A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  ‘So, Herr von Trott,’ said Stille, waving him into a chair, ‘what can I do for you?’

  Stille had greeted him with arm outstretched and a ‘Heil Hitler’. If it was a test, Adam failed it because he merely nodded his head in response.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do for me, thank you, Major. I would not dream of wasting the time of a busy official of the Reich.’

  Stille ignored what might have been construed as sarcasm. ’You want to know about Sir Simon Castlewood and the Castlewood Foundation? Is that not correct?’

  ‘I have recently stayed at Sir Simon’s house – played cricket there in fact – and I was interested how far his activities went.’

  ‘His activities?’ Stille pretended to be puzzled.

  ‘I wanted to establish that he was a friend of the Reich,’ Adam said, trying to sound virtuous.

  ‘Indeed? Well, Herr von Trott, a very great honour is to be accorded you. You shall hear from the Reichsführer himself how much we value the “activities” of Sir Simon Castlewood.’

  ‘Himmler is in England?’ Adam was surprised.

  ‘You must call Herr Himmler Reichsführer if you wish to have a future in Germany,’ Major Stille reproved him. ‘No, he is in Berlin and it is there you will go tonight. A special aeroplane will pick you up from Croydon in two hours.’

  ‘In two hours! But that is absurd. I would have to pack . . .’

  ‘There is a car waiting for you. One of my men will take you back to your flat and then on to the aerodrome.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Adam spluttered.

  ‘You are worried about your rendezvous with the Communist – what is her name? – Verity Browne.’ Stille knew precisely who Verity was and hated her with particular venom for having made a fool of him several years earlier. ‘She is an enemy of the state and not worth a moment’s thought. However,’ he said grudgingly, ‘if you must, send her a note. Tell her . . .’ he grinned wolfishly, ‘that you have had a more important invitation. In fact, I have been meaning to have a word in your ear. It is not good that you should consort with people such as her. As an aristocrat from a family which has done the state service, it is not right that you endanger yourself and your friends by mixing with . . . with scum like her.’ He used the word ‘Abschaum’. ‘Our enemies are your enemies, Herr von Trott. You must remember that.’

  Moments later, Adam was bundled into an embassy car, its window blinds pulled down to prevent him from seeing or being seen.

  So this is what it feels like to be arrested, he thought. This is what it feels like to be taken from the street and removed to some hellish camp. Powerless! That was the word. Squeezed between the two soberly suited men who had barred his way earlier, he was being taken . . . to Berlin? Or was that just a lie so that he would come quietly? Perhaps he would be disposed of and no one would ever know what happened to him. He tried to shake off his terrors.

  At Croydon, the car drove over to the far side of the aerodrome and he had a brief glimpse of a plane decorated with swastikas before he was pushed up the steps. He was hardly seated before the propellers were turning and he felt the wheels trundle over the grass. A moment or two later, they were in the air. He had no passport – no papers of any sort – just a few clothes and a toothbrush in a small bag at his feet.

  It was the first time he had been in an aeroplane and he thought that, if he lived to fly again as an ordinary passenger, he would never sit easily in his seat remembering this first journey into fear. He had no book to read. His two companions were silent and would not answer his questions so he was left alone with his thoughts. He would not think about what was to come. Whatever horror lay in store for him, it would come quickly enough. He preferred to think about Verity and wonder if she would be worried about him. In his flat – under the basilisk gaze of his leather-coated companions – he had written her a brief note saying something had come up which meant he might not be around for a day or two. He dared not say more because he knew his note would never reach her if he was indiscreet. He insisted on giving it himself to the porter to post who looked at him curiously and would have said something but was not given time.

