‘I can’t believe that we’ve come all the way to France, only for that bloody man to dog our footsteps.’ Lisa exclaimed.
‘You can see his strategy; use Storm 45 to stir up trouble in the Asian communities, then when they respond to the provocation, he uses it to blacken non-British residents.’
‘He’ll get away with it too, as long as people don’t make the link between the BNRA and Storm 45, and the troublemakers don’t get caught.’
‘It’s worse than that, once riots like that start, they develop a life of their own and will go on without the initial provocation, making the ethnic communities look bad and the government ineffective. You’ve got to give him credit, he’s a clever bastard. What’s worse is, it’ll work and people will turn to him as the man to keep law and order.’
The news was too depressing, so we bought in an American movie and watched it in companionable silence before Lisa retired to her own room for the night.
Chapter 12
Breakfast was croissants and coffee in Lisa’s room at 8.00 the next morning. A quick internet search gave us the address of the St Denis internment camp; again I drove as Lisa punched our destination into the satnav. The sun reflected off the windscreens of the Parisian traffic, as we fought our way through the mayhem that was the rush hour. I swore as I swerved to avoid a manic French motorist in a Citroen.
‘Shit, what the hell does that fuckwit think he’s doing? I’m bloody glad we’re not trying to get any closer to the centre, that’d be deeply scary.’
Lisa laughed at my indignation.
‘Fine for you, it’s not your car these lunatics are trying to wreck; it’s like a destruction derby.’
We eventually pulled into the car park of the camp museum. We got out and surveyed the camp. Two storey wooden huts, surrounded a central square, the whole camp being encompassed by rusting barbed wire and the odd guard tower. We followed the gravel path in through the gate.
‘At least it doesn’t have Arbeit macht frei over that gate.’ I commented.
Lisa looked at me quizzically.
‘It’s what was over the gates of the concentration camps, the old lie, work sets you free.’
We walked around the museum, looking at exhibits and photographs that chronicled the lives of the inmates. Compared to Prisoner of War camps and the Concentration camps and death camps, the inmates here, were lucky. With extra rations from the Red Cross, the internees had a reasonable diet and had sports facilities and other luxuries, though having a thousand men confined to this camp would have been friendly to say the least. After an hour, we had exhausted the museum and looked for someone who would help us with our enquiries.
A young man was crossing the central yard; he had dark hair, an aquiline nose and wore black framed spectacles. I approached him and began to explain in halting French what we required.
‘Perhaps it would be better if we spoke in English.’ He told me with only the slightest hint of an accent. Lisa giggled as I coloured. ‘Ow can I help you Monsieur and Mademoiselle?’ He noticed Lisa and acknowledged her with a smile.
She seized the opening. ‘Actually, we’ve heard that you have records her that relate to the British internees that were imprisoned here. I’m Lisa Mann and this is my associate Ian West’
‘That is true Mademoiselle. The Nazis were nothing, if not efficient and left behind detailed records relating to all the internees. When the camp was liberated, all these archives came into our possession. I am Guy Lefebre, the curator of this museum.’
‘We’re trying to find out about one internee, in particular. His name was William Howard Miller; he would have been about 31 years old.’ I said.
‘Do you ‘ave ‘is prisoner number?’
‘I’m sorry we don’t, is that a big problem?’ Lisa fluttered her eyelashes at him. I tried not to laugh at the effect it had on the young man.
‘No, it would just be easier as the Nazis catalogued all the inmates by camp number. But it is still possible to find one man, but it is a little more difficult. If you would follow me, I’ll take you up to the archive.
The archive was stored in boxes arranged on shelves along the side of a long room that must have been a dormitory. Alongside the shelving there were a number of filing cabinets containing overall lists along with files and photographs recording each inmate; with over a thousand records to search, this was going to take some time.
‘As you do not ‘ave the number of this internee, may I suggest you start with the admissions lists, that will give you his number, then it will be easier to locate his file.’ Guy advised.
‘That sounds a good idea, where do we start?’ I asked.
‘With these files.’ Guy said, indicating a series of box files. ‘I am afraid they are listed in arrival order, so it could take you a while. I will return in an hour to see ‘ow you are doing.
I took down the first box file and passed half of its contents to Lisa’. There was a table at the other end of the room and we settled there to our task. The records were in German, but it was not difficult to work out the column headings. Name, camp number, nationality, date of entry into the Ilag and a column, usually empty, indicating date of release or transfer.
‘I read somewhere that this is where John Amery tried to get recruits for the Legion of St George, or the British Freikorps, effectively a British division of the SS.’ Lisa told me, trying to impress me with her knowledge.
I came across a Miller, but he was Philip, not our William Howard. We had been scanning the lists for three quarters of an hour, when Lisa exclaimed ’I’ve got it!’
‘Come on then, what does it say?’
‘Number 436558, Miller, William, Howard, British, arrived 25th July 1940 but it says released 19th September 1940. He was only here for two months. Where the fuck did he go then?’
‘Perhaps we’ll find out when we see his file.’
