‘Are we rooming there?
The driver cut in from the front seat.
‘You’ve got a nice gaff, sir. If I may say so. You and the lady. A hotel we’ve taken over for senior officers, sir, like your good self.’
Sam snorted. ‘A decrepit pub by a big bloody cold lake.’
It was a fair description. We were suddenly driving alongside a vast frozen plain. Mist hung across it. A faded watercolour from a palette of greys.
We drew up outside a small hotel. A sign bearing a snarling grizzly hung over the doorway. Though built of wood, the Bear had come unscathed through the firestorm of bombing that reduced much of the city to ash. Saved by the lake. Its old dark timbers made it look more like a Goering hunting lodge. I was surprised not to see a black and red flag dangling from its pole.
We got out, and an arctic chill engulfed us from the lake. I stared across the dull expanse and felt my life force sucking away.
Our driver grabbed our suitcases from the boot and we followed him into a dark lobby. A tall young officer shot up from an armchair, folded his newspaper and came towards us. He hit the spot in front of me and snapped a salute.
‘Sir, welcome to Hamburg. I’m Lieutenant Collins, sir. I’m your liaison officer while you’re here.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ll know Advocate Miss Samantha Campbell?’
The young officer turned to Sam and managed to salute and blush at the same time.
‘Yes, of course, ma’am. It’s nice to have you back. I’ll get your driver to put your bags away. Can I get you a drink, sir? And ma’am? Before we dine. Unless you’d like to freshen up first?’
‘A drink would freshen us up, Lieutenant. Yes, Sam?’
‘Takes the chill off.’
Collins left us to it. He would meet us in the morning but said that Sam’s lawyer pal was planning to drop by for dinner at seven. We had a couple of hours to kill. The barman splashed liberal doses into our glasses. Mess standard measures were doubles but here the measuring glass had been dispensed with. For safety we added the same amount of water. I found I’d got a thirst and the first couple hardly had time to wet the glass. Sam was barely less restrained. We sat on our bar stools and caught our breath.
‘I could get used to this life . . . Colonel.’ Sam smiled.
‘Stick with me. Rank has its privileges. Though we’d better keep an eye on our mess bill.’
‘Also on our headaches. We’ve got work in the morning.’
TWENTY-THREE
We retired to hang our clothes, freshen up and change for dinner. I was looking forward to confronting Scrymgeour. Thanks to him I’d been shanghaied back into the army and dumped in this arctic bombsite. But I needed to watch myself. I had an instinctive and petty envy for his privileged background: head boy at Fettes College, a double first at Edinburgh and then casually taking silk as though born to it. As no doubt he was. What did he know of tenements and tatties? I was pretty sure he could trace his lineage directly to the bearer of William Wallace’s standard and before that the pastoral staff-holder of St Columba.
Then there was the small matter of being an old ‘pal’ of Sam’s. How pally were they? She’d said he was single. I knew from my studies that his surname was Old English for ‘swordsman’. Hah. I could see the pair of them in Edinburgh in a year or two’s time holding cocktail parties in their six-bedroom townhouse in Charlotte Square while upstairs in the nursery their nanny looked after the next generation of lawyers and standard-bearers.
I tightened my tie, shot my cuffs out and went down. Waiting for me in the hallway was Sam, deep in conversation with a civilian who looked just like I imagined: tall and angular, auburn hair and specs and high winged collar as though he’d had no time to change other than slip on a casual jacket since leaving the courtroom. A bulging briefcase stood between his legs. They turned as I arrived. The man looked bone-weary but still came up with a smile. He stuck out his hand. Long thin fingers with a strong grip. Just the job for carrying a flag.
‘You must be Douglas Brodie. I’m Iain Scrymgeour. Delighted to meet you and glad you’ve come.’ He maintained his hit rate: posh Edinburgh accent with only the faintest undertones of Scotland.
‘Did I have any choice? Pleased to meet you, Iain. Call me Brodie.’
‘Sorry if you felt a bit railroaded. I can assure you this will really help us along. You should get something out of it too.’
