by Mick Hare
“Got you, Sir.”
The Coach and Horses was a large rambling inn containing a warren of tiny rooms. Men only; ladies only; skittles; a bar with darts and dominoes being played; a music room with a tinkling piano rattling out songs about Hitler; and a snug; a lounge where the clientele spoke in quieter tones. The rooms were linked by a maze of corridors, themselves filled with uniformed soldiers, Home Guard members, and Air raid wardens. The atmosphere, although just this side of manic, was not in the least threatening. Laughter peeled out, cutting through the thick blue smoke that had filled the whole interior from the ceiling down.
Trubshaw elbowed his way to the bar and ordered his pint of foaming bitter. Pint in hand he withdrew to a relatively peaceful corner of an end room. He took his raincoat off and removed a crumpled newspaper from one of its pockets. As he pretended to read he paid close attention to detective inspector Peter Herbert. He had followed Herbert from the central police station on Charles Street when he had come off duty. In the gathering dusk and the faint but persistent drizzle, Herbert had ignored the bus stops close to the station and headed left, over the steel bridge on Swain Street at the back of the railway station on foot. Trubshaw kept a steady distance behind Herbert, even as he disappeared within a swirling belch of steam from a train passing below the bridge. As the steam cleared, there was Herbert treading wearily up the cobblestone hill towards the inner city suburb of Evington.
When he stopped at the gate to the garden of his small semi-detached house Trubshaw walked on by. Herbert did not notice him. He was engrossed in a rose bush that was beside the gate . From the next corner Trubshaw watched Herbert enter his house and saw lights coming on. He knew he might have quite a wait and that he would become quite conspicuous if he continued to hang around this corner. Net curtains would start to twitch. Fortunately, he saw that half way down the next block there was a bus stop. There is nothing suspicious about a man standing at a bus stop, and from there he would still have a clear view of Herbert’s house.
He waited an hour. Luckily, in that time only one bus came. He saw it from a fair distance and managed to contrive to miss it by disappearing around the nearest corner until it had passed.
Eventually, Herbert re-emerged and walked off towards the Coach and Horses. Trubshaw tailed him long enough to be sure where he was and then hot-footed back to the Herbert domicile to further his enquiries.
For a police officer, who should have had a keen awareness of crime and crime prevention, Herbert’s house was a very easy nut to crack, especially for an experienced burglar such as Trubshaw. As he let himself in through the back door he reflected that the skills he had acquired at the hands of his Secret Service trainers were much more practically useful than anything he had learned at Cambridge.
The smells of cooking lingered. Trubshaw guessed that Herbert had eaten liver and onions for tea. It was a lonely smell; loneliness echoed in the sight of the single plate, knife, fork and cup lying clean and upturned on the draining board.
Trubshaw was not altogether sure why he was burgling the house of a detective inspector of the local constabulary. He knew that he had always been a belt and braces man. He also knew that “research” was always his favourite part of the job. Lily Brett’s house was the one he really needed to search. But he would do that later.
By now he was entering Herbert’s bedroom. Like the other rooms it had a bachelor’s Spartan quality. A single bed, neatly made, stood in one corner. Diagonally opposite there was an old wardrobe. Inside there hung one dark blue suit, quite worn, and four white shirts. There were two built-in cupboards, chest high, filling two alcoves. In the first there was a gas meter and a bottle of whisky. In the other there were socks folded in pairs, underwear, some letters, several packets of photographs and a scrapbook. The scrapbook caused Trubshaw’s eyebrows to rise on his forehead. The first page was a large portrait of Oswald Moseley. The rest of the book recorded incidents in the progress of the British Union of Fascists. There were newspaper and magazine articles and pictures. Occasionally, in the margins, there were annotations in what Trubshaw guessed was Herbert’s precise hand.
September rally, East Hampstead – I am just out of picture to right of pillar box.
Leicester march – you can just see me four rows behind the leader. I am on duty today, getting paid for guarding the Leader
Birmingham – just before the communists attacked us. They certainly got the worst of it.
Trubshaw closed the book and carefully placed it back on its shelf. He was sufficiently satisfied to conclude his search of Herbert’s house. What he had discovered was not conclusive in any way about Herbert. However, it gave Trubshaw two things. One, he now had a good grasp of Herbert’s character; solitary, lonely, slightly obsessive, attracted to extremism. Two, it gave him an excellent lever over Herbert should he need one. A serving police officer with secret membership of the British Union of Fascists had broken his disciplinary code, could be dismissed from the force and would forfeit his pension rights.
Trubshaw finished his pint and folded up his damp newspaper. All the time he had been there Herbert had sat alone. The only person who had spoken to him had been the waitress, who from time to time replenished his whisky glass. Trubshaw put on his overcoat and walked out into the night. He had another burglary to complete before he returned to his hotel.
Lily Brett’s house on Dronfield Street was one of those tiny terraced houses in an endless row of identical houses that Trubshaw had rarely been inside. It was just as easy for him to gain entry as before. The atmosphere, however, was entirely different. Of the two houses, although this one was a lot further down the social scale, it was the one Trubshaw would have preferred to stay in or visit.
