‘I am so sorry. Anything I can do, please ask. Please tell Mr Campbell that I rang to thank him and you for a lovely lunch. I’ll call again soon. Goodbye and tell him I’m so very sorry.’
Jonny read all the obituaries of this genius scientist, winner of a Nobel Prize, awarded the OBE by the Queen for services to science. Not one mention appeared as to the reasons for his death ‘causes as yet unknown’ was mentioned. Jonny would have to read another Coroner’s Court decision, unless he died a natural death. Jonny didn’t think so.
Schatzi had joined his mum at the end of inky black hole that had drawn her in some months ago. Stuart Campbell had inferred that he had been unable to do much about his son’s melancholy over the past few months. Jonny felt a terrible pang of guilt about his intrusion into Campbell’s life in his quest to unravel Solomon’s murder. So he was surprised to be asked to attend a very private burial in the local churchyard in Middlehurst. Campbell had invited him specifically as he wanted him to stay over at The Barn. Jonny was intrigued by the invitation thinking that they did get on with each other and had Solomon as a point of contact.
Stuart Campbell looked amazingly well despite losing his wife and son in quick succession. Annie guided him to the car and assisted him into the front seat. Jonny was surprised when she took the driver’s seat and led the way back to the house.
‘Please sit down, Jonny. Scotch?’ he handed Jonny a generous glass full and sat back behind his desk.
‘Cheers.’ Jonny raised his glass. ‘To Schatzi’s life and what he achieved against all the odds.’
‘Thank you, Jonny. I’m sure Naomi’s diary gave you an insight into how difficult it was. On a lot of occasions, I was just a bystander, but I’d like to think she knew I was there when things were bad. A lot of couples’ marriages don’t survive the pressure, you know.’
‘I’m sure you did your best to give him as normal a life as could be.’
‘I’d like to think so. He hated travel but very occasionally he’d pluck up the courage to come to London to see me, on his own. I’d always meet him at the station although once he arrived early and surprised me in my office, so, yes, he led a normal a life as we could provide. Anyway, I asked you here because there is a gap in the diary that I want to try and fill in for you. It something to do with Solomon but I don’t know what exactly. Sometime before Naomi died, she said to me that Schatzi wanted to go back to where he was born.’
‘A trip to Munich?’
‘Yes, apparently, he had told her he’d like to find the place where they met for the first time but insisted that they go together. He never liked plane travel and would only feel comfortable if she was by his side. Naomi asked what I thought. I said he’s free to do what he wants. We cannot stop him. I also said it would be good to have her with him as I thought it would be very traumatic for him. She’d accompanied him abroad before to important conferences and, of course, to Sweden for the Nobel prize presentation. I went with them for that one. I was so proud, I cried for the first time in ages.
‘It was several months before Schatzi received a letter from the WASt advising him that he should contact the Administrative Headquarters of the Munich Central Council in Marienplatz. He wrote to them. Yes, they had a Johann Bron in their records as the former resident with his family in Brienner Strasse in 1942. This is what prompted him to go back to Munich,’ said Campbell, ‘but it was only later that he told us. I think he was trying to be protective of us.’
He gulped a large mouthful of scotch and refilled his own glass. He looked into the amber liquid as he spun the glass in his hand watching it spill around the sides, he sniffed the aroma lifting off the surface. Stuart Campbell took a deep breath and Jonny was sure he could see a tremble in his demeanour before he raised his voice defiantly.
‘If Naomi and I could have foreseen the future, that trip would never have taken place, Jonny. Never.’
Chapter 44
Munich Germany
‘It’s OK, Schatzi. Just buckle up and relax. We’ll be on the ground again in ninety minutes.’
