Schreiber's Secret (13 page)

“You mean they were all killed?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“But surely you cannot be one hundred per cent sure.”

“No one can,” said the professor, shaking his head. “However, it would have been extremely unlikely that any survived.”

“I need to know about this Schreiber,” said Edwards. His need was urgent, and he did not fancy ploughing through reams of documents in German. It would take him hours, probably days. Realizing that Dieter Müller might be an extremely useful asset, he decided to take the plunge. “Dieter, I know we’ve only just met and I hope you don’t think me rude, but as you’re studying here anyway, would you be prepared to help
?
Mit meinem Deutsch istes nicht weit he
r
.”

Dieter Müller smiled broadly.
“
Das ist nicht weiter schlim
m
. Really, your German is not too bad.” He thrust out his hand and shook the reporter’s warmly.
“
Jawohl
!
It will make my research very exciting.”

“Good,” said Edwards. “Here’s my card. It’s got my work number and my mobile phone number. If you come up with anything, please let me know immediately. By the way, where can I get hold of you?”

“I’ll be here most days working on my new book on the Holocaust,” replied the German, taking the card. “You can leave a message if I’m not. Also, I’ll give you the phone number of my rented apartment. You might catch me there in the evenings.”

“Thanks, Dieter. I really do appreciate this. We’ll have to get together for a drink. It’s nice to know there are people like you making sure the youth of Germany know the truth.”

“Thank you, Mark. That is very kind of you. I try to do my best.” Müller wrote out a couple of telephone numbers on a slip of paper. The two then shook hands again. Edwards, thankful that he had found an ally to plough through the records, turned to leave.

“Oh, Mark,” his new friend called out. “Keep me up to date with developments, eh? ...
Especially on this anonymous caller. He seems a strange one. And one more thing ...”

“Yes?”

“This stranger might conceivably even be the killer.”

Mark Edwards nodded in agreement. The thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Seven hours later, Edwards sat alone in his flat waiting nervously for the take doorbell to ring. Danielle would be arriving any moment to pick him up and him through a new religious experience. He saw himself as an agnostic rather than a godless atheist. Yet the trappings of religion, the ceremony and the cant, bothered him. It did not matter whether it was a church, a mosque or a synagogue, he knew he would not feel comfortable in any of them. His parents had been nominal Anglicans and he and his brother had enjoyed all the trappings of Christmas as did most other families in Britain. Yet he only remembered going to church once, around the age of five, and that it was a frightening experience. He recalled being surrounded by straight-faced strangers and being scared by the booming echo of the vicar’s voice. No, organized religion was definitely not his cup of tea.

The front
door chimes stirred Edwards from his musings. He knew it could only be Danielle.

“Hi, darling.” She smiled warmly as he opened the door. Standing before him in an exquisitely cut charcoal two-piece,

Danielle displayed two rows of the most perfect teeth he had ever seen. Everything about her seemed to be in perfect proportion. He was as excited as a schoolboy to see her. He knew these feelings were transparent and he did not care. For a moment the two stood staring at each other, their eyes bright not only with obvious approval, but with the memory of their first night of lovemaking.

“Well,” she said at last, “are you ready to go?”

“If I can kiss you first.”

“You may,” said Danielle, leaning forward.

Edwards pulled her towards him and, holding her tight, gave her a kiss that lingered long enough for him to feel the familiar stirring.

“Whoa,” she laughed, “down, boy.”

“Sorry. I just get carried away when I’m with you.”

“Mark,” she sighed, “believe me, I feel the same. But let’s cool it over the next few days. It’s a pretty rough time.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I understand. Where’s the synagogue?”

“Oh, Mark,” she laughed, “I see I’m going to have to give you a crash course in Judaism. Th
e
shiv
a
’s held in the home and not in the synagogue.”

“Sorry,” he said, hoping his relief was not too obvious. “It just shows how ignorant I am.”

“Come on, let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand. “We’ll take my car.”

Neither talked much during the short journey, both reflecting on the solemnity of the occasion.

Danielle brought her red Vauxhall Cavalier to a halt about fifty yards from her aunt’s home. She could see by the number of mourners’ cars that it would be pointless trying to park nearer. She took her handbag, which Edwards had been holding,and opened it. Withdrawing a dark blu
e
yarmulk
a
, she placed it gingerly on his head.

“Okay, Mark,” she said firmly, “this is where you get your first lesson in Judaism. You have to wear this whenever we’re in a house of worship, at a wedding,
a
barmitzva
h
or, God forbid, a funeral o
r
shiv
a
like tonight. As I told you before
,
shiv
a
simply means ‘seven’ and we traditionally have seven days of mourning after someone dies. Got it so far?”

“Yes, teacher.”

“Good. Now, so as you shouldn’t be too surprised, you’ll see Auntie Becky, her two sons and Joe’s two brothers sitting on low chairs. They’ll all be wearing an item of clothing torn over the heart. There’ll be about half an hour of prayers in Hebrew, but don’t worry ...”

“What?”

“Neither you nor I nor most of the people in the room will understand it.”

“What do you mean?” Edwards asked, genuinely intrigued.

Danielle smiled. “It’s quite simple, really. As far as the Jews in this country are concerned, Hebrew is purely liturgical. Like High Church Latin. It’s as if you pray in it not for its meaning to you, but maybe for its meaning to God. After all, when we envisage our God it’s as a Hebrew speaker, not someone versed in Swahili or Outer Mongolian.”

