The Boy from Berlin Read online

  As these thoughts ran through Mason’s mind, he heard the sound of footsteps coming from the far end of the landing on which he was standing. Beside him was a door which almost certainly led into a bedroom. He took a chance and opened the door, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  The first thing he saw was a large double bed. Lying on top of the bed was a suit of clothes, a shirt, tie and a pair of socks. Placed carefully beside the bed was a polished pair of evening shoes.

  He looked around the room, expecting to see somebody or perhaps hear them in the bathroom taking a shower or getting changed. Then he looked across to the other side of the room where a pair of double doors were half open. He could see that these were connecting doors which would have been opened wide to turn the bedroom into a small apartment. As he looked, the doors opened a little further as someone on the other side took hold of them, and before the doors could be pulled shut, Mason caught a glimpse of what was in the other room.

  He saw about eight men. They were all looking at Judge Henry Lawrence who was standing beside General Mort Tyler. And then he understood the fear he had about the speech his son had made and the body language of the men who had sat and watched him with an overt reverence.

  Judge Henry Lawrence and General Mort Tyler were dressed in the steel grey uniforms of the Nazi SS.

  Isaac Demski listened to his son as he explained to him over the phone the predicament he found himself in. He told his father that he and Haman had had to part company.

  ‘I need cash. I daren’t use a credit card.’

  ‘You think the organization is tracking you that way?’ his father asked.

  ‘It has to be; there’s no other explanation for it. That’s why I need cash.’

  ‘I can get some to you,’ Isaac reassured him. ‘It will have to be delivered personally so it might take some time.’

  ‘I’ll hide up somewhere, find a cheap motel.’

  ‘Where will you go when I get the money to you?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  Isaac frowned. ‘Why Switzerland?’

  ‘It’s the postcards; those I found in Weber’s place. I can’t explain. Too complicated.’

  Isaac wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but his son was in trouble and needed help. ‘Listen, Jack. Let me know where your motel is once you’re there. I’ll give you a phone number. The cash will be there.’

  Jack thanked his father and hung up. He then walked out of the station and found a taxi. He asked the driver to take him to an out of town motel. Thirty minutes later he was sitting in a fairly standard room – one bed, one bathroom, one phone and a piece of carpet. And spread out over the bed were the postcards.

  What had intrigued Demski when he had first looked through them in the car was the fact that the old man had kept the postcards like a forlorn lover might keep letters from a long lost love. They were all old, well fingered as though they had been studied and admired many times. There were a few photographs among the postcards, but the curious thing was that they were all of the same place; a small village in Switzerland.

  At first the postcards bore very little information, and what struck Demski was that they were addressed to Fräulein Gretchen Mayer. The message wasn’t signed but finished with two initials: F.W. Demski assumed this was Franz Weber, the old man. After a short while, the postcards stopped. There was a lengthy gap, then a photograph of a young man and a woman. On the back of the photo were the names Franz and Gretchen. Then the words: Piva 1948.

  It wasn’t difficult for Demski to build a timeline through the postcards and the photographs. Gretchen Meyer was Franz Weber’s fiancée at first. Then they became man and wife and, for some reason, took their holidays at Piva, a small village in Switzerland. They always stayed at the same hotel, evident from the photos, and usually twice a year. All Demski had to do now was to find out why and what the connection was between that and the murder of his grandmother, Rosmaleen. He hadn’t a clue how he was going to go about it, but he knew he was going to have a good try.

  Babs Mason and her husband left the party in a hurry, determined to find some way of stopping Bill Mason and his threat to expose that ‘fucking Nazi bunch’, as he had put it. Babs had been mortified when he had grabbed her by the elbow and literally dragged her out of the main room, away from the prying eyes and ears of the people assembled there.

  They had a furious argument once he had got her out into the grounds of the mansion. Mason insisted that his son was not going to be a puppet to the Nazi thugs, and he was going to stop them. Babs knew that if a hint of what had gone on behind closed doors at Mort Tyler’s mansion was leaked to the press by Bill Mason, the campaign to get Gus elected as president would fail. Babs found herself torn between what was right, and her husband’s chance of success. For some reason, she felt that failure for Gus would mean his resentment would fall on her. But she still loved Bill Mason, and didn’t want to see him hurt either. She had no alternative but to stop Mason from risking his neck by exposing Tyler and Lawrence and the organization of Nazis that they intended leading into power.

