Schreiber's Secret

by Roger Radford

  “He said, ‘Impostor, liar and murderer’,” Edwards shouted above the din to those nearest him. “The other phrase you understood.”

  “I shall have order,” warned the judge as the cacophony subsided. “I must warn the defendant that one more outburst like that and I shall have him removed.”

  Sir John Scrivener glared at his client. Sonntag had been made fully aware of the tactics the defence would employ and the outburst was detrimental to his own interests.

  Henry Sonntag took his counsel’s hint and resumed his seat, his scowl redirected at the witness.

  Herschel Soferman’s bloodless face stared at his adversary in abject horror. The witness began to break into a cold sweat.

  “You may proceed, Mr Blomberg.”

  “Thank you, M’Lord,” said the counsel for the prosecution, and waited for the usher to ask the necessary questions of Soferman.

  “What religion are you?”

  “Jewish,” Soferman croaked.

  All eyes turned to Henry Sonntag. He glared at the witness, but remained silent.

  Herschel Soferman placed a skullcap on his head and took the oath on the Old Testament.

  “Now then, Mr Soferman,” began Blomberg, “please tell us your name.”

  Soferman duly responded, the fear in his voice manifest.

  “Mr Soferman,” continued Blomberg, “I want to take you back to a time of your life you’d probably rather forget; the days of the Second World War. First, tell us briefly about your background.”

  Herschel Soferman, already fully briefed by counsel, spent the next fifteen minutes relating his experiences in the orphanage, the raid on Kristallnacht, and generally what it was like to be a Jew in Berlin at that time. Danielle noted that the witness grew more and more relaxed as his narrative unfolded. Her own brief had been to write a colour piece on the trial. Her newspaper had two other specialist reporters covering the verbatim aspects.

  “Thank you, Mr Soferman,” interrupted Blomberg. “Now there came a time when you arrived in Theresienstadt and the notorious Small Fortress there. Please tell us about that.”

  The court listened agog as the witness told the story of how he had been rounded up in Berlin and transported to the transit camp north of Prague. Even Edwards and Danielle, who knew the story backwards, were once more entranced by the tale. But this did not prevent them from seeing how skilfully Blomberg was guiding his star witness.

  “Now, Mr Soferman,” he said cajolingly, “does any particular Nazi in the Small Fortress stand out in your mind?”

  Herschel Soferman then launched into a diatribe about Hans Schreiber’s terrible wrongdoings, punctuated intermittently by gasps from the gallery. Even hard-bitten court reporters looked aghast at Henry Sonntag. The defendant disappointed them by maintaining a steely repose.

  “I think this is a good time to adjourn for lunch,” interposed Judge Pilkington when it appeared that the witness had concluded.

  “The court will rise,” the usher responded.

  The cafeteria buzzed with the excited chatter of those wrapped up in the only case of the day worth covering. Reporters covering other trials eyed their colleagues enviously.

  “What a morning,” enthused Danielle. “Sonntag’s outburst was extraordinary. You could feel his hatred for Soferman.”

  “The poor man was as white as a sheet,” said Dieter Müller, wiping some errant mashed potato from his goatee. “I felt sorry for him. But I think I’m going to feel more sorry for him later on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I know Sir John would not have welcomed his client’s outburst, but it must mean he’s got something up his sleeve. I think he is preparing to challenge Soferman on the identity issue. I think we are in for some fireworks, young lady.”

  “How do you think the jury’s reacting?”

  “On the evidence so far, I think they can have only one opinion, especially as they would not have had Sonntag’s outburst translated. Mr Sonntag is as guilty as hell as far as they are ...”

  The professor was interrupted by the arrival of Mark Edwards. “Phew!” the journalist whistled. “I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”

  “Typical English rubbish,” laughed Müller.

