The Deep Secret

by David Robinson

  Billy threw the car into the island at Junction 25 of the M1, and followed it, turning north onto the motorway. “There’s a service station about five miles up here. We’ll dump the taxi there, thumb a lift, and if you can do your heart thing again, we can take over the car further up the road.”

  Burke nodded his satisfaction with the arrangements. “Look out, Patricia Sinclair and Scarbeck, here we come.”

  Billy grinned. “We are going that way, Gerry, but only to throw the cops off the scent.”

  Burke raised his eyebrows inviting an explanation.

  “Sinclair is not in Scarbeck anymore,” Billy explained. “When you fucked her up, you did a proper job. She’s never been right in the head since. I did a bit of inquiring at Scarbeck General the other week. Told ’em I was Croft. Anyway, it seems Sinclair was discharged six months ago, into her brother’s care. That’s why Croft is in Tenerife. He was so pissed off with everything that he upped and went to live over there.”

  “We need him back here,” Burke protested as Billy accelerated past a lorry. “To get him here, we need Sinclair, so we need to find out where her brother lives.”

  Billy signalled to come back into the left hand lane, and eased up for the approaching service area. “Already done, my friend. I know exactly where he lives.”

  3

  Julius Reiniger could never decide whether meeting Franz Walter was the best or the worst thing ever to happen to him.

  Born into a middle class Munich family in 1907, Julius’s world was turned upside down ten years later with news from the front at Ypres, that his father, an infantry Captain, had been killed. The death of Julius Senior led to a decline in the family fortunes. With little income, and post-war hyperinflation decimating the German economy, his mother was soon lost to consumption and young Julius was put into an orphanage, where he would stay for the next three years.

  At the age of fourteen, he was out on the streets again, begging, stealing, a soul lost to society, when a fellow urchin invited him along to a meeting of the National Socialist Party where at least he would get a drink and some food.

  Julius was immediately captivated by the charismatic speaker, Adolf Hitler, and before long he had become a member of the party, happily declaring his involvement as he distributed leaflets in exchange for food, a bed and a few Marks a day.

  In November 1923, the sixteen-year-old Julius was at the Bürgerbräukeller when Hitler held the regional government of Gustav von Kahr at gunpoint and declared that the national revolution had begun.

  Julius was fiercely proud to be at the heart of the revolution and, the following morning, November 9, 1923, along with his Führer and two to three thousand other men, many of them members of the elite SA, he marched on the Feldherrenhalle. A National Socialist Germany was about to become a reality.

  It was not to be. In the narrow confines of Residenzstrasse, they met with one hundred armed police and soldiers. Shooting broke out. Men ran in all directions. Rumours soon spread that the Führer had been shot and killed. Julius ran and ran and ran, out of the area, out of the city.

  Three days later he hitched a lift with a lorry driver to the city of Ulm and, reading the driver’s newspaper, he learned that Hitler had survived and had now been arrested on charges of treason. The party was in disarray, the air thick with recrimination, the various factions blaming each other for the failed coup.

  Although he had been a member of the party for only a few months, Julius knew his fellow National Socialists as an unforgiving crowd. They would be searching for him, ready to mete out punishment for his cowardice. That could take any form from simple expulsion to a beating, but considering the Führer had been injured and later captured, he believed that if they caught him, the dreaded SA would take ultimate revenge upon him… death.

  In addition, the State Police would also be on the lookout for him, and if they took him, it would mean prison, along with other members of the party who were caught, and they too would probably beat him to death. No matter what he decided for his future, the most important thing on his mind was getting out of Bavaria, hopefully out of Germany.

  He spent the night in Ulm, hidden under tarpaulin sheets in the railway lumberyard until workmen chased him off early in the morning. Fearful that they might call the Staatspolizei, he hurried away, still moving west, out of the city and into open country once more.

  Up ahead was Stuttgart, and still fearful that the police and the National Socialists would both be looking for him there, he dared not enter the city. He turned north before reaching the outskirts, and after spending another night sleeping rough, he was off before dawn.

  Rivers, he knew, followed comparatively flat land, no tedious hills or mountains to be negotiated. He stuck to the banks of the Neckar deviating only when the river passed through towns. Life on the streets of Munich had taught him how to steal, and he survived on bread and fruit and vegetables taken from stalls and shops along the way, and risked water from the river.

  He did not know how many days he was on the move. A cold, German winter was setting in. Nights, he spent freezing, wrapped in his meagre clothing in forests or risking a barn here and there. Days, he simply kept on moving.

  After perhaps a week, half starved, he followed a broad bend in the river, and suddenly a childhood memory flooded his mind.

  An old castle standing majestically on a hillside above what looked like a mediaeval town. Schloss Heidelberg. Heidelberg Castle. His parents had brought him here as a boy in that wonderful summer of 1914, before his father went off to fight the Kaiser’s war.

  From the depths of his memory, he dredged the skimpy geography he had learned at the orphanage. He was out of Bavaria. A different police force, a different region, a different philosophy. According to Herr Hitler, university towns like Heidelberg were hotbeds of Marxism and Jews, against everything the good German citizen stood for. His sudden ebullience was edged with caution. Despite Heidelberg’s reputation for liberalism, the National Socialists were still quite strong in the city. He could not stay long.

