In the Shadow of Hitler by Richard Vaughan Davies

Author:Richard Vaughan Davies
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2017-12-07T10:35:25+00:00

13

Altenburg, May 1947

Outside the office window I can hear the sounds of a work party clearing the piles of bricks from the remains of a large building. The labourers are mostly Trümmerfrauen, the women workers. They form long lines, passing the bricks from hand to hand and piling them neatly up, ants patiently rebuilding an overturned nest. The task is daunting, but it offers a glimmer of hope in a desolate landscape, hope that one day a new city will rise phoenix- like from the ashes.

A woman’s voice calls out a shrill order, and the sound of the work ceases. No doubt they have come across something useful - furniture, some valuables. Or perhaps they are warned by the smell that they’ve come upon something worse.

Then the work is resumed. A false alarm.

It’s been another long exhausting interview with van Reen. I just wish he didn’t remind me so much of Professor Jellicoe. I keep half expecting him to get up and pour me out a glass of sherry, and put a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

“Going back to the murder of the Greek islanders…”

“Excuse me.”

He winces. For a minute I think he’s going to protest mildly at my lack of good taste in introducing such an unseemly topic into our pleasant conversation.

“I’m sorry, sir, but my damned prostate again…?”

This time I have made sure Bletcher has left me the key to the handcuffs. I get up and release van Reen from his seat, clicking one of the cuffs onto my own wrist as I do so.

He senses my embarrassment and smiles kindly at me. Against all my better instincts, I find it hard not to respect his air of dignity, his erudition, his undoubted charm. It is impossible to imagine me handcuffing Professor Jellicoe and leading him to a lavatory.

I just manage to stop myself apologising. Van Reen waves his free hand as if to say, it’s nothing, we cannot help these silly little rules.

I slip the key into my trouser pocket, and we walk out together through Helga’s office in our little convoy. She studiously ignores us and taps harder than ever on her typewriter keyboard. I have the strong impression that her private life is not going well and her temper, never sweet at the best of times, is noticeably shorter than ever.

The little cloakroom down the corridor is shabby, and its smell a sharp reminder of its function. A roll of shiny Izal toilet paper, standard Army issue, hangs from a nail on the wall and a tap drips slowly into a dirty hand basin. The lavatory has no seat, something we have all complained about. A dirty khaki overall hangs on the back of the door.

I unlock my own cuff and start to fasten van Reen clumsily to the down pipe leading from the cistern. I am finding this acutely embarrassing.

“I’m going to have to stay with you…” I start to say.

Then to my utter astonishment I feel a steely hand gripping the back of my neck.

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