“Thank you very much, Sir John. This case is adjourned until seven days from today. The defendant will be remanded in custody.”
With this the courtroom broke into a babble. The remand hearing was all over in less than three minutes and whatever happened in court between now and the opening of the trial would be pure scene-setting.
As Henry Sonntag turned to be led away his eyes alighted on those of the only female journalist present. She nodded in acknowledgement. The man’s small brown eyes lingered for a few more seconds before a tug on his arm broke the spell. Danielle Green saw no guilt in those eyes, only the look of a man in torment.
CHAPTER 11
War Crimes Unit
Metropolitan Police
New Scotland Yard
London, SW1
The Ambassador,
The Czech Republic
26 Kensington Palace Gardens W8 4QY
Dear Sir
The Metropolitan Police presents its compliments to the Honourable Ambassador for the Czech Republic.
As you are no doubt aware, since the War Crimes Act introduced into law by the British Government in 1991, it is now possible to prosecute suspected Nazi war criminals residing in the United Kingdom.
We wish to bring to your notice that a man who goes by the name of Henry Sonntag is currently on remand accused of the recent murder of two British Jews. Following our investigations, we have reason to believe that this man “Sonntag” may, in fact, be Hans Schreiber, an SS Obersturmführer who has been labelled the “Beast of the Small Fortress” of Theresienstadt (Terezin).
We should be grateful if you would pass this request, and the accompanying recent police photographs of the accused, to the Ministry of the Interior and other relevant bodies to instigate investigations into this matter with a view to discovering the whereabouts in your country of any survivors of the Small Fortress who might be able to identify the said Schreiber.
Similar correspondence is being sent to the ambassadors of all countries which might have had some of their citizens incarcerated in the Small Fortress.
I should like to thank you in advance for your assistance in this matter. I am, sir,
Your obedient servant
Detective Chief Superintendent Edward Barnard
“Come in. Come in, my friend.”
Mark Edwards, trepidation tugging at his nerve-ends, prepared to cross the threshold of the ordinary terraced house in Belvedere Road, Leyton. He’d read somewhere that the district, part of the London Borough of Waltham Forest, once boasted the highest percentage of elderly people per head of population in the country. For some reason he thought of a comment Danielle had once made that the ambition of elderly Jews in the United States was to retire to sun-soaked Miami. Jews in Leyton, east London, however, seemed destined to live and die under grey skies and in abject yet dignified mediocrity. Leyton was a working-class town and Herschel Soferman was nothing if not working-class.
“Thanks, Herschel. Where shall I hang my coat?”
“Here,” said Soferman, taking the navy blue gabardine, “I’ll hang it over the banister. Used to make these, you know.”
“Oh, really,” said Edwards, surprised, although he could not think why.
“Yes, yes. I used to be a tailor in Savile Row. A Jewish firm took me in and trained me when I arrived here as a refugee after the war. I’m afraid they went mechulah – er, I’m sorry, bust – soon after I retired six or seven years ago. Please come into the lounge. I’ll just put the kettle on.”
Edwards entered the lounge. It was a through-room which only astonished by its uniform drabness. The wallpaper tried vainly to promote its whiteness but was mostly overcome by an expanse of grubby grey. The leaf-green Dralon suite had seen better days. The whole place had a mustiness about it and cried out for a woman’s touch.
The reporter crossed to an old fashioned fireplace that boasted a miserable two-bar electric heater. Its feeble efforts did little to warm the room sufficiently to make it comfortable. It was clear that Herschel Soferman was not overly flush. The exact opposite, in fact, of Henry Sonntag. Edwards looked up at the mantelpiece. It bore a seven branched candlestick similar to those he had seen in the homes of Danielle’s parents and her late uncle. A menorah, he believed she had called it. Next to it was a fading framed photograph of smiling newlyweds. The man, sporting a fine head of blond hair, was obviously Herschel Soferman in his prime. The young woman in the picture had a horsey face but kind eyes.
“My darling wife,” came a voice from behind him. Its tone bore all the lugubriousness of a love lost prematurely. “She died seven years ago. Lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry, Herschel,” said Edwards, turning round. The old man, standing gingerly with a cup of tea in either hand, nodded.
