Against the Tide

by John Hanley

  I nodded and he handed me the battered panama. ‘Nice.’ He strode towards the front of the van. ‘Take care, now.’

  I watched him leave in a cloud of blue exhaust then hurried towards the bike.

  27

  ‘No thank you, Malita, I have had sufficient, Gracias, no más.’ What Malita had described as a tortilla de huevo, or Spanish Omelette, had been rather more than my stomach could handle. The pooled olive oil on its surface had almost defeated my ability to pretend I was enjoying the meal. Fred had literally lapped it up and I supposed that he had long ago decided to smile or starve. The pungent smell of the cooking hung in the air of the small kitchen.

  ‘Good, Jack, you’re learning.’ Fred grinned at me while Malita turned back to the range then shovelled the remains of my omelette onto his own plate.

  She returned to the table and picked up my plate with a satisfied smile as Fred splashed more of the vino tinto into my tumbler.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you’ve joined the ranks of the afflicted at last, young Jack.’

  The way my head still ached from the Calvados, I guessed I was more than a recruit. But the alcohol hadn’t loosened my tongue and I’d kept the secret of the diamonds to myself for the moment.

  ‘Uncle, when are you going to tell me what you’ve discovered?’

  Fred reached back to the carved dresser and retrieved the photographs he had printed in his makeshift darkroom. His own equipment had been smashed by the intruders so he’d borrowed some from another comrade, whose name he declined to reveal. The quality wasn’t good but the faces were clear enough.

  ‘My dear Watson, what we have here is a small mystery but nevertheless we have the tools to solve it.’

  ‘Okay, Uncle Sherlock, spill the beans.’

  ‘Lita, stop crashing about and come and sit with us. Emilio has done well. You must thank him.’

  ‘He is clever man, waste time in this place. He need money, hate these people. I give him your thanks.’

  ‘Now, Jack, you recognise Hurel as well as your friend Kohler’s uncle and your possible father in law Hayden-Brown.’

  I spat out a mouthful of the raw tinto. ‘For Christ’s sake, Uncle, he’d rather she married Saul than me.’

  ‘You may be right but I think he would find the wedding challenging, having to wear a black cap and dance in circles with a bunch of sweaty Hebrews.’

  ‘Bastardo!’ Malita rounded on Fred, whipping him with dozens of abrasive Spanish words.

  He reeled back in surprise then apologised for his gaffe.

  Malita glowered at him and continued to mutter to herself while he tapped the photos.

  ‘Kohler’s friends are as yet unknown. These two are also a mystery though I have a suspicion that one of them is Sir Edward Fairfield. We’ll know more when Eric arrives.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘He should be here soon if the Saint Julian is on time.

  If these three are German,’ I stabbed at Kohler and his two older companions, ‘do we inform the authorities?’

  ‘No! That’s the last thing we do. This isn’t about the law, Jack. This is about gathering information and passing it on to those who know how best to use it.’

  ‘But, if they are breaking the law – using illegal passports, conspiring against Britain – shouldn’t we do something?’

  ‘I thought I’d explained that before. Even though we are not yet officially at war with the Germans, a secret war has been going on for some time. But this isn’t about territory or culture or race, it’s about the class struggle –’

  ‘Oh, Uncle, not the Red Fred manifesto.’ I wanted to bite my tongue but the words were out.

  Malita gasped. ‘Jack, you no understand –’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t, Malita.’ Fred was quite calm. ‘It’s never been explained to him. It’s not something that is taught at Victoria College and it certainly doesn’t get broadcast on the BBC or printed in the Morning News or the Evening Post. He would have to make a special effort to find out about such things. I’m not even sure I am the best one to explain.’

  It was a mixture of drink and exasperation but I blurted out, ‘Oh, do try, Uncle. Do try and convert this simple capitalist to your world view.’ My rather childish sarcasm prompted another sharp intake of breath from Malita.

  Fred waited a couple of beats before responding. ‘Are you religious, Jack?’

