by Wilbur Smith
On the other hand, the South African Courtneys could not match the size, beauty and fertility of Lusima’s land. Weltevreden’s fields, vineyards and pastures were beautifully maintained, but they could fit into Lusima several hundred times over. A draw was therefore declared, to everyone’s satisfaction.
The last dishes were being cleared away. They settled down to glasses of cognac and coffee from Lusima’s own plantation. The gentlemen lit cigars rolled from estate tobacco.
Saffron said, ‘I think it’s time I told you why I invited you both here.’
‘I was beginning to wonder when you would get around to it,’ Centaine remarked.
‘And there I was thinking it was for the pleasure of our company,’ said Shasa, his good humour apparently restored.
‘It has to do with my brother, Konrad von Meerbach,’ Gerhard said.
Together they told the whole story, from Count Otto’s death at Leon Courtney’s hands, to Konrad’s encounter with their children.
‘Mon Dieu,’ Centaine gasped when Saffron described how ‘Uncle Konnie’ had used the children to send a message to their parents.
‘And we’re the family he was talking about?’ Shasa asked.
‘We think so, yes,’ Saffron replied.
‘The man’s got some cheek, hasn’t he?’
‘Well, we’re planning to make him pay for it.’
Saffron was about to tell the story of their meetings with Joshua Solomons and the Israelis’ efforts on their behalf, but then a memory of her days at SOE came to mind. When an operation was being planned, sending agents into Occupied Europe, absolutely no one was told about it, except for the people directly involved and the senior officers who sanctioned it. Joshua worked for an equally secretive organisation.
Yes, but I can trust my own family. And then the voice in her head insisted: absolutely no one.
‘We’ve been doing some sleuthing and we’ve worked out Konrad’s movements after the War.’ Saffron looked at her husband, hoping that he would spot what she was doing, as she went on, ‘Gerhard’s ma has been incredibly helpful. She was able to tell us that Konrad went to Lisbon in ’42. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we then linked him to a South African, Manfred De La Rey. It seems they initially met in Lisbon on Konrad’s first visit, then again when Konrad escaped there after the war.’
At the mention of De La Rey’s name, both Centaine and Shasa had visibly tensed.
‘I remember from the old days that he was someone you didn’t get on with,’ Saffron added.
‘That is one possible interpretation,’ Centaine replied, but there was something about the way she said the words that seemed to Saffron to hint at a whole other story, as complicated as the one that she and Gerhard had just told, of which she had no knowledge.
Saffron had the worrying sense that the visit into which she had put so much thought and effort was not panning out as she had expected. When she described Konrad’s appearance at the Estate House, Centaine was appalled by the vision of this monster playing with Zander and Kika, but Shasa tried to play it down.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much, old girl,’ he said. ‘After all, the children came to no harm. I see this as a sign of weakness, actually.’
Saffron bit back the words ‘Well, I bloody well don’t!’, and instead composed herself and calmly asked, ‘How so?’
‘Well, it’s a gesture, a diversionary tactic, isn’t it? He must have known that if he touched a hair on those kiddies’ heads, he’d never have left Lusima alive. All he could do was try to get under your skin, which he apparently did quite successfully.’
Again, Saffron had to take a breath and count to ten, and she could see Gerhard’s jaw tighten. They glanced at one another, as if to say: stay calm.
‘The thing is,’ Saffron said, trying to get the conversation back on track, ‘we could use your help. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why tracking down a Nazi war criminal is a good thing, in itself. And this particular Nazi is a danger to us, your family. Plus, he is an ally of someone who is, I think, your enemy. It just seemed to me to make sense for us to work together on this.’
When she had been imagining the way these days with her cousins would go, this was the moment when Saffron had seen Centaine and Shasa reacting as they always had done in the past, with an immediate, unquestioning eagerness to help her. Instead her words were met with indifference. Centaine offered no encouragement, either by words or in her facial expression. Instead, she focused on Shasa, who took a thoughtful pull on his cigar, looking up at the ceiling as he blew out a long stream of smoke.
‘I’d like to help,’ he eventually said.
But . . . Saffron thought, suddenly very glad that she had not told him everything.
‘But things are a little complicated these days. You’re right, of course, De La Rey and I have cordially loathed one another from the day we first met. You’re also correct in describing De La Rey as a man of great influence. He’s a senior minister and the youngest member of the National government’s cabinet. That makes him the coming man in South African politics, particularly if, like me, you think that the Nationals are in power for the long haul. They’re the Afrikaner party. Afrikaners make up the majority of the white population and the blacks don’t have votes.’
‘Yet,’ Saffron said.
‘You sound like someone I know. Take it from me, they won’t have the vote in our lifetime.’
‘That’s what people here say about blacks in Kenya. I think they’re wrong.’
‘Ja, they may be. The British aren’t as single-minded as the Afrikaners. In the end, there are too many people in London who regard the Empire as evil. They will support the blacks in Africa, even against their own people. They even teach the blacks to rise up against their white masters. Kenyatta, here in Kenya . . . Julius Nyerere in Tanganyika . . . hell, Gandhi in India . . . Men bent on destroying the British Empire and all of them educated in Britain. Look at that young man we met today, Benjamin. Had all sorts of ideas put into his head by studying in London. I dare say he can’t wait to end the empire, either.’
