by John Holt
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you,” Milner asked. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” Milner then took a second drink, and then placed the flask back into his pocket. “By the way whatever happened to that young guy in your outfit, you know, your friend. You were always hanging around together. He was a bit timid, a weak guy. Gee, what was his name?” he continued. “A farm boy, if I remember correctly. It was Ronalds, or Reynolds, or something like that?”
“Do you mean Roberts, Terry Roberts?” Scott retorted indignantly. Then he recalled than Milner had been the bully of the outfit. He hadn’t been a violent bully, but he had picked on the most vulnerable of the group, the younger, quieter, ones. People just like Terry, people who did not resist, or fight back.
“Roberts, that’s right, Terry Roberts, that’s the guy.” Milner started to laugh. “What a guy he was. What a character. He was so gullible. He wasn’t for real was he? I mean he was just a real push over. No other word for it, so easy, a great big push over.”
Milner was really beginning to enjoy himself now, and there was more than a hint of derision in his voice. “We really set him up didn’t we?” Milner continued with the narrative. “Getting him drunk, that time, do you remember? Didn’t take too long, he just couldn’t take his liquor could he? Sick as a dog he was. Boy, oh boy. I had never seen anything like it. His uniform was a real mess.”
Scott said nothing. He knew the story. He knew what was coming. He didn’t want to hear the story. He just wanted to hit this man who was standing in front of him, to hit him hard. He wanted to break his neck. He wanted to place his hands around his throat, and just squeeze. Scott could feel the anger welling up inside. Behind his back his two hands formed into hard fists. He wanted to smash them both into Milner’s fat face.
Completely oblivious to everything, Milner was continuing to ramble on with his story. “He was on parade the next day, right. It was going to be a special day of some kind. I can’t remember, the General, or someone was coming.” Milner could barely continue with the laughter. “That’s it, now I remember. He had to parade the regimental colours that day. He’d been chosen special.” Milner was now hysterical, and almost choking with laughter. “Special, that’s a laugh. He was special all right. Boy, he was unique. There’s never been anyone like him. He had such a hangover he couldn’t stand up the next day. Wow. The Sergeant almost burst a blood vessel with anger. He was threatening all sorts of punishments, including a firing squad. Hilarious, I hadn’t laughed so much since I don’t know when. Look at me, I’m still laughing now.”
Scott remembered the occasion extremely well, and now he knew exactly why he disliked Milner so much.
“It was only the Lieutenant that saved his skin, asking Kadowski to give him a break,” Milner continued. “He’s only a kid, Sarge. Don’t be too hard on him. Talk about pussyfooting. You should have seen the look on Kadowski’s face. He was livid, but he did as the Lieutenant asked. In the end Roberts got seven days KP, and that was that. Boy was he fortunate. And for all of that time Roberts never said a word in his own defence. Not a word. Boy what an idiot. He just kept quiet, and took it.” Milner started to laugh again, loudly.
Scott remembered the occasion very well. It was not a time that he cared to recall. He should have helped him at that time. He should have put a stop to Milner there and then. But he had done nothing, and had just let it happen. He had let him down badly. He should have helped, but he didn’t, and his friend got into trouble. He had let him down again back at that lake. He should have been there but he wasn’t, and his friend had died. No, his friend had been murdered. He decided there and then that he would be avenged, no matter what.
“Sure, very funny,” said Scott, but other things were on his mind now. He wasn’t really listening to Milner. He said nothing, but quickly turned around, and started to walk away down the road, toward the bay.
Milner was in mid sentence, and couldn’t believe it. Scott was going just like that, walking away, without a word. Nobody walked away from him, he was such a fun guy, and everybody loved him. You couldn’t ignore him. He was the life and soul of any party.
Hurriedly he called out after Scott. “Eh, Scott, I’m staying at the Freemont, for a few days. Call me. The number’s in the book. Perhaps we can get together and go over old times. You know have a few beers, a few laughs, that kind of thing …”
His voice trailed away, Scott wasn’t listening. He was long gone, and was now out of sight. “He was always an odd one, that Scott,” said Milner. “A real screwball, never really liked him anyway.”
