Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  Why not? It would be rather fun to join. He gave his name and address, paid sixpence, considered Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling but borrowed a copy of Liam O’Flaherty’s The Informer. Happy to have got the letter off, he went to queue for a bus. He would enjoy coming back to Whitechapel—with Dinah, he meant.

  On his way, he caught sight of ratcatcher outside a pub; he was talking to the woman who’d had the nib replaced. The children weren’t with her. Put to bed, perhaps, with their runny colds. He hoped the nib passed muster; ratcatcher looked a nasty piece of work.

  ****

  Whitechapel had been a distraction, and how welcome. Alone, in the flat, he returned to Frances and her revelation. Poor Ella, keeping it to herself. He’d known something was up. But in her pain she had spoken truly. If he looked back, he could identify – in family, friends, friends of friends – those unexpected hesitations, unexplained exclusions, seeming slights or just absence of ease. Or conversely, people – his father’s friends, school friends’ parents, housemasters and tutors – being more than usually decent. That all fitted. Tthough in the shock, couldn’t he be imagining some, most of it? But not the “No fear. You’re not on the list”. Of course he wasn’t on the bloody list … How could he be? He felt rage surge up from deep within him. He must watch himself. “Je suis la plaie et le couteau …” “I am the wound and the knife” … No, please no self-destruction.

  How well Ella had understood him. The flâneur. He wished he had her insights.

  ****

  His rage trickled away. He would have it out with Father and Mother. But he couldn’t imagine it would make any difference to Dinah. Actually, paradoxically, wasn’t he set free, free to row against the tide? He poured a glass of wine to go with the sandwiches and cheese Madame had left for him; he must get down to what he would say on the professor’s behalf tomorrow.

  Before he went to bed, he went to put Dinah’s postcards with the tribunal papers. Taking the cards, Populaire and The Informer out of the shopman’s paper bag, he found a ten-shilling note. He put it in The Informer, for when he took the book back. With Dinah.

  ****

  The professor’s hearing was in Victoria, in the council chamber of an august professional body. The general style, Peter mused, was 19th-century-mediaeval-Jacobean—linen-fold panelling, tiered rows of heavily carved oak benches in a semi-circle before the presidential dais, where three ornately carved oak chairs waited behind a grand, ornately carved oak table. Plain deal tables had been placed before the front row of benches. One, the Treasury solicitor’s, had buff folders piled on it. From the walls, past presidents looked severely down on the proceedings.

  Dinah had still not appeared when her grandfather’s hearing was announced. Peter went to the Treasury solicitor’s counsel to ask if a delay was possible, until she arrived. ‘’Fraid not. Frankly, her being here won’t make a scrap of difference. Except to her, I suppose.’

  Apart from them, the only people in the room were two men in trenchcoats sitting at the back. A policeman brought in the professor and took him to a chair in front of the dais. He saw Peter and bowed to him before sitting down.

  He looked, Peter thought, more than ever like an inquisitive bird. Detention had sharpened his features and taken some of the colour from his cheeks. He was wearing a dark jacket with a white shirt and black tie. His grey trousers hung loose on him. A middle-aged woman came in and sat next to him, introducing herself in German as the appointed interpreter, should he need one. Just as the tribunal was announced, a man in a British warm overcoat came into the room and took up a position leaning against the wall near the exit.

  The chairman was a county court judge, shrewd-looking, if world-weary. Sitting with him were two assessors, a retired naval captain and a retired ambassador. The judge was warm and courteous, making sure that the professor could follow what was being said, taking pains to explain the law and powers of the tribunal, their exceptional nature because of the national emergency and the necessity to safeguard the country. However, he emphasised, no man should be detained for a moment longer than the evidence reasonably demanded and the tribunal existed to weigh that evidence against right to liberty of the subject or guest in the country.

  The Treasury table opened the top buff folder and gave the briefest of introductions to the case, noting that the tribunal had the relevant papers, much of the information in which could not unfortunately be made public.

