Schreiber's Secret

by Roger Radford

  “Sure,” she said at last, “there are gentiles who convert to Judaism. If they do it the orthodox way, then they often end up having a far greater knowledge of the religion than someone born a Jew.” She hesitated again. She always felt strange discussing her faith with outsiders. Maybe it was a ghetto thing. “But,” she sighed, “however he or she acts the Jew, another Jew will be able to tell. You see, we have an umbilical cord linking us through thousands of years of history. You know, in Israel, there are more than a million Jews from Arab lands. They are dark, Mediterranean types. Yet that Israeli friend I was talking about said he could tell Jew and Arab apart just from their features and their mannerisms. But to outsiders they would all look like one people.”

  “Could you tell the difference?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t visited Israel yet. But I can tell whether a person is an Ashkenazi Jew or not.”

  Edwards was puzzled. In the few months they had known one another they had not delved deeply into the mysteries of her faith. The shiva had been his first brush with orthodox tradition and a culture about which he was almost totally ignorant.

  “An Ashkenazi”, she smiled, “is a Jew of European stock. Other Jews are called Sephardim. It literally means ‘Spanish’ but nowadays also encompasses all Jews from Arab lands. I’m mainly Ashkenazi with a little Sephardi thrown in for good measure. Maybe one of my ancestors fled eastwards from the Inquisition.”

  Edwards scratched his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have that much pride in my ancestry,” he said. “I know my great-grandfather was Welsh, but I regard myself as English, a Londoner through and through. I only remember going to church once, so I suppose I’m as ignorant about religion as anyone can get.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mark. You were brought up in a nominally Christian society. You are Christian by osmosis. Because we’re born and raised here, we Jews probably know more about Christianity than Christians know about Judaism.”

  “What about you, would you call yourself orthodox?”

  She ran her fingers through her wet hair and smiled. “No, I’m probably what you would call secular, but ...” She hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “I feel just as proud of my heritage and as much a Jew as any of those in Stamford Hill.”

  “Stamford Hill?”

  Danielle laughed out loud, two rows of perfect white teeth breaking free of their luscious frame. “You know, the Hassidim. The guys with the funny hats and the side-curls. In their minds they inhabit nineteenth-century Poland and consider themselves the real Jews. It is preposterous. They are faintly amusing.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Frankly, I just don’t relate to them.”

  Edwards was surprised by her attitude. “I don’t understand. They’re fellow Jews, aren’t they?”

  “They are and yet they’re not. Their lifestyle is so dictated by religious dogma that we are worlds apart. I know they don’t even consider me a true Jew, and I resent that.”

  Edwards, trying hard to keep pace with what was turning into a complex cultural lesson, stroked his chin. “I suppose that doesn’t make them much different from the ayatollahs and other crazy fundamentalists, does it?” he said.

  “Maybe,” she smiled, “but there’s one thing our ultraorthodox Mob definitely don’t do. They don’t proselytize. They don’t go out trying to convert the world. In fact, the opposite. You know something, Mark ...”

  His raised eyebrows urged her to continue.

  “... if I was a Martian who arrived suddenly on Earth and was given the choice of adopting one of the three great monotheistic religions, I’d choose Judaism. And do you know why? Because it’s the only one that would allow me to choose.”

  “I think I see what you mean,” he said pensively. “Perhaps that’s why Jews have died by the sword rather than lived by it.”

  For a few moments there was complete silence, and Edwards thought he might have said something wrong.

  “Mark,” she said softly, “that’s one of the most profound statements I have ever heard. I think you’re right. And, if you’ll pardon the pun, I think that’s a cross we have to bear.”

  Edwards gazed at her hard and long, the desire in him welling up once more. He knew she was intellectually his superior and yet he felt able to discuss any matter with her on equal terms. Her manner had never been condescending.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me, then?” she said, her lips beginning to swell and glisten like red peppers. “I forgave you as soon as you walked through the door.”

