Over the course of the last three days, Beckermann has transformed from a distraught parent to a man intent on revenge. Emotion was scrubbed out of his voice. I told him that he should consider putting his escape plan into action and that we should cease communications for ever.
“I don’t have an escape plan,” he told me.
“What?” was all I could reply.
“There is nothing for me outside of Munich. This has been my home for over three decades. All I want now is justice for my boy,”
“Don’t be stupid, Paul. You…”
“I don’t care, Albert,” Beckermann interrupted me, “I am coming for their blood. If it is the Jews that did this I will kill them all if I can. I will be flying to see you on Saturday.”
“Stop this intransigence,” I cried out, “You need to leave Germany and find somewhere safe,”
“There is no discussion now Albert, I have instructed Joachim to pick me up on Saturday at the airport in Nice. It will probably be the final time we meet Albert so I will say goodbye on Sunday,”
Beckermann hung up on me and left me wondering what kind of life this is for an old man. I am too old for this game, it’s not like when I left all those Israelis in the trail of my dust when I triumphantly fled from Argentina. Or the time I managed to leave ravaged Europe, the disintegrating continent. Or five years ago when I escaped from another dicey situation with that lunatic woman on that winter’s night in Berlin.
Oh Albert, running away is your one true skill isn’t it? Yes, it is. Even if you take an extreme view and believe that I did things in the war that may not be considered ethical, is that a reason to spend four decades hunting me? It is a mighty waste of misdirected resources. To murder Schwarzer whose father died in the first week of the war and committed no crimes, that is a sin. And Paul’s son Karl, to treat them like disposable vessels is reprehensible. I thought I was supposed to be the evil madman? I never scooped out a man’s eyeball or stabbed a man and threw him in a bath of bleach. Who is actually the monster?
The only monstrous act I perpetrated was that little girl in Auschwitz. In my defence, I have a strong belief that what I did was perform a mercy killing. The little girl was on the verge of passing away within days anyway. All I did was prevent her agony being prolonged. After I committed the deed, my mind was all over the place.
As I departed Auschwitz the promised storm arrived, it was like a tropical storm in Indochina rather than autumn in Eastern Poland. I arranged to meet Reutlinger in Prague before we both travelled together by train to Salzburg.
Before I had departed, I phoned Paul who confirmed the Canaletto was safely locked up away in Bavaria. I took the second picture, a modernist piece that Paul claimed was valuable but he didn’t know who painted it.
We arrived in Salzburg and the city was subdued, almost a ghost town. The realisation that the end of the Nazi regime was imminent could be felt everywhere, it was palpable. We were both dressed in civilian clothes which I was glad about. German soldiers walking the streets were being subjected to stares and barely concealed remarks.
Smith’s shop was a dusty compact shop on Getreidegasse. Sculptures and old engineering antiques were packed in to the shop. The two men I recognised from my last visit were in the store. Two handsome, well-toned blonde men. Smith and a man with a name that I forgot the moment he told me last time.
“Ah, gentleman. A pleasure to see you in Salzburg as always,” Smith said throwing his arms wide in the air. Reutlinger shook his hand and I nodded a curt welcome.
“My friend is looking to do some business today, Mr Smith,” Reutlinger said. He attempted to be charming but he couldn’t quite remove the smugly sinister tone in everything he said. Since he joined the Gestapo I can’t deny that I was afraid of him and the power he wielded. He never spoke about anything to do with his work but I knew he was of a high rank.
“That sounds excellent,” Smith replied, “Money makes the world go round. Herr Reutlinger, it is rare that you disappoint me so what have you got to show me today?”
I removed the modernist piece from the wooden tube that it was resting in and unfurled it on the counter. Smith’s eyes lit up when he saw it. It wasn’t my kind of picture but I had a feeling that for a collector it would be very appealing.
“What do you think, Mr East?” Smith said. The younger man leant over the painting and examined it.