  ‘If you mean do I go to church, the answer is occasionally… but I do believe in Christ, and in goodness.’

  ‘But do you believe in the Devil?’

  I hesitated, my father would kill me if he heard what I was about to say. War had reinforced his Christian beliefs as much as it had destroyed my uncle’s. ‘Not in the way the church portrays him. Of course there is evil in the world but I don’t believe the Devil is there trying to trip us up all the time and stop us going to Heaven.’

  ‘Oh, “Heaven”? Where is that, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t think it exists as a place as such. It’s perhaps an everlasting peace for those who achieve goodness in their lives.’

  ‘And the reverse for those who don’t is Hell?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was floundering. These were not issues that were discussed openly. It was accepted that Christianity was the norm but that God forgave those who sinned, if they repented in time. What that meant, I had never attempted to understand – as I had never begun to address the issue of death. ‘I’m only eighteen, Uncle. It’s not something I’ve really thought about.’

  ‘Only eighteen? Three of your relatives were slaughtered in the trenches in France before they reached your ripe old age, Jack. They looked like men to me and your father.’ He was angry now.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that I’m too young to –’

  ‘To what? Make a contribution to your society? Fight for your king? For your country? Kill other men who are fighting for theirs? But what are they fighting for, Jack?’

  ‘Well you should know, you went to Spain to fight. What was that for? For your king? For your country?’

  Fred looked shaken. ‘In truth, Jack, it was for neither. It was for my beliefs and for my comrades. I could say it was in the mistaken hope that, by fighting the fascists there, we might be able to prevent more bloodshed later. But that isn’t true. We answered a call, the call of the working man, if you like, though he was hardly organised enough to make it.’

  He paused, thoughtful, and emptied the bottle into his cracked glass. ‘Who do you admire most, Jack? Who is your hero?’

  I was tempted to say, ‘You, Uncle’, but didn’t want to be accused of being facetious, though I did admire him more than anyone else I knew. From history I could choose Henry V, Nelson, Wellington. All those who had fought against the odds. Rather like my uncle. ‘No one. I suppose there are more I despise, more I distrust, than admire.’

  ‘I understand, Jack. You are a strong person, you are self-sufficient, you will fight for the underdog and put yourself in harm’s way. But you must understand that there are multitudes out there who need strong men to offer them models, to provide leadership, because they are not happy with their lives. Think of the millions who worship Adolf Hitler. It’s not rational, is it? But he provides leadership, offers solutions, takes the burden of thinking off their shoulders. I’m sorry to throw a quotation at you but it was Marx who said “It’s not consciousness that determines being, but social being that determines consciousness”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, in the past, for example, in feudal society, a man worked for himself and produced all he needed for his family. He traded any surplus with other men for necessities he couldn’t make. So he was largely self-sufficient and this gave him a sense of identity and purpose, an independence, if you like. You with me?’

  From the little I’d read of Marxism, that sounded like an oversimplification but I nodded like a good pupil, though my mind was still wrestling with Caroline, Rachel, diamonds and sabotage.

  He sipped h
is wine. ‘You will stop me if you think I’m being patronising, won’t you? You can find all this in the public library, if you dig deep enough. And, yes, it’s only an opinion.’

  It had taken me long enough to find out about Lawrence. Listening to his opinions was preferable to excavating the library. I couldn’t resist. ‘Should I be taking notes, Uncle?’

  He ignored the sarcasm, got up, rummaged around in a drawer and returned with a writing pad and a thick pencil. He placed them both with exaggerated care in front of me. ‘If you wish.’ His voice was frosty again.

  I picked up the pencil as he continued.

  ‘Now, in the capitalistic system in Marx’s time, a man didn’t work to produce all he needed, but instead worked for another man in order to obtain a wage to purchase from other men all his needs. This made him feel detached from himself and all things around him and he felt a loss of purpose. The worker was now in a position whereby he did not produce an entire item, had no control over what he produced and was in competition with other men for his livelihood.’

