Schreiber's Secret (12 page)

“Who is this man?”

“The man who wrote the note ... HS.”

Edwards felt the familiar tingling sensation along his spine which usually signalled a good story. Yet the world was full of cranks and he was not going to jump to conclusions on this one.

“Who is this HS?” he said, a note of scepticism creeping into his voice.

“Hans Schreiber, the Beast of the Small Fortress,” replied the caller, spitting out the word “Beast”.

“The what?”

“Please, Mr Edwards, do not believe that I am crazy. I am deadly serious. The murder of the taxi driver was the modus operandi of Hans Schreiber. He was an Obersturmführer, an SS lieutenant, at the Small Fortress in Theresienstadt. He used to kill people with a bullet through the nape of the neck and then carve a swastika in the forehead. He is a monster.”

Edwards’ mind raced. “How do you know all this?”

“I was there, Mr Edwards. I suffered. I survived.”

“But he must be an old man by now.”

“He is the same age as me, Mr Edwards. Is seventy-one too old to kill?”

“Tell me, how can I contact you?”

There was a pause as the caller took stock. “I am afraid, Mr Edwards. Very afraid. I will call you with further information as long as you do me one favour.”

“Yes?” Edwards said hesitantly.

“Please keep me informed of latest developments as far as the police are concerned. I need to stay one step ahead of him. Please tell me you will do this and I promise I will help you.”

A thousand thoughts flashed through Edwards’ mind. The whole thing was bizarre, yet he knew he must check it out as best as he could. “Listen, I will give you my direct line here at the office and my mobile phone number. If you can’t get me at my office, dial this number. Are you calling from a callbox?”

“Why do you ask?” came the suspicious reply.

“Because you’ll need to have plenty of money on hand. The calls cost about thirty-five pence a minute.”

“Thank you, I’ll manage.”

“By the way,” said Edwards,
“
ich spreche deutsch. Ich studierte es in der Universität.Sie können deutsch sprechen, wenn Sie wolle
n
.”

Again there was a long pause before the bitter reply came. “I vowed never to speak that accursed language again. Speak to me only in English.”

Edwards coughed awkwardly before giving the caller both phone numbers. “Please be in touch,” he said firmly. “I will do all I can.”

“Who the hell was that?” asked Pottage as Edwards replaced the receiver.

“Probably a crank,” sighed Edwards, “but you never know.”

“Well, give to Uncle Jim,” said the older man, beckoning with both hands.

“I’ll explain later, Jim. Tell me, what’s the name of that place where you check out books and info on the Holocaust? In the West End somewhere.”

“The Wiener Library, Devonshire Street.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Edwards, rising. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jim.”

James Harold Pottage sat back in his chair nonplussed. Suddenly finding his tongue, he called out to the receding figure of the chief crime reporter.

“Bugger you, Edwards,” he shouted, only half jokingly.

The following morning, as Edwards rode the Circle Line to Great Portland Street, his thoughts were mainly of Danielle. She had rung him at the office about an hour earlier and had described the previous day’s funeral. It had been a rather desperate affair, with Auntie Becky beside herself with grief. Danielle had told him she would be taking a second day off and would pick him up at seven-thirty in the evening in time for the eight o’clock start of th
e
shiv
a
. “I’ll bring
a
kipp
a
, a skullcap, for you,” she had said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay. It’ll be an experience.”

During the train journey, he had dwelt little on his destination and the purpose of his visit to the Wiener Library. He needed to know about Theresienstadt, about the Small Fortress and about Hans Schreiber. The strange caller had not given much detail. Edwards knew that if he could gen up he might win the caller’s confidence. He also knew that should he decide to write the story, all hell would break loose. An incensed Webb would demand that he divulge his source. The police would probably suspect that the caller knew the killer or, for that matter, was the killer himself. He had the distinct feeling that the case was going to run and run. Meanwhile, in order to concentrate on the job in hand, Edwards was forced to place the moral issue on the back burner.

Considering it was in the heart of the West End, the terraced building housing the Wiener Library in Devonshire Street, was unprepossessing. The grey slabs that made up the façade were covered in a patina of sooty deposits left by the incessant flow of traffic. Edwards stared up at the entrance, a large black door which stood at the top of a small flight of stone steps. To the right of the door was a small brass nameplate declaring that it was the home of the Institute of Contemporary History and Wiener Library. Pottage had told him that inside its portals were almost thirty-five thousand books on the Third Reich, the survival and revival of Nazi and fascist movements, anti-Semitism, racism and postwar Germany. As he pressed the buzzer and was granted entrance, the reporter hoped he would not have to read through all of them to find what he was looking for.

He was directed to a first-floor room that was as unexceptional as the exterior. Compared to his local borough library it appeared minuscule. The room was empty apart from a junior librarian and an older grey-haired man who was studying intently at the long table that ran down the centre.

“We have more documentation downstairs,” said the librarian. The bespectacled young man was also a part-time clairvoyant, thought Edwards.

“Oh, er, thanks,” the reporter stammered. “I’d just like to see some documentation on the SS, please. And also if you have any information on the Small Fortress at Theresienstadt.”

A few minutes later, Edwards was poring over a heavy leather-bound tome. He knew that much of the early Nazi documentation was written in Gothic script. As a student, Edwards had always found the script burdensome. The Nazis had worshipped it as a symbol of Germany’s glorious and heroic past, using it at every opportunity until one bright bureaucrat decided it was not the easiest way to make the ordinary German citizen literate.

Delving into the tome, the reporter was unaware of the stranger at his side.