  He meditated too on what Verity had said about their relationship – how it could never come to anything because they were on two sides of an impenetrable barrier – he a German patriot and she an English Communist and an enemy of the Reich. Would he not be wise to give her up – for her sake as much as his? His path was hard enough without deliberately making it harder. There were plenty of German girls of his own class from whom he could choose a mate. He had had such girls before. But there was something about Verity – something that hooked and held him. She was beautiful – at least he found her so and, to judge from the reactions of the other men at Swifts Hill, he was not alone. But there were plenty more beautiful. It was her sharpness, her strength of will, her individuality, her profound sense of her own worth that fascinated him. But then again, while all of this was true, he still could not put his finger on what made her so attractive to him. After thinking about it, the best he could come up with was that she was dangerous. Not always, of course; she could sheathe her claws and when she lay asleep in his arms she seemed so vulnerable. Sometimes she would whimper and even cry out, which spoke of bad dreams. He had never asked her about her dreams and never would but it made him want to protect her. It must be what Corinth saw in her, he supposed. He dozed, was woken, given hot soup and then dozed again.

  They landed in Berlin and Adam, tired, dishevelled, disorientated and cold, was taken to the magnificent baroque palace – Prinz-Albrecht Strasse 8 – the headquarters of the SS. He was allowed to wash and tidy himself up and then – after this mad rush across Europe – was left to stew in a waiting room for hour after hour. At first he was indignant, then resigned and finally despairing. He told himself the whole procedure was designed to emphasize the Reichsfürer’s absolute authority and to lower his morale. If this was the idea, it certainly worked.

  When he was finally taken into Himmler’s poky little office, he had no idea how much time had passed since he had made his ill-considered visit to the Embassy in London. Himmler nodded at him to sit down in front of him. Adam had never seen him before and was immediately struck by his ordinariness. This pasty-faced, bespectacled clerk was the second most powerful man in Germany but everything about him seemed designed to play down his power. He needed no huge desk or uniformed guards to proclaim his position. And yet for the first time Adam felt cold fear turn his bowels to water. He wondered if he could ask to go to the lavatory as if he were a schoolboy hauled up in front of the headmaster. He knew he could not.

  Himmler continued to write and Adam’s cold fear turned to sweaty panic. He wondered what form his interrogation would take. Would he be asked why he had not joined the Party? Would he be shouted at or even hit? Just as he felt he must scream, Himmler spoke. His voice was low and reedy and Adam found himself leaning forward to hear him, but there was a latent passion in his speech that was more sinister than any overt rage. He asked after Adam’s parents and then inquired about his studies. He appeared to know everything about him and, which was almost risible, he seemed to be a snob. Adam remembered hearing that Himmler had some fantasy that he was the reincarnation of Henry the Fowler – a famous German king – and the fact that Adam’s father and grandfather had served the Kaiser seemed to impress him.

  He did at last ask why Adam had not joined the Party and the SS, which he described as the Aryan aristocracy of the new Germany. ‘That little word “von” means nothing now,’ he opined. ‘The best from all classes, that is the nobility of the Reich. You should be proud to be an SS Mann. The SS are heirs to the Teutonic knights, dedicated to Elitebewusstsein – elite consciousness.’

  Adam ducked and dived, trying to avoid signing his own death warrant by expatiating on his hatred for all things Nazi while not committing himself to joining the Party. Himmler did not press him unduly but went on to discuss the Castlewood Foundation which he
hoped would finance, at least in part, the expedition to Tibet.

  ‘The Welteislehre is the true scientific theory – not that Jew Einstein’s,’ Himmler said, banging his fist on the table to make his point. ‘The supernatural ancestors of the Aryans were frozen high in the mountains and released from their icy tombs by the thunderbolts of the gods. This is the vision we share with Sir Simon Castlewood and I am very glad you have become his friend. We must find the Master Race. It is our destiny.’

  So that was it, Adam thought. Himmler wanted him to persuade Sir Simon to confirm the funding for this ridiculous expedition. He breathed a little easier. If he was useful to the Reichsführer he was safe but, if Castlewood decided in the end not to go ahead, then he would be blamed. He guessed that deep below him prisoners – enemies of the Reich – were being tortured in blood-spattered cells. He shivered.

