by Lewis Orde
Puzzled by the call, Roland left the table. ‘Merry Christmas, Alf.’
‘Not anymore it isn’t. I have to see you right away.’
‘What about? Can’t it wait?’
‘I can’t tell you what about until I see you. And no – it can’t wait. I’ll come by Katherine’s house in half an hour. There’s someone you have to meet.’
Roland didn’t protest; the agitation in Goldstein’s voice was too strong for the matter to be of little importance. He returned to the table and told Franz and Katherine he would have to go out shortly. ‘Alf’s got a problem and he needs to see me.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ Katherine said. But she made no attempt to dissuade her father from leaving. Roland had a strong sense of loyalty to his friends and she refused to question that.
Goldstein arrived exactly thirty minutes later, left the Bentley’s engine running and banged on the front door. When Katherine answered he declined going in and remained standing in the doorway, waiting for Roland.
‘All right, where’s this person you want me to meet?’ Roland demanded when he came to the door and saw Goldstein standing alone.
‘He’s waiting for us at Hampstead Station.’
‘What in God’s name is he doing there?’ Roland lost the edge of his seasonal good will. He didn’t spend half as much time as he would like with the entire family together, and now he had Goldstein trying to drag him out in the pouring rain on some wild goose chase. Perhaps Christmas didn’t mean anything to Goldstein, but it meant a hell of a lot to him when the family was gathered.
‘He’s waiting for us there because I can’t bring him here. Will you come with me, please?’
‘Why can’t you bring him here?’
‘Because of Franz, that’s why.’ Without another word of explanation, he took Roland by the arm and led him toward the Bentley.
‘This had better be a real emergency, Alf,’ Roland complained as he climbed into the back seat.
‘Oh, it is. A real, bona fide emergency.’ Goldstein swung the car out of the driveway and headed toward Hampstead Station. When Roland tried to find out more of what it was about Goldstein remained stubbornly quiet, lips stretched in a thin line, his jaw set.
Outside Hampstead Station, Goldstein braked sharply and jumped out, disregarding the no stopping signs. Moments later he was back. He opened the rear door of the Bentley and half shoved a man inside. Roland, who had been unable to see clearly through the rain-spattered window, was shocked when he recognized the face as the man climbed into the car.
‘You! From New York!’
‘That’s right, Mr Eagles. The man you and your friend Kassler assaulted and later spoke to in the TWA terminal.’
‘Alf, what in blazes is going on? What are you doing with this man?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’ Goldstein rolled the Bentley into a parking space fifty yards from the station, cut the engine and turned around. ‘Roland, this is Peter Hoffbein. Mr Hoffbein works for the public prosecutor’s office in Stuttgart, and was under the impression that you’re a Nazi sympathizer who deliberately falsified records at the end of the war to save Heinrich Kassler from facing charges as a war criminal. And he thought I helped you to do it.’
‘What?’ Roland slumped back in shock against the Bentley’s leather upholstery. Now he understood why Goldstein had refused to bring the man to Katherine’s home. Franz would have a fit hearing such a ludicrous allegation. ‘Is this a joke, Alf? Surely it’s a mistake.’
‘That’s what I thought. Mr Hoffbein’s made me see it quite differently.’
Slowly, Roland recovered from the double jolt of seeing the German again and hearing that Kassler was a suspected Nazi sympathizer. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me what’s going on, Mr Hoffbein. And very slowly.’
‘Certainly, Mr Eagles. For the past nine months my office has been investigating Heinrich Kassler. Certain allegations have been made against him regarding his conduct during the war and we’ve been checking these out very thoroughly. Discreetly, but thoroughly.’
‘You weren’t too damned discreet about it in New York.’
Hoffbein acknowledged the rebuff with a slight inclination of the head. ‘That was clumsy and I regret it, but I was trying to learn whom Kassler – and you – were meeting over there. Fortunately, as I understand it from Mr Goldstein, you and Kassler mistook my presence for something else.’
‘Never mind that. What are these allegations against Heinrich?’