He stared in the direction that Scott had taken for a few moments longer. He then turned around and continued on his way. As he did he took out a large handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“That was a close thing”, he said as he hurried along. “I was beginning to think he’d never go, I could have been stuck with him for the rest of the day.”
* * *
Later that evening, back at his apartment, Scott determined that he would not let his friend down ever again. He resolved, once and for all, to find Hartman, and to kill him. Nothing was to come in the way of that idea. Not this time. Not ever again. He had put it aside once before, but no more. This time there was to be no hesitation, no uncertainty. This time there was to be no turning back. Nothing would be allowed to dissuade, or distract, him. Nothing was to stand in his way.
He poured himself a large glass of whiskey, and started to drink, draining the glass in one swift action. He then poured another, and placed it on the table in front of him. He now needed to work out some kind of plan of action. He went over to the small bureau in the corner of the room. He opened it, and took out a buff coloured folder. He placed it on the table next to the whiskey. He sat down, took up the glass and sipped the whiskey. He opened the file, and started to glance through the pages. It was in German, and much of it he did not understand. His German was sufficient to get around, but it certainly wasn’t good enough for this. He did, however, know enough to know that the file contained detailed information about Hartman. He knew that it held the clue that would eventually lead to finding him.
He finished his drink. He closed the file, and placed it back inside the bureau. He would get as much of the document translated as possible, and then he would be able to make some detailed plans. He turned off the light, and sat down on the sofa staring into the darkness.
The next day was a Saturday. The garage was closed for the day, so there was no work. Scott decided to go along to the main public library, and make some enquiries regarding translation services.
“German into English,” the young lady at the reception counter said. She moved to the nearby shelving, and took down a directory of local businesses. “Now let me see,” she said. “German into English,” she repeated to herself, over and over, in case she forgot, as she scanned through the directory pages. “Here we are,” she said suddenly. “It’s listed under Language Services. There aren’t many listed, I’m afraid.” She started to count, as she continued to read. “One, two, three.” She turned the page. “Four. There’s only four. Let’s hope that one of them is suitable.” She flipped back to the first page. “The first one is Peter Dorfman. He is on Geary Street, number 218, the second floor, translations to and from German. I hope that is of assistance,” she said. “Let me write that down for you.” As she spoke she started to write the information down. When she had finished she looked up, and offered a scrap of paper to Scott. Scott had already gone.
* * *
He took a cab directly to 218 Geary Street, and went up to the second floor. He tapped on the door to Dorfman’s office, and went in. He was greeted by a young lady, who it later transpired was Dorfman’s wife.
“Mr Dorfman is with someone, right now,” she said. “He shouldn’t be too long. Would you care to wait?”
Yes, Scott cared to wait. He sat down, and took out the buff folder.
Dorfman’s office door opened a short while after, and an elderly man came out.
“That will be ready for you in a few days,” a voice from inside the room said. The elderly man thanked the person, and walked out of the office.
“You can go in, now, Mr Scott,” Dorfman’s wife said pointing to the door.
Scott got up, and walked to the door. He tapped twice, and then went in.
Dorfman was a young man, in his mid twenties. He was tall, blonde, with blue eyes, a true Aryan, thought Scott. He was un-nerved by the sight of a German, and he wondered about Dorfman. What was he doing in San Francisco? Come to that, what was he doing in America?
As though sensing Scott’s curiosity, Dorfman explained that he had been born in Los Angeles, in 1923, his parents were Jewish, and they had left Germany shortly after the end of the First World War.
“I hope that satisfies you,” said Dorfman. “Perhaps in the circumstances you would rather go elsewhere?”
