Schreiber's Secret (23 page)

She had hardly finished speaking when the Black Maria carrying Henry Sonntag roared into the compound. The driver did not have time to apply the handbrake before the vehicle was swamped by press photographers. A bevy of blue uniforms sought to keep their ward unmolested as Henry Sonntag, covered by a blanket, was hustled into the court building.

“Not very edifying, is it?” said Danielle, opening her car door. “Come on, let’s go.”

The pair walked briskly along the path that circumnavigated the reasonably modern building, its slate-grey corrugated concrete walls matching the leaden skies. They swept into Redbridge Magistrates Court, a stone’s throw from the nick in Barkingside, and headed straight for Court 3. The benches were full of journalists. It was clear that few members of the public would have the chance to witness the proceedings. There was just not enough space.

The room was buzzing, the Clerk of the Court having to call for order several times as the three sitting magistrates dealt as quickly as possible with a series of unfortunates accused of relatively minor offences. Everyone was waiting impatiently for the big one.

The Chairman of the Bench was an owlish man in his sixties with bushy eyebrows, a hooked nose and thin lips. Murder cases did not come along frequently and he was damned if he wasn’t going to play to the gallery. He was still preening himself as the gaunt and imposing figure of Sir John Scrivener, QC, Henry Sonntag’s barrister, entered the courtroom accompanied by a pair of juniors eager to get a slice of the action, however minimal. It was not usual for Scrivener, one of the biggest wigs in criminal law, to dignify a magistrates’ court with his presence. However, this was a high profile case. Furthermore, his client was very, very rich. Scrivener’s fees no doubt reflected the fact that Henry Sonntag was getting the best that money could buy.

The tall barrister gave a perfunctory nod to his opposite number. Nigel Blomberg was a good eight inches smaller and sported a paunch. Seemingly genial, he nevertheless possessed a paper-shredder of a
mind which gave no quarter. For those who knew them, and Mark Edwards had seen them both in action on numerous occasions, Scrivener v. Blomberg was like a Spurs v. Arsenal derby – passion, commitment and no shortage of skill. Henry Sonntag was the current football and the odds were vastly in favour of him being booted into jail for the rest of his life.

His eyes glazed, the reporter was staring at the square plastic light-covers in the false ceiling when Danielle’s elbow in his ribs prompted him to shift his attention to the entrance door to their right. He followed the line of heads seeking to catch a glimpse of the accused as he was brought into the courtroom. Because of the room’s configuration, Sonntag was standing in front of the journalists, facing away from them and towards the Bench. There was a buzz of frustration, which subsided only when the chairman called for order.

The Clerk of the Court cleared his throat. “Is your name Henry Sonntag?” he asked with a self-importance to match the proceedings.

“It is,” replied the yellowy-white head in front of the gallery. The voice was firm and determined. It carried the same conviction when affirming that the details of his address were correct and that
he was represented by Sir John Scrivener.

“You may be seated,” said the Clerk, who then read out the charges slowly and deliberately. The man in the navy blue suit sat rigidly throughout the reading.

The counsel for the prosecution rose sharply, almost before the clerk had finished reading the charges. “Sir, this is an allegation of murder in which inquiries continue. We would respectfully ask for a remand in custody for a further week at which time we will be able to inform the court when this case will be ready to be committed for trial.”

The chairman looked across at the defence counsel. “Do you wish to say anything and is there an application for bail?”

Sir John rose, extending himself impressively to his full height. “Recognizing the gravity of the charges, there is no application for bail. May I inform the court that my client strenuously denies both of the charges.”

“Thank you very much, Sir John. This case is adjourned until seven days from today. The defendant will be remanded in custody.”

With this the courtroom broke into a babble. The remand hearing was all over in less than three minutes and whatever happened in court between now and the opening of the trial would be pure scene-setting.

As Henry Sonntag turned to be led away his eyes alighted on those of the only female journalist present. She nodded in acknowledgement. The man’s small brown eyes lingered for a few more seconds before a tug on his arm broke the spell. Danielle Green saw no guilt in those eyes, only the look of a man in torment.

CHAPTER 11

War Crimes Unit

Metropolitan Police

New Scotland Yard

London, SW1

The Ambassador

The Czech Republic

26 Kensington Palace Gardens

W8 4QY

Dear Sir

The Metropolitan Police presents its compliments to the Honourable Ambassador for the Czech Republic.

