by C. J. Sansom
‘My hand. If I move it, it hurts. But I can’t feel it properly.’ Tears came to Frank’s eyes. The doctor pulled up a chair and sat beside him. He said, quietly, ‘I’m afraid we think you’ve damaged the nerves in your wrist. We’ll see how it goes, but you may have problems with some of the fingers.’ He smiled. ‘But your thumb and forefinger should be all right, you should be able to write.’ He paused. ‘The school said there was a cross-country run, and you took your shoes off, then fell over on the spikes. Is that right, son?’
Frank hesitated, then said, ‘Yes.’
‘Only you must’ve landed on that shoe with all the weight of your body.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Odd way to land.’
‘Is it?’
‘Lucky those boys were just behind you, lucky they found you.’
The doctor looked at him quizzically. Frank thought, if I tell the truth, maybe I’ll never have to go back. But then the doctor smiled and said, ‘Strangmans was my old school. It’s a fine place. Those boys who found you showed real presence of mind making a tourniquet like that. Otherwise, you could have bled to death, you know.’
Frank closed his eyes.
Next day his mother came to visit. She wept at the sight of his bandaged hand, shook her head and asked how Frank could have been so careless, so stupid. He asked if he could come back home but she said she couldn’t cope; after what had happened she was sure he needed to stay at the school, be properly taken care of. She told him this was what his father had told her from the other side, through Mrs Baker.
Back at school, the other boys left him strictly alone now. Lumsden and his friends kept well out of his way. Teachers treated him more gently. From the way they looked at him sometimes Frank guessed the authorities knew or suspected what had really happened, but it was always spoken of as a dreadful, careless accident. Lumsden left at the end of the term, to go to another school. Frank, relieved, wondered if Strangmans had asked him to go. His English teacher, who had formerly mocked him for his lack of interest in anything but science fiction, was now patient and careful in helping him learn to write again. He continued to work and work, hardly speaking to the other boys at all. He would listen to their conversations though, and had a dim awareness that life was passing him by, leaving him behind. He didn’t even understand some of the slang they used nowadays.
One day in the spring the science teacher, Mr McKendrick, asked him to stay behind after class. He was a large, middle-aged man, the suit under his black gown always shabby. He had a gentle, enthusiastic air, unusual among the crusty Strangmans masters. He sat at his desk on its dais, looking down at Frank.
‘How’s the hand?’ he asked in a friendly way.
‘All right, sir.’ It wasn’t, it tingled and hurt a lot of the time, but the doctor said there was nothing more to be done.
‘You’re a clever boy, Frank, you know that.’
‘Am I, sir?’
‘Yes. You can grasp scientific ideas as well as any boy I’ve taught. You could go to university, spend your life doing real scientific work.’
Frank felt a glow of pride, and something else new: hope. Mr McKendrick continued, ‘But you’d have to work harder in your other classes. Your English isn’t bad, but your marks in other subjects aren’t great.’
‘No, sir.’
Mr McKendrick seemed thoughtful. He leaned forward and said, ‘You don’t appear to have any friends, do you, Muncaster?’
‘No, sir.’ Frank wriggled a little, the pleasure replaced by shame.
‘You should make an effort to join in.’ McKendrick looked at him appealingly. ‘Why don’t you try harder at sport, perhaps, once your hand’s better.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frank answered woodenly. He had hated rugger, was glad the doctors said he mustn’t play that term. Nobody ever wanted him in their team and they would kick or barge him out the way if he came anywhere near the ball.
‘Oh, Muncaster, please do take that grin off your face.’ McKendrick sighed. ‘I just don’t want you to waste your talents, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Waste is a terrible thing,’ he said quietly. ‘I remember during the Great War, the casualty lists, those boys whose names are on the memorial in the Assembly Hall. For me they weren’t just names. I look over the desks and think, this boy sat here, that one there. I pray to the Good Lord another war never comes.’
