by Alex Gerlis
Herr Schmidt returned to the office later that afternoon, at around four o’clock. I had to go into his office to sort out the files with him and he acted perfectly normally towards me. As I was leaving, I asked him how the meeting had gone and it he said it had been good, although one of the Berlin lawyers had unexpectedly left at lunchtime. Something had cropped up in Berlin that he needed to attend to urgently, apparently.
To me, it was obvious Horst had gone to the police. I was more upset than frightened: did our friendship mean nothing to him? They would come for me that night. I was actually very calm when I returned to my flat. I was almost relieved that the years of waiting were about to come to an end.
I didn’t sleep that night, but there were no knocks at the door and no unusual activity in the street. Nothing was out of the ordinary when I got to the office the next morning, but an hour later I was sitting in my little cubby-hole behind the reception desk when I overheard Anke answering a call. At first she said something like, ‘no, not here.’ I’m not sure what it was exactly she said as I was not really concentrating. But then her voice rose as she became quite insistent. I will never forget what she said next: ‘look sir, I keep telling you. We have no Otto Schröder working here!’
I promise you that if I had not been sitting down at this point I would have fainted. What doubt could I have now that it was Horst I had seen the previous day? I tried to sound normal as I asked Anke about the call. An out of town call, she said, a middle-aged man, insisting we had an Otto Schröder working here.
But still no-one came for me. Over the weekend, I began to think about matters in a more rational way. Georg Stern could certainly report me to the authorities as a war criminal, and I would be arrested. But by reporting me, he would be incriminating himself. He was as guilty as I was: I had seen him strangle the Jewish woman at the police station in Dortmund. Of course, we all did terrible things that day. I had no idea about what had happened to him after Essen, but it was clear that he had a new identity.
I came to realise that most likely he would do nothing. In fact, maybe he was just as scared I would report him. It became clear that nothing was going to happen. But I remained curious. I checked Georg Stern’s details in a directory of law firms throughout the Federal Republic. He was born in Berlin on 15th March 1927, it said, and became a partner at Rostt Legal in 1956. But what I read next really shocked me. Georg Stern had been educated for a time at a Jewish school in Berlin and had survived the war, though it did not say how. He was now prominent in a number of Jewish charities in Berlin.
I was utterly confused. It was evident that Georg Stern was Horst’s true identity: indeed, it appeared he had always been Georg Stern, but… a Jewish boy in the SS? None of this made sense. I’m sure I would have realised if Horst was Jewish. Don’t forget, we were trained to spot them, weren’t we? And I know this is a bit delicate, but remember that we shared a room for many months. I saw Horst naked many times and I can assure you that he was not circumcised. I toyed with the idea of going to Berlin to find Georg Stern. I wanted to know the truth and, perhaps more than anything else, I wanted to spend some time with the last friend I had.
Before I could do this, the second event occurred. I’ve told you about how my boss, Alois Schmidt, was a decent man with a reputation for integrity and discretion. For that reason he sometimes handled matters for clients in very sensitive positions from outside Frankfurt. He took on a number of divorce cases, in particular, where for reasons of sensitivity the client didn’t want to be represented by a lawyer based near to where they lived.
In the April of last year – so two months after my encounter with Horst Weber, or Georg Stern, as he now apparently was – Herr Schmidt asked me to stay after the office closed because he had a new client from ‘out of town,’ as he put it. Herr Schmidt told me I should let him know when the client arrived, and I shouldn’t ask the client his name.
The client arrived around seven thirty and hurried in and was very brusque: he wanted to be taken to Herr Schmidt as soon as possible. He hardly looked at me, and I would be lying if I said I recognised him immediately, but there was certainly something familiar about him. It was hard to make out his features. Despite the warm spring weather he was wearing a large overcoat with the collar turned up and a hat which covered his face, as well as spectacles. But something about him made me uneasy. Perhaps it was his bearing and his demeanour, I don’t know. But I felt uncomfortable.