He sat back and closed his eyes and thought about the past few months. Without confiding with his parents, Schatzi had long had the urge to try to trace exactly what had happened to Captain Johann Bron, his first daddy. He remembered him being sent to the Eastern Front and having to move to a new home in Munich. He had drawn a blank from all his enquiries in England. His adoptive mother, Naomi had told him that before they could adopt him, they had to satisfy the adoption agency that he had no surviving relatives and that Stuart had used all his contacts in the military to try to find out what happened to Johann Bron. All the evidence suggested that he had never survived the long route back to Germany with Nadine. Schatzi accepted this for most of his life but now he had a strange need to seek further.
After trawling through his own adoption file and not learning anything new, he completed an enquiry form and wrote to Deutsche Dienststelle (WASt). He had discovered that it had unique records of the Wehrmacht and received numerous and extensive documents from other military and military-like associations, including the surviving stockpiles of the Waffen-SS and the police associations. At the end of WW2, it had been under the supervision of the American Military Control Commission and their headquarters were now in Berlin.
Schatzi had high hopes that their ‘home-displaced person’ section with particular reference to those coming from the East would give him some leads. He’d been told by the WASt that their files contained no information coming from Soviet Russia naming Captain Johann Bron as a fallen soldier.
Settling into their hotel room at the historic Torbrau 4-star hotel in central Munich, Schatzi lowered himself onto the beckoning double bed. The receptionist had told him that Marienplatz Square is just a 5-minute walk away.
‘You all right? See you in the Schapeau restaurant for dinner, Schatzi. Is seven OK, darling?’
‘Fine. I’ll be at the bar after a shut eye. I’ll get your usual, Mum?’
Schatzi flicked on the TV, surfing the channels. He settled on a local news channel and closed his eyes. Soon he was sound asleep. He woke with a start as the alarm sounded in his ear and realised, he been asleep for too long. Mum would be waiting at the bar wondering if he was ok. He hated rushing, nevertheless his mother had taught him to take a deep breath, look in the mirror and just get on with it.
‘Sorry I’m late. See you ordered Munich’s finest. Thanks.’
He took a sip, wiping the foam from his mouth and savoured the rich flavour.
‘You know, Mum, it's the law and as a matter of pride that breweries here make their beer with yeast, barley, hops, and water. They don’t usually add preservatives.’
Mrs Campbell leaned forward and took her glass from the table, holding the crisp white wine to the light.
‘I prefer things a little more subtle, Schatzi. I’d be the size of a side of a house if I drank that beer every day.’
‘I know. Not everyone’s favourite, this dark Weiss beer,’ said Schatzi holding up his tankard, trying read the faded motto printed on the glass. ‘It’s the brewing of the wheat in such a way as to make it smoky looking rather than pale.’
I was looking up some facts before we came.
‘Schatzi, you know I’m not a great lover of beer and its history.’
Naomi knew not to interrupt Schatzi when he was in full swing.
‘Sorry, Mum, but there’s no city in the world that clings to a beverage the way Munich clings to beer. Münchners, with a little help from their visitors, consume a world's record of the stuff: 280 litres a year, per capita (as opposed to a wimpy 150 litres in other parts of Germany). The rest of Germany say that Bavarians never open their mouths except to pour in more beer! The Münchner response is that settling questions of politics, art, music, commerce, and finance, as well as the affairs of the human heart, requires plenty of beer and lots of good, unfussy food.
‘Some of Munich's most notable events have floated on the suds, Mum. In 1
923 there was Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch, in 1939 an attempt to assassinate Hitler and, more recently, the Beer Garden Revolution, when the proposed closing of a neighbourhood beer garden at 9:30pm was seen as a threat to the civil liberties and prompted mass rallies by infuriated Münchners.’
‘Schatzi, facts and figures, always your strong point but not so with food. Come on what’s on the menu tonight?’
‘You’re going to have to forget your calories and get ready for high cholesterol,’ said Schatzi with a broad smile, draining the last suds from the tankard with a noisy breath in.
Naomi studied the menu.
‘I see what you mean. Dumplings, potatoes, dozens different types of Wurst (sausages), roasted meats flavoured with bacon drippings, breads, and pastries. As you say, not good for my figure, Schatzi.’
‘Mum, your figure is great. In Munich, the Munchners have an affair with sausage.’
