This was a big operation. Nothing was going to evade the Ordnungspolizei’s dragnet this time.
As they drove slowly up the street, between the rows of police vans, they saw scruffy down-and-outs being dragged across the paths, occasionally beaten, before being thrown into the rears of the vans.
Jerome watched, open-mouthed, and realized that his family weren’t the only people in London who were suffering. He had heard of the street cleaning operations before, as had every person in England, but he had never seen one taking place. He turned to face Ben, who was keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road in front of him.
“Jesus,” Jerome gasped under his breath as he saw the Orpo gun down two youths who ran into the road. Ben braked violently, glancing in his mirror. Behind him, another civilian car came to a halt.
Five Orpo officers rushed out into the road, recovered the bloody, bullet-ridden corpses, and dragged them to the gutter. Ben silently resumed driving, and soon was waved between two trucks at the other end of the street.
Then they were free of the oppression, and it was as though it had never happened. Another jaunty, harmless song was being played on the radio, and there were no more sirens, no more Orpo officers.
But that couldn’t help erase from Jerome’s memory the sights he had seen in the street behind him.
“That was something else,” Ben remarked blandly.
Jerome didn’t respond.
“You know, those people weren’t hurting anybody,” Ben continued. “We drive past here every day, and we never see them. I mean, we knew they were there, in those houses, but they stayed indoors until dark. They weren’t bothering anybody, there was no reason …” He broke off, and glanced sheepishly at Jerome.
Both men remained silent throughout the remainder of the journey to Jerome’s house.
The sight of the Orpo officers had also reminded them of another side to Nazi England. The side that warned you to trust no one.
Everybody was a potential Gestapo Spitzel, a potential informer.
Ben pulled up outside Jerome’s house in Goebbelsstrasse, told him he’d pick him up the following morning, and then drove off. Jerome glanced at the car as he made his way up the garden path. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he could trust Ben.
Then again, perhaps not. Who knew?
17
Jerome could sense the tension in the air the moment he walked into the living room. His mother was still wearing her dressing gown. She hadn’t dressed, he realized, since yesterday morning. Nicole sat beside their mother, and Campbell sat on the windowsill. Aunt Mary sat on their mother’s other side.
Nobody spoke to him, or acknowledged his arrival, and their faces told him they’d received news of his father. They also told him that the news wasn’t good.
“What?” he asked, walking to the middle of the room and looking at them all in turn. His eyes fell upon Mary last of all. “Aunt Mary?”
“We had a visitor,” his aunt explained. “From Meredith’s.”
“Meredith’s? The funeral directors?” Jerome looked around blankly. Campbell was twiddling his fingers, and his eyes were fixed upon his hands. Nicole was equally vacant – she stared at a space on the wall opposite. She’d been crying. Her red eyes testified to that. “What?”
“Your father, he’s …”
“Dead?”
There was a gasp in the room. It had come from his mother. Jerome looked at her, saw the tears streaming down her face. A screwed-up handkerchief was in her hand, and she wiped her runny nose, sniffing loudly as she did so.
“How?”
“We don’t know,” Mary replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” snapped Jerome. Then he shook his head, held up a hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Mary said, getting to her feet. She walked across to him. “The reason we don’t know is because they wouldn’t tell us. The coffin’s been sealed. We’d have to go to the Gestapo to find out what happened.”
“And?”
“And, well, nobody wants to,” Mary answered sheepishly.
“Nobody wants to kick up a stink, right?”
“It would be foolish,” Mary said quietly. “I mean, it’s not as if we don’t know, is it?”
“We have a right to know for certain.”
“They won’t tell us, Jerome, and that’s the end of it.”
“The coffin was sealed at Meredith’s?”
“Maybe, yeah, I don’t know,” Mary replied, frowning and shrugging her shoulders. “Why?”
“Because some bastard down there knows the score,” growled Jerome. “And I’m gonna find out who.” He went for the door, but Mary stopped him.
“Jerome, don’t, please.”
“I want to know. We have a right to know!”
“Jerome, if you go down there, they’ll have your name–”
“Mary, they’ve already got my bloody name, haven’t they? They’ve got all of our names. We’re a marked bloody family. What do you think is gonna happen the next time they need people for punishment executions? They’re going to come marching in here.” At that, Mary closed her eyes, shook her head, and Jerome realized he’d gone too far. He heard a sob come from his sister. He shouldn’t have said that, no matter how true it might’ve been. “Look, I’m sorry. I … look, I have to go,” and he went out into the hall. Mary followed him, grabbed him and twirled him around. She was a big woman. When he was younger, she had always managed to keep him in his place. Now, he realized, she was trying to prove she was still capable of doing that.
“You go down there,” she said, jabbing a finger at him as she spoke quietly, “you’re going to be causing trouble. And you’re going to get this family noticed. In a big way. They might just come down here later tonight and take you all away.”
“If they’re going to do it, they’ll do it anyway,” Jerome sneered. “Mary, leave me alone, for Christ’s sake.” He pulled free from her grip.