“Oh no, that’s perfectly all right,” Scott said, acting as though it didn’t really matter. He hurriedly went on to explain his requirements. He explained that he had recovered the document during the war. “Kind of a souvenir, you might say,” he told Dorfman. “I just thought it might be interesting to have it translated. Something to show the grand children, you know.”
Dorfman took hold of the folder, and glanced at it. He wasn’t too interested in what Scott was saying. Why the translation was actually required was of no concern to him. He couldn’t care less. He knew precisely what the dossier contained. Instinctively he knew that it was no ordinary souvenir. He knew that there was something more than idle interest. But he had learnt not to ask too many questions.
Shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought, although there appeared to be quite a lot of technical items included. “My fee will be one hundred and fifty dollars. Is that acceptable?” It was more than Scott had expected, but without hesitation Scott agreed. “Give me a few days,” Dorfman continued. “Where can I reach you?” Scott gave him a telephone number, and an address. “Goodbye Mr. Scott, Dorfman said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Three days later the translation was ready, and in Scott’s apartment. He had collected it earlier that day, handing over one hundred and fifty dollars.
“No cheques, thank you,” Dorfman had said. “Cash only.”
Scott picked up the large envelope containing the two folders. He then took out the original buff coloured German folder, with the Swastika stamp on the front cover, and placed it on the table in front of him. He then took out the blue folder containing the English translation, and placed it next to the other. He turned the pages of both files simultaneously, comparing them as he went along. It looked as though everything had been covered. Dorfman had done a good job. Although a lot of money, it was one hundred and fifty dollars well spent. He then closed the buff folder, and placed it in a drawer. He then started to study the translated document. Firstly he briefly looked at each page, to get an idea of the file’s structure. The first section contained personal details – place of birth, education, parents, grand-parents, religion, address, previous occupation. It appeared to be extremely thorough, and covered everything you could think of.
The second section contained medical details – details of any illnesses, medication, operations, and disabilities.
The next section covered political persuasion, party membership, known contacts with any outlawed or undesired organisations.
The fourth section covered police records, court appearances, civil offences, criminal offences, arrests, and prison terms.
The fifth section covered military aspects, including training, service records, and campaign medals. In addition in Hartman’s case, there was a separate report from the Gestapo regarding his service with the Nazi Party, the Storm Troopers, and subsequently with the SS.
It was a very thorough document, and it contained everything you could possibly think of. Nothing had been left out.
Scott started to read the file in detail, concentrating on the first section. He wanted to know all he could about Hartman, his background, his habits, his acquaintances, relatives, friends, and, most important, the places where he frequented.
The file gave details of when he was born, 22nd June 1912; and where, Taunstein, a small town a few miles to the northwest of Munich. His father had been a clockmaker. His mother had taken in laundry to augment the family’s meagre income. His father had died from Consumption when Hartman was only fifteen years old. He and his mother had then moved to Munich in October 1927. His mother had developed Pneumonia and died two years, and three months later. For a short time Hartman had been looked after by a distant relative, his mother’s second cousin.
The arrangement was not entirely satisfactory, and they had argued constantly. After a short time Hartman had left and moved to Nuremberg. He was just eighteen years old. He managed to get a job loading for a small haulage company. By the time he was twenty he was one of the company’s main drivers. As time went by the company began to do well, and decided to open a second office in Munich. The Company asked Hartman if he would like to take charge of the Munich operation. Hartman was ambitious and hard working. He did not hesitate, and grabbed the opportunity with both hands. He learnt all he could about the haulage business. So in 1932, aged 20, Hartman was back in Munich, the manager of a small, though expanding business.
At about that time Adolf Hitler started his political rallies in and around Munich. Hartman went to one early in 1933, and immediately became absorbed with Hitler and National Socialism. He was completely in awe of Hitler. Two years later he had joined the Nazi Party. At that time he was still living in Munich. By 1938, Hartman was a member of Hitler’s Storm Troopers, and he had moved to Hamburg.