‘I already have. I’ve been conscripted.’
He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Yes, well, the War Office moves in mysterious ways. Sorry about the rush, too. It’s always like that round here. Seat-of-the-pants stuff most of the time. Look, I’m starving. Shall we cadge some dinner?’
The dining room continued the theme of hunting décor, this time with the added presence of startled deer heads ranged round the walls. I could imagine the local Waffen SS in here singing the ‘Horst Wessel’ and pounding the tables with their tankards. More whisky helped. And the conversation. I continued to give Iain a hard time. Apart from Sam I didn’t get much opportunity for crossing swords with smart people. Far less actual swordsmen.
‘This is just for show, Iain. Everyone knows your defendants are guilty of something unspeakable. Even in the name of medical science it was inhuman. How do you respond to the accusations that this is victor’s justice?’
‘One could say why the hell not? But we’re sticking to the letter of the Geneva Convention on military trials. It’s fairer than any of them deserves. Christ, you saw it first-hand, Brodie. Surely you agree?’
‘I didn’t see them do it. Isn’t that the test? There’s no doubt the crimes were committed. You’re the prosecutor. Your job is to prove the accused did it.’
‘Spot on, Brodie. We’re making history here. Down the line, we want the next generation to say we did it right.’
‘On which point . . . why the hurry?’
He peered at me over his glasses. They kept slipping off his now shiny nose, unveiling his weary eyes. He’d only been back a few days but already looked like he could sleep for a month. At least he was a worker.
‘Samantha mention that we’re under the gun? Bloody Poles trying to barge in and take over. New communist government trying to throw some muscle around. Also a bit of understandable revenge against the Nazis. Real reason? A bloody cover-up. Not washing dirty linen in public and all that. Some of the Poles and their Soviet paymasters could just as well be in the dock for war crimes as their former Nazi allies. Basically they want us out of here so they can draw a veil over everything.’
‘An iron one presumably. Why don’t we let them?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Devil’s advocate, Brodie? You mean, does it really matter? Wouldn’t it be nice to pack up and go home and let them get on with it?’
‘They don’t deserve your expensive services.’
‘Government rates, sadly. But I take your point. Sam and I have debated this umpteen times. What happened here – I mean in Europe – changed everything and nothing. Parts of the continent have swapped one totalitarian regime for another. If we give in to the Soviets, if we just walk away and cede any ground, then we’ve only won part of the war.’
‘And this trial is important?’
‘It sheds light. Dictators can’t stand democratic sunshine.’
‘Like vampires,’ I suggested.
They both laughed. Nervously, I thought. ‘Exactly.’
It was an argument I instinctively supported, but I wasn’t about to agree. ‘You sound like you’re running for office, Iain.’
He smiled. ‘Mayor of Hamburg?’
Sam kicked me.
I pulled in my horns. ‘How’s the trial itself going?’
Iain leaned forward. ‘We’ve got a momentum going and I reckon we can tie up this first trial in a matter of weeks. Justice done and we can all go and get on with our lives.’
‘First trial?’
‘Gosh, yes. Of many. As we catch them and bring them to court. Th
at’s why the first one’s so important. Sets the standard, the modus operandi and the pace for the subsequent.’
I saw his point. ‘My priority is try to put a stop to the killings in Glasgow. What’s yours?’
‘Nailing the defendants. Your notes are fine records of a difficult job. I assume you wrote in German as you went along and then typed them up afterwards in English?’
It took me back to the fifteen-hour days, every day of the week, dealing with a constant stream of paranoia, invective and claims of innocence. There wasn’t a time when I wasn’t cursing my lack of shorthand, or my rusty ear for the language. It was like attending an intensive, unremitting conversational German course. I heard every accent from the Urals to the Rhine, from Hamburg to Vienna. I heard every excuse and dodge and lie invented. I realised Iain was waiting for my answer.
‘We had teams of secretaries in the room. Brilliant girls. My favourite was called Hillary. She kept verbatim notes in shorthand. I’d go over the notes afterwards with her and dictate a draft. She’d have the transcript ready by the next day. I’d amend it and she’d type a final. We’d get the prisoner back in and have them sign the statement. Top copy in those files, I assume.’
