Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul

by Ferris, Gordon

I found Shimon and Isaac waiting for me on the front porch. Shimon took me down the right of the building and through a side door into a warm, good-sized hall at the rear. With the slope of the hill, we must have been directly under the great ornate hall of worship. He flicked on two wall lights. It was enough to make out the stacked chairs to one side and the small tables, one at the back and one at the front. Alongside the front table was the easel and board I’d asked for. I emptied my briefcase contents on to the front table and pinned my large street map on the easel. I took a seat on the edge of the table and waited.

  They slunk through the door, singly or in pairs, heavily muffled and wrapped against the bitter cold. They stamped the snow and ice off as they came in. As each arrived, Shimon and Isaac grasped his hand and indicated the table and chairs. Each man walked over, took off his coat and dropped it on a growing pile on the back table. As they peeled off their layers they revealed themselves: all shapes and sizes; some with glasses; some with beards. Some kept their hats and caps on. A few exchanged hats for yarmulkes. Then each man picked up a chair and set it up in front of me, starting at the rear. No early volunteers for the front row.

  One figure was different: smaller, slighter and, when the coat came off, revealed itself as a young woman. She kept a scarf round her head and sat separate from the men. I felt her huge eyes on me all the while I waited.

  By seven exactly, twenty men and the solitary woman were sitting in front of me in straggly rows. It was a good sign. I liked a prompt start. Some nodded to others. A few murmured to each other. Several were loud and chatty, their voices crackling and fizzing with the consonants of Latvia and the vowels of Czechoslovakia. Pipes started coming out, and cigarettes. There was enough light for me to inspect their faces. There was no pattern other than wariness. Nothing that caricatured them like the Jews in the fading propaganda posters we’d seen in Hamburg and other German cities. Nothing, either, to mark them out as having survived pogroms, ghettos, sewer life or concentration camps. Though if I asked for a show of bare forearms I wondered what we’d see.

  I felt my heart race and took some deep breaths to control it. What was happening to me these days? Why did I get so easily worked up? As though I were under attack? I wasn’t scared to face an audience. I’d done enough of that. I breathed deeply and concentrated on who was before me. Trying to assess them. A mixed bag, but one little group was different. Six older men sat together at the back, their average age around fifty. They’d nodded to each other as they came in and took up position in two neat rows of three. They sat with folded arms and inspected me. My pulse started to slow again. Shimon came and stood beside me.

  ‘They’re all yours.’

  It was a moment of déjà vu: standing in front of a platoon, ready to brief them, to give orders that would send them into combat. But this was a ragged crew, untrained and unarmed. It wasn’t the same. I stood up from the table. Pushed my head up, shoulders back and clasped my hands behind me to open my chest and make sure my voice carried.

  ‘Good evening. My name is Douglas Brodie. Shimon tells me you’re willing to help catch some Nazis. Is that true?’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  There was an immediate low rumble of assent. A figure rose at the back. My pirate. I’d nodded to him earlier as he’d arrived.

  ‘Yes, Malachi?’

  ‘We hear you’re a colonel now.’ Said with a good dollop of contempt for anyone in the same British Army that was currently preventing Jewish refugee ships from entering Palestine. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m back in the army again. A lieutenant colonel.’ As if that made it better. ‘A temporary situation while we track down these escaped war criminals. So forget the title. It’s still Brodie.’

  He pulled a smile. ‘Are you going to get us guns?’

  ‘That didn’t take you long, Mal. Let me be clear. I’m not recruiting for the army. This will be a low-key search operation. There won’t be any guns.’

  ‘Same old story, then? Nazis with guns, Jews with bare hands.’

  That got a ripple of nods and murmurs.

  ‘Malachi, first we have to find them. There’s no point charging off into the night armed to the teeth, frightening old women. Besides, I think the polis would mind.’

  Another man stood up, one of the six older fellas at the back.

  ‘Colonel? We didnae get telt much. Just to come here. And that there were Nazis loose. Can you explain whit’s happening?’