  “How’s it going, dude?” Danielle asked Edwards.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, Dani, working on a Sunday paper. All that time to construct your masterpieces. Meanwhile, I’m slaving in order to make sure that the public of this great metropolis are kept abreast of this incredible case. Yes,” he added with mock pride, “we on the London Evening Standard report the news as it happens.”

  “As long as it’s not after four-thirty or something,” laughed Danielle.

  “She’s right, Dieter. Everything after that is a dead duck, I’m afraid. Strictly for the morning papers. Anyway, let’s eat.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Edwards had gobbled a pallid steak pie and chips and joined his two companions for the resumption of the trial.

  The break appeared to have had minimal effect on the repose of the two protagonists. Henry Sonntag once again sat bolt upright in the dock and his eyes did not appear to follow the shuffling figure of Herschel Soferman as he passed him on the way to the witness box.

  “Thank you, Mr Soferman,” said Nigel Blomberg, QC, once the old man had safely negotiated his way to the microphone. “Now, you were relating to us the nefarious deeds of a man named Hans Schreiber. What did this Hans Schreiber look like when you saw him some fifty years ago?”

  The witness’s eyes glazed as he replied. “He was blond, about six feet tall and had small brown eyes. I can never forget those eyes.”

  “Do you remember anything particular about his methods of killing?”

  “Yes. After he had finished toying with his victims, especially those who participated in the contests, he would shoot them through the nape of the neck ... and then carve a swastika on their foreheads.”

  “Did you manage to see the kind of knife he used to carry?”

  “Yes. It was an SS dagger. It had the SS motto engraved on it. Loyalty is my honour.”

  “Was there anything else on the knife?”

  “Yes. The initials ‘HS’.”

  “I ask you to look at exhibit one, sir, the knife. Do you recognize it?”

  “Yes. It is identical to the one he used to carry.”

  “Now, Mr Soferman, I am going to ask you to look at these photographs of the bodies of Mr Hyams and Mr Plant. I appreciate that these may cause you some consternation, but do you recognize anything about them?” Blomberg passed the photographs to the court usher who in turn handed them to the witness.

  Herschel Soferman stared at the photos for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he croaked, “They are the same methods as used by Hans Schreiber.”

  The counsel for the prosecution, noting the effect that all this was having upon the jury, then reminded the witness of his visit to the identity suite at Tottenham police station.

  “Did you pick out someone at that parade?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “As far as you were concerned, who was the man you picked out?”

  “Hans Schreiber.”

  “And is that man, the man that you say is Hans Schreiber, in this court today?”

  “Yes, sir, it is him,” rasped Soferman, pointing a wavering finger at the dock. “He is the butcher. He is Hans Schreiber.” The witness then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

  Once more the court broke into uproar. Reporters scurried to and fro, especially those working for evening papers and wire services. Judge Pilkington was forced once more to vent his spleen. Henry Sonntag sat through the mayhem, a sardonic smile on his lips. There would be no more outbursts from him.

  “Do you feel well enough to continue, sir?” the judge asked kindly once order had been restored.

  “Yes, I am fine now,” Soferman replied, wiping his rheumy eyes. Danielle thought the man looked completely spent.

  “You may
continue, Mr Blomberg,” said the judge.

  “Thank you, M’Lord, I just have one last question of this witness.” He turned to Soferman. “Now, Mr Soferman, after the war did you still have your identity card or papers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were taken from me by Hans Schreiber after I had told him everything about myself and my family.”

  “Do you recall anything in particular that he said to you at that time?”

  “Yes, I will never forget those words. He said, ‘You may not look like a typical Yid, but you’re Yid enough for me.’”

  “What did you understand him to mean by that remark?”

  “Nothing at the time. It was only recently that I realized it meant he was planning to steal my identity.”

  Sir John Scrivener jumped quickly to his feet. “We object, my Lord. This is calling for conjecture on the part of the witness.”

  Judge Pilkington pondered for a few seconds. “I agree with your objection, Sir John. The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement.”