  He paused and looked at my pad, which was covered in scrawl. He grinned and continued. ‘Capitalism is basically competition and it forces the members of society into two groups: workers, the proletariat, and capitalists, the bourgeoisie. Marx explained that the worker, because he was now valuable only for his ability to earn wages, sank to the level of a commodity. He maintained that the whole of society must fall into two classes: the property owners and propertyless workers.’

  ‘Okay, I get some of it. You’re talking about a new form of slavery.’

  ‘That’s it – wage slavery. Despite your education, your mind is still open enough to understand.’

  ‘Uncle, we had an inter-school debate at college earlier this year. It was on the best type of social organisation. The girl’s college proposed fascism, the intermediate school proposed democracy, and we championed Communism. You didn’t know about that, did you?’

  ‘No, but if we’d seen you more often, you might have told us.’ Disappointment underscored his words. ‘Tell me, did you take part?’

  ‘I asked some questions.’

  ‘And let me guess who won.’

  ‘I think we won the debate on our arguments but the audience voted for democracy. Communism came a poor third.’

  ‘So why am I not surprised that our educated elite prefer the status quo?’

  His sarcasm was getting to me. ‘The fear expressed by members of the audience and the other debating teams was that Communism is an ideal but doesn’t work in practice. Perhaps it would have been more successful in a less backward country than Russia.’

  He flared up. ‘That’s the bloody problem. It’s capitalist propaganda that’s promoted this canard that it doesn’t work in Russia. The oppressed are frightened by change –’

  ‘It’s bloody revolution they’re frightened of,’ I snapped back. ‘The majority view was that the state is for man, and not man for the state.’ For once I felt I was holding my own with him.

  He smiled. ‘Let me tell you the truth about Russia and the revolution –’

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

  28

  Malita tugged at his arm and pointed to the clock.

  ‘I hope that’s Eric.’ He gestured to her to check the window. ‘Please don’t mention this discussion to him. You will have gathered that I’m not always a true believer in the official party line.’

  This was too deep for me. I felt sorry for Fred and sad for Malita. I’d agreed to help and he was treating me like a recruit who needed indoctrination. Now I was going to have to meet Eric, who was higher in the party than my uncle, and be very careful what I said. I’d also have to decide whether to reveal what I knew about the diamonds. Before I did, I wanted to gauge their likely reaction.

  Eric didn’t fit my expectation of a scruffy Communist as he was dressed like a banker. Fred introduced him as “my comrade, from London”.

  After the usual tea routine, Eric studied the photographs from the United Club. He pointed to the tall patrician figure who was discussing something with Hurel.

  ‘That’s Sir Edward Fairfield, a pillar of the establishment.’ He laughed. ‘Cheating, conniving, fascist; definitely one for the little red book, Fred.’

  Fred scrutinised his class enemy. ‘Thought so. Smug-looking bastard. What’s he do?’

  ‘Not a lot. If memory serves me correctly, he’s a non-executive director of the Bank of England, has massive estates in Ulster. Some think he’s going to be ennobled and brought into government via the Lords. Hates the Jews with a vengeance.’

  ‘So, he’s collected a few enemies.’

  Eric laughed. ‘He still has powerful friends. He was at Winchester College with Oswald Mosley. We believe he helped to finance the establishment of his British Union of Fascists. Even though Mosley and his Blackshirts are a spent force, his ideas are still revered by the inner core of the establishment. Hitler is an admirer and probably has him pencilled in for a major role once he conquers us. He just loves English gentlemen who share his world view.’

  He pointed to a shorter, slightly-built man who was standing by Fairfield’s side. ‘Don’t know about this creature, though. He looks German but I can’t help there. I do recognise that fat fellow next to him. Monsieur Georges Sleeman. He’s a Belgian diamond dealer. Works from London where that rat Oppenheimer has his stockpile. We hear that someone has been nibbling at the De Beers mines in the Congo – it could be him.’

  He rubbed his finger over another tall figure. ‘Can’t place him either but he also looks German.’

