Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “This tastes good.” Donovan raised the mug slightly. “I ran out of fresh milk yesterday, been using powdered.”

  Anne thought he sounded like a U-boat captain again. “You’re running low on supplies?”

  “Some fresh things. I carry enough stores on board to withstand a siege.”

  “Your fortifications here are a big improvement. The place feels more secure now.”

  Donovan made a non-committal murmur. “We stealth narrowboat commanders have our uses. They might give early warning of an intruder, slow them down a bit. But they could hinder us if we have to get out in a hurry.”

  Us, Anne thought, get out in a hurry. There was an implication that she had not previously taken on board. He was assuming that they were sharing guard duty for the night. It was strange to hear him speak like that and even stranger that the idea did not cause her fear or alarm.

  “You didn’t have time to get any milk because you had to go to London?”

  “Yes. And when I got back, I had to press on to get here.”

  “Didn’t your aunt want you to stay with her? Oh, sorry. It’s not my business. Forget I said that.”

  “She has a house full, family over from Germany. Everything’s organised. We’ve known this was coming for months.”

  “Are all your family German? Presumably the Smiths must be English. Oh, there I go again. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “Actually, Anne, perhaps you haven’t pried enough. Or perhaps I haven’t told you enough about my background. We always seem to get interrupted.”

  “Well, you do seem to have quite a lot of it … background … more than most people. You seem to come from an interesting family, not exactly ordinary.”

  Without preamble he began telling his story.

  “My grandmother was German, a Prussian from Berlin, minor nobility. She was a famous beauty in her day, studied music at the Conservatoire, gave recitals, began a doctorate in Asian musicology. That’s when she met my grandfather. He was a lecturer at the university … anthropology and early religions.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just after the first world war. Most people think my grandfather was German. He had a German-sounding name –¬ Klaus Herrmann – but in fact he was Dutch. That’s why he wasn’t conscripted into the German army in 1914. They married, my grandmother gave up her studies, and they started a family. He was young and brilliant; she was talented and beautiful. Over time they had three lovely daughters, blonde, blue-eyed, all of them, a perfect family. You can probably guess what’s coming.”

  “I’d rather not try.”

  “The National Socialist German Workers’ Party came along. That’s its official name in translation. You and the rest of the world know it as the Nazi Party.”

  “What did your grandparents have to do with it?”

  “Nothing whatever! They were respectable people, intellectuals, internationalists. Many of their circle were Jewish. Many were artists, musicians, writers, philosophers, academics. The Nazis were like gangsters, brutal and crude. It’s the greatest tragedy in European history that they were able to seize power in one of the most civilised nations on earth.”

  “Couldn’t they stand up to the Nazis? Lots of countries and people did.”

  “Some did in Germany, too. And they got liquidated for trying. Did you ever hear of the Scholls?”

  Anne was puzzled by the apparent change of subject. “Wooden sandals? My mum’s got a pair, very noisy.”

  Donovan suppressed a smile. “Not the sandals. That’s Dr Scholl. The ones I meant were a brother and sister, Hans and Sophie Scholl, students. They had a clandestine organisation with some friends, very idealistic. It’s symbol was a white rose. They tried to mount a resistance movement.”

  “I don’t think I want to know what happened to them, Donovan. I think I’ve guessed.”

  “You guessed right … every one of them … guillotined.”

  Anne shuddered. “The white rose,” she repeated.

  “Yes. Die weiße Rose …” He said it in German and fell silent.

  Anne cleared her throat. “So what happened to your family?”

  “In about 1934, after the Nazis had taken over, they offered big research grants to academics in certain disciplines. My grandfather was then a professor and of great interest to them. He specialised in the migrations of ancient peoples across Asia and Europe. Himmler offered him a huge budget for his research team. At first grandpa was delighted. Then he had a meeting with Himmler at a reception and found out about the conditions: he was to prove the superiority of the Aryan race.”

  “Just like that?”

  “More or less.”

  “Part of Hitler’s Big Lie.”

  “Exactly.” Donovan sounded impressed.

  “But it’s hard to combat that kind of technique,” Anne said.

  Donovan said simply, “You have to fight the enemy with the truth. It’s all you can do. Otherwise you’re as bad as them.”

  “What did grandpa do?”

  “He told Himmler he could not prejudge what his research would uncover.”

  “Bad move,” Anne groaned.

  “Yeah, lead balloon! A week later one of his colleagues came to see him late at night, told him he was in great danger and had to get away at once, before it was too late. My grandparents thought this was all an exaggeration. Next day they learned that that colleague had been killed on his way home, hit by a car that failed to stop.”

  “Murdered?” Anne’s eyes did the saucers thing.

  “They didn’t wait for the coroner’s report. That afternoon they cleared their bank account and loaded everything they had into the car, including all grandpa’s files from his study. As soon as it grew dark they set off for the coast, caught a ferry to Sweden and disappeared.”

  “And from Sweden they came to Britain?”

  “No. They never came to Britain.”

