Nothing left to lose

by Stuart Allison

  We drove down to London in my Saab on Sunday evening. We stopped off at the M11 services for a burger and then down to the big city. It was dark when I dropped Lisa off at the flat in Hackney she shared with her boyfriend James. He was away in Prague on business for a month, but my staying there was out of the question, our relationship was not like that. I checked into the Travelodge in Docklands, went into my standard motel room by 10.00 p.m. A double bed, bland décor, with an ensuite shower and toilet, the room was soulless, matching the way I felt. I picked up the remote from the work surface and turned on the TV to get the news. I collapsed on the bed. Once again the news was full of the impending election. With all the fuss over M.P.’s corruption, the general public disillusion with politicians added to recession and unemployment, the election due in September was unpredictable in the extreme. The government’s share of the vote was collapsing fast, the Opposition was odds on to win the election, but their ability to win a majority was very much in doubt. With the Liberal Democrats no more popular than Labour or the Conservatives, it appeared that there was a real possibility of minority parties gaining significant numbers of seats in parliament and becoming very influential; hence the fascination with Sinclair and the BNRA, who had become increasingly popular. The TV was covering a speech he was giving in Luton:

  ‘In the past few years, the tired old parties have failed to protect the interests of the citizens of this country; they have allowed us to flounder in a morass of Human Rights legislation, political correctness and multiculturalism, where we have become ashamed to be British. We are more concerned with the human rights of terrorists and illegal asylum seekers, than with the rights of the law abiding majority of our citizens, whose forbearers did so much to make this country great. We must ensure that British jobs are given to British people, who will be the vanguard of making this country great once more. . I call upon the good people of England, Scotland and Wales to send a loud and clear message to these parties of the past, who have feathered their own nests whilst failing the country, to the politicians, who like so many Neros have fiddled whilst Rome burned – We have had enough! It is time for something new, to reconstruct where you have destroyed, to succeed where you have failed, to make us proud to be British’

  The news cut back to the studio, where the newsreader looked at the latest polls which indicated the likelihood of the BNRA winning up to forty seats, if their vote held up until the election. If they were right then the BNRA could be left holding the balance of power, any party seeking a parliamentary majority may have to do a deal with them. The BNRA could be the tail that wagged the dog. The news moved on to the latest British casualty in the war in Afghanistan.

  ‘I can't believe people could fall for that.’ I thought.

  Surely the electorate could see through the meaningless rhetoric, to the divisive and racist principles that underlay the BNRA message. If it was not for Sinclair’s smooth presentation and respectable, charismatic image, the BNRA would get nowhere; he was the beard behind which his party hid.

  Turning off the TV in disgust, I readied myself for bed and settled to some background reading. Picking up the first volume of Kershaw’s mammoth biography of Hitler, I re-read his account of the Reichstag fire. He certainly did not see any Nazi plot, just an opportunistic exploitation by the National Socialists to settle accounts with their communist opponents. Maybe Lisa’s theory was nothing more than a red herring, but as I thought about it, I realised what an important red herring it was for me, today was the first day since Jane had left that I had not needed tranquilizers to get through. For the first time in ages I fell into a natural sleep.

  The next morning, I showered, breakfasted and made sure I took the all important antidepressant. I walked along East India Dock Road in the morning sun, and took the Dockland Light Railway from All Saints to Tower Gateway. A brief walk took me across to Tower Hill tube station and on the underground to Mile End. I walked down the Mile End Road, until I saw the Peugeot dealership, on the other side of the road that Lisa had told me to look out for. I was waiting for her as arranged outside the large blue steel railed gates that marked the main entrance to the campus. It was just before 10.00 and within ten minutes I was joined by Lisa. The blonde hair in a pony tail, she was wearing a revealing strappy blue top and tight jeans – I tried not to notice too much.

  ‘Hi’ she greeted me ‘did you have a good night?’

  ‘Yeah, surprisingly good’ I answered. ‘What now?’