‘A short time ago, Mr Eagles, I wouldn’t have considered even telling you. I wouldn’t have consented to even meeting with you because I had reason to suspect that you, as Kassler’s initial interrogating officer, had concocted a deal with him, that you’d helped him to escape justice and then remained in mutually profitable contact ever since, leading to your daughter marrying his son, and your business partnership.’
‘That’s preposterous!’ Roland burst out. ‘I was ready to shoot him on the spot in Bergen-Belsen!’
‘I have only become aware of that recently, Mr Eagles when I interviewed Mr Goldstein—’
‘He turned up at my house this morning of all days,’ Goldstein interrupted.
‘At one time during this investigation, Mr Goldstein was also a suspect in the conspiracy which I believed had taken place – after I learned of that book he wrote, showing Kassler in a positive light. But when I inquired into Mr Goldstein’s background, I learned of his work for the camp survivors’ association, the fact that he is a Jew. I realized I’d been wrong about him, that he could be trusted. Additionally, he was only the interpreter at that initial meeting with Kassler, and at his rank wouldn’t have had the power to make any kind of a deal. But I figured he could tell me something about you. And, of course, he has.’
‘What are these allegations against Heinrich?’ Roland repeated. ‘Who made them?’
Hoffbein remained very calm in the face of Roland’s obvious impatience. ‘Nine months ago we were interrogating another man, an entirely different case – a sergeant in the Schutzstaffel suspected of war crimes. He sought to bargain with us by implicating a much bigger fish . . . Kassler. This man claimed that Kassler lined his pockets with jewelry and money stolen from inmates who passed through the camps. Before Bergen-Belsen Kassler was at Dachau, you know. My original suspicion was that Kassler had bribed you – paid you well – to help him—’
‘Wait a minute. We got affidavits from inmates at Bergen-Belsen. What about those? Don’t they mean a damned thing?’
‘They mean a lot. My office has managed to locate some of those people. What they swore to in those affidavits was true, perfectly true. Kassler did help the inmates . . .’ Hoffbein’s voice turned very brittle. ‘But only after he realized which way the war was going. He was prudent enough to understand from the fall of 1944 that the Nazis would lose. So he began to prepare alibis. He made friends with those who would stand him in good stead. You were one of the last of those alibis.’
Roland sat speechless. He listened to the rain drumming on the roof of the Bentley, and thought about what the German government official was saying. Kassler had fooled them all. He had played both sides and walked out ahead. But mostly Roland thought about Katherine, married to Kassler’s only son. The mother of Kassler’s grandchildren.
‘There’s more, Roland,’ Goldstein said gently from the front seat of the car.
What else could there be – what could possibly eclipse this? Roland wondered. Nonetheless, he returned his gaze to Hoffbein.
‘Did Kassler ever mention that his father died in Buchenwald?’ Hoffbein asked. Roland nodded. ‘Why did Kassler claim his father was sent to Buchenwald?’
‘Because he refused to manufacture tank components for the Nazis, I think.’ Roland looked to Goldstein for confirmation.
‘Our investigation, by interviewing people who worked for the senior Kassler, has revealed that father and son argued continually about whether the company should comply with the Nazi work ord
ers. Heinrich Kassler, your friend—’
‘Will you stop referring to him as my friend?’
‘What is he then?’
Roland couldn’t think of an answer.
‘Heinrich Kassler was in favor of working with the Nazis. According to those who knew him then, he was certain that the Nazis would be in power for a long time. He wanted very much to be on their side, to be a favored member of the winning side.’
‘And he made no attempt to stop his father being sent away,’ Goldstein interrupted. ‘Kassler’s rotten right through, Roland. Do you still think I’ve been seeing too many Hollywood Nazis?’ he added disgustedly.
‘With his father out of the way, Heinrich Kassler stood to inherit everything,’ Hoffbein explained. ‘He joined the SS to gain further acceptance within the party, to ensure his position of power within the new order. And he exploited that power for all it was worth, including, as I said, helping himself to whatever gold or jewels the camp inmates had brought with them.’
