Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  I felt the sense in her words. The warning had been kind of Möller to arrange, but it didn’t change my position. It took more stoicism than I thought I owned, but I did it. I walked to Möller’s office like I didn’t have a care. Thankfully none of my stories today had anything remotely to do with the war. Well, apart from a follow-up to the victory in the desert piece; we’d taken 100,000 Italian prisoners, and we’d settled them in the Holy Land. Heck, dad was probably guarding them.

  I noticed the epaulettes of a Major on the jacket on the rack. The man at the desk sat in shirt-sleeves; something Möller would never have done. To my surprise, he scraped his dark pencil over vast parts of the stories I submitted, making grunts as he did so.

  Finally he slid the redacted sheets back to me. “Pleese, change.” He said abruptly.

  “Herr, Major…”

  But that was as far as my courage would allow. He stood up sharply, and rounded the desk, eyes ablaze, fists clenched. “I am Major in the Third Reich!” he spat in my face.

  “Yes, Herr Major,” I swear I almost saluted. “Permission to leave?”

  “Get out!”

  Suddenly Captain Möller’s imperial tones seemed to be far less stringent on my ears. I walked back to the office, shuddering at the prospect of meeting the new major every day; I hoped my initial protagonist would be reinstated soon.

  That evening I walked upstairs to the communal attic hatch of the building, usually accessed for maintenance, and hid the rifle and pistol there along with my forged papers. The hiding place, in the eaves of the rafters, wasn’t the most original, and it certainly wasn’t secure, but it did give me plausible deniability to their ownership.

  Needless to say, we lived every moment in fear of arrest, in the office, at home with my nearby contraband guns, I found myself being startled at every opening door, both in the pub and at the office.

  Surprisingly when it happened, it caught me unprepared.

  “Herr Baird?” the man behind me had entered the editorial office without me hearing, I turned from our group meeting to see a young Leutnant, full-faced to the point of being chubby.

  “That’s me.” I shuddered inside.

  “Come with me please,” he said. Although I swear the room heard ‘Com vis mi pliss’.

  They didn’t handcuff me, just jostled me into the back seat of a staff car, and drove off up the bridges. It did not surprise me when they turned up Chambers Street. German HQ loomed in my future, and I didn’t need a fortune teller to look in my drained teacup.

  At first they were very polite. They booked me in, made me sign, cleaned out my pockets, took my jacket, my wallet and watch. Then they left me alone in a windowless room with three chairs and a sturdy table. I may have sat there for an hour, maybe more.

  Two men eventually filed in. “Mister Baird.” Scottish accent, maybe highlands, Inverness?

  “Aye,” The man could have been a wrestler. Muscles fought for release under the rolled-up sleeves of his grey shirt. He pushed them higher, revealing navy tattoos.

  The second man, somewhat thinner, said nothing. He stood near the door, his arms folded across his chest. “You wrote the Jew story.”

  “Which one?”

  He sat down on his chair with such force, I expected it to shatter. Then he pounded the table, hoping to startle me. I hope I sat stoic; well, I certainly thought I had.

  “The story about Scottish Jews being arrested.”

  I swallowed before answering. “I did.”

  “Where did you get your information?”

  “From newspaper clippings.”

  “Which ones?” he roared.

  “The ones in my office. They’re still there.”

  “Which newspapers?” He was leaning over the table now, barking right into my face.

  “The Glasgow Herald, the Perth Courier, our own paper. I don’t remember the rest offhand.”

  “Who’s your contacts?” The second man walked behind me, out of sight. I became very nervous.

  “I don’t have contacts…”

  Whack! A rather stiff blow to the side of my head. It knocked me off my seat, onto the smooth concrete floor.

  “Get up!”

  And when I obviously didn’t get up quick enough, a foot was delivered to my side in encouragement. Oh, that hurt.

  We continued the dance for what seemed like hours.