‘But it was your analysis that really shone through. It wasn’t just a transcript.’
He sounded like he meant it. Maybe he did.
‘They weren’t the most cooperative of defendants. I had to work round and through their answers. Make interpretations. Then persuade them to sign up to them.’
Iain was nodding. ‘We want you to stand up and confirm your notes and their statements. Give some colour. We’ll ask questions and firm up on the evidence.’
Some colour? Is that what they wanted? All I could remember is grey, pasty pink, the colour of human skin left to rot on skeletons.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘The defence is doing its job. Trying to pick holes in every case. Making claims about statements made under duress. That’s where your first-hand account will be invaluable. You know the ropes, Brodie. You were at the Belsen trials at Lüneburg.’
‘Not as a member. I ran the support unit for the court president, General Berney-Ficklin.’
‘Great background for this, Brodie.’
‘A bellyful.’
‘That, I can appreciate. These are for you.’
He leaned down and lifted up his briefcase. It was a weary gesture as though he was carrying more than the simple weight of the bag. He placed three fat files on the dining table. He might as well have placed them on my shoulders. As their names appeared I fought the urge to get up and walk out: Schwarzhuber, Ramdohr, and the lovely Binz. I opened the first pages of each and gazed at their photos.
‘Recognise them?’ Iain asked.
‘Of course. Have they changed in the flesh?’
‘Thinner, greyer, fewer smiles? One other thing, Brodie. You need to meet one of our key people here, Vera Atkins.’
‘Special Operations Executive?’
‘Three of her agents were murdered at Ravensbrück. One survived, Odette Sansom. Odette’s here too. Both extraordinary women.’
‘A miracle. I look forward to meeting them. And, Iain, I’ll do all I can to punish the beasts who murdered our people. But to return to my primary goal: what do you know of these escape routes? The rat lines?’
‘Just gossip. We lost a very big rat a month ago. Fritz Suhren.’
‘The camp commandant?’
‘Gave us the slip. We’ve got everybody out looking for him. I’m just maddened by the thought that he could be in Argentina by now.’
‘Or the Gorbals,’ Sam chipped in.
‘God spare us,’ Iain replied.
‘What’s my access to the prisoners?’
‘They’re all yours. The prison – and indeed this whole trial – is under our jurisdiction.’
Sam stifled a yawn, and I realised how tired I was. I’d sunk a brain-pickling volume of whisky. Iain was staying up on sheer will power. We called it a night and fell into our respective rooms.
I dumped the three files on the dressing table and hung up my clothes. I was too tired even to try the connecting door to Sam’s. But when I stripped and got into bed, my brain switched on and began grinding away at the memories stirred up by those three names. After a while I gave up and got out of bed. I put the table lamp on, and moved the files into the pool of light. I picked the folders up one by one, and flicked them open. I knew these people. Knew what they did.
I read for a bit until my eyes hurt. I closed the files and lay down on my bed. I smoked and thought about the morning. I assumed I would be awake until then.
Next thing a bell was shrilling in my ears. I stumbled across the room and grabbed the phone. It was Lieutenant Collins.
‘Good morning, sir. I’ll be at your hotel with a car in half an hour, if that’s all right, sir? Mr Scrymgeour says he will see you at his office. Oh, and he asked you to kindly remember to bring the files.’
I mumbled a reply and put the phone back in the cradle. I looked up. The mirror showed an old man with red eyes and wrinkled brow. My hair was plastered to one side. My mouth was full of bar-room sawdust. I had thirty minutes to restart my heart and hope my brain would follow.
I picked up the phone and got the front desk. It was a shock to hear German, and automatically to answer in kind. Hot tea and toast was on the way. I peeked out of the door and saw the signs to the bathroom. I grabbed a towel, crept along the corridor and stuck my abused body under a hot shower. Within twenty-five minutes I was marching down the corridor in full uniform, files under my arm, thinking that I might live after all. But it would be pain-filled.