Scott made a mental note of the address, 18 Konigstrasse. It was a long shot, but it was a start. Scott quickly scanned the other pages trying to find a later address, without success. He sat back in his seat, and stifled a yawn. It was quite late, and he suddenly realised how tired he was.
He closed the file, and placed it in the drawer. Hartman’s background is very well covered, and I now have an address. It was eight years old though, but there was no other address listed. The file was extremely thorough, so the address must be correct. “18 Konigstrasse,” he said. “That’s where I’ll start.” Scott smiled. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
* * *
The following day Scott was mentally ready to commence his mission. He would need money, but he had already managed to save a substantial amount. Then there was the counterfeit dollars he had picked up at the lake. He checked the amount, a little over twenty-five thousand dollars, in small denominations. He would need to be careful, but he was sure that amount would be more than enough. Yes he was ready. He would go to Hamburg as soon as possible.
At two thirty that afternoon Scott quit his job at the garage. The boss was sorry to see him go, but wished him well in the future. He asked him what his plans were. Scott merely replied that he was going to Europe, and intended to look up an old acquaintance.
“I have an old debt to repay, and I want him to get everything that he deserves,” Scott said.
The boss thought that was wonderful. “You really must think a lot of that guy.” Scott admitted that he thought a great deal about him. He omitted to say that he thought of little else. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate what you are doing for him,” the boss continued.
“Well you know it’s not the receiving that counts,” Scott said. “It’s the giving. That gives me a kind of warm glow.” The boss was sure that it did, but nonetheless it was still a good thing that he was doing, whatever way you said it.
“Maybe, but I shall get more out of it than he will,” Scott replied. “I can assure you of that.”
Scott was paid off in full, together with a small, unexpected, bonus. By three thirty he had closed his bank account. The bank teller advised him that there was a total of three thousand two hundred and sixty three dollars, and twenty-nine cents in the account.
“The cash will be here, ready for you, tom
orrow afternoon,” the teller advised. “If you would care to come back then,” he checked the time on the wall clock. “At about this same time.”
Scott looked at the clock. He thanked the teller, and left. One hour later Scott had booked his flight to Hamburg, a single one-way ticket. He was due to leave in five days time. First he would fly to New York, then on to London, and finally Hamburg.
Later that afternoon he told his landlord that he would be going away for a while. He paid for three months rent, in advance. “I can’t say when I’ll be back,” he explained. “I could be gone a long while, or maybe for just a few weeks.”
That would not be a problem the landlord had said. “I’ll keep an eye on the apartment, don’t you worry,” he said. “It’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.” Scott thanked him, and returned to his rooms.
That evening he started to pack. He didn’t precisely know how long he would be away, so he wasn’t sure how much he needed to take. Eventually he decided that he would take only a few essential items. He wasn’t going to be loaded with a lot of unnecessary luggage, just enough clothes for the first few days. Anything else that he needed he would just have to buy. He wasn’t that concerned. He had far more important things on his mind.
He checked his passport. It appeared to be in order, and up to date. Next he checked the other necessary documents – insurance documents, health certificates. All seemed to be fine. He placed them inside a leather briefcase, together with two folders, one buff coloured, and the other blue. He was now ready. All he had to do now was wait.
It was a long shot, but he had to start somewhere. He was fully aware that it was almost a year since he had last seen Hartman. Anything could have happened in the meantime. It was, of course, entirely possible that Hartman had already been captured by the Allies, and was currently in a prison cell somewhere awaiting trial. He may even be dead already. Either way, it did not matter. But Scott had to know. He had to find out, one way or the other. If Hartman were already dead, so be it, it would save him the trouble. If he were still alive, that was all right too. He knew exactly what action he would need to take in that event. Then he would put Hartman on trial himself. It would be a swift justice. There would be no unnecessary delays. There would be no long drawn out legal arguments. Formalities would be kept to a minimum. He would be the judge, and the jury. I will also be a prosecution witness, he thought, with a certain satisfaction. We’ll dispense with any defence. “What defence? What possible defence could there be? There is none.”