‘Here we go again’, thought Naomi, afraid to stop her son from talking, now that he was totally relaxed for the first time since landing. She didn’t want to interrupt his enthusiasm.
‘It is of ancient lineage, wurst having been a major part of the national diet almost since there were people and livestock in the area. Bavarians tend to view their wurst with some superstition, nostalgically adhering to such adages as ‘Never let the sunshine of noon shine on a Weisswurst’.’
‘How do you know all this? You were only little when you left. I don’t remember things when I was 6 or 7.’
‘Ah, Mum, you’re not me. It is a childhood association. My favourite is Bratwurst which came originally from nearby Nuremberg and is concocted from seasoned and spiced veal, calves' brains, and spleen. You need to eat it with a foaming mug of beer.’
Naomi looked quite ill at the thought of the contents.
‘OK, that’s enough for me. Let’s order?’
Naomi slumped into bed a little overcome after three large glasses of wine and fell into a deep slumber only to be woken by Schatzi at 9 o’clock saying he was going to the Town Hall in Marienplatz, he’d meet her later in her hotel lounge. He’s taken on a different persona, she thought to herself, almost unexpectedly she saw her child as just a typical middle-aged man of the world. It was quite disconcerting. All she could say as he left her was, ‘Be safe, Schatzi.’
He entered the palatial cavernous entrance hall and sauntered over to the reception desk. In fluent German he asked for the Housing Records Division explaining that he was rehoused during the war and eventually adopted and had lived in the UK since 1946. The receptionist looked at him, he was clearly nervous, hopping gently from one foot to another as he waited for her to locate the correct person in the building.
‘What names and address are you looking for and give me any other details?
He started slowly giving her details of streets, neighbours’ names, shops, schools, type of buildings colour of the paint work. She started to type in all the details and then stopped, letting him continue, amazed at the details she was listening to. Finally, she said ‘and you were six years old!’
‘Please take a seat, a colleague will be down in a moment.’
‘Danke.’
She watched him as he carefully sat down brushing imaginary dust off the seat. He carried no bags and didn’t seem like an activist, but there was something she couldn’t put her finger on. Her eyes watched him furtively look around, taking in everything as if he was ‘casing the joint’. She dialled security. Explaining that she had her doubts about the man who had just confronted her.
‘Wie kann ich dir helfen?’
‘No, I don’t need any help, I am waiting for someone from Housing. I used to live here as a little boy until the bombs came.’
At that moment a lady dressed in a sharp grey suit interruped them
‘Es ist ok, er ist gut.’
She lead him to the marble staircase and they ascended to the first floor. Through the door she walked into a large airey room full of filing cabinets and desks occupied by similarly dressed women with their heads in papers. Schatzi followed through the throng and sat down at the lady‘s desk.
‘Strange request after so long, Dr Campbell. Let me see what we can do to help you. Ah, yes. Here we are. You traced this originally through Berlin?’
Schatzi nodded in agreement.
She turned the screen around so that he could see as the addresses and information flew passed. Schatzi’s eyes caught every passing piece of information.
‘Stop,’ he shouted, pointing. ‘Back a bit. There.’ He reeled off all the addresses and links and dates. The only information he didn’t reveal was ‘Johann Bron made the same request in 1956’.
‘That is amazing, Mr Campbell.’
He turned to go but before, gave her a very formal double handshake and bow, in thanks.
‘I have found the old house we used to live in and the children’s home where we met, Mum.’ He hopped from one foot to the other trying to control his impatience. ‘Can we go now?’
Miles away, Captain Johann Bron received a call from the Gerhardt Steiner, he listened intently particularly at the description and the questions asked and finally sat down, replacing the telephone receiver and disconnecting the call. He was quite shocked and looked very pale when the nurse came to bring his morning coffee.
‘Captain Bron, you look unwell. What is the matter, where is the pain?’
‘I am quite well, thank you. Just a bit dizzy. Got up too soon, I think,’ he lied, thanking her for the coffee. He waited until she had closed the door and picked up his telephone again.