“Hetty was a fine woman,” he sighed. “She helped me pick up the pieces after the war. I don’t think I could have survived without her.”
“Here, let me help you,” said Edwards, moving swiftly across the room to relieve his host of the cups. “Where shall I put them?”
“Oh, on the coffee table. Just pull in your armchair a little closer. Then you will be all right.”
The reporter sat down and watched his host sink carefully into the deep Dralon. Apart from his baldness, the likeness to Sonntag was remarkable. The hair around the sides and back of Soferman’s head was the same yellowy white. Both had angular chins, narrow noses and beady brown eyes. There were some differences. Soferman’s lips were fleshier than Sonntag’s, the cheekbones slightly higher.
“You’re staring at me, Mr Edwards, because you see him in me.”
Edwards blushed. “I’m sorry, Herschel. Please forgive me.” The reporter swallowed hard. “I seem to keep saying that, don’t I?”
“Everything is nonsense, my friend. The only thing that matters is the truth.”
“Did you and Hetty have any children, Herschel?” Soferman’s rheumy eyes glazed. “No. Unfortunately, we couldn’t.”
Edwards changed tack speedily. “How did you get on with Detective Inspector Webb?”
“He interviewed me for a total of six hours. It was really repetitive and he concentrated only on my time in Theresienstadt. I was exhausted by the end. I am no chicken, you know.”
Edwards smiled. “I promise I won’t put you through the third degree. We can’t publish anything now anyway. We can only report the trial. You know, Sonntag’s counsel will probably give you a roasting.”
Soferman looked at his guest squarely. “The truth, Mr Edwards, fears no man.”
“Good for you.”
“Now what do you want me to do?” asked Soferman, eager to oblige the younger man.
“Look, Herschel, I don’t really want this to be an interview in the real sense of the word. It’s not a grilling. As I told you on the phone, I’d like to write a book about this whole thing once the trial’s over. I’ve brought along a tape recorder and I think the best thing is if you just relate your life story in your own words. I won’t interrupt even if I have questions. I’ll go over the tape in my own time and we’ll get together again to clarify anything that needs clearing up.”
“Of course, I agree, my friend, even though it may cause me some pain. But I have just one request.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You told me your girlfriend is going to visit Sonntag – I just can’t get used to that name – to visit Schreiber in prison. I would like to know if he says anything about me. You know, it must have come as a real shock to him to discover that I am alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“Be patient, Mr Edwards. I shall tell you everything. But first promise me you will tell me.”
Edwards shrugged. “I don’t see any problem with that ... if he says anything.”
“Good. Then let us proceed.”
For the next few hours of a quiet Sunday afternoon Mark Edwards listened to the amazing life story of Herschel Soferman. The only interruptions were for cups of tea, calls of natur
e and the switching of cassettes. The reporter was amazed by his host’s grasp of English. It seemed every German he met spoke the Queen’s English better than most of her native-born subjects.
Later that evening, Edwards replayed the tapes to Danielle in her Docklands apartment. Both had been embroiled in the case sufficiently to have their own favourite. Now Danielle would hear another side of the story. The tapes were dated and bore the simple label “Herschel Soferman’s Story”.
Click.
“I was born in the Charlottenburg district of Berlin. Anyway, that’s what they told me. It’s just north of the Kurfürstendamm – you know Berlin, so maybe you know that area. It was a residential area then and it’s the same now, I think, although I haven’t been back there since I was forcibly removed in the winter of ’43. I will not suffer anything that is German. I will not drive a German car, I will not own a German television set or any other thing that originates in that damn country. Tfhh [Spitting sound].
