The Sins of the Father

by Allan Massie

  “Dear girl, a delightful surprise.”

  She looked up. Ivan Murison was still wearing the shabby cream suit. The liquid in his glass tilted towards her. He bent to kiss her cheek. She submitted. He was sort of family.

  He sat down, lit a cigar.

  “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  Becky didn’t answer.

  “Mind if I sit here too?”

  It was a girl, not much older than herself. She spoke with an American accent. She wore a canary-coloured trouser suit and had delicate features. She put her glass on the table. Her fingers were grubby.

  “Can I get you a Coke, Miss Czinner?”

  Becky shook her head. Ivan Murison was frowning.

  “Surprised to see me, Ivan?” the girl said. “But Czinner will speak to the Press, he’ll have to. That’s why I’m here, you won’t get an exclusive.”

  She leaned towards Becky.

  “My name’s Minty Hubchik. I’m a freelance, covering the trial for the Toronto Star, and Insight – that’s a Canadian news magazine, maybe you’ve heard of it. I’d be grateful of the chance to have a long talk with you. Can I ring you at your hotel and fix a date?”

  Ivan Murison said, “I warn you, dear girl, she’ll turn you inside out.”

  “Oh fuck off, Ivan.”

  Becky said, “I don’t know. I’m confused.”

  “It’s in your interest…”

  “Oh all right, but now…”

  The tannoy crackled. The arrival of the flight was announced. Becky lit another cigarette, stuffed her things into her bag, knocking her lighter on to the floor. Minty Hubchik picked it up. She held it out, and when Becky advanced her hand for it, seized her by the wrist.

  “OK, baby, I will. I know it’s hell, but I promise you, I’m on your side.”

  “I don’t know what side that is.”

  Ivan Murison laughed. He got up, with a movement like a man heaving himself from a deckchair, and shouldered his way to the bar. He lifted his glass high above his head and shouted for attention.

  Minty Hubchik said, “Maybe you don’t need me to tell you, but he’s bad news.”

  “No,” Becky said, “that’s clear to me already.”

  “’Bout four then? OK?”

  “All right, but what’s it about?”

  Minty Hubchik released her wrist, restored the lighter to her.

  “Look,” she said, “do the authorities know you’re here? They don’t? Because your father, believe me, is going to be whisked away, VIP treatment, and you’ll miss him. Here, let me take charge of you.”

  She did so. It was necessary. She talked to the right people, and doors were opened. They were invited behind the barriers and found themselves in a small room with imitation leather banquettes and potted plants and magazines on glass-topped tables. There was a pot of coffee waiting and Minty poured them each a cup. Then, instead of resuming conversation as Becky feared, she sat in the corner, pulled a file from her shoulder-bag and began to read in it. Becky sipped the coffee and waited; it was like being at the dentist’s.

  The door opened. Airport officials entered first, then a group of hard-looking young men, two of whom wore revolvers in shoulder holsters, and then Kinsky leading Eli. Becky got up and moved towards them. The men with revolvers exchanged a look and for a moment seemed as if they would bar her approach, but Kinsky called out, “Becky, darling … Eli, here’s Becky,” and they gave way.

  Eli’s hand sought hers. They embraced. Their cheeks met. A camera flashed. One of the men with revolvers advanced on Minty Hubchik. She engaged him in argument.

  “I’m tired,” Eli said, “and I’m having trouble with my back.”

  Someone thrust a glass of fizzy wine into his hand. He sniffed it and passed it on to Kinsky, who held it, away from his face, his arm stretched out, while he extended his cheek towards Becky.

  “Where’s Mother?”

  “Shh.” His other arm settled round her back and hugged her. “Not now, we’ll talk about that later.”

  Someone, who might have been important but didn’t dress it, was welcoming Eli to Israel. He started in Hebrew and then someone else tugged at his sleeve and he switched into English. He said it was sad that it was such an occasion which had at last brought the distinguished economist to Israel, a man whose work had done credit to the whole Jewish people.