  Anne wondered how far she had a right to continue the questioning. “Would you like some more tea?”

  “I’d like a shower. Is there one in the school?”

  Anne nodded. “In the staff toilets, just here at the end of the corridor. Are you running out of water on the boat?”

  “Just being careful. I didn’t know when I’d get another chance to fill the tank. I don’t suppose you have a spare towel, Anne?”

  “You’re welcome to use mine. I showered this morning.” She paused. “But what about your story?”

  “You’re not bored by the family history?”

  “It’s more interesting than mine.”

  “Okay. Sweden. My grandparents had to keep a low profile. If they surfaced, Nazi agents could slaughter them. They had to keep away from universities where grandpa would be known. So they took off for the centre of the country, Sommarland. Up there they rented a small farm. It was the last thing anyone would expect them to do. They worked like slaves for ten years, eking out a bare living. In the long winters grandpa worked on his research as best he could, using the notes he’d brought from Berlin.”

  “How did they cope with the farming?”

  “Badly. It practically ruined grandpa’s health. After the war he got a job as a representative for an academic publisher. One day in Holland, he called in on a publisher who had handled his previous works. They almost threw him out on the street, said Herrmann had disappeared in a concentration camp years ago and was dead. He explained what had happened to the family, produced his research and eventually they believed him. There and then they gave him an advance for the new book.”

  “So he didn’t have to go back to farming or being a rep? What did he do?”

  “The publisher gave him the confidence to return to Germany and try to get back into the academic world. He managed to get a chair at one of the small universities.”

  “So his story had a happy ending.”

  “That wasn’t the ending. And that’s not the most amazing thing. He was actually able to get back his library. The Nazis were nothing
if not thorough. They’d catalogued all his books – regarding them as potentially valuable for propaganda – and moved them to a store when war broke out. They later became a collection in a university library, and the authorities were delighted to return them to their owner.”

  “Brilliant. So that was a happy ending.”

  “No. Anne, contact with an evil as big as the Nazis doesn’t produce happy endings. Everyone was corrupted by them. Everything they touched was contaminated.”

  “But grandpa – I mean, your grandfather – got his books back and a university job.”

  “Every one of his books was stamped inside with the eagle and swastika, a nice memento.”

  Anne felt her cheeks redden at the memory of seeing the stamp in a book on Donovan’s boat and she drank from her mug of tea.

  “End of story?” she asked.

  “Not quite. Fate saved the strangest till the end. One day grandpa went off to the university in the morning and did not come home. Grandma had no word of him … for over two years. She naturally assumed that a Nazi had finally got him when he least expected it.”

  “When was that?”

  “1948.”

  “How awful.”

  “Only it wasn’t the Nazis. They’d either been killed off or faded from the scene. No, it was the Americans.”

  “What?”

  “They occupied that part of Germany at the time. They were tipped off by a communist sympathiser that Klaus Herrmann had worked for Himmler and gone into hiding to avoid capture. They arrested him and held him without trial, without letting him contact my grandmother. She was left struggling to keep the home together – my mother was at school, her sisters at university – while he languished in a detention centre. When the Americans realised they’d been duped, they released grandpa and later on paid him compensation, quite generous. One afternoon he just walked down the path and found my grandmother working in the vegetable garden. Can you imagine that?”

  “Blimey!”

  “Absolutely. Years later my mother came to study in London, met my father, married, and here I am. They both died, as you know, ten years ago. One of her sisters and her husband brought me up. That was my uncle Reinhardt who died yesterday.”

  “What about your grandparents?”

  “They both lived to a ripe old age, died about twenty years ago.”

  Anne shook her head. “So you’re not a Nazi,” she muttered.

  “Me?” He looked astonished. “Is that what you thought?”

  “I didn’t know … I …”

  “Anne, I am the last person in the world who could ever be a Nazi. I hate them. I hate them to death!”

  Anne was startled by the vehemence in his voice. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  “Sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

  “It’s all right. I said I was feeling jumpy. Not your fault.”

  “It is my fault. It’s my fault I feel so strongly about them.” He stood up quickly. “I think it’s time I took that shower.”

  Anne was glad to have something practical to do. She bent down, rummaged in her bag and dug out the towel.

  “I’ve got some shampoo, too. You can use that like a shower gel.”

  She was rising from the bag when the noise froze her like a statue. Donovan shot out of the door like a rocket. The clattering of one of the warning buckets was still echoing down the corridor. Anne heard footsteps outside.

  “There!” she called to him hoarsely, pointing towards the playground.

  Donovan accelerated away, noiselessly on rubber soles. Anne seized the heavy Maglite torch and raced after him, her heart pounding. She jumped in the air to gain a view out of the nearest window and glimpsed two dark figures running across the playground. She reached the door as Donovan was clearing the chairs and bucket.

  “What are you going to do?” she whispered.

  “Find out who our visitor was.”

  “Visitors,” said Anne. “Plural. I saw two people running off. Your alarm system must’ve surprised them. We need to think about what’s the best thing to do.”

