The Avenger- Thomas Bennet and a Father's Lament

by Don Jacobson

  Leopold quickly explained the stunning discovery as the two men hurried across the building. So intent was his concentration that he ignored the concrete floor: fractured by years of heavy punishment which ultimately overcame a matrix made with too much sand indifferently poured atop inadequate gravel for the shifting subsoil. One toe of his black oxfords, worn with pride to differentiate himself from the brown shoes of the denizens of a naval flight deck, caught in a particularly gaping hole. Leopold would have pitched headlong onto the hardpan if Liebermann’s arm had not restrained him. After that, the professor and Liebermann completed their transit in silence.

  They apprehended that they were approaching an important scene when they observed the backs and shoulders of every researcher huddled around a single work table brightly illuminated by four klieg lights that had been trundled from the warehouse’s far corners where they had been stored unused for nearly half a year.

  Leopold whispered, if he could ever use his basso profundo instrument at such low power, “The way they are acting you would think we were back in the Valley of the Kings when Carter found King Tut! We are not, though, archaeologists, but rather historians. Our artifacts are documents not reliquaries.

  “So, I would suggest that, given how rare anything of Himmler’s is to uncover, this may be as important as last year’s discovery of those ancient scrolls in the Quram Caves right by the Dead Sea.

  “We can only wait.”

  Waiting.

  Liebermann had spent nearly four years waiting for a shaft of sunlight to penetrate the stygian darkness that had prospered beneath the clouds of destruction wrought by war. Another few hours or days with the expectation of moving closer to the animal who had murdered his master and the other two martyrs would not give him any cause to repine.

  The old Sergeant had to wait patiently as the forensic team first photographed every salient aspect of the container. The researchers had explained this process time and again to both Liebermann and Madame. The two oldsters were of the school that the important information was to be found inside the envelope. Each of the guests around the dining table would sadly shake their heads and counsel them that every aspect of a document could offer information to those who were patient enough to dig for it.[lxxviii] So, photography took precedence here.

  Then he had to wait for the UXB boffins to determine if the casket had been boobytrapped. That occasioned another great debate as the historians were aghast at the bomb squad commander’s suggestion that they use a controlled explosion to neutralize any threat. Professor Leopold’s clarifying point that Himmler’s case need not be handled with kid gloves given that it had been harshly treated since its collection in 1945 quelled the brute force proponents. Any trigger would have surely been activated by this point. A greater concern would be the release of some corrosive that would annihilate the contents.

  Finally, a youngish Leftenant, another of the Five Families’ Andertons, and demonstrably an expert in his field as he was, first, still alive and, second, yet in possession of ten fingers, volunteered to gently drill a hole through one of the soft sides. As per UXB protocols, successfully used to disarm aerial droppings of all weights, he would widen the opening until he could insert a long-necked dentist’s mirror. Once all were satisfied that there were no surprises left by the Nazi black helmets, only then would the wax seals be broken, and the hasps released.

  These steps were undertaken and completed over three consecutive round-the-clock shifts during which every man on the team, from the privates operating the forklifts to the colonel in charge of the detachment, kept themselves busy—conveniently within shouting distance of the supposed grail—so as not to be chased back to their bunks. Even the High Commissioner himself wandered in once the news had wafted up to his office.

  Nobody wished to miss the unveiling of Himmler’s Hoard.

  However, the anticipation built up during the wait was bound to lead to disappointment as the box revealed much about its owner, but little about his place in the Nazi world.

  His copy of the Wansee Memorandum was not waiting for the light of day.[lxxix]

  His billfold containing his party membership card, 30,000 Reichsmarks, and a few photographs—his wife, children, Hitler—was found therein.

  No document confessing to any crimes was found.

  His personally autographed copy of Mein Kampf was.

  His jeweled Ehrendolch—honor dagger—likewise rested atop a buff chipboard box.