  ‘I will, but first tell me about you. The six of you. This is going to be hard work. It could take weeks. Hard pounding of the pavements.’

  ‘You think we’re no’ up to it?’ His eyes were bright and steady. For all his years he had an air about him.

  ‘How can I tell? I don’t know you.’

  ‘We all served in the Glasgow Highlanders.’

  ‘Great War?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye. Lieutenant Lionel Bloom, sir. This is former sergeant David Doctorow. And the other men were in my platoon. Look, here ye go.’

  He got up and walked towards me, pulling out a photo from his jacket pocket. He held it out. It was like an official school snap. Then I recognised the setting. It was the South Portland Street Synagogue. They’d set up scaffolding and planking to form eight banked terraces. Each terrace held about twenty soldiers. By the looks of their uniforms every regiment in Scotland was represented. Some in kilts, some in tartan trews, most in khaki. All were smiling out at the camera. I wonder how many got home?

  ‘This is us, sir.’ Bloom pointed out the small clutch of men at the back. They were wearing the kilts and tam-o’-shanters of the Glasgow Highlanders. I looked at him, and then at the others sitting at the back. There was little doubt.

  ‘You all made it?’

  ‘No’ quite, sir. Mannie got gassed. Wipers.’

  Ypres. A slaughterhouse. He pointed to a smiling young man; he looked about sixteen. I smiled. ‘Sorry about Mannie. You did well. I need your experience.’ Former lieutenant Lionel Bloom marched back to his smiling comrades with his back straight.

  Then I gave them the story, albeit a shortened version, of what I’d been doing over in Hamburg. There were nods all round, and faces were coming alight, becoming less guarded.

  ‘Were you at the camps? Did you see what they did?’

  ‘I saw. I won’t forget.’

  ‘What are they like now? These Jew-killers. Dieser Scheisser!’

  I replied in German. ‘They were like anybody. No horns. No fangs. But no apologies.’

  ‘Would they do it again?’

  ‘We won’t let them. Not this time.’ But I wondered how we’d stop them. A whole civilised nation had been in thrall, and they’d poisoned neighbouring countries with their proposed final solution. Why could it not happen again?

  Another man asked, ‘The rats who got away. Do you have names? Do you know them? What are we looking for?’

  ‘Yes. Here.’ I pointed at the papers. I explained the two lists and that we were concentrating on the seven we thought were still at bay in Scotland. There might be others but this was a manageable number to start with.

  ‘I have descriptions. Some photos of the senior officers, including Fritz Suhren. He’s our main target. But of course if they’re here at all they will be using different names. The police have the same information and will be on the lookout. Quietly. No noisy manhunt. They don’t want to cause panic.’

  ‘So what can we do that the police can’t?’ asked Malachi.

  ‘They won’t be able to go where you boys go. I want you out on the street corners, in the shops, in the pubs, any place that folk go to. Any place where folk gather for a natter and a wee gossip. I want you to be talking to people, asking them questions, looking for signs.’

  ‘What sort of signs?’ asked Bloom.

  ‘Let’s think about this. Imagine you’re an SS guard or a Nazi doctor on the run. A man or a woman. You don’t speak English, or have a heavy accent. You’re terrified of being spotted. You’ve go
t a pocketful of gold but no pound notes. How are you going to live? Where are you going to live?’

  That got the ideas rolling.

  ‘Bribery. They’d pay off people to keep quiet.’

  ‘No, they’d change the gold in Edinburgh before they got here.’

  ‘You’re mad. They’d hang on to the gold. Everybody wants gold.’

  ‘What about a house? They need a roof over their heads. We should talk to landlords.’

  ‘Colonel? What language do they use? Are they Germans or Poles? Where do these rats come from?’

  I didn’t have to consult my papers. ‘We are assuming they are mainly German or at least German-speaking. But for example Ravensbrück housed a large number of Polish women, so the guards would probably have a working knowledge. They employed experienced wardens and medical staff. They were trained in other camps and came to run the slave labour set up for Siemens and IG Farben factories. Before they started gassing them.’