  “No time to think. They might’ve left a present for us on the doorstep. Stand back, Anne.”

  He grabbed the lock and twisted the handle, pressing against the door to open it as quietly as possible. Anne flattened herself against the wall, trying not to think of fire bombs, gripping the steel torch like a club. Donovan yanked the door open and leapt out. Against her better judgment, Anne followed. The sense of anti-climax rolled over her like a wave.

  They stood, scanning the open space, straining their eyes to see into dark corners at the edge of their vision. There was no mysterious package lying in the doorway, no incendiary device, no splash of paint, nothing.

  “Keep watch for a minute, Anne.”

  Donovan knelt down and switched on his torch. Methodically he checked in the corners of the recessed doorway, broadening his search in an arc, the fingers of his free hand probing the tarmac.

  “Ah,” he murmured.

  “What?” Anne’s voice was a croak. She did not look down.

  Donovan stood up holding a piece of crumpled paper. Anne glanced at it and shook her head. A chewing gum wrapper.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go back inside. I want to check all the doors.”

  They reassembled the intruder alarm of chairs and mop-bucket and walked cautiously from door to door, keeping in the shadows down the side of the corridors. Nothing had been disturbed, no windows broken. The incident had not been a diversionary tactic.

  In the common room they put down their torches and Donovan peered closely at the paper, holding it under the light. Anne watched him begin to unpeel it with his fingernails. It was tightly folded, a grimy pellet squeezed into a plug the size and shape of a cigarette’s filter tip. Donovan teased it apart, and they found themselves looking at a five pound note.

  “What do you think –” Anne began.

  “I know what this is. At least I have a shrewd idea.” He passed it to Anne. “Drug money. Some poor sod has been waiting for his fix. I bet he screwed that up and held it in his clammy little hand, dying to get hold of his crack or whatever it was.”

  “You know about the drug scene?”

  “I’m not blind to what goes on. But I don’t have anything to do with it, if you’re starting to have doubts about me again. I’ve not made a career move from Nazi Gauleiter to drug dealer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, of course not.” Anne was indignant.

  “I think they used the doorway as a meeting place. One of them probably bumped against the door and rocked the chairs so the bucket dropped. Must’ve given them a hell of a fright.”

  “What should we do with this?” Anne held up the fiver.

  Donovan shrugged. “Donate it to the summer scheme fighting fund? I’m going to wash my hands after handling that. God knows where it’s been.” He made a face.

  Anne looked at the note and grimaced. “Right. Good idea. I’ll pop along to the loo.”

  “Do you want your towel, Anne?”

  “No. It’s all right. There are paper ones in there.”

  “I’ll wait till you get back before I take that shower.”

  “No. You go ahead. I’ll use the girls’ toilets. I know where they are.” She grinned. “I’ve already claimed squatters’ rights.”

  Donovan thought about it, and a smile spread across his face.

  *

  Anne washed and dried herself as thoroughly as she could and went back to the common room. She had brought only the most basic nightwear and felt slightly self-conscious walking down the darkened corridor wearing only a T-shirt that stopped several inches above the knee. A crack of light was visible under the door where Donovan was taking his shower. Donovan, no longer a cause of apprehension … or was he?

  In the common room she slipped under the cover on the airbed. It was almost midnight but she was alert and wide awake. In fact she felt refres
hed and happy, even secure. In Donovan they had gained an ally. She smiled at the thought of a stealth narrowboat. The smile was still lingering when Donovan returned with the towel fastened round his waist.

  “That’s much better. I feel like a new man.”

  “So do I,” said Anne. She grinned. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  They laughed together.

  23

  Marnie was instantly awake. Saturday morning. She reached up and ran her hand along the shelf over the bed till she made contact with the clock. Five to six. Ralph was still sleeping. Her thoughts turned to Anne. She would ring her soon. Needing something to occupy herself, she skipped along to the shower to wash her hair. She sniffed the herbal shampoo and poured a measure into her hand.

  *

  Donovan blinked and peered at the clock. Light was filtering in from the tiny window. Five fifty-eight. He turned over and looked at the head on the pillow beside him, leaning across to put his face close to Anne’s short blonde hair. She stirred and breathed out with a sigh. Her eyes flickered open, and she gradually brought him into focus.

  “What are you doing?” she murmured softly.

  “Smelling your hair, so that I’ll remember.”

  “It’s Chanel-Number-Five-Christian-Dior-Yves-Saint-Laurent.”

  “I guessed as much. They always have it in the girls’ loos at this school.“

  “The girls round here have very high standards.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Anne smiled. “You always have an answer for everything.”

  He kissed her. “That’s what my uncle Reinhardt used to say … Immer eine Antwort.”

  Anne eased herself up onto one elbow. “Why did you say … so that you’ll remember?”

  “Smells are evocative. I always associate certain smells with certain things.”

  “For instance?”

  “In England the smell of summer is roses. In France, it’s melons, ripe Charentais melons.”

  “In Germany?”