As you are no doubt aware, since the War Crimes Act introduced into law by the British Government in 1991, it is now possible to prosecute suspected Nazi war criminals residing in the United Kingdom.

We wish to bring to your notice that a man who goes by the name of Henry Sonntag is currently on remand accused of the recent murder of two British Jews. Following our investigations, we have reason to believe that this man “Sonntag” may, in fact, be Hans Schreiber, an SS Obersturmführer who has been labelled the “Beast of the Small Fortress” of Theresienstadt (Terezin).

We should be grateful if you would pass this request, and the accompanying recent police photographs of the accused, to the Ministry of the Interior and other relevant bodies to instigate investigations into this matter with a view to discovering the whereabouts in your country of any survivors of the Small Fortress who might be able to identify the said Schreiber.

Similar correspondence is being sent to the ambassadors of all countries which might have had some of their citizens incarcerated in the Small Fortress.

I should like to thank you in advance for your assistance in this matter.

I am, sir,

Your obedient servant

Detective Chief Superintendent Edward Barnard

“Come in. Come in, my friend.”

Mark Edwards, trepidation tugging at his nerve-ends, prepared to cross the threshold of the ordinary terraced house in Belvedere Road, Leyton. He’d read somewhere that the district, part of the London Borough of Waltham Forest, once boasted the highest percentage of elderly people per head of population in the country. For some reason he thought of a comment Danielle had once made that the ambition of elderly Jews in the United States was to retire to sun-soaked Miami. Jews in Leyton, east London, however, seemed destined to live and die under grey skies and in abject yet dignified mediocrity. Leyton was a working-class town and Herschel Soferman was nothing if not working-class.

“Thanks, Herschel. Where shall I hang my coat?”

“Here,” said Soferman, taking the navy blue gabardine, “I’ll hang it over the banister. Used to make these, you know.”

“Oh, really,” said Edwards, surprised, although he could not think why.

“Yes, yes. I used to be a tailor in Savile Row. A Jewish firm took me in and trained me when I arrived here as a refugee after the war. I’m afraid they wen
t
mechula
h
– er, I’m sorry, bust – soon after I retired six or seven years ago. Please come into the lounge. I’ll just put the kettle on.”

Edwards entered the lounge. It was a through-
room which only astonished by its uniform drabness. The wallpaper tried vainly to promote its whiteness but was mostly overcome by an expanse of grubby grey. The leaf-green Dralon suite had seen better days. The whole place had a mustiness about it and cried out for a woman’s touch.

The reporter crossed to an old fashioned fireplace that boasted a miserable two-bar electric heater. Its feeble efforts did little to warm the room sufficiently to make it comfortable. It was clear that Herschel Soferman was not overly flush.
The exact opposite, in fact, of Henry Sonntag. Edwards looked up at the mantelpiece. It bore a seven branched candlestick similar to those he had seen in the homes of Danielle’s parents and her late uncle. A menorah, he believed she had called it. Next to it was a fading framed photograph of smiling newlyweds. The man, sporting a fine head of blond hair, was obviously Herschel Soferman in his prime. The young woman in the picture had a horsey face but kind eyes.

“My darling wife,” came a voice from behind him. Its tone bore all the sadness of a love lost prematurely. “She died seven years ago. Lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry, Herschel,” said Edwards, turning round.  The old man, standing gingerly with a cup of tea in either hand, nodded.

“Hetty was a fine woman,” he sighed. “She helped me pick up the pieces after the war. I don’t think I could have survived without her.”

“Here, let me help you,” said Edwards, moving swiftly across the room to relieve his host of the cups. “Where shall I put them?”

“Oh, on the coffee table. Just pull in your armchair a little closer.
Then you will be all right.”

The reporter sat down and watched his host sink carefully into the deep Dralon. Apart from his baldness, the likeness to Sonntag was remarkable. The hair around the sides and back of Soferman’s head was the same yellowy white. Both had angular chins, narrow noses and beady brown eyes. There were some differences. Soferman’s lips were
more fleshy than Sonntag’s, the cheekbones slightly higher.

“You’re staring at me, Mr Edwards, because you see him in me.”  Edwards blushed. “I’m sorry, Herschel. Please forgive me.” The reporter swallowed hard. “I seem to keep saying that, don’t I?”

