by Graham Brack
‘Or, indeed, teaching others,’ Klinger added.
‘Well, so long as you keep one step ahead — Jesus Maria! — Navrátil, take that car’s number. Did you see that? Nearly had my wing mirror off. We’ll ring it through to traffic when we get back.’
‘Let it go, sir. I’m sure we’ll see more bad driving as we go.’
Klinger muttered something about motes and beams, but since Slonský did not know what a mote was, and had not heard clearly anyway, he let it pass.
‘I’ll drive for the first two hours or so, then you can take over, Navrátil. Klinger, do you want a drive?’
‘I’m enjoying being chauffeured around, thank you, but if you wish I’ll take a turn. It will be interesting to experience a really powerful engine.’
‘What do you normally drive, sir?’ asked Navrátil.
‘I don’t. A car is such a millstone in Prague.’
‘You don’t drive,’ said Slonský, ‘but you’re planning to take the two of us on a death spin along the highway?’
‘I don’t drive, but I can drive,’ Klinger corrected him. ‘The jury is still out on some others.’
The journey was relatively uneventful. Navrátil took over after a couple of hours, and was able to calculate that Slonský’s average speed exceeded the speed limit at any given point in the journey so far. Rolling along at a more sedate pace, they reached the halfway point around ten o’clock, which prompted Slonský to suggest that a refreshment break was in order.
‘We can spare ten minutes for a coffee,’ he told them.
Half an hour, a coffee, a sandwich and a pastry later, they were back on the road. Klinger had purchased some tissues and was washing his hands with a gel from a small squeezy bottle he kept in his briefcase. Navrátil was wishing he had not been talked into having both a sandwich and a pastry. Slonský was regretting not having taken a few extra minutes to top up with a second coffee and perhaps a pancake.
‘Did you see the state of those washrooms?’ asked Klinger. ‘Not a good advertisement for the country.’
‘We’ve crossed the border,’ said Slonský. ‘They’re German washrooms.’
‘I know that,’ Klinger replied. ‘And they reflect badly upon German standards.’
‘Tut, tut,’ Slonský answered. ‘The Sudetenland, the Holocaust and they’ve got a dirty toilet.’
‘You may mock,’ Klinger sniped, ‘but standards are standards. It’s in the attention to detail that we learn so much about the real priorities of a people.’
Slonský closed his eyes as if to take a nap, but suddenly turned to look fiercely at Klinger.
‘What did you just say?’
Klinger carefully placed his bookmark between the pages, closed the book gracefully, and addressed Slonský slowly as if speaking to the local village idiot.
‘I said that it is in their attention to detail that people give their priorities away.’
Slonský’s face lit up.
‘Nobody speak to me for a while. I have an idea, and I need to think deeply about it. To the untrained eye it will look as if I am asleep, but actually my brain will be running like a hamster in a wheel.’
As a result of Slonský’s nap, and Klinger’s total immersion in his book, Navrátil was still driving two hours later as they approached the turn to Stuttgart.
‘Excuse me,’ Navrátil said, ‘but is anyone going to give me directions?’
‘I don’t have the address,’ Klinger responded. ‘You’ll have to wake Slonský.’
‘That’s rather difficult when I’m driving,’ Navrátil answered.
‘Of course,’ said Klinger. ‘But you could pull up at the side of the road, wake him, then start driving again.’
‘No need,’ came a sonorous voice from the body beside him. Slonský’s eyes were still shut, but he handed Navrátil a sheet of paper from his top pocket.
‘That’s the address. I got directions off the internet. They’re on the back. Brilliant thing, the internet. I even got an aerial photograph of the nursing home.’
‘That will be very useful,’ said Klinger, ‘if we fly over it. But since Navrátil is driving I expect us to continue at road level the rest of the way. Are they expecting us?’
‘I didn’t want anyone coaching him, so I haven’t told them,’ Slonský explained.
‘You did what?’ gasped Klinger.
‘No, I didn’t what,’ Slonský said. ‘And I accept that he may not be there when we arrive, though where else would he go?’
‘Heaven,’ snapped Klinger. ‘Old people do that with the minimum of notice.’
‘No consideration, some people,’ agreed Slonský. ‘But if he’s popped it, we’ll just turn back and enjoy the trip.’