Frank stared at him. He understood what McKendrick was saying about the War, he had lost his own father, but as for the rest, he was talking nonsense. As though the other boys would ever let him join in. But he thought, yes, he would work in class. The idea of spending his time somewhere studying science gave him, for the first time, a sense of purpose. A life somewhere far, far away from Strangmans.
‘Frank!’ It was Sam, the older attendant, shouting from the doorway.
He stood up wearily; it must be time for his walk round the airing courts. But Sam said, ‘You’ve to come to Dr Wilson’s office. People to see you.’
Frank frowned, puzzled. It was too early for David, and he had thought he was seeing him in here. His heart pounded. But he had come. David might rescue him.
But then Sam said, ‘It’s the police. Probably something to do with what happened to your brother.’
Chapter Sixteen
GUNTHER WAS PICKED UP FROM his flat by Syme, driving an old Wolseley, at ten o’clock. They set off an hour after David’s party, through quiet suburban streets empty save for a few early churchgoers. It was a cold, cloudy day.
When Gunther had got up he had found a letter pushed under his door. It was addressed to his flat in Berlin, and he recognized his wife’s handwriting. The postmark, stamped over the Führer’s grey head, was Krimea. The Gestapo must have collected it from his flat and forwarded it to the embassy, who had then brought it round here for him. He was certainly getting first-class treatment.
There was a brief, formal note from his ex-wife, dated a week before. She said his son was doing well at school, that she hoped the security situation would allow Michael to visit his father in Berlin next spring. She hoped he was in good health.
He opened the letter from his son and read it eagerly.
Dear Father,
I hope you are well and that your work in trapping bad people who work against Germany is going well. Here it has become cold, but not so cold as Berlin, and I am wearing a new coat Mummy got me for school. I am doing quite well in German, not so well in mathematics. I am second top of the class in gymnastics. A new settler family from Brandenburg has moved in next door. They have a little boy called Wilhelm who comes to school with me and I am helping him find his way around. There was a terrorist attack on the railway line to Berlin last week and a freight train was derailed. It was out near Kherson. I hope there is a bad winter in Russia and the terrorists all starve.
Thank you for saying you are sending me a train set for Christmas. I look forward to getting it so much. We will be putting the Christmas tree up next week and I will think of you on Christmas Day.
Mummy says I may come to Berlin to visit you next year. I would love to come.
Kisses,
Michael.
Gunther folded the letter and laid it on the coffee table. He kept his hand on it. His son, the only family he had left, so far away.
Syme said little as he drove but there was a hint of a smirk in his expression that puzzled Gunther. The inspector was restless, too, lighting one cigarette after another. Then, as they reached the outer suburbs, he said, ‘I thought we might’ve seen something interesting on the way, but it looks like the fun hasn’t started yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gunther tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘I heard about it when I went to collect the car. They’re moving all the Jews in the country this morning, taking them to special camps. Everyone’s involved, Special Branch, Auxiliaries, regular police, even the army.’
Gunther stared at him, annoyed at his smug tone.
‘We’
ve had the plans ready for years, of course, we thought the government would give in to German pressure eventually. About bloody time so far as I’m concerned.’
Gunther frowned. ‘I did not know this.’ So that was what Gessler had meant about the police having something else on their minds.
‘Nor did anyone else.’ Syme smiled, obviously happy to be in the know when the German wasn’t. ‘Apparently Beaverbrook and Himmler agreed the final details in Berlin. Mosley’s going to broadcast about it on TV later on.’
‘What sort of camps are they being sent to?’
‘First to army barracks, closed factories, football grounds. Sounds like they’re going to shift them somewhere else afterwards.’ He looked across at Gunther, smiling. ‘Maybe we’re giving them to you.’
Gunther nodded slowly. This was a big political step, a move closer to Germany. The price, he guessed, for economic advantages and the right to raise more troops for the Empire. And of course with Mosley’s people in the government, there were more at the top who wanted rid of the Jews. ‘Do you think there will be any opposition from the public?’ he asked.
Syme tapped his foot on the floor of the car. ‘If there is we’ll deal with it. But the idea was to do it out of the blue on a Sunday morning, when nobody’s around apart from the churchy types. If they make any trouble we can easily deal with them.’