“You look puzzled, my friend. Can I be of some assistance?”  Startled, Edwards looked up to see the grey-haired man standing over him. He was early middle aged and about six feet tall with thin, almost gaunt features. Horn-rims and a wispy goatee lent him a rather bookish appearance. An empty pipe protruded from thin, colourless lips. From his accent, Edwards knew the man was German.

“I’m afraid I’m having a bit of trouble with this Gothic script,” he said apologetically. “My German’s not bad, just a bit rusty
.
Ich studierte es in der Universitä
t
.”

The stranger shook his head and removed his pipe.
“
Es macht mir nichts aus. Sprechen Sie was Sie wolle
n
. I’m easy.”

Edwards smiled. The man’s casual manner put him at ease immediately. Besides, the reporter knew he could do with some help. “What does this sentence mean?” he asked.

The man leaned closer and proceeded to give an explanation in flawless English that made complete sense.

“
Dank
e
,” said Edwards, rising and stretching out a hand. They were around the same height. “I’m Mark Edwards.”

“
Sehr erfreu
t
. Dieter Müller, at your service.”

Typically Germanic, thought Edwards, as the man shook his hand firmly. He could have sworn there was a slight clicking of the heels. The reporter leaned on the table and folded his arms. “How do you like our wonderful city?”

“Ah, my friend, there is one thing that makes London so much more attractive than Berlin.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s dirtier.”

Edwards laughed loudly and then covered his mouth as he caught sight of the librarian’s unappreciative gaze.

“What are you doing over here?” he asked in a more hushed tone.

“I’m a history professor at Heidelberg on a sabbatical,” said Müller, scratching his angular chin. There was the light of pride in his steel-blue eyes.
“
Ich hab mein Herz in Heidelberg verlore
n
.”

“My heart’s closer to home, Dieter. But I know what you mean about Heidelberg. I’ve been there myself. It’s a truly beautiful town. The university is magic. Do you specialize in anything in particular?”

“I’m an expert in the rise and fall of Nazism and Holocaust studies. I also have a Master’s in psychology.”

“Phew, pretty impressive. I thought most Germans were only interested in sweeping the past under the carpet.”

“They are,” smiled Müller, showing rows of teeth stained by pipe tobacco.

“I am their nemesis. Mind you, the number of politically active neo-Nazis and rightwing nationalists in Germany is relatively small, about forty thousand in all, but the shadows they cast are long because of my country’s past.
But as it says on the gates of Dachau
,
Nie wiede
r
. Never again.”

“Good for you, Dieter, although it seems that those old Nazis never seem to die or even fade away.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must have heard about the Jewish taxi driver who was murdered the other day.”

“Yes, terrible thing. The papers seem to think the killer is this HS and that he is probably a neo-Nazi.”

“Maybe,” said Edwards, wiping the corners of his mouth. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I’m a reporter for th
e
Evening Standar
d
.”

“Yes, now I remember why I thought I had seen you before. Your photograph was in yesterday’s newspaper.”

“I’m surprised you recognized me from that,” Edwards laughed.

“True, it doesn’t really do you justice.”

Edwards, beginning to warm to the professor, was coming to believe that the man might indeed be able to help in the search for background on Schreiber. “Can you keep a secret?” He winked conspiratorially.

“Try me, my friend,” said Müller, switching comfortably back to English.

Edwards paused, thinking the whole thing might sound a bit farfetched. He looked past the German and at the librarian. Taking the hint, Müller suggested they go into a side study to continue their conversation.

“I suppose I’m here because of a phone call,” said the reporter, leaning against a table. Müller’s raised eyebrows betrayed an eagerness to know more.

“I received a rather strange call from a man with a German accent. He said that he knew who the killer was, that this HS was a guy by the name of Hans Schreiber, a junior SS officer at the Small Fortress in Theresienstadt. He was very agitated and might just be a crank, but I don’t think so.”

If Müller was surprised, he did not show it. He stroked his goatee for a few seconds. “I think it is fortuitous that we met here today, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“It just so happens that I’m currently researching Theresienstadt. I can save you a lot of legwork, although I don’t think you’ll find much on Schreiber.”

“Why’s that?”

“Simply because the files on junior SS officers are not as thick as the files on the big fish. I mean
, there’s plenty about Joeckl, who was also called Pinda and was commandant of the Small Fort. He was executed in Prague in the autumn of 1946. A fitting end for an arch-criminal. But Schreiber ...” Müller shrugged.

Undeterred, Edwards pressed on. “But this Schreiber must have been a pretty mean character. I mean, to shoot prisoners through the nape of the neck and then carve a swastika in their foreheads must have made him a number-one target for the investigating authorities after the war.”

“Is that what the caller told you?”

“Well, he told me about Schreiber’s modus operandi.”

“What did he sound like, may I ask?”

Edwards scratched his chin. “Elderly, I suppose. Must be, as he said he was a victim of Schreiber.”

“A victim?” Müller’s voice held a trace of scepticism.

“Yes, he said Schreiber made him suffer but he lived to tell the tale.”

“Was he Jewish?”

“Maybe. He had a heavy German accent. He might be Jewish, but he didn’t say.”

Müller’s voice softened. “I’m afraid, Mark, that as far as my knowledge goes, there were no Jewish survivors of the Small Fortress.”

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

“I mean that it was a place where those who had been particularly irksome to the Nazis were sent for rehabilitation. There were plenty of survivors among the criminal and political fraternity of Theresienstadt. But Jews were singled out for special treatment. The Americans have a wonderful phrase for it ... extreme prejudice.”