  “Thank you, Mr Soferman,” said the prosecuting counsel, and sat down. The gaunt figure of Sir John rose, more slowly. This was the moment for him to begin his ploy. In the circumstances, it was all he had. He cleared his throat.

  “If it please you, M’Lord ... Mr Soferman, is it fair to say that you hate Nazis and anybody you think might be a Nazi? In fact, that you hate everything German or that might be German?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied Soferman vehemently.

  Scrivener smiled wanly. “Don’t you think this clouds your judgement, Mr Soferman?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “I remind you, sir, about the awful horrors that you say you lived through during the Second World War. You said you had been subjected to unspeakable barbarity and described those events vividly. You said you had witnessed contests arranged by this Hans Schreiber in which Jew was pitted against Jew in gladiatorial fights to the death.”

  “Y-Yes,” stammered Soferman.

  Edwards and Danielle were not the only ones in court to know that this was a moment of truth for Herschel Soferman. The man had said that the reporter was the only person he had told about his own participation in those contests. The two journalists realized that it might seriously affect Soferman’s credibility if he too were shown to be a murderer. They also knew that it was one thing to withhold facts when not asked, but quite another to lie under oath. A lie, however understandable in the circumstances, might undermine the jury’s faith in him. But there was also the question of whether Henry Sonntag had told his counsel about these contests. By claiming that he himself was the real Soferman, then it was odds-on he had. The outcome rested on Scrivener’s next question.

  “Would you say that the mind of anyone witnessing these contests might be affected by what they had seen?”

  “Y-Yes,” Soferman stuttered again. “I mean ...”

  “Yes, Mr Soferman?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Did you, yourself, participate in these contests, Mr Soferman?”

  The court was hushed. Herschel Soferman appeared stunned. He tried to speak but no words would come.

  “I ask you once more, Mr Soferman, did you yourself participate in these contests?”

  Blomberg was on his feet. “My Lord, the learned counsel for the defence is subjecting the witness to undue stress.”

  Mr Justice Pilkington did not agree. “The witness may answer the question.”

  “N-No,” stuttered Soferman.

  “Did you not kill four men with your own hands, Mr Soferman?”

  “Y-Yes... I mean, no. Oh, my God, yes.” The man began sobbing quietly. Scrivener was aware that he was playing a dangerous game and that the whole ploy might backfire on him by making the jury more sympathetic to the witness. It was enough to have forced the man to admit that he too had blood on his hands. It was time to be gentler. “I put it to you, Mr Soferman, that participation in those terrible contests would have tested the sanity of any man.”

  The counsel for the prosecution jumped to his feet again. “We object, my Lord. Is my learned friend suggesting that this witness is insane? If he is, then let him say so clearly.”

  “My observation was a general one, my Lord.”

  “Please make your point, Sir John,” said Mr Justice Pilkington testily.

  “Thank you, my Lord ... Furthermore, Mr Soferman, the terrible experience of being left for dead in such appalling circumstances, the difficulties you faced after making your escape, and even those encountered while establishing yourself in a foreign country would be enough to affect any human being for the rest of his life, would they not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” replied Soferman, visibly shaken, but regaining some of his composure.

  “I would put it to you, Mr Soferman,” Sir John continued, “that your mind has been tormented for fifty years and I am afraid your judgement has become warped.”

  “That is not true,” the witness rasped. “My mind is clear.” He then pointed again at the defendant and yelled, his voice a mixture of hurt and bitterness. “It is his mind that is warped.”

  “The witness will restrict himself to answering the questions,” Judge Pilkington interceded.

  “Thank you, M’Lord,” said Sir John. “Now, Mr Soferman, may I ask you if you have changed your appearance in fifty years, taking into account, of course, the ageing process?

  “No.”

  “Does the defendant look as he did fifty years ago?”

  “Yes. He is much older. But it is the same man.”

  “Do you agree there is a remarkable similarity between the two of you?” Here it comes, thought Edwards. The fat was now about to hit the fire.