  He smiled and crossed the room to join her on the settee. Putting his arm around her, he nuzzled the nape of her neck, luxuriating in the dampness of her hair and the appley fragrance of aloe vera. “I love you, Danielle. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

  “Me too. But let’s grow into this thing. It’s new for me, too.”

  Edwards turned her face towards him and kissed the swollen lips with a passion that almost frightened him. His lips lingered on hers before sliding to nestle in an area just below the chin line.

  “Oh, darling,” she gasped. “I want you.”

  Taking her hand, he began leading her towards the bedroom, his excitement heightened by the knowledge of what was to follow. A trail of discarded clothing pointed the way. Once on the bed, she wallowed in the affectionate kisses with which he covered her naked body. Then she took the initiative, teasing him a little before satisfying what she knew he was craving. “Oh, God,” he murmured as she slid down, “oh, God.”

  Danielle gazed into her lover’s widening ice-blue eyes and delighted in his ecstasy. They did not share a common heritage and yet she felt she had known him all her life. She knew she would have to concede that she loved him too, and that she could envisage sharing the rest of her life with him. Totally oblivious to the passage of time, the lovers coupled and uncoupled in a frenzy of pleasure. The climax, when it finally arrived, was a paroxysm that was at once both satiating and debilitating.

  Mark sighed deeply as he lay exhausted beside her. “Jesus,” he said, “I don’t think it can get any better.”

  Danielle snuggled into his hairy chest for a few moments and then burst into a fit of giggling.

  “Hey, what’s so funny?” he moaned quietly, his post-coital strength still on the wane.

  “You know, I’m glad you’re circumcised, Mark,” she laughed. “I’ve never seen an uncircumcised man. Not in real life, anyway. I must say I worried about it a bit before I went to bed with you.”

  “You have my parents to thank for that,” he said, gently stroking her hair. “They read somewhere that it was more hygienic, so I had it lopped off as a baby. Didn’t feel a thing ... Hey, I’ve just thought of something. I wonder whether Henry Sonntag is circumcised. If he is isn’t, then he sure as hell ain’t Jewish.”

  Danielle remained silent. The question had never entered her mind because she was so convinced of the man’s innocence. If Henry Sonntag was indeed uncircumcised, then she knew she would be forced to rethink.

  “Mark,” she said, “what will happen to Sonntag now?”

  “Oh, he’ll go for committal proceedings at a magistrate’s court. There’s obviously a prima facie case to answer, so it’ll be referred to the Central Criminal Court, the Old Bailey.”

  “How long before he comes to trial?”

  “Could be anywhere from four to eight months, even longer.”

  “You mean he could spend all that time in jail, even if he’s eventually declared innocent?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Mark.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Can you arrange something with Webb for me?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’d like to visit Henry Sonntag in jail. If he’ll agree to see me, that is.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “No, I’m serious,” she said, propping herself on one ivory arm. “I want to look into his eyes again. I want to know if he’s lied to me.”

  “I’l
l see what I can do.” He shrugged. “Webby wants me to trap this anonymous caller. If he identifies Sonntag as being Schreiber, then that’s another nail in your man’s coffin.”

  “You’re my man,” she said, stretching to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t you ever forget it.” She smiled demurely. “Now, does little Willy want to pay another visit.”

  “Little Willy does,” he laughed, “but big Willy will.”

  Straelen, North Rhein-Westphalia, 1931

  The little boy sobbed bitterly in his nakedness. Why were they making fun of him so? Why were they so cruel to him? Why was he different from them? “Leave me alone,” he pleaded. “Please leave me alone.”

  “Quick, you guys, come and look at the new boy’s willy,” cried fat Friedrich, the local bully. He was one year older than the others in the Grundschule, one year bigger. A year in which his mental development had allowed evil thoughts to puncture the innocence of early childhood. Simply put, fat Freddy was old enough to understand what he now enjoyed. Power.