  He went on. There was something about the Nobel Prize, which should have, and hadn’t, but might nevertheless… Becky didn’t listen. She had never believed in her father’s eminence. She wasn’t going to start now. He had aged. The expression of discontent and mockery had deepened. He looked like an actor who had put on greasepaint for a farewell benefit performance. Yet when, listening to this, he held out his hand, pushing it towards her like someone fending off unwelcome attentions, she took hold of it. His face registered nothing, but he squeezed back. She supposed he knew it was her hand.

  There was more talk, now of the Press. They went through into another room, where a half-ring of chairs had been assembled opposite rows occupied by a few journalists. The dirty cream-coloured suit was over on the right propped against the wall. Unlike all the other journalists, Ivan Murison kept his glass in his hand and disdained – she supposed it was disdain – a notebook.

  Introductions were effected. It was explained that Professor Czinner could not talk of matters which were sub judice. He would not at this stage answer questions. But he was prepared to make a statement.

  Becky glanced at him to see if this had taken him by surprise. Apparently it hadn’t. It must have been agreed in advance. He got to his feet, resting his right hand on the arm of the chair as he did so. He spoke in English, in a weak voice which had several of the journalists straining to hear him.

  He said how happy he was to be in Israel at last, or how happy he would have been if the occasion had been other than it was. He had come because it was necessary, because certain things could not be forgotten, but must be remembered. The crime committed against the Jewish people was also a crime against humanity. Only God could forgive it. Their business was justice.

  He sat down. He had said nothing, but he was sweating. Would he be able to withstand the pressure of giving evidence? He laid his fingers on his breast, as if feeling for his heartbeat.

  The man who was acting as chairman said they would now permit photographs.

  “One moment. Is it true, Dr Czinner, that you have a personal interest in bringing Kestner to justice?”

  “No questions, Mr Murison. I said no questions.”

  “Is it true you knew Kestner before the war, had extensive dealings with him during the war, and personal ones more recently?”

  “Mr Murison, I must protest. The conditions of this Press Conference…”

  “Were such as to make it no conference, merely a farce. Very well, no more questions.”

  And Ivan Murison brought his glass to his lips, gazing at Becky over the rim.

  They were in the car driving away from the airport. There was a man from the Ministry of Justice with them. He was called Aaron. Minty Hubchik had managed to string along, and was sitting in one of the tip-up seats opposite Becky. Eli sat between Becky and Kinsky. He rested his head on the back of the seat. As they drove along the man from the Ministry pointed out places of interest and historical significance.

  “There, Professor,” he said, “is the Benei-Atarot settlement. As you will surely know, this was established in 1902 by Germans and named after the Kaiser: Wilhelm… I believe a great-uncle of yours was among the pioneer settlers. Yes? … This village is Yehud. It is mentioned in the Bible as belonging to the tribe of Dan, I forget to which tribe… Ah but, we are now passing through the Plain of Ono. You will remember that when Nehemiah returned from the captivity in Babylon, his enemies sought to lure him out of Jerusalem into the plain, and he, realising their intentions, sent a message, ‘I am doing a great work, so that I cannot come down. Why should the work cease?’ You remember that, Professor? You must oft
en have thought that way yourself. ‘I am doing a great work, so that I cannot come down – why should the work cease?’”

  “It’s a long time since I read the Bible,” Eli said, not moving his head.

  “What was the great work?” Kinsky said. “I don’t think I ever heard of this Nehemiah.”

  The man from the Ministry, who had a plump, serious expression, frowned.

  “He was rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem.”

  “Ach so?” Kinsky said, and giggled. Becky bit her lip. She felt Minty Hubchik’s foot move against hers, and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see in the Plain of Ono; lorries were loading oranges into a warehouse.

  Eli said, “That journalist can’t have been Ivan Murison?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Astonishing. I knew him in Berlin before the war. A shit then, and I would guess a shit now. He was married to your mother for a time, Becky, but you know that of course. I hope you haven’t been seeing much of him.”