‘I congratulate you,’ Gunther said. ‘It has worried us, this alien element in Britain, our most important ally. Maybe the French will get rid of their Jews now,’ he added thoughtfully, remembering Beaver-brook had stopped in Paris on his way to Berlin.
Syme said, ‘Dockland’s always been crawling with Jews and foreigners. I’ve always hated the lot of them. So did my dad.’ His eyes were shining. He was excited now, worked up.
‘Is that why you joined the Fascists?’
‘Yes. I joined in ’34, when I was a police cadet. Quite a few of us East End police supported Mosley. Having a Party card helped with advancement after the Berlin treaty. Even more now, with Mosley Home Secretary.’
‘It is the same in Germany. Being an Old Fighter, an alte kämpfer, it helps you get on.’
Syme looked at him. ‘Are you in the Nazi Party?’
‘I joined in 1930. I, too, was young.’
‘It helped me get into Special Branch, then up to inspector. I’ve led a couple of investigations now, winkling Resistance people out of the woodwork.’
‘I am sure your own talents helped as well.’
‘Trouble is, so many idiots sympathize with them these days, with the depression going on forever. I wish we could find Churchill.’
Gunther looked at the near-empty motorway, the still, cold countryside. ‘I think in England you have left things too long, taken too many half-measures. We rounded up all our enemies at the beginning, took firm control. To make a revolution you must act hard and fast.’
Syme frowned and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘We couldn’t do that. Remember, you let us keep our so-called democratic traditions at the Treaty negotiations.’
Gunther nodded agreement. ‘Yes. It seemed the easiest way to end the war, then.’
‘It’s taken twelve years to get shot of all that. We still allowed an Opposition till 1950. Now we’re getting tough, they’re fighting back. We don’t have your German respect for authority, you see,’ he added with heavy humour. ‘But we’ll beat them. This is the last campaign.’
Gunther wondered if they could. Britain had grown weak and corrupt after so long. Syme continued, ‘I’ve thought of getting a transfer up North. There’s a lot of London boys up there now. Good overtime, and I could do with a bit of excitement. Scotland, maybe. You know we’re arming some of the Scottish Nationalists to take on the strikers in Glasgow. They’ve always had a pro-Fascist wing, they opposed conscription of Scots in 1939 and we managed to split the party, get rid of the woolly-minded liberals and lefties.’ He smiled at Gunther. ‘We learned that from you, recruiting local nationalists against the Reds. Promise them some goodies in return.’ He laughed. ‘Beaverbrook’s promised to return the Stone of Scone to Scotland – it’s some slab of rock the Scottish kings used to put under their throne. And road signs in Gaelic and vague promises about Home Rule at some time.’
‘Yes. We have used the Flemings and the Bretons. Offered them baubles in return for fighting the Reds. And the Croats – setting them against the Serbs; they have been a big asset. It is a useful tactic. But this Stone of Scone, do not underestimate the importance of ancient symbols to a nation. Reichsführer Himmler has a whole organization, the Ahnenerbe, dedicated to uncovering the origins of the Aryan race.’ Gunther’s voice took on an enthusiastic note; it was a subject that interested him. ‘Recently we found what were definitely swastikas in some caves in Poland, proving the Aryan race was there first. It is part of our ancient heritage.’
‘Yeah?’ Syme wasn’t interested. ‘Fighting the Reds up North, that’s what I’d like, I could do with a bit of excitement. The Irish have offered to help us, you know, De Valera’s people. Put spies in the Irish community here – lots of Reds there. But he wanted a stake in Northern Ireland in return, so we turned them down. The Ulster Unionists would go berserk.’
‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed. ‘He offered Germany help too, on similar terms. But Ireland is one nationalist conflict we do not want to get bogged down in.’ A bit of excitement, he thought with distaste, there were so many in the Nazi Party who spoke of the things they had to do like that. He was always uneasy around such men, they tended to be wild, unfocused. But Syme seemed focused enough.