  The judge nodded gravely. ‘Clearly, Professor Altschuler, you are an enemy alien, and, as I understand it, such by your own choice. Tell us in your own words why you think you should not reasonably be detained as posing a risk to the safety of this country at war. Please take your time.’

  Dinah’s grandfather rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and addressed the tribunal as if they were a lecture room of particularly frustrating students. He was an old man nearing the end of a life devoted to German scholarship in one of the great universities of Europe. The barbarians had broken through the walls and into its libraries and halls. He was fortunate to have been able to find academic sanctuary in England. His political interests lay far behind him. All he wanted was to complete his work on Novalis and establish him on the peak of Olympus where he belonged in public view.

  The judge spoke gently. ‘But you have been very active in politics, conspiratorial politics, have you not, on behalf of the international communist movement and the Soviet Union, now in close alliance with Germany?’

  ‘Of course. Long ago. I will be frank. Today, if I were younger, I would work with remorseless energy and will for the union of workers by hand and brain, marching relentlessly onwards for the overthrow of monopoly capitalism and the victory of socialism. But today I am an old man. That is for the younger generation of activists. My only aim now is to finish my work on Novalis.’

  The judge sat back and looked at his assessors. They shook their heads. He looked at the Treasury table. The advocate shook his head but said he understood a friend of Professor Dr Altschuler was available to speak for him.

  The judge offered some guidance: the tribunal were not looking for advocacy from Professor Dr Altschuler’s friend. Necessarily he could not be in full possession of the facts. What would assist their deliberations was the personal view, character, probity, interests and so on. A man in a well-cut Donegal tweed suit had joined the observer in the British warm.

  Strange, still no Dinah as he rose to his feet. Perhaps she was afraid of drawing attention to herself. If the judge and his assessors knew the professor’s friend was a bastard, illegitimate, wrong side of the blanket, would that make a difference? Ass.

  He introduced himself. While he was a friend and, indeed, an admirer of Professor Altschuler, he was principally a friend of his granddaughter, Dinah, by nationality Roumanian. She looked after her grandfather and was devoted to him. As well, she had a responsible job at a well-known department store and no doubt that was why she was absent from the hearing. Both she and her grandfather were both deeply grateful for the refuge Britain had afforded him. He, Peter, could not believe she would contemplate her grandfather’s doing anything to put his refuge at risk of conquest by his very persecutors, those who had set out to destroy the last fruits of his long and brilliant academic career. The thought was always with her, haunting her, that her grandfather might have been among those helpless Viennese Jews forced by Nazi Brownshirts to scrub pavements with toothbrushes or parade naked through the streets. Having enjoyed his hospitality, he knew that the professor was totally absorbed in his work on Novalis, which would be his major contribution, sadly probably his final contribution, to scholarship. He was a gentleman, a scholar, a man of deep cultivation and profound learning. In the University of Vienna, he had been greatly loved by his students and respected by his colleagues. His admirers had risked their careers to enable him, a Jew, to escape the Nazis. Yes, as a young man, he had been deeply rooted in the European communist movement. He, Peter Hill, thought that any current political invo
lvement was simply beyond him, apart from being a distraction from his real work. Anyone who knew the professor would hope he could be allowed to return to his sanctuary here and continue and complete his study of Novalis, a significant contribution to the European culture we were fighting to defend.

  The judge thanked him and said his plea would be a great help in their deliberations. ‘Professor Altschuler, we are going to retire and consider your case. Is there anything more you would like to tell us?’

  ‘I would only say that Mr Hill’s friendship has meant much to my granddaughter and to me. He—’

  ‘Thank you. I think we have all we need.’ The judge gathered his papers and led the way out. The policeman took the professor out of a side door. The interpreter followed.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll be long.’ One of the trench-coated men had come alongside him.

  ‘Do you think he’s a chance?’

  ‘You never know.’ Trench-coat looked round for a moment. ‘Where’s your girlfriend got to? Fiancée, is it?’

  ‘She said she’d meet me here.’

  ‘Worrying.’

  ‘I hope she hasn’t had an accident in the blackout.’