He could relax into his search of Lily’s house as he knew she was not going to escape from Leicester Prison and disturb him. His first approach was to look for any of the obvious possessions an enemy agent would be likely to have. He started in the small, dank cellar and systematically made his way into the rooftop attic. He missed nothing. He looked under floorboards; he investigated ceiling spaces. He went from the butter basin in the pantry to the fireplaces in the bedrooms. He moved all free-standing cupboards, peered into the lavatory cistern and shone his torch around the inside of the cooker. When he had finished he was satisfied there was not a space he had not investigated. He had found no wireless transmitter/receiver; no weaponry; no code books; no unlikely messages.
However, there were several items of interest, although he did not consider them incriminating. First of all, and the one that engaged him the most, was again a scrap book filled to bursting. It had a beautifully embossed hard cover and thick extravagant pages that were filled with letters, photographs and newspaper cuttings. As he handled it he had the feeling that he was in possession of something extremely precious. Turning the pages he saw unfolding before him, the lives of Lily and her father.
At first there were the pictures of Herr Brecht and his pretty young bride Renate Hofmann. Easter, 1907, in the tiny church at Pirna in Saxony; with family and friends beside the Elbe, celebrating the wedding breakfast; Herr Martin Brecht in the grounds of Dresden University, where he was studying Classics, standing beside Renate; another outside the university library where Renate worked. Other pages showed the christening of Friedrich, Lily’s older brother and later of Lily herself. Later, the scrapbook would reveal to Trubshaw much more about the Brecht family history.
There were pictures of homes and gardens and holiday outings. Then, unusually, there was a picture of a gravestone. The engraving was clear and it showed two names. Trubshaw decided to steal the scrap book and take it with him for closer inspection.
Back in his room in the Grand Hotel, close to Leicester’s Clock Tower centre, Trubshaw sat at a mahogany desk to make notes.
Martin Brecht, born 1886 in Luckan in the province of Niederlauritz - Small town
Father is local doctor
Moved to Dresden to study Classics at the universi
ty October 1904
Met and married Renate Hoffmann Easter 1907
Renate is from Pirna - Small town on the River Elbe in Saxony
Father is local doctor
Common factors - small town natives in the big city for first time – both children of doctors – similarities in backgrounds may have first attracted Martin and Renate to each other?
Friedrich born August 1908
Martin graduates and accepts post at Munich University as lecturer in Classics.
Lily born in Munich 1914
Martin recruited into army 1916. Distinguished record. Wounded in action. Decorated. Discharged on compassionate grounds January 1918 due to death of wife and son.
Notes suggest Renate and Friedrich killed in accident whilst travelling to Freiburg in Alsace to visit Renate’s dying mother. No information about how Renate’s mother (Lily’s grandmother) had ended up living in Freiburg.
1918 Martin returns to his post in Munich. Brings up his daughter alone. Does not re-marry.
Promoted to professor of Classics, Munich University, 1926
Enters Reichstag, 1928 as Social Democrat
Admitted to Berlin hospital 1931 with ruptured spleen and broken ribs following a vicious assault by SA Brownshirts after he delivered a stinging attack on Hitler and his Nazi party and the deals that he believed the Wiemar authorities were making with them
1933 Hitler comes to power
1934 Martin Brecht and his daughter Lily leave Germany and set up home temporarily in Northern France before being granted asylum in England in 1936.
1937 Martin Brecht dies in Leicester Royal Infirmary – the result of the damage to his spleen which had never fully recovered.
The Clock Tower bell chimed one in the morning and Trubshaw sat back in his chair tossing his pencil onto the pages of his notebook.
“Here’s a woman with every reason to hate the Nazis,” he mused aloud as he undressed.
With a mental note to himself to introduce himself to Herbert, interview Lily and then get seriously drunk with his old mate, John Barberis, he settled his plan for tomorrow before falling into a deep sleep.
Nine
1928
Sean Colquhoun had been a celebrity of sorts back in his student days in Dublin. It was 1928 and he had come up to Trinity from his home town of Cork to study medicine. He was in his twenty-sixth year having been distracted from his career ambitions for sometime by his involvement as a soldier in the Anglo-Irish War. His aim though, had always been to become a General Practitioner and return to Cork. Their own local family doctor, Dr Townley, had hinted very strongly that he would be needing an assistant doctor in his practice in a few years time and eventually, of course, that could lead to a partnership. Dr Townley was no fool. A young man with Coquhoun’s reputation as a patriot and a fine republican would enhance the attraction of their practice immeasurably
Sean took to university life like a duck to water. Although Trinity had opened its doors to Catholics as long ago as 1794, the nature of Irish society under British rule had been such that few Catholics had ever been able to afford the cost of tuition there. Thus when Sean entered those hallowed gates he was not just a new fresher, but a representative of the new independent Catholic Ireland. Being a novelty he attracted attention, and being an attractive personality he soon found himself at the centre of a large circle of friends. He had been a star Hurley player as a junior, when his soldiering had allowed, but in Trinity there was only one prestige sport for an ambitious student to play, and that was rugby.