Guy arrived ten minutes later to see how we were going. When we gave him the Miller’s number, he immediately crossed to the third of the filing cabinets and opened a drawer. He perused the files for a moment and then withdrew a thin brown manila folder. He handed it to me. The first thing that caught my eye was a black and white photograph that was instantly recognisable. It was our Miller. The rest if the slim file consisted of two sheets of typed paper. I looked at them, they were all in German.
‘Could you translate these please,’ I asked Guy. ‘My German is not up to it.’
He read through the two sheets silently.
‘To summarise, William ‘Oward Miller was interned here for two months in 1940. It appears ‘e was released in September 1940.’
‘How could he be released?’ Lisa asked. ‘Surely the Germans were not going to allow a British national to wander about occupied France unsupervised.’
‘The first page is the standard admission form, listing details, height, description, occupation. The second page is an order for his release into the custody of Gruppenfuhrer Sepp Dietrich of the SS Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. It is a little strange, it says ‘ere that Wilhem Miller was a Hauptsturmfuhrer of the Allgemeine SS. It is signed by Reinhard Heydrich, Head of the RHSA.’
‘RHSA?’ Lisa enquired.
‘Reich Main security Office, he was head of the SD, Gestapo, the criminal police and the foreign intelligence service.’ I said, ever the teacher.
‘It appears that your Monsieur Miller ‘ad some very powerful friends.’
‘Do you know how we could find out more about Miller’s role in the SS?’ Lisa asked Guy.
‘I would think that, if you are to find anything, it would be in the Berlin Document Centre in Germany, but if you do not read German, it would be very difficult for you.’
We thanked Guy and set off back to our hotel to get lunch and decide what to do next. Over a lunch of fresh orange juice, French bread and cheese, we reviewed our options.
‘We could head off to Berlin; we could be there the day after tomorrow, if we drove. But what could we achieve there if we
can’t read German? The records will mean nothing to us.’ I offered.
‘It’s a problem. There is a freelance I know, we sometimes use him, but he doesn’t come cheap. We could either get him to do the research for us, or go to Berlin and use his help as a translator. What do you think?’
‘What’s this guy going to cost us?’
‘I could give him a ring and see.’ Lisa pulled out her mobile and began to scroll through names. ‘Here we are, Franz Wolfe.’ She paused then, ‘Hello Franz, it’s Lisa, Lisa Mann…..Yes….I need someone to help me research one particular SS man in the Document Centre in Berlin…….Yes, how much would you need to take this commission on……shouldn’t take more than a day or two…can’t we get that down a little, we don’t have a big budget for this….Okay, I’ll ring you back.’ She turned to me, whether we go or not, he would want £250 a day. I could raise enough for one day, could you cover the other?’
‘Yeah, I think so, Jane and I still have a joint account, so whatever I spend, it’s less she can take from me, she’s taken everything else, my life, my home and my self respect, so yeah, let’s go for it.’
‘Do we go or head back to London and wait for Franz to check in?’
‘We’d just be wasting money, if we went, let’s be honest, we don’t have a lot to offer.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring him back, you never know, he might have something for us by the time we get home. It’s too late to get to the tunnel today, so the earliest we cold get home is tomorrow.’
‘Don’t forget to warn him about Miller’s trick of translating his name, like he did in Spain.’
She phoned Franz back and made the arrangements he would go over to the Centre in Lichterfelde that afternoon and begin the search. We decided to check out of the hotel and make our way towards Calais, in order to catch the first shuttle the next day. At Amiens we stopped to eat, finding a pleasant little creperie on the bank of the River Somme itself, close to the cathedral. I took a detour to show Lisa the memorial at Thiepval to the missing from the Battle of the Somme. We walked around the memorial, built of brick and 45 metres in height; it had the names of over 73,000 British and South African dead who had no known grave. Lisa looked at the long lists of names, her blue eyes filing with tears, when she read the inscription, Mann, D.A. Private London Regiment, I saw a tear trickle down her cheek.
‘That’s my brother’s name.’ She sniffed.
I showed her the book that carried the details of all the names on the memorial, when she found that Private Mann was indeed a Daniel Alexander and like her brother was twenty-one; she just stood there with her head bowed, until she regained some composure.
‘You know how to show a girl a good time Ian’ she said dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
‘Yeah,’ I said bitterly, ‘that’s obviously what Jane thinks.’ To my surprise I realised that I was no longer simply upset, but I was angry at what Jane had done to me. I did not hate her, but I hated what she had done to me, she had robbed me of my self-respect. I realised for the first time that my marriage really was over. By seeing another man, Jane had done the one thing that I could not forgive. Despite being tempted at times, I had always been faithful to Jane and I realised that I put a high value on that fidelity. It dawned on me that the gnawing pain inside me had eased, to be replaced by a vacuum. I was not sure whether that was better or worse.
‘Ian…..Ian!’ I snapped out of the depth of my thoughts. ‘Are you okay, you’ve got that thousand yard stare again.’