“I don’t remember my father. Apparently he was killed in a car crash when I was four. I was sent to the local Jewish orphanage. It was bombed by the Allies later in the war. No matter. I doubt whether anyone apart from me survived. I have never tried to search for lost friends. Maybe I am frightened to meet them. To dredge up the past. That is why I keep myself to myself. I do not want to relive the past. [Laughs] But now I am having to, no? [Clears throat] I was unhappy there – in the orphanage – although everyone was very kind. I vaguely remember my mother. [Sighs] I remember her black hair and black eyes. But that is all. The orphanage was my mother and father. I stayed there until I was fifteen. I drifted around a bit and then got a job as a presser in a sweatshop. I was strong for my age. And those irons were surely heavy [Laughs]. In the evenings I studied. Yes, Mr Edwards, I read Schiller and Kant. Goethe, too. I spent all my money on books. Yet [Sighs] I became a tailor. No ambition, my friend. No ambition. Schreiber robbed me of my ambition. I should have gone to Palestine before it was too late. But as German Jews we were so [Pauses] German. A German Zionist was someone who paid a second Zionist to send a third to Palestine. Funny, no? [Laughs] You see, we were Germans. We spoke the German language. It was our mother tongue in the truest sense of the word. Language means almost more than blood. We did not know any Fatherland other than Germany and we loved the country as one loves one’s Fatherland. But I will never visit that land again and I will never consciously speak its language. I think I told you this before.
“Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes, I was working as a presser. I was a bit of a loner really, although I did have one friend. Avraham was his name. He worked the presses by day and studied the Torah by night. He had payers, you know, sidecurls, and looked like a pukka Jew. [Sighs] That was his downfall. I’ll never forget Kristallnacht. It means Night of Broken Glass. I was sixteen at the time and it was my first job. Goldberg was a bit of a slave-driver. There were about fifty of us working in his factory. We were on the night shift that night. November the ninth, 1938. I’ll never forget it.
“Look, Mr Edwards, you’ve got to understand that up until that year there had been a lot of decrees and things but not a lot of violence. They started by stealing Jewish property. We had a couple of Jews of Polish origin and they were forcibly deported. They were nice guys. One of them, Mietek, taught me Polish. I learnt basic Polish in six weeks. Can you believe that? I had this tremendous knack for learning languages. I taught myself English, too. I listened to the BBC all the time. English is my favourite language. It is so rich. Anyway, it all started because my namesake, some young Jew named Herschel Grynszpan, assassinated the Secretary of the German embassy in Paris. That was all the excuse the Nazis needed for a pogrom. There we were, slaving away at our presses, when the front doorbell rings. It was enough to wake the dead, that bell. It had to be what with the noise of the presses and sewing machines. Anyway, we opened the door and there was this Jew standing there. White as a sheet, he was. He was shaking all over. He asked for Goldberg. Said we should all get home as quickly as possible. Said Nazi gangs were running amok in the streets. He said synagogues everywhere were burning. Can you imagine? The stranger then ran off into the night. No one waited for Goldberg to decide anything. Everyone clamoured to get home to their parents or their wives and children. All except Avraham and me, that is. We were both orphans with no families to go home to. Goldberg let us share a room at the back of the workshop. He had taken pity on us. He worked us hard but he was fair.
“Anyway, Goldberg himself turned up a few minutes later. He was also shaking. ‘I’ve got to lock up, boys,’ he said. He told us to keep to our little room at the back. ‘Don’t venture out into the streets, boys,’ he said. ‘Don’t act like heroes. Wait until it all blows over.’ So Goldberg went home and there was just me and Avraham. Alone and frightened in our little back room. We played cards, drank tea and ate a few sandwiches. The usual routine, really. It was our little den and I suppose it gave us a false sense of security.
“[Breathes deeply] Then came the banging on the front door of the workshops. They rang the doorbell again and again. The sound went right through us. Then the banging got louder. We knew they must have been using a sledgehammer. There was the terrible noise of splintering wood and shattering glass. Avraham was shaking and wide-eyed with fright. I’ll never forget his eyes [pause]. Then we heard their voices. Venomous, they were. ‘Juden Raus,’ they screamed. They were getting more agitated because the place was empty. We heard them smashing up the workshop. We knew we must hide because there was no escape. The only way out was past the thugs. There was a small trapdoor in the floor but there was only space for one. Instinctively I dived into it. I pulled the trapdoor to and then suddenly all was silence. Then I heard a familiar squeak. It was our clothes cupboard door. The only problem was, if I heard it, then so did the Nazis. Suddenly I heard the door to our room smashed open and the clump of jackboots above my head. Within seconds they had discovered Avraham. I’ll never forget their curses and his pleas for mercy.