“Everything is nonsense, my friend. The only thing that matters is the truth.”

“Did you and Hetty have any children, Herschel?”  Soferman’s rheumy eyes glazed. “No. Unfortunately, we couldn’t.”  Edwards changed tack speedily. “How did you get on with Detective Inspector Webb?”

“He interviewed me for a total of six hours. It was really repetitive and he concentrated only on my time in Theresienstadt. I was exhausted by the end. I am no chicken, you know.”

Edwards smiled. “I promise I won’t put you through the third degree. We can’t publish anything now anyway. We can only report the trial. You know, Sonntag’s counsel will probably give you a roasting.”

Soferman looked at his guest squarely. “The truth, Mr Edwards, fears no man.”

“Good for you.”

“Now what do you want me to do?” asked Soferman, eager to oblige the younger man.

“Look, Herschel, I don’t really want this to be an interview in the real sense of the word. It’s not a grilling. As I told you on the phone, I’d like to write a book about this whole thing once the
trial’s over. I’ve brought along a tape recorder and I think the best thing is if you just relate your life story in your own words. I won’t interrupt even if I have questions. I’ll go over the tape in my own time and we’ll get together again to clarify anything that needs clearing up.”

“Of course, I agree, my friend, even though it may cause me some pain. But I have just one request.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You told me your girlfriend is going to visit Sonntag – I just can’t get used to that name – to visit Schreiber in prison. I would like to know if he says anything about me. You know, it must have come as a real shock to him to discover that I am alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“Be patient, Mr Edwards. I shall tell you everything. But first promise me you will tell me.”

Edwards shrugged. “I don’t see any problem with that ... if he says anything.”

“Good. Then let us proceed.”

For the next few hours of a quiet Sunday afternoon Mark Edwards listened to the amazing life story of Herschel Soferman. The only interruptions were for cups of tea, calls of nature and the switching of cassettes. The reporter was amazed by his host’s grasp of English. It seemed every German he met spoke the Queen’s English better than most of her native-born subjects.

Later that evening, Edwards replayed the tapes to Danielle in her Docklands apartment. Both had been embroiled in the case sufficiently to have their own favourite. Now Danielle would hear another side of the story. The tapes were dated and bore the simple label “Herschel Soferman’s Story”.

Click.

“I was born in the Charlottenburg district of Berlin. Anyway, that’s what they told me. It’s just north of the Kurfürstendamm – you know Berlin, so maybe you know that area. It was a residential area then and it’s the same now, I think, although I haven’t been back there since I was forcibly removed in the winter of ’43. I will not suffer anything that is German. I will not drive a German
car, I will not own a German television set or any other thing that originates in that damn country. Tfh
h
[Spitting sound
]
.

“I don’t remember my father. Apparently he was killed in a car crash when I was four. I was sent to the local Jewish orphanage.
It was bombed by the Allies later in the war. No matter. I doubt whether anyone apart from me survived. I have never tried to search for lost friends. Maybe I am frightened to meet them. To dredge up the past. That is why I keep myself to myself. I do not want to Relivethe past
.
[Laughs
]
But now I am having to, no
?
[Clears throat
]
I was unhappy there – in the orphanage – although everyone was very kind. I vaguely remember my mother
.
[Sighs
]
I remember her black hair and black eyes. But that is all. The orphanage was my mother and father. I stayed there until I was fifteen. I drifted around a bit and then got a job as a presser in a sweatshop. I was strong for my age. And those irons were surely heav
y
[Laughs
]
. In the evenings I studied. Yes, Mr Edwards, I read Schiller and Kant. Goethe, too.I spent all my money on books. Ye
t
[Sighs
]
I became a tailor. No ambition, my friend. No ambition. Schreiber robbed me of my ambition. I should have gone to Palestine before it was too late. But as German Jews we were s
o
[Pause
]
German. A German Zionist was someone who paid a second Zionist to send a third to Palestine. Funny, no?
[Laughs
]
You see, we were Germans. We spoke the German language. It was our mother tongue in the truest sense of the word. Language means almost more than blood. We did not know any Fatherland other than Germany and we loved the country as one loves one’s Fatherland. But I will never visit that land again and I will never consciously speak its language. I think I told you this before.