“It looks like a work of one of the major cubists, the colours and lines are so striking. Especially in contrast with the nautical theme. Do you know who painted it?” the man who Smith called East, said. Reutlinger and I both shook our heads.
“It is by Jean Metzinger,” Smith said, nodding his approval at the work, “It’s a masterpiece. I would put Metzinger second only to Gleizes in terms of the consistency of his work,”
“What about Picasso?” East said.
“I’m never convinced by his sincerity, he’s not for me,” Smith replied. It felt like these two were playing in a game. I felt out of my depth so I went for a direct question.
“How much would you buy this off us for?” The two employees shared a look, Smith rubbed his chin and stared at me:
“I can offer you sixteen thousand reichsmarks today to purchase this artwork.”
“What, it must be worth twenty times that amount?” Reutlinger bawled. The two men flinched and even I was placed on edge.
“You can always take the painting to another dealer and I’m sure they would be happy to pay more, they may be a little more discerning regarding the provenance of course but I’m sure that won’t be an issue to you fine gentlemen,”
Clever bastard, I thought. I could see Reutlinger considering shooting Smith right now. I needed the money right now, my savings weren’t insignificant but not enough to start a new life.
“We’ll sell for thirty thousand and no less,” I said. Reutlinger looks at me, initially with anger but then I could feel his emotions turning to respect. I had acted with authority and it had impressed him. It also impressed Smith who accepted my offer and he went off behind the back to sort out the money.
As we were waiting, I spoke to the younger man regarding another artwork.
“Do you remember the Canaletto I showed you last month? It is currently safe in Germany. I am protecting it from destruction while this madness goes on in Europe. What do you think it’s value would be?”
“It’s hard to tell, selling a Canaletto is a risky business due to his popularity. I could take down your details and potentially we could organise a price in the next few months?” The man wrote down an enormous figure on a piece of paper. I could sell the painting or hold on to it for a rainy day. I supplied a few details and told him I would be in touch soon. I would have to tell Paul to ensure the painting is secure due to its immense value. I knew it was valuable after the first visit but the figure Smith wrote down took my breath away although I managed to maintain an unruffled demeanour
Smith returned from the back with a stack of Reichsmarks and US dollars. He had divided the payment between the currencies. He really was a clever bastard.
After he handed the money over there was a passing underwhelming moment. I don’t know what caused it but it seemed too easy. Perhaps it was a rare feeling of guilt that I was deserting my country at war. However, the moment passed, and Reutlinger and I left the shop and drove out of Salzburg and out of the Third Reich. With help from the Italian Black Brigades we were in Genoa within twenty-four hours. Within a couple of days I was on an ocean liner heading towards a new life in South America.
Doves and Ravens
Saturday, 10 May 1986
It has been forty-eight hours since we discovered Albert Tremmick’s address in Monaco at Auschwitz. I’m astounded at the sheer gall of the man to write it the visitor book. It would be farcical if it wasn’t so abhorrent. It was the dramatic flourish of a man revelling in his own misdeeds.
My brain struggles to comprehend Tremmick’s motivation. Decades of inflicting misery upo
n the weakest members of society. His lackeys consistently claimed medical breakthroughs without providing any specific examples. Only sweeping generalisations and bold declarations of advancement.
However, how are they funding the clinic in Berlin? Perhaps their covert operations are actually paid for by Western governments. Maybe radical treatments are being developed and helping people around the world. I guess I’ll never find that out and I’m not sure I want to. My soul is disintegrating due to the knowledge I already hold.
Tremmick is a man who isn’t constrained by ethics which isn’t a desirable trait for a doctor. In my opinion there is no cure for an illness that is worth the suffering of young girls being maimed and violated. Anyone who believes otherwise needs to question their own beliefs and what the sanctity of human life means in the real world.