  “If you see Ivan Murison, you see too much of him,” Minty Hubchik said.

  The man from the Ministry left them at the hotel. He asked if they would like a sightseeing tour in the afternoon. Eli said that, in the circumstances, he thought not. Minty Hubchik told Becky she would wait for her in the bar.

  “I guess your father will want to rest before long.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Eli said when they were in the room. “It’s no place for you, I can’t think why your mother wouldn’t see that.”

  “Where is Mummy? Why isn’t she with you? What’s happening?”

  Eli said, “All hotel rooms everywhere are the same. It’s remarkable, and depressing. Your mother thought I shouldn’t come. So she hasn’t accompanied me. That’s all there is to it. Now that I’m here, I fear she may be right, especially if we have to suffer more idiots like that one they assigned us this morning. Still, it is necessary. Your mother tells me you are living with the young Kestner.”

  “Yes, I’m living with Franz, Daddy. I don’t think of him as the young Kestner.”

  “That must stop. It’s unseemly. It’s obscene in the circumstances. You are mad to think it possible. You must come here. Kinsky, will you get the Ministry to find her a room.”

  Becky looked at Kinsky. He shook his head. He was occupying himself unpacking suitcases and he looked at her over the lid of a suitcase and put his finger to his lips.

  “I’m tired,” Eli said. “I’m going to sleep. Sightseeing! What a gift to a blind man! I’ve been having trouble with my heart. I need to rest it. Kinsky, find my pills, will you. And a glass of water. I suppose there is bottled water.”

  He went through to the other room. They heard him shuffling about. Kinsky found the pills and took a bottle of water from a cabinet and followed him through. Becky sat on the settee, which creaked when she moved. She closed her eyes. The lashes fluttered and a nerve jumped in her left temple. It was quiet outside. The city was suspended for the lunch hour.

  “That’s him settled. I think he’ll sleep. I could do with a drink. Let’s see what they have supplied us with.”

  She heard a cork pop.

  “Kinsky, why are you here? And why isn’t Mummy? Is she all right?”

  “Here, darling, drink this. I’ve a letter for you from Nell. And why am I here? Because, ducky, he insists on coming and he can’t be by himself. So, old Kinsky has to turn to. That’s all. How’s Franz?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you are with him?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know how he is. I don’t know how he’ll ever be again. He says he’s all right. Oh Kinsky, I am glad to see you.”

  “All part of the service, darling. Look, here’s Nell’s letter.”

  “I won’t read it now. I’ll read it when I’m alone.”

  “Suits me, darling. Don’t worry, and don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it, Kinsky. I try to be brave but it doesn’t work.”

  FIVE

  Rudi said, “In 1927 I lost my job as a clerk when the bone factory went into liquidation. I became a salesman. For two years I struggled to sell ladies’ cosmetics, powder-puffs, scent and lipstick. I suffered insults from the shopkeepers on whom I called. My job took me all over Germany, and everywhere I went, one thing was clear. All the political parties had betrayed and abandoned Germany, except one. It was in Frankfurt I first heard Hitler speak. That was the moment of rescue: the sweetness of his voice which rested in the memory like the taste of liquid honey in the mouth. And at the same time: the challenge. ‘Others,’ he cried, ‘have set themselves to deny us life. It is our duty to seize it. If they oppose us, we shall break them, destroy them utterly, they are anathema.’ Do you not understand, Franz, how these words echoed in my dismayed and wounded heart? He spoke to me, directly to me, in an audience of thousands. And every man who listened felt the same. That was his genius. He made each of us feel his own unique identity, and simultaneous membership of a wider and nobler community. He spoke to those who had been isolated and who in their isolation had ceased to believe even in the possibility of their own existence. Unless you understand that, you understand nothing.

  “I joined the Party. Oh, moment of blessed release and fulfilment! I had become someone. And, as a reward, my abilities were recognised. For the first time in my life I delighted in study. I abandoned my humiliating work. I found other employment which left me time to study. I passed exams by correspondence course. And all the time I was assiduous in my work for the Party. In January 1933, I joined the SS. This was, as I well knew, a rare privilege.”

