It was Ravensburg! His father’s lover had married his father’s enemy – the Frenchman with the German name and the same one who’d waited with his father as he died. Eichel clearly had not known of this development. Max was now convinced Lisette had been working for the Brits, masquerading as her father’s lover but really spying on him for the Allies. It all seemed obvious to him, so why hadn’t his father, or Eichel, seen it back in 1943 when everyone was supposedly so suspicious of each other?
There was certainly one person suspicious of Lisette, of course, and that was the Gestapo officer von Schleigel. And he tied her to a man called Bonet. It had been the final piece of the jigsaw to read that she could be contacted at Bonet’s – presumably a farm – in Australia.
He’d cheered aloud, in fact, when he’d been able to link Ravensburg with Bonet – convinced that these names belonged to the same man. And he’d felt an uncomfortable kinship with von Schleigel, understanding the man’s determination; he too must have felt as close as Max did right now to solving a mystery.
So what did he now know? Bonet was a French Resister working clandestinely with a British spy. They fell in love and his father was the stooge. It seemed straightforward enough and yet he couldn’t let it rest. What was so intriguing to the Allies about a German colonel in Paris, who by his own admission was in exile and ‘rotting away behind a desk’? It was fascinating. He simply had to know.
He’d written immediately to Lisette in Australia, hoping enough time had passed that she wouldn’t be offended by his enquiry. He made sure the letter was clearly addressed to her using her maiden name and not Ravens. He wanted to hear from his father’s lover first and foremost. He’d received nothing back. Until now, that was. He’d asked Nic to collect his mail from the post office, where he’d had it held while he visited Switzerland and Germany, and a phone call had revealed that a letter had arrived from Australia at long last.
‘Is there a name on the back?’ he’d asked over the phone, trying to contain his excitement.
‘Yes, an L Ravens.’
L Ravens. His stomach knotted. It was him.
‘No first name?’
‘Yes, but I can’t read it. Wait – hang on, I think it says Lisel or Lisbet.’
‘Lisette, you fool,’ Max murmured. Of course, he was the dimwit; naturally she would now use her married name.
‘Right, well, that insult’s going to cost you dinner soon. I’ll book the tavern, you pick up the tab.’
‘Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll pay for dinner.’
‘You’re too easy,’ Nic had laughed before hanging up.
Max considered his progress. Walter Eichel was now ticked off his list and could offer no more. Lisette had responded; he had a hunch that more information about Ravensburg would come via that Australian connection – he hoped so. That left only von Schleigel. Given that both Eichel and his father spoke in such a scornful way about the man, it seemed von Schleigel had made an impact. Besides, his law studies had repeatedly taught him to leave no stone unturned; sparkling diamonds begin as dull lumps of rock, his tutor had counselled.
What’s more, it was von Schleigel who connected all the players in this piece of theatre. Whether or not the Gestapo officer might reveal new clues about his father, he was convinced that he needed every piece of this jigsaw, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.
It was why the visit to Das Bundesarchiv in Koblenz was important. But what he hadn’t imagined was that the Federal German Archives might reveal far more than he’d anticipated … and not about his father at all. In fact, he was grateful for the nap on the train because he hadn’t been able to sleep easily since his discovery.
Max didn’t know precisely what he’d gone looking for, but it made him feel active while he was killing time waiting for any communication from Australia. He’d hoped to get lucky and find some reference to Kilian and possibly von Schleigel, but what he had learnt was chilling.
He returned to his flat to discover it was freezing, having been closed up for a week. He threw his rucksack in the hallway and immediately put on the kettle and also the small gas fire. An assignment was due in a few days but he couldn’t think about that now. He could see his mail sitting on the low coffee table where Nic had left it for him. Lisette’s letter was on top; Max could feel it calling to him but he wanted to savour it and he needed to warm up, get some food on and dig out his notes from Koblenz.