  A cold mist rose on the Neckar as he made his way across Karl-Theodor-Brücke, the bridge across the river, and under the decorative arch into the old town. Wary of passing trams, he meandered along the narrow streets as the shops and stalls prepared for the day’s business. At the intersection with Untere Strasse, he paused, staring up at the towering edifice of the Heiliggeistkirche: the Holy Ghost Church, its huge, rounded bulk forming one whole side of Marktplatz, its needle-like spire scraping the frosty sky.

  Around the base of the church, stallholders plied their trades as had been the custom for hundreds of years, and the December air was filled with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread, the delightful sight of cakes, sweets, Austrian torte, pastries, sides of beef, legs of lamb and pork, fresh fish and vegetables. From the pavement cafes came the tempting aroma of hot food and coffee. Life in Heidelberg appeared not to be have been overtly affected by the collapse of the German economy.

  Julius’s stomach, empty for over twenty-four hours, growled in protest.

  A baker stood to one end of his stall, passing the time of day with a woman customer. Julius idled at the other end of the stall, one wary eye on the proprietor. He could not hear their conversation, but he caught the word ‘Hitler’ and assumed they were discussing the botched putsch. Quick as a flash, he took a loaf of bread, tucked it under his filthy shirt, and walked away, along Hauptstrasse.

  The woman shouted a warning, the proprietor called out something and then gave chase. Julius ran, hurtling along the narrow, cobbled thoroughfare, avoiding an oncoming tram, and turned sharp right into the fish market. He risked a glance over his shoulder where the red-faced, overweight baker waved a threatening fist at him.

  Inwardly, Julius smiled. Hungry he may be, but he could still outrun an old fool like–

  His gloating ended abruptly as he collided heavily with a smartly dressed man. Julius fell to the cold cobbles, the loaf of bread rolling from un
der his shirt to the ground. Momentarily dazed, he looked up into a pure blond, blue-eyed Aryan face that stared grimly back at him.

  And suddenly the baker was there too, haranguing him, dragging him roughly to his feet.

  The stranger looked on for a moment while the baker told Julius exactly what he would do with him.

  “I’ve a good mind to whip you myself, you thieving little bastard.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said the stranger.

  “Sir,” said the baker with great deference, “I am grateful to you for stopping this vagabond in his tracks, but I think this is a matter for the police.” He glared murderously into Julius’s eyes. “Or perhaps more instant justice.”

  “I am the police,” said the stranger and dug into his neatly pressed jacket to bring out a wallet, which he flashed quickly at the baker before putting it way again. “Inspector Röhm, State Police. What seems to be the problem?”

  “He stole a loaf of bread and I demand justice. We do have laws against stealing, do we not?”

  “Of course.” The inspector looked down upon Julius. “Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Julius shrugged miserably. “I was hungry.”

  “Decent folk,” observed the baker, “work for their living. They earn wages to pay for food.”

  Julius looked him sourly in the eye. “Would you give me a job?”

  The baker raised his hand. “I’ll give you a good hiding, lad.”

  “There is no need for that,” said the policeman. “We are not barbarians. With your permission, sir, I will take him to the police station and prepare charges. If you come along later this morning and make out the formal complaint forms, I’m sure we can guarantee a quick conviction and suitable punishment.”

  Grudgingly, the baker agreed and with a final, threatening growl at Julius, stormed off back to his neglected stall.

  “Now, young man, what is your name?”

  Julius told him and the officer held up a stout walking cane with a silver ferrule.

  “We are going for a walk, Julius, and if you should try to run from me, not only will you find me faster and fitter than the baker, but you will also find this stick to be very painful when it strikes your back. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will address me as master. Now I ask again, do you understand?”

  Julius did not, but he knew better than to say so. “Yes, master.”

  Röhm turned and led them back the way Julius had been running, turning along Untere Strasse and left along Steingasse, back towards the Brückentor, the arched gate to the old city, leading to the Karl-Theodor-Brücke and across the river.

  Julius had never felt so afraid in his life. Once at the police station, they would soon learn of his crimes in Munich, the Bavarian State Police would be called in, and he would be taken back to face charges in connection with the attempted coup. Soon he would be imprisoned with his fellow party members and he knew he would never survive. If they did not physically beat him to death, they would make life so intolerable for him that his only way out would be to hang himself.

  The fine, December morning was still bitterly cold, and their breath condensed into misty vapour as they marched across the bridge. The river was still shrouded in low fog, and once on the other side, Julius looked back to a fine view of the old town, rooftops, and spires striking into the clear air, and the castle keeping watch from above like a mother hen overseeing her chicks.

  “Come, Julius. We don’t have time for sightseeing.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Facing them, slightly to the right, was the forbidding climb of the Philosophenweg. Weak with hunger, Julius did not relish the prospect of climbing the steeply wooded hill and was relieved when the policeman turned left, towards the town centre of Neuenheim.

