He had clung to every excuse as long as he had been able. His clear mind had forced him inexorably to abandon one after the other.
Finally he had found himself the most odious name in Europe; every human being alert for the blood of Gestapo Müller. All his intelligence and force had been called up to save his pride. What did they know; what could they understand, these peasants? Americans, English, Russians – his contempt for them was as great as had been his contempt for Germans, for Jews. He was not going to defend himself, justify himself. And he wasn’t going to be caught, to be ignominiously butchered. God would save Müller.
God had. Ever since he had wondered why.
Instead of death, and possible expiation, peace, he had been allowed to live. He disdained the network of underground sympathizers. Fools and criminals.
He did not dare even to trust his family. God had sent him a slow, mortal disease, as though to say to him, ‘You have still time’. But God had not affected his intelligence.
‘A man will cling to his life,’ I heard myself saying.
‘I agree. Even Müller. During the long periods of interrogation I thought daily that I would be discovered. How many times have I wanted to scream, to say, “Fools, fools, can you not see what is under your nose?” They accepted me as a Jew. For years I stayed here, wondering what was required of me. Then the police came again. Not to demand a reckoning from Müller, but to know whether a crazy old Jew had written obscene letters to respectable Dutch housewives. The irony of it … I lived in daily fear, but I clung still to my life. It is all I have left. It is worth remarkably little. You have come to take it. You are the one who, accidentally, has discovered the secret that all Europe has hunted for.’
I did not care for the idea that I was the instrument chosen by God to bring Gestapo Müller to justice. What justice? Justice, with somebody who has committed crimes like these, does not exist. They put Eichmann in a glass case, and played out a long-drawn, odious, humiliating farce. It did the Jews no good, the world no good. Did it do Eichmann good? It was not my job to decide that. They had to hang him; they had no choice. What battle had gone on in the mind of the President of Israel, before with a sigh he had signed the paper that released the trap-door?
I was furious with the chance – chance? – that had brought me face to face with this man. Surely he was coming to the inescapable conclusion that what was wanted of him was a voluntary surrender to a will that was not his. Free will is the most important thing we have. I refuse to be a predestined agent for the arrest of Müller.
‘Damn you,’ I said. ‘I should take you outside and shoot you, with no more ado than if you were a sheep-killing dog.’
‘That is quite natural,’ he said in Besançon’s voice.
‘Both dramatic and handy,’ I said sourly. I was not happy at my seeming inability to do anything at all.
‘You are a bad policeman,’ thoughtfully, wearily.
‘I have never realized it more completely than now.’
‘We have at least self-knowledge in common. I will help you, by telling you a story.’
‘Go ahead,’ dully.
‘It was decided to provoke a frontier incident that would give pretext for an invasion of Poland. A man called Müller was entrusted with this. He gave the operation the name “Canned Goods” – being a fellow of humour. He arranged for half a dozen condemned criminals to be transported to a selected border post where there was a communications centre of no importance. The criminals were given injections, dressed in German uniforms, and shot while unconscious, to give the impression of a Polish attack.’ He paused, and gave me a smile that belonged to Müller – the Müller that thought of the name ‘Canned Goods’ – rather than to Besançon.
‘I have had no injection, of course. But I am dying as surely as though I had. And I am a condemned criminal.’
I found my hands trembling. Like his. If I had a gun, I thought, I would shoot this man, here, on the spot. Who would ever know?
He reached down slowly, opened the drawer of his table, and put a pistol on the desk between us. I stared at this pistol.
‘I took considerable pains to acquire that. I have often been tempted to use it. But I have had too much pride.’
The tension broke; I felt myself a man again.
‘You Germans. Always a drama.’
‘You are a policeman. It would be easily arranged.’
‘And would it satisfy your conscience for “Canned Goods”? Your life is no good to me. Yes, I thought the trials at Nuremberg a farce. I would have shot them straight away, “while trying to escape” – the classic formula. But I can’t shoot you.’
‘You are going to let me go? To die my lingering little death, reading the Bible every day?’
‘I have to decide.’
‘What do you believe?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Do not ask me what I believe.’
‘I am a better policeman than you are, Mr van der Valk.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘We shall see.’
Fear suddenly passed over the face again, despite the self-control.
‘You are going to arrest me.’
‘That is my duty.’
