A Coin for the Hangman

by Spurrier, Ralph

  I switched on the lights in the book room and the neon strips flickered to life. I ran my eye over the shelves and saw the Owen title amongst the literary stuff I had extracted from the collection and put on a separate shelf. I pulled it out and began to leaf through the poems. Eventually I found the quote in the poem ‘Strange Meeting’. Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.

  Further down the poem I read: I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark.

  It wasn’t just the fact that Henry had used the Owen quote that I found fascinating, but that he had used it in the context of his love for Madeleine and in the diary he was writing to the hangman. “I am the enemy you killed, my friend” took on a frightening, Gothic, meaning. What stranger meeting could there be than between hangman and the condemned man? And of course, by the time the diary was read, Henry, like the soldier in the poem, was dead and buried.

  I placed the Owen poems back on the shelf and then I hesitated, looking at the other titles I had placed together there. W.B. Yeats, H.G. Wells, John Donne, A.E. Housman, James Joyce, Thomas Traherne. It suddenly struck me that these were never the books of a retired hangman who did a bit of woodwork and, it would appear, spent most of his retirement at the race-track. I ran my fingers over the spines, tracing the titles and authors’ names. Almost as if I had received an electric shock, I realized whose books these were. These weren’t Reg Manley’s at all. They were Henry Eastman’s, the man he had executed. These were the books that Henry had quoted from in his diary and which, I was to later discover, he had in his prison cell in the weeks before his execution. I had read in the diary that he had requested that Madeleine, his childhood friend with whom he had kept in touch, should bring them to the condemned cell for him.

  Madeleine!

  Madeline, the one and only children’s book in the collection!

  The diverse pieces of this jigsaw were tumbling into place. With a racing heart I reached for the copy of the children’s book, Madeline, which was lying on its side on the top shelf and held it in front of me. The illustrated boards were heavily scuffed and the corners were beginning to fray, the hinges cracking. This was a book that had been read almost to death. Opening the book, I caught my breath when I saw the inscription on the front endpaper:

  Happy Birthday Madeleine! This book was made just for you! Henry. August 1939.

  Underneath Henry’s name was a single little “x”.

  Here was the very book he had given Madeleine in 1939 and which, I had read in the diary, Henry had brought to his nose in the condemned cell in 1953 so that he could smell that lost summer and the scent of his beautiful Madeleine. I brought it up to my face and guiltily fanned through the pages. It felt as if I was eavesdropping on a lovers’ private conversation. I leafed through the well-thumbed pages to see if there were any other messages hidden in its pages, but there were none that I could see. I turned over the last page and read the final lines of printed verse that diminished in size as it fell towards the bottom of the page. I had never read Bemelmans’ Madeline before but I had read that final page elsewhere – and very recently. I went back to the diary and found them. They were also the final words in Henry Eastman’s diary, completed, I assumed, seconds before Reg Manley came through the cell door.

  The most astonishing part of Henry’s diary was the revelation that not only was he not the murderer, but he knew who had done it and how. Towards the beginning of the diary he mentioned a box and wrote that when the hangman saw the contents he would know the identity of the murderer. He seemed to be playing a kind of game with the hangman as if he was assuming the role of a writer of crime fiction, waiting until the last minute to reveal the real culprit. The trouble was that I didn’t have that box. It certainly wasn’t among the books I had taken from the house and, though I eventually tracked down the house clearance company, I realized fairly quickly that it was likely to have been dumped.

  All I had left were the written clues in the diary and the name, Madeleine Reubens. And there was that all-important photograph that Henry mentioned which seemed to be the catalyst for the whole tragedy. I began to build up a history of the case of Henry Eastman and the murder for which he was hanged. The diary had been my starting point but somehow every breakthrough I made was quickly followed by a dead end. Most of the people involved with the case were either dead or had disappeared. Gradually my interest faded as the years went by and the various lines of enquiry came to nothing. Until, that is, late in 2001 there occurred one of those strange and unnerving coincidences which were, I came to realize much later, symptomatic of the whole tragic story.

  I had been to an auction and bid on some large lots of books that were eventually knocked down for very reasonable amounts. One of the books that surfaced out of the hundreds that now lay around my stock room was Harris and Oppenheimer’s Into the Arms of Strangers, Stories of the Kindertransport. As I pencilled in a price on the front endpaper, I ran my eye over the blurb on the inside flap and suddenly realized that the Madeleine Reubens of Henry Eastman’s story may well have been one of the 10,000 Jewish children who had been sent out of mainland Europe in the nine months before the start of the war by parents desperate to ensure that at least their children would escape whatever was to come at the hands of the Nazis. If Madeleine had been a kindertransport child, I had to assume that the Kindertransport Association whose London address was given in the postscript to the book would have some details of where and with whom she had lodged when she arrived in London. My subsequent enquiries not only confirmed that she had indeed been sent over from Austria in early 1939, but that she had been lodged with a Jewish family in Bradford on Avon for some years before they moved to Trowbridge in 1945. And that she was still alive.

