‘Do you remember who you made it for?’
‘Of course.’
Payne waited but Petiot began a muffled argument with someone beside him.
‘– I will not shut up, woman.’ The line became louder. ‘I made it for a German SS officer. Konrad Jaeger. He was a Haupt-something or other. He said it was for his wife but I didn’t believe him. No man buys such a dress for a wife.’
Payne went to ask more but the line became muffled again. He heard Petiot’s voice rise in irritation.
‘Take your hand from my arm. What I say is true. I’m not ashamed of whom I do business with. The Germans have gone but what do we have now instead? Communists and social –’
The phone went dead.
Afterwards, Payne phoned to Corps HQ, where the captured SS personnel files Booth had mentioned were kept.
‘This must be him, sir,’ the clerk said an hour later by telephone, reading from the RuSha file. ‘Konrad Jaeger, from Hamburg. Joined the Nazi party in 1929, the SS in 1934. Rose to the rank of SS-Hauptscharführer. That’s the equivalent of Battalion Sergeant Major. Saw service in France, Yugoslavia and Italy, then transferred back to France. Of good solid Aryan stock and . . . oh, look at this,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s got a pink chit in with his file.’
‘What does that mean?’ Payne said.
‘It means the lawyers in Nuremburg are looking for him, sir. It seems your SS-Hauptscharführer Konrad Jaeger is a war criminal.’
6
CAPTAIN JAMES BOOTH was in a foul mood. What the hell was Ursula playing at?
He’d been to her farmhouse three times in the last two days, and on each occasion Ursula had found some excuse not to invite him inside. He’d convinced himself he was imagining things after the first two visits, but now he was not so sure. It was especially galling because without Booth Ursula wouldn’t even have a damned house: if he hadn’t sorted things with Housing Branch – at a great deal of personal risk and expense – the house would have been requisitioned long ago and she’d have been left to fend for herself. Didn’t she realise he’d risked his bloody commission doing that?
For the umpteenth time that morning, Booth found himself on the verge of becoming genuinely angry; then he remembered who it was he was thinking about and the emotion faded. He could never get truly angry with his dear little Ursula.
He had met her back in May, when his detachment first arrived in Eichenrode. Booth had been driving back along the Brunswick road when he’d seen a group of ragged men pointing and prodding a young woman. Christ, he went cold when he thought about how close he’d come to driving past. Ursula had been holding her ground, but there was no doubt it would have ended badly: physical violence, almost certainly, rape or murder quite possibly. In those early days of peace, German civilians were fair game and most British troops did little to prevent the Nazis’ former slaves from venting their anger.
But Booth had stopped and set himself between Ursula and the vengeful horde with only his uniform and sidearm to deter them. It had been enough.
Just.
Afterwards, he’d meant to drive Ursula to a safe distance further down the road, then ask her to get out. After all, the non-fraternisation order was rigidly enforced back then; he wasn’t even supposed to talk to Germans, let alone give them lifts. But as they drove and chatted and Ursula calmed and began to smile, he found himself inventing excuses to keep her with him while they drove through the summer evening. When she shivered, he let her wrap his greatcoat around her shoulders, and suddenly it seemed that the evening air had never smelt so fresh or clear . . .
Part of him knew it was foolish to get so dippy over any woman, let alone a German one, but when it came to his feelings for Ursula, the voice of reason was shouting into the wind. One heard about this love-at-first-sight rot, but nothing had prepared him for how overwhelming it would be when it came. Like a flash flood, within minutes of setting eyes on her he was trapped upon a strip of high land staring down at a world consumed by surging torrents.
Of course, he’d been scrupulous about checking her background. He’d had a patrol drop one of the Fragebogen questionnaires into her house the day after he’d realised he had feelings for her. The one hundred and twenty-four questions were designed to pinpoint how deeply a person had been involved with the Nazi party, and were so baffling in their depth and complexity it was very difficult for that person to lie without being caught out. The answers were then checked against the German records the Allies had seized and the person was graded from I to V, with I being a known war criminal and V an ordinary civilian.
Ursula Drechsler was a category V, which meant she was considered to be almost completely innocent. The only blots on her copybook were a cousin in the Waffen-SS and her former role as a leader in the League of German Maidens. That wasn’t really anything to worry about in the greater scheme of things. After twelve years of dictatorship, there were few Germans who didn’t have some connection with the Nazi regime. Besides, the idea of Ursula teaching German girls to cook and sew was risible: the poor thing could barely peel a potato.
No, Booth felt no compunction about his romance with her. Quite the opposite, in fact. If the Allies were ever going to get Germany back on its feet, they would need people like Ursula. In some ways, it was his duty to protect the decent Germans. And part of Booth felt he was owed some happiness. He was tired of obeying orders. He’d done nothing else now for years – years when he should have been living it up at university. The constant bustle and activity of the war had hidden the fact that life had become an enervated, sterile thing, more of an existence than a life, really. It was time to feel human again and that was precisely what Ursula had given to him. God, the last two months had been bliss. It was as if before meeting her he’d been emotionally colour blind.
So, why won’t she let me in her bloody house?