Max turned on the radio low and began humming along as his living room filled with Ben E. King’s voice urging his beloved to stand by him. He joined in the chorus as he made coffee and dug around for some biscuits, eating two while the kettle finished boiling. He would have to grocery shop in the morning but in the meantime would make do with a week-old piece of hard cheese that was in his refrigerator, the bag of potato crisps in his small pantry and his grandmother’s fruit cake, folded in a tea towel for the trip, which he’d forgotten about but would now enjoy … ‘Whenever you’re in trouble, won’t you …’ he sang as he wandered back into the living room and put his mug and plate of snacks near the fire.
Just the notebook, a pullover and he would be ready. Max found both in his rucksack and returned to the fire. He sipped the coffee and stared at the tissue-thin air letter before him. He reached for it, trying to assure himself that life would go on if she refused to discuss his father and yet realising now that he was holding his breath; he hadn’t factored in just how much hearing from Lisette meant to him.
Max slit open the letter and flattened it out on the coffee table. The handwriting was small and cramped – she surely wouldn’t have written so much if she wasn’t going to talk about Kilian, he told himself. Relief settled around him like a pillow of comfort. He began to read.
The letter was dated five weeks earlier and written in French, no doubt for his ease.
Dear Max,
Your letter came as a shock and I am saddened to learn that Markus had no idea of your existence, but it makes sense because he never once discussed children. Your father also did not discuss your mother in detail – he was far too private for that – so I know little about her. Nevertheless, my sincere condolences for your loss.
However, Markus did mention his regret that he had probably let her down. I got the impression from that casual mention – and this is my interpretation only, Max, based on a rare glimpse into his life before the war – that Markus admired your mother enormously but theirs was a genuine and true friendship rather than perhaps a grand love affair. Again, my interpretation only! I gathered their backgrounds were extremely well matched but once he was thrown into the war everything changed for him and although he’d toyed with the notion of marriage to someone who dovetailed into his life so well and he liked so very much, he didn’t want to think about the future when he couldn’t be sure he’d be alive the following day. Men were returning from the Russian Front with horrific injuries – if they returned at all. I remember him saying that Ilse deserves so much more and especially someone who loves her wholly’.
I don’t know if I’m glad you’ve written or not – your letter obviously reopens a past I’ve deliberately put behind me. Everyone who survived the war is surely doing the same. Anyway, let me be candid – I know it’s what you want from me. I was a British spy, sent to France in 1943. My mission was a honey trap, to ingratiate myself with Colonel Markus Kilian of the Wehrmacht in the hope of learning secrets. He had been selected as someone with a grudge against and a general disgruntlement with the Nazi regime, its ideals and how it went about its business.
Your father was sent to Paris because he had defied an order directly from Hitler to execute – without hesitation – any Russian prisoners who could be identified as commissars. Your father subscribed strongly to the ethics concerning prisoners of war and he encouraged his men to show the same defiance of the commissar order. The Führer showed his anger by pulling your father away from his command to a position that made mockery of his talents as a leader of men and his very fine st
rategic mind for warfare (I was briefed fully on him by London, so I can tell you this with authority).
From London’s perspective in 1943, here was a man ripe for change. As it turned out, your father was more honourable than any could suspect. Let me assure you that everything I learnt about Markus convinced me that he was a supremely loyal German, but he hated the Nazi structure. It was my contention – although I was not able to prove it with hard evidence – that he was involved with a plot to assassinate Hitler. In private he often referred to Hitler as ‘the lunatic’.
I was not present when your father died. But I do know what occurred. Markus took a single bullet wound to the chest, deliberately baiting a young French rebel to fire at him rather than at his enemy – Lukas Ravensburg – a man I loved and ultimately married. This is complicated, Max, but I shall unravel it for you and hope you can understand the situation we were all in as Germany began to retreat and the Allies took the upper hand in France.