“Jerome, please, think this over. Your mother needs you. And Nicole and Campbell. They’re all looking to you for support.”
“Mary, those bastards, they killed my father. I want to know how. No, not want – I need to know how.”
“Why? What difference will it make?”
“I don’t know,” Jerome said, closing his eyes.
“Then why bother?”
“I have to,” he said determinedly, and he opened the front door and stepped out into the early evening air.
Meredith’s was a long walk from Goebbelsstrasse. Perhaps on the way, he might change his mind. If he did, if he cooled off, then fine.
If not …
Well, if not, then he had a score to settle.
And he intended to settle it.
18
Meredith’s was a reasonably large business situated probably a mile from Goebbelsstrasse. The building had been constructed before the war, and as such, appeared elderly when placed alongside the modern monstrosities that had sprung up all around. German architecture included skyscrapers that put those in the US to shame. Meredith’s, on the other hand, was a business that required only a single floor for its workshops and a second floor for offices.
The sign above the door was red on white, and stood out, despite the dimming of the day as the sun dropped behind the towering buildings surrounding the establishment. On either side of the name, small flags with the Nazi Hakenkreuz hung, proclaiming to all what was engraved on a gold panel beside the entrance – that this was a Nazi-approved funeral directors, or amtlich Beerdigungsunternehmer. In fact, few funeral directors weren’t Nazi-approved or amtlich. Those who were determined to remain independent from the government, who refused to take in execution victims, were placed on blacklists and received little business. Taking your loved ones to an unapproved funeral director would put you on a blacklist also.
Jerome knew all this as he stood opposite the building. He also knew that the walk hadn’t calmed h
im down. His temper was still hot, ready to flare, and he was determined to at least have his say with these Nazi lackeys. And, he thought as he crossed the quiet road, these bastards would listen to him.
The front entrance was locked, he realized as he stood before it. The business hours were printed on a discreet card in the window beside him. They had closed at five-thirty. After that, it was by appointment only. There was also a telephone number for emergencies.
Jerome closed his eyes and leant back against the wall, feeling its cold bricks pressing through his tee-shirt. Behind that wall, he thought, was death, and that was why it was so cold.
Death … unfeeling death.
He heard an engine flare up to his left and jerked his head in time to see a black Volkswagen van pull out of a gateway beside the building. On the side of the van was printed Meredith’s.
Jerome smiled and walked towards the gate as the van disappeared down a side street. He walked through the gate and found himself in a large yard that ran around the side and rear of the building. Five other VW vans, identical to the one Jerome had just seen, were parked in a neat line along one wall. There were a couple of low-range BMWs, an Audi, and one Porsche. There were also two large trucks. What they were for, Jerome didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. Large bodies or a large number of bodies – neither was something he wanted to think about.
He saw the side entrance, saw a lighted window on the ground floor, and three lighted windows on the floor above. There were staff here, he thought to himself. He made his way to the entrance unchallenged.
He didn’t bother to knock on the door. He had a suspicion that it led either into a corridor or a reception area. Instead, he yanked it open and stepped through the doorway. Inside, was a wide corridor with two doors on either side, and a stairway at the other end.
Jerome entered the first door on his left. The light had come from that direction, and so he knew that somebody was working inside. He didn’t bother to read the caption on the door – by the time he realized what the room contained, it was too late.
A body was being prepared on a solitary bench in the middle of the room. A woman, in her early forties, naked, the side of her skull caved in, probably from a car accident. Two men stood on either side of the bench, both wearing overalls that had light blood splatters down the front.
Both men looked up as he entered. One of them frowned deeply.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded to know.
“I’m looking for the manager,” Jerome said nervously, his eyes transfixed on the cadaver. Blood was being drained from the woman’s neck, falling through a thin, transparent tube into a bucket, where it settled in a lumpy, liquid pile of red clot. The man who had spoken rushed across to him.
“Please, sir, leave,” he said, pushing Jerome through the door. Outside, in the corridor, he pointed towards the stairs. “Up there, first door on your right.”
“Thanks,” Jerome said humbly. “Listen, I’m sorry about–” The man disappeared back through the door. Jerome heard the door being latched. He closed his eyes, tried to erase the vision of the dead woman from his mind.
But he couldn’t.
Instead, he followed the man’s directions, and found himself at a door marked G.H.Meredith – Manager. He knocked on the door, heard a voice instructing him to enter, and so he did.
Mr Meredith, the grandson of the man who had established the funeral directors, sat behind a heavy oak desk. To either side were filing cabinets. A computer was situated in the corner of the room, out of the way, on a small, old desk that had probably come out of a school. A pile of brochures lay on the desk, depicting coffins of varying shapes and sizes. The office appeared to have been thrown together in a hurried, haphazard fashion, and was probably not the office Mr Meredith used to meet and greet his customers, his clients – or rather, his clients’ families.
Mr Meredith himself was a tall, thin man, in his fifties, with grey hair, and a nose that resembled a beak; long, narrow, and hooked at the tip. He wore small wire-framed glasses and a black suit with matching tie. His eyes, small, yet piercing, stared at Jerome thoughtfully, as if they were saying, you’re not old enough to be a customer. There was suspicion in them.
