The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  Vince Slater could be one. He was the hairdresser in Manchester who had cut their hair four days before. According to Bergfeld, he was the top crimper in the city and he had refined the style they had been given by Astrid in his ladies salon in St Anne’s Square after closing time. They had played at a forgettable club near the Town Hall. Bergfeld hadn’t been there. His excuse that night was that he had to visit a dentist. But Slater had turned up to watch and listen and chat up the girls. He was older than the band but the age difference didn’t seem to matter and he was easy to like. After the gig, John went back to his flat with a couple of Slater’s friends and they sat up into the early hours putting the world to right over a bottle of brandy.

  The later the hour, the more serious the conversation, until John again wondered if he was being set up. Paranoia is a faithful friend. One of them gave him the magazines. Truth was propaganda from Ireland with grainy photographs. Liberty was a home-grown Xeroxed news sheet he had seen before. At first, he was more interested in Picturegoer because it came from America, was glossy and revealed a show business society to which he aspired. The cover story was Queen Liz Outshines Stars.

  Then he turned the pages of Truth and saw this propaganda was like none he’d seen before. The photographs were graphic. A playing field had been excavated to create a huge hole, which was filled with bodies. A mechanical digger and a set of goalposts were in the background. Frightened women and children peered out of cattle trucks; uniformed men herded a group of terrified naked women towards a brick building. An interior photograph showed empty ovens, large enough to bake bread for thousands. A second picture showed them being loaded with bodies. Emaciated men in striped pyjama suits stared through wire fences like standing corpses.

  Look closely at the faces and he could see Ringo, he could see Aunt Mimi, he could see himself. The captions gave the locations where the pictures had been taken. Most were in Germany but five had been taken in Coventry and Guernsey.

  Slater was slim, elegant and sophisticated and his accent betrayed a life before Manchester.

  ‘In 1939, there were 17 million Jews in the world. That’s all. You know how many there are now? Less than four million. Hitler and Heydrich sorted out the Jewish problem in Europe and Mosley did the same here. Not that anybody noticed here. You know why? Because there were so bloody few of them. Three hundred and thirty thousand in the whole country, the whole of Britain. That’s all. And most of them were in London, in the East End, and a few thousand here in Manchester. But they kept to themselves, you see, so the rest of the population didn’t notice when they disappeared.’

  ‘I thought they were repatriated,’ said John.

  ‘That’s a good word. Repatriated to a place they’d never seen, whether they wanted to go or not. Well, some were. Not that it did them any good. Or didn’t they teach you about the Two Month War at school?’

  ‘That was Jews against Arabs, wasn’t it?’

  He remembered it as a footnote in history; a small war in a foreign place that had no bearing on Britain and even less on growing up in Liverpool.

  ‘There were three million of them in Palestine. Some had escaped from Europe, some had been repatriated, some were from America. In 1948 they declared their independence and called their country Israel. They were prepared to fight the Arab League but Hitler loaned the Luftwaffe to the Arabs and the war was over in two months. Israel was no more. The people died.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them. Obliterated.’ Slater smiled. ‘Problem solved.’

  John’s head was not functioning properly because of all the drink and he knew the second bottle of brandy they had opened was going to make him poorly in the morning. But he was a guest. What could he do but accept the hospitality?

  The conversation meandered. They discussed Martin Bormann and who might succeed Sir Oswald Mosley and whether the rumours of trouble north of the border were true.

  'We should all take a turn on the barricades,’ Slater said, at one point.

  ‘Have you?’ John said.

  ‘I fought the Blackshirts when we still had a democracy.’

  ‘That’s a fucking long time ago.’

  John tried to light a cigarette but dropped the matches.

  ‘Before the wars,’ Vince said. ‘I was only a kid but I fought them.’

  ‘Did we ever have a democracy?’ John picked up three matches from the carpet. ‘The land fit for heroes was underrated, wasn’t it? Maybe it was time for a change.’ He shrugged. ‘Germany got Adolf. We got Saint Oswaldtwistle.’

  ‘It had its faults but it was better than this.’ Slater flicked a copy of Truth. ‘And it was changing.’