  “Please, please,” the little boy implored, clutching his vitals and shrinking back against the cool ceramic wall of the shower room. How he wished he were like fat Freddy. How he wished he could order the others to hurt fat Freddy.

  He struggled vainly to stay against the wall, as if the impassive surface could protect him from his humiliation. The shouts of the boys echoed through the dank atmosphere as they dragged him into the centre of the room.

  “Look,” giggled one of his tormentors, “he’s only got half a willy. The Berliner’s only got half a willy.”

  “Half-willy Hans,” cried fat Freddy. “That’s what we’ll call him.”

  The boys linked arms and began circling their prey. “Half-willy Hans, half-willy Hans,” they chanted in unison.

  The new boy sank to his knees and covered his ears. “Leave me alone,” he sobbed ever more bitterly. Curling into a foetal position, he remained motionless until his persecutors grew tired of their sport. He did not leave the shower until after they had dressed and left the adjoining dressing room. Only then did he stir. Hans Schreiber dressed with the torpor of the weak and humiliated. He did not know why he was different from the other boys, only that they had an extra piece of skin on their willies. He so desperately wanted to be like them.

  Thankful that games had been the last lesson of the day, the small boy ran through the sundrenched streets of the little town. Everything was so quiet compared to where they had moved from a few weeks earlier. No big buildings. No noisy automobiles. Only the lazy rustle of leaves gave him some succour as a light breeze relieved the heat of the afternoon.

  Turning the corner, he saw his father hoeing the front garden. Sight of the familiar figure induced in him another burst of sobbing. He ran into his father’s arms.

  “There, there, Hans,” soothed Dr Wolfgang Schreiber. “What’s the matter?”

  “They made fun of my willy, Father,” he cried, the tears cascading down his pale cheeks. Dr Wolfgang Schreiber stiffened, as if some unpleasant memory had had the audacity to spoil such a pleasant afternoon. He held the boy at arm’s length and looked squarely into the reddened eyes. “You must be strong, Hans. Never show them you are weak.”

  “But why am I so different, Father?”

  “You had an infection in your pee-pee, Hans. When you were a baby, it was necessary to remove what we call the foreskin.”

  “Can I have it put back, Father?”

  Wolfgang Schreiber smiled and patted the boy’s dank blond head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Hans.” The good doctor tried to subdue the wrenching in the pit of his stomach, for the boy’s humiliation was his own.

  “Here,” he said, pulling a sprig of lavender from the large bush that dominated the front garden, “smell this. It’s wonderful. It will make you feel much better.”

  Hans Schreiber clutched the sprig to his nose and breathed deeply. It had quite the most wonderful scent he had ever experienced.

  CHAPTER 9

  Detective Inspector Bob Webb looked impatiently at his watch. It was already almost half past five. He peered intently at the two telephones, praying, firstly, that the anonymous caller would ring and, secondly, that he would use British Telecom rather than Vodafone. He had a team set up at Vodafone to trace the call if the caller rang Edwards’ mobile, but the whole thing was a bit hit and miss. The reporter’s personal extension at the Standard was the best bet. He was willing to wager that the caller was somewhere in the Greater London area covered by the Metropolitan Police. He had put out an all-stations alert throughout the Met. Once BT had informed him of the source of the call he would flick through the almanac that gave him details of every station in the country. If the call came from outside London he’d have to rely on whatever nick was involved not to waste time questioning him needlessly.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Bob.”

  “My thoughts are, Mark, that if your guy doesn’t call again, I’m gonna wring your neck.”

  Edwards laughed nervously and then glanced sheepishly at the two detectives who were sitting either side of the phones. One of them was twiddling a knob on a tape deck which was connected to a receiver planted in the main body of the phone.

  “Come on, you bastard,” said Webb. “I don’t want to be sitting here all night.”

  “How long will you give it, Bob?”