‘Sorry about that, Gerhardt, coffee arrived and it was a bit of a shock to say the least. Look, I know it‘s short notice but could you get to my old home in 72 Brienner Strasse, you know the one just off Königplatz where your Dad and I used to assemble in the early days in the Party's mass rallies.’
‘Not the Brown House, then,’ laughed Gerhardt Steiner.
‘The national headquarters of the Nazi Party. Not on your life, Gerhardt, stay well clear of 45 Brienner Strasse.’
‘Johann, what do you want me to do?’
‘You’re looking for the man you described to me. I am thinking it may be my grandson. He is about the right age and what’s remarkable is that photographic memory I remember so well. The offspring of my daughter. The one that got us into trouble, you remember your father telling you?’
‘My god, Johann, sorry about the shock. I thought he died, at least that’s what we were all told, including you. I only rang you as agreed if anyone should be searching for you.’
‘Yes, I know. Look. What I want you to do is follow them, photograph them and let me know where they are staying. Complete dossier. Can you do that for old times’ sake, Gerhardt?’
Chapter 45
Munich
Gerhardt Steiner was the son of Johann’s friend who helped his family after they were ‘excommunicated’ by the Nazi’s in 1942. Johann had found Gerhardt on his return from Russia in 1953 and was sad to find that his father had been killed in the bombing of Munich in 1944 when his own family went missing. Gerhardt had remained a loyal friend and now nearing retirement from the Munich police force, but would be able to do work like this for Johann without any official involvement.
He arrived in 72 Brienner Strasse and parked on the opposite side of the road to number 72 and a few doors down. A perfect position for observing activity in and around the house. He had only to wait a few moments before a taxi arrived and a middle-aged man and older woman alighted. The taxi waited. Gerhardt turned his camera and started the video feature, pausing occasionally to ensure he had perfect clarity on some stills. The two people climbed the stone steps to the blue painted double doors and pressed the entry phone. Moments later the door opened and a well-dressed lady holding the hand of a young girl opened the door and after a brief conversation allowed them in. Gerhardt waited.
After half an hour or so, the front door opened, and mother and son stood looking from the front step and then
descended to the waiting taxi. Gerhardt pulled out behind the taxi followed at a safe distance. This was easy surveillance for an experienced policeman. The taxi moved away from the middleclass housing of Brienner Strasse through Konigsplatz and out into the high-rise post war housing developments that were thrown up after the streets of early 20th century rubble was cleared in the wake of the 1944 bombing. The taxi stopped outside a bleak grey midrise apartment building. Shabby was the best description, Gerhardt could think of.
Schatzi got out of the taxi, leaving Naomi in the back seat and walked to the corner where the access to the rear was reserved for car parking. He disappeared out of view. Gerhardt had no second thoughts and opened the door and followed. He was dressed as if he lived in the area. Old jeans and sweatshirt hidden under a well-worm leather jacket. Hands in pocket he approached the car park. He saw Schatzi crouching in the corner near the rear boundary cutting the car park off from the gardens beyond. He slowly walked over to him. Schatzi was in his own world and did not hear him approach.
Gerhardt noticed he was crying. Unsure what to do, he started the walk silently away and then had second thoughts. Johann wanted proof; this was his chance.
‘Sorry. You all right.’
Schatzi was shaking with fear and curled himself into a ball. Gerhardt proffered his hand and Schatzi withdrew further.
‘Bad day, eh?’ Gerhardt said crouching on his knees and waited for a reply.
Naomi saw Schatzi and ran over putting her arms around him as Gerhardt watched.
‘It ok now, Schatzi,’ she said tenderly and then looked at Gerhardt.
‘He was here in 1944 when the area was bombed. Only one to survive around here,’ she offered as an explanation.
Gerhardt wandered slowly back to his car and slumped down behind the wheel, thinking of Johann Bron and wandering how he was going to deal with this. Definitely his grandson, he thought.
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