Meredith frowned, his forehead wrinkling and bristling like the hackles of an irritated dog. “Yes?” he asked politely. He clearly wasn’t willing to risk losing a potential customer by snapping – not yet.
“I’m Jerome Varley. I believe you have my father’s … body.”
“Varley?” the old man frowned further, as if that were possible. “Ah, yes, Ross Varley. A … government case.”
“I’d like to see my father.”
“The casket has been sealed, Mr Varley–”
“Haven’t you got a crowbar in your workshop?”
“Mr Varley,” Meredith said, smiling tightly, his frown disappearing. “I’m sorry, but as I explained to your mother personally, your father’s coffin was sealed in the presence of a Geheime Staatspolizei representative. It cannot be opened without their authorization, and with the greatest of respect, I don’t believe you have that.”
“I want to see my father.”
“Mr Varley, please let’s not go over the same ground. It is,” he said, smiling tightly then straightening his face, “counterproductive. Please, I’d be happy to show you the casket, and if it doesn’t meet your approval, we can apply to the State for a reopening–”
“I don’t want to apply for shit like that,” Jerome hissed, jabbing a finger at the old man. “I just want to see my fucking father!”
“Might I ask why?”
“I want to know how he died.”
“I believe the cause of death was execution,” Meredith said, reaching back and opening one of the drawers in the filing cabinet to his left. He pulled out a suspension file and opened it on the desk in front of him, and then nodded his head. “Yes, the Totenschein clearly–”
“Totenschein? What the fuck is that?”
“The death certificate, Mr Varley. It clearly states–”
“I want to see his body.”
“What would that achieve?”
“I want to know exactly how he died.”
“I just told you.”
“You told me he was executed,” snarled Jerome, resting his knuckles on the desk in front of him. “You didn’t mention whether the Gestapo beat him, tortured him, shot him.”
“I … I am not privy to such information,” the old man said uneasily. “For that, you would have to speak to–”
“To the Gestapo, yes, I fucking know. But that’s stupid when you’ve got my father’s body here, in this building.”
“Mr Varley, I think we’ve gone over this subject as much as we can. Now,” Meredith said, picking up the telephone, “if you don’t leave, I’m going to call the Ordnungspolizei and have you removed. I don’t think either of us wish that. Not at a time like this, do we?”
Jerome snarled and stood up straight.
Then he stormed from the office.
But he would be back.
He wasn’t finished. Not by a long way.
19
Jerome returned to the street where Meredith’s was situated and leaned against a wall a hundred yards up the road. The long walk he’d taken after leaving Meredith’s office had cooled him down, but hadn’t succeeded in calming his temper. He was still angry, still bitter. He couldn’t push from his mind the memory of the dead woman on a bench being prepared by the two faceless men. He couldn’t push from his mind the image of his father lying on that very same bench, probably covered in bruises, with broken bones, gunshot wounds, even decapitated.
Every time that image sprung to mind, Jerome felt his rage increasing. A frustrating, bitter rage that he had to unleash somewhere, and upon someone.
But not, he thought angrily, on Mr Meredith.
The old bastard had threatened to call the Orpo, and Jerome didn’t want that. He didn’t want the indignation of being arr
ested, but more than that, if he was being honest, he didn’t want to end up like his father. He had a feeling that if he smashed the old man’s face in, the Gestapo would have a cell waiting for him and place booked at the next session of the People’s Court.
Jerome shuddered, and not just because he was cold. A car drove past, slowly, and he saw a face peer at him through the darkness. Some old sod on his way out to a pub, probably, Jerome thought. The car continued up the street and turned left at the end.
Jerome looked up at the sky, a deep, dark blue, with bright pinpricks of light dotted here and there, and the crescent shape of the moon, low in the sky. To the west, to his left, the sky was lighter, an amalgamation of yellow and purple, as the sun cast the last of its rays over the horizon and up into the clouds.
The street was deserted. No lights came from any of the fifteen or so buildings, warehouses and lock-ups that straddled the road on either side. Every building appeared dead, unused, derelict even. Jerome wondered if the street-trash had discovered this place. He doubted it. It might be quiet, deserted and safe at night, but come daylight, when the sun rose, it would be full of people.
Jerome stood up straight, fixed his gaze upon the two-storey building that was Meredith’s Funeral Directors, and began to walk purposefully towards it.
The side gate was closed, padlocked shut, and Jerome peered at it, a frown on his face. It was easily eight feet high, and spiked on top. Why they should have this much security, Jerome didn’t know. After all, what was the old joke about people dying to get in here? Jerome would’ve smiled at that thought, but it was quickly brushed aside by another. How the hell was he going to get into the building?
He walked along the front of Meredith’s, past another old shop, one that sold curiosities – in other words, junk. On the other side of this shop was another yard. The gate to this one was open, and Jerome stepped into its dark, murky depths, the shadows swallowing him up.
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