“Yes?”
“A letter has come for you. Must I send it to Scotland Yard?”
Henry stopped walking.
“How did you get my number?”
“You put it on your information when you checked in, sir.”
Instantly relieved, Henry smiled.
“Ah, of course I did. No, could you please send it to the following address – I am away from work for a little while.”
“Of course, sir.”
He gave his home address, wondering all the time who the letter might be from. A police car with siren blaring rushed past, startling him.
“Where is the letter post marked?” he asked.
“Let me see… Steinhöring, sir.”
Sixty-Four
Gmünden, 1979
The white gull swooped brazenly and pecked at the bread as it dropped and rolled on the granite paving beside azure blue waters.
Huber smiled as he sat beside Gudrun holding her hand, both of them wrapped in knee-length black greatcoats with grey cashmere scarves tied around their necks, watching the gulls swoop greedily for the bread he was tossing casually in their direction.
“I will miss this place,” Gudrun said wistfully, casting her gaze slowly across the gently lapping waters of Lake Traunsee, flanked on three sides by imposing white granite peaks.
Lining the lake, grand three- and four-storey residences, elegantly painted in white and pastel shades of blue, mustard and pink, reflected their opulence in the fractured surface of the water.
“It has become more than a place to live these past… how long is it now?” Huber said, turning to her.
“Thirty-four years, Rolph. Can you believe that?”
Gudrun wore her grey hair long, combed straight down the sides of her face. Her hands were encased in black leather gloves, one clasped firmly to Huber’s, the other lying limp in her lap. The air smelled of fresh, pure Alpine air rushing down from the dramatic Traunstein mountain that formed a breathtaking backdrop to Gmünden, with the even higher peak of the Wilder Kogel in the distance.
Gudrun never tired of looking at these great rocky massifs across the tranquil and constant waters of the lake. She had grown up on the flat lands near Münster, far away from the Alps, now a sight that she cherished every day since they had arrived, cloaked in secrecy, all those years ago.
“I will miss Oskar,” Huber said sadly, looking away from the expectant stares of the gulls.
A red tram rolled past behind them, the shrill screech of metal on metal enough to send even the most unflappable of birds into retreat.
“It was a very moving funeral,” Gudrun said.
Huber had aged well. Although his face was wrinkled, especially around his mouth, and his skin was marked with blemishes and a few moles on his cheeks, he had retained his hair, albeit white, and his vibrant eyes. He still wore round glasses; just the lenses seemed to have thickened with time.
He sighed.
“I don’t want to die in Austria, Gudrun. I would like to go home and feel the soil of my fatherland beneath my feet once again. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Gudrun studied his face lovingly.
“They won’t welcome you back, you know. No one there appreciates the work and sacrifice we have made for them.”
“No one?” Huber said, turning sharply to meet her eyes.
Gudrun smiled and lifted her free hand to pat his forearm.
“You have done well, Rolph. Five generations of unprecedented neurological advancement, unparalleled in today’s world.” Her eyes oozed pride, admiration. “Bauer was so proud of what you did.”
“What we did, Gudrun. I could never have done it without you and Oskar. But now… now that Oskar is gone…”
Huber’s face fell again, troubled. To their left a ferry sounded its horn as it approached the beautiful white-walled and slate-roofed Schloss Ort, complete with golden orb on top of its solitary watch tower.
“I am tired, Gudrun. I want to go home now. I want to try and make amends with Gustav, see what has become of our son, whether he has continued our lineage and produced another generation.”
Gudrun flinched a little.
“You mean children, don’t you, dear?”
Huber chuckled at the rebuke and nodded.
“We should have had more,” he reflected.
Gudrun did not react, nor look away, her face displaying a look of aged indifference.
“We were far too busy, Rolph, crafting children for the Reich.”
A car stopped at the traffic light behind them, the melodic sounds of Abba singing I Have a Dream surging unchallenged through the tranquil lakeside air. Huber smiled.
“I am more of a Wagner fan, but whenever I hear that woman sing, I feel immense pride in what we have achieved in this programme. I know from every mellifluous note that we have produced some of the most perfect humans ever created on this planet.” Huber’s eyes moistened. “And there are so many. Imagine what the others are doing.”
Gudrun smiled and squeezed his hand between her arthritic fingers. After a few minutes of silent contemplation amidst scenery that could only ever be soothing for even the most troubled of souls, Huber freed his hands and slapped his thighs.
“Right! Come on, Gudrun, let’s go home and read Oskar’s will.”
Sixty-Five
(Translated from the German)
17 Wollingerstrasse
Steinhöring
Dear Inspector,
Please forgive the informal note, but it suddenly occurred to me after you left that you might wish to follow up one further piece of information. I have tried to do so myself many times, without success, but seeing as you have at your disposal the resources of the English Police and perhaps Interpol as well, you may well have a more favourable outcome than I did.
The nurse who ran Heim Hochland, Matron Gudrun Nauhaus, gave birth to a son called Gustav on 31 March 1939 in Steinhöring. His Lebensborn birth certificate is present in one of the volumes in my possession. The Nazi documents do not record details of the fathers, but it is very likely that he was an SS officer, as in fact was his mother.