Herr Schmidt rang me and I said I did not need to stay, but perhaps I could bring up some coffee before I left? When I entered his office, the client was sitting at the table next to Herr Schmidt. He had removed his coat and hat and his spectacles were perched on the top of his head. I immediately had no doubt whatsoever that this was none other than Wilhelm Richter, my fellow SS recruit and the worst one of us all. He had the same build, the same thick dark hair and most definitely the familiar jet-black eyes. But unlike Horst – Georg Stern – Richter did not look up. He was engrossed in a document which meant I had a good opportunity to observe him from different angles. It was definitely Richter.
The following day I was in the main filing room, and I tried to find a file for Richter. Unsurprisingly there was nothing there under that name, but nor could I find any file for a client last night. I had to assume Herr Schmidt kept the file in his own safe, which he did for special clients. Over the next few months I did try to locate the file. I needed to know Richter’s new identity – but I failed. The case must have been current because I could not trace the file at the depository in Grosse Gallusstrasse. In my experience, it would not be moved there until the case was over, at which point it would be put in the archive section.
Around this time I began to feel ill. I am now of the view that the shock of my past seeming to catch up with me could have triggered my illness. So I did nothing. But then, as my condition worsened and I realised that my fate is inevitable, I decided Wilhelm Richter must be exposed. The safest way I felt I could bring this about was to get my story to the British: they should be able to find out Richter’s new identity.
So here it is. And you have Georg Stern as a witness, should you need corroboration. And maybe, if you can, think of me once in a while.
Chapter 12
England
April 1976
Edgar took the best part of an hour and a half to read through Bernhard Krause’s testimony, pausing every so often to make a note. He locked the document in his safe and sat silently through lunch. His wife recognised a familiar look about him: the one when he’d spotted his prey in the distance and was focussing solely on it. When she caught his eye he smiled pleasantly, but she knew he’d retreated once more into the world he was most comfortable in and had always regretted leaving, in as much as he’d ever really left.
After lunch he went through Porter’s boxes once more and, having established that there was nothing else of any interest, carried them all out to the secluded patch at the back of the garden which he used for bonfires. For a while he stood close to the fire, gazing into it as tiny flecks of greyed paper and bits of ash swirled around him. Once he was satisfied everything was well ablaze, he returned to his study and retrieved the document from the safe. He read the testimony through once more and then moved from his club chair to the desk, placing two large sheets of blank paper on it. The desk was by the window overlooking the garden, at the end of which wisps of smoke from the bonfire were still visible.
He thought about what Viktor had told him in the flat in East Berlin, and started to make notes on one of the sheets.
Former Nazi intelligence officer (Schäfer)… works at the Soviet Embassy in East Berlin… runs an agent in West Germany, codename ‘Goalkeeper’… ‘very high-grade intelligence’… probably works for the BfV (proof???)… (possible) real name of ‘Goalkeeper’: Wilhelm Richter (born Dresden 1926)??… war crimes allegations Jan 45… Gdansk June 46, Sturmbannführer Krüger… September 1949, Carsten Möller (Soviet PoW camp)…
And t
hen he flicked through the notes he had made on Krause’s story, and re-read the last few pages of the testimony. He wrote on the other sheet of paper.
Bernhard Krause… young SS recruits, secret mission… Richter possibly (probably?) alive April 1968, seen by Krause at his office. NOT from Frankfurt ‘out of town’… cannot find out his new identity… WHAT IS REAL NAME/IDENTITY? At BfV??
Any connection between Reinhard Schäfer (KGB) and Erich Schäfer (Nazi)??...
Goalkeeper’s real identity - ???
Georg Stern (Horst Weber) – lawyer, West Berlin… Others: Axel Werner (dead) Konrad Hartmann, Christian Schäfer, Arnold Bauer, Lothar Meier, Mathias Hahn and Carsten Möller (dead, see above).