  ‘Not fucking fast enough.’

  John frowned. He was swearing too much. He struck the side of the matchbox and the three matches blazed. He lit the cigarette with care.

  ‘Just think,’ said Slater. ‘If Britain hadn’t made peace with Germany. If the war had gone on.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid.’

  He’d done it again.

  ‘We had the Commonwealth, the Empire. Maybe even America would have joined us. Maybe we could have beaten Hitler.’

  ‘So what? Would anything be any …’ He stopped himself from swearing. ‘… any different? Would the trains run on time? You’d still have a top and a bottom and the majority of people would be at the bottom, like they are now.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have this.’

  He banged the copy of Truth. It was a powerful argument.

  ‘Well, when you build your next barricade, give us a shout.’ He took a deep drag on the cigarette.

  ‘Will you come and fight?’

  ‘No, but we’ll do a charity gig.’

  The talk degenerated after that and John slumbered on the sofa for a while until the other two guests left. He vaguely heard them saying goodnight. Then Slater helped him to a spare bedroom where he collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  Next morning, the hairdresser looked untroubled by his intake of brandy and cooked him scrambled eggs and gave him black coffee and John wondered about his real background. He remembered history at school and how the only people to fight the patriotic Blackshirts before the wars had been Jewish Communists in the East End of London.

  John showed the literature to Paul, Ringo, George and Neil. It had been like opening the locked cupboard under the stairs where children suspected evil lurked and found it did. ‘Is it real?’ George said.

  They didn’t show it to Bergfeld. John hid it in the van beneath the floor of the cupboard in which he kept the Dutch pornography. If someone undertook a search, he hoped they would be satisfied with a batch of Amsterdam’s finest and look no further.

  If the photographs were real, what could anyone do about it?

  John F Kennedy was introducing change in America, but who would do it here? Maybe it was time to give democracy another chance, whatever democracy was. All it needed was someone to have a word with their beloved leader, Saint Oswaldtwistle.

  Listen Ossie, it’s time to give the people the vote. No, not that vote, the real vote, the one that gives them a choice. Mind you, that might be difficult. To have a choice, you needed an opposition party and the closest Britain had was Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard: the voice of rebellious youth. Yeh, right. Ossie, you’re in no danger.

  But just wait. The Beatles are coming.

  Chapter 7

  Ayr

  Peter Bergfeld drank an ordinary whisky in a bar near the Ayr Pavilion. His palate was shot and he would not appreciate malt even though he was in a part of Scotland renowned for its distilleries. He preferred quantity to quality although he was always careful not to drink too much, too soon.

  The bar was an L shape and had a flag-stoned floor. He sat on a torn leatherette seat at the apex of the L so he could look down the longer of the legs. Late afternoon and early evening drinkers were getting intoxicated with that quiet determination that is common to drunks around the world. This was a bar for t
he less than salubrious and Bergfeld felt totally at home.

  Two young men entered and came immediately to his table. One wore fashionable imported jeans and a check shirt, the other a tight suit in a high buttoned Italian cut. It was the one in the suit who spoke.

  ‘You must be the man,’ he said. ‘What the fuck are we doing in a dump like this?’

  Bergfeld smiled and offered his hand.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, too. You are, I take it, Luke Gallagher?’

  ‘Aye.’ Gallagher shook hands. ‘This is Tom.’

  ‘Tom. Delighted.’ Bergfeld shook hands again. ‘Sadly, I don’t think there is waiter service.’ He held out a £10 note. ‘Perhaps you could get your own?’

  ‘Vodka and tonic,’ said Gallagher, as Tom took the money.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky,’ said Bergfeld. ‘A large one.’

  Gallagher sat down and said, ‘When do they arrive?’

  ‘An hour. Maybe two.’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  ‘You’ve heard the record.’

  ‘That means shite. I know what can be done in a studio. Are they any good live?’

  ‘They’ve been playing live to discerning audiences in Liverpool and Hamburg for the last four years. They are very good. They are the next big thing. They are 24 in the charts and rising.’