The hand went suddenly to the pistol, but the degenerated nerves were too unsure. I released the grip, put the catch on, and stuck the thing in my pocket.
‘Put your overcoat on.’
‘You’re going to give me to the Jews.’
‘I’m going to give you to the government of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. No Jews will kidnap you.’
‘I see no difference,’ bitterly. ‘You take refuge under your official identity – I thought you were a man. Your kingdom will do the same. Officially, praiseworthily, they will give me to the Jews. You … bureaucrat. Without the courage either to let me go or shoot me.’
‘Listen to me.’ My voice, I could hear, was not under control. ‘Every instinct I have is to let you go. Moral, ethical, legal, personal – call it what you like; I don’t care. And it would be expedient into the bargain. I won’t do it.’
I watched him bring his features under control.
‘Very well,’ said the old voice, with its calm, quiet tone. ‘I had all the same reasons to surrender myself – and I could not do that, either. You are right to force me.’ It had dignity. For the first time, I felt my old liking, even respect, for the man.
‘I will get my coat.’ He turned to me again. ‘I have courage, you know.’
We walked, the old man using his rubber-tipped stick. We passed the Jewish cemetery. Müller glanced up at the Hebrew characters on the gateposts.
‘You know what it says?’
‘I can’t read Hebrew.’
‘I can,’ softly. ‘One of Müller’s strange accomplishments. It says “Born, mankind is doomed to die. Dead, mankind is destined to live again”.’
We walked on.
‘Grace,’ suddenly. ‘Oliver Cromwell fought his hardest battles for it. A crowning mercy …’
‘I don’t believe,’ I said, ‘that grace has to be fought for. I believe it’s there for the asking.’
We reached the police bureau.
The desk man recognized me this time; he got up. Seeing Besançon, he looked puzzled. What had they arrested Burger for, then?
‘This man is to be given a cell. I want him treated with every consideration. There’s no charge, at present.’
‘But what am I to put on the form, Inspector?’
‘Oh, some stupid bureaucratic phrase. “Provisional detention pending judicial decision” – never mind, I’ll do it. Here, give me the keys.’
The fellow looked bemused, but wasn’t going to question an officer. I opened the steel door. The bureau was a modern one, and the cell was clean and well kept.
‘Say nothing here – you’ll understand. I’ll see about changing this as soon as I possibly can. In the meantime, I’ll see that you get everything you need from your home.’
The old man was trembling, badly, s
hakier than I had ever seen him. But the eyes – the famous darting eyes of legend – were steady. He looked very resolute.
‘Thank you.’
I wheeled abruptly at the door.
‘Forgive me,’ I held out my hand.
‘You are willing to shake hands with Heinrich Müller?’
‘Yes.’
He pulled himself up, and gave me a formal, German bow.
‘I’ll phone your Inspector,’ I said to the desk man, who was fussing about Christian names and Date and Place of Birth. ‘No – I’d better go round to his house.’
‘Safety of the Realm Act?’
‘I’ve no idea myself. If I were you I’d just say and do nothing, till you hear. I’ll make a personal report to the Procureur-Général tomorrow morning. He’ll decide.’
‘But my god, Van der Valk – who is it?’
‘SS Lieutenant-General Heinrich Müller.’
It made a good exit line.
7
‘Inspector van der Valk, Central Recherche, requests an interview with Mr Sailer.’
‘You mean this morning?’
‘It is extremely urgent. I can’t put that strongly enough.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ rather astonished. ‘Will you wait?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Sailer will see you now.’
‘Ah. Van der Valk. Good morning. This is rather unusual. I take it a request of this sort is not made without grave reason?’
‘Very grave, sir. I need your advice, and I need your help.’
‘You have committed an imprudence?’
‘No sir. But I have done something from which I shall never be quite free.’
‘Connected with this affair in Drente?’
‘There are two affairs, sir. The first was simple – I have a report for you here, that I would have sent over by messenger this morning. But the other …’
‘A grave affair?’
‘Yes. And a headline – in every newspaper in the world.’
‘I am at your service. That, among other things, is what I am here for.’
‘At its briefest – I have, while in Drente, discovered, identified and arrested Gestapo Müller. He’s in detention – no charge on the form, and under his assumed name – in the local bureau. I have notified the local inspector – he doesn’t know what to do any more than I did. He agreed to wait until I had made a verbal report.’
