Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

  ‘It’s that photograph of the tattoos on the prisoners’ forearms. I keep picturing Albert Carr, sitting in his chair at Barton Leys. I can’t remember seeing a tattoo.’

  ‘He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. If he’d had a tattoo we’d have noticed, surely.’

  ‘He could have had it removed.’

  ‘It would be a painful reminder.’

  ‘What was that number he quoted?’

  ‘Two, zero, two, five hundred, I think. Why?’

  ‘The series of numbers beginning with two… Can I use your laptop?’ He switched it on, tapping his fingers while he waited. ‘If I’m right…’ He clicked on several sites. ‘Look, here… The last number issued in that series was two, zero, two, four, nine, nine.’

  Adam’s words carried her back to the horror that was Auschwitz… to the photograph of the ordinary man. There had been something familiar about him. Sister’s words came back. He doesn’t always know who he is. ‘Schmitt… His face is vaguely familiar. I think I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m not sure but… Carr?’

  ‘You think Carr is Schmitt?’

  Her gut instinct had let her down. ‘He seemed such a nice old man… and anyway, how would he be friends with a prisoner like Grandpa?’

  ‘Lord knows.’ Adam gestured, casting about for an explanation that was avoiding the bait. ‘He could have escaped the allied forces at liberation, like Mengele did. He could have disguised himself as a prisoner and told Walt his name was Carr.’

  ‘But Grandpa mentions him along with the last quotation. He must have known him, surely.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘He calls him the beast. He’d never had been his friend, as Albert Carr must surely have been.’

  ‘Maybe he had some hold over Walt. After all we can’t be sure what happened to Miriam.’

  ‘You think Schmitt may have been involved with Miriam, somehow?’

  ‘Most prisoners were marched west before liberation. Thousands died on the March of Death. If Miriam was evacuated, he may have known where she’d been sent.’

  ‘You think he forced Grandpa to take him to England?’

  ‘How else was he going to escape justice and start a new life?’

  ‘By calling himself Carr? Why didn’t Grandpa turn him in once he got home, and why would Schmitt, Carr… whatever his name is, transfer the title of the deposit box to him when he, Schmitt, would be incriminated?’

  ‘Maybe, he and Walt had struck some kind of deal. As for the evidence, perhaps he was one Nazi whose conscience bothered him.’

  ‘A conscience… a man who tortured children? To think Grandpa kept all this to himself. A hunted Nazi living nearby…’ She threw up her hands in helpless confusion. ‘No, it’s all too impossible and he did seem concerned about Gran.’

  ‘Then I guess, whatever hold he had over Walt, he does have a conscience… If Carr is Schmitt.’

  She’d thought it was all over and she could leave the past behind. The past would never be left behind. ‘If Carr is Schmitt, he’s told us a pack of lies, hasn’t he?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘I promised him I’d take Lucy to see him. This son of the wolf has lost his bite. I intend to see that justice is done, though the heavens should fall.’

  ***

  On Saturday, Charlotte stood in front of the man who called himself Albert Carr. ‘Remember me, Albert.’ She glanced to her side. ‘This is Lucy, and you already know Adam.’

  He stared at them. ‘You’ve come, at last.’

  ‘But Adam and I came recently. Don’t you remember? I said I’d come again with Lucy.’

  He held out a shaky hand; his voice caught. ‘Ah, little Lucy… and Adam. Yes… ’

  She ignored the gesture. ‘We did as you asked. I took copies of the documents to Auschwitz and Birkenau. The Candles Holocaust Museum has a copy, and the gold.’

  Lucy took a step closer. ‘We’re here for the truth, Albert, and to find out what happened to Miriam.’

  She moved closer to stand beside Lucy. ‘We have Grandpa’s diary.’

  His mouth worked; he let out a tremulous sigh. ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Some of it. Have you read it?’

  ‘Do you have it with you?’

  She laid the book in his hands. ‘I suppose it should be in Birkenau, really, with the copy of the documents. There can’t be many diaries surviving that were written in the camp.’

  ‘W… Walt… Chuck and Miriam risked much to write it.’

  If he was Albert he surely wouldn’t be able to read the Hungarian, though Schmitt may have spoken several European languages.

