“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “That was quite uncalled for. I feel very embarrassed. You see, it’s the tension. When I am at home with my mother I have to be brave.”
“Of course, of course,” Alexander said soothingly. “There is no need to be embarrassed with me at all. My mother is very fond of your family. She would want me to do everything to help if I was unable to myself, which I do. At the moment she’s in France but when she returns I’ll ask her to call on your mother.
Once more he put a hand on her shoulder and gazed earnestly at her. “I assure you, Irene, I shan’t leave a stone unturned in my efforts to trace your father and, if possible, return him to England and his family.”
Bart Sadler said, “Alexander, it is very good to see you. Are things going well?”
“I think so.” Alexander sat down and looked round the office, recalling the last time he’d been here. “And with you, Bart?”
“Excellent.” Bart sat back a smile of satisfaction on his face. “Couldn’t be better.” He waved a large cigar around in the air.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I suppose you know that the divorce went through?”
“Yes I did.”
“All very satisfactory. Deborah has a handsome house not ten minutes from here and I ...” he put a finger on the bell by the side of his desk “... I have a bonus I could never have expected. You have heard about my son Sam? He’s now my right-hand man.”
“Ah, yes,” Alexander began, thinking how strange it sounded to hear Sam referred to as Bart’s son when all his life he had thought he was Hubert Turner’s. He looked up as the door opened and Sam Turner walked in and, looking past Alexander, addressed himself to Bart.
“You wanted me, Father?”
“I want you to say hello to Alexander. I don’t think you’ve seen each other for a long time.”
Sam crossed the floor, a broad smile on his face and took Alexander’s hand.
“How are you, Alexander?”
“Very well, Sam. Very well.” Alexander continued to shake the young man’s hand marvelling at the transformation since he’d last seen him. There had always been something rather shifty about Sam; shifty and evasive as though he was someone you felt you couldn’t quite trust. He had a reputation in the family for bad behaviour. Certainly Alexander would never have given him a job as Bart appeared to have done now. “I hear you’re Bart’s right-hand man. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Sam’s countenance, instead of being sullen and brooding, was now open and sunny. His hair, which had always fallen in an untidy mess about his face, was neatly brushed back, with a side parting. He always used to have stubble on his cheeks but was now freshly shaved, exuding a subtle but pleasant aroma of eau-de-Cologne. He wore a well-cut, double-breasted pin-striped grey suit, a crisp white shirt and a maroon-coloured tie.
Bart gazed at him with unconcealed pride.
“The best thing that happened to me, Alexander.”
“And to me,” Sam firmly echoed his father’s words.
“Sam and I were made for each other. He is a chip off the old block. We are so alike, and Sam is a qualified master builder. Did you know that?”
Alexander shook his head in wonder. “Well I did hear that things had gone very well, and I knew that Sam was apprenticed to a builder.”
“Who had a high opinion of him. An opinion I very much share. And I am not just saying it because I’m his dad. What’s more, he is firm and decisive. We have Abel in the company now as well. Poor Abel had rather a raw deal I’m afraid, but I’ve made it up to him. Yes.” Bart sat back drawing on his cigar. “I have a very good little team here. We are set to do big things, not only here but in Europe. Isn’t it so, Sam?”
“Yes, Father,” Sam replied eagerly.
“Sam has a remarkable grasp of business. He was completely wasted where he was. Thank heaven I discovered him in time.” Bart beamed at his son who beamed back, obviously as pleased with this rapprochement with his natural father as Bart was with him. “Now, Alexander. You are here for a purpose I can tell, not just to pay a social call.”
“You’re quite right, Bart.” Alexander settled back comfortably in his chair. “I have come to ask for your assistance and if you are prepared to help me, I will repay the favour.”
“What is it?” Bart looked intrigued.
“I want, as a favour for a friend, to find someone, a man, who has disappeared in Germany. In return I am authorised to offer you any help you need in shipping your goods to Germany, or anywhere in Europe.”
