‘No, Roy. I’m in, still. If it’s what you definitely want. I was just saying you have time to pull out if you want. No hard feelings. No
payment necessary for what I’ve done so far. I’d be happier to let
it go.’
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Roy relaxes in his bed and adopts a calmer tone. ‘No, we’re hang-
ing on with this one. To the bitter end. Look, Vincent. This is my
life. Dodging and weaving. This is me. We both know that it’s you
too. I know what makes you tick, Vincent. No, when it comes to it
I’ll die in the saddle, talking some greedy mark into doing some-
thing stupid. Maybe this one, maybe the next. Now, can we get on
with it?’
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Chapter Fourteen
December 1938
A Faraway Country
1
Snow had already arrived in Berlin, driven by the chill wind across the steppes. Konrad Taub and his son marched through the streets
in the teeth of the blizzard, unable to converse, simply covering the ground with grim resolve.
Taub rang the bell and pulled off his gloves, banging them against
the brickwork to shake away the residue of snow. Hans imitated
him and looked up at the grey sky, thick flakes floating down, then caught on the wind and hurled violently. It resembled chaos.
A servant opened the door and admitted them without speaking.
Carefully, they removed their coats and stamped their feet on the
doormat, which was as large as the rug in the main room of their
small apartment. Traces of snow and wet dribbled on to the mat.
Hans shivered as the warmth made him realize how cold it had
been outside.
They knew their way and the servant departed with a nod, carry-
ing their coats. Away from the turmoil of the wind and the snow
and the dark busyness of the city, it was quiet here, with a beguiling calm. All that could be heard was a distant murmur somewhere
deep in the house, the preparations for the Christmas ball in the
evening to which neither Hans nor his parents had been invited.
The meeting with Schröder would be short.
They climbed the stairs and walked to Schröder’s study.
‘Ah, welcome,’ he said. ‘How are you, Konrad? And Hans? It’s
cold outside. A coffee? Maybe a schnapps?’
‘A small glass, perhaps,’ said Taub.
Schröder found a bottle and glasses in a cupboard. ‘It’s chaos
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round here. The party this evening. Magda is frantic. She thrives on it. I’m sorry we didn’t invite you. I thought it best.’ He said it in a matter- of- fact voice.
‘No. I understand. I doubt it would be our kind of occasion.’
‘Nor mine,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘But it’s expected of me.
Not, you understand, that we invite any of those awful Nazis. But
our relationship is, I think, best kept low- key. For both our sakes.
Renate is well?’
‘Yes. As busy as ever.’
‘So, young Hans. How old are you now?’
‘Fourteen, sir.’
‘I wonder whether you might wish to join us in a glass of
schnapps, Hans. If your father would permit it.’
‘No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Please, Hans, if you would like to,’ said his father.
‘No, Father. I don’t think I’d like the taste.’
‘A sensible young man,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘It’s good to
avoid the demon drink as long as possible. I’ll order something from the kitchen for you. What would you like? I’m sure there must be
some chocolate cake somewhere in the house.’
‘It’s all right, sir. I’m not hungry or thirsty.’
The two men sat with their drinks on leather sofas that faced
each other in front of the blazing hearth. Hans remained standing,
his cap in his hand, his shoes continuing to drip melt into the
carpet.
‘Well then, Konrad. What’s the latest?’
Hans was fascinated by this room. The walls were lined in rich,
dark mahogany bookcases, floor to ceiling, and each shelf was full
of books. There was a small ladder that matched the bookcases so
that the top volumes could be reached. A large, heavy desk, the size of his bed, faced inwards from the window. Its surface was covered
almost entirely with papers, arranged carefully in neat piles, each, he imagined, covering a different aspect of Herr Schröder’s business empire. Despite his curiosity and boldness, he would not have had
the temerity to look at the papers even given the chance. The room
was lit in sections, a large lamp illuminating the desk’s surface,
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discreet lighting in the bookcases to aid navigation there and two
heavy iron floor lamps behind each of the sofas to supplement the
fierce bright light of the fire. This was the sort of room he wanted as his refuge.
The two men, keen to discuss their business, had evidently for-
gotten his presence.
‘War is definite,’ Schröder was saying.
‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ replied his father.
‘No. What I mean is that I know that it’s their firm intention to
have war once their preparations are complete.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ravenstein. We supply to him. He’s not exactly a sympathizer,
but then again he’s not exactly out of sympathy. He’s a personal
friend of Speer. He’s been asked to increase production for the
next six months with the express purpose of being ready for con-
flict part- way through next year. Hitler will find some pretext to precipitate it. Probably Danzig. You may tell your confidential
contacts.’