  Then I was taken to a cell, rough bed, slammed door. The questions reverberated round my pummeled head. ‘Who were my contacts?’ ‘Where did I get my information?’ ‘Where were the Goldberger sons?’ ‘Why had Möller okayed the story?’ ‘What information did I have on him?’ ‘Who was I protecting by remaining silent?’

  Despite my injuries, I slept immediately. When I woke, desperate for a pee, I hammered the door with no result. Eventually I just pissed in the corner. The smell soon permeated the whole room.

  When the door eventually opened, the wrestler entered, holding his nose. “You dirty bugger!” he grabbed my arm, swept my feet from under me, and pushed my face into the wet ground. “That’s what I’d do to my dog if he wet in the house!” He pushed so hard, I thought he’d broken my nose.

  Then back to the interrogation room for more of the same.

  Questions. Hits from behind and from over the table. And back to my smelly room.

  Three more times they took me to the room and asked questions. I don’t know why; even if I had a will to answer, my mouth and lips were so swollen, I probably couldn’t have talked anyway.

  Then the cold night air, and the cold stone beneath me.

  Wincing in pain, I sat up, pushed myself back onto the low wall, looking around as much as my puffy eyes would allow. I recognized Lauriston Place. Just along from the Royal infirmary. Twenty yards along the road, two German sentries stood outside their boxes at the main entrance to the HQ. My interrogators had literally dragged me off the premises and dumped me on the street.

  In minutes, I found I could rise further, and I staggered across the deserted road to the hospital. In the darkness I found a lighted doorway, and walked inside.

  In seconds, voices rang round my head, arms holding me up, then cradling my neck as they lay me carefully down. The smell of pine from freshly laundered sheets. Cool liquid poured over my face like thick cream over a Sunday trifle.

  Lilith’s beautiful face looking down on me, smiling yes, yet holding some reticence in her interested gaze.

  I can remember no more.

  I awoke to sunshine streaming through tall windows, hurting my eyes. I had a need to urinate, but found most of my body tied down, fastened to itself. “Hello?”

  A stranger’s voice boomed from my lips, fluffy and muffled. Even the one word held such distortion, I could hardly recognize it.

  “Need to pee?” A voice of an angel asked. I nodded, then felt my bottom being lifted, my men’s tackle being manipulated, the touch of cold metal; a bed-pan. I looked to one side, saw a smiling face. Nope, not quite an angel, but homely enough to make me feel good. I caught her looking down at me, lifting the covers, watching my pee’s progress. Then the pan slipped away, and the almost-angel’s face disappeared.

  A policeman’s face took her place. “What’s your name son?”

  I told him, although it took many attempts.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Germans,”

  That shut him up. “Germans, you say?”

  I nodded. “Gestapo,”

  He vanished quicker than he’d arrived. No more questions then. So much for the long arm of the law.

  From the homely nurse, Nancy, I got chilled milk through a straw. That freed my mouth a bit. I licked my gums, found no broken teeth. In time I sat up, took stock of myself. I asked the nurse if I’d had anything on me when I’d been admitted, but she shook her head. Just the bloody clothes they’d interrogated me in. The loss of my watch annoyed me. The lack of papiere might prove problematic.

  With my speech rather on the muffled and painful side,
Nancy gave me a pencil and small notepad.

  Morningside 4591. Tell mum where I am. James Baird. Bring change of clothes. Thank you.

  It seemed mum appeared in seconds, Alice along with her, their faces grim and tearful. Truth is, by dinnertime, I found I could walk around. Between the three of us, we got outside, and up the hill to the tramlines.

  A number 23 took us virtually to the door. The looks on the tram were painful to watch, eyes turned away. Where they once would have shown concern, now there was a wall of ‘don’t get involved’ between me and the public. Mind you, I must have looked a sight. Perhaps I could make a career being a punchbag for an up-and-coming young boxer?

  Once in the apartment, I looked in the bathroom mirror to see a man I could not recognize. Every part of my face was swollen, my cheeks, jaw, and eyes puffy and red. I tried to touch my nose, but winced in pain.

