“Everything OK?” he says, his creased face somehow finds another worry line to add.
“Yes. Janko has found something. He said to come and get you,”
“I would have been back in the house soon, no need to worry,”
“It’s about Albert Tremmick,”
As soon I say his name, Gunari stares down at his feet for a few seconds, then abruptly walks off to the cottage and grabs my hand to hold on the way. Am I supporting him, or is it the other way around?
Back in the cottage, Janko has been digging through his boxes of files. Gunari walks over to him and quickly says something in German to him. They both turn to look at me, it’s all very odd.
“What’s going on guys,” I say, trying to act lighthearted, “Is there a problem?”
“No, of course not, Ana,” Janko says, “We are discussing whether you are ready for the next step,”
“What’s the next step?”
“Investigation,” Janko says.
“Followed by possible termination of the sinner,” Gunari says in a manner easily twice as apocalyptic as his normal proclamations.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I reply, steel in my response.
Janko beckons me to the table where he and Gunari are eyeing the documents he has spread out. Today’s newspaper is placed in the centre of the table, I examine it and something triggers my brain.
“The stolen art in Germany from the newspaper. It has to be that,”
“Indeed Ana, oh my,” Janko says, “I was reading the story earlier and it didn’t click. That’s why we need young heads like you around here,”
I examine the article in the newspaper and it’s all very strange. Health inspectors in a suburb of Munich were checking a butcher’s shop as part of their normal rounds. It seems they were exceedingly thorough and spotted a locked cabinet. The owner, a young man named as Horst Beckermann, told the inspectors that the cabinet was only for staff documents and nothing to do with hygiene.
The assessors grew suspicious of the man and they informed him that they had permission to access any part of the premises. Beckermann reluctantly opened the safe, the article states he was actually crying. Inside were a few papers relating to the staff but also inside was a rolled up painting.
In itself, this wouldn’t have been odd but due to Beckermann’s demeanour, they asked him a few questions which he bounced away. They called the police who came down and Beckermann told them the truth. That his grandfather had asked him to temporarily place the paintings in a safe place. Beckermann had been immediately doubtful, having heard of recent tales of looted Nazi artwork being discovered. He presumed the health inspectors were actually police which was why he was acting so strangely.
“So, how is this painting linked to the doctor?” I ask, nothing in the story mentions anything about him.
Janko is shuffling papers around on the desk and then picks up a tattered notebook. The cover is brown and from I can see the pages have turned brown too. It looks at least ten thousand years old.
“What is that?” I say. Janko chuckles at the face I am pulling.
“This book,” Janko is thumbing through the pages of the notebook, “contains all the secrets that Smith and I managed to note down in our time in the shop,”
“So you know where all the stolen Nazi art is?”
“Oh, I wish Ana. No, but it contains detailed information about which Nazis had links with certain artwork. Hopefully, this book will help us to...ah, this is it,” Janko stops talking and scrutinises the book.
“Is it there Janko?” Gunari whispers. Janko looks at Gunari and nods. Gunari steps away from the table and sits down on the sofa nearest to the fire.
“What does it say?” I ask.
“According to the list, it is a painting by Canaletto of the Piazza Santa Margherita. The name of the person who was asking for an estimated value was ‘Tremmick, Albert’. We left the section describing his rank as blank. At that time we weren’t aware of how significant he was. And the date was November nineteen forty-four,”
“Anything else, no contact information?”
“No, nothing else but it doesn’t matter. The investigation can begin now.” Janko is looking out of the window, his face as old as I have seen it.
“The Israelis will be looking for him too,” Gunari is smoking a cigarette, a rare relapse for a man who quit eight years ago, “They will be as desperate as us to find him,”
“That’s true,” Janko sits back down in his favourite chair opposite Gunari, “We won’t rush Gunari. No, we will plan and then we will find him,”
“We need to go to Germany, he’s already an old man,”
“So am I but I will not plunge into this in a hasty manner. I’m not losing him again,” Janko bangs his hand down on the table next to him which again startles me. I wish he’d stop doing it.
“I’ll contact Boris to look into the grandfather. Do we know who he is?” Gunari says.
“I don’t think so but he must be closely connected to Tremmick. Tell Boris that there can be a maximum of zero mistakes. I believe that if he catches a smell of a trace that he will vanish,”
“He might have already disappeared,” I say, knowing that’s what I would do in his situation.
“Perhaps. We can deal with that if that is the case. However, I would guess that he will stay where he is,”
“Why?” I say, “Everyone will know what he has done,”
“He will stay because that is his job. Old grandfather Beckermann is the soldier that remains in Germany. He will be the one who orchestrates everything from there and deals with what needs to be done there,”
Prometheus
Tuesday, 31 December 1985
Joachim is due to pick me up from Munich-Riem airport to take me to see that flabby fool, Paul. It has been nearly five years since I last encountered Paul. He has become such a worrier as the years have worn on. Phoning me directly two weeks ago was a serious breach of protocol. The protocol is in place for precisely these reasons. But to call me again two nights ago was taking things too far.