‘And how will you explain that to Captain Lukas, sir?’ Navrátil enquired.
‘I’ll probably just leave a note on his desk saying it was a wasted journey because you forgot to ring ahead to check Old Sammler was still alive, Navrátil.’
‘That’s not fair, sir!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Slonský agreed. ‘It’s called life, Navrátil, and you’re suffering from it. Though I suspect life isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative.’
‘I’ll stick up for you, Navrátil,’ Klinger interjected, though without looking up from his book. ‘You need never fear this behemoth while I’m around to offer you a bolthole in the fraud squad.’
‘Fraud squad?’ spluttered Slonský. ‘When did you become a squad? There’s only two of you. How can two people be a squad?’
‘There are only two of us at present,’ Klinger conceded, ‘but that is because we haven’t replaced Kobr.’
‘Ah, yes, Kobr,’ said Slonský. ‘When does he get out?’
‘About two years, I think.’
‘Bit long to hold his job open for him, then.’
Klinger looked at Slonský over the top of his spectacles.
‘I fear Kobr’s chances of reinstatement with the fraud department are not likely to be good. Other departments may be less picky. Criminal investigation, for example.’
‘No, I think we’d go along with your judgement there, Klinger. After all, you know him best, having been colleagues and all that.’
‘Colleague is, perhaps, a little strong,’ said Klinger. ‘We were not on terms of great fellowship.’
‘Do you ever visit?’
‘I think to do so might be … tactless,’ Klinger answered. ‘And difficult.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Slonský. ‘Must be an awkward conversation when one of you is a police officer and his former colleague is hanging from the wall in chains.’
‘How very medieval of you, Slonský,’ Klinger smoothly replied. ‘Kobr is in an open prison where he runs the library, I believe.’
‘Just so long as they don’t let him run the prison amenities fund.’
Navrátil’s curiosity was given full rein.
‘What did this Kobr person do?’ he asked.
‘He overlooked a couple of bank accounts belonging to black marketeers, one of which had his name on it. Allegedly. And he delayed passing valuable information on to Klinger. Allegedly.’
‘No, he definitely did that,’ Klinger expostulated.
‘And he allegedly did these things in exchange for allegedly having a wild night in a hotel with a couple of young dancers. Allegedly. Oh, hang on, that one was proved. Scrub the allegedlys.’
‘In the interests of accuracy, it was four nights, Slonský, and seven dancers.’
‘At the same time?’
‘Working shifts, I believe.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I was beginning to see Kobr in a whole new light. Navrátil, you see that big blue sign pointing towards Stuttgart? Well, that’s the way to Stuttgart. You want to turn there.’
Two of the three had been expecting a Gothic pile, possibly a converted stately home, but the care home proved to be a very pleasant affair built on the side of a hill with a wonderful view across the forest.
‘I’ll make enquiries about their waiting list,’ Klinger offered, ‘though I suspect the monthly rates may be beyond a police pension.’
The interior was a riot of carved wood. A few litres of petrol and a match and this could be the bonfire of a lifetime, thought Slonský. There were no nurses in uniform bobbing about, but a stoutly built lady in a grey business suit approached them wearing a name badge that suggested that she might be staff. Klinger dealt smoothly with the formalities, produced his badge, instructed the others to produce theirs, and they were all invited to sit on a large red leather sofa under the head of a confident-looking stag.
‘I bet he didn’t look that smug a few moments later,’ whispered Slonský.
‘That’s the problem with being the alpha male,’ declared Klinger. ‘First go at all the women, but you’re also the one the hunters want to take down.’
‘Then I sympathise with you, Klinger, as the big alpha male of the fraud squad. Or was it department?’
‘Tease me, and I shall deliberately mistranslate for you. I wonder how much help Mr Sammler will give you if he thinks you’re from the Euthanasia Society.’
‘Business before pleasure, Klinger. Then I’ll use my police expenses to buy you a nice dinner. Or, given German prices, a tolerable starter and a glass of milk.’
The grey-suited matron was blocking out the light again.
‘She says Mr Sammler will see us now,’ Klinger said, and walked alongside the lady as she led them to Sammler’s room.
‘This isn’t a room,’ said Navrátil. ‘It’s a suite.’