I have no idea where Gustav lives today or even if he is still alive, for that matter. If you can find him, Gustav might just be able to provide some clues about why both you and I have these strange body markings and what they signify. I doubt that his mother, Gudrun Nauhaus, is still alive – she would be nearly one hundred years old if she is.
I am very eager to meet Gustav Nauhaus, so if you find anything please call me, day or night. My number is +49 08094907407.
It was a pleasure meeting you and your beautiful Sergeant and I wish you well in your investigation.
Yours sincerely,
Dieter Schröder
PS I hope this letter reaches you at the Gasthaus Huber before you depart.
Sixty-Six
It had been three days without any contact with Natasha. Henry sat unshaven and dejected in Costa, drinking a double espresso macchiato. He was missing her mannerisms, her furtive glances, the aroma of her Marc Jacobs perfume, and the elegant turn of her legs, her neck, her arms, just about every part of her. Above all, though, he found that he was lonely without her. Natasha had become his foil, the mustard to his beef, and he realized that George probably had every good reason to be both jealous and threatened by her.
Henry was torn: he didn’t want to call her in the middle of the working day and risk getting her into trouble, but he was desperate to explore the lead provided in the letter from Schröder. For that, he needed her help.
One more sip of macchiato, enveloping him in the energizing aroma of Arabica, and then he relented and called her.
“Henry, this is not a good time,” Natasha whispered.
“Hi Sergeant. I am missing you, too,” Henry said, trying to sound jovial.
“What is it?”
“I have an urgent favour to ask. I think it could be very important to the investigation.” He raised his macchiat
o to his lips again, taking a tiny sip.
“Uh-huh.”
He heard the sounds of activity in the background, muffled occasionally, probably as Natasha tried to obscure her phone from view.
“We’re all in the Major Incident Room for a briefing, but I’ve managed to get out for a few seconds. Quickly, what is it?” Natasha said.
“Something happened?”
“You know I can’t tell you. Don’t even ask.”
“OK. I received a letter via the Gasthaus Huber, in Ebersberg, remember it?”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” she said irritably.
“A letter from Dieter Schröder, giving the name and details of a Lebensborn child that he suggested we should try and trace.”
Silence.
“Natasha, the child is the son of the Matron who ran Heim Hochland in Steinhöring. If anyone might know something about what the tattoos signify, what went on there, he might, if we can track him down.”
Silence again. He went on.
“I have been on the internet researching Lebensborn. They estimate perhaps as many as five to six thousand Lebensborn children are alive in Germany today. Most have suffered with problems throughout their adult lives: depression, alcoholism, self-loathing, emotional and psychological problems. When you think that the Nazis tried to turn them into super humans and they have ended up being ostracised and struggling to fit into society, imagine how many motives for murder there might be out there.
“Among the worst affected were the Norwegians, admired by the Nazis for their Nordic features. There are thousands of Norwegian Lebensborn children born out of relations between Norwegian women and occupying Nazi officers. Reading the personal accounts of these people is enough to challenge anyone’s philanthropic view of human nature.”
Henry could hear Natasha breathing, so he knew she was still listening.
“Natasha?”
“I’m here, Henry. I’m just not sure what to say. Bruce would have my stripes for even talking to you, let alone helping you.”
“You’d be helping the investigation as well. What if this guy fits the profile of our killer?”
He could hear her sighing. Behind him in the coffee shop a waitress dropped a tray and porcelain mugs shattered on the slate floor.
“We’re currently investigating Dieter Schröder,” Natasha reluctantly confessed.
“Schröder!” Henry scoffed. “Come on, he’s got no motive for the murders.”
“Can you be so sure?” Natasha replied. “He’s got all the personal information on Lebensborn children that any serial killer could wish for.”
Henry’s skin crawled from the scraping sound of porcelain fragments being retrieved from the floor.
“And, I’d say he’s pretty pissed off and bitter,” Natasha added.
“Well, I disagree, but I am no longer the SIO.”
“No, you’re not. What’s your interest in this other child?”
“He is the son of the person who effectively ran Lebensborn in Steinhöring. He was born there and probably lived there for a few years. Who can say what he might have witnessed, what information he might remember? I really think you should try and find him.”
He heard Natasha sigh.
“I’ve got to get back inside, Henry.” A pause. “What’s his name?”
“Gustav Nauhaus, born 31 March 1939. If you come over tonight, for coffee, I’ll show you the letter.”
A brief hesitation.
“OK.”
Henry smiled, imagining Natasha’s eyes and the hair that constantly plagued her. He fancied she might be using her slender fingers to pull the hair away from her face that very minute.
“Thank you,” he said.
But she was gone.
Sixty-Seven
“You will grow up to be a proud Aryan German, Heinrich. You will be strong, you will be honest, you will remember your heritage and you will be an example to others,” said the stern man bending over Henry, twisting his ear until he felt it might separate from his head.
