Schreiber's Secret (35 page)

“No, sir.”

“But an SS dagger does, doesn’t it, Mr Sonntag?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I am referring to the dagger found near the body of Plant. The one with the initials HS inscribed on it. HS for Hans Schreiber.”

“I don’t know anything about that dagger. The last time I saw a dagger like that, it was being used by Hans Schreiber ... by the man who now calls himself Herschel Soferman.”

Blomberg was not about to let his quarry escape so easily. “But there are plenty of other SS daggers that you do know about, aren’t there, Mr Sonntag? In your home was found a collection of Nazi memorabilia the like of which would be coveted by any Nazi-lover. I’m sure you would agree that we usually surround ourselves in our homes with things that we love. Yet you surround yourself with photos and news clippings of Terezin, and with the uniforms and weapons of the very people you say persecuted you. Do you not find that strange, sir?”

Sonntag was unfazed. “Of course it is strange. But only in that it helped me focus my hate and loathing. That room and its contents reminded me of the hell that I lived through, and yet its very presence helped me lead a more or less normal life.”

Blomberg continued to drive home his attack. “I suggest that there is no doubt that you are the real Hans Schreiber. But let us take for a moment your idea that you are Soferman. Are you capable of killing?”

“No, sir.”

“But Soferman was, wasn’t he? In the Small Fortress, he had to kill in order to live. So even if you were Soferman, you could still have committed the murders of Plant and Hyams.”

“I killed to live,” replied Sonntag through pursed lips, “not to murder. It was self-defence. I could never murder.”

“Finally, Mr Sonntag, let us consider what you were doing at the time of your arrest. You were preparing to flee the country, weren’t you, Mr Sonntag?”

“No, I was not. I had already planned that business trip months before. I have clients in South America.”

Nigel Blomberg tried a few more ploys to break Henry Sonntag, but
all were fielded by the defendant with the same cool reserve. The man would not be drawn or browbeaten.

Sir John Scrivener then proceeded to call a series of character witnesses on Henry Sonntag’s behalf, including Samuel Cohen. They testified as to the philanthropic nature of the defendant; that Henry Sonntag gave freely and extensively to both Jewish and non-Jewish charities.

Mark Edwards stood outside the small townhouse in Annastrasse in some trepidation. Affixed to the wall next to the mahogany door was a nameplate informing all that this was the home of Dr Wolfgang Schreiber. He could not imagine that any visitors the good doctor might have would be patients. It was unlikely he would still be practising however much he coveted his title.

The journalist was troubled by the knowledge that it would be necessary to impart to a frail old man the fact that his son was standing trial for murder in a distant land. Whatever crimes Hans Schreiber had committed could not be levelled against his father, if this was indeed his father.

He rang the ornate brass doorbell twice.

The door was opened only slightly.
“
J
a
?” came a woman’s voice. The accent was Bavarian.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Edwards, using the most polite form of German address. “Does the honourable Dr Wolfgang Schreiber live here?” The woman, noting the foreign accent and the good manners, opened the door a fraction wider. Edwards could see the white of a nurse’s uniform.

“I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’ve come a very long way to see the good doctor. I’ve come from London.”

“Who is that, Hilde?” came a rasping voice from within.

“I don’t know, Dr Schreiber,” she replied. “A minute, please, Herr Doktor.” She opened the door fully and faced the reporter. “Can you say who you are and why you are here?” she said sternly.

Edwards’ mind raced. The nurse was a formidable-looking battleaxe in her mid-fifties.

A real blonde Brunnhilde. Like any good reporter, he was trained first to get his foot in the door. “Please tell him my grandfather was German and knew him before the war.”

“Wait here,” said the battleaxe.

Edwards was prepared to force an entry should her answer have been negative. A few seconds later she was back.

“You may come in. But please keep it brief. He is a very old man and must not be subjected to too much excitement.”

“I assure you I will, madam,” said Edwards, and crossed the threshold.

“Wait in the hall, please. I will just prepare him.”

The first thing Edwards noticed was that the house had that sort of mustiness that one always associates with the elderly. The second was the ticking sounds that seemed to emanate from every room. Suddenly the gongs of the grandfather clock opposite him sounded. They were followed quickly by more highly pitched chimes and bells. Edwards glanced at his watch automatically and then smiled to himself at his foolishness. It was already five in the evening.

“Clocks,” said the nurse on her return. “He loves clocks. Not that he can hear them very well. You may go in now.”

Edwards followed the heavily starched uniform as it swished along a short corridor and into a room to his right. Dr Wolfgang Schreiber was sitting in a wheelchair silhouetted against a pair of large French windows. He was facing the garden.

“Lavender’s going to do well this summer,” he said. “I’ve had three more bushes planted.”

As soon as the old man had finished speaking, the reporter sensed the heady scent of lavender in the room. It was all around. Soferman had mentioned how much Hans Schreiber loved lavender and Danielle had said that Sonntag’s house had stunk of it, even though he had later claimed that it was to focus his hate. No, this was too much of a coincidence. The man before him had to be Hans Schreiber’s father.

“Good evening, Herr Doktor,” said Edwards warmly.

“Please, sit down young man,” the old man gestured, swivelling round to face him.

As Edwards’ eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that the man before him was truly ancient. His skin was
pallid and blotchy and wiry tufts of hair sprouted from his nose and ears. He wore a hearing aid and thicklensed spectacles. There was little overt resemblance to Henry Sonntag.

“Now what’s this I hear? Your grandfather was an acquaintance of mine?”

“Yes. Ludwig Braun.” It was the first name that came to mind.