Sam was waiting, polished and perfumed, her eyes clear, her hair shining. A rebuke.
‘Long lie, Brodie?’
‘Been studying the files. And good morning to you too, Miss Campbell. Shall we go?’
I marched towards the door, shoulders back, head up. Inside, my heart was hammering like a child’s on his first day back at school after the long summer holidays. Which was ridiculous. There was no Latin teacher waiting for me, swishing his tawse, limbering up to punish the first sloppy translation of the day. These creatures had no hold over me.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was a short drive to Rothenbaumchaussee and the impressive Curiohaus, all red tiles and stolid German façade. I fingered my medal ribbons and played with my badges of rank to remind myself I’d moved on. I was all grown up. This was the real world and I’d passed all the tests. Then why was I breathing so fast?
Scrymgeour’s office was tucked away in the back of this building commandeered for the trials. Lieutenant Collins led the way past heavily armed guards and through locked doors. The lobby and halls were filled with uniforms and suits, all bustling about their duties.
We walked into a barn of an office. For a second it felt like the Gazette’s newsroom. Phones going, folk chatting, constant movement. Desks crammed together, piled with papers. Filing cabinets spewing folders. A group of secretaries, desks abutting, belting out discordant medleys of clacking keys and tinkling returns. People marching purposefully in and out, clutching files and clipboards as if it were a war room.
Scrymgeour was sitting at a desk on the far side, already hard at it behind his defensive walls of papers. He smiled and stood up to greet us.
‘Let’s start with a look at the wall of infamy.’
He guided us over to one wall to which papers and pictures were pinned in a higgledy-piggledy mass. Red tape criss-crossed the wall, linking various photos and type-covered cards and sheets to each other. The outline of the hierarchy was familiar from my post-war work at Bergen and Lüneburg. At the top was a photo of the commandant, the absconded Fritz Suhren. No wonder he was smiling.
To his left and with only a dotted line to him, was the Political Department, home for the Gestapo and the Kripo – the Criminal Police. Their solid reporting line ran up to Himmler himself.
Reporting directly to Suhren wa
s his deputy, Schwarzhuber, and under him the entire team of SS supervisors and guards.
‘How many SS, Iain?’ There was a worrying lack of names.
‘We think about a hundred and fifty to two hundred. Not counting the Kapos. Could be another few hundred of them. But unnamed.’
Ah, the lovely Kapos. Sporting their green triangles of power. Drawn from the ranks of temporary preventive custody prisoners – befristeten Vorbeugungshäftlinge. Criminals and thugs every one, sharing the camps with blameless Jews, homosexuals and gypsies. The Kapos were perfect material for deployment as camp enforcers. Saved on trained SS manpower. Clever Nazis.
I turned to other parts of the chart. There was the usual Administration group, which maintained the huts and the ovens, and ran the warehouses where they stored the shoes, glasses and belongings of the people who had no further need of worldly possessions. Then came the Employment Department that organised work gangs and hired out the slave labour to local businesses like Siemens. They worked in conjunction with the Central Construction Board who built the extermination facilities.
The final grouping was medical staff: photos of doctors and pretty nurses in splendid uniforms or white coats, ministering to sick wardens and experimenting on healthy prisoners.
It was a simple but efficient structure and testimony to the German penchant for hierarchy and control. In my mind I was already working out the line of questioning. I’d borrow the photos and use the personal files to talk them through the hierarchy and elicit ideas about where their pals might have scarpered to.
‘A lot of gaps, Iain.’
He sighed. ‘Bloody Suhren. He burned a stack of the records. Then the Red Army trashed the place looking for loot. We’ve got requests in with the Berlin team to find central records of each camp. But nothing so far. We’re a bit stymied.’
‘Are you in touch with other units as well as Berlin?’
‘Oh yes. We’ve got the word out. We get calls every day: Brits and Yanks – French even – saying they’ve got a suspect and asking for a description.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Which is the missing bit unfortunately.’
Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul Page 12