‘And then in 1944 he switched boats in midstream,’ Roland murmured. He closed his eyes and pictured Kassler playing blackjack, counting the cards, gradually working the odds into his own favor. The pieces were beginning to fit – he had to be on the winning side, no matter what the game, no matter what the cost . . .
‘And when the war was over?’ Roland asked.
‘Those affidavits you collected helped to clear him; they were the final touch. He practically became a hero overnight, was trusted implicitly by the occupying forces. He returned to Stuttgart and persuaded the Americans to assist him in setting up the engineering factory again. He used the valuables he’d stolen to restart his life as an upstanding German who’d fought against the Nazis and saved lives.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ Roland muttered. ‘How do I tell this to Kathy? To Franz?’ He caught himself immediately, turned back to Hoffbein. ‘What is your office going to do now? Do you have enough evidence to prosecute?’
‘We believe so. Your relationship with Kassler was the last thing to be checked. If we had reached the conclusion that you had actively consorted with Kassler to pervert the course of justice for personal gain, we would have forwarded such evidence to your government for appropriate action. When I mentioned that possibility to your friend here—’
‘I told him in no uncertain terms he was bloody mad,’ Goldstein finished.
‘This entire episode seems mad,’ Roland said. ‘I can’t believe I could have been fooled so completely. That we all could have been fooled so completely,’ he added quickly, looking at Goldstein.
‘Believe it,’ Goldstein answered, ‘because it’s damned well true. Don’t you wish you could turn back the clock? Give me that Webley like I asked you to?’
For a brief instant the idea loomed appealingly in Roland’s mind. Give the gun to Goldstein or use it himself. Point it at Kassler as he stood between the two British soldiers and pull the trigger. But he quickly dismissed the image from his mind. ‘No, I don’t, Alf. Because I just left Kathy, and she’s so damned happy with Franz and the two children.’
A song he had learned when he was a boy in school sprang into Roland’s mind, a ditty entitled ‘The Bishop of Bray,’ about a politically adept clergyman who had weathered the changing times in England by supporting whichever monarch or government was in power. After all these years, the first lines of the song came back to Roland: ‘In Good King Charles’ golden day when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous High Church man was I and so I got preferment . . .’ Kassler was another Bishop of Bray. More sinister, perhaps, but just as skillfull at reading the changing times – and profiting by them.
‘Was there ever any evidence pointing to Kassler being involved in the atrocities that took place at the camps?’ Roland asked Hoffbein, dreading the answer.
The German shook his head. ‘Not actively, if that’s any consolation to you. He just stood by and watched what went on, but in so doing gave his silent approval, knowing he was ensuring his own future by cooperating. We will, of course, require testimony from you, Mr Eagles. Whenever it is convenient I would like to meet with you again. Your testimony will help to clear any shadows from you own reputation.’
‘Damn my reputation!’ Roland snapped. That was the least of his problems; he was far more concerned about the effect this news would have on Katherine and Franz – on their marriage, on his daughter’s happiness. ‘When do you make everything official?’
‘That’s the problem.’ Quite suddenly, Hoffbein’s attitude changed. From being a calm narrator of fact he seemed to become coy about the matter, nervously shifting on the seat as though he were uncomfortable. ‘Quite a problem, in fact,’ he added, and Roland abruptly sensed that all that had gone before was just window dressing. Only now was the German official getting down to the real reason for the meeting.
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘All these years after the end of the war, my government finds it inconvenient to have old wounds reopened. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Although,’ Hoffbein added swiftly, ‘the government which sanctioned the atrocities of that war and my own government are two totally different entities.’
‘What about the SS sergeant you were questioning, the one who dropped Heinrich’s name? You went ahead and prosecuted him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but he was a small man. A plumber, I believe. Who cares about a little tradesman suddenly appearing in a newspaper? But for a man of Kassler’s importance and stature . . .’ He let the insinuation hang.
‘Your government would find it embarrassing, is that it?’