  ‘He is. Jack’s found out that he’s here with his nephew, Rudi Kohler, though we don’t believe that’s his real name. They’re definitely German though.’ Fred paused. ‘So, what do you think? Why are all these buggers meeting States members and lawyers on our little island?’

  Eric shrugged. ‘Until we identify the Germans, we’re just guessing.’

  I spoke up. ‘Excuse me but I have a question.’

  Eric glanced at Fred and raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘I don’t recall inviting questions, young man.’

  ‘You didn’t, but I have one.’ Patronising bastard. ‘How much would six million carats of industrial diamonds weigh?’

  I was pleased to see the surprise on their faces. Fred responded first. ‘Is this a trick question? You’re not in class now.’

  ‘No trick. I know the answer and wondered if you might see the connection.’

  ‘Right, clever clogs. Tell us,’ Fred said.

  ‘Six million is approximately what an industrialised nation needs for one year’s supply for its factories. 3,000 carats weighs about one and half pounds. Ergo, six million would weigh round about 3,000 pounds.’

  Fred still looked puzzled.

  ‘How much does a load of our Jersey Royals weigh?’ I asked.

  The light dawned. ‘So you could get the entire supply of diamonds into two of your farm lorries?’

  ‘Yes and with room to spare. So, they’re not too difficult to hide or transport.’

  Eric looked less than delighted. ‘So, are you suggesting that all these secret meetings are about smuggling diamonds?’

  ‘I’m not sure but I believe that Hitler would pay over £18 million for that amount of good quality industrials. But they cost less than half a million to purchase directly from the mines.’

  ‘That’s chicken feed as the Yanks say. Have you any idea how much money our capitalist friends have thrown Hitler’s way?’ Eric asked.

  It was my turn to look puzzled.

  ‘That’s right. We’ve been paying for the Nazis to rearm. It seems we prefer their brand of socialism to what Russia has to offer. Have you heard of the Bank for International Settlements, sometimes known as BIS?’

  ‘Caroline mentioned that acronym. It came up over dinner but she didn’t know what it stood for.’

  ‘Well it might surprise you to hear that it was set up by the wo
rld’s central banks back in 1930. It was initiated by the Reichsbank but the American Federal Reserve and the Bank of England took over. It was meant to bring stability to the banking system but its real purpose was to establish a massive fund to fight Communism. The driving force is a group who are pleased to call themselves The Fraternity. How quaint, but it shows that fascism is alive and well in America as well as Europe. Now that Funk and his little lapdog, Pohl, are running the Reichsbank –’

  ‘I’ve heard those two names before. That’s right. Caroline said they were also discussed at that dinner party with the other Germans and the two you claim are Fairfield and Sleeman.’

  Eric sighed at my interruption. ‘Quite possibly but to date we believe this BIS has provided Germany with nearly one hundred times the amount you think those diamonds are worth.’

  It was a staggering sum and I must have look amazed.

  ‘That’s right, young man. And the irony is that most of these bankers are Jewish. If it wasn’t so sad, it might even be amusing. Even if your diamonds cost Hitler fifty times their face value, they’re still only a minor part of the picture –’

  Fred interrupted. ‘Minor they might be but think of the profit if Hitler has to pay a premium like that. The middlemen will be fighting each other for the privilege of filling that order.’

  ‘There is one major flaw in your reasoning. De Beers won’t sell to Hitler and they control all the mines in Africa.’ Eric responded.

  ‘Not if they were smuggled out of mines in the Belgian Congo,’ I suggested.

  ‘Where did you get all this information, young man?’

  ‘I asked a few questions of a friend –’

  ‘That would be Saul, I suppose,’ Fred interrupted. ‘He’s a Jew from South Africa. I believe his father is involved in the diamond trade.’ He looked at me sternly. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘It’s only speculation. Your comrade mentioned this Belgian diamond dealer. He’s here with a known British fascist, there are Germans involved and Hayden-Brown lives for profit. It’s not a big leap, Uncle.’