  That was, in an incomplete way, the mother lode, although few realized it at the time. The gifts of that seemingly insignificant carton would gradually reveal themselves. But, in the mid-Spring of 1948, the leavings of the mysterious little man who commanded the gargantuan death machine were still cloaked in darkness. The only rhyme or reason seemed to be that Himmler, as he prepared to escape incognito the Götterdämerung of Hitler’s nightmare, could not find it in himself to destroy every vestige of his old life.

  Everybody associated with the documents’ project puzzled over the existence of the contents of the smaller box secreted inside of the casket: dozens of photographs, headshots only, of the upper ranks of the SS. However, there were no names or any attribution connected with the pictures, only a cryptic code clearly scribed by Himmler himself. That cypher, however, bore no relationship to any SS serial numbers uncovered to date.

  Leopold dubbed these Himmler’s Flash Cards. He imagined that the SS boss wanted, needed, to have the name of every one of his loyalists on the tip of his tongue. That way he could make each man feel especially singled out as the Reichsführer himself knew his name and was aware of his accomplishments. Such touches stroked the damaged personalities attracted to the SS’ homicidal pursuits. The monkish academic further imagined the man, always fastidious, seated at his desk in HQ-SS, late at night, testing himself, so that he would be perfect in his next encounters in a world ruled by fear and violence, but judged by ego and appearance.

  While many of the faces were familiar, most recently seen drawn and pale in the docks at Nuremburg, the majority, particularly those of the Standartenführer ranks and below, were unknown to the researchers.

  All except one: and then only to Liebermann. He had kept his ultimate purpose close to his heart. His eyes widened as he saw for the first time since the summer of 1944 the face of the arrogant bastard who, with a wave of his glove, had ordered his men to fire in the place at Deauville.

  No longer waiting, Liebermann grabbed the original image from the pile and delivered it to the photo lab for duplication. The corporal in charge there had rarely seen the old German so animated and, to his eyes, agitated. The picture was quickly thrust into the copy stand and the spare began wending its way from undeveloped silver halide through the various chemical baths to enlarger and finally back through more tanks and into the dryer.

  His mission clarified, Manfred jogged back to the scene of all the excitement and handed the original back to Leopold, gruffly saying, “I am on my way to London. We both know that Himmler never would have wasted his time scribbling on the backs of these pictures. These numbers told him, and will reveal to us, something important.

  “T’would be a goodness to me and the Families if you would turn your mind to solving this riddle.”

  So saying, he clapped the other on the shoulder, hefted his “go bag,” and walked from the cavernous building into the bright May morning.

  Chapter XXVII

  Tate Gallery, London, May 25, 1948

  The crowd, many still clad in last decade’s dowdy plumage forcibly imposed by the ongoing rationing regime, none-the-less glittered as one Great Man or Woman or another joined its ranks. The gallery’s towering atrium was packed and getting more so with each passing minute. The noted, notorious, and significant of the time, known more by title or bank account, rubbed shoulders like so many spectators at a football match. Even a casual observer, albeit one who was conversant with Society, could not mistake the fair sprinkling of earls and countesses, dowagers of
various ranks, and industrialists and their spouses gathered like a huge flock slowly settling itself into a field of maize seeking to pick out invigorating kernels.

  The velvet rope barrier looped from post-to-post keeping the milling mass apart from the honored guests arrayed on the great staircase rising into the upper exhibit halls. One could pick out the faces of a goodly representation of aristocratic Fitzwilliams and Cecil-Darcys. Others were less known; their faces rarely gracing the pages of the broadsheets. All the Anubis Detachment, barring Miss Nearne who was uncomfortable in large crowds, stood on the periphery of the carpet of Quality which seemingly defied gravity by flowing uphill along the marbled balustrade.