  He moved his pudgy hands about the table. He looked beyond Franz at the blank wall, and spoke as if he read words written there which were invisible to all but himself. Moshe and Yakov, the two guards – “Guards also,” as Franz later remarked, “of a seemliness which neither took notes of these conversations nor recorded them on tape” – said nothing, smiled at Franz, made tea, passed cigarettes. They listened. Occasionally. Moshe shook his head, Yakov (the younger of the pair) frowned. He was trying to imagine that life was not what he had found it to be. And the same problem perplexed Franz. The more his father revealed himself, the farther he receded into a cloudy distance.

  But now Rudi said, “Once, during the war, in Prague, after dinner in a palace that had once belonged to a Count of the Holy Roman Empire, I escorted Reinhard Heydrich, the master of life and death, to the house where he was staying. We mounted a wide and darkened staircase, climbing in long slow turns, till we came to a drawing room brilliantly lit by chandeliers. He leaned over a table, pouring us brandy, when, as … as if twitched by an invisible thread, he turned and caught sight of his reflection, his double, the blond god with features transposed, in a gilt-framed mirror that ran the whole height of the wall, so that the double seemed, by some trick of the light, to loom over him. Without warning he whipped his revolver from its holster, and fired twice, from the hip, shattering the glass. For a moment it was as if the body of the double flew apart in all directions. Then, without a word, he handed me brandy, and we drank. Three hours later, he lay on a sofa. Tanks lumbered through the empty streets. He tilted the bottle to his lips, and drank the last drops, some of which, escaping his mouth, trickled down his chin towards the unbuttoned collar of his tunic, which rose up the side of his face as he rested among the cushions. He said: ‘Has it ever occurred to you, my friend, that it was sheer madness on the Fuehrer’s part to have invented this Jewish problem? Which nevertheless it is our duty and historical task to solve. Or, perhaps, help them to solve for themselves?’ I didn’t then know what he meant. Later, when he had been murdered, I pondered these words in my heart.”

  “Father,” Franz said, “why do you torture yourself with these memories? Isn’t it enough to have lived the past when it was happening?”

  Rudi said, “I have often wondered whether it was Heydrich’s knowledge of his own Jewish blood which forced him to make himself the ideal figure of the SS officer.”<
br />
  He smiled.

  “What else is there for me to do, Franz? I have become a man who must live without illusions. There is no promised land for me, you know. I understand Czinner is arriving today. I should like to see him. Would that be possible?”

  “No,” Yakov said, “I am certain, Rudi, that would not be possible.”

  Rudi smiled.

  “But you see,” he said, “I am persuaded that Czinner is the only man in Israel who can understand me.”

  “Is it so important to be understood, Father?”

  Rudi said, “I was trusted in the SS from the start. I, who had never been trusted in my life before, enjoyed the confidence of my commanders. As proof, I was among the select band ordered to arrest Ernst Roehm in what became known as the Night of the Long Knives. Knives! We used guns of course. He had derided the Fuehrer as ‘an artist’, ‘a dreamer’. We showed him what dreams are made of. The boy in bed with him screamed at the sight of us, but Roehm, despite the guns aimed at him, got out of bed, waddled across the room, thrust his fat little legs into his breeches and said, ‘So it’s come to this, has it.’ He threw some clothes to the boy. ‘You’d better get dressed, Günter. The party’s over.’”

  “Father,” Franz said again, “why do you torture yourself with these memories?”

  Rudi said, “Just so, the party’s over. We shot him later that day in the Stadelheim Prison in Munich. But that is not a crime with which I am ever likely to be charged. Besides, the Fuehrer had announced that Roehm was a traitor, and I was only obeying orders.

  “Czinner would understand,” he said. “He was an intimate of Schacht then, and they were greatly relieved by news of Roehm’s execution.”