‘He can’t, you’re right. But then again, neither could Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and George Washington. They fought for the right to govern themselves. Black Africans will do the same thing, unless we accept the inevitable and find a peaceful way to give them the same freedom we take for granted.’
‘Well, you may think that, Saffron, but I can assure you that the National government doesn’t. And they are the people who are determining the future of South Africa.’
Saffron felt a sickly pall of disappointment. She didn’t need to hear another word from Shasa. It was obvious he was going to refuse to help her. She told herself that she should have seen this coming.
The way Shasa behaved at the clinic, the things Centaine said about him and Tara . . . Why didn’t I understand how much he’s changed?
The idea that Shasa might not stand by his own family, that he would put politics ahead of blood, was a bitter, dispiriting blow.
‘Excuse me for intruding,’ Gerhard said. ‘I have picked up a little understanding of African politics in the last few years, but of course I know less than all three of you. But I can’t help noticing something, Shasa. I’m right in thinking that you are an MP for the opposition party?’
‘The United Party, that’s right.’
‘The National Party is your opponent. But forgive me, you don’t speak like a man who is opposing his country’s government. You sound more as though you agree with the Nationals.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Shasa said, sounding like a politician. ‘I don’t approve of the way they keep the black population in poverty. As a businessman, of course I want to control workers’ wages, but wasn’t it Henry Ford who said he wanted his workers to afford the cars they made? Makes no sense to keep millions of people too poor to buy the products business has to sell.’
‘But you agree with the Nationals
about denying the blacks a vote?’
‘Yes . . . yes I do. And I’m damned if I should apologise for that.’
‘No, of course not. Every man should be entitled to his opinion. But what I am getting at is I sense you no longer see Manfred De La Rey as an enemy. Maybe he is now an ally.’
Shasa gave another few seconds’ attention to his cigar, then he gave a dry smile and said, ‘You’re a shrewd bastard, aren’t you? I mean, you present yourself as the good brother, nothing like the other one. But you’re as tough as old boots. You’d have to be, I suppose, to survive what you’ve been through. I say that as a compliment, by the way . . . sincerely.’
‘I take it as one,’ Gerhard replied.
It occurred to Saffron that Gerhard had quietly sidelined her.
He’s taking charge of the negotiation, she thought.
This was not the kind of treatment to which she was accustomed. She should have been infuriated. And yet, to her surprise, she was intrigued, and a little attracted by her husband’s unexpected assertiveness.
She glanced across the table at Centaine and saw that she, too, was fascinated by this new side to Gerhard’s character. He had let Shasa know that there were two alpha males in the room. Shasa had acknowledged him as an equal. How would the contest between them be resolved?
‘Now,’ said Gerhard, ‘I feel that I have responsibility here, since this is my brother we are talking about. And I, like you, Shasa, have found myself responsible for a large family business. So let us be frank. I do not think you are going to give us the help for which we are asking. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘But equally, I know that you and Saffron are close and that you would never wish to hurt her, or set her interests aside in favour of someone who was not a family member.’
‘Also correct.’
The two men were focusing their attention on one another. But Saffron happened to have her eyes on Centaine when Gerhard used the words ‘not a family member’ and Shasa answered in the affirmative. She saw Centaine give a tiny, involuntary shake of the head, so barely perceptible that she may not have been aware of it herself.
But she shook her head. She disagreed. Does that mean that she . . . No, that can’t be possible! Is Manfred De La Rey part of this family?
‘Very well then, I have a proposition, or perhaps it is a request,’ Gerhard said. ‘We will demand nothing of you. You need not lift a finger to help us catch my brother. All I ask in return is that you do not lift a finger to stop us, either. Does that sound fair to you?’
Shasa made them wait before he replied, ‘Yes, I believe I can live with that. And because, as you say, I love Saffron dearly – and also because I like the cut of your jib and would rather have you as a friend than an enemy – I will do you both one small, but possibly significant favour.’
‘Might I ask what?’
‘You might, Gerhard, but I can’t tell you. Let’s say that I’m still British enough to believe in fair play.’
‘That is part of your national character that we Germans have always admired.’
The two women glanced at one another, both relieved by the way their men had found a way not to fight, without either losing face.
‘In that case,’ said Shasa, ‘why don’t you open another bottle and we’ll drink a toast . . . to our family and fair play.’
Manfred De La Rey drove his modest private car through the tradesman’s entrance to the Weltevreden Estate and up to the house, where he was greeted by Shasa.
‘We’ve got the place to ourselves,’ Shasa said. ‘The children are asleep in bed and my wife is off at one of her damn political meetings.’
‘I know,’ said De La Rey. ‘I can tell you the address of the house where she has gone and the names of the other people she is meeting.’
Shasa gave a humourless chuckle and said, ‘One day she will go too far. I know that.’
‘And you will have to deal with it, if you want to be part of our government.’
‘I know that too. But that’s not all I, or you, for that matter, have to deal with. Drink?’