  The room went quiet again, until the questions started up and the ideas began to flow.

  ‘It should be easy. They only got here in the past year. We know who’s come and gone.’

  ‘Pah, that’s stupid. Look around. How many of us have been here over a year? Why, they could be hiding among us. Right now!’

  That got them going. There was much looking around and switching into and out of different languages.

  ‘Ridiculous! Our rabbi knows us. Malachi knows us. And look!’ This man was standing. He rolled up his cardigan and shirtsleeve and brandished his bare arm. Even from fifteen feet away I could see the tattooed number on his forearm. ‘Auschwitz!’

  ‘That’s something,’ another said. ‘But tattoos are not conclusive. It wasn’t done in all the camps. And some of us saw it coming. I got out in ’35.’

  I called them to order. ‘He’s right. Tattoos aren’t a definitive test, of course not. The senior Nazis and even the Kapos would be smart enough to have their arms tattooed to camouflage themselves. But it’s a start. Everything you’ve been saying is good. All these little bits and pieces of the jigsaw add up. We will try to meet each day. We’ll get together like this and we’ll compare notes. We’ll hone our ideas.’

  I got serious nods of understanding from all of them, even sceptical Malachi. I took out the papers I’d been working on during the day and passed them out. Shimon put on another light in the hall so that the group could read them.

  ‘You’ll find brief descriptions of the men and women we’re looking for.’ I waited to see nods. ‘OK, at the top of each sheet is a set of Glasgow streets. Each sheet is different. That’s your personal patch. Your responsibility.’

  I pointed at the map on the easel. ‘Each sheet is numbered and corresponds to a grid on this map. You can see where your patch is and who’s next to you.’ I got further nods all round.

  ‘Colonel, what do we do if we find someone?’

  ‘I’m just coming on to that. You do nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing, except report back to me. You don’t confront them. You don’t take any action. You do your best not to let them know you’ve spotted them. At the bottom of the piece of paper is my phone number at the Gazette and my home number at my landlady’s. I want you to phone me any time of the day or night if you’ve got a positive sighting. Is that clear?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Malachi, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘We will meet each day, unless we agree otherwise. Same time, same place, and you will share your findings with all of us. We will aim to build a picture from bits of gossip and rumour. If we get a sense that there’s something worth following up, I may deploy more men in one area. Or change the team so that we get a second opinion. So that we don’t scare them off.’

  Malachi wasn’t beaten. ‘OK, but what do we do when we’re sure we’ve found one of them? What will you do?’

  ‘Call in the professionals. I have contacts at the highest level in the police.’

  ‘The bloody polis!’

  I stepped forward and held his gaze. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘You know my point. We don’t trust the police. They hate us.’

  ‘This isn’t Berlin. It’s not Warsaw. Our police are here to protect all of you. All of us.’

  There were sceptical looks.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s call it a day. You understand your tasks. It won’t be easy and I don’t expect an early breakthrough. This is painstaking work and it will take weeks. But I’m sure if we stick at it, it will pay off. Any other questions?’

  There were none. They folded their chairs, muffled themselves up and began to slip off into the night. Untrained spies on a mission even I wasn’t sure of. I walked to the door and shook each man’s hand, until only the woman was left. She was waiting for me. Close up, her lustrous eyes were as old as Jerusalem.

  ‘Hello. I’m Douglas Brodie.’ I put out my hand. Hers was small, warm. She held it a moment and then challenged me.

  ‘You don’t want me here. A woman?’ Her accent was German but her English diction was clear and precise. She was wrong; in that instant, looking into her olive-black gaze, I didn’t want anyone else but her.

  ‘Not so. Some of these Nazis are women. You can go where the men can’t. You’ve an important role with us. What’s your name?’

  ‘Bathsheba Goldstein.’ She smiled.

  A provocative name to match her smile. I switched to German. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Cottbus. On the German border with Poland.’

  ‘You got out before the war?’

  She nodded. ‘My parents sent me to Paris. We had family friends there. Non-Jews. They protected me till after the war. Then I came here. I live with an aunt.’