“[Pause] There were terrible screams that seemed to go on forever. Then I heard the jackboots disappear and then silence. It must have been a further ten minutes before I ventured out of my hiding place. I had to heave with all my might because something was holding the trapdoor shut. Eventually I managed to get the door open and haul myself out. [Breathes deeply] It was terrible. I had never seen a human being reduced to something unrecognizable. There was blood everywhere. My friend Avraham was dead and it could so easily have been me. I feel guilty for it even until this day. [Whistle in background] There goes the kettle. Let me make you a cup of tea, Mr Edwards.”
Click.
“Well, what do you think so far?”
Dani stared at the tape recorder. “It’s pretty powerful stuff,” she said. “He certainly tells a good story. Funny, though ...”
“Yes?”
“There is a point of coincidence in his story and Henry Sonntag’s.”
“What’s that?”
“They were both born and brought up in the Charlottenburg district of Berlin. Strange, that.”
“Hmm.” Edwards grimaced. “Maybe. Maybe not. Remember, Soferman claims Sonntag stole his identity. Anyway, if I recall correctly, it all becomes clearer later on. Let me make a cup of tea and then I’ll switch it back on.”
Click.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Poor Avraham. He was one of a hundred Jews murdered on that night, you know. Hundreds of synagogues were destroyed and thousands of shops and offices were looted. Imagine. I had to sit with his body the whole night until Goldberg came back the following morning. Sometimes, when I consider what happened to me afterwards, I wish I had been in his place. But I think it was from that moment that I knew I would survive; that I would live to bear witness against these monsters.
“From that day on it was a hand-to-mouth existence. I found another room and moved from job to job. Eventually, the pressure on Jewish businesses became so intense that I went back to the orphanage to help look af
ter the younger children. It didn’t pay anything, but at least I had a roof over my head and food to eat. However, with all the hardships it’s ironic that we German Jews were relatively better off than Jews elsewhere in Europe. The Jews in the east, mainly Poland, suffered first. With all the madness going on around us, Berlin was relatively a safe haven.
“But it couldn’t last, Mr Edwards. Eventually our turn came. By this time I was assistant director at the orphanage. The director, Otto Zimmerman, relied on me to look after the acquisition of food and clothing for the children. There were about fifty at the beginning. But by early ’43 the numbers had swollen to almost double. Other orphanages were opening up all over the place because of the numbers of parents who had been rounded up by the Gestapo. It was pitiful to see the new arrivals. They were so frightened. Each sad face mirrored my own. I knew what they were going through. That’s why they could relate to me.
“Then came the inevitable. It was November. I remember, it was windy and wet and the morning air was cold enough to chill. There came this persistent ringing at the front doorbell. It reminded me of that terrible time on Kristallnacht. Somehow something told me that our time was up. I was the one who opened the door. About fifty men stormed into the house, pushing me aside roughly. Some of them wore long black coats with the collars turned up. They were the Gestapo. The others were a mixture of soldiers and police. “Don’t harm the children. Please don’t harm the children,” Zimmerman pleaded.
“They will not be harmed as long as you follow orders,” said one of the men in black coats. He was a small, weedy man and I couldn’t help smiling to myself that this was supposed to be an example of the master race. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we had half an hour to get all the children’s belongings together. Their fearful cries resounded throughout the building. I tried to calm them down but some of them were inconsolable. Fear was gnawing away at me, too. On the one hand I wanted to run away and on the other I knew I must help the little ones. I stayed, of course. But in the eventuality it was only until we got to the station. I was all set to board the train with them – by the way, it wasn’t a cattle-car like they used to transport the Polish Jews – when the weedy man pushed me to one side with his riding whip. ‘You stay here,’ he said in his squeaky voice. ‘You’ll be taking another train.’ He then sent me to join a group of young men in a waiting-room which had been cordoned off. [Pause] I never saw Zimmerman and the children again. I can only presume that they were transported directly to one of the death camps [sound of rattling china and tea being slurped].
Schreiber's Secret Page 18