“You’ll have to speak up, young man. I’m afraid I’m half deaf. And these glasses are just for show. I’m almost totally blind as well. I can see only shadows. I don’t remember any Ludwig Braun, though. You’re from England, you say.”  Edwards, realizing that the photographs of Henry Sonntag he carried were totally useless, raised his voice by several decibels. “Yes, my grandfather was a German prisoner of war. He used to mention that you were his family doctor and how good you were. I told him before he died that if I ever visited Straelen, I’d look you up. Frankly, I didn’t believe you’d still be alive.”

“Hmm, I did have a few Braun families on my list, but I don’t remember any Ludwig.”

Edwards realized that the conversation was going nowhere. It was best to come to the point sooner rather than later. He could not bring himself to play games with the old man.

“There’s another reason why I’m here, Herr Doktor.”

The old man’s ancient features took on an odd expression, as if he knew he was about to be faced with an unpalatable truth.

“If you have seen or heard the media you will know that there is a major court case going on in London at this moment.”

“I told you, I am blind and I cannot hear well,” said the doctor defensively. “What is this court case?”

Edwards took a deep breath. “My name is Mark Edwards. I am an English journalist. There’s a man named Henry Sonntag who is on trial for murdering two Jews in London. The prosecution is claiming that this man is really Hans Schreiber, who was an SS officer at Theresienstadt. I believe that he is your son. The problem is that Sonntag claims that the main prosecution witness against him is in fact the real Hans Schreiber. I’m afraid it’s very complicated.”

Wolfgang Schreiber remained silent for what seemed an eternity. “Go on,” he said simply.

“I have checked all the records and they seem to point conclusively to the fact that Hans Schreiber is your son.” Edwards’ heart was in his mouth as he prepared to state the true purpose of his visit. “I know how difficult this must be for you. But if we can check your DNA against that of the two men, it will prove conclusively who is your son and may save an innocent man from being punished.”

Once again there was a long silence before Wolfgang Schreiber replied.

“I have no son, Herr Edwards,” the old man rasped. “My son was killed on the Russian front. He is dead. He no longer exists. You understand?”

“
But ...”

“Nurse! Nurse!”

“Please go, sir,” ordered the battleaxe as she scurried into the room.

“Can’t you see you’re upsetting him? He’s a very old man.”

Mark Edwards, nonplussed, allowed himself to be shown the door without objecting. There was simply nothing he could do. He could not force a man of ninety-five to cooperate. The only avenue now left open to him was the Brandt family in Düsseldorf.

Danielle Green had never felt so alone. The events of the third day of the trial had been testing enough. The fact that she had not had the familiar figure of Dieter Müller next to her was like losing a confidant when she needed one most.

By six o’clock that morning, her lover had already left their flat for Heathrow with instructions to inform his office that he was suffering from a severe bout of flu. He had assured her that Nick Logan would find plenty of people willing to replace him. She had expressed her trepidation, but Mark had been determined to check out the newspaper story. “I owe it to Bill Brown.” He had been adamant that the police should not yet be called in.

She could not get back to sleep and for the next two hours had sat up in bed worrying about him. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she had telephoned the only other person in whom she felt she could confide. But after she had told him about Mark, the professor had said that he was suffering from a stomach bug himself and might have to miss the day’s proceedings. He had blamed the illness on the Old Bailey’s cottage pie.

Müller had missed perhaps the most fascinating day in court yet, as Henry Sonntag parried all attempts to faze him. The closing speeches by Blomberg and Scrivener, though, had been predictable. The former had played on the fact that only Sonntag had had the motive to kill Plant, that he had been identified positively as Schreiber, and that his defence that he was Soferman had been a scurrilous lie, a “red herring” to deflect the truth. Sir John, for his part, had made great play of the fact that everything in the case seemed to cut both ways; that no one could be sure who was Schreiber and who was Soferman; that both looked alike, spoke alike and professed a loathing for all things German. Scrivener’s last words rang in her ears: “The law dictates that where there is doubt, there must be acquittal.” She glanced at her watch as she sat by the telephone. It was already seven in the evening and Mark had not rung. She watched the television like an automaton, unable to concentrate even on the leading item on the Channel Four news.

“In another sensational day in the Old Bailey trial
of ...” the newsreader began. The only factor that focused her mind was the artist’s impressions of the main characters in the trial. Soferman and Sonntag looked more alike in the drawing than they did in real life.

The phone rang.

Danielle jumped. She stared at it in shock before picking up the receiver. “Hello,” she said apprehensively.

“Hello, darling,” came the reply, setting her heart thumping.

“Oh, Mark, I’ve been so worried.”

“Everything’s okay with me, Dani. Don’t worry.
As long as you’re okay. I heard all about the trial on the news here.”

“Yes. I think the judge will begin his summing up tomorrow. By the way, where are you?”

“I’m in a public telephone box right now, but I’m staying in a hotel in Straelen, a small bed and breakfast. I phoned the Brandts and they’ve agreed to see me at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Düsseldorf’s only about forty miles away. I told them I was a colleague of Bill Brown ...” He hesitated.

“He’s dead, Dani. My hunch was right.”

“Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

“It may have just been an accident,” he said unconvincingly. In his heart, he was sure it was the work of Odessa or some rightwing fascist group.

“Oh, Mark. Please be careful.”

“I will, Dani. Don’t worry.” It was understandable that she should be afraid. He was scared himself. He tried to hide the fear in his voice as he told her about his meeting with old Schreiber. “He’s convinced his son died on the Russian front. I just don’t believe him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the tone of his voice.”

“Please ring me as often as you can, Mark.”

“Of course I will. Listen, Dani, I forgot. Take my pager into court with you tomorrow. It’s on the middle shelf of the bookcase.”