He remembered the pain, the fear, the warm sensation of urine running down his legs. How old was he – four, five, six years? Where was he? He had no idea. Who was twisting his ear? He tried to picture the face, but all he could recall was a giant of a man with an enormous bushy white moustache and breath that smelled of the strange foods that he ate. One thing he did know: it was not his father.
“I will not tolerate you being disobedient. It is against the doctrine of exemplary behaviour that is expected of someone as privileged as you,” the man said, leading Henry to his bed. “If I have to beat you every day you will remember what we are teaching you and who you are in this world.”
He said no more but somehow Henry knew what was expected of him. He bent over, pulled his shorts down and pressed his cheek into the yielding, soft feather quilt. Placing a thumb in his mouth, he struggled to suppress the sobs of fear and anticipatory pain that welled up within his tiny body. He had never forgotten the crisp swishing sound of the cane through the air, nor the excruciating burning of the strikes on his exposed buttocks.
“You will remain in your room and have no dinner tonight. Perhaps tomorrow you will remember that I have forbidden you to play with those Jewish children down the street,” the man said when he had finished.
Henry would hear the door click shut and this would be his cue to cry openly, to taste salt as he washed away the pain and the indignity of another beating, simply for being a friendly little boy growing up in a world he didn’t understand. He had tried for years but never been able to recall what the cane looked like, so much so that he began to doubt whether he had actually ever seen it. Perhaps he had only ever heard it swishing through the air. But he knew what it meant and what it demanded of him. Of that fact he was in absolutely no doubt.
Sixty-Eight
Natasha did not seem relaxed in Henry’s apartment. She sat wringing her hands in her lap, lips and knees pressed together self-consciously, her eyes glancing about nervously.
Henry, in contrast, was delighted to see his Sergeant, if for no other reason than to distract him from the reality and isolation of his sudden suspension.
“What direction is Bruce taking on the case?” he asked as he sat down with two cups of steaming coffee and an unopened packet of oatmeal flapjacks rolling on a plate.
Natasha fidgeted uncomfortably.
“You know that he asked me specifically not to have any contact with you. If he knew I was here I’d almost certainly be suspended as well, just like that.” Natasha snapped her fingers.
Henry looked down, studying the swirling patterns on the surface of his coffee.
“Is it unfair to say that I really wanted to see you again?”
He looked up and met her gaze, her disarming eyes. Natasha smiled and blushed slightly, accentuating her tiny freckles.
“What about George?” she said.
Henry shrugged and looked down at the flapjacks.
“To be honest, I don’t think she really has her heart in this anymore.”
Natasha sipped her coffee.
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
She watched as he sliced open the packet with a knife and gingerly emptied the flapjacks on to the plate, offering them to her. She declined. Then he sliced a flapjack into three unequal pieces before using a fork to eat them in turn.
“Don’t be, she’s made her own choices,” he said, with a partial mouthful of food.
She looked away awkwardly, realising that Henry was aware of her scrutinizing his eating habits, like a child mesmerised by an adult eating something unthinkable, like lobster. She flushed bright red.
“I don’t know why I do it,” he said, smiling and trying to ease her embarrassment. “I’ve never liked touching the food I’m about to eat.”
Natasha sat back and continued to study Henry with puzzled eyes. She seemed on edge, something he was not accustomed to when in her presence.
“Can I see the letter?” she said.
Henry reached across the table for a sheet of paper, partially obscured by his mobile phone, and passed it to her.
“It’s written in German,” she remarked with a frown.
Henry swallowed his mouthful.
“I’ll translate it for you.”
He stood up and moved across to sit beside her on the sofa, close enough to smell her hair. He read through it in English, underlining each word with his finger as he translated. Then he looked into her face.
“I really don’t think Dieter Schröder is your man,” he said, shaking his head.
Natasha continued to stare at the letter, even though she could not read a word of it.
“Do you know when this was posted?” she asked, turning it over as if expecting some secret information to be revealed on the reverse side.
Henry hesitated, then stood up.
“It should have been recorded when the envelope was franked at the post office. I’ll get the envelope.”
He stood up and walked down the passage to his bedroom. Natasha’s eyes were drawn to his mobile phone lying on the table. As soon as Henry was out of the room she picked it up hastily and scrolled through his contacts, glancing furtively towards the bedroom. She found the number she wanted and copied it hurriedly, placing the phone down just as he re-emerged from the bedroom. To cover her tracks, she took a flapjack from the adjacent plate and smiled, guiltily biting into it.
“What day did we visit him last?” Henry said as he sat down beside Natasha again, holding a white envelope with a German postage stamp on the top right-hand corner.
“Wednesday the 21st,” Natasha said, taking the envelope. “I’d say we left his house before midday.”
She studied the red franking stamp, feeling Henry’s eyes upon her. The letter was posted on Wednesday 21st at three o’clock, in Steinhöring.
“Why didn’t he just call the Gasthaus Huber?”
“Because we told him we were heading off to Munich, remember?”
Huber's Tattoo Page 31