  ‘Why come here?’

  ‘My parents were taken, murdered. My aunt is all I have left. That’s why I want to help.’ Steel beneath the softness. I clasped her shoulder. She didn’t flinch.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bathsheba. I’m glad you are with us.’

  I was sincere. She could be a great help. But I also had to ask myself if I would be so welcoming to an ageing crone. I could see Samantha’s smile in the air, like a cynical Cheshire cat.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I skidded down to St George’s Road and then plodded up the hill to Sam’s house, experiencing vividly what was in store for me in my dotage. I clung where necessary to the railings as my clown feet skited off the icy paths. I paused at the top and waited till my heart stopped pounding before pressing on. I pushed open the front door and stood swaying, as though my body had taken a puncture. As I wrestled with my coat, the lounge door opened at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Douglas, is that you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is. You’re back.’ Relief washed over me.

  Sam walked slowly down the stairs and stopped near the bottom. Her face was screwed up with caution.

  ‘Are you all right, Douglas?’

  ‘I’m tired, Sam, just tired. It’s good to see you. When did you . . .? How were the meetings?’

  ‘Never mind all that. There’s some soup in the kitchen. On the simmer. Come and eat.’ She helped me off with my coat, then my scarf and jacket, like a mother helping her six-year-old after a tough day at school. She even steadied me as I swayed. Then she took my hand and led me downstairs. I held on to the bannister as I went, and wondered how I was going to get back up this flight.

  The heat from the oven and the smell of Scotch broth stirred something in me, an echo of childhood, of sanctuary. I flopped at the table and undid my tie. Sam bustled about and laid a spoon and a steaming bowl in front of me. I wouldn’t have objected to her feeding me. We slurped quietly at our soup and I felt warmth and life flow into me. Throughout, she kept a wary eye on me and smiled encouragingly when I looked up at her. When I had finished she took the bowl away and tided things up in the sink. The next thing I knew she was shaking my shoulder gently.

  ‘Douglas? Come on, Douglas. Let’s get you to bed, my dear.’
/>   I raised my head from my crossed arms and rubbed my creased face.

  ‘Did you put something in my soup?’ I tried to ask, but it came out drunk.

  ‘Wheesht.’

  She helped me rise to my feet and I swam through fatigue, out of the kitchen and up the stairs. My feet were those of a deep-sea diver. Sam even gave me a push at one point. She helped me out of my clothes and easily beat off my attempt to bring her down on to the bed with me. I felt the sheets being pulled up and the quilt tucked round me like a winding sheet, and I was gone.

  ‘Room service.’

  I grappled with my pillow and turned to the voice. ‘What? What’s . . .?’

  ‘Tea, Douglas. Here you go.’ I managed to open my eyes in time to see Sam lay a cup and saucer on my bedside table.

  I struggled to sit up. My watch was still on my wrist. It was eight o’clock.

  ‘Sam, how splendid of you. Do I have a long grey beard? I feel like Rip Van Winkle.’

  ‘You don’t look that old. You were needing the sleep.’

  I rubbed at my face and sipped some tea. She was looking at me apprehensively.

  ‘How was Edinburgh?’

  ‘A real grilling. They’d heard a lot of it from Iain already, but they were keen to know what I’d learned. I felt I was devilling again. Now they’re talking about getting me over to Edinburgh for a big trial. Completely unrelated to Hamburg. That’s how it works. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’ve been a pain in the backside lately, Sam. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just lately?’ Her face softened. ‘I’m the one that’s sorry. I got you into this mess. If I hadn’t got you involved with those bloody thefts last year. And the murders. And then to rope you into the Hamburg trials . . .’

  I reached out and touched her lips to silence her. ‘You weren’t to know I’d be such a big jessie.’

  ‘That’s the last thing anyone could say about Douglas Brodie.’

  ‘They don’t know me as well as you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you well enough – what happened to you with the Belsen trials. I thought you’d just been some sort of reporting officer. I had no idea . . . You should have told me.’