  Alice stood in the doorway. “The doc says it’s not broken. Just don’t sneeze.” To my horror she grinned, and that sent me to laugh, and I recoiled again. God, laughing hurt my sides like blazes.

  I only took a day off work, going back to the office black, blue, yellow and a few shades in between that didn’t have names.

  When I got to the third floor, the editorial staff applauded me. I waved it away, but it seemed I’d taken on hero status; the boy that had stood up to the man.

  I even determined to attend the German HQ at noon; nothing would stop that confrontation. In my grim world, I wanted to see the Major’s face as I walked into his office, proud and defiant.

  Alice went with me, then stood at the side as I approached the guards. I had been past them both many times.

  “Papiere,”

  I had prepared for this moment. In my hand I held a sheet of paper with a prepared speech.

  “Ich bin James baird von The Scotsman. Ich komme jeden Tag hierher. Ich bin hier um zu sehen Captain Möller. Meine papiere sind im Inneren.”

  To my utter surprise, they let me through. I’d prepared the moment many times, rehearsing my ‘bad’ German. I walked up the slope to the archway in shock.

  I took many deep breaths, and walked to Möller’s office.

  What I didn’t expect was Captain Möller.

  An Unexpected Friend

  “Ach,” he said, his eyes full of concern, and yet he still could manage aloofness. “I knew I should not have been weak; let you print your story. Why did you not run?”

  I swallowed. “I thought I had nothing to run from.” I had so often maligned the man, it now seemed strange to be the attention of his anxiety. I almost felt guilty.

  “Ach,” he rose, rounded his desk, and examined my face closely. He winced a few times. “Who did this?”

  “A Scot, here in HQ.”

  His attention was instant. “Show me.” He donned his cap and set it firmly on his head. By his determined expression, he brooked no barring our route.

  Well, remembering the way to the interrogation room was easy; I’d memorized every corner. Soon we came to a guard at a desk, who stood to attention, giving a stiff ‘Heil Hitler’ salute. Behind him lay the corridor, and the room second on the right.

  “I need to speak to Major Stegen,” Möller demanded.

  “The Major is not to be disturbed, Captain.”

  “Immediately!”

  The poor guard was caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. Unable to totally disobey Möller’s direct order, he rushed into the corridor, disappearing behind the closing door.

  He returned, holding the door open. “Major Stegen will see you now.”

  Möller swept imperiously past the poor man and I followed in his wake. An open door on the left marked Stegen’s office.

  “Ah, komm herein, Möller.” Stegen was a bulbous man, corpulent in every direction. Golden oak leaves stood out proudly on the collars of his black uniform. He leaned back in his huge armchair, a cigarette was held in a long black holder. He didn’t pay me the slightest attention. “Was geht?”

  Möller gave me a sideways glance, then pulled his jacket down, stiffening himself. “Mister Baird, here, was the victim of your department a few days ago. He works for The Scot…”

  “I am completely aware of the situation, Captain Möller. He printed a bad story, your friend was interrogated, the matter is closed.”

  “I must protest, the man has been exemplary, a beacon of virtue for his peers to model themselves on.”

  “The matter is closed, Captain.” Stegen’s lips pulled tightly on the cigarette holder, and released the smoke to one side. “You would do well to drop it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Genug! Erinnern sie ihren platz!”

  Crap. Stegen had just told Möller to remember his place, his position. The man beside me clicked his heels and turned to leave. I stood in his way. I saw the clenched rage in Möller’s face, but refused to move. I had taken a beating just a few doors away.

  “Herr Major,” I ignored the pleading in Möller’s expression.

  “Ya?” Stegen looked at me for the first time. The disdain in his face was unmistakable.

  I have no idea where I summoned the courage to continue. “There remains the matter of my possessions, taken by my interrogators. My German-issued ID card, my wallet, my watch.”

  “Hmm,” Stegen puffed again, this time blowing the smoke at me. He opened one of the upper drawers in his desk, and fished inside. He slid the card across the table, then more slowly, the wallet. I did not open it, but picked it up, and slipped it into my back pocket.