He was a natural athlete and before Christmas at the end of the first semester he was a regular in the first fifteen. This was unheard of in college rugby club annals and although his age obviously helped him, it was still quite a feat to break into the clique that surrounded the first fifteen. A great future in the game was predicted for him. His sporting prowess made him a very popular man. It also gave him the opportunity to travel to other college cities in Ireland and the other parts of the British Isles to play rugby fixtures. This success and experience of travel gave Sean the confidence to widen his horizons and when a notice appeared on the medical students news board that applications were invited from first year students to transfer their studies to Berlin University he went straight back to his rooms and wrote a letter of application. He was not the only applicant and there were rumours around Trinity Green that Sean Colquhoun would never get the placement. As if Trinity would let its best ever rugby prospect disappear to a non-rugby playing country. Some hopes!
Despite such rumours, by Easter 1929 Sean knew that he was going to be moving to Berlin the following September.
Back home in Cork he received mixed responses to his decision. Brother Peter of the Christian Brothers was delighted. They spent many afternoons together going over Brother Peter’s own experiences there as a young man before the Great War. He had been a regular visitor there ever since and spent several weeks each year at a Catholic convent in Munich. His enthusiasm for German culture and the German people was such that Sean’s desire to go grew and grew. Between them Sean and Brother Peter only spoke German, which was to serve as a refresher course for Sean. Brother Peter gave him a contact name and address for when he had settled in Berlin. It was for one Hugo Strasser, a long time friend of Brother Peter. They had shared rooms together in Berlin in 1910 when Peter was studying for the priesthood and Hugo was a philosophy student.
Sean Colquhoun emerged from the bustling Alexanderplatz railway station into the middle of a packed and noisy Berlin. He stood with his back against the brick façade, dwarfed by the recently constructed majestic vaulted roof of this magnificent terminal building, away from the surging river of humanity and watched in awe.
His blood surged with excitement and his eyes could not feast greedily enough on the vision that lay before him. His nostrils filled with the scents of Germany, in this year of 1929, of coffee and onions and pickle, so sweet, so enticing and so alien to the scents of his homeland. Brother Peter had filled his head with expectations and his heart with longing but nothing could have prepared him for the vista that was now spread out before him. Here he was in the midst of the beautiful, beating heart of a struggling but vibrant Germany and he was staggered to comprehend that it had all been going on without him and for so long.
He was awakened from his reverie by the touch of a hand on his arm. He jumped slightly and turned to look at the stranger.
“Brother Peter describes you well,” said the man in an aristocratic German accent. “Forgive me but you are Sean Colquhoun and I am Hugo Strasser. I am delighted to welcome you to the Fatherland and Berlin, our capital city.”
Sean recovered himself and reached out to take the man’s offered hand. They exchanged a vigorous handshake and then Hugo said, “Come on, the car is here. There are people waiting to meet you.”
Hugo gestured towards an enormous, shiny Mercedes Benz that stood beside the pavement. Sean reached down to pick up his suitcase but Hugo beat him to it and headed off with it towards the vehicle. A driver jumped out of the front seat as they approached and relieved Hugo of the case. The two men climbed inside the car and as soon as the driver had deposited the case they drove away into the traffic.
Strasser, like Brother Peter, was in his mid to late thirties, but he welcomed Sean with all the enthusiasm of a first year student meeting his room-mate for the first time.
“If you are a friend of Peter’s, you are like family to us, Sean. With your blonde hair you have a touch of the Aryan in you, but your ruddy complexion made it easy for me to identify the Irishman on Alexanderplatz.”
Sean watched the avenues and boulevards flick past until they arrived at a large house in the Berlin suburb of Wansee. A boy opened the gates as the car approached and the driver crunched up the gravel to the front door.
By the end of his first evening, Sean had met Hugo’s wife, the stunningly beautiful Magda Strasser and her parents Josef and Anna. They had treated him like one of the family and
Sean could imagine himself recounting his experiences to his own family of the generous and unselfish kindness of these Germans towards a lonely Irish boy adrift in Berlin. He could almost hear his mother’s “Ah, God bless them,” as she heard his tale.
He also met Maximillian Schneider. Max worked at the Friedrichshain clinic and was going to be Sean’s immediate superior at the hospital. Sean liked Max immediately. He was open and funny. His humour was often self-deprecating and he was a good listener too. He seemed genuinely interested in Sean and asked him to describe growing up in Ireland and his experiences at University in Dublin. He asked all about Sean’s family and about his plans for the future. For Sean, at that, time they were purely to do with qualifying as a doctor. With his wife, Johanna, Max helped him to settle into his new life in Berlin. They invited him to their house for meals and social gatherings and they took him along with them to the theatre, cinema and to football matches. Football was Max’s passion.