  The Kindertransport Association wouldn’t give me her address but agreed to forward any letter. How many days I wavered over the decision to send a letter to Madeleine I cannot now recall, but I remembered fretting about the effect that it might have on her. If my letter contained only the barest bones of what I knew, I reckoned that at least it wouldn’t frighten her off or cause too much upset. I didn’t mention the diary. A month went by, two, and no response. I had begun to give up hope once again when I received a phone call early one evening. I picked up the receiver and as usual announced my phone number. There was silence, although not the silence we have now come to associate with those phantom machines that dial numbers at random. I could hear faint breathing. I repeated the number once more. This time there was a definite drawing in of breath, a hesitancy that confirmed that there was definitely someone there.

  “Hello, can I help?” I said.

  A short silence and then, “Mr Spurrier, the bookseller?” The voice was that of an elderly woman.

  I was normally wary of confirming my name before I knew who was calling but this was no over-confident cold-caller.

  “Yes, can I help?”

  I expected one of the regular requests to come and see some books, but her next words rattled me as if the receiver had been short-circuited to the electric mains.

  “You’ve seen Henry’s diary, haven’t you?”

  What follows has been constructed from the long conversations that I had face to face with Madeleine Reubens in her Pimlico flat in the two years before she died in 2004. While we would talk about many things other than the fateful year of 1953 – and the aftermath – the conversation would eventually come back to Henry and Bradford on Avon just before the war. I’d watch as her face lit up with the memory of those summer months of 1939 as if it was the only brightness in a life clouded with tragedy. For my own part I had to invent a reason other than the hangman’s legacy for my coming into possession of the diary and Henry’s books. I wondered if she was ever satisfied with my explanation that I had bought them in a country auction as part of a larger lot of books, but she never questioned it and I saw no reason ever to divulge the donor or that crude inscription on Pierrepoint’s book.

  It was only on what proved to be my
last visit that I brought along the copy of Madeleine that Henry had given her in 1939. I had been somewhat wary of bringing up this tangible ghost from the past and handed over the wrapped packet with some trepidation shortly after we had settled down with cups of tea in her flat. Outside, the traffic along the Thames Embankment swished relentlessly in the heavy rain.

  “I wanted you to have this back,” I said. “It should be with you.”

  She peeled back the brown paper and turned the book over to see the front cover. An involuntary “Oh” escaped from her mouth and her hand stroked the edges of the book as if greeting a long-lost friend. She looked up at me and then back to the book. Another “Oh” as she opened the first page and read the inscription. Tremors shook her frail frame and I noticed, with embarrassment, that tears had come to her eyes. And then, astonishingly, Madeleine Reubens did exactly what I had done years before when the book first came into my possession – she brought the book up to her face and let the pages fan through her fingers as she savoured the smells and memories of those precious, happy days of 1939.

  When Madeleine Reubens died in 2004 I received a letter and packet from her executor. The letter had been written some months before and had, apparently, been kept with her will.

  Dear Mr Spurrier [she had never addressed me other than formally]

  Ad me’ah shanah.

  Having rescued the Bemelmans book once, I am entrusting you to keep it safe for a little while longer, if you would be so good. You are the only other person who knows its story and I think it would be a shame to be dumped into the general sale of my estate. Perhaps, also, through our conversations, you may now be able to unravel what actually happened in those early months of 1953 and try and prove at long last that Henry was, indeed, the subject of a miscarriage of justice. You know my suspicions for what they are worth, but I was always too close to the events – and much too young – to be able to express them to anyone in authority.

  Madeleine Reubens

  What I thought was to be the final part of the jigsaw was to fall into place a year or so later when I discovered that the assistant to Reg Manley at the execution of Henry Eastman was still alive. Jim Lees was now ninety years of age and in frail health but, importantly, his memory recall was razor sharp. He was living in a care home in Reading and I made no delay in going to see him. He is dead now but what he told me – a story he had kept to himself for over fifty years – is as remarkable as any fiction I have ever read. And infinitely more shocking.

  Before you begin this journey with me, I have to ask for your indulgence on the matter of the photograph. My description of it comes second hand through Madeleine Reubens. However, there is no way of knowing of its inception or the details of its gift to the original recipient or indeed who his name was. To that end then I will admit that the first and last chapters are, of necessity, fictional, but on completing the manuscript I felt that the photograph needed to be in the text right from the start and, as you will see, it will be there right at the end. All I have to go on is the name on the back of the picture – Steffi – and the little message that ironically reverberates throughout the whole of this story: Vergessmeinnicht. Forget me not.

  August 1939

  Chiemsee, Southern Bavaria

  Steffi & Bernard

  From his small office window looking out onto the platform the Chiemsee station master, Herr Vogel watched the two figures standing close to each other. He felt some guilt in spying on his son and his girlfriend, Steffi, but they were seemingly oblivious to the fellow travellers who had already boarded the early morning train. Steffi suddenly threw her arms round the neck of the young man who held her close to him, making Herr Vogel wonder if Bernhard would be not a little embarrassed at this public show.