  ‘We’ve an appointment with Mark Bell, the archivist I spoke to last week’

  ‘I see you dressed to impress the poor man, you should be able to wind him round your little finger, unless he’s gay.’ I teased.

  She coloured slightly.

  ‘Well it never does any harm; a bit of cleavage can get a whole lot of co-operation. It always worked on you.’ she teased.

  This time it was my turn to blush, working with attractive young women, one tries hard not to notice, but you’re only human, our relationship had never ventured near the unprofessional. I was more than old enough to be her father.

  We walked through the pedestrian gates; the security guards only seemed interested in checking vehicles. The campus she led me across was fairly deserted, the summer vacation having started for undergraduates the month before. The campus was open and light, with Regents Canal running down one side. Lisa led the way through the student accommodation buildings, turning left we entered a pleasant square with trees planted regularly around it. She walked to a large modern L-shaped brick building fronted by a steel and glass awning-like structure. We were stuck at the turnstile that needed a card to be scanned before we could be granted entry. Eventually Lisa managed to attract the attention of a young woman at the help desk and asked for Mark Bell. After a few minutes wait he appeared, a tall, slightly stooped young man in his late twenties. Lisa presented her credentials to him and introduced me as a colleague. He produced two cards and used them to scan us through. Then he gave each of us a card with a barcode on.

  ‘These will give you access for the week, but please don’t lose them. You also need to scan yourself out at the exits. It’s the Self papers you’re interested in isn’t it?’ He was having difficulty in not addressing himself to Lisa’s chest. I watched with amusement as he struggled to maintain eye contact with her. ‘They’re in our store rooms upstairs, I checked the records, you’re the first people to access them since we got them in the sixties.’

  He led us through the silent library; there were just a few students, mostly postgraduates from the look of them, working at tables between the tall shelves of books. He guided us up the double staircase and turned right to a small room that had a central table and several chairs.

  ‘I’ll bring in the first boxes. I’m afraid they’re in no sort of order. What exactly are you looking for?’

  ‘We’re trying to assess the part played by Self’s boss, Thomson, in the development of fascism in 1930’s Britain.’ I lied smoothly. He left, only to return a few minutes later wheeling a small trolley stacked with three large cardboard boxes. Each box was a two foot cube, and was clearly heavy from the effort it took him to hoist the first one on to the table.

  ‘When you’ve finished with these two, there are another nine in storage, just let me know when you want them. We’re open until nine each night, but closed at weekends. Enjoy!’ With that he left.

  Lisa looked at me in dismay, ‘Eleven boxes, this could take us forever. We don’t have that sort of time. I’ve a deadline of three weeks and we could search this lot for that long and come up with nothing.

  ‘Well, the sooner we start….’ I said opening the box. It was full of papers, some typed, some hand-written, none of them appeared to be in any form of order. The first five documents ranged in date from 1928 to 1939. This would be a long job.

  ‘I suggest we sort them by date. One pile for the twenties, as that doesn’t concern us; another for anything after 1935 and individual piles for each year from 193
0 to 35 and one more for undated material.’

  ‘OK’ she said ‘let’s get started’

  We worked in virtual silence, reading and sorting the papers. By lunchtime we were halfway down the first box. The date related piles of paper were growing, but there was nothing of interest. All the campus eateries were closed. We walked out on to the Mile End Road. To our left a hundred yards up the road was the New Globe, a dingy Victorian brick pub that was painted a powder blue colour with a white sign board with its name on. It did not look too promising, but it was a better option than the fried chicken and kebab shop next door. I led the way in. Inside the pub was surprisingly modern, belying the spit-and-sawdust impression given by the exterior. We ordered then settled on the chrome framed seats around a table in a window overlooking the road. We sat watching the traffic and ate sandwiches that were really quite good, no alcohol; beer, antidepressants and historical research don’t mix. We discussed what we had found, which made it a short lunch and an even shorter conversation. Then it was back to work. We began to recognise Self’s handwriting at a glance and discard those papers. What we were looking for would be either typed or in a different hand. At 3.30 we reached the bottom of the first box, loaded the papers back into it and began on box two. At 4.40 Mark dropped in on us.