  They walked on past the shops and market, busier than ever in the build up to Christmas, along Ladenburger Strasse, and turned into the residential area around Lutherstrasse. There, in one of the tiny streets, the policeman finally opened the front door of a small apartment block and ushered Julius in.

  “This is the police station?”

  “No, Julius, this is not the police station, and I am not a policeman.”

  The boy gawped, making no pretence at understanding.

  “I was not about to see you go to prison because of that oaf, when all you did was try to feed yourself.” Hurrying up to the first floor, the stranger let them into his rooms, removed his hat and coat, and hung them behind the door. He smiled grimly at the young man. “When did you last eat?”

  “Yesterday. The day before. I don’t remember, Herr Röhm.”

  “My name is not Röhm. It is Walter. Franz Walter, but you may address me as master. Come, Julius, there is a washstand in the kitchen where you may clean up while I prepare coffee and rolls. You would welcome something like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes… yes master.”

  The water was cold, but not as cold as the river in which he had washed the day before. Running the soap over his pale skin, Julius felt good to be clean again, but doubts crept into his mind about Herr Walter and his philanthropy.

  During NSDAP meetings, the young acolytes had been warned of homosexuals and their fondness for boys. Some of the descriptions of homosexual practices had been luridly spelled out, to the point of almost making Julius sick. Now in this strange, yet kindly man’s house, he had no desire to have his ‘arse fucked’, as his last Obergruppenführer had put it.

  On the other hand, he was starving, and he would be foolish to refuse the man’s generosity for the time being. The rolls smelled good and fresh, the coffee excited his nostrils. Joining Herr Walter at a wooden table in the centre of the kitchen, he ate ravenously, as if he had not been fed for a week, never mind a day.

  Sat alongside him, warmed by the log fire, Walter sipped noisily from his cup. “So, Julius, tell me about yourself. What brings a young man like you to the streets in such a state of, er, disrepair?”

  Julius said nothing, merely shrugged and carried on eating.

  “You have no friends, family?”

  “I was in a Munich orphanage until two years ago when I turned fourteen and they threw me out.”

  “Inconsiderate of them. You have no work?”

  Julius shook his head and washed half a roll down with a mouthful of coffee.

  “Would you like to work?”

  Julius paused. Coffee dribbled down his chin. He cast his eyes sideways, suspicious, questioning.

  “You will find me a good employer,” Walter advised him, “provided you do your work properly. You will have your meals, your bed and, er, some entertainment, but I offer only minimal wages.” Walter hutched his chair nearer to Julius. “You see, my boy, I find myself without a manservant. The last one left suddenly, just a week ago. There is a vacancy, I am offering you the job.” He leaned over, almost conspiratorially. “I promise you, you will enjoy working and entertaining with me.”

  Julius dropped his cup, leapt from the chair and backed off into the fireplace. Yelping with sudden heat, he leapt again, but this time grabbed a brass handled poker.

  “You stay away from me. You hear. I’ve heard about men like you.”

  Walter was taken aback. He stared angrily at the boy and then just as quickly, his features softened and split into a broad smile. “You think I’m queer?” Julius’s features must have confirmed it, for Walter roared with laughter. “My dear boy, that is the last thing I am. Here. Come with me.”

  He led the way through a narrow door and up a flight of stairs to the upper rooms and threw open the door. Julius peered in, his eyes suddenly wide.

  On the bed was a naked woman of about forty years, her arms laid loosely at her side, her legs flat and splayed, her breasts flattened, the dark thatch of her pubic hair drawing Julius’s gaping eyes.

  It was the first time he had ever seen a fully naked woman. He’d seen pictures before. One of the older boys at the orph
anage had sneaked in a foreign magazine once, which showed bare-breasted females, but this was his first sight ever of the whole body without clothing.

  “She is hypnotised,” Walter declared. “I am a hypnotist. She’s been here for the last two hours. She does not know where she is, she does not know what is happening to her. That, Julius, is my entertainment.” He smiled down on the boy again. “Come and work for me and it can be yours, too.”

  ***

  For Julius, there were many more surprises to come in the weeks that followed. He had to learn how to cook, to clean, to press his master’s clothing, he had to get to know the local shopkeepers in Neuenheim, so that when he called for Herr Walter’s order, it would be exactly as the master wanted.

  Several of his biggest shocks came on that very first night. Called to the master’s bedroom, he was still captivated by the sight of this naked woman when, to his astonishment, Walter stripped and proceeded to have sex with her.

  The sight caused an erection to grow in Julius’s trousers and he was wondering how quickly he could get away to pull it off, when Walter climaxed and then stood up from the woman.

  “And now, Julius, it’s your turn. She is yours.”

  He was both puzzled and nervous. “But master, I have never…”

  Walter chuckled. “When you are done, when you are dressed again, I will explain the difference between the moral and the amoral. But now, it is time for you to lose your virginity. Take her, boy, before that hard poker in your trousers turns into a flaccid worm fit only for pissing.”

  If Julius felt uncomfortable and embarrassed at having his first, true sexual experience while being watched by another man, he soon lost himself in the delights of fornication and before many minutes had passed he was spent, gasping for breath to fill his exhausted lungs.

  Once he left her, once he had dressed, Walter had more surprises in store for him.