JOHN SPARGO YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR DEPTH
Running water and clattering cups downstairs meant Rydel was busy. Spargo switched off the computer, hurried downstairs, went to the mantelshelf and slid out the photograph Rydel had hidden. Like all the others it was black and white, a monochrome photo with cracked emulsion and dog-eared corners. A photo, Spargo told himself, that had been in someone’s wallet for a very long time. With his back to the kitchen door he examined it.
In the photograph, two men in their late teens stood side by side against a backdrop of trees. Though one was taller than the other they looked so alike they might well have been twins. Both had high foreheads, long faces and high cheekbones. Their tight-buttoned jackets had no lapels. Baggy trousers drooped over heavy boots and long leather gaiters.
Again, cups clattered. Spargo moved fast. By the time Rydel came through the doorway Spargo was sitting casually in one of the armchairs. Rydel, carrying the tray in his right hand, crossed the room and slid it onto the table.
‘That photograph.’ Spargo said. ‘The one with the two boys. Are you one of them?’
‘The taller boy is Mark. I am the other one.’
There were no denials and Spargo felt guilt. Rydel hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even asked which photo. The man was no fool. He knew Spargo had come down to look at it.
‘You look alike,’ Spargo said. ‘Were you brothers?’
‘We were cousins. Mark was a year older than me. The picture was taken on his eighteenth birthday. It was taken in Danzig in nineteen-thirty seven. Danzig is now Gdansk.’
‘Poland?’
‘Poland,’ Rydel said, arranging cups. ‘The books you found. You said Mark translated them?’
‘He did part of one.’
‘You implied he didn’t do it well. That surprises me.’
‘The police sent him all the journals. For some reason he only translated a small bit in only one of the volumes. I’m having them looked at by someone else, a university lecturer. She said Mark’s translation is wrong. He omitted a man’s name.’
Rydel was holding the teapot, filling the first cup. ‘And the name Mark omitted is what?’
‘Theodor Volker.’
Rydel jerked. It was as if his legs had been kicked from under him. Cups rolled off the edge of the tray. Tea spurted from the spout of the ball-shaped teapot as it slid to the edge of the table, hesitated for an instant, and then fell, exploding on the floor like a steam-filled balloon. Spargo leapt up. Rydel waved him away.
‘Sit down, sit down! I will see to it!’
‘You knew Theodor Volker.’
‘I burnt my wrist on the teapot, that is all. The name means nothing to me. Why should it?’
‘Lewis knew the name. He left it out of the translation because he didn’t want it seen.’
‘I told you. We never discussed work.’
‘Theodor Volker was the captain of a German submarine in the Second World War. Tell me I’m right.’ Rydel’s face paled. Fearing the man might fall Spargo stayed close. ‘Lewis sent me an email message saying I was out of my depth. I’ve just seen it on his computer. I was being warned off. Warned off from what, Mr Rydel?’
‘I know nothing of Mark’s work. I do not understand these things, these emails.’ He had piled everything on the tray and was lifting it with one hand. ‘You must leave,’ he said. ‘You are no longer welcome in my house.’
‘How can you turn your back on this? Three people are dead, all murdered. Don’t you think you owe it to your own cousin?’
‘Three people…?’
‘My mother and your friend. Also a journalist who got involved, I found his body in the basement of my house. He was looking for the journals, I’m sure of it. I want to know why they were killed.’
‘I do not know why.’
‘Who is Mark Lewis? Why did he recognise the name Volker? Why did you recognise it?’
‘I have told you about Mark. That is what you came for. You must go now.’
‘You have told me nothing.’
Rydel sighed. He placed the tray on the table and collapsed back in the chair, seemingly exhausted.
‘Very well. Perhaps I owe it to you. Or if not to you, then to Morag. Listen to me, because the things I say to you now I will never repeat, do you understand? I will never repeat.’
‘I understand. But in a court of law?’
‘I will never repeat, John Spargo! Never!’