What an infuriating individual. It may be time to cut him loose from my life. It falls upon me to deliver a few home truths later and I have to decide whether to tell him it is time for him to retire. His son is a much more dependable man, the reports that he files are diligent and very well written. He must have inherited that side of his personality from his mother, God rest her soul.
It is biting cold in Munich. The temperature must easily be minus fifteen if you factor in the abrasive wind searing my face. I should have worn a thicker jacket but I’m used to wet winters now and I forgot about wearing the right type of coat. All the other people outside the airport are dressed appropriately, unlike me. Everyone is rushing around trying to race home for New Year celebrations. That reminds me, those blasted fireworks will be going off all night too so I won’t catch any sleep.
The last time I was at this airport was forty-five years ago. Forty-five years later and I can remember every detail of that evening, the first time I ever had the honour of meeting Dr Josef Mengele. The weather on that night was very similar to this evening except there were intense intermittent flurries of snow to accompany the ice cold wind but I was much more prepared back then, protected from the elements in a big fur coat and winter boots.
Dr Verschuer had asked me to meet Dr Mengele to discuss some of the plans we had prepared. We wanted to take Mengele away from active service and for him to lead our research into preventable illnesses that were hampering the war effort, especially on the South-Western Front. Our research was at an important practical evaluation stage and we all felt that progress was imminent.
The airport was almost deserted, there were virtually no flights at all with it being the eve of the New Year barring a couple of military planes taking supplies East. A bunch of exhausted soldiers were sitting around on the floor quietly chatting with their corporal and passing around a bottle of Doppelkorn.
&
nbsp; Josef Mengele arrived and was apparently in fantastic health, his toothy grin beaming as we hailed each other and embraced warmly. It was strange meeting someone whose papers and research I had pored over for the last couple of years. We had corresponded by post for more than two years without ever meeting face to face.
“Dr Mengele, may I say what a pleasure it is to finally meet you,” I was jabbering like a schoolboy asking a girl to the May Day dance, “Please, let me take you inside and we can grab a coffee and some cake,”
“I haven’t eaten cake in months,” Mengele replied and began laughing, “Albert, take me with great haste to the cakes!”
We headed inside and the solitary girl behind the counter of the cafe was resting her elbows on the counter in a derisively unprofessional manner. According to her badge, her name was Helga, I had conversed with her earlier but I was not impressed by her stand-offish demeanour. I introduced Mengele to her as one of Germany’s most distinguished scientists and she barely acknowledged him.
I remember how furious I had felt at the time being undermined by a silly little serving girl. If Dr Mengele wasn’t there I would have severely reprimanded her for her brazen attitude. Mengele didn’t seem troubled by her behaviour so I allowed her insolence to pass this time and ordered our refreshments.
We took our seats in the deserted airport lounge and swapped stories of the war. I explained to Mengele that much of the work I had been doing at Dieselstraße was inspired by his studies. My examinations of skull shapes had brought potentially interesting results. I was convinced that there were certain characteristics that could definitively highlight the racial group they came from. Mengele told me how much he missed doing practical experiments. I passed on the offer from Verschuer to work at a new facility we were setting up but Mengele was unable to accept.
“I’m going to the Eastern Front in two weeks,” Mengele told me, for the first time his face betrayed concern, “By all accounts, I appear destined to be posted to Ukraine,”
I didn’t reply, by Mengele’s voice I could tell that he wasn’t going to be persuaded to apply for a transfer. I didn’t push him either. Instead, we told stories about our youth, both of us hailing from beautiful Bavarian towns about hundred kilometres apart. Mengele was originally from Günzburg and I grew up in Ansbach.
We talked for hours even after the serving girl finished her shift and went home. The two of us were alone barring a few dozen soldiers who were lying down and snoozing all around the arrivals area. Two of the great minds of the Reich discussing ideas and inspirations, rivalry and reason. We were engrossed in conversation as the clock ticked past midnight and the beginning of a new year. The world was ours.
“Dr Tremmick?” a voice knocks me out of my thoughts. I mumble something and it takes a few moments to process where I am. Back outside a barren airport freezing to death.
“Oh, you must be Joachim?” I say. A man of about twenty years with a handsome face and thick winter coat stands in front of me. Luckily for him, there is only a small hint of his father’s looks in his puppy-dog eyes.
“Yes, Doctor, please let me help you with your luggage,” I only have one small carry-on case but Joachim takes the bag and places it in the back of a black BMW. Joachim opens the door on the passenger side but I decline and take a seat in the back. Thankfully it is very warm inside and the numbness that was beginning to creep into my fingers has been kept at bay.
It is a shame it is too dark to be able to see anything of note on the journey into the city. The gloom only adds to the feeling of despondency that is creeping through my body. It is only when we reach the Maximilianeum, rising out of the ground half-castle and half tree-house, that I finally recognise where I am. It has been decades since I last visited the Bavarian capital, the village of a million people that I used to call home. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that it was the place where I became the man I am today.
The car continues along leafy Maximiliansbrücke and memories of Oktoberfest drinking parties spring to mind. The graduation party in thirty-six will always be number one. I must have drunk fifty steins of beer that day and eaten God knows how many kilograms of Weißwurst. I was sick for a week after that day but it was worth it. We were the cream of a nation on the rise. Ten years later half of my friends had perished in the war, fodder for the unstoppable Nazi machine which wasn’t as unstoppable as it first appeared.