  It was about five o’clock in the morning when Babs and her husband saw Mason pull up outside his ranch house in the Buick. They hadn’t been able to speak to him at Mort Tyler’s place once he had argued with Babs because he had literally disappeared. They had arrived a couple of hours earlier hoping to find him in the house and try to persuade him from carrying out his threat to go to the press. There was no one in the house so they waited in the Jeep behind the barn in which Mason always kept his old Buick.

  Mason clambered out of his car and hurried into the house. Babs and Gus wondered where he might have gone after leaving Mort Tyler’s place in such a temper, but it was something they had to forget about and think on how they were going to deal with the problem of stopping him.

  They were still talking about the best way to deal with the problem, and were still wrestling with the dilemma when they saw Mason come out of the house and climb into his Buick. He pulled away from the house and turned towards the old, dirt road that led into town. Gus Mason told Babs to get out of the driver’s seat and switch places. He started the motor and followed, keeping the lights off because he didn’t want Mason to know they were behind him. Gus kept an eye on his father’s tail lights and with the thin, early dawn light seeping into the sky, was able to concentrate on the Buick and not worry about the state of the road.

  Suddenly Mason’s stop lights blazed out in the gloom, and Gus knew he had reached the beginning of a treacherous curve and a drop in the road that ran alongside a deep gully. He pushed his foot down on the throttle and felt the Jeep lurch forward. The speed increased until they were almost behind the Buick. Gus saw his father’s head turn and glance back over his shoulder. As he did, his car bucked and swerved. Gus pushed forward and smashed into the back of the Buick.

  They both felt the impact of the bull bars as they hit the rear fender of the Buick. Babs was flung forward, striking her head on the hard edge of the sun visor. The Buick fishtailed wildly as Mason lost control and his car disappeared over the edge of the road, dropping twenty feet into the bottom of the gully.

  Gus hit the brakes and brought the Jeep to a slithering stop. He glanced across at Babs who sat there trembling. She put her hand to her forehead and could feel the blood. She wiped it away and looked at her husband with an expression of horror on her face. He clambered out of the jeep and ran over towards the gully. Babs followed him, but as soon as she reached the edge, Gus grabbed hold of her arm.

  ‘Nothing we can do,’ he told her. ‘Come on.’ He pulled her away, but Babs resisted.

  ‘Aren’t you going to see if he’s all right?’ she screamed at him.

  He said nothing at first as he dragged her away, but she kept fighting him and trying to break free from his iron grip.

  ‘Gus!’ she screamed. ‘For God’s sake, he’s your father!’

  He got her to the car and bundled her in through the open door.
He slammed it shut and pointed at her through the closed window. ‘Stay there!’

  Babs watched him run round to the other side and climb in. She was almost speechless now as the horror of what had happened, and what Gus was planning, dawned on her.

  ‘You’re going to leave him,’ she said with shock in her voice. ‘Your own father and you’re going to leave him.’ She grabbed the handle of the door and was about to open it when Gus slapped her hard around the face.

  ‘Don’t you dare, Babs,’ he warned her with a hard edge to his voice.

  Babs felt the stinging blow and almost passed out. She put her hand to her face and the image of her husband’s demonic face was lost as tears flooded into her eyes.

  Gus turned away and rammed the gear lever forward. The car jerked as the wheels spun on the dirt. Then he turned and said, ‘Nothing must stop us, Babs. Nothing.’

  Demski had to wait twenty-four hours for his money. When it came there were no identity checks, no histrionics; simply one man handing over a package to another. After the courier had left, Demski opened the envelope and found 2,000 Euros, 2,000 Swiss Francs and 5,000 American dollars. It was enough; more than enough, in fact. He gathered up the postcards, put the money in a money belt that he always carried and paid his bill at the reception desk. After scribbling his signature, he went out looking for a taxi.

  Demski was banking on the people who were almost certainly after him and Haman expecting them to try the main exits to leave the country. Working on that theory and the fact that Haman was no longer with him, he felt comfortable enough using the railway to get from Austria into Switzerland. He arrived in Bern the following day and booked into a small hotel. He used the time to refresh himself with a well-earned shower and a few hours’ sleep, but all the while he was thinking of his next move.