The thought came to him in a sudden jag of petulance and he found himself drifting towards anger again. He lit a cigarette from the butt of the one he’d just smoked and brooded.
Had he done something wrong?
That was the most likely explanation, but he was damned if he could think of what it was he might have done. But then women were always so damned difficult to read . . .
Although Booth would have been loath to admit it, he’d not had much experience with the fairer sex. When had there been time? He was only twenty when the war began and he’d been called up in ’42. He’d walked out with girls, naturally, but girls were all they had been. Ursula was thirty-four. She was a fully-fledged woman of the world. He’d realised that the first time their relationship became physical: unlike for him, it obviously hadn’t been Ursula’s first time.
He chewed his lip. That thought did nothing to improve his mood, so he went back to considering why she would not allow him inside.
Was it the state of the house? Did she feel ashamed of living in a ruin?
No, it couldn’t be that, either. She’d let him inside dozens of times before without any problem. Besides, after all the cleaning and repairs Booth had done around the place, it was a palace in comparison to how it had been when he first met her. No, this problem was recent. It had only really cropped up in the last two or three days.
He smoked his cigarette and calmed himself. Anger faded again and was replaced by a deep yearning to see her, but Booth knew that wouldn’t be possible until the evening: Ursula had to work at the transit camp today. Booth had considered trying to wangle her an exemption from that – God knows, she’d dropped enough hints – but he’d decided it was best not to tempt fate. Besides, after the business with her house, he couldn’t really afford another bribe.
He would get Ursula a present, he decided, a crate of victuals. That always got him into her good books – like most of the Germans in the town, Ursula found decent food hard to come by. Booth finished his cigarette and drove across town to the supply depot
, where he asked to speak to the regimental quartermaster sergeant, Suttpen.
Jacob Suttpen had first come to Booth’s attention when their division had crossed the Rhine and the really serious looting began. Legend had it that one of the combat units spent a whole morning fighting their way into a German town, only to find that Suttpen and his helpers had already been there an hour and had filled two lorries with furniture, paintings and mirrors. Booth had no idea whether the story was true, but he could well believe it. Since then, Suttpen had established himself as the nexus for every shady deal that happened within a dozen miles of Eichenrode.
It was Suttpen that had ensured Ursula’s farmhouse was kept off the requisition list. Apparently, he had a contact in Housing Branch that could arrange things like that. Booth was not surprised. Suttpen seemed to possess the innate ability of divining which palms needed greasing and of determining exactly how much it would cost.
A storeman carrying a wooden crate told Booth that Suttpen was at the back of the depot. When Booth got there, he found Suttpen talking with a short, ferrety German man in civilian clothes whom Booth recognised from somewhere. The German was frowning as he listened to Suttpen and he occasionally cupped a hand to his mouth to whisper something in the quartermaster sergeant’s ear. The two men carried on talking, but when Suttpen saw Booth, he hissed something and the little German bolted.
‘Not interrupting anything, am I? Booth said.
‘What? Oh, that? That was nothing, sir.’
‘That man seemed quite worried about something.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle, sir.’
‘Isn’t that fellow the German doctor that treats Colonel Bassett?’ Booth said, realising where he’d seen the man before. ‘Doctor Seiler, isn’t it?’
Quartermaster Sergeant Suttpen forced his spiv’s smile even wider than usual. ‘That’s right, sir.’
‘You know you’re not supposed to speak with German civilians, don’t you? The non-fraternisation order is still in effect.’
‘That was business, though, sir. I slip Doctor Seiler some supplies when I can. Medicine, bandages, that sort of thing.’
‘Well, don’t let the other ranks see you chatting with him out in the open. It gives the wrong impression.’
They walked as they talked, Suttpen leading Booth into his office at the rear of the building. When they were inside with the door closed, some of Suttpen’s servile manner disappeared as he reached below his desk and pulled out a box covered with a cloth. This he lifted to allow Booth to examine the merchandise within: onions, potatoes and leeks on one side, apples and pears on the other, with an assortment of tins and jars down the centre.
Booth nodded. ‘How much do I owe you for this? The usual?’
Suttpen’s smile became especially oily and complicit. ‘Oh, you can have these on the house, this week, sir.’
Booth frowned. ‘That’s suspiciously generous of you. Why do I get the feeling you’re going to ask me for a favour?’
Suttpen beamed. ‘You’re a sharp one, sir. You really are.’
‘Go on then.’
‘This business with the house out by the Brunswick road. They say some policeman chap’s been looking into it. Is that right, sir?’
‘Yes. His name is Detective Inspector Payne. Of Scotland Yard, no less.’
For a moment, Suttpen’s smile faltered and was replaced by a hard, thoughtful look. Booth lifted the box of vegetables. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say anything more than that, though,’ he said, enjoying the disappointment on Suttpen’s face. ‘It’s all a bit hush-hush. But thanks for the victuals. I’ll make sure they find a good home.’
Suttpen didn’t seem to hear him, though. Outside, Booth fell to chatting with a lieutenant from the signals. He was still there talking when Suttpen left his office carrying a bottle of whiskey, a loaf of bread and a length of sausage.