  He opened it at the back, entries she hadn’t been able to force herself to read, and carefully turned several pages. He seemed to have no trouble translating it. ‘Miriam writes… I have another fever. Ilse helps me with the sick. Rabbi Schaeler came with Chuck to the infirmary. He comforted many. He agreed to marry us. I am so happy.’

  Lucy sat on the chair next to Albert. ‘Miriam was Grandpa’s first wife?’

  ‘Yes. They were married in the camp.’ He paused. ‘She continues… Rumour sweeps the camp. They say trucks and trains roll west while the German army strips the land bare. This way they hope to delay the Soviets. May they speed to our aid.’ He fell silent. His eyes saw something she could only imagine.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ilse has lost her faith. She says the Nazis have put Hitler in God’s place and fashion themselves in his image. She says the Soviets won’t come. If I believe there is no God, then who is left to know we ever existed? If I die, who is to speak the names of my family? Who will remember that my gentle Benedek died protecting us, that Abel György, my grandfather, suffocated in a cattle wagon. Or that Efah Majoros, my beautiful sister, and her children, Gellért and Julianna, were gassed along with Flóra György, my grandmother, and my precious child, Mary Hofmann? Who will know that Jani and Czigany György, my clever, wonderful parents, died reaching for each other… machine gun bullets riddling their bodies. Who will know the good Chuck does?’

  He shook his head and she waited in silence for him to continue. Hearing their names, and what they meant to Miriam, made them unbearably real.

  His finger shook as it traced the next entry. ‘I fear I may have caught scarlet fever.’ The cracked nail followed the Hungarian script slowly. ‘They have blown up the crematoria and gas chambers to hide the evidence of their atrocities. They may yet kill us all to ensure our silence.’ Again the finger scrolled down the page. ‘The Nazis are leaving. They are evacuating the camp. I will stay with those too sick to walk. Chuck is staying too. He went for medicines but he hasn’t come back. I worry for him. I worry for the sick who need the medicines. They are in great distress but hope buoys us. We have survived.’

  He swallowed noisily and cleared his throat.

  ‘Chuck still hasn’t come. He wouldn’t desert us. He will come if he can. My fever is worse.’ He turned a page. ‘I grow weak… The Soviets don’t come. They must only be days away. I must hang on. If Chuck has perished I must tell them about the children. I have neither strength nor paper to write all I must. I sleep with the book and write a little when I can. There is no food, no water, no heating. We wrap ourselves in blankets and huddle together. My fever keeps us warm.’

  She put a hand on Albert’s arm and he covered it briefly with his own. She removed it quickly. If this man was who they thought he was, he was partly responsible for this horror. She’d come for truth not to comfort the guilty.

  ‘All are very sick now, and dehydrated. We have nothing left to vomit, but lack of water doesn’t stop the diarrhoea. We no longer make it to the latrines. We go where we lie. We have had only snow for sustenance for eight days. Pray God it does not thaw.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Half of us have frozen to death. We have no strength to carry the dead outside. The next day she writes, Today Ilse died. She lies beside me. Her hand is cold. I wear her ri
ng but it is loose now and I fear I’ll lose it. It is my only proof Chuck was not a fever dream. I pray the Soviets come soon.’

  ‘How did she find the strength to write?’

  ‘It was two days before liberation when she forced herself to write these last entries, judging by the date, though how she managed to keep count.’ He swallowed again. ‘This must be my only testimony.’ He wiped away a tear and looked up. ‘She ends, Chuck, where are you?’

  Tears ran down her cheeks as he handed back the diary: the two remaining pages were blank.

  ***

  Charlotte stared at the blank pages, knowing what they meant.

  Lucy’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘What did happen to Miriam?’

  She closed the diary. ‘Grandpa must have returned or how did he get the diary?’

  Adam rubbed his stubble and looked at the old man. ‘How did you know about the diary?’

  The man who called himself Albert Carr seemed preoccupied with his hands.

  ‘Albert?’ Adam’s voice was quiet. ‘Or should I call you Schmitt… Dr Hans Wolfgang Schmitt?’

  She moved closer. ‘We want the truth.’

  He shrank into clothes suddenly too large. ‘No… you… How did you find out?’