  I managed a smile, which still hurt somewhat. “I thank you, Herr Major, but the watch?”

  “I was given no watch.”

  Surprisingly, Möller answered for me. “To save Mister Baird from embarrassment. The watch is mine, Herr Major. I loaned it to him.”

  Stegen did not blink. “Felder!” In seconds the guard was at the door.

  “Major?”

  “Hol mich MacManaman.”

  “Sicherlich, Major.”

  I heard the footfalls echo down the corridor. In a moment, slower, long strides returned.

  “Major?”

  I turned and looked at the face of the man who had watched me beaten, witnessed the continual mauling for no good purpose. He wore his sneer like a uniform.

  “Captain Möller would like the return of his watch.”

  MacManaman gave me a sour look, but shook his head. “My department takes many watches. It will take time to locate this particular one. What is it I’m looking for?”

  Again, to my surprise, Möller took charge. He grabbed MacManaman’s arm and raised it high over the major’s table. “This one. An Omega, with a Naiad movement. It’s the first waterproof watch by the company. It was a gift from my aunt in Vien.”

  Holy shit. Möller had just lied bald-faced to his superior; probably a court-martial offense.

  Stegen made a movement with his head, and MacManaman reluctantly pulled the strap, and released the watch.

  Möller held the watch, looked at it, then handed it to me. “I give it to you, Herr Baird, in front of witnesses. It is a gift to show the generosity of the Third Reich.” He then brought himself to full attention, his arm stiff, unwavering. “Heil Hitler!”

  Stegen gave a half-hearted return, then looked at MacManaman and me, showing us equal disdain. “Get out.”

  I walked away, trying very hard to keep a smile from my lips.

  Only once we were clear of earshot, did Möller speak. “I am in your debt, Baird.”

  That one came from outside the box. “My debt?”

  “Ah, yes,” I watched him smile for one of the first times. “Stegen is new school. His family are mensch, nothing. He does not know the meaning of breeding. I took great pleasure in watching him wither before me.”

  “But you made an enemy,”

  Again the smile. “No more than before. Stegen himself questioned me about the Jew story. He did not like my evidence to back up my reasoning. You, I’m afraid, got caught up in th
e departmental scharmützel, eh our skirmish. I am the reason you were interrogated, for that I am in your debt.”

  When I told the whole story to Alice, we laughed. “But you better watch out, if MacManaman has a vindictive streak, he’ll be after you.”

  “Aye, no doubt.”

  That evening, as the low sun swept across Princes Street, throwing the huge structure of the Walter Scott monument into stark silhouette, I noticed MacManaman’s goon following us. Not to draw his attention to my obviously superior counter-surveillance techniques, I stopped at the nearest store and made some banal comment of the women’s fashions. “Don’t move your head at all.” I said slowly. I turned to kiss her, then looked over her shoulder. He was following alright; the very man that had beaten me black and blue.

  I took her hand and began to walk westward towards home. “Don’t move your head, make an excuse to dance in front of me. We’re being followed. He’s about fifty yards behind, bowler, dark jacket, a large man.”

  “What, we’re going?” she announced, holding my hand, and skipping in front of me, where she walked backwards against me for a moment. Her eyes rarely left mine, but enough for a look back. “I see him,” she said, smiling brightly, falling back in step. “Who is he?”

  “The man who beat me.”

  Oh, the look of a woman scorned had nothing on Alice’s expression at that precise moment. “Keep happy.” I said, gripping her hand.

  I saw her force a smile, but it was less than skin deep. “I will kill him for you.”

  “Aye, I bet you would. Want some fun at his expense?”

  “Sure.”

  I sauntered past the Old Waverley Hotel, across St David’s Street, and pretended to take considerable interest in the busy windows of Jenners, Edinburgh’s over-priced, upper-class department store. The shop had about ten windows, and we paused at a few, then a collection of the most modern gramophones took my interest. I chatted to no great worth, and saw our pursuer skip past a tram to cross closer. “We’re going to feign an interest, then in about twenty yards, I’ll decide to go back and take a closer look.”