‘Water is fine for me.’
‘I’ll get you a glass. Excuse me while I pour myself some Scotch.’
‘As you please, this is your house. Why did you ask me here?’
‘Because we need to make an agreement . . . as well as our other agreement.’
De La Rey fixed Shasa with his eerie, feline eyes. ‘Go on . . .’
‘You know a man called Konrad von Meerbach. You met him in Lisbon during the war when he was a senior SS officer, and then again in Lisbon when he was in exile, living under an assumed name. You helped him come here to South Africa.’
De La Rey’s eyes narrowed, making him look even more like a leopard waiting to pounce.
‘Don’t worry,’ Shasa assured him. ‘I have no intention of using that information against you. Not that it would count against you in your party. It’s riddled with Nazi sympathisers from the top down.’
‘Man, have you dragged me all the way here for a lecture about Nazism?’
‘No, I’m here to tell you that there are people hunting your man von Meerbach.’
‘I know . . . and those people include a certain Saffron Meerbach, née Saffron Courtney, who, I presume, is a family member.’
‘Then you will understand that this puts us in a delicate situation, now that we are burying the hatchet and becoming political allies. We might find ourselves on opposite sides in someone else’s private battle. That could be bad for our future relationship – and our ambitions. We are both young men, younger than the men currently leading this country. The future is ours for the taking.’
‘So why risk it now, eh? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Got it in one. I have told my cousin and her husband that I will neither help them, nor hinder them, in their search for Konrad von Meerbach, or whatever he calls himself these days. I can tell you that at the moment they know neither his name, nor his whereabouts.’
‘He will be relieved to hear that.’
‘If you tell him. But I would rather you did not. The way I see it, we should both take a step back, so that neither of us has anything at stake in this fight. I will give you my word that I will do nothing to help my cousin and her husband, if you give me your word that you will not help von Meerbach. Furthermore, neither of us will step in when it is over, no matter what the result.’
‘What, precisely, do you mean by that?’
‘Well, suppose von Meerbach should happen to be killed, and suppose that my cousin is arrested for his murder. This is not impossible, I might add. You presumably know that she has killed before.’
De La Rey nodded.
‘In those circumstances,’ Shasa continued, ‘I will do nothing to influence the course of justice or public opinion in any way. I may visit her privately in prison, but that is all. By the same token, let us suppose that von Meerbach is captured and taken away for trial in another country. Neither you nor this country’s government will express support for him, nor make any attempt to apprehend the people who abducted him.’
‘So we are reduced to the role of spectators?’
‘Interested spectators is how I would put it, but yes, we will observe without interfering. That way, however this turns out, and whoever wins or is defeated, neither of us will gain or lose a thing.’
‘Thus our political agreement is not compromised.’
‘Exactly.’
De La Rey’s eyes lost their killer intensity. His body relaxed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is an arrangement I can accept.’ He held out his hand. ‘I give you my word on it.’
‘I give you mine,’ Shasa said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it.
‘And now,’ said Manfred De La Rey, ‘let the contest begin.’
In his role as the businessman Michel Schultz, von Meerbach did not turn away customers he suspected of being Jewish. That would only arouse
suspicion. But he made a point of not dealing with them personally. When he heard that a Dr Jonathan Goldsmith had brought a Jaguar XK120 drophead coupé in for a tune-up and had asked to speak to him personally about improvements that might be made to the car’s performance, von Meerbach was cautious. ‘Goldsmith’ was an English word. But it could easily be an Anglicisation of the Jewish surname ‘Goldschmidt’.
‘Where is he?’ he asked the mechanic who had delivered the message.
The mechanic led von Meerbach to the window, from which his upstairs office looked down on his works’ shop floor. He pointed and said, ‘That one.’
Von Meerbach saw a tall blond man in his early thirties, wearing flannel trousers and a tweed jacket, with a silk cravat around his neck, tucked into a pale blue shirt. He was standing beside a long, low, open-topped sports car, painted in British racing green. He did not look like any Jew von Meerbach had ever met. But he did look exactly like an English gentleman.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell him I will be down in two minutes.’
Von Meerbach was correct in part of his assessment. Jonathan Goldsmith carried a British passport. He spoke the King’s English in the manner he had acquired at Rugby, one of the country’s most eminent public boarding schools, where the game of rugby football, so beloved by South Africa’s Afrikaner populations, had been invented. He had studied medicine at Cambridge University before qualifying as a doctor at Barts Hospital and had come to work as a surgeon at Cape Town’s Groote Schuur Hospital because, as he blithely put it, ‘I thought I’d work better with a bit of sunshine on my skin and some decent food inside me.’
The SS, as an institution, had regarded the British as racial equals, even if they had made the regrettable decision to be enemies of the Reich. The Führer greatly admired the way the British Empire had been won and maintained, despite its masters being outnumbered by the lesser races they ruled. Von Meerbach was therefore content to introduce himself to Dr Goldsmith and have an agreeable conversation with him about the various enhancements that could be made to the Jaguar’s engine, suspension and brakes to improve its already impressive capabilities.