Edgar could quite see how in 1969 both he and Porter had dismissed the Krause testimony as being fanciful and, even if it was to be believed, of precious little consequence. But reading it now was utterly frustrating: there was no reason to doubt Krause when he said he had encountered Richter in 1968, but there was no clue as to his identity or a link to the German security service. For Viktor’s theory to stand up, they needed a name. Krause’s testimony was tantalizing but got them little further.
Edgar gathered up the folder containing Krause’s testimony, along with his notes, and returned them to the safe. He thought of Viktor’s parting words when he’d asked if Viktor wanted him to return to East Berlin.
‘No! It would be too risky to come here a second time. These days it is easier for me to travel, and as long as it is to another Warsaw Pact country then I won’t arouse suspicion. I’ll tell you what, here’s where we’ll meet…’
***
‘Edgar… its Ronnie, Ronnie Castle!’
It was a week after Edgar had returned from Cambridge, and just days away from his visit to Viktor. The telephone had rung as he’d walked through the front door after his morning walk with the dog. Ronnie Castle, a dreadful bore who’d joined the Service a few months before Edgar had left it. In candid conversations with those he could trust, Edgar would confide that the recruitment of people like Castle was one of the reasons he’d left. No subtlety, no manners, no brains; but he was an alumnus of the same Oxford college as the Director.
‘I just happened to be in your area, Edgar, and wondered if I could pop in?’
‘Well fancy that, eh Ronnie?’ Edgar did not fancy that at all. It was what he meant by Castle’s lack of subtlety: it was quite obvious that Castle had not ‘just happened to be in your area.’ Likewise the phone ringing as soon as he walked through the door. They’d have been watching him. Knowing the way these things happen, Edgar realised he must have been watched from at least the day before, otherwise Castle would not have travelled down to Dorset. He ought to have spotted them, and that was not good. He must be losing his touch.
‘Mind if I pop round? Could be with you in five minutes.’
No subtlety.
When Ronnie Castle arrived he was not alone. His companion was an awkward-looking type, perhaps in his early thirties, who seemed to blink a lot and was wearing a gold watch and carrying an attaché case that appeared to be made from expensive leather. Castle introduced him as ‘Lassiter’. Edgar recalled what Porter had told him about Lassiter seven years previously, shortly before his retirement.
Typical of the new breed Edgar, you’d absolutely detest him. Disagreeable type. Talent spotted at Balliol before he’d even finished his second year… very high opinion of himself… shared by some of the fools he reports to… wears aftershave and ties with flowers on them and, would you believe it, brown shoes with a dark suit!’
Today Lassiter was wearing a brown suit with black shoes, which in Edgar’s opinion was even worse, and a shirt with thick blue stripes and a white collar which was at least one size too tight, contributing to the younger man’s altogether uncomfortable appearance. Even before they began talking Lassiter had removed a large notebook from the attaché case. Edgar glared at it and even Castle spotted the faux pas. ‘Won’t be necessary,’ he whispered to Lassiter.
Edgar had taken them to the lounge at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and caught in the shade of its trees. Even in April, without any heating the room was somewhat chilly. Edgar intended it to remain so.
‘I’ll be frank with you Edgar,’ said Castle, in the manner of a man who was unfamiliar with being frank with anyone, ‘we need to ask you some questions.’
‘Is there a problem Ronnie?’
‘Good heavens no, Edgar! Nothing of the sort, purely routine – you know the score. Imagine you’ve done it yourself countless times. I’ll tell you what it is…’ Castle leaned forward to pick up his cup of tea from the low table that lay between him and Edgar. Lassiter did likewise. ‘Porter... poor old Porter, eh?’
‘What about him?’
‘Not sure if you know, but Sheridan spends most weekends in Cambridge. His wife’s something terribly important in some kind of physics there. He makes a point of popping in to see Porter once a month or so, went to see him last weekend. I say Edgar, is it me or is it a bit chilly in here?’
‘Must be you Ronnie, but I suppose I could put the fire on if you’re really cold.’
