Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “Of course. Volkmann bullshit. But his father is a director of the Japan branch and gave his son a job. They had an office in Tokyo, and your friend Willie ran a department, but to hear him you’d think he was the chief executive. Any idea what section he still runs, now that their headquarters has moved here?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “He handles the mail.”

  “Well, I suppose there’d be a lot of letters?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Then it is quite an important job?”

  “Very. Lots of letters — and even more parcels. They come from all over the world, particularly from America, Australia, and England — sent to relatives in Japan who are prisoners of war or internees. The mail comes via neutral embassies who are signatories to the Geneva Conventions. They’re eventually delivered to the Red Cross office and then are supposed to be distributed to the prison camps.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “A journalist Claude worked with found out that none of the parcels were getting through. Letters, yes, but not the parcels.”

  “You mean the Japanese were stopping them?”

  “That’s what his editor decided. It was the story published in French papers. Reuters picked it up and ran it in other countries. People believed it: the way the Japs were treating prisoners they were ready to believe anything. But the journalist had another theory. That maybe the parcels never left the depot. You see, they had valuable stuff in them. Warm clothes, tins of food, cigarettes. No doubt other personal items, photographs, things to help pass the time. Packs of cards, books, maybe for someone musical even sheet music.”

  She simply stared at him for a moment.

  “What the hell are you suggesting, Alex?”

  “You know exactly what I’m suggesting.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then it’s just a malicious guess.”

  “Perhaps it is. But I wonder what he’d say if I asked how he was able to obtain a song sheet printed in America last year?”

  “You’re stupid. Why would he steal red cross parcels?”

  “For money.”

  “Now you’re being really stupid. His father’s rich.”

  “Maybe his son wants to be richer. Greed is a craving; it’s nothing to do with the state of your bank balance.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that sheet of music.”

  “There probably is.”

  “You’ve jumped to conclusions because you dislike him.”

  “I’m inclined to,” Alex said. “Do you want to ask him?”

  “Not especially,” Mathilde said, after a moment’s pause.

  “You want to give it back to him?” he suggested.

  “I’d rather burn it.”

  “Well, it was your dance, your friend,” Alex said with a shrug.

  He gave her the music and abruptly walked away, but not before he glimpsed her staring at the song sheet he’d left in her hands.

  “So if everyone is as gullible as Tilly, the thieving bastard is going to get away with it,” Claude said.

  “It’s only supposition. No proof. Just a malicious guess, as my sister says.”

  “Shit,” Claude’s disappointment was palpable. “We could find the journalist. He’s still with the bureau here.”

  “It was just his hunch. That’s all. An idea that was never published. His editor overruled him.”

  “You should’ve kept that piece of sheet music.”

  “It’s not evidence, Claude. Nobody is ever going to believe this son of a rich man did anything like this.”

  “But you believe it, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Alex said, “I believe it.”

  “So do I.”

  “Well, there we are. That makes two of us. But I think we might be in the minority.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: JUNE 23rd

  The French Ambassador has heard on the shortwave radio that Okinawa has fallen to the Americans. It means they are far closer and the end cannot be far off. Yet we are still afraid. The rumours become more extreme. I told the Count and Moustique there is a Japanese word called “gyokusai”.

  “What does it mean?” Moustique asked.

  “Literally the crushing of jewels. But there’s another interpretation. That people should joyfully give up their lives for their country. Mass sacrifice.”

  “Let’s hope to God it doesn’t come to that,” the Count said.

  That was when the doorbell rang. I was at their house because we had work to do. Money to be sent to Geneva for a new client. It was a surprise; no transactions had taken place for several months. An even bigger surprise to me was the identity of the clients. Hans Volkmann and his son Wilhelm had arrived to see the Count de Champeaux, bringing with them the sum of four million yen in cash, to be converted into one million American dollars.

  Hans Volkmann was a burly figure in his late-50s. Although he owned a large house on The Bluff in Yokohama, and his son had attended St Joseph’s, he was not very social and rarely mixed with the foreign community. He had a small circle of Swiss-German friends, a Japanese mistress, and because of his wealth was accorded a show of deference by cabinet ministers and bureaucrats, even though their government was not a part of the Geneva Conventions. His directorship of the Red Cross was a titular position, but Volkmann used it to enhance his own business interests, and left the running of the organisation to others. He owned a timber mill and a shipping firm, and while his ocean-going freighters had been requisitioned by the government, his status had enabled him to secure generous compensation. The remainder of his fleet were ferries and small cargo ships, engaged in busy trade on the inland sea. He also owned a great deal of property and with Swiss prudence and foresight, much of this lay in districts outside the perimeter of the major cities. They were areas that were not bombing targets and remained virtually undamaged.

  He was a very wealthy man and although he and the Count were acquainted, his visit and this request to transfer a large sum through the French Bank was unexpected. He would certainly have his own Swiss contacts, both Alex and the Count felt sure that much of his wealth would be regularly remitted. As though sensing their curiosity, he began the proceedings with a declaration.

  “This is my son’s money,” he explained, “and while I’m here to witness the transaction, the details are none of my business. My son alone should be given the account number and will have sole means to access the funds.”

