The Good Liar (29 page)

of them speaking to his headmaster. What good did they think their

seeing Wolff would do? Konrad Taub, the pinko journalist regarded

with suspicion speaking with rumoured deputy Gauleiter candidate

Hermann Wolff ? Did they see some meeting of minds here? He had

his own means of sorting out the situation which did not require

their interference.

‘It’s all right. There’s no problem. My marks are all right, aren’t they?’

He knew they were. His parents were both intellectuals, that

term bandied about these days in disgust. At least it would mean

that the basic equipment for achievement was there. What he did

with it depended on him. He certainly would not be wasting his

potential in the same way as his parents on lost causes of one kind or another.

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‘I may be out when you get back, Hans,’ his mother said. ‘I have

a meeting in Neukölln. I’ll leave the key with Frau Schärner next

door.’

‘All right,’ he grunted, not interested.

He walked to school through dark streets. The glint of dawn had

yet to appear. The snow’s soft fluffiness had gone. Now it was fro-

zen and compacted underfoot. The thoroughfares had been cleared

efficiently but the pavements and walkways remained covered. As

least this meant there was no black ice. The hardened snow was

treacherous enough, but navigable. Vapour billowed from his nose,

and he heard himself inhale and exhale as he made his steady pro-

gress. The Jewish grocers at the corner of Wilhelmstrasse had again been burned overnight. Embers glowed and a group of callow

Brownshirts not much older than he was joshed with each other

and kicked at the smouldering remains to keep warm. Their voices

echoed in the muffled white cityscape.

Inside the school he felt instantly warm. The pipes and radiators

clicked and ticked as he made his way to the secretary’s office. Most boys would have been turned away sternly: not Hans Taub. She told

him to return at the end of school, at one fifteen.

The morning dragged. Latin was followed inevitably by math-

ematics, and then chemistry and German. Hans excelled in all of

these subjects, the primary reason why he remained popular with

his teachers in spite of his dubious parents. He gained a measure of respect too from his fellow pupils by helping them with their work.

At the end of school his classmates rushed out. Someone’s uncle

had been told by someone who had a brother in the Gestapo that

the Jewish jeweller at the top of Blumenstrasse was about to be

arrested and that the Brownshirts would be in charge of looting and ransacking. There was sport to be had, and just possibly the odd

watch to be acquired.

Hans remained in the building and sat waiting in the outer office

for admission to the principal’s study. He was reminded of a conversation the previous week with Herr Professor Wolff in the same

room.

‘I can understand why you are eager to join the Hitler Youth,’

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Wolff had said, ‘but we need to consider the effects. I am sure you do not want to cause a rift with your parents. In any case, I think there may be better ways for you to serve the Reich. I am sure the

Führer would prefer you to assist in different ways. There will be

time for glory in the future.’

He had made his choices accordingly and now had a proposal to

make. It was perilous but it was the only way out of the mess cre-

ated by his idiot parents.

‘Come in, Hans,’ said Wolff, a studious university professor and

senior Party member who had been parachuted into his post after

the dismissal of his unreliable predecessor three years before.

Another man stood in the room, altogether less bookish and more

practical.

‘May I introduce Herr Weber of the Gestapo.’

Weber seemed Hans’s sort of person. Upright, muscular and vig-

orous, he was younger than Hans might have expected. He shook

hands with a firm grip and looked into Hans’s eyes. Hans felt Weber might have been looking into his soul.

‘Now then,’ said Weber. ‘I understand you wish to do your coun-

try a service. Discreetly, I mean. You’ll be pleased to know I have experience in such matters. Involving discretion, that is. Now, will you tell me what you wish to say?’

Direct and to the point. This was what Hans wanted.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, faltering at first, but then gaining confidence. ‘I have something to offer you and I’d like something in return.’

Weber smiled. ‘A bargain. Yes, we can manage that, within rea-

son. It has to be right for both of us, however. How can I help you?’

‘My parents are foolish, sir. We both know that. I can’t help but

love them. I know what they’re doing is likely to lead them to prison but there’s nothing I can do to dissuade them.’

‘Have you talked to them?’

‘No, it’s not worth beginning to.’

‘That’s probably just as well. The less they know of your feelings, the better.’

‘That’s what I thought. But I’d like to save them from

themselves.’

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‘Admirable. Go on.’

‘I have information I think you’d want. But I want to protect my

parents as well.’

Weber smiled again, that smile that said every problem had its

solution. ‘I understand. A dilemma. Let’s see whether we can sort it out. What’s the information?’

‘I thought, sir, we might agree first on what should happen once

I’ve told you.’

‘Well, that depends, really. What did you have in mind?’

‘I’d like my parents to leave the country. I’d prefer to stay, but I’d have to go with them. They wouldn’t leave without me.’

‘I see. The information would have to be very important for us to

permit this. And while we might be prepared to see your parents

leave – the greater the number of disloyal irritants outside the Fatherland the better, in one sense – actually to cause them to leave without making it obvious why would seem a problem. Deporting

them wouldn’t be a good example to set. Whereas if they simply

fled . . . Do you see?’

‘Yes. I’ve thought of that,’ said Hans.

‘Oh, good. Very good.’ Weber smiled again.

‘And on the first question, yes, I think my information would be

important enough.’

‘Hmm. We shall see. If I were to say yes in principle you’d have

to trust me first with this information. I’d give you my word, but

obviously if I genuinely believed what you told me was merely triv-

ial, there’d be no deal. Does that sound fair enough? Do you

trust me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good man. Then we can move forward. Deal?’