Castle held up his hand in a reluctant don’t bother gesture and pulled his jacket tight around him. ‘Sheridan tells me Porter told him you had been up to see him a few days previously. Apparently it was your first visit for quite a while. You probably noticed the poor chap is not what he was…’
‘A bit doddery Ronnie, certainly. Happens to us all I suppose…’
‘Early stages of dementia in Porter’s case, I’m told. He is not the man he was, but some of the time he is surprisingly clear. He told Sheridan you rather pushed him on a certain subject.’
‘Really?’ Edgar leaned forward, intrigued as to what this certain subject could possibly be. ‘And what was that?’
‘Apparently you asked him about a case from seven years ago.’ Lassiter spoke in an assured drawl as he slouched on the settee next to Castle. Edgar noticed his socks were pale yellow with what appeared to be a flower motif on them. Lassiter paused, waiting for Edgar to assist him with an answer. Edgar remained silent, allowing a hint of a frown to form. ‘Does the name Krause help?’
‘Good heavens, that? Really now… it was something Porter worked on just before he retired. It was all to do with the Second World War and Nazis, my bag really. He asked me for my opinion at the time, that’s all. All above board in case you’re worried, Lassiter. I had full clearance then, still do now, not that I’m consulted much these days. I mentioned it to Porter as I thought it might be something he’d remember. It was a passing comment, no more than that – an attempt to fill the silence, to be honest. I just asked him if anything ever came of it. It was a bit of a mystery at the time.’
‘What did you know about the case?’
‘Porter asked me about it back in ’69, I think it was. Ran some names past me, that kind of thing. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to help.’
‘Ever see the file?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you know if Porter had a copy of the file?’
‘Why would he have that? Indeed, how…’
‘According to Sheridan,’ said Castle, in a less aggressive tone, ‘you took some boxes of papers away with you.’
‘For Christ’s sake Ronnie, you’re confusing matters. I chatted with Porter about all manner of things: his garden, my garden, cricket, dear old Harold Wilson, the Common Market and this bloody case, which accounted for perhaps five minutes of our conversation – if that. Then Marjorie came in and had a moan about all the boxes stored in an outhouse and had a bit of a go at Porter about it, so I said I’d take them away.’
‘And what did you do with them?’
‘Really Lassiter, you’re beginning to make this sound as if it’s an interrogation. I brought the boxes here and looked through them, checking there was nothing important, which of course there wasn’t. Porter is not the type to have done anything naughty, is he? The boxes
were full of rubbish, all kinds of inconsequential stuff he’d kept over the years. None of it classified before you ask, not even Level 5.’
‘And what happened to everything?’
‘I burnt it Lassiter: on a bonfire. I can show you the ashes if you care, though most of them are now helping my roses. I’m hardly going to keep the boxes here for my own wife to complain about, am I?’
Lassiter shifted uncomfortably and looked at Castle, as if seeking help. Castle remained silent. ‘So you’ve… not… seen the, erm… file?’
‘Which file, Lassiter?’
‘The Krause file?’
‘No. Never did, either in ’69 or the other week. In any case, the file would be in Registry, wouldn’t it?’
‘For some reason it’s not,’ said Castle. ‘Which is why we were wondering if Porter may have taken a copy…’
‘You’ve asked that already. Of course he didn’t. In any case, that would have been against the rules’ said Edgar.
‘The rules were being bent then, especially by some of the old timers. People started to take home copies of stuff with a lower security classification. That’s all stopped now, of course,’ said Castle.
‘Why are you so interested in this case, anyway?’ Edgar already sensed victory.
‘It’s not so much that we are interested, more we thought you were.’
‘Well I’m not, and I’m sorry I can’t help.’ Edgar stood up. His visitors were approaching the end of their welcome.
‘Just one other thing,’ said Lassiter, half standing, half sitting. ‘Have you been abroad recently?’
‘Depends what you mean by recently. We were in Madeira in January, that’s the last time we were abroad.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure Lassiter. Do you want me to show you my passport?’ Edgar turned to the senior man. ‘Look what is this Castle, have you brought him along as part of a training course?’