Edwards could not contain himself. He burst out laughing
.
Shiv
a
or not, he found all the paraphernalia surrounding religious ritual highly amusing.

“Don’t be so blasphemous,” Danielle scolded, and then burst into a fit of giggling.

“Okay, let’s go, mademoiselle. We can’t go in there with smiles on our faces.”

“That’s true,” said Danielle. “And we can’t leave with smiles either. But after you arrive and before you leave you might be permitted the occasional smile.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that at Jewish functions, even funerals, you meet old friends and acquaintances and it’s impolite not to smile. Amongst our own we’re as gregarious as a bunch of rabbits. C’mon.”

Danielle led him up the path of a typical baywindowed Three-bedroom semi. People wearing skullcaps were standing around outside.

“It’s far too crowded in there, Danielle,” said a small baldheaded man.

“It’s bloody murder.”

Danielle smiled and then said out of the corner of her mouth, “What a wonderful way Uncle Monty has with words.”

Edwards, trying hard to look grim, gripped her hand even harder. He felt so much the outsider. As Danielle led him through the throng and into a packed through-lounge, he felt a rising sense of panic. A heady brew of perfume and sweat engulfed him. A tall, bearded man thrust a prayer book into his hand.

“
But ...” Edwards stammered.

“Sshh, Mark,” said Danielle soothingly. “Don’t worry. It’s in Hebrew and English. The rabbi will tell you in English which page to turn to.” 

“Who’s he?”

“The one over there with the hat,” she whispered.

Edwards craned his neck. “Doesn’t look like a rabbi.”

“Just because he doesn’t have a beard?” she said with raised eyebrows.

“Not many of them do nowadays.”

Edwards suddenly felt ashamed. His reaction had been typical of someone who had been brought up on stereotypes, encouraged not so much by his parents as by his peers.

Danielle, sensing his discomfort, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She knew how strange and difficult it must be for him. “I’ve got to go out of the room while the men pray, Mark. Just stand looking down at the book. Nobody will take any notice. See you in a few minutes.”

For the next half an hour Edwards remained a mute sentinel amid a sea of swaying incantation. He spent the time reading the English translation of the prayers, but was more fascinated by the Hebrew characters. They were unfathomable, yet their very shapes seemed to jump out at him. They seemed to have an extraordinary power compared to the smaller and blander Latin-based characters on the opposite page.

A proffered hand at last told him the service was over. He almost felt reluctant to hand back the prayer book. He looked up to see Danielle eyeing him from the hallway. His heart skipped a beat. This was stupid, he told himself. He had known her only a couple of months. She weaved her way towards him.

“We’ll stay around for a few minutes,” she whispered in his ear. “I told everybody I had to interview somebody tonight, but you can take me for a drink round the corner. There’s no chance anyone here will be there.”

“Do I say anything to them?” said Edwards, eyeing the row of bereaved seated on the odd chairs that had had their legs cut off halfway down.

“Yes, just shake their hands and wish them a long life.”

“A what?”

“Just say, I wish you a long life.”

A few minutes later they both joined the procession of people paying their respects. There were a few cousins there Danielle had not seen in years. Cousin Stephen the optician, cousin Melvyn the chemist, cousin Roy, big in ladies’ skirts. She kissed them all warmly except for Joe Hyams’ two sons. They got more of a peck. Edwards grimaced as he passed down the line. He felt acutely embarrassed.

The reporter only wound down after the first swallow of a whisky mac in a local pub burnt its way down his throat and gave him a warm glow in the pit of the stomach. “Phew, I needed that,” he said in relief.

“Come on,” said Danielle, “it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“I suppose not. But I’d much rather be at a wedding than a funeral.”

“Here’s t
o
simcha
s
, then,” she said, raising her glass of gin and tonic.

“What’
s
simcha
s
?”

“Happy events,” smiled Danielle, the perfect teeth framed by lips that glistened.

“Not many of those around at the moment, are there?” he sighed. “Dani...”

“Yes.”

“I know we agreed not to talk shop, but something’s been bothering me and I just feel I want to get it off my chest.”

“Shoot,” she said, placing her hand on his.

Edwards, looking squarely into his lover’s emerald eyes, spent the next twenty minutes telling her about everything that had happened to him during the past few days.

Danielle, listening intently, did not interrupt him until he had signalled that he had finished. He had not noticed her eyes widen at the mention of the strange caller and was unaware of the turmoil in her mind.

“Mark,” she said, gripping her glass, “you are saying that this caller claimed the killer is a man called Hans Schreiber who was an SS officer at the Small Fortress in Theresienstadt?”

“Yes.”

“How odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know whether there is anything in this, but it seems an amazing coincidence.” She paused to take a long swig of the gin and tonic.

“Well?” said
Edwards, intrigued.

“Henry Sonntag,” she said bluntly.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a Jewish multimillionaire bonds dealer I’ve just interviewed, a sort of British George Soros. He made his fortune after arriving here as a penniless refugee after the war. He made no mention of this Schreiber, but he did say he was a survivor of the Small Fortress. The things he described that went on there defy belief.
Mark ...”

“Yes,” he said, eager to hear more.

“I got a strange phone call at the office from Sonntag the day before yesterday. He pleaded with me not to publish my interview. He said he couldn’t explain and sounded really scared.”

“Jesus!” Edwards exclaimed. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I think you’d better chase up that German professor friend of yours. I’ll try to make contact with Sonntag again, but he sounded pretty agitated.”