‘I’m sorry. Yes. Please continue.’
‘Very well. I will start at the beginning, it is best. In nineteen-thirty-eight Mark and I left Danzig and travelled to Rostock in Germany, that is a distance of five hundred miles. You will know that in September the following year the Germans invaded my country.’
‘They invaded while we stood by and did nothing.’
‘I do not want your sympathy, I do not approve of those who apologise for wrongs committed by their forebears. Besides, we were unprepared. We relied on cavalry brigades on horseback while the Germans had tanks.’
‘Why did you go to Rostock?’
‘My father had friends there. The Germans wanted immigrant workers. I am a Jew, Mark also. But of course, you seem to have discovered that yourself.’
‘But you went to Germany. Surely you knew what had been happening there?’
‘We knew. Everyone knew. We also knew what our fate would be if we stayed in Poland. Our fathers were not wealthy men but they had some money. For those lucky enough there were things that could be done.’
‘New papers?’
‘A new identity was only part of the problem.’
Spargo frowned. Rydel locked eyes with Spargo. ‘Use your imagination, John Spargo. What is the one thing that distinguishes Jewish men from Gentiles… apart, of course, from their religious beliefs? Like all Jewish boys we were circumcised. You might think that circumcision is not something that can be reversed, but there were ways.’
Spargo looked away. Didn’t want to go there.
Rydel glared at him. ‘Please have the courtesy to look at me while I am talking to you.’
Spargo weathered the stare. He hadn’t expected this.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is none of my business. I should not have asked.’
‘This is your business, you have made it your business. You insist I answer your questions yet you want to be selective about what you hear. Skin grafts, John Spargo, I can assure you it was being done. We were amongst the few lucky ones – though Mark was not as lucky as me because his operation was not a complete success, it left him scarred. The surgeon falsified documents to protect him. An accident, it said on Mark’s medical certificate.’ Rydel looked away, his voice tailed off. ‘A childhood accident.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.’
‘Hear me out. You know of the ghettos? The camps?’
‘Of course. Everyone does.’
‘Then like everyone who knows but was not there, you can only imagine what I mean when I say we were lucky. Millions were not, our families were not. Six million, John Spargo! Can you even begin to imagine such a number?’
Spargo shook his head. Wasn’t sure he knew what this had to do with Mark Lewis’s death. Rydel continued:
‘As you rightly supposed, our fathers obtained the correct papers. Nazi Germany needed recruits, good Aryan boys. Polish, Belgian, French, Dutch. Even British. Are you aware the SS formed a British division? But that is of no relevance here. What is of relevance is that Mark and I joined the German navy, the Kriegsmarine.’
‘I find that surprising.’
‘Do you really? Do you doubt me? Do you have the audacity to suggest I would lie to you? We did not have the word Jew written across our foreheads – though there were many who would have liked to do that. Do you honestly think it was possible for two fit young Polish boys to live in Germany and not join their armed forces? Those in Poland who were not Jews joined up in their thousands. Can you think of a better way to have survived
? Can you think of any other way to have survived? ‘
Both men sat quietly, Rydel gazing at the back of his hand and Spargo at the floor. Lewis’s email was right, he was out of his depth. He had too many questions to ask, questions whose answers he might not want to hear.
‘So you came to Scotland as a prisoner of war?’
‘After the war I did not return home, I had no home to return to. Poland was annexed by the Soviets, in case you have forgotten.’
‘And Lewis? He came here too?’
‘In the navy we trained together. We were posted to the same vessel, a minelayer. By more good luck than planning we remained together for the rest of the war. We fought for the enemy. It is a shame I cannot forget.’
‘What was the last vessel you served on?’
‘I have said all I am willing to say. I cannot help you further. It is time for you to go.’
Spargo rose from the armchair as if about to leave. Instead of turning away he walked to Rydel, took the lighter from his pocket and thrust it out with the gold eagle uppermost. He had no need to ask the man if he had seen it before. Rydel’s eyes widened. His head shook in denial.