Surely there is a limit to what society deems acceptable for medical research. I know there are laws in place for that type of thing. It’s bad enough when you see monkeys being tormented on a daily basis in the hope for cures. But when you come face to face with a young woman with a metallic instrument protruding from her eye like a robotic insect proboscis it is more than I, or any right-thinking person, could bear.
I can almost see the motivation in people like Tremmick in that type of behaviour. An egotist drowning in his own intellectual grandeur, unable to comprehend the sickness that lies at the heart of it. But what about the orderlies and the nurses? Did the nurse who was complicit in my so-called treatment tell her family what she did at work each day? I can’t see how you could tuck your children up in bed at night after you’ve spent a day blinding other peoples’ children for no discernible reason.
All the way through medical school was Dr Hansen thinking about how miserable an existence he could create for his patients? I am fascinated to know the stories of these people and what drove them to abandon their dignity and ethics and work in that lab.
Janko and I arrived in Nice to meet Gunari a couple of hours ago. Janko drove us back to Berlin and then we actually caught a plane. It was incredible. Janko’s thoughts were solely related to Tremmick and he was barely communicative. Which made quite a change for Janko and it was quite refreshing as it gave me a chance to go exploring around an airport.
Despite the false passport, I couldn’t stop smiling going through passport control. Janko at one point told me to “stop grinning like an idiot,”. The West German checks were quite intensive and the female officer asked me a couple of questions about my East German and Polish stamps. A mention of Auschwitz was enough for her to hurry me along.
Janko sat in a cafe with a coffee and his musings. I explored every square centimetre of the departures section. I was fascinated by the gleaming high windows and ceilings that seemed to reach up to the sky itself. I spent one hour simply staring out of the window and watching the planes take off from the runways.
When it was time for us to fly, the super glamorous Air France hostesses welcomed us on to the plane. Janko had finally lightened up, possibly reminiscing about Amina when he flew to Buenos Aires. I clambered into the window seat and I didn’t stop looking out of the window until we broke the cloud cover. From the air you could see the Wall dividing the city like a jagged ribbon of concrete.
I could feel my heart racing as Brandenburg became a toytown region, the houses and roads suitable only for ants. Wisps of cloud became thicker and thicker and all of a sudden we were above the clouds. My insides immediately calmed down and all I could see was endless blue sky. It was a most humbling experience. I wonder if pilots are religious people?
Janko and I are now sitting outside a bar opposite the train station in Nice. We expect to see Gunari any moment, he flew from Berlin to Geneva last night. He stopped off at the cottage to pick up supplies for us and then headed to a hotel nearby. Our flight only landed at Nice an hour or so ago and we arranged to meet near the station. After we had dropped our stuff off at the hotel, Janko said he needed some fresh air, so he left a message for Gunari at the front desk.
Gunari must have driven the Argento at a pace it hadn’t seen in years if he was ever going to arrive here this morning from the Alps. I’ll be surprised if it made the journey without setting itself on fire. Janko would clearly see it as a vindication of his belief in the supremacy of Italian automobile engineering. Janko is staring at his watch and maintaining surveillance over the station concourse.
We are both nursing coffees. The taste is creamy but I am deriving no joy from it. My stomach is cramping. Whether it is due to my period or nerves I can’t tell. I am exhausted. When this is all over I need a break. It’s funny, as this would be the perfect destination for a beach holiday.
The rain that greeted our arrival in the south of France has disappeared and has been replaced by a muggy warmth. Flies buzz around the next table and their barely eaten fruit platter. The passing traffic sounds like one insistent press of the horn. My stomach cramps again and the pain shoots up to my head. I place my head in my hands and try to relax. I feel Janko poking a finger on my head. The man clearly has a death wish.
“What are you doing?” I say, somehow restraining myself from swearing.
“It’s Gunari,” Janko says. I scan around and I can see Gunari crossing the road and delivering a mean look to the driver of a mucky Peugeot van who braked strongly in front of him. The driver wants to say something but he wisely chooses against that course of action.