  ‘Says you. It doesn’t count until they make the top 20.’

  ‘What sort of an audience will we get?’

  ‘It’s Friday and we don’t get many bands from London up here. There’ll be a good crowd.’

  ‘They’re from Liverpool.’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned, they’re from the South.’

  ‘Don’t tell them that.’

  Tom brought the drinks and Bergfeld glanced at him and back at Gallagher.

  ‘He’s sound,’ said Gallagher.

  They had already made the correct exchanges that verified their identities: what are we doing in a dump like this, and there is no waiter service. Gallagher’s fuck was an optional extra.

  ‘That your motor outside? The Merc?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Make sure you park it safe. There are a few round here might take a shine to it. You don’t want to lose anything sensitive.’

  Quite.’ He finished the whisky in his hand and reached for the fresh glass. ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘At the pavilion. Follow us down there. We’ll take it inside and sort it out. Do your lads know?’

  ‘No. They just play rock and roll.’

  Gallagher poured a splash of tonic in his vodka and drank it down.

  ‘So why don’t we do it? This place is a waiting room for the living dead.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bergfeld drank the double whisky. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Bergfeld and Gallagher got up as Tom sat down with a full pint of beer in his hand. He said, ‘Fuck,’ stood up, put the glass to his mouth and drained it as the other two walked to the door. He belched, put the empty glass on the table and followed.

  Gallagher and Tom got into a Ford van and drove towards the sea front, Bergfeld following in the Mercedes. They parked the vehicles at the side of the pavilion, a white building with four turrets. Tom unlocked a door and Bergfeld opened the boot of his car and pointed to one of two large cardboard boxes.

  ‘That’s yours.’

  The two young men manhandled it until they could get a grip. It was heavy and awkward. They carried it into the pavilion and Bergfeld closed the boot and followed. They went through a foyer into a backstage area and into a dressing room with two hard backed chairs, an old settee and a table that was fixed against a mirrored wall. Stardom, Bergfeld thought, had to start somewhere and this was a much better venue than the Beatles had been playing.

  They put the box on the floor and Gallagher tore the sealing tape from it and pulled it open. On top were signed black and white photographs of the group, posters and 200 copies of the seven-inch record. They were strewn loose and the two men gathered them up in handfuls and put them on the table. When they were cleared away, they hesitated and looked at the brown paper parcels that remained. Bergfeld stood in the doorway and looked behind him.

  ‘There’s no one else here,’ said Gallagher.

  ‘You left the door unlocked.’

  ‘Tom. Go and lock it.’

  Tom left them and Gallagher picked up a package that was two feet long and a foot wide. He glanced at Bergfeld and placed it on the table. There was a second package that was the same size and he picked that up as Tom came back.

  ‘What have we got?’ he said.

  Gallagher laid the second package on the table and tore open the gummed brown paper to reveal a cardboard box. Inside the box was waxed paper; inside the waxed paper was a skeletal and unmistakeable Sten Mark 3 submachinegun in pieces, with magazine and silencer.

  ‘Two of them,’ said Bergfeld.

  ‘Ammunition?’ said Gallagher.

  ‘In the car.’

  Tom reached into the cardboard box and lifted out a smaller parcel. He ripped it open to display copies of the magazine Truth. He looked at Bergfeld.

  ‘Are they all the same?’

  ‘There’s a selection.’

  Gallagher grinned. ‘The hard and the soft sell, eh?’ he said, hefting the Stengun. ‘You’re taking an awful lot of risks for a fat German.’

  Bergfeld smiled. He didn’t take offence.

  ‘It’s a time for taking risks,’ he said.

  ‘Aye. Perhaps it is. And perhaps we’ll be the next big thing.’

  Chapter 8

  September 4. London

  Sir Oswald Mosley raised a glass and said, ‘Congratulations, Kim. Your knighthood is in the next Honours List.’ He sipped the whisky in a toast. ‘You do the job well. It must suit you.’

  Kim Philby smiled self-effacingly. The job to which Sir Oswald referred was that of ‘C’, head of MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service.

  ‘It suits me very well, sir.’