‘This was found in the wreck of a U-boat commanded by Kapitänleutnant Theodor Volker,’ Spargo said. ‘Who did it belong to?’ Rydel reached out as if to take it but stopped halfway, his hand frozen. ‘The boat’s number was U-1500. Does that mean anything to you Mr Rydel? Was U-1500 the submarine you and Mark Lewis were serving on when the war ended?’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
THERE IS A MILITARY TRUCK in Artur’s farmyard. The driver is having difficulties reversing, he cannot find the right gear. Artur watches through the parlour window.
‘Your friends are here. This time there is only one lorry.’
Theo is washing dishes in the kitchen. He crosses to the parlour window and stands there with Artur. Disappointed Walter is early he wipes dirt from the window and peers outside. There is only one man in the cab, a man in dark uniform.
‘It’s a different truck,’ he mutters. ‘A different driver.’
The truck’s engine roars. The driver gives two bursts on the horn and then one long, impatient blast.
‘Your friends are impatient fools. Do they think you are deaf and blind?’
Theo puts on his tunic and leaves it unbuttoned. As he goes for his long boots the horn sounds again. He opens the front door and waves and shouts, gesturing to the driver to stop. The cab door opens. The driver leans out and shouts back.
‘You have a strange way of greeting your friends, Theodor!’
It is Walter. His cap is tilted back on his head and his tunic unbuttoned. The mud in the yard is frozen rock-hard and Theo walks on it cautiously as he heads for the truck. He realises as he gets closer that Walter’s cap is new. Instead of blue-grey it is a dark, ashen grey. One of the badges it bears is the same as his own, but the cap band below it is black. Mounted in the centre of the cap band is a small silver skull.
Theo stares, open mouthed. Walter stares back.
‘Close your mouth. With this stink there will be flies.’
‘It is too cold for flies.’
He looks up at Walter and takes in the dark uniform, the black collar and lapels. On each lapel are badges, pairs of oak leaves in silver braid. Indicative, Theo knows, of an SS officer of high rank.
‘We do not have all day, Theodor. And much as I would like the pleasure of meeting your in-laws and your son and heir, I have no intention of stepping down into ankle-deep shit.’
‘It’s frozen,’ Theo says absently. ‘Walter... if they catch you wearing that uniform you will be shot.’
Walter raises an eyebrow. ‘I think not. You, of course, may well be shot for wearing yours. The difference between us is that while I am entitled to wear my Schutzstaffel uniform, you are not entitled to wear that of a Luftwaffe Hauptmann.’
‘I don’t believe you. You cannot be SS.’
‘You are wrong. I am an Oberführer. And in case you don’t understand our ranks, that is a higher rank than the one I adopted for my little Luftwaffe act. There is no equivalent rank in your Kriegsmarine. However, it approximates, I believe, to vice-Admiral. Are you coming? I do not have time to spare.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You do not. Get your things. Can you drive one of these things?’
‘I can drive a car.’
‘This has several more gears and is slightly heavier. Once we get on to the autobahn you will soon learn.’
‘I thought we had a driver?’
‘You can see there is no driver. Fetch your bags. I will give you five minutes.’
‘I need more time. You said midday.’
‘Things have changed. Five minutes. Get your bags.’
‘I want to take my boy with me. You can see how bad this place is.’
It is Walter’s turn to look stunned. He goes to speak but closes his mouth. Tries again.
‘You are insane! How old is the child?’
‘Three.’
‘Good god! It needs a nurse, not a fool like you.’
‘His grandmother is in hospital. My father-in-law can’t cope with the farm and the boy.’
Walter gives himself time to think. He examines his gloved hands, first the left, then the right, first the palms and then the backs. He places both on the steering wheel and sighs.
‘Theodor, I can take your boy to Ingolstadt, there will be something for him there. There are places for such children.’