‘Very nice indeed,’ agreed Slonský. ‘The absence of a bed suggests this is just a sitting room.’
They introduced themselves to the old man who sat in a high-backed armchair, his legs swathed in a woollen rug. He was clearly very old, as shown by his sparse white hair, but his blue eyes, while slightly pale now, were keen and sharp, and his back was straight as he sat to attention in the chair. He did not appear to need anything that Klinger said repeated to him, and answered clearly and concisely.
‘Please tell Herr Sammler that we are interested in the circumstances that led to his son’s departure from Germany,’ Slonský began.
The old man barked a few syllables back at Klinger.
‘He wants to know why you want to know.’
Slonský handed Sammler the photograph of his son at the picnic. The old man held it tilted to the light, jutted his jaw out defiantly, and handed it back, before beginning to speak.
‘That is my son Theodor. He is a man of not inconsiderable gifts. We were fortunate enough to be able to provide him with an excellent education, as a result of hard work and thrift. There seemed to be a danger that Theodor did not value this grounding that we had secured for him. He became wayward, and began mixing in undesirable circles.’
‘Yet he completed his doctorate,’ Slonský remarked. As Klinger translated the old boy eyed Slonský shrewdly.
‘I can see you’re not a bumpkin like most Czechs I’ve met. Yes, Theodor stayed at the university when many others fell by the wayside. That is a tribute to my dear late wife.’
He pointed to a photograph on the sideboard. Slonský stood to view it more closely.
‘A fine-looking woman,’ he pronounced.
‘Not only fine looking, but intelligent,’ said Sammler. ‘Not a bubble-headed gossip like so many women. Theodora was in some ways the brains of the family. I had technical gifts, if I may say so. But Theodora was well read, and her German was so cultured. She taught Theodor to write well. She would tell him again and again that it does not matter how fine a man’s ideas are, if he is unable to express them clearly. It made a great impression on the boy, and from a young age he wrote and spoke well.’
‘He speaks good Czech too,’ Slonský conceded.
‘His mother was born in Bohemia,’ Sammler replied.
‘She was a Czech?’
‘No, she was a German, born in Bohemia.’
Klinger glossed the translation.
‘I think he means she was a Sudeten German.’
Catching the word ‘Sudeten’ Sammler quickly agreed.
‘Yes, German by birth and heritage, though at that time her birthplace was in Czechoslovakia. She spoke some Czech, and I don’t doubt Theodor heard her. Her own nanny was a Czech woman, so most of the lullabies she knew were in Czech.’
‘May we return to the photograph, sir? Your wife was obviously instrumental in keeping Theodor at his studies.’
‘Yes, she persuaded him that whatever his views, a completed education would be an asset to him and that his campaigning would have even more force if he were a known scholar.’ He chuckled drily. ‘She used to give him an odd example. How did Stalin come to the top of the pile in Russia? She said it was because, unlike his fellows, Stalin had grown up in a seminary and had been taught to speak well. After all, Russian was not his first language, yet he was able to defeat the others in debate. It made an impression on Theodor. His life might have been very different if she had lived — although, of course, the fact that she did not live was largely the result of his betrayal.’
‘Betrayal, sir?’
‘They were very close. He was an only child. Do you have children, Lieutenant? I thought not. I was fond of him, naturally, but there is a special bond between a mother and her son. I had grown up knowing that work would take me away from my parents, that separation was a part of independence. Having been uprooted at the end of the war, a secure home was very important to Theodora. She felt Theodor’s departure very keenly, whilst, of course, absolutely agreeing with me that it was necessary.’
‘May I ask what precipitated it, sir?’
Sammler did not answer for a moment, but reached for a large golden cord beside him and yanked on it. A distant bell rang, and within a few moments a young woman appeared at the door.
‘Some tea, perhaps, for my guests, fräulein. And no doubt there will be some cake.’
The young woman nodded and left.