‘Quite embarrassing,’ Hoffbein concurred. ‘Heinrich Kassler is a pillar of the reconstructed German society, the epitome of respectablity. My government would find it almost as embarrassing as your Eagles Group would find it having a Nazi war criminal on its board of directors . . . as your family would find it . . .’ He smiled faintly when he saw the gloomy understanding register on Roland’s face. ‘Am I right in assuming that your family is at the forefront of your mind, Mr Eagles?’
Roland just nodded.
‘I’m quite certain that we would all like to avoid any embarrassment, Mr Eagles.’ Hoffbein spoke with certainty now, no longer reserved. ‘My government . . . your company . . . your family. Just imagine how much easier it would be if Heinrich Kassler’s memory was that of a fine upstanding German. Suicide – or ideally, a regrettable accident – before my office was forced to take this to court would be so much more appealing.’
‘Are you suggesting that I could arrange such an event?’
The trace of a smile appeared again on Hoffbein’s ruddy face. ‘You’re probably closer to Kassler than any man has ever been—’
‘His son is closer.’ At least he is now, Roland thought. And I helped to make it that way; helped to set him up for this knockout punch.
‘But we would all like to see his son – and your daughter – spared from this tragedy, would we not?’
‘You smarmy bureaucratic bastard.’
The insult registered nothing on Hoffbein’s face. ‘As you are so close to Kassler, Mr Eagles, you could persuade him to do the proper thing. He has enjoyed the lie of a hero’s life. Surely you, as his friend – as a member of his family – would not like to see that image tarnished.’
‘If I went near him with what you’ve just told me, he’d be on the first plane out of Germany. Heading for Argentina or Paraguay.’
‘Impossible. Kassler’s every move is being monitored. If he tried to run, he would be picked up immediately and charged. Then all of our embarrassments would begin, Mr Eagles.’
Roland looked to Goldstein for help. He was being asked to help murder a man, force him into suicide, which amounted to the same thing. Goldstein just stared back, as numb as Roland himself; when he’d arranged this meeting between Roland and Hoffbein he’d had no idea this was the motive behind it.
‘Alf, drive Mr Hoffbein back to
his hotel. I don’t think there’s anything more to discuss,’ Roland said. He moved into the corner of the seat and turned away, signaling that the meeting was over. When Hoffbein first told the story of Kassler’s wartime activities, Roland had regarded him as a civil servant simply doing his job, no matter how unpleasant it turned out to be. But now Roland saw him in a totally different light – as a dirty little man doing a dirty little job, fashioning the bullets for someone else to fire so his own embarrassment could be avoided. Neither he nor the German government cared two bits for how it would affect Roland’s family, but he recognized it as something he could appeal to.
Goldstein drove the Bentley toward Bayswater, where Hoffbein was staying at a moderately priced hotel. ‘I will be in touch again only if we need your testimony, Mr Eagles,’ Hoffbein said as he stepped from the car. The implication was obvious: if Roland didn’t follow up on Hoffbein’s suggestion, Kassler’s true past would be exposed and all his affairs, both personal and business, would be affected. Roland responded with a courteous if cold nod of the head.
‘I’m sorry,’ Goldstein muttered as he headed the car back toward Hampstead. ‘I had no idea . . .’
‘Forget it, if he hadn’t got to me through you, he’d have found some other way. I don’t believe for an instant that garbage about his thinking I helped Kassler hide his past. That bastard was using it as a lever. Maybe he thought he could blackmail me to do his dirty work, show me how miserable he could make my life just through insinuation.’
‘If they’re so intent on avoiding all this embarrassment, why don’t they bump Kassler off themselves?’
Roland wondered about that too. ‘Perfect crimes are few and far between. Maybe the Germans don’t want something else to cover up.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘For one thing keep Katherine and Franz out of it, but how? Hoffbein thinks I can persuade Kassler to take an overdose. That’s murder.’
‘Roland, take yourself back to Bergen-Belsen. You were prepared to murder him then, shoot him out of hand for what you’d seen at the camp. What’s so different about this? And let me ask you something else: what’s more important to you, the people in the camp or Katherine’s happiness?’