  ‘How’s it going guys? I’m off duty at five, but you can leave your stuff in here over night, if you’re carrying on tomorrow.’ Have you finished with this one? I’ll get rid of it and get you another before I go.’

  At 7.30 we reached the bottom of the second box, with no luck. Both Lisa and I were topped out and we decided to call it a night. We ate in a generic Italian restaurant in Spitalfields Market, making only desultory conversation as we were so tired. As I pushed the food around my plate, we spoke briefly of her career, caught up on some of her peers and my colleagues, but she was careful to avoid the subject of my failed marriage.

  The next day we met at nine for a full day of research. The three boxes supplied by the ever helpful Mark were emptied, but nothing was achieved. We parted frustrated outside Queen Mary’s at 8.45.

  Wednesday was not a good day, I was having a serious wobble, I felt empty and worthless, a hollow man, I now knew what the popular term “gutted” meant. I could not keep my thoughts away from the future. A future that heralded retirement in just a few years, followed by a solitary existence, I had always envisaged Jane and I growing old together, in fact I had been quite looking forward to us spending time together with no work to get in the way. The thought of growing old and dying alone terrified me. I could not see me going out and finding a substitute for Jane, there could be no substitute for Jane. Anyway, I really could not see me going out to meet women and dating. I was alone and that was how I would stay. The tears were close to the surface again, I didn’t know if they we for her, for me or for what might have been. I gave in and popped another pill.

  I had read somewhere that sunshine and exercise were good for depression, so I walked in the morning sun, past All Saints to Limehouse station. The mile and a half walk in the morning sunshine helped, or maybe it was the tranquillisers. Whichever it was, I had a grip of myself by the time I arrived at Queen Mary’s. Lisa was not there, she phoned my mobile to explain she had been called in to the office for a meeting. I ploughed on alone. The research was more tedious without her company. She joined me apologetically just before twelve and we took an early lunch.

  ‘It really is good of you to help like this Ian,’ she said ‘are you certain that you want to continue with this fruitless search? You could go stay with Lucy, it’s very clear that you need some support to get you through this. You don’t look good at all. I’ll be honest you’ve got me quite worried’

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ I muttered, embarrassed that my fragile state should be so apparent, ‘but this is the only thing that is stopping me from falling apart totally. I know I’m not myself, but believe me I’ve been a lot better since I started this project, it’s been really therapeutic and I’ll always be grateful to you for putting it my way. You’ve saved my sanity.’ Now the embarrassment ran both ways and we lapsed into silence.

  Work began again at one; two hours later we struck gold. Half way down box number seven, I came upon a document that was dated Sunday 12th March 1933, but more importantly it was in a hand that was very different to that of Self. I flicked to the last page of the document, it was signed H.W. Miller.

  ‘Bingo!’ I said. Lisa ran round to table to look. We sat and read it together, despite what we already suspected, it was astonishing.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday 12th March 1933

  Dear Mr Self,

  Following our return from Berlin, I am writing in confidence to report on the events that occurred.

  I was attached to our delegation to Berlin because of the contacts I have made there in the past few years and my being bi-lingual, speaking German like a native. Sepp Dietrich, an SS Gruppenfuhrer I knew well, I was also well acquainted with Viktor Lutze, the police president designate in Hannover. Dietrich in particular I regarded as a friend despite the fifteen year age gap between us.

  We arrived in Berlin on February 16th. I was, as you know, the only member of the delegation who had no specific duties. On the evening following our arrival, I made contact with Dietrich, being invited to his home for drinks. Over the next few days we had many discussions about the Fuhrer's rise to power. Dietrich is a very useful contact to have, as he has now risen to the rank equivalent to Lieutenant-General in the SS, and since Hitler came to power he has taken command of the SS Watch Battalion, Berlin. He has a particular brief for Hitler's personal safety and meets with him on an almost daily basis. Thanks to the good offices of Dietrich, I was able to meet with the Fuhrer a few days later. I presented him with the letter of congratulation from the Leader and added my personal best wishes. The Fuhrer was gracious enough to hold a conversation with me for some time. With the forthcoming election, Hitler was obsessed with finding a way to negate the political power of the Reds before the ballot.