  She hadn’t been mistaken about Schmitt’s photograph seeming familiar. ‘What did you do to Grandpa to force his silence? Tell us what happened to Miriam.’

  ‘The truth, Schmitt,’ Adam pressed.

  Schmitt rubbed the paper-thin skin on the back of his left hand. ‘A whole generation of Hitler Youth was betrayed by Hitler, indoctrinated into racial hatred, robbed of their innocence. I didn’t know what he would do, you have to believe that. It’s no justification… obeying orders… believing the propaganda… but back then it was… like a roller-coaster we couldn’t get off. Weak fools… afraid for our worthless skins.’

  ‘It was no excuse.’

  ‘I hated standing on the ramp to take part in the selections. The only one who enjoyed it was Josef.’

  ‘Josef Mengele?’

  ‘Mengele.’ The name rolled off his tongue like distant thunder. He sat straighter and the effort told in his face, as it had in Mum’s and Gran’s when they’d stood at Grandpa’s graveside. ‘Yes, he was always there. Intelligent but mad… like Hitler. Racial purity obsessed them.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Mengele’s power was absolute, what he did abhorrent. Few wanted to assist him. He would find a weakness in his staff and exploit it. I wasn’t the only one.’

  Her voice was uncompromising. ‘And what was your weakness?’

  ‘He knew my wife wasn’t Aryan. He promised she’d be safe.’ Schmitt’s body began to shake. ‘I assisted him in his experiments. Twins, little children, died because of me. I did what I had to.’

  Lucy would die for Grant and her children. Now her own child grew within her she began to understand how that felt. Could either of them take one child’s life, never mind thousands, to save their own loved ones? The horror of it made bile rise in her throat. ‘What about Grandpa? How did you meet him?’

  The old man hesitated. ‘He was a doctor. Medical staff had better rations and conditions. He survived at the expense of others. Even though he saved lives, his guilt haunted him, as did mine.’

  She gripped Adam’s hand and waited for Schmitt to regain his composure.

  ‘When liberation was evident… Walt was forced to go on the March of Death… I… It’s as I told you, Walt escaped on the march to Germany.’

  ‘Few did.’

  Schmitt nodded at Adam and shivered. ‘It was so cold. I disguised myself as a POW and fled north hoping to get passage to England. I met Walt south of Gdansk. Albert had died on the journey north. I knew the terrain, and spoke Polish fluently enough to get us across Poland… Walt was English. We needed each other. It was Walt and I who reached Newcastle. We did bring the evidence, and deposit it under Carr’s name, and Walt did go to Kettering to see Carr’s wife… but I stole Albert’s identity.’

  ‘But if you knew Walt had evidence against you…’ Adam looked puzzled.

  ‘I abhorred what Mengele did. I wanted him to stand trial. I thought I didn’t care about my own life but, when it came to it…’ He looked imploringly at them. ‘I’d have been hung.’

  She held his eyes and he looked away.

  ‘You still haven’t told us about Miriam,’ Lucy reminded him.

  ‘Miriam was a Hungarian Jew.’ He shook his head. ‘Walt tried to protect her.’ The old man clutched his chest, his breath coming in gasps. ‘I’ve lived with the guilt of who I am for too long, and I could tell no-one.’

  She brushed away angry tears. ‘You’ve lived far too long.’ She brought out the photographs of Miriam and her family and thrust them in his face. ‘These were real people who loved one another, a family with hopes and dreams.’

  Presented with the images of Nazi victims, Schmitt’s face froze.

  She felt in the envelope in her pocket for the wedding ring and held it in her open palm. ‘Do you even remember the number of the woman this belonged to?’

  His face lost what little colour it had left.

  She continued relentlessly. ‘I’ve been to Auschwitz, remember. Nothing excuses what you did, Schmitt. What did you threaten Grandpa with to force his silence? Do you know how he suffered with nightmares?’ Adam put a hand on her arm but she shook it off. ‘You will stand trial for your crimes if it is the last thing I do. I wish you’d died instead of Grandpa.’ A movement beside her made her half-turn but she kept her eyes firmly on Schmitt.