  ‘She didn’t turn up for work this morning. I can tell you that.’

  The tribunal’s return was announced. The professor was brought in. The judge and his assessors filed onto the dais.

  The judge kept it short. The continuing detention of an elderly man, a Jewish refugee from Austria, a scholar with a distinguished academic record, had been the subject of anxious consideration in which the clear and persuasive statement by his friend Mr Hill had been of great assistance. Nonetheless, information placed before them that could not be disclosed in public had made release impossible. The case should be kept under review and it was to be hoped that the period of detention would be limited and that the professor would have facilities to continue his scholarly work. Had Professor Altschuler understood fully? His detention would be continued.

  Dinah’s grandfather rose and bowed to the tribunal. He bowed to Peter and for a long moment looked him in the eye. Then, without waiting for the judge to retire, he walked towards the door.

  Peter stood trying to decipher the look from the professor’s dark eyes. A message had been there, but what? He turned to the trench-coated man who knew about Dinah, but he’d gone.

  ****

  What he’d said about Dinah had been right. At Selfridge’s, Peter was told that she hadn’t been heard from since she left at the usual time on Friday evening. If he saw her, could he ask her urgently to be in touch?

  He went directly to her house. The front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and called her name. The house was silent, the smell of damp heavy. He called again.

  ‘No use calling, dear. There’s none at home and it’s all cleared out.’ A young woman in headscarf, curlers and apron was in the next doorway. ‘A van come this mornin’ and took boxes away.’

  ‘A removal van?’

  ‘Didn’t have no name on the side. Plain green van and two men, in brown coats.’

  She was right. The hall was empty of books. The front room was bare: notebooks, notes, books, all gone. All that work on Novalis, vanished. He noticed that the wireless, too, had gone. So had the pictures and photographs. In the back room, where they had eaten together and he had held her with such passion, the stove was cold. Everything had been taken out of the dresser and corner cupboard and stacked on the oilcloth-covered table and on the floor. The same in the kitchen and outhouse. The geyser was out and the door of the little fridge open, the shelves bare.

  Upstairs, in what must have been her room, the wardrobe door was open, two dresses hanging there, Selfridge’s. A trace of that rich fragrance clung to them. A bath towel was thrown down on the unmade bed—or, he looked again, the sheets and blankets had been pulled back and the mattress must have been lifted. The dressing table top was clear of toiletries, except for an empty bottle of Lily of the Valley toilet water, the drawers pulled out and empty.

  In the other bedroom, the scene was similar. The wardrobe had the professor’s plum smoking jacket and embroidered slippers. He took them: perhaps he could get them to him in his detention centre. The bathroom? Emptied but for a hand towel and a piece of carbolic soap in the basin. Again, the geyser over the iron bath was out, the water turned off.

  Dinah had gone, taking her things. Someone had searched the house and cleared it.

  On his way out, he took a last glance into the back room. Among the crockery something richly coloured caught his eye, a box that had held a tiny bottle of perfume. Lanvin, Arpège. He inhaled the trace of opulent scent and felt a lump in his throat. Perhaps she had gone to the flat for refuge. He clutched at the hope.

  ‘You see what I meant, dear?’ The woman was on her knees scrubbing the doorstep, a bucket of hot water at her side steaming in the cold.

  ‘Did the men in brown coats say who they were?’

  ‘Told me to go indoors and mind me own business, didn’t they?’ She sniffed. ‘But they weren’t no broker’s men.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Funny sort of police.’

  ‘And the young lady who lived here? Have you seen or heard her?’

  ‘No, dear. Not since you and her come back the other night.’

  ****

  At the flat, Madame shook her head: no sign of Dinah, no message. He rang Selfridge’s: no sign of her, no message. He felt sick. Had she too been sent to some camp? If so, it was pointless going to the police. He forced himself to think calmly. He’d been intending to call on Veronica. He would go now and ask her to contact Anselm.

  ****

  ‘My dear boy, you look absolutely distraught, exhausted and distraught.’ Lady Veronica put down her embroidery frame and jumped up to take his hands. ‘Ella? Your parents?’