‘I’m okay, I’ve just made a decision, I’m going to get on with my life. Jane has crossed a line, there’s no going back. I have to move on, I’m just not sure where to.’
‘Good for you Ian, you can’t let her ruin your life.’
‘I told you, I’m moving on, but I still don’t know what sort of life I have left to me. I’ll just have to play it by ear, one day at a time. It’s a bit like being an alcoholic, only without the alcohol. The real problem is, I still can’t think about the future, I can’t see beyond tomorrow.’
We set off once more and found a cheap motel outside Calais and at just before eight the following morning we were on the shuttle back to England.
Chapter 13
Back in the Hackney flat, Lisa checked her email, but there was nothing yet from Franz. However there was a message from Matt.
Hi Lisa
I’m back from the US, though a bit jetlagged. Give me a ring 077653986870
Matt
She showed me the text of the email and then pulled out her mobile and dialled. She paused for a minute and I heard a distant voice answer.
‘Hello, Matt? Hi it’s Lisa, how are you? It’s been ages…When did you get back?...Good flight?...Yeah, he’s here with me…Yeah I’ll tell him…Actually, we want a favour…Where?...Okay, in an hour. See you then, bye.’
‘Well?’
‘He sends his regards…’
‘And?’
‘He’ll meet us in a coffee bar in Camden, in an hour. Let’s get going.’
‘Hey, slow down, I’m nearer fifty-five, than twenty-five.’
‘You’ve always done that, put yourself down and claimed you’re old. Ian, you’re anything but. I know some thirty year olds who are older in outlook and behaviour than you. You underestimate yourself.’
‘Okay, you’ve caught me,’ I laughed ‘let’s go.’
The coffee bar was a small, dingy, Italian owned café off Camden High Street. Inside was better than the outside, with clean tables along the wall and two booths at the back. There was the delicious aroma of roasting coffee. Matt was waiting for us, seated in one of the booths. He stood to greet us. He looked exactly as I remembered him. At five feet eight, he was shorter than me and much slimmer. He was wearing an expensive suit and an open-necked white shirt. He sported a surprisingly healthy tan for a self-confessed computer nerd. I looked at his face and saw the signs of fatigue that was probably the result of jetlag. His long face broke into a smile and his eyes twinkled as he looked Lisa up and down. I noticed that despite his youth, the curly blonde hair was thinning on top.
‘How are you both, it’s good to see you.’
‘Hi Matt, it’s been a long time.’ I said shaking his hand.
‘Yeah, far too long. Lisa!!’ He swept Lisa up in a huge hug that threatened to envelop her completely. ‘This place doesn’t look much, but it serves the best coffee in London and there’s free internet access.’ He called out to the barista ‘Francesca, tre cappuccini, per favore.’
The barista, a plain dark haired girl of about seventeen broke into a smile. ‘Si, Signor Matt.’ she turned away and began to fiddle with the complex machine that proceeded to gurgle and hiss.
‘Okay,’ Matt said, ‘let’s cut to the chase. You wanted a favour.’
‘You’ve become more direct and to the point than I remember from school.’ I pointed out.
‘Something I learned in business, time is money, you can’t waste one if you want to make the other.’
‘Well Matt,’ Lisa began ‘we’re investigating an interesting historical problem.’
He pulled a face, Matt had always hated history, despite my best efforts to inspire him, if it did not involve computers or maths, Matt hadn’t wanted to know.
‘Well,’ she went on ‘We’ve hit a problem. There’s this nursing home in Sussex. We wanted to know who had been paying an old woman’s bills up to when she died twenty years ago, but they won’t play ball with us. We’ve been meeting a lot of obstruction throughout this project and we don’t know why.’
‘And how do I come into this?’
‘All the nursing home records are held on their computer..’ I paused.
‘And you want to know if I can….locate…information for you. I try to avoid the term hack these days, now I’ve gone respectable.’
‘Basically, yes.’
‘I gave up that sort of thing a long time ago, it causes too much trouble.’ He looked at me with steely blue eyes. ‘But I haven’
t forgotten how much I owe you; I’d have been kicked out and never got to uni and got all this, if it hadn’t been for you.’ He waived a hand indicating his suit and Rolex watch. He paused as Francesca arrived with the coffee. Once she had retreated he went on. ‘I suppose I could do it, It’s almost worth it to see Lisa again. I had such a thing for you at school, you know.’ Lisa looked uncomfortable and opened her mouth to say something. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry I’m long over it.’ He said. ‘I’m getting married next month, to Charlotte Peters, you remember her.’ Lisa nodded, I looked blank. You wouldn’t know her.’ he said to me, ‘She didn’t attend our school, but went to one on the other side of town, but she ran with our crowd. You’ll both have to come to the wedding.’
‘Look Matt,’ I said ‘I don’t want to screw your life up by asking you to do something illegal. My life is screwed enough, without me wanting to screw up someone else’s.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lisa mouth ‘Wife,’ and make a gesture over her shoulder with her thumb.
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