  Himmler hammered home his message. ‘Sir Simon can get us permission from the British Government to travel through India to Lhasa. One day we will not need permission,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but, for the moment, we must make these arrangements with the British. You must see that everything goes – how do the English say it – “swimmingly”.’

  Himmler smiled and Adam thought it the most evil expression he had ever seen. It suddenly occurred to him that he might as well ask a favour of the grinning mask in front of him.

  ‘There is one thing which might help, Reichsführer. Sir Simon has a Jewish secretary – a Mrs Berners. Her husband – Heinrich Berners – was conscripted to work for IG Farben. He’s a turbine engineer. Sir Simon would, I know, be grateful if he were permitted to join his wife in England.’

  ‘This sentimentality about the Jews,’ Himmler said, his grin fading. ‘It must cease. They are not worth a second thought.’

  ‘However . . .’ Adam persisted.

  ‘It will be attended to but I shall expect to see Sir Simon’s gratitude expressed in a concrete way. You understand?’

  ‘I understand, Reichsführer. Thank you.’

  He now knew what he had only suspected – that the Reich was ruled by madmen who would bring chaos and destruction to the Germany he loved. At that moment, he pledged his life to opposing the regime at whatever cost.

  Edward looked at Virginia and she looked at him.

  ‘He’s gone? Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Virginia said. ‘Why? You surely don’t suspect Graham Harvey of murdering Maud.’

  ‘Not that, no,’ Edward agreed.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s just possible, Ginny, that he may try to do something to Simon or . . .’

  ‘But why?’ She was pale and agitated. Her Pekinese looked up at her, puzzled and disconsolate. ‘Graham owes Simon everything. He wouldn’t hurt him . . . would he?’

  ‘I really don’t know. He might. You know Maud and he were lovers?’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Virginia said slowly. ‘Are you sure? They never gave any hint of it . . . at least when they were with me. But are you saying that Graham blames Simon for what happened to Maud? That’s preposterous.’

  ‘It may be a bit more complicated than that. I think Maud knew something about the Institute of Beauty and the Clinic and was on the point of talking . . .’

  ‘And that was why she was murdered? But who murdered her? Not Simon – he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘Look, Ginny, I have spoken to Isolde and Roddy and they told me things about the Institute . . . I think I have no option but to go to Cannes and find Harvey before he does anything silly.’

  ‘But you can’t be sure he’s there. He could be anywhere. He may be in London trying to find a publisher for his book.’

  ‘Tell me what he said to you before he left.’

  ‘He thanked me and said he wouldn’t need the cottage any more. He had finished his book and was planning to enlist in the International Brigade and go to Spain. He said he had had enough of theory and wanted to do something . . . for the cause.’

  ‘Well, I know for a fact that he hadn’t finished his book. He told Verity.’

  ‘He may have wanted to go to Spain all the same.’

  ‘Maybe, Ginny, but Verity says he knew that battle was lost and it was futile to try to fight against the inevitable. Anyway, if he was going to Spain, he would have to get there via the South of France.’

  Virginia was suddenly angry. ‘I think this is all nonsense. I don’t understand why you have decided Graham is so dangerous. Simon used to say he was just a crackpot. A theoretician – not a man of action. I think he liked the fact that Graham was so ineffectual while he was a man of action. It made him feel superior.’

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look round his cottage?’

  ‘No, but what on earth do you expect to find?’

  Half an hour later Edward was back clasping a crumpled sheet of writing-paper.

  ‘I found this letter in the wastepaper basket by his desk,’ he said, handing it to Ginny. ‘I can’t think why he didn’t destroy it properly. It’s from his Party chief.’

  ‘Party chief?’

  ‘Yes, all Communist Party members are given a senior CP figure to whom they are answerable and whose orders have to be obeyed without question. Verity says they have to be organized to defeat Fascism.’

  Virginia was reading the letter, her brow creased in puzzlement. ‘It says he must expose the Castlewood Foundation as a Fascist front. But that’s absurd!’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ Edward said unhappily. ‘Sir Simon has close relations with the Nazi Party in Germany and has met Himmler on several occasions. This Tibet expedition is Himmler’s idea.’