‘What’s your job in Germany now, if there aren’t any troublemakers left?’
‘Oh, there are always some. I look for Jews, William, and the people who shelter them. There are very few left now. Some in Poland.’
‘So there’s still some action?’
‘Action is not what I am looking for,’ Gunther replied seriously. ‘We are trying to make Europe safe for future generations, William, cut out the Jewish-Bolshevik cancer. We have to be serious, totally serious.’ Syme didn’t answer, and Gunther realized he was sounding pompous. There was silence for a few moments, then he asked, ‘Have you family in London?’
‘Nobody that matters. I was engaged a few years ago, but the girl broke it off. Said between the job and the Blackshirts she never saw me.’
Gunther smiled sadly. ‘My wife left me for similar reasons. She took my son to Krimea.’
Syme gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’
‘Women do not understand the pressure men must live under in these times.’
‘You’ve got that right. The heroic generation, eh?’
‘The generation that must sacrifice everything.’ Gunther looked out of the window. A wet, sleety snow had begun to fall.
Dr Wilson sat behind his desk, fingers laced together, looking disapprovingly at the two policemen. Driving up to the mental hospital, through the wet snow, Gunther had been impressed by the neat gardens, the building’s grand facade, but once inside he was appalled by what he saw: glimpses of crowded wards, patients with vacant or desperate faces. He was glad there was no more of this in Germany.
They were taken to Dr Wilson’s office, where Syme introduced himself as a Special Branch inspector and Gunther as his sergeant. The little fat mad-doctor had waved them to a couple of chairs then sat behind his desk, looking self-important, but worried too. He said, ‘I find it inconceivable that Dr Muncaster could be involved in political activities.’
Syme answered with a wry smile, ‘It’s often the last person you’d think of who is, sir.’
Wilson’s frown intensified. ‘You don’t understand. He is frightened of everything, he finds safety in quiet and routine. I don’t like that routine being disrupted.’ All Wilson’s attention was directed at Syme; he barely glanced at Gunther, no doubt thinking him just a middle-aged sergeant, which was exactly what Gunther wanted. ‘I would ask you to be careful with Dr Muncaster,
’ Wilson went on. ‘If you provoke another outburst I’m not responsible. Last time, as you will know, someone was badly hurt.’
Syme’s voice took on a soothing tone. ‘I’ll treat him gently, I promise. I just want to get an impression of him for now. I’ll tell him I’m new to the district, picked up his case and I’d like to go over it with him. You may be right about him not being political, it may not even be necessary to raise that directly. We just want to tie up a loose end.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘It’s not usual to have someone like Dr Muncaster, a graduate, on a common ward. We’d move him to the Private Villa if we could sort his money out. He’s my responsibility. I want to sit in on the interview.’
Syme shook his head. ‘That won’t be possible, sir. I promise you, I’ll try not to upset him. Just a bit of questioning.’ He added, ‘If you’re not happy, you can always phone London.’
Wilson set his lips tight, but did not reply. Syme, Gunther thought, was doing well. Like most people, Wilson was frightened of getting into trouble with the Home Office.
There was a knock at the door, and a middle-aged attendant entered. He held the arm of a thin man with a closely shaved head, in a baggy grey hospital uniform. Apart from his protuberant ears, Muncaster’s face, with its large eyes and full mouth, might have been handsome were he not so obviously consumed with fear as he stared between Wilson, Gunther and Syme. Syme stood up and smiled reassuringly. ‘Frank,’ Dr Wilson said gently. ‘These men are from the police. Inspector Syme here has taken over the case of your brother.’
Muncaster jerked back. The attendant grasped his arm more firmly. ‘Easy, Muncaster, easy.’ He guided him to a chair and sat him down.
Dr Wilson went on, ‘We’re going to leave you with these officers for a few minutes, Frank. It’s all right, they just want to ask a few questions.’ He looked at the attendant. ‘Wait outside, Edwards.’ With a last sharp look at Syme, Wilson left the room, the attendant following.