  The training that Bernhard Vogel had undertaken at the hostel in Baden Endorf, just fifteen minutes’ walk from Chimesee, had earned him a corporal’s stripe already and he had come back with the news that he was considered to be one of the best new recruits in his particular section. The Vogels were delighted and had lost no time in telling their neighbours and friends. Newly attired in the smart uniform of the SS-Panzergruppen, Bernhard had shown off the black tunic to his father a few days before, marching backwards and forwards on the terrace of their chalet. Vogel and his wife had looked on admiringly as their son had strutted in his highly polished boots with his feldmutze jauntily perched to one side on his head.

  “Oh, Bernhard,” his mother couldn’t resist stroking the serge uniform, “you are so handsome. It’s no wonder Steffi is so in love with you!”

  “Mother! Please!” Bernhard blushed quickly and turned to his father. “Will you make sure mother doesn’t embarrass me in front of Steffi?”

  Herr Vogel had smiled and patted his son’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your mother in check but be warned that’s what women are for – to embarrass their menfolk!”

  Now it was the Monday morning and Bernhard was taking the small train to Prien from the ferry station on the lakeside for his connection to Munich. Where he would go from there was anybody’s guess, but there had been gossip for some weeks that German forces were ready to go into Poland to regain their territory lost after 1918. At least this time, thank God, Herr Vogel thought, there wasn’t going to be the stalemate of the trenches as in the other war. Herr Hitler had made sure that the country was fully prepared and they weren’t going to get bogged down in the mud and filth that he had endured in Belgium. For the station master it all still felt very far away from this quiet corner of Bavaria and he prayed that Herr Hitler had everything in place. At least he was making a start on clearing out the Jews.

  Herr Vogel leant on the sill of the booking-office window and contemplated the future. With luck, that young lad would get to see some fighting before it all finished but he’d have to hurry up. His eye suddenly caught the flaking putty at the edge of the glass and he noticed, for the first time, that the station was beginning to look a bit shabby. Perhaps he should contemplate repainting the whole building – make it look sparkling for when Bernhard returned. He ran his finger along the putty seal and dislodged a piece that had become loose. It fell from the window, skittered along the sill and landed at Vogel’s feet. Bending over, he picked up the hardened piece and turned it over in his hand before pocketing it. As he did so his fingers touched his watch and bringing it out he noticed with a slight alarm that it was almost time for the train to leave.

  He stepped out of his office through the glass door etched with the station name and hurried over to the two figures still standing by the train on the platform. It was a perfect summer’s morning with the birds calling in the trees that surrounded the station and the sun now rising high above the Chiemsee Lake, the water shimmering towards the far horizon. Just over the way from the train station a ferry boat lazily tugged at its moorings and the gentlest of breezes came off the lake and spun the steam from the engine’s chimney that sat hissing expectantly at the head of the four carriages. As he approached, the young girl lovingly stroked the lapels of his son’s uniform, picking off a speck of dust. Steffi lived with her parents close by the lake’s edge on the Seestrasse and she and his son had known each other since they were at kindergarten. In recent weeks the station master had noticed a closeness in their relationship. He had warned Bernhard not to get too involved as it wouldn’t be fair on Steffi with him going away to the army. Ha! What notice did the young ones ever take of their elders?

  Vogel hesitantly interrupted their farewells: “The train must leave now, Fräulein. Are you both going to the town?”

  “No. No. Just Bernhard.” Steffi turned to the stationmaster and he could see that she was fighting back the tears. “Oh, Herr Vogel, I’m so frightened that he’ll never come back.”

  The station master, genuinely touched, laid his hand on the soft skin of her bare arm. “Don’t you worry about Bernhard. He’ll look after himself and, anyway, all of this will be over in a few weeks. You mark my words. He’ll be back before
you know it!” He pulled out his watch from his waistcoat and flipped open the gilt cover. “Well, it’s time for you to get on board. We can’t wait any longer or you’ll miss your connection at Prien.”

  Herr Vogel stood back, pretending to be busy with his watch as Steffi gave her soldier one more kiss. From her dress pocket she pulled out a small photograph and handed it to Bernhard.

  “Keep it with you forever. Promise me!” With a sob she turned and ran off, disappearing around the side of the station office.

  Bernhard looked at it and then showed it to his father. “Is she not the most beautiful girl in Chiemsee?”

  The station master took it from him and held it close to his spectacles. The face of Steffi smiled out from the picture, her hair tied up in two plaits that curled round her forehead, a small forget-me-not flower entwined in one of the plaits over her ear.

  “Indeed, she is. You make sure you come home in one piece my boy – and with a glorious victory under your belt and a decoration on that tunic of yours!”

  “Ah,” Bernhard pointed to the picture in the stationmaster’s hand, “she’s written something on the back. Let me see what it is.” Bernhard took the picture back and turned it over. He smiled and showed it to his father, holding it up between his fingers. In a rounded Gothic script were the words: My mouth is silent, but my eyes speak and say only this – Forget me not. Steffi, and underneath she had put a single cross.

  “That’s sweet – and clever too; she is indeed a flower in more ways than one! Make sure you keep it safe, and yourself! Come back to us, and soon.” The little photo and its message had unexpectedly caught Herr Vogel off guard and he found himself more emotional about his son’s leaving than he had expected. Drawing in a breath quickly to stifle the catch in his voice, he formally announced: “Now, come along, time to get this train on its way.”