My husband, Luc, is also German by birth and so similar to your father it’s uncanny. Had the world been a different place, I suspect they would have been good friends. I know my husband held an abiding respect for Markus but it is not a topic we discuss, for obvious reasons. I find it very painful to talk about him anyway because the truth is that I was incredibly – and some might say dangerously – fond of him. We were very close during the spring and summer of 1944 and I admired him tremendously.
His untimely and certainly unnecessary death has remained an open wound for me and I’ve found it easier simply not to think on him … forgive me.
You asked about Kriminaldirektor von Schleigel. Yes, I remember him. How can I forget him! He arrested Luc and me in Provence and something occurred between them that to this day I have not been privy to but its darkness still haunts Luc, which is why I have not shown your letter to him. Von Schleigel represented everything your father detested about the Nazi regime and a single, brief telephone conversation they shared in 1943 was enough for Markus to despise a man he’d never met. We already had good cause to loathe the man and frankly even the mention of his name so many years on can still make me cringe.
I was told he transferred to the Auschwitz camp in Poland, another reason not to show Luc this letter, for his adoptive Jewish family perished in that camp but he has no details of what occurred – simply a painfully stark letter stating that his sisters had died in Auschwitz. His parents and youngest sister were not even registered but we know they left Drancy prison camp for Poland on the same train as Rachel and Sarah.
And now you’re wondering how a German-born French Resistance fighter lost his family to a Jewish camp? Between us, because I did promise candour, the man born Lukas Ravensburg, who lost both parents in rapid succession after his birth, was smuggled into France just after the Great War and was ultimately adopted by a Jewish family – the Bonets of Saignon.
Luc was a lavender grower – a successful one. He knew he was adopted but had lived with the assumption that he was born to French parents. He only learnt the truth in 1942.
News of the death of the Bonets hit Luc hard – particularly the loss of his sisters, two in the prime of life and one still a child. It has taken years for him to come to terms with their untimely and no doubt cruel end. The guilt has been a dark cloud over us since we left France when Paris was liberated. We lived in Britain, as you know, but France and its memories were still too close.
We have now built a new life for ourselves in Australia and Luc has finally found peace amongst the gorgeous tracts of lavender he has planted here. To see him at peace and happy after years of him feeling tormented by his loss is my great joy. I watch him with our children, Harry, nearly fifteen, and our daughter, Jenny, eleven going on thirty, and he is a contented man. He is teaching Harry about growing lavender and we’re hoping next harvest to distil oil that will go to London for testing. We’re all very excited. It’s taken us many years of hard work to get to this stage and I don’t want to spoil this family’s happiness by returning to the past. I hope you understand, Max, and will not think badly of me for asking that we do not enter into further correspondence.
I hope I’ve answered all of your questions and I especially hope that you feel comforted by what I have shared about your father. I knew him only for a couple of months but in that time found him to be a fine man – an ethical man – with a love for soldiering, an unrivalled concern for his men and for correct war protocols … and you need feel nothing but pride at being his son.
I wish he’d known you. I think his life might have felt complete.
Sincerely,
Lisette
Max swallowed. It was hard to read that this was her first and last communication with him. She was his main connection to his father and clearly someone who not only knew him intimately but loved him, too. She didn’t need to say it – her affection came through despite her carefully worded letter. But he understood her reluctance to start a relationship with her former lover’s son.
There was obviously pain behind this letter and he was now in the unenviable situation of having learnt something that could bring significantly more suffering to the Ravens.
A tattoo suddenly sounded on the door. Nic. Max opened the door and his friend triumphantly held up a bag of food.
‘Welcome home. I figured you’d be starving.’
Max grinned. ‘Tell me you’ve got beer,’ he said.
Nic twisted to proudly show that each of his jacket pockets was stuffed with a steinie of Kronenbourg. ‘Only the best Alsace can offer.’
‘Ah, now you definitely deserve the beautiful Swiss chocolates I’ve brought home for you.’
Nic gave a whoop of pleasure. ‘Let’s eat.’ He bustled in and made himself comfy, wasting no time devouring his hot sandwich, bulging with meat and mustard.