“Really!” Bart, his face alight with excitement, glanced at Sam who stood by his father’s desk listening carefully.
“That’s marvellous news. No questions asked?”
“No questions asked. The transport is leased to you to do what you like with it. There is, however, just one small proviso,” Alexander also leaned forward as if to emphasise his point, “and it is this. You can take what you like to Germany, no questions asked. In return, I want you to bring back German Jews,” he paused for a fraction of a second, “and one in particular.”
Although he couldn’t give a fig about the plight of the Jews, Bart enjoyed a challenge. He also loved any excuse to visit Germany, and once Sam was able to take sole charge of the business in England he intended to look seriously for a home there possibly in the Bavarian Alps or the Black Forest, and an apartment in Berlin.
Bart felt at ease among the Germans. He liked the robust, rather coarse, enjoyment of life among the businessmen and officials he associated with. He knew little about the ordinary person in the street or their views, although universally the population seemed to approve of the Reich Chancellor, with the exception of the Jews and their few supporters.
Germany had been humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. The population had been ground down by poverty, unemployment and hyper-inflation. People had carried their money around in suitcases. All that was changing and Germany, under Hitler, was regaining its self-respect.
You couldn’t blame them for crowing a bit.
When he was in Berlin, Bart usually stayed either at the Kaiserhof Hotel or the Adlon. Here he met the men with whom he did business; some eminent, successful men; some shady characters who only dealt in cash and operated under aliases. He thought that some of these, at least, were Jews, whose last and only lifeline was their business. He saw these men in his suite where large sums of money changed hands, promises made and deals done. The prominent Berlin businessmen, with impeccable Aryan pedigrees, he entertained lavishly. Sometimes they were Party officials who were also after a steady supply of arms from European sources. There was just no end to the opportunities presented by the arms race. Not only was the legitimate German army after arms, there was a proliferation of smaller groups, some opposed to Hitler, who smuggled themselves into the hotels via the back entrance to try and win favours from this powerful English businessman and pay him over the odds.
And after business there was pleasure, lots of it. Berlin was the capital of decadent fun, something that Hitler had not yet been able to clean up. Most of his supporters were enthusiastic patrons of the casinos, strip joints, bars and beer cellars which proliferated on the Kurfurstendamm and Friedrichstrasse, the Jagerstrasse and Behrenstrasse, the Unter den Linden and the Munzstrasse. After hours of tough business discussions there usually followed a visit to an expensive restaurant, a few hours in a casino or strip joint and a visit to a brothel, though sometimes the high-class whores came to Bart at the hotel. The dissipation reminded him of his heady days in Rio and Buenos Aires. It was a great contrast to the luxuriousness, the dullness and decorum of his life in Wenham, and the infidelity of a worthless, scheming wife who had none of the accomplishments of the prostitutes in Berlin, Frankfurt or Munich.
However this visit, as far as Bart was concerned, was not straightforward. He was able to offer his clients a much better service now that more transport was on offer, but there was information to be extracted too.
It was a case of bargaining one thing for another.
Herr Anton Lippe was a mysterious man who always came into the hotel by the back door. He was short and insignificant looking, a rather shabby dresser, badly shaved, with a head of sparse, thin, greying hair. He was the sort of person you would never notice in a crowd, but he had a serious manner and a first-class business brain. There was never any small talk with him, or the suggestion of a visit to a bar or strip joint after the business discussions, which were intense.
Bart had found him a mine of information on almost everything to do with Nazi Germany. He had no idea whose side he was on. Herr Lippe did not look Jewish, nor had he a Jewish name, but that meant nothing. Bart was pretty sure he was Jewish, although he sometimes felt that he was acting for the Nazis and sometimes for the opposition. His name was surely not his own and from his accent Bart, whose own German was progressing, suspected he might be Austrian, or even Czech. However, whoever he was and wherever he came from Lippe, though he drove a close bargain, seemed possessed of unlimited funds. Merchandise was paid for promptly in Swiss francs by a draft on a Zurich bank. In the past year he had supplied enough small arms to Herr Lippe to equip an army. Now he wanted Herr Lippe to do him a favour.