It took Booth a moment to realise what it was about Suttpen’s appearance that had drawn his attention. It wasn’t the food he was carrying: it was the holstered sidearm he now wore at his belt.
7
ILSE HAD TO do three days’ work for the Tommies each week.
She’d had no say in the matter. Back in May, English soldiers had simply turned up at her house one day, kicked at the door and manhandled her into a lorry, along with a dozen other terrified German women. At first, she’d thought that someone had denounced her and she was being taken away to prison, but no, they’d simply wanted her to work.
For the first two weeks, she was made to clear rubble from streets in the centre of Eichenrode; once that was done, they put her to work at a transit camp the International Red Cross had set up at the local fertilizer factory.
She woke early and checked on Cousin Ursula. Ilse was taking a chance by leaving Ursula alone all day, but what choice did she have? She put an apple, two slices of stale bread and a glass of water on the table beside Ursula’s bed, then explained where she was going and when she would be back. Ursula just stared at the ceiling and clutched her letters.
It was a forty-minute walk to the transit camp. Ilse hated the place.
O’Donnell, the Irishman that ran the camp administration, was a drunkard and a gambler. Rumour had it he had lost a fortune at poker to an English soldier, the one who ran the supply depot. Worse than that, though, he was a lecher. Only just the other day he had tried to grope her, but Ilse had scraped her booted foot down the front of his shin and left the leering jackass writhing and cursing on the floor.
Then there were the actual inhabitants of the camp: Poles, Ukrainians, Greeks, Czechs, Italians, Yugoslavs. God, the way they looked at Germans, nowadays, it was like being locked up with a bunch of wild animals. Ilse had lost count of how many times they had insulted or spat at her.
Still, she should give thanks for small mercies. The first week in July, a Polish man had accused another of being a Gestapo informer. Within seconds, a crowd had started kicking and punching the man as he rolled in the dust. Then men and women came with sticks and beat the man to death while the Tommy soldiers just watched. The man’s body had lain there for an hour afterwards, the blood leaking from his cracked head.
A Tommy officer had come to the camp after that and bawled at the inmates. They mostly left the Germans alone, now, and that suited Ilse fine. She didn’t want to go near those shabby, tattered, lice-ridden people anyway. The first thing the Red Cross nurses had to do each morning was line the camp’s inhabitants up and pump clouds of white powder up their shirt sleeves and down the front of their trousers and skirts to stop typhus from spreading. That said everything you needed to know about the quality of the people in the camp.
The German women Ilse worked with were not much better. Most of them were peasants that spent all their time bemoaning the fate of the sons and brothers and husbands they’d lost in the war. And they were all so craven. That irritated Ilse more than anything else.
When the Tommies first came to Eichenrode, they had set up boards in the square outside the Rathaus and forced the Germans to walk in single file past them. The photographs pinned to the boards supposedly showed what had been happening in concentration camps in Germany – the words YOUR FAULT! were written at the top of each board – but Ilse didn’t pay them much attention. The English and Americans had their propaganda, the same as anyone else. She felt no guilt. Why should she? She’d never hurt anyone. That was why Ilse always made a point of walking with her head held high. She was not ashamed of being German and she wouldn’t let anyone bully her into feeling that way. Besides, the English had no claim to the moral high ground, not after the way they had firebombed Germany’s cities.
It was mid-morning now and Ilse was making her way through the centre of the camp towards the brick outhouse where the camp’s supplies were kept. She knew there were medical kits inside, little bundles with bandages and plasters and syrettes of morphine. She had no idea wha
t she would do with the kit once she had it, but she had to do something for Cousin Ursula. Ilse needed to make her well and then get rid of her. She couldn’t keep turning Booth away when he came to her house.
The soldier guarding the hut recognised Ilse and waved her inside. The medical supplies were stacked in wooden crates next to huge tins of the white typhus powder. Ilse fished inside one of the crates and removed a canvas package. It was a little larger than a bag of sugar and had the words Field Medical Kit printed across the top of it in English.
Should she take the whole thing? Or would it be better to open it and take what she needed?
As she debated the matter, she realised the soldier outside was talking to someone. Ilse hurried to the opposite side of the room, stuffing the medical kit down the front of her dress as she did so.
‘And what are you doing in here, might I ask, Fräulein?’ a man said in broken German.
Ilse turned and felt her heart plunge when she recognised the figure in the doorway: it was O’Donnell, the one that had tried to grope her.
He was a slender man with a ready smile, although close up you noticed that his eyes were small and dark and his cheeks patched with rosacea. He seemed to shave only every other day and he smelled like he slept in his clothes.
O’Donnell passed a hand through his lank hair and smiled as he walked towards her.
‘If you touch me, I’ll claw your eyes out,’ Ilse said in English.
He held a hand up in mollification. ‘Don’t worry. I just want to talk.’ He reached behind him, brought out a bottle of whisky, some bread and a length of cured sausage. Ilse’s stomach did a queasy flip at the sight of so much food.
O’Donnell laid them atop a crate then backed away, hands still raised. He motioned for her to take them.
‘Where did you get it?’ she said.
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