Gunari spots us and offers a wave which Janko returns. I jump out of my seat and give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. Gunari looks shyly surprised. He returns the hug and ruffles my hair. A sense of pride comes over me which is then swamped by another cramp which makes me hunch over slightly.
“Are you two ready?” Gunari says, remaining on the pavement, “I’ve already bought the train tickets,”
“Yes,” Janko replies and places a few Francs neatly on the table, “Let’s go see how the other half live,”
The Flowers of Monaco
Saturday, 10 May 1986
The three of us cross the road and head directly in to the station. Our train is about to leave from the nearest platform so we hop on and take a seat on a new-looking red and white carriage. The train pulls away quite literally as I take my seat. It is about three-quarters full but there is very little chatter on the carriage.
None of us speak as the train trundles through the resort towns of the Riviera. I absorb the exotic-sounding names from the signs at the platforms - Villefranche, Beaulieu, Èze, Cap d’Ail. The train occasionally passes very close to the sea. I watch children frolicking on the beach in a cove, lovers in the cafes enjoying lunch. A different world from my own.
The grey blockiness of Berlin was barely a day ago yet travelling along the Côte d'Azur makes it seem a lifetime ago. We enter a tunnel and Janko nudges my elbow knocking me out of my hazy state, and nearly knocking my head face first in to the table. I shoot a ‘What-the-hell’ glare at him.
“We are approaching the station in Monaco,” Gunari whispers.
“I left my passport at the hotel,” I say, panic rising. Why does he tell me these things at the last minute?
“You don’t need it to enter Monaco but technically you should have some form of identification in case the police request it,”
“But I don’t have any identification,”
“Neither do I.” Janko winks and then points out of the window. I notice we are entering a dimly lit train station. We disembark and it looks like we are in one long curved tunnel with spotlights across the soaring ceiling each emitting an ugly orange illumination.
The two men set off through the railway station at a furious pace and I initially struggle to keep up. We step out of the station into a dazzling summer’s day. The sun is blinding and I hunt in my bag to find my sunglasses which I fail to locate. Gunari stops suddenly and consults a page torn from a travel guide containing a Monaco street map.
After a good while searching in my rucksack I finally grab my sunglasses. I put th
em on and I can actually open my peepers without my eyes watering. Straight ahead in the distance I can see the famous port lined with yachts. The closer out towards the sea the yachts become bigger and more ostentatious. I cross the road to catch a better look, some of the yachts are huge. I wonder who owns them? Maybe if Janko sold that van Gogh in the cottage he could buy one for my summer holiday. I’ll advise him of my idea later on.
All around, I see apartment blocks everywhere. The roads are quiet despite Janko’s warnings that the place is renowned as the world’s most expensive car park. Gunari calls out to me and points to his left so I skip over the road again and have to jog to catch them up.
The pavements are so narrow that we have to walk in single file. We pass by various businesses catering for the rich: solicitors’ offices, art galleries and estate agents with the occasional palm tree popping out of the concrete. A couple of workmen are stood admiring a big hole in the road and casually abusing each other in industrial French. It’s interesting that even somewhere as rich as Monaco still needs working class tradesmen to keep the place running.
We turn left, I see a sign indicating we are now on Avenue Berceau. The road rises on a sharp gradient. We reach an odd shaped junction with three roads veering off in different directions and elevations and a pedestrian staircase striking out even higher. Gunari instructs Janko and I to halt.
“Rue des Roses is at the top of the steps,” Gunari says to us, “I will wait here, you two check it out. If you see him Janko you know what to do,”
Janko nods, he is carrying a briefcase. I know it contains his SIG P220 pistol, bought from a former Swiss soldier in Geneva last winter. Janko’s face looks drained of colour. So does Gunari’s and I’m guessing I do too, considering how sick I feel.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing around in the sun is making me feel even worse.
The Wind and the Rain Page 24