‘And as for the diplomatic effort? Britain’s appeasement?’
‘Ravenstein says it suits Hitler. He thinks Chamberlain is a con-
venient fool. He may buy Britain a few months, but he’s also giving us more time to sharpen our tools. Hitler won’t let Chamberlain
affect his plans. The British are a busted flush. The point is, though, Konrad, what can we do? We can expect atrocities against Jews to
increase. Ravenstein says plans to develop the concentration camp
programme are well in hand. And they’re considering mass forced
emigration of Jews to the east. With militarization as well, we’re on an unstoppable path to hell. Now’s the time for you and your associates to act.’
‘The question remains the same as ever, Albert. Precisely how?
We have no military structures, we have no money, no weapons, no
expertise. We’d be slaughtered. I’m a journalist. I’m not a political figure, let alone a leader. I have no idea what to do. It’s too late to sow unrest in the factories. They’re too full of patriotic fervour.’
‘Your friends outside the country?’
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allies? They will contemplate and consider and be reasonable until
it’s too late altogether for reason. It’s too late already, but they don’t know it. They simply think that the Sudetenland is a distant country. They
’ll think the same of Poland or Czechoslovakia. Or France
and the Netherlands if it comes to it. They think of us all as far
away, so long as we don’t interfere in their interests. And by the time we do interfere, it’ll be too late.’
‘Then we must do what we can.’
‘I agree. What do you have in mind?’
‘The Jews will suffer most in the next few years. They’ll be vic-
timized, even more than today. I shudder to think what will happen.
It would be the same for us if we were Jewish. Just an accident of
birth or religion.’
‘So?’
‘So we need to establish means of saving them from us,’ said
Schröder. ‘A means of enabling them to escape, as many as can. I’m
prepared to find money. Large amounts of it. But you will have
to work on the practical details, with your friends outside the
country.’
Konrad paused, and looked over to Hans.
‘Hans,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. We forgot you were there. We’ve been
boring you with our political talk. Please, you’re excused.’
‘Hans,’ said Schröder, ‘why don’t you go and find the girls? I’m
sure they’re around the house somewhere.’ Schröder stood, and
Hans felt him watching his progress down the corridor before he
closed the door of the study.
He padded along the corridor, jumping experimentally to feel his
feet sink into the plush pile carpet with a deadened impact. Despite the distant noise of servants scurrying and furniture being moved
and cutlery and crockery being laid on tables, up here it was quiet.
He opened one door and then another, but there was no one. He
looked in the formal drawing room and then in the cosy little snug
on the opposite side of the wide corridor. Outside, it was snowing
heavily.
Eventually he heard excited voices behind a bedroom door. He
opened it slowly. There they were, the three elder sisters.
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Charlotte giggled with delight. ‘Oh, it’s little Hansi. Come in,
come in.’
Once, he had been glad to be their little Hansi. Anything that
brought him access to their fragrant presence had been bearable.
Now he resented being called little. He was taller than any of them and much more powerful. The sense that they were making fun of
him made things worse.
Nonetheless he went in. Charlotte was the middle of the three,
aged eighteen, and the most skittish in Hans’s view. She was also the one he found prettiest, the one he wanted most to kiss. Her lips
were red, ripe and full. But any of the three would have done. Han-
nelore was the eldest, marginally more serious than the other two.
She had already started working in her father’s factory. Anneliese
was simply too young for him, though three years his senior. She
was just so immature.
None of these girls had ambition or intellect. They were all frivo-
lous and he was not familiar with frivolity. His own father and
mother were serious and thoughtful, and encouraged him to be so
too. In this family Lili, the youngest sister, would be the studi-
ous one.
‘We’re trying on our dresses for the party tonight, Hansi,’ said
Anneliese with fake coyness. ‘Would you like to see them?’
‘Er, yes,’ he said, blushing. ‘I suppose so.’
They laughed. ‘Oh, dear Hansi,’ said Charlotte, ‘are you coming
to the ball tonight? Will you be our prince?’
‘Er, no. I’m not coming.’
‘Stop teasing, Charlotte,’ said Hannelore. ‘Are you here with your
father, Hansi?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do hope Daddy will stop work soon,’ said Anneliese. ‘He needs
to get ready too.
The room smelt of cleanness and soap, and of them. He was
embarrassed almost to the point of squirming, yet he was glad to be here. The brightness of it all was dazzling. He longed to reach out and touch one of them. Even better if one of them touched him.
