exonerate those involved in horrendous crimes.

Thousands of voices were crying out from the earth, he said. The echoes were hardly heard in the chamber of the Lords.

Fifty-three speakers took nine hours to defy the Government. Full of sound and fury, they signified absolutely nothing. The Bill would still become law.

CHAPTER 2

London, 1995

Danielle Green strode out of the glass menagerie off High Street Kensington with the sort of purpose that only beautiful career women seem to manage. Someone, somewhere, once said that looking good was three-quarters of the battle in getting any job. True, maybe, but you had to have a certain amount of talent in order to keep the job. And talent was the hallmark of her people.

Jews, however, were not especially noted for being tall or blonde, so the fact that Danielle had short satin hair and legs “all the way up to your armpits”, as one of her former boyfriends once declared, proved a surprising bonus. So, too, did the emerald eyes, almond-shaped as a throwback to some distant Sephardi scion, the high Ashkenazi cheekbones from somewhere in central Europe, and firm, well-rounded breasts. The upper of her fulsome lips, which owed nothing to collagen, supported an alluring beauty spot. The nose, small and straight, completed the perfect features. These attributes, however, were not necessarily in themselves enough to guarantee further promotion in one of the world’s toughest professions. 

Danielle Green, of the green eyes, firm breasts and long legs, had something else which proved highly combustible. An added ingredient in the magic potion, an ingredient that appealed only to the strongest willed of men: intelligence.

She had entered the Associated Newspapers glasshouse six months earlier, a raw graduate trainee keen to learn what made newspapers and newspaper people tick. Th
e
Mail on Sunda
y
was popular mainly by virtue of its colour supplement, the features of which balanced delicately on the tightrope separating the middlebrow from the crass inanities of the gutter press. She was now chief feature writer – a meteoric rise indeed.

Danielle Rachel Green was the second daughter of Stanley Green (whose father changed the family name from Greenbaum), a six-foot-three taxi driver from Redbridge, a borough with more black cabs per square mile than any other in the United Kingdom, and Esther (née Hyams), a petite and dutiful housewife
and mother. The looks came from her, the height from him.

It was already seven in the evening by the time Danielle arrived at her rented one-bedroom apartment in the Docklands. She was running late for her appointment with a man she had been eager to interview ever since
she’d been told about him by Howard Plant. While Plant was the typical middle aged Jewish business entrepreneur who loved to court and direct publicity about himself, Henry Sonntag had been the background boy who played the money markets with such genius that he had made his clients, and himself, very rich indeed.

As she showered and dressed, choosing a smart black suit by Frank Usher, Danielle mulled over what little she knew about Sonntag. He was said to be in his early seventies and a survivor of the Holocaust. He’d come to England as a penniless refugee just after the war and got a job in the City. According to Plant, Sonntag only started to amass fortunes for himself and his clients about three years prior to the Big Bang in the eighties. The man lived alone and had been a confirmed bachelor all his life, so where would all the money go? Danielle knew there were a million questions that it was always possible to ask interviewees. There were also a million answers. Some people were more forthcoming than others, and the mark of a good interviewer was wheedling information from those who weren’t. Whether or not what she was told was the whole truth was a moot point.

She gave herself the onceover in the mirror, shuddering slightly as she felt the familiar tingling sensation she always experienced before going out on a story. It would probably take about an hour to drive to Chigwell. She hoped Henry Sonntag would reveal enough to make her visit worthwhile.

The detached house was big.
Too big for an old man living alone. It loomed out of the darkness like a sentinel on Salisbury Plain. It had the air of a manse about it, and she almost expected the heavy oak door to be opened by a resident clergyman.

Henry Sonntag, however, was definitely no cleric. The man who now faced her was tall, perhaps a little over six feet, and had the bearing of an aristocrat.

“Do come in, my dear,” he said, his beady brown eyes glinting in the porch light. “My abode may not be humble, but at my time of life one expects a few home comforts. Please, let me take your coat.”

As Danielle slipped out of the fake fox – she hadn’t had the heart to buy an original and, anyway, it was almost as good as the real thing – she could feel Sonntag’s
breath on her neck. It reeked of lavender. The perfume permeated the house. She looked around. A first glance at the house’s interior belied the impression given by the dour exterior. It was sumptuously furnished with what she could only believe were original antiques, ranging from forbidding Victorian chests to exquisitely decorated Ming vases, a few of which had sprigs of lavender protruding from them. He must have had them imported, she thought, for it was definitely out of season.

“Hmm, I see you like lavender,” she said, sniffing the air. “So do I.”

“Yes,” smiled Sonntag. “I make sure I have a supply year round. Childhood nostalgia, you know.”

“Quite a place you’ve got here, as they say.”

“Never judge a book by its cover, they say also,” said her host knowingly. “I know the outside’s a bit drab, but ostentation attracts thieves.” His accent was German, but not overbearingly so. “Please come into the drawing room and I’ll fix you a drink.”

The deep pile beige carpet beckoned her into the drawing room. It too was decorated tastefully along graceful Georgian lines. A large old painting hung over a dormant fireplace.

“A Titian,” said her host with pride. “Cost me a few million. It’s the only classical painting I wanted to possess so I lashed out a bit ... Gin and tonic?”

“That’ll do nicely, thanks.”

Danielle took the glass and, as she sipped, studied her host more closely. Sonntag had lost hardly any hair. It was brushed back and was the sort of yellowy white that told you its owner must have been a handsome blond in his youth. The skin, however, had the waxen texture of one who did not see much sunlight. The nose was firm and straight, the jaw strong and angular. The beady brown eyes were mobile and friendly yet curiously unreadable. The only sure impediment on the visage before her was the array of small scars around the mouth. The overall impression was of an elegant yet brittle carapace. “You know, you certainly don’t look Jewish,” she said, regretting the impertinence immediately.