  Virginia had gone very pale and her Pekinese whined at her feet, unhappy at being ignored. She spoke slowly, as though trying to come to terms with something she already knew but had refused to recognize. ‘Simon has these mad ideas about race, I grant you, but he would never do anything to damage this country. He is patriotic above everything. That’s why he likes to fund these exploring expeditions . . . to see the Union Jack raised at the North Pole or wherever.’

  ‘I don’t doubt his patriotism,’ Edward said gently, ‘but I fear he is being manipulated.’

  ‘By Dominic?’

  ‘By him, and through him, by Himmler. Montillo thinks of himself as a scientist. His interest in eugenics is not some idle whim but an obsession. I have been reading some of his research papers. He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. He helps people. Look at what he’s doing for Maggie. She’s on her way to the Clinic now.’

  ‘He’s a fine surgeon and he has done some good work but, to be blunt, he makes my blood run cold. He believes in killing the disabled and what he calls the racially impure in order to foster “racial purity”. You know Simon has agreed to pay for Isolde’s wedding?’

  ‘Of course! He discussed it with me. I thought it was very generous. Roddy doesn’t have a sou, you know.’

  ‘And in exchange,’ Edward went on remorselessly, ‘Isolde has said he can have her baby when he’s six – if it’s a boy – and bring the child up in a special boarding school in Germany. It’s a new idea he has – or rather an old one. The ancient Spartans bred a special warrior class which was raised without parental contact in an all-male community.’

  ‘Like an English public school,’ Virginia said, brightening.

  ‘Much more extreme than that. Himmler has already started special “schools” like this. After the age of eight they never see their parents again. They join the SS which becomes the only family they recognize. He wants to breed supermen – Teutonic knights whose sole loyalty is to the Führer and to him as the Führer’s deputy.’

  ‘But they can’t expect an English boy . . .’

  ‘It would be a tremendous coup for Himmler to have an English Aryan among the elect.’

  ‘But Isolde . . . Roddy . . . they would never agree . . .’

  ‘They didn’t understand what was being asked of them until I explained the implications
of the agreement,’ Edward said. ‘Like you, they thought their son – if they have a son – would just be going to a German military school. They were happy to agree to that.’

  ‘But that’s quite mad!’

  ‘Of course it is, Ginny,’ he said in exasperation, ‘but don’t you understand? The Nazis are mad – or Himmler certainly is.’

  ‘If what you say is true, you must stop Simon getting involved. He’s not bad, you know. Just . . . foolish . . . a dreamer.’

  ‘I understand, Ginny,’ he said more gently. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘What about Isolde and Roddy?’

  ‘They are going back to London, Ginny. It’s for the best. I am giving them a lift.’

  ‘We meant well,’ Ginny said pathetically, as Edward walked towards the Lagonda.

  13

  Harry Bragg was in a state of high excitement. ‘It’s brand new – a Lockheed Electra modified specially for the guv’nor. I’m only just getting the hang of her but she’s a real goer.’

  Bragg was Lord Weaver’s personal pilot and he got sick of idle days and sometimes weeks, waiting for his employer to choose him over his chauffeur and Rolls-Royce to ferry him about the country. This trip to the South of France was more like it. The previous day he had tightened every nut and oiled every part that moved and now – as dawn broke – he greeted his passengers with a whoop of delight as they strode across the grass towards him. He shook Edward’s hand warmly and tried to shake Verity’s but she kissed him instead. He blushed happily. Since his disfigurement in the war he had been shy of girls and always expected them to avert their eyes when they saw him. He rather hoped Edward was the man to liven things up. Edward had wanted to pilot himself but Weaver had insisted that he would only lend his aeroplane if Bragg was at the controls.

  ‘My dear boy,’ he had said, ‘you have hardly flown since you were in Africa and these new planes – so Bragg tells me – are much more sophisticated than the kites you flew held together with glue, string and prayer.’