  “So people tell me,” replied Soferman, and then as an afterthought, “anyway, that’s probably why he stole my identity.”

  “Indeed, Mr Soferman, your positions could be reversed.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The court was rapt. Even the nervous coughing in the gallery had ceased.

  “I mean that with the positions reversed, you would be in the dock and he in the witness box. Because that’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it, Mr Soferman? By your own admission, you have killed four men. Yet we maintain that it was not you who participated in those contests, but you who ordered them. You are in fact Hans Schreiber and Henry Sonntag is the real Herschel Soferman.”

  “No, no,” screamed Soferman. “That’s a terrible lie, a terrible lie.” Suddenly there was pandemonium, with Scrivener bellowing above the din, “You know all about the horrors of Theresienstadt, Mr Soferman, because you inflicted them.”

  “Order. Order.”

  Blomberg was on his feet, banging his fist on his lectern in unison with the thumping of the judge’s gavel. He was incensed by Scrivener’s allegations. “Order. Order,” shouted Pilkington. “I order the public gallery to be cleared.”

  It took a full ten minutes before Nigel Blomberg, QC, was given the opportunity to respond.

  “M’Lord,” he began self-righteously, “these have been monstrous suggestions never made before today and quite unsustainable. They are mere speculation of the worst type and we object.”

  Mr Justice Pilkington turned to the defence counsel. “Sir John, I hope you can make good these horrendous suggestions, the like of which I have never heard in a lifetime at the bar and on the bench.”

  “I hear your Lordship’s comments, but at the moment I am making these suggestions upon instructions from my client and I await the witness’s answer.”

  “I believe the witness has already answered, Sir John,” said the judge, “and I propose to adjourn until tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s a lie,” sobbed Soferman as the ushers moved to clear the court. “It’s a lie.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Mark Edwards had suffered a fitful night, his mind racked by the incredible scenes in court and indecision about w
hat to do regarding Bill Brown. He glanced at his watch. It was already seven-thirty. The sun shone weakly through a chink in his bedroom curtains. He glanced at the slumbering form of his lover. Danielle had never met the private eye and he could not therefore expect her to show the same level of concern.

  He switched on the lamp at his side, his hand accidentally sweeping from the bedside table the newspaper he had begun reading the previous night. He leaned over and picked it up. As anticipated, Die Welt was indeed full of reports and opinions about the trial. He flicked through the pages until, suddenly, his eye was caught by a two-paragraph filler at the bottom of page five.

  STRAELEN – Police are appealing for help in the identification of a man whose body was found in the middle of a main road leading into this small town on the Dutch border. They believe the hit-and-run victim was probably a tourist.

  A police spokesman said it was “strange” that no documents were found on the man, whom they described as blond and in his mid-forties.

  The spokesman said the man wore English-made clothes, including a bowtie, and “may have been returning from a party somewhere early in the morning.”

  Edwards went cold. He knew he should not jump to conclusions. It might have been anyone. But it wasn’t anyone. No one other than Bill Brown would be seen dead wearing a bowtie in the early hours of the morning. He grimaced at his own black humour.

  The reporter left his bed quietly, put on his dressing gown, and made for the small escritoire in the lounge. He opened the hinged top and withdrew a large brown envelope. He extracted three photographs with “Copyright, Mail on Sunday” on the back of them. Bill Brown had had the same copies. Edwards did not know whether he would need the photographs of Henry Sonntag, but he knew now what he must do.

  “I call Pastor Stanislaw Warsinski,” proclaimed Nigel Blomberg, QC.

  The court was hushed as the tall and stooping figure of the Polish priest came forward to take the stand. Wearing cassock and dog-collar, the bespectacled cleric brought an air of godliness to a trial imbued with tales of the Devil.

  “My Lord, this witness has excellent command of English and we feel it unnecessary to call for an interpreter.” On the judge’s nod, Blomberg turned once again to the man in black to complete the formalities. “On which Bible do you wish to be sworn?”