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‘Aren’t you warm, Hansi?’ said Charlotte. ‘Isn’t it warm in here,
Anneliese?’
‘Yes,’ answered her sister. ‘It’s so exciting.’
‘Are you hoping your lieutenant will be here tonight, Hannelore?’
‘Well, he’s accepted the invitation.’
Her two sisters giggled in unison.
‘I hope he brings some of his friends,’ said Anneliese.
They chattered as if he were not there. He did not mind. He
wished he could be invisible but remain there always. To watch.
This was Charlotte’s room. He wished he could watch her as she
prepared for this evening and be there on her return to see her
remove her make- up carefully in front of the mirror, before shaking her dark hair and removing her dress. He wanted to see her remove
her underwear and to see her plump breasts freed from their bounds, to watch her step out of her knickers and to savour the sight and the smell and the taste and feel of what lay beneath.
He felt an aching, yearning hardness and dared not move for fear
they would notice. They laughed and shouted, moving around him
as he sat primly on the edge of the bed.
‘Sorry,’ he said when he found himself looking into Hannelore’s
inquiring eyes. ‘What did you say?’
‘Hansi’s daydreaming again,’ she said, laughing. ‘I said, would
you like to see us in our gowns?’
‘Well then. You’ll have to stand outside for a few minutes while
we get ready. Off with you. Out.’
She marched him outside the door, where he waited obediently.
He did not dare a glance through the keyhole but stood, stiff and
still.
Eventually the door opened again and Anneliese peered around it.
‘Fashion show,’ she announced, and opened the door wide.
He went in and each of the girls sashayed in front of him in turn,
grinning, posing, blowing kisses towards him. He was bedazzled
but expressionless, gulping inwardly on the seat at the dressing table that they had turned to face the room. Anneliese touched him
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gently on the leg and he looked intently at the spot where her hand had brushed him. He was beginning to feel heady with the fragrance of perfume and girl. Hannelore tousled his hair and he
grinned inanely. The girls danced together and Anneliese reached
for him. He stood and she pulled him towards her. He knew to place
his hand gently at her waist, but no more. She took him with her as if tied by gossamer, moving gracefully. He clumped gamely in tow.
Hannelore laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I hope Daddy will let
us drink some of his champagne,’ she said.
Hans giggled for no reason.
Charlotte threw herself back on the bed, sighing. Her wide dress
flew up. He could see her lace petticoats. He did not divert his eyes.
For a moment, just a second, he saw her drawers.
Without realizing it, he had stopped dancing. He pulled Anne-
liese close to him, still looking at Charlotte. Anneliese resisted but he was a strong boy. He was a
ware of her thigh against his hardness and it felt good.
‘Don’t,’ she said loudly. ‘Hans, no. You’ll crease my dress.’
He released her and she moved quickly away from him. There
was silence in the room. All three girls looked at him. The full
import of the exchange was clear to everyone.
Eventually it was Hannelore who spoke, with forced cheerful-
ness. ‘We really must get ready for tonight, Hans. Your father will be waiting for you now, surely?’
He detected scorn in her expectant look. Bitches. Without speak-
ing, he left the room and slammed the door behind him.
Furious, he pounded the corridors, kicking his feet out before
him. A maid who passed him suggested he might come down to the
kitchen for a hot chocolate with whipped cream. He glared at her.
He hated this house.
Lili was in a window seat, her feet folded neatly under her, read-
ing a book. She called him back after he had passed the room.
‘Hans! Hans! Have you seen the snow?’
He groaned inwardly. He’d had enough of the others. Now he
had to deal with this child. He could, feasibly, walk on, carried by his blackness, but something drew him back.
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‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’
She stood and came to the door.
‘Isn’t it wonderful? I’m going to ask Mama if I may play outside
later.’
‘You have your party tonight. And it’ll be dark soon.’
‘I’m not allowed to go to the party. I’m to go to bed early. But I
shall watch from the stairs, whatever they say. Maybe I’ll play in the snow tomorrow. Would you come and play, Hans?’
Lili was by far the youngest of the sisters. His parents had joked
that she must be the Schröders’ afterthought. He did not know
what was amusing about being an afterthought. She was ten years
old, a baby.
The difficulty was that Lili adored him, though not in the same
way as the elder daughters. For them he was a kind of pet, a puppy.
Lili looked up to him; he was her hero. It was embarrassing, but not entirely unwelcome. Sometimes he would enjoy her rapt attention;
on other occasions, like now, it filled him with impatient contempt.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I have more important things to do.’
‘That’s a shame.’