I remember my best friend Marcel, an avowed anti-Nazi when we first met as undergraduates. Both of us were sickened by the book burning in thirty-three. What a welcome to university life that was watching thousands of library books in flames with students dancing around the fire like primitive pagans. Marcel was disgusted but I managed to pull him away from a confrontation with some of the arsonists, the situation being incendiary enough.
Throughout our time at university anyone holding anti-Nazi views was treated initially with good-humoured pity. It didn’t take long for this to develop into unconcealed contempt. Marcel withdrew into his studies as I did also, only joining the party in thirty-five under pressure from the head of the faculty. I was rather ambivalent to the rise of the Nazi party, I found a lot of their uptight pomposity ridiculous but the economic successes were impossible to ignore. From the beginning of my time in Munich, there was a stark difference than at the end of my time. There was a change in peoples’ mindsets, money was flowing and pride in being German was evident.
In nineteen forty-three I discovered by a quirk of coincidence from Mengele that Marcel was a tank commander and had been killed in the battle of Kursk. I had known a few opponents of the Nazis who were purged in the years following our graduation. I expected Marcel to be one of them, not leading the battle from the front. It is strange the way these things turn out in the end.
Joachim has parked the car outside a run-down bar. He turns around and with a lift of the eyebrows indicates that I need to go in there. A couple of guys in overalls and bare arms are stood outside the door talking in thick Bavarian accents. I push my way past and they barely move for me. Ignorant peasants.
Inside the entrance, through a fug of stale smoke, a bunch of old-timers are talking about the latest football match. I spot Paul at the bar and he gracelessly steps down off his chair to greet me.
I inspect him and I immediately observe his lack of self-discipline exemplified by a huge belly that hangs over his trousers like a bag of loose potatoes. He is gargantuan now, what a difference to the first time I met him bearing a resemblance more akin to that of a garden rake than a human. A desperate, craven creature starving and eating straw and mouldy apples. By the looks of him, I don’t think he will need to buy next year’s calendar.
“Have you heard those old guys over there talking about football, Albert?” Paul embraces me warmly but I barely reciprocate, “1860 play in the Bavarian league now, can you believe it? And Bayern are favourites for the national title! These guys don’t have a clue. Hey guys, Ai! Ai! Ai! Super Bayern!”
The old-timers respond with some very personal insults at Paul. Did this man compel me to travel here so I could listen to him engage in a slanging match with some porcine men over football, of all things?
“Paul, sit down,” I say. He obeys my command and sits down again at his spot at the bar, embarrassment covers his red face.
“Sorry Albert,” Paul says, holding an apologetic arm up, “It’s been a long time since, ah, you know. Michaela, two beers please,”
I don’t want a beer but I don’t say anything. Simply meeting up is too much of a risk, however I need to ease Paul out of my affairs and a face-to-face meeting is the only way he will listen.
The haggard bar woman places two large Löwenbräu glasses down in front of us. Paul is ogling her breasts without any hint of subtlety but she doesn’t seem to mind or care. I glare at Paul which at first he tries to ignore but after a couple of minutes, he finally cracks.
“Oh Albert, stop staring at me, I’m not a child,”
“No, neither of us ar
e children Paul. What are you doing about Horst? He has caused us a major issue,”
“What can I do?” Paul replies, “The damage is done. He knew nothing and his honesty overcame him,”
“Jesus, Paul. Your grandchild is a law unto himself. He requires a firm hand which you are incapable of delivering.”
“I’m sorry, what else do you want me to say. Do you want me to grovel?” Paul suddenly leaps off his chair and kneels down like a Turk pretending to kiss my feet.
“Stop it, you stupid man,” I say. My patience for his drunken tomfoolery is at its limit, “You are on your final warning, Paul. One more mistake and you will no longer work for me,”
Paul sits back down on the barstool, takes a big swig of his beer and nods. He can’t maintain eye contact. He is obedient and he knows I have him in the palm of my hand.
“Can you explain why your grandson acted in the way he did?” I ask Paul who begins licking his lips.
“I did not tell him anything. I only followed your instructions. You said that the fewest people who know the truth the less chance of any mishaps,”
“But we have had a mishap, haven’t we? If Horst knows nothing of our work why did you leave the painting in the safe at the shop?”
“I am never going to be able to give you a satisfactory response Albert. I’m not engaging in these stupid conversations,” Paul is now sulking and he downs his beer and gestures to the barmaid to give him a refill.
“Oh, so are you in charge now Paul? Do you dictate the content of our conversations now? You forget the past very easily,”
“I don’t think you will ever stop bringing this up. I think you enjoy holding that against me. Maybe it’s all you are holding on to,”
“What do you mean by that?” I say, perturbed by Paul’s attitude.
“It doesn’t matter,” Paul drinks again and waves a dismissive hand.
“Paul, I have to be strict and you know why. All I ask is that you follow the proper channels for reporting anything. That is all I ask.”
The Wind and the Rain Page 8