  “If you wish,” the Count replied, although he seemed intrigued. It was an unusual request, and Volkmann senior appeared to be under some stress.

  “It’s entirely his concern,” he repeated, while his son stood by, and seemed uneasy to see Alex when he entered the room. He moved to his father and murmured something to him. Hans Volkmann glanced curiously at Alex. “I imagined you’d handle the matter yourself, Excellency. Is it normal practice for your clerk to be present?”

  “My assistant manager,” the Count said. “He always takes part in any currency transfers.”

  Volkmann shrugged, as if indifferent to this. A young man employed in a bank is a clerk, his attitude seemed to say, no matter what you choose to call him. “My son feels there may be some conflict of interest if he was to stay. I’m not sure why.”

  De Champeaux was surprised. He turned to Alex with a puzzled expression. “Can you enlighten us, Alex?”

  “We were both at St Joseph College, sir,” Alex said. “Classmates, but if you think that means friends, let me make it clear. We were never friends and I daresay he would confirm that.”

  Wilhelm was looking furious. “Father, we arranged a strictly private meeting. Or else I propose that we leave.”

  While the Count was still looking perplexed at the atmosphere of growing antagonism, Alex quickly spoke. “I think it best that I remain, Your Excellency.”

  “Alex? What the devil is all this about?”

  “Sir, if we’re t
o handle this money, I think we should know more about it. For instance, in this particular case, we should know its origin. Where it came from and how it was earned.”

  “I’m not staying to listen to this,” Wilhelm Volkmann snapped.

  “Be quiet a minute, Wilhelm.” Now it was his father who was uneasy, as he turned to the Count. “I don’t know what sort of authority you allow this young man, but I’m not used to having my son or myself disparaged. So unless we receive an immediate apology, I think it best if I cancel this meeting and make more suitable arrangements.”

  “Alex,” the Count’s voice was now frigid, “are you going to explain those remarks and then apologise?”

  Here goes, Alex thought, the end of a well-paid job, and perhaps a friendship, too. He took a deep breath.

  “I would like to explain, your Excellency. When I do, an apology may not be necessary.”

  “You both listen to his lies if you want to,” the sheer outrage in Wilhelm Volkmann’s voice startled them all with its animosity, “but I certainly won’t. I’m leaving.”

  “Just a moment.” The Count looked thoughtfully at the agitated youth. “If Alex intends to explain, then surely it would be better for us all to remain and hear what he has to say?”

  “I think I already know what he’ll say,” Hans Volkmann said. “But whatever he says, it isn’t true. And if he spreads rumours, I’ll call the police and have it stopped. After which I’ll sue him, and your bank, for defamation.”

  “I don’t think you’ll call the police, Herr Volk …” Alex stopped in confused mid-sentence, as the Count crossed the room to lock the door and pocket the key. For a stunned moment they were all silenced by his action.

  “What the devil are you doing?” the senior Volkmann demanded.

  “It appears the three of you know something, and as you’ve involved me in a financial transaction, then I must also know it.” As both father and son remained mute, he turned to stare at Alex. “You said you want to explain. So please explain, and be quick about it.” His tone was frosty.

  “He works for the International Red Cross and as his father is a senior director, I’d say he works unsupervised,” Alex said. “He’s been robbing prisoners of war and internees by stealing their parcels from home, with clothes, cans of food … but most of all the cartons of cigarettes for the black market.”

  “That’s a filthy lie,” Wilhelm shouted violently. “Every fucking word of it is a lie.”

  “Is it?” The Count had become aware during this that the father had not spoken. He stared at him and saw what he recognised as shame in the other man’s eyes. “Is it a lie, Mein Herr?”

  The silence seemed to go on and on, until the elder man looked away. Embarrassment seemed to make him incapable of a reply.

  “If it’s not a lie,” the Count said, “then please continue, Alex. Explain how you come to make this extraordinary statement.”

  “He stole whatever would sell on the black market. Things that had no value in these parcels, like photographs, letters, news from home, they’d be burnt.”

  “You know nothing,” Wilhelm said, “you bloody prick, you can prove nothing.” He turned in appeal to his father. “He always hated me. They hated me at school, because they were poor and I was rich. This is nothing more than malicious perjury.”

  “Once in a while,” Alex continued after a moment as if the other had not spoken, “he might keep something, rather than sell it. I heard he plays the piano. A song sheet published in America last year … he kept that. I found it, after a dance my sister gave.”

  “Where is it?” It was the older visitor’s voice, harsh with anguish. Despair was etched on his face.

  “It’s safe,” Alex said, hoping they would believe him and wishing he had not given it to Mathilde to destroy. It would be the coup de grâce if he could produce it now, although he began to feel that might not be necessary. “Perfectly safe,” he repeated, watching the father’s expression.

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “For what? The sheet music?”

  “How much?” Volkmann insisted.

  “Money? Does that always buy everything, Mr Volkmann?”

  “For Christ’s sake, boy, how much for it?”

  “It’s not for sale, sir. It’s evidence.”