  The way the National Socialist government in Germany works is curious by our standards. It seemed to me that Hitler was less involved in the day-to-day governing of Germany, instead he made general declarations and those around him were left to devise ways to make them happen. I had been in Berlin a week, when Sepp contacted me, inviting me to an important, if somewhat mysterious, meeting, as he declined to state either the venue or purpose of the meeting. The following day a car picked me up and took me to the Party headquarters, a huge five-storey building. I was shown into a conference room, where I was met by Sepp. He asked me if I was prepared to undertake a potentially hazardous mission, to secure the future of the National Socialist Reich and help destroy communism. Having assured him that I would give my life to the cause of stopping communism, Sepp left. I was joined instead by a tall aquiline man in the uniform of a senior officer of the SS, who introduced himself as Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the SD. We have nothing like the SD in our movement, not even in Department Z. He explained they were responsible for the internal security of the party and counterintelligence. I did not realise at the time that I was being interviewed by the deputy head of the SS.

  Heydrich broached with me a plan that was underway which would give the Fuhrer excuse he wanted to deal with the Reds once and for all. He was involved with planning a joint SS/SA mission with Karl Ernst, which would lead to the destruction of the Red scourge for good. He could not go into any details at that time, but on Dietrich’s recommendation, he wanted me to take part. He explained that the mission, if it misfired had the potential to be a catastrophic embarrassment for the Fuhrer, and could even lead to his removal from office. He hoped that by utilising me instead of SS personnel, he could distance the Party and especially the SS from the event. He explained that if the SA were to be found to be involved, it would be awkward, but not a disaster, everyone knew the SA were the wild men of politics, and the Fuhrer could blame a rogue element acting witho
ut orders. However, the SS, with its close personal connection to Hitler would not be so deniable. I, on the other hand, working as an agent of the SS, could be denied. I assured Herr Heydrich that I was willing to take part. He then adjourned the meeting until the next day.

  The following afternoon I returned to Nazi HQ. I was taken to the same room, where Heydrich was waiting for me, as was Reich Minister Goering. Goering shook my hand and thanked me for my assistance in this vital enterprise, assuring me that the Party would always be in my debt. Then he left the rest of the meeting to Heydrich, who explained that Ernst was unwilling to see the SA as the only organisation involved and insisted that an SS officer should be involved. To my surprise Heydrich then swore me in as a member of the SS and presented me with the uniform of a Hauptsturmfuhrer. He explained that the SS were the German elite, all of pure Teutonic blood, but because of my German mother and Anglo-Saxon father, I qualified. I was surprised how much he seemed to know about me. Sepp later told me that Heydrich is one of the most powerful men in the Party, due to the intelligence to which he has access; he knows the darkest secrets of all the Nazi leadership.

  Dressed in my new uniform, I attended a meeting at SA headquarters with Heydrich. I was introduced to Karl Ernst, SA leader in Berlin and two SA men Hans Gewehr, who was to command the mission and Adolf Rall, both were members of SA Sturm 17. They now let me in on the ‘enterprise’. They planned an arson attack on the Reichstag building; evidence would be fabricated to blame a communist conspiracy to overthrow the state. President Hindenburg could then be panicked into giving the Fuhrer the powers he desired and the KPD would be finished before the election took place.

  We were told that an ideal scapegoat had been found. An unbalanced Dutch Communist called van der Lubbe had been found three times in the previous week trying to set fire to government buildings, the Gestapo had arranged his release each time. Rall had been given the task of befriending him and winning his trust. We were to meet with him that night in a bierkeller in Tiergarten where Rall was to introduce him to me. Our task was to encourage him to make an arson attempt on the Reichstag on the evening of Monday 27th.