Max opened their Kronenbourgs and didn’t bother with glasses.
‘I see you’ve read the letter from Australia.’ Max nodded while he chewed. ‘So, did she tell you to go to hell?’
‘You can read it,’ he said, pushing the letter forward. ‘But don’t get sauce on it.’
‘I can’t read that writing. Precis it for me.’
Max obliged, summarising the contents of Lisette’s letter; although Nic did know a lot of the background, Max joined the dots for him.
‘I’m trying to decide whether to take it any further,’ Max finished, licking his fingers and reaching for the serviette.
Nic gave him a rueful look. ‘What can you possibly gain by reopening the wounds she’s spoken of?’
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ he answered, sipping on his beer. ‘I admit she’s been frank and certainly addressed all of my questions.’
‘Yes, and no doubt in the good faith that you’d respect her wish to be left alone now.’
Max glanced out into the dark midwinter night. It would be daytime in Australia – midsummer. The lavender would likely be harvested, he thought absently, while somewhere deep inside he resented Lisette for having a moving picture of his father in her mind’s eye.
‘It’s just that she can hear his voice if she wants to; relive his touch, recall his smile. I’ve got nothing but other people’s memories of my father to draw from.’
‘What do you want me to do, start playing a sad violin? I’ve always known my father and hated him for how he hit my mother. Plenty of people have lived with their fathers and barely know or understand them. You might be the lucky one, Max; you can make up your own perfect father in your mind.’
‘You’re too cynical, Nic.’
‘Far from it. I’m just a realist, while you’re a romantic and can afford to be that way because of your family. What are you hoping to achieve? That woman has given you everything she knows and now she’s asked you to leave it alone.’
Max picked up his notebook and waved it absently. ‘I can’t leave it. There’s more,’ he admitted.
‘More what?’
Max sighed. ‘I’ve discovered something and I think it nee
ds to be shared.’ He stared at his scrawled notes.
April 1943. Photograph of Gestapo Kriminaldirektor Horst von Schleigel in the gardens of the villa with Rudolf Hoss, SS Kommandant of Auschwitz and his family. Wife – Hedwig, Max had written, followed by the names of the five children, although only four were present in the photo. He wondered if the fifth, the eldest, had taken the photograph.
Max remembered how he had stared at the photo. Apart from the uniforms it could have been a happy family snap. And yet the mild-looking man in the SS uniform was the world’s most notorious architect of mass murder with, by his own admission, 2.5 million people dying on his orders. Another million or so died because of the conditions in which he personally and ruthlessly forced them to live. Max had read that Hoss had been commended in an SS report the following year for his dedication to his work and refinement of methods; it was Hoss who had pioneered the use of Zyklon B when sulphuric acid had not been efficient enough to kill en masse, and he who had put forward designs to kill in groups of two thousand rather than two hundred. It sickened Max, but then he had the luxury of insight and far more information than perhaps someone like his father.
Maybe people like Hoss and von Schleigel were the reason Kilian had been linked to the assassination plot? It was a comfort and Lisette’s letter had made Max like his father all the more.
He glanced again at his notes.
The villa where the photo had been taken was in the Auschwitz compound and just beyond its walls towered the ever-smoking chimneys of the crematoriums. He hadn’t been able to come to terms with the smiling faces in the photo, particularly the Kommandant’s wife, who looked like any other proud mother. Hedwig Hoss had either been sadistic or dim enough to be oblivious to the pain, suffering, cruelty and carnage going on outside her home.
He’d found a picture of Rudolf Hoss, taken four years later to the month, moments before the Kommandant’s execution on a special gallows erected for the purpose not far from his proud wife’s pretty garden and right outside the gas chambers. Curiously, the grim photo had made Max feel more empty. Justice looked to be served but one man’s life, taken swiftly, against the cruel physical and mental suffering of several million, was not enough.
The French Promise Page 18