Sonntag’s laugh put her at ease. “Neither do you.”

“Touché. But how did you know?”

“I told your features editor I would only consent to be interviewed by a Jew.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Ah ...” It was Danielle’s turn to laugh. “Typically Jewish.”

“What is?”

“Answering a question with a question.”

“Of course. We Jews are strange and wonderful creatures. Come, my dear, now that we’re family, let me show you around the hub of my fortune.”  As Danielle followed her host into a room to their right, she could not help feeling slightly in awe of the big man. There was an extraordina
ry presence about him.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “There are more screens here than in the whole of Northcliffe House.”

“Information, my dear,” said Sonntag, tapping his nose with his right forefinger, “is the key to my fortune.”

“And your clients’.”

“Precisely. I am successful because I always stay one step ahead of everyone else. I have built up a network of contacts in the various markets, from bonds and commodities and back again, which supplements all the stuff that anyone can get from the usual market sources.”

“Why so many telephones?” Danielle asked, surveying the bank of at least twenty spread-eagled on a massive oak desk in front of what seemed like an equal number of screens.

“Quite simply, I can never afford to be engaged. Everyone who is important to my business must be able to contact me during trading hours.”

“And how long are they?”

Sonntag chuckled. “Twenty-five hours a day.”

“You’re a workaholic, Mr Sonntag,” Danielle smiled. She now understood why his skin was waxen.

“I suppose you’re right, Miss Green, but I do get some time off at weekends. Come, let’s return to the drawing room. I’ll fix you another drink.”

Danielle knew she was in for a long evening. She felt instinctively that Sonntag had a fascinating story to tell and she hoped it would not be too hard to open him up. She took out her notepad and pen as he mixed her another gin and tonic. She knew it would have to be her last. Some journalists worked better half cut, but not Danielle Green.

“Ah, I see you are ready to take notes,” he said, handing her the glass.

“I’m a stickler for accuracy, so make sure you get it down right.”

“Then may I also use this?” she asked, withdrawing a small tape recorder from her handbag. She had a feeling she’d need more than a single long-play tape.

“By all means, as long as I can make a copy before you go.”

“Of course.” Danielle hesitated before adding, “Can I be blunt, Mr Sonntag?” She could feel the trepidation in her own voice.

“Of course you can.” Sonntag’s warm smile once again put her at ease.

“How much are you worth?”

“Many millions,” Sonntag answered without hesitation, then added quickly, “but don’t ask me to say how many.”

Danielle smiled. “So you’re never likely to g
o
mechula
h
,” she said, using one of the few Yiddish words every young English Jew used at one time or another.

“No, I’ll never go bust, Miss Green. And you know why?” The journalist’s raised eyebrows suggested she didn’t. “Because, my dear, I now use only other people’s money. I am happy just to play the markets and earn my commission.”

“So you don’t hope to emulate George Soros?”

“Ah, the man who broke the pound. For us he is a legend. George made more than two billion dollars on Black Wednesday, you know. Good luck to him. I’m satisfied with what I earned that day.”

“How much?” she asked boldly.

“A very small percentage of what George made. But it was enough.” Danielle judged by Sonntag’s manner that he would not be pressed further on this matter. Still, it gave her a nice entrée into his rags to riches story. The old man duly obliged with tal
es of financial derring-do that occupied the next twenty minutes or so.

“Tell me, Mr
Sonntag ...”

“Please, call me Henry.”

“Tell me, Henry, why did you agree to this interview? You financial wizards usually like to keep a low profile.”

“Strange as it may seem, my dear, nobody ever asked me before.” He chuckled. “I must have kept a really low profile.”

Sonntag’s face then became serious. The hazel eyes narrowed as he added morosely, “Anyway, it’s time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am seventy-two-years old
,
mein Kin
d
. As you know, I have never married and have lived alone all my life. I have no living relatives. No points of reference. My memories weigh on me like a ton weight. I need to unburden myself.”

“You mean about what happened in the war?”

“Yes.”

“Publicly?”

“Why not? I no longer believe that great distress should remain discreet. I don’t think people care anymore, anyway. It’s far too late for the victims to see justice done and, whatever they say, I doubt whether another old Nazi will ever be brought to trial. The Demjanjuk case has seen to that.”

“Do you believe he was Ivan the Terrible?”

Sonntag sighed. “Ivan the Terrible or Ivan the Less Terrible. Will we ever really know? Will it bring any of the victims back?”

“So you believe we should let all the old Nazis just fade away?”

“
Ich bin ein alter Man
n
,” he said resignedly. “I am too old and have hated for too long.”

Danielle could feel Sonntag’s hitherto suave and relaxed manner beginning to peel away. Underneath was a man obviously cut to the quick by his experiences. “Can we start from the beginning, Henry?” she said quietly, hoping against hope that her host would not dry up.

“Yes, of course.” He sat back in his armchair and clasped his hands until his knuckles blanched. “I am going to tell you something now. If somebody told me this story, I would be tempted to say ‘He’s lying, because this simply can’t be true.’ Maybe you’ll feel the same way, that these things could not happen. Because to really understand us, somebody has to go through it. Nobody fully understands the survivors. You can’t. No matter how much sympathy you give us. To understand, you have to have been through it.” He paused. “I hope this does not sound too convoluted.”