  Over half, however, were thoroughly unfamiliar even to those who lived on the house party circuit, sadly reduced from its pre-war glory. Such gatherings away from the choking clouds of post-war pollution now competed with one another to fill the guest chambers at grand homes likewise depleted thanks to onerous death duties, wartime tax levies, and staff defections in these newer, more egalitarian, times. However, the majority of those arrayed on the ascending treads struck those standing close enough as having a clear familial bond: their eyes.

  From his vantage point on the outer edges of the crowd filling the broad expanse of marble beneath the vaulted ceiling, Manfred Liebermann stood next to his wife who hefted the not inconsiderable bulk of their three-year-old grandson, Little Robard, on her hip. The Liebermanns had graciously acceded to the entreaties of Letty and Denis, who stood on the stairs next to his parents, Lady Eloise and Général Maxie, to entertain the young man whose toddler’s patience would have been sorely tested if he had been forced to stand with his maman et papa.

  In the meantime, as everybody awaited the arrival of Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh, Liebermann looked down at the event program.

  An Exhibition of Impressionist Artworks

  “Expatriate Beauty, 1870-1905”

  May 25, 1948 to October 30, 1948

  Endowed by The Bennet Family Trust

  Beneath that gold-embossed title was the portrait known to most members of the Five Families. T’was not the grandest canvas in the collection, gathered now for the very first time from its far-flung galleries at Selkirk, Pemberley, and Thornhill, but it was the one most dearly loved. The simple painting had been selected by the Earl and his sister as the universal emblem of the exhibit. Every flyer, poster, and newspaper article—usually in one of two dozen DBE dailies arcing west from Singapore around the world, embracing the great cities of the Western Democracies—featured Kitty’s portrait. Renoir’s simple portrait of a young woman was elevated from a family heirloom to a global imprimatur of an era.

  Liebermann flipped through the pages of the large post quarto sized catalog, casually reading the well-curated commentary that appeared beneath each masterpiece.[lxxx] Little disturbed his reverie as he looked at miniature reproductions of one familiar artwork after another. In the years since 1945, while he had hung his hat first at Deauville and then, most recently, in Frankfurt, he had been able to accompany, as Little Robard’s defacto grandpapa, the Robards on journeys to all the great family seats. There he had seen the amazing paintings in their life-sized glory.

  T’is a remarkable gift that the Families are bestowing upon the people of Britain. Normally one must pay admission, even though this is the National Gallery. Both Countesses drew a line at the idea that the people would be forced to purchase tickets to enjoy a part of the national patrimony. Each of the Families endowed one million Pounds to ensure that no person would be denied the chance to partake of the celebration of the Olympics. Five million pounds will pay for many free tickets.

  I heard that the Royal Family also dipped into their own personal funds—not the allowances granted by Parliament—to add to the reserve.

  The noise level suddenly rose as a young couple began to descend the steps, leading the Earl and Countess Annie followed by the Countess Georgiana and Lord David Cecil-Darcy. By the time they reached the mid-point of the staircase, the crowd began to spontaneously cheer as the most popular royal in recent memory gently waved in acknowledgement.

  The procession stopped just above the velvet barrier. Press photographers milled and muscled about in front of them, a dozen flash bulbs firing off simultaneously and then sporadically. Newsreel cameras whirred from a platform behind the Liebermanns, as lenses caught the movements of the heir and her husband. Some panned around the audience, gathering in the atmosphere and mood of the room. Even the BBC had a live remote radio broadcast team on site. The announcer painted the scene with pomp and ceremony as was his expected style; softly at first and then with greater vigor to overcome the raucous joy sweeping like waves splashing against Lyme’s great Cobb.

  And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the room went dead as all paid rapt attention to the Princess as she began her address which covered the usual and expected territory that her Household had coordinated with the Palace. After requisite platitudes lauding the exquisite and discerning taste of three generations of the Five Families, the former Miss Windsor shifted into a few paragraphs noting that the exhibit was part of a broader national effort marking the Games of the XIVth Olympiad, set to commence in the summer months.

  Manfred’s mind wandered to the true reason he was in London today as she continued her remarks.