  ‘No. No. Dinah has disappeared and I would really be most grateful if you would ring Anselm and ask him if he could please find out if she’s been detained like her grandfather.’

  ‘Oh dear. You are upset. Poor lamb. Please sit down.’ She went across the passage to her study. He heard her say, ‘Peter’s here. Yes. Never seen—’, then she shut the door.

  A few minutes later she returned. ‘He’ll do his best. And there’s some tea and anchovy toast on the way. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten. I hope you don’t mind margarine.’ She looked at him gravely. Tall, slender, the younger daughter of an earl who had served as ambassador and colonial pro-consul, her bearing prompted Peter’s father to say that no one could properly comprehend the phrase “patrician authority” who had not met Lady Veronica. She and Anselm were childless. ‘Any news of dear Ella?’

  ‘Waiting for her boat in Marseille was the last news. She seemed to be shepherding the wives and secretaries round the port.’

  ‘I gave her a gun. To be on the safe side. A pocket revolver to tuck into her girdle.’

  The tea and toast arrived. He realised that he was ravenous.

  Lady Veronica watched him fall on the toast, then asked, ‘Tell me, did you and Ella talk before she left?’

  ‘Indeed. But she couldn’t bring herself to mention what you have in mind. She did tell Frances, and Frances has just told me, that you’d broken the news of our parentage to Ella. And—’

  ‘And that’s why she’s on her way to Egypt. I am truly sorry to have administered such a shock, but I really felt it couldn’t wait any longer.’

  ‘Because you heard I was to marry.’

  ‘Anselm and I are very, very fond of you both, as if you were our own.’

  ‘In fact, Dinah and I, we had agreed to wait, you know. Not to marry till we were both ready.’

  ‘I felt you and Ella had to understand. Your parental situation had already caused problems for Ella. These things are so much harder for a young woman. I long urged your parents to tell you, but it seems they had their difficulties.’ The telephone rang in the study.

  When she came back, she patted his shoulder b
efore sitting down. ‘As far as Anselm can discover, Dinah’s not in detention. The police have no knowledge of her. He had an assistant ring round the hospitals: nothing there either. He’s truly sorry he can’t put your mind at rest, but he’s reported her missing.’

  He sat back. It had been a forlorn hope, wishing detention on her for the sake of knowing where she was.

  ‘Perhaps she’s gone into hiding because of her grandfather. She’ll contact you when she feels it’s safe.’

  ‘That’s possible.’ He got up. ‘I had better get back. Thank you for all your and Anselm’s help.’

  ‘I’d ask you to sit with me for a while, but my Stepney Families’ Settlement Committee ladies are coming and we always have a full agenda these days.’

  ‘You and Anselm have been very understanding and very kind.’

  She took both his hands in hers. ‘We want to give every support we can to you and to Ella.’

  ‘Is there more?’

  Unhesitatingly, she replied, ‘Yes, I believe so. Whatever there is, it’s for your dear father and mother to open it up to you both.’

  ****

  Next morning, the post – a forlorn hope, he knew – brought nothing from Dinah. He went back to the house, futile though he felt it. He had to do something. Without calling her name, he walked straight in. Everything was as the day before, only the chill and dank smell were stronger.

  ‘None’s been.’ The woman in the next house was on her doorstep with her scrubbing brush and a bucket steaming in the raw air. He offered her his card. ‘Would you let me know if either of them comes back?’

  ‘I’ll do it for you, as you was her friend. Not that other as asked me.’ She delved in her apron pocket and showed him a telephone number on a sheet torn from a pad. A Whitehall number.

  He gave her a fiver. ‘In case you have any expenses.’

  ****

  A visit to chambers was overdue. As he went in, he couldn’t help wondering who there knew or had heard gossip about his birth. The head, the clerk, his original pupil master? Why should it make much difference? A lawyer’s a lawyer, knowledgeable, objective, able, or not. Some clients might baulk at bringing their wives and families to him. Presumably the bench would be out of the question.