‘Yes, sir. Could I have it in writing?’

Weber laughed. ‘Deals like this aren’t usually subject to contract.

But yes, I’d be prepared to put my signature to something if it made you happier. For your own safety, however, I’d need to retain the

document.’

‘That’s all right, sir. I trust you.’

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‘All right, then. Fire away, Hans Taub.’

‘I overheard Albert Schröder and my father talking in Herr

Schröder’s study.’

‘This is the factory owner Schröder?’

‘Yes, sir. They were discussing the government and saying that

war’s inevitable.’

‘Yes?’

‘Herr Schröder said it was terrible. He and my father discussed

what could be done about the situation. He offered money to help

Jews leave the country. He wanted to help opposition to the Führer.

Later they discussed damaging the war effort in Herr Schröder’s

factories.’

‘Sabotage, you mean?’

‘Yes, sir. Herr Schröder told my father he was willing for his fac-

tories to be damaged if it harmed the German war effort. He asked

my father to pass this information outside the country.’

‘Anything else, Hans?’

Hans sensed that what he had said might not be sufficient.

‘Yes, sir. Herr Schröder told my father he’s a Jew. He has Jewish

blood.’

‘I see,’ said Weber, who had been noting this down. ‘This could be

important. Or possibly not. I simply don’t know. Can you remem-

ber exactly what was said, and by whom?’

‘Yes, sir, and it’s all true.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But I do need to think about it.’

‘Our deal, sir?’ said Hans tentatively.

‘You’ve no need to worry. I’ll keep my side of the bargain. The

question is whether we can do anything with this. That’s what’ll

make it important or unimportant. Would you be prepared to sign

a statement?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good man. You said you had ideas about how to make your

father go overseas?’

‘Yes, sir. It involves Herr Professor Wolff.’

‘I see. Tell me more.’

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Later, Hans was asked to leave, with an agreement to talk again

the next day in the principal’s office.

‘Do you believe him, Wolff ?’ asked Weber. ‘Might he have got this

wrong?’

‘He’s a very intelligent boy. Yes, I believe him. But we have some-

thing of an ethical problem.’

‘Yes?’

‘The boy is a minor. It is one thing denouncing your parents for

insulting the Führer when he comes on the radio. This is quite dif-

ferent. The consequences could be significant.’

‘I’m aware of that. But the difficulties may be surmountable.’

‘Do you have any corroboration for what he says?’

‘That’s something I’ll have to check. Frankly I doubt it. They may

have talked out of turn in front of little Hansi, but Taub and

Schröder are generally cautious individuals. Of course we know of

Taub’s visits to the house, but beyond that . . .’

‘You would not wish to see whether the boy can obtain further

information about Schröder and his father?’

‘I doubt he’d be able to. What he said would be sufficient to con-

demn both of them anyway, if we could prove it in a court of law.

Also, the time when we have room for manoeuvre for arrange-

ments like this may be limited. By this time next year . . .’

‘This is the unsupported testimony of a fourteen- year- old.’

‘I suppose so. If you put it like that. But it’s compelling and I suspect even more so when we get the detail down on paper. His age

doesn’t damage his credibility. What he said is entirely believable.

And there’s this. There’s a great deal of doubt about the Schröders.

They have bohemian connections. They make no effort to espouse

the right ideals. To be candid, my colleagues could welcome a con-

crete reason to edge Albert Schröder out of the picture. His business is a good one and can make a contribution to the war effort. The

wrong man’s in charge, though. Schröder is regarded as unreliable.

With good reason, it seems. And it’d be good to have Taub senior

out of our hair. There may be the possibility of a little latitude.’

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‘What do you mean, latitude?’

‘It may be more convenient to gloss over the fact of Hans’s age,

for instance.’

‘But when it comes to examination in court . . .’

‘Oh, there’s no question Hans would actually appear as a witness.

The state protects those who are public- minded enough to offer

confidential information. The presiding judge of the People’s Court will simply read the statement and hear my testimony.’

‘You would be prepared to omit relevant facts?’

‘Of course not. I simply don’t believe the boy’s age is particularly germane. More pertinent is his reliability, and we seem to have

established that. There are plenty of adults whose reports would be far less detailed and accurate. And if you and I have the choice of protecting the Reich or allowing known criminals to go scot free on questionable procedural grounds, then we surely have to err on the

side of justice. I’ll think about it overnight. Please have the boy available tomorrow.’

3

The next morning Hans was called from his first lesson by Herr

Professor Wolff and taken in a car to an anonymous office block he

did not recognize near the Ku’damm. It was exciting and at the

same time unnerving. He might easily be incarcerated in this grim

place. The Mercedes parked underneath the building and he was

escorted in the lift to an empty office on the fourth floor.

The office was panelled in walnut and had deep blue carpets.

Around a long polished conference table were twelve leather-

upholstered chairs. Hans walked around the table and counted

them twice. One long wall was dominated by a huge swastika flag.

He felt a frisson of pride.

Weber entered quickly with two other men. He was wearing a

black uniform so smart that Hans immediately coveted one. Weber

said, ‘
Heil, Hitler
,’ and saluted. Hans did not know whether this was 193

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a trick or a test. He responded with an outstretched arm and a bold

‘
Heil, Hitler
.’ This was so much better a feeling than when he had practised it in his bedroom, or saluted in class. This was for real, and he felt just slightly taller. The three men smiled, a little patronizingly he felt.