  Odd how a simple four- by five-inch photo can cause so much excitement. I had barely landed at RAF Biggin Hill before one of the Matlock limousines had gathered me up and raced me to the Anubis headquarters. They all knew I was coming with a diamond of the first water.

  I recall how the Earl looked when he beheld the face of his mother’s killer.

  Then—I cannot guess if it was as M or as a bereaved son—he simply said,

  “We have the bastard. He may not know it yet, but we have him.”

  

  Liebermann’s reverie was interrupted as he felt his wife shift on her feet. She lowered Little Robard to the floor; the squirming child had become too much of an armful for even the work-hardened cook and housekeeper. He had spotted his parents standing behind the Princess and wanted to spend time with Máman rather than Grandmére. Thus, he struggled.

  Madame set him down and momentarily released her grip, hoping to clasp his hand in hers.

  That proved to be a fatal error: for the boy, seeing nothing now but feet and knees, took off like a shot, flying across the room, trying to get to his mother. The older lady made one futile grab for the tail of his shirt, shaken loose in his earlier desire to break free.

  Then he was gone.

  Hearing Madame’s squeak, Liebermann spun around quickly enough to observe his grandson’s back vanish beneath a sea of ten-month woolens and couture day dresses.

  Manfred tracked the youngster’s progress by the ripples created as the child passed through the crowd heading away from the newsreel platform—

  Guter Gott. If he had crawled under there, I would never have been able to find him. As it is, I may be able to grab him before he reaches the front of the audience and embarrasses us all.

  Murmuring numerous “Pardon mes” and “Excuse mes,” Liebermann elbowed his way through the mass of humanity. Yet, the Sergeant’s muscular bulk limited his efforts. There was too little space and too much of him. As he focused his attention on capturing the young fellow, Liebermann considered that the lithe Miss Nearne would have been able to easily slip through the crowd in pursuit of the boy.

  Who suddenly ran headlong into the grey flannelled leg of a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a fine blue serge blazer. His snow-white silk shirt was further accentuated by more of the worm’s gift: a remarkable black on red print scarf tied in an ascot.

  The impact staggered Little Robard who bounced backwards and landed on his bottom. He was too stunned to cry out. But, the enforced pause in his headlong rush allowed Liebermann to close the gap and scoop up the escapee before any further flight was contemplated.

  Lieberma
nn grasped the child. He then sought to quell any ruffled sensibilities in the breast of the gentleman who had been the recipient of the three-year-old’s charge. Polite man that he was, an instinct bred, not beaten, into him, he looked up from the highly polished shoe leather beneath the grey flannels.

  And, his blood ran cold.

  There before him were the oddly-cast hazel eyes, the thinning light brown hair, and the brutal slash of a mouth Liebermann had last seen in person nearly four years ago. This was the man from Himmler’s box, the killer of innocents; his soulless stare telling all one ever needed to know about him.

  As Liebermann’s face froze into a rictus of astonishment, the other had a momentary loss of his usual composure. Confusion clouded his expression. There was something about the visage of the bluff man clutching the little boy that resonated in his memory. There had been so many faces clambering out of the murky corners of his resting mind. Yet, this one seemed more than a late-night wraith.

  Then he shrugged it off as being beneath his concern.

  For his part, Liebermann realized that the being standing opposite had dismissed him as unimportant.

  As with most officers, so, too, does this arrogant slime ignore the regular soldiers. Best to leave him to his own company for now.

  Realizing that he could not endanger the child with an overt manifestation of recognition, Manfred mimed a contrite expression at the other. Next, he dipped his head, breaking eye contact, demonstrating the subservience he knew would be expected by the other as his due. He assayed his best rough-edged Frankish accent to color his English and, in the process, hiding, or so he hoped, his Prussian origins, to offer abject apologies for the child’s assault. Not waiting for any response, Liebermann spun on his heel and pushed back through the crowd to hand Little Robard to Madame.