  His face was lined for 51 but he was still handsome and his eyes remained intensely blue. He had survived two marriages. The first, to Jewess Litzi Friedmann during his socialist days in Vienna, had been quietly annulled. His second wife had died eight years previously in a car accident and his three children spent much of their time, when they were not away at school, with his in-laws. He had since had several affairs and was currently seeing a female civil servant for mutual satisfaction, but shied away from long-term commitment. The Prime Minister, whose marriage to Lady Diana was famously happy, sometimes teased him about the benefits of wedded bliss, to which Philby would respond by saying he was happily married to the Service.

  Sir Oswald had married Diana, one of the Mitford girls, in Goebel’s drawing room in Berlin in 1936 with Hitler as a witness. Lady Diana had been a close friend of the Fuhrer. Her sister Unity had been even closer and had been so affected by Britain’s declaration of war in 1939 that she had shot herself in a fit of depression. Sir Oswald escaped as often as possible to the family home at Denham in Buckinghamshire to be with his wife.

  They were in the Prime Minister’s first floor Downing Street study. Philby sat in a leather armchair and nursed a glass of malt. In two days, Reichsfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich was due to visit and the Prime Minister required an intelligence briefing. Sir Oswald stood by the window, moved the net curtain slightly and looked outside.

  ‘Whatever the time of day, there’s always a crowd,’ he said.

  ‘They’ve come to see history, sir.’

  ‘Seat of Empire?’

  ‘They’re hoping for a glimpse of you.’

  Sir Oswald smiled and dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. He wore his trademark black suit, black roll neck shirt and black moustache, and was a tall and impressive man at 66 years of age. Twenty five years before, when he had braved street battles to deliver his fascist message from the back of trucks, he had, he said, marched hand in hand with destiny. He had seen himself, even then, as a legend.


  ‘You’re a flatterer, Kim. But save it for the ladies. I know all about flattery. They’re not here for me, they’re here for the place.’ He was making a show of modesty. ‘Number 10 is history, what it represents. ‘He slapped the back of another chair, as if about to make a speech. ‘That’s why I like it. It may be small but it is so totally British. Understated.’ He walked to the fireplace and stood, legs apart. He always struck a pose, Philby thought. He’d been doing it so long, he probably did it in bed. ‘The Fuhrer loved this place. He hated the Reich Building for being so big.’

  Sir Oswald was almost talking about Hitler in the past tense. It was a long time since the Fuhrer had been to England and he only visited the Reich Building once a year. He was 74 and rumoured to be in frail health and spent his time in his stronghold of Berchtesgaden with Eva Braun, protected by the SS and a battalion of doctors and surgeons. Above the fireplace hung two portraits: one of Hitler and the other of Mosley.

  Philby smiled. ‘They build everything big in the Third Reich. They’re new and need to make an impression. We’ve been around a long time. We can afford to be understated. That’s why the Americans admire us.’

  Sir Oswald laughed. ‘Admire us but don’t trust us. This cold war is beginning to get frosty. How was it in Washington?’

  ‘The Americans fake sincerity better than anyone I know. I talked to Nixon twice, Hoover three times and had lunch and social drinks with Jim Angleton at every opportunity, at his instigation and invitation.’ Nixon was head of the CIA, Hoover head of the FBI and Angleton ran the intelligence gathering Office of Strategic Operations for the CIA. ‘We became very matey.’

  ‘Useful?’

  ‘Interesting. Hypothetical discussions about democracy and who might succeed the Fuhrer. Are there any power groups waiting in the wings? Did the monarchy in exile pose a threat, how close was the Reich to sending a rocket to the moon, was it true Scottish Nationalists are active? We covered everything and nothing. It was very pleasant shadow boxing. They’re paranoid about rocket technology because they’re struggling to catch up. They say one reason for the President’s liberal attitude towards the Semites is because they have two Jewish scientists on the programme and they’re pinning their hopes on them, but, by all accounts, they’re no Wernher von Braun.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d worry if I was them. All the satellites are German and it’s giving them nightmares. They think that pretty soon, they’ll be loaded with H bombs.’