  “If he doesn’t ring your office number by six, me and you are getting married.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, dear friend, that I go where you go where your mobile goes. If he can’t raise you on BT, he’ll more than likely ring the mobile. The poor sods at Vodafone will have to be on standby for as long as I deem it necessary. But, old buddy, I want to be around you if and when this guy rings. Your place or mine?”

  Before Edwards had time to reply, both men started as the reporter’s direct line burst into life. Edwards took a deep breath. He just hoped it wasn’t his mother. Webb signalled to his two cronies to switch on the tape. He then rose, swiftly for a big man, and seated himself at an adjacent desk. Upon it was the lone grey telephone which would ring as soon as BT had the necessary information.

  “Hello, Edwards here.”

  “Mr Edwards ...” Blue met steel-grey as the eyes of the reporter and the detective registered recognition. “... Mr Edwards, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” the reporter said slowly, although not slowly enough to raise doubts in the caller’s mind.

  “I have heard the radio and read your newspaper, Mr Edwards. Who is this Henry Sonntag? What does he look like?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Do you think you can get me a picture of this man?”

  Edwards took the lead from Webb’s nod. “Yes ... I think I can get hold of a photograph of the accused man.”

  “How? I thought you said there was a ban on publicity.”

  “I’m sure I can arrange it.”

  “With the police?” The caller’s voice was heavy with anxiety.

  “Of course not,” Edwards improvised, suddenly remembering that Danielle had mentioned a photo call when she had done the interview with Sonntag. “One of my newspaper colleagues is sure to have a file photo. In fact, I recall one of them saying he had recently interviewed Sonntag.” He tried to stretch his answer for all it was worth. “It was very interesting, actually. He said that ...”

  “Never mind, Mr Edwards. How long will it take to procure the photograph?”

  “Er, not too long, actually. I’ll have to phone a few people.”

  “As long as you do not go to the police, Mr Edwards. You promised me, remember?”

  Edwards felt his face flush. Duplicity did not rest easy with him. “Of course, I ...” The reporter hesitated in response to the urgent ring of Webb’s telephone. The sound lasted only as long as a semiquaver as the policeman snatched it to his ear.

  “Got it,” Webb whispered sharply, motioning to Edwards to keep dragging out the conversati
on. As luck would have it, he did not even have to consult the almanac. The caller was using a public phone box in Leyton, east London, and he knew the local nick’s number by heart. He also knew several senior officers there personally. Within seconds a car would be racing to the scene. One thing was sure: their prey was too old to run away.

  “... I believe you said you would come forward if you identified this man as Schreiber,” Edwards continued. “Does that offer still hold?”

  “Of course, of course. My word is my bond, Mr Edwards. I must be sure that the mumser is behind bars.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The bastard. Once I am sure he can no longer torture me, I shall be glad to testify. I told you this before.”

  Edwards had to think on his feet, for Webb was signalling ever more frantically for him to prolong the conversation. “Tell me,” the reporter asked, “do you know of anyone else who might back up your testimony?”

  “I have lived my life alone with my memories, Mr Edwards. I am not what you call a mixer. Schreiber made sure of that. I lost all my family in the Holocaust. There is no one. No one that I know personally. Maybe there are other survivors of the Small Fortress in other countries, but not here. Not that I know of.”

  “I’m sorry about your family ...” Edwards hesitated. It was so frustrating not being able to pin a label on the voice at the other end of the line. “I shall try to help you all I can,” he lied uneasily. “It would help, though, if you would tell me your name.”

  “I cannot, Mr Edwards. Not yet. If I tell you my name and your prisoner is not the killer, then it will be a death sentence for me.”

  “I give you my word that I will not publish anything.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot take that chance. Not because of you, but because of what others might do.”

  “It would be in contempt of court if we published anything. No newspaper would risk it. That is your guarantee.”

  “No, Mr Edwards. I shall remain anonymous until I am sure that Schreiber is behind bars. I shall ring you at the same time tomorrow. If you have the photograph, I will tell you how to get it to me. Do you understand?”