‘I can care for him. After we deliver our cargo we can take him to Salzgitter on our way back to Carinhall. I will find someone there to look after him, someone at the mines. They are good people. I will pay them.’
‘We cannot do that. We will travel a different route. Once I have done what I have to do then we will drive to Hamburg.’
‘Then take us to a railway station.’
‘You have no travel permits.’
‘I have a permit for myself to travel to Hamburg. I shall tell them he is my son. I shall explain everything.’
‘You are forgetting. You do not have a permit, I destroyed your papers. Do you seriously think I brought you this far so you can simply walk away from me?’
‘He can travel in the back of the truck. I can get quilts.’
‘It is out of the question. I am carrying cargo, there is no space.’
Theo grabs a handle beside the driver’s door, pulls himself up and looks past Walter. The cab is empty except for a bag on the floor. The bench seat has room for three.
‘He is small. He can travel up here, with us.’
‘That is not possible, you are forgetting the checkpoints. There are ways to avoid the regular ones but I cannot avoid the random ones.’
‘You can pull rank. You are an SS Oberführer.’
‘And you are insane.’
Walter steps down from the cab. With a sweep of his arm he shoves Theo aside. He steps gingerly on the mud, testing it with the toes of each boot before stepping down properly. Without either of them noticing, Peter comes out in the yard, runs over and stands right beside them. He has been playing near the grate and his face is smeared black. He has his fingers in his mouth and with his free hand he reaches up and grasps the hem of Walter’s tunic. Walter looks down, as if at a wild animal.
‘This is him? This is your son?’
Theo expects disapproval, even disgust. But Walter just stares. ‘Why does he do that? Why is he barefoot in ice-cold mud? Why does he cling to a stranger, a man he does not know?’
Theo snaps at the boy, ‘Go inside, Peter!’
The boy stays, sucking his black fingers and looking up at Walter.
‘He looks sick.’
‘He is healthy. He is well-fed.’
‘He is not. Look at him, he is pale. Our faces are red with the cold but his is white. He should see a doctor. He should be in hospital.’
Then Artur is there, averting his eyes from Walter’s uniform. He scoops up the
boy in his arms and heads back to the house.
‘Your father-in-law is an old man. Does he care for the boy without help?’
They stand watching Artur. He is stumbling, struggling to cope with the boy’s weight.
‘I will take him, Theodor. If I take your child to Salzgitter then we shall be even, do you agree?’
‘Even?’
‘I have not forgotten you once saved my life. If I take him then we will be even. Tell me, Theo. Say it!’
Theo wants to say nobody is counting, there is no debt to pay. But if Walter believes there is no debt then he will lose this chance.
‘It is agreed then. We shall be even. But Hamburg, Walter, not Salzgitter. Erica had many friends there. They will care for Peter, I am sure.’
‘Very well. A life for a life, Theodor.’
‘What about checkpoints? You said – ’
Walter shrugs. ‘We will take our chances. As you said, possibly I can take care of them.’
Theo walks to the back of the truck to see what is inside it. He climbs the four rungs of a short ladder fixed to the tailgate, pulls aside the canvas curtain, looks in and is faced with a wall of stacked crates. Down one side of the truck, between the side panel and the crates is a long narrow gap containing neatly stacked fuel cans. Walter’s suitcases are there – also a kitbag Theo hasn’t seen before. In the last remaining space, on the floor of the truck and immediately behind the tailgate are white muslin bags containing food.
He steps down. Walter is there, watching. Theo points to stencilled markings on the crates.
‘Property of the SS? To me they look like the crates we had before. What happened, weren’t they delivered? Is it where we are going now? Is it why you are early? Where is the other truck? Are these the crates I signed for as having been delivered?’
‘Part of our deal is that you ask no questions. Get your bags. And bring the boy, before I change my mind. Having him in the cab is out of the question. We must make space for him in the back. We must rearrange the cargo.’
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 31