Mr Sailer considered, in silence, my rather hysterical words.
‘Nobody, Van der Valk, need envy an incumbent of this chair. Very well. You had better relate me your tale in detail.’
‘… And for these reasons, and the fact that I know I am not altogether fitted for my responsibilities, I would like to offer my resignation. That’s all, sir.’
There was a very long silence. Mr Sailer’s head was upright, but his eyes rested on his hands, which were loosely clasped, upon his blotter. He raised them slowly; they stayed on me. I tried to meet them the way Müller had met mine.
‘Nothing can alter the course of the law,’ very quietly.
‘I can’t argue with you, sir. I certainly can’t query a judicial opinion of yours. But if I’m no longer a policeman, I could say that the law makes no provision for a man like that. As a man – even as a policeman – I can say that no man expiates crimes like that. Any way at all. It’s something needed from the whole human race.’
‘Go on.’
But I had lost my grip on myself.
‘I can’t help it. He’s only a man. Not only because I talked to him, shook hands with him, liked him even. Ach, I’m no good for this job. He even said so himself – a fellow that knows something about policemen.’
‘That’ll do.’ There was another long pause. Mr Sailer was making up his mind.
‘You have earned respect by what you have done. And personally, I admire you.
‘A bad policeman – you will please allow your superiors to judge of that. Mr Müller’s superiors’ – in the voice like desert sand for which Sailer was known – ‘appear to have found him useful, but we would not – nor, I think, would they – recommend him as a textbook model.
‘Your responsibility does not reach as far as a case which, as you pointed out, has not been imagined, for which no provision has been made in the Criminal Code, for which there are no precedents in jurisprudence. Your conscience is not an official concern, nor is it mine. You have behaved with scrupulous exactitude in acting as you have and in making – shall I call it a confession? – to me. I approve your movements, unhesitatingly.
‘This responsibility is now mine. You may have a confidence in exchange for your own: I will endeavour to apply moral principles to my decision in this matter – as you did. The matter is from this moment out of your hands.’
Another pause, shorter.
‘Your resignation is refused. The State of the Netherlands, embodied at this instant in myself, will not accept the loss of a responsible public servant for the motives you have given me.’
Mr Sailer leaned forward slightly. His small healthy eyes impaled me.
‘I will recommend your promotion within a short term. In particular, your transfer to a department where, I think, your qualities will find use. I am thinking of the juvenile branch.
‘Lastly, I have, this morning, received a letter from the burgomaster of Zwinderen. He speaks of you in high terms, and sees fit to inform me that you were of personal service to himself in a situation placing a public official in a difficult position. I have, I think, no more to say. Have you?’
‘No sir.’
‘I have no doubt but that Mr Tak has plenty for you to do … You can leave your written report here.’
There is in Holland a comic strip – the drawings are good, and the text original, witty, sharp in grasp of character; a comic strip with character; that is very rare. It concerns a very stupid, snobbish, pleasant bear whose name is Olivier B. Bommcl. He is a nice fellow, very aristocratic. He lives in a castle called Schloss Bommelstein, where he has a butler who is an excellent cook. And, by sacred tradition, a Bommel adventure must always end with a festive, abundant dinner.
Arlette, who goes rather far, says that Bommel is the only readable literature in Holland; I have often been inclined to agree. I agree with the tradition, too. When I went home, quite as stupid and bewildered as Bommel ever is, Arlette had a very famous country dish: boiled ham with the four purees – apples, potatoes, celery and flageolet beans.
I did not tell her I had wanted to resign. Nor anything about General Müller. What would have been the point? Because I had not slept last night, should she not be allowed to sleep tonight?
It would have been a waste, too, of a good dinner. And my free weekend.
‘We seem to have got quite a hurrah letter from the burgomaster. And there was a hint that I may be promoted after all. There’s a vacancy in the juvenile branch; I’ve been told it’s me – unofficially. Post has rank of chief inspector. Good, hm?’
‘Oh, darling. Where could we go on holiday when you get a rise?’
‘Anyway, not beautiful Drente, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ said Arlette,‘ – looking back, I quite enjoyed myself.’
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Nicolas Freeling, 1964
The moral right of author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
(or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,
optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written
permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication ma
y be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN: 9781448207015
eISBN: 9781448206926
Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for
newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers
Double-Barrel Page 19