Herr Lippe sat opposite him in his suite at the Kaiserhof. On the table between them were several bottles of beer, two glasses and an overflowing ashtray. It was late at night and both men, now in shirt sleeves, were sweating, but a deal at last was in sight.
“You drive a hard bargain, Herr Sadler,” Herr Lippe said, sitting back and lighting one of his endless supply of cigarettes which had stained his heavy moustache yellow. “But I think we can conclude the matter satisfactorily.”
“There is just one other thing.” Bart leaned over towards him and, taking an unnecessary precaution, lowered his voice to a whisper. “On behalf of a friend I need some information. I must emphasise I have nothing to do with the person concerned. In fact I have never met him. His name is Schwartz, a well-known Berlin art dealer, and he has disappeared, probably into a concentration camp. Now if you can help me trace him and, if possible, effect an early release, I am able to offer you even better terms than the ones we have under consideration. Say an extra two and a half per cent ... and immediate delivery to any destination you name. How does that sound?”
January 1938
The days were very long for Deborah. Even in her nice new house within sight of Wenham, with her mother and sister nearby and James to care for, time hung heavily on her hands. She kept a small staff: a cook and a maid who lived in, a daily who came to clean, a nursemaid for James, Jemima had come with him, and a man who lived in the town and came at intervals to do the garden and odd jobs around the house.
Deborah had never been a good housekeeper, nor was she an instinctive mother. Babies and small children bored her. It was only after Bart had ejected her from Upper Park that she had missed her children. It was a long time since she had given so much as a thought to the son, who had never known his mother, growing up in Bristol.
But now, as a divorced woman with an adequate income and not enough to do she felt in a position to look around, to play, as it were, the field – not to be tied down by the past. She had lost her reputation, so there was nothing left to lose and men of all kinds were attracted to her: rich farmers, local businessmen, professional men, storekeepers, but none of them got very far. As the ex-Mrs Bart Sadler she felt she had standards to maintain, bigger fish to land. So she was lonely, isolated and yet a subject of some fascination and much gossip in the local community. When she was a little more sure of herself and her new-found freedom she thought she might go to London and stay with her cousin Martha, familiarise herself with the ways and perhaps the temptations, of the big city.
Then, one day, Solomon turned up, unannounced, probably in the expectation that she might not receive him. Well, he might have been right. She couldn’t say what she might or might not have done, because Betty the maid merely flung open the door of the drawing room, where Deborah was idling over a novel and some magazines, and announced him.
“Mr Palmer, madam.”
And in had come Solomon. He stood there gazing at her diffidently. He looked pale, dishevelled, ill at ease. She didn’t get up but stared at him.
“Solomon,” she said.
“Debbie.”
“Well I never did.” She knew she’d flushed, with irritation rather than embarrassment. Betty would certainly get a talking to after this visit was over.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming. I was passing and thought ... well ... I thought I’d like to see how you were. And ...” he hesitated “... and little James.”
“Not so little now,” she said, pointing imperiously to a chair. “You’d better sit down now you’re here.”
“I can understand how you feel, Debbie.”
“Oh can you?” She knew her voice sounded shrill. “I think not.”
“Oh yes, I can understand. It was an awful time ... for both of us. I can’t tell you how grateful I was ... well you sacrificed everything for me.”
“Not for you, Solomon.” She corrected him sharply. “I thought that if you hanged I would have it on my conscience. I may not be a very good woman, very religious or God fearing, but –”
“But for you it would have been an open and shut case.” His expression was humble. He seemed to have shrunk, grown thinner. Looking at him Deborah couldn’t imagine why or how she’d ever found him attractive. She thought she must have been very bored indeed to risk losing all she had for a man who had not one tenth of Bart’s sexual allure, and none of his power or wealth.