  If only it was, Alex thought, riding home afterwards. But perhaps the threat of its existence had been enough. He’d stood at the casement window — after the father and son had been told to get out and take their money — watching as they went outside to a waiting Packard. A uniformed chauffeur was there ready to open the car doors. Hans Volkmann was one of the few who felt the need of a car in the mountain resort’s narrow streets. Alex realised the Count was standing beside him, watching them.

  “Thank you, Alex,” he said. “And thank God you knew.”

  “We can thank a journalist who tried to write about those parcels, but wasn’t believed. I bluffed a bit, but it was far too much money to be honest, and he was nervous, like he used to be at school whenever he was trying to cheat in exams.”

  “Well, it worked. And I’m grateful. I’d never have been able to forgive myself if we’d somehow been party to that money ending in a Swiss bank.”

  “One way or another, I expect it will.” Alex said.

  “I’m not so sure. I doubt if the father has known of this for very long. Yes, he did try to persuade us to transfer the funds, and he did threaten you and try to protect his son. But I think he was ashamed. He’s a ruthless businessman, who bends the law when he can. But not this — this was too ugly to continue, from the moment he realised that you and perhaps others knew the truth.” He shook his head with outrage. “Stealing from prisoners of war, thieving from parcels that families had saved up to send, it’s evil and corrupt. I don’t know how much longer he’ll tolerate that son of his,” he said, as they watched them beside the Packard, exchanging angry words.

  That was when they saw the father abruptly get into the car, slam the door shut and his chauffeur drove off, leaving his son behind. Alex smiled as he recalled it. Wilhelm had at first tried to run after the car, but it had picked up speed. Keeping just ahead of him, close enough to make him continue his pursuit, and then accelerating and leaving him far behind. Finally he had given up the chase and walked angrily away. Remembering it, Alex whistled enjoyably to himself as he rode home.

  He could hardly believe it when he reached the house. Mathilde was sitting at the piano, carefully picking out the notes of In The Mood. The sheet music was propped in front of her on their ancient upright.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, and gave it to him.

  “You said you’d burn it!”

  “I said I’d like to.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I started thinking, that if he really did do what you said, I wouldn’t ever want to see him again. And why the hell should I protect him? So you keep it, in case you ever need it.”

  Alex hugged her. “You keep it for me,” he said. “I have a feeling we’ve seen the last of that family.

  30

  THE SOUND OF THUNDER

  When they first heard it most people thought it must be a distant storm. But the night was clear, the sky bright with stars, and there was no sign of lightning even on the far horizon. In Karuizawa the inhabitants went to bed wondering if it had been a rock fall higher up the mountain, a minor avalanche, or else the volcano was stirring. But it was none of these things. The following day around noon the sound was heard again, a remote and faraway rumble. It then became apparent it could be only one thing; the far off sound of gunfire. American warships had reached the coast and were bombarding installations on the shore.

  At first, even the neutrals who desperately wished the war to end, found it difficult to believe. They were almost 50 miles inland from Sagami Bay. But the BBC World Service and other radio stations on the shortwave sets hidden in embassies confirmed the coastline was indeed being shelled. It was the
next step, they declared, towards an invasion or capitulation. Events in this midsummer of 1945 were moving inexorably towards that conclusion. Since the fall of Okinawa, with 100,000 Japanese casualties, as well as the recapture of the Philippines, Borneo and Burma, Japan itself had now become the last bastion.

  Beleaguered, battered day and night by the Superfortress raids, the main fleet destroyed and harbours and ports under a constant barrage, only the extremists remained adamant there could never be an “unconditional surrender”. Their sole despairing tactic was to dispatch more and more Kamikaze planes to terrify the enemy ships into withdrawal, in the vain hope that a settlement rather than a surrender could be arranged. The Kamikazes had inflicted great damage and inspired fear, but these latest pilots were no longer volunteers, they had to be conscripted and then primed with alcohol to be forced into planes for their final suicide flights.

  In Karuizawa, so often now hearing the faint thunder of the guns, they felt pity for those who were in the line of fire. But they also remembered the talk of neutrals being taken as hostages, a rumour which had never been officially denied. Odette heard her father discussing it, and told Alex the French Embassy had an undercover agent in the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had sent a report that a fanatical element proposed all foreigners be shot if an invasion was attempted. It seemed confirmation of the report that had circulated since the start of summer, a story the Count dismissed, but about which other people had not been so sanguine.

  Alex’s mother believed the threat implicitly. She had friends and family who had fled from Russia and the pogrom there. Many had been slaughtered by the Red Army. Mass killing did not seem to her an implausible outcome. Melancholic and dejected, she lost interest in her regular poker games, refused to be consoled by friends like Paul Jacoulet, and became sombrely convinced their presence in an isolated town like this was designed to make a massacre possible. Concerned about her, Alex sought an audience with the Ambassador, who brusquely dismissed him, saying the matter was exaggerated — and if there was a problem it was in hand. Alex thought this to be a bureaucratic response. He tried to discuss it with Odette’s father, but received even shorter shrift, being sternly told these were political matters best be handled by those experienced in the art of diplomacy, and the spreading of rumours that might cause alarm was not in anyone’s interests.