‘They don’t give me cake,’ the old man grumbled. ‘They say it’s bad for me. As if I should worry about what’s bad for me at ninety-three. Now, to continue, gentlemen. You have seen this photograph. You have some idea of the company that Theodor was keeping. I may say that I was a man of some substance even then, and perhaps that protected my son to some degree. If he was not fully involved in their atrocities that may have been because he was not entirely trusted. They were not convinced that he really shared their ambitions, given the future mapped out for him. As a result, it was not until that lot were jailed that Theodor was able to progress in their filthy organisation. I do not know precisely what part he played. He has given me his word that he was not directly involved in any violence towards others. He has refused to give his word that he obeyed the law at all times. I should like to be able to accept his word as that of a gentleman.’
‘You have doubts, sir?’
‘I do not have doubts as such. Only worries. The consequences of his actions did not weigh with him. If he were capable of some of these barbarities one read about, he was hardly likely to baulk at lying to his father, was he? How many of us have done that without being in any sense a criminal? If these years have taught me anything, it is to regret that I did not make the effort to understand my own father better. We had some fearful arguments, gentlemen, when I was a young man. I was twenty-six when the war broke out, and I soon found myself in the army. My father had served in his time, in the Kaiser’s army in France. To my mind, we were doing the same thing. We were both serving Germany. But my father, while initially a supporter of Hitler, turned against him when he was sent to serve in a prison camp in Bavaria towards the end of the war. The younger men were all needed for the front, of course, so father was brought out of retirement and served as a Major. He would not tell me what he saw there, but said that if it came out, it would be an eternal shame for the Fatherland. I rep
lied that I had every confidence in the nation’s leadership. He became angry with me, and our relationship changed.’
The old man gazed out of the window for a moment, before clearing his throat gently and resuming his rigid position.
‘Naturally, one can see now that my father was right. I was wrong, and I did not know what I was talking about. I should have admitted it and respected my father’s view. When Theodor and I quarrelled, I said as much to him, but he laughed at me. He said that I ought not to be so quick to assume that I was wrong, that maybe youth sees more than experience, or some such tripe.’
The tea arrived, and was dispensed by the smiling young woman. She offered cake to each, and was about to leave when Sammler reminded her that she had inadvertently missed him out. She smiled weakly and gave him a plate and a slice of cake.
‘It’s a charade, of course,’ said Sammler.
‘Of course,’ replied Slonský. ‘If she really intended to miss you out she would not have brought a plate for you.’
Sammler laughed out loud, dabbing his eyes with a large handkerchief he produced from beneath the rug.
‘Excellent! I think if you are intent on snaring Theodor he may have to be on his mettle to escape you.’
‘May I ask about your own war service, sir?’
‘Modest enough. I did very little fighting. That, you must understand, was not the result of any desire on my part. It was determined at an early stage that I had some administrative skills, and consequently I was sent for specialised training in logistics. I served out the war keeping the army supplied as best I could. When the war ended, I knew where some stores had been kept. It did not seem that the Americans had great need of them, whereas our people were suffering dreadfully.’
Slonský asked his next question after some deliberation.
‘Forgive me if I have misunderstood. Do you mean that you were able to profit by selling the supplies?’
‘You want to know if I made my money as a black marketeer? No, sir, I did not. I didn’t need to. I took no money from Germans, though I was willing to accept American dollars from soldiers who wanted souvenirs to take home. I bartered some, and I gave some away, and in this way I gathered a large group of people who felt in some way beholden to me. When conditions improved, and I set up in business, this goodwill stood me in good stead. People trusted me where they did not trust others. When they had a little money, it was my little bank that they gave it to. So much of banking is about trust, gentlemen! They trusted me with their pfennigs, and were not concerned about the return so long as it was safe. I carried the risk and reaped the reward. As time went on, their many little nest-eggs grew, so they found more money to deposit. I began buying stakes in companies, and in twenty years or so I had become a regional force. This work involved sacrifice, of course. I could not allow myself to marry until I could keep a wife well, so I was thirty-four before I married Theodora. She had been kicked out of Bohemia with nothing. She had been well-to-do there, but she had only a donkey cart and the small amount that it could carry. I told her that I could not marry her until I could provide properly for her, and you know what she told me? That she placed no value on anything beyond my company and my love, and believed that if she hitched herself to me I would do more for her than any other man could. She had lost all, and did not expect ever to have that life again, but if it were possible, I would be the one who could make it happen. And I am proud to say that I did. I married her for better or for worse, and it was overwhelmingly for better, until Theodor spoiled it all.’