Now she despised Solomon. She liked a man with a bit of character, even if he had too much, like Bart. And, although she didn’t think Solomon could have murdered Sarah Jane, sometimes she wondered. Despite the evidence of the time factor you always had that little niggling doubt that somehow he might just have done it, the law might have got it wrong.
Her eyes narrowed. “Funny they never found the man they thought killed Sarah Jane. It must weigh heavily on you, Solomon.”
“Oh yes, it does.” He gazed disconsolately at the ground. “Sometimes I think people still believe it was me. It wasn’t.”
“Oh, I know it wasn’t.”
“He went to ground. Colonel George. Obviously a false name.”
“Obviously.”
The conversation petered out. Deborah stifled a spasm of guilt at the suspicion she’d harboured a moment or two before. She knew that Solomon was incapable of the emotion, let alone the hatred that you would need to put a piece of piano wire round a woman’s throat and tug at it until she was dead. Bart could, but he would probably do it with his bare hands or shoot you. Bart was capable of a great deal of violence, but poor Solomon wasn’t.
“What are you doing now, Solomon? You said you were passing. I heard you’d left the district.”
“I work for a building supplies firm as a commercial traveller. It’s not much of a job, but it is a job. I don’t usually come to the West Country but I’ve business in Yeovil and then on to Exeter. I’m based in London.”
“I see.” Deborah began to feel fidgety. He would be someone she would be sure not to look up if ever she went to stay with Martha.
“Solomon, it is good of you to call, but I don’t feel we’ve anything in common any more.”
“I really just wondered how James was,” Solomon said looking up. “He is our son, isn’t he Debbie?”
She thought his pale dejected face showed a little hope. Well it would be easy to squash that. He had, after all, cost her her marriage and she had no intention of taking him back. She had paid a heavy price for that particular bit of fun.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Solomon.”
“But I thought Bart …”
“Bart didn’t know. He just thought, one of those funny spur-of-the-moment notions, and he always thinks he’s right. No one knows. Not even I, his mother, know for sure. You see the funny thing
is that, despite his many differences to Bart, in some ways the older James gets the more he resembles him. He has a little mole, a birthmark, on the side of his face; Bart has one just like it below his left ear. Frankly, I think he has Bart’s nose. As I say the older he gets …”
“But Bart has adopted Sam!” Solomon sounded outraged.
“Oh, well, he can have Sam.” Debbie gave a false, unattractive laugh. “Good riddance. Even though Sam is my half-brother, I can’t stand him. Never could. My mother didn’t like him either. Now Sam is very like Bart. No doubt whose son he is, but James ...” she looked slyly up at Solomon, “I’m not sure.”
“Could I ... may I see him?”
“I’m afraid not.” Deborah rose and glanced briskly at her watch. “I’m sorry to end this visit, but I’m expecting guests. Oh, and look, please do remember that we have nothing in common, not even a child, and next time you ‘happen to be passing’, be sure you go straight on.”
Deborah kept her finger firmly on the bell by the side of her chair until the door opened and Betty, looking rather startled, popped her head round.
“Yes, madam?”
“See this gentleman out please.”
Deborah went over to the window and, as Solomon crept out, she didn’t even turn her head to watch him go.
Alexander came into the restaurant and paused on the threshold. He gazed across at the woman sitting at a corner table, her face in profile to him, smoking a cigarette. She looked sophisticated, elegant, poised – the product of a cosmopolitan, cultured European Jewish family. She didn’t look bored or irritated that he was late, but quite happy, self-assured, composed, a woman at ease with herself.
She wore a short black velvet evening frock, with a gold lamé jacket. She had a single row of pearls round her throat. A little pill-box hat, also of black velvet, perched slightly towards the front of her head, her black curls carefully arranged round it. A fine-mesh half-veil that ended just below her eyes added to her mystery, her undoubted allure. From under the tablecloth he caught a sight of her black silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, one ankle crossed over the other.
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 23