  Schmitt, his eyes still on the wedding ring, looked as though he’d been stabbed through the heart. ‘I tried, Charlotte. It’s fitting twins should hear my confession though I hoped it wouldn’t be you. I tried to kill myself… the guilt, the nightmares. When I woke one night, and found myself standing over Lucy’s bed with a knife in my hand...’

  Her heart paused, mid-beat, and then thundered in her ears. She was eleven again, in the shared bedroom of a backstreet terrace, the night before Grandpa disappeared. It was the last time she’d… ‘Grandpa?’

  Lucy looked up in bewilderment.

  Adam stared at her and Lucy, and then Schmitt. ‘You are Walter Blundell?’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Walt’s heart thumped and his chest clamped tight around it. The Keres stood before him, gathered for the last time. Beside them the shape of Wselfwulf ghosted, waiting.

  The wolf spoke. ‘So this is your precious Grandpa, Charlotte. A lying cheat like his grand-daughter.’

  ‘Robin?’ Charlotte didn’t look happy to see the newcomer.

  The wolf couldn’t hurt him now: for him it was over. Miriam’s story would be told, the documents and the diary would be made public; his promise to his sepia girl had been kept. He’d paid the ultimate price. He’d confessed and lost the love of those he most cherished. They deserved answers. His reward would be death.

  Pain tingled down his left arm. Not yet, not yet. He’d let go of the wolf and here he was, in the shape of this man, his eyes full of vindictive hatred. He’d failed his second family as surely as he had Miriam: he couldn’t protect them any longer. ‘I... I am...’ He took a breath and tried again. ‘I am William Walter Blundell.’

  ‘But…’ Charlotte sank on a chair by his side, shaking her head. ‘You can’t be.’

  Adam moved closer in a gesture of concerned protection.

  Robin leaned against a chair. ‘Not so perfect, now, is he, Charlotte?’

  Charlotte glared at the tall stranger. ‘Get lost, Robin.’

  Robin reminded him of Mengele, the Angel of Death, the Wolf of Günsburg: dark, smartly-dressed, aloof, intelligent. The voice was confident, sarcastic. ‘What, leave when it’s getting interesting?’

  Charlotte’s face was pale, angry. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘Saturday’s visiting day… Thought I’d find out about these valuable documents Adam’s been so protective of. It seems you’ve saved me the job. T
hey’re the ones making the headlines in all the nationals, aren’t they? Wait until the press know the whole truth.’

  His heartbeat thundered; he fumbled with buttons, his fingers stiff with arthritis, and bared his chest. He pointed to his tattoo, almost in his armpit. ‘Prisoners were tattooed on their forearms. This is my blood group, O. The SS had their blood group tattooed here. Mengele didn’t.’ He looked up at Robin. It was too late for lies, now; his years of secrecy had been for nothing. ‘Vanity, which was how he escaped the American army. They didn’t realise he was SS… they released him.’

  Lucy looked incredulous. ‘The Americans had him and let him go?’

  He pointed to his left forearm where faint scarring remained: his arm felt heavy. ‘Before I was forced onto the March of Death, I tattooed a number there to disguise my identity.’

  ‘You removed it?’

  ‘I hadn’t earned the right to wear it. After I changed my name I put my arms in fire. I needed to suffer. Whatever you think of me, I think worse of myself.’

  Charlotte’s eyes pleaded. ‘You’ve lied to us all our lives. Please say you’re lying now.’

  ‘Veritas odium parfat.’

  Adam frowned. ‘Truth begets hate?’

  ‘But truth is great and will prevail…’ The tightness in his chest receded. He spoke slowly. ‘The truth… it’s hard to know what the truth is, anymore.’

  Lucy leaned forward. ‘How did you fake your death?’

  ‘I was rescued by a fishing boat working out of Lowestoft. I told them my name was Carr, and my sailing dinghy had capsized. They had no reason not to believe me. I resumed Albert’s identity. Walt remained missing, presumed dead.’

  ‘And where have you been all these years?’ Charlotte’s voice was stony.

  She believed him now, and the longed-for love in her eyes was absent: the price Nemesis demanded. ‘Here and there. I watched you grow. Saw you from a distance. I longed to come home but you were safer with me dead.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘But… you don’t sound German. You’re English.’

  Adam dragged a chair closer and sat by Charlotte. ‘You were SS, Hans?’