  Demski knew he would have to head for Piva, but if there was a distinct, solid connection between that small town and Franz Weber, he was sure the people who murdered the old man and his nurse would be there waiting for him to turn up. There was little doubt in his mind that the group responsible for Weber’s death were the Neo Nazis. As a Jew he had every reason to loathe them with a passion, and knew that the feeling would be reciprocated. He had to be on his guard, simple as that.

  He arrived in Piva the following day and found a small hotel. He didn’t wait around too long, but as soon as he had arranged his room in such a way that he would know if anyone had broken in, he pushed the postcards into his pocket and went off in search of the landmarks he had seen in Weber’s postcard memories.

  The small hamlet of Piva nestled in a lush, green valley. A backdrop of hills in the distance and the mountains beyond lent an ambience of tranquillity. A church spire rose above the town to dominate it due to its position on higher ground. Beyond the church were a scattering of houses that eventually gave way to the canopy of green that sloped gently upwards towards the lower slopes of the hills. There were cattle grazing in one area, and the sound of their bells could be heard quite clearly, tinkling down the slopes.

  Demski took this all in as he stood in the road outside the one inn that he recognized from Weber’s photograph. The inn was called Der Jäger, The Hunter. It was an apt description. It had been built on the very edge of the town and afforded a spectacular view across the valley. It had taken Demski about an hour to locate the place, and now that he was there, he thought it best to have a snack, a coffee and to ask a few questions.

  ‘I’m looking for my grandmother,’ he told the owner of the inn after finishing his meal. ‘I believe she used to come here when she was a young woman.’ He fished the photograph from his pocket; the one showing Weber standing outside the front of the inn. He looked about twenty years of age in the picture.

  Demski then showed the man a second photo. It was of Weber with his wife. The owner’s eyebrows lifted and he began to nod his head.

  ‘When I was a little boy, I remember two people who came here often.’ His head continued to bob up and down. ‘It could be them. My father would know,’ he said after a pause. ‘I’ll get him.’

  Demski left the photos on the table and waited until the owner returned with his father. He introduced him as Gerd. He was well into his seventies but looked very fit for his age. Demski showed him the pictures.

  ‘They came here twice a year, sometimes three.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ Demski asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Is that your grandmother?’ he asked, pointing at the photo.

  ‘No,’ Demski admitted. ‘But I believe this man knew her. If I could find him or the lady in this picture….’ He left the rest unsaid.

  The man sat down at the table. He leaned forward, his arms laying folded flat across the tablecloth. ‘This was a long time ago, yes?’ Demski nodded. Gerd carried on. ‘Just after the war?’ There was no response from Demski. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. ‘Many people came this way after the war. Many of them were Germans. Nazis. But some of them were Jews.’ His eyes pierced Demski’s silence. ‘You’re not a German,’ he said at last, shaking his head.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I hated the Nazis too. So, your grandmother, she was fleeing from them?’

  Demski nodded. ‘I think this man may have helped her, but I need to talk to him if he’s still alive.’ It sounded right even though Demski had seen Weber with a bullet in his head just a few days earlier.

  Gerd shook his head forlornly. ‘Probably not now, but you never know.’

  Demski tried a long shot. ‘Do you keep records of guests who have stayed here?’

  Gerd smiled. ‘Only about as far back as a couple of years.’ He stopped suddenly as though something had occurred to him. ‘There is one thing, though. I remember a man who came to see them. It was about five years after the war. They travelled up to the sanatorium together.’ He stopped and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You think perhaps my grandmother could have been in the sanatorium?’

  Gerd shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible, but you would have to ask them. If they have a guest list, I’m sure it would go back quite a way.’

  ‘Where is this sanatorium?’

  Gerd leaned away from the table and pointed to the window. ‘You can just about see it up on the slope. Most of it is hidden by trees.’

  Demski got up from the table and looked out through the window. He could see the rooftop of what looked like a long building, but the treeline obscured most of it from view. He felt a frisson of excitement welling up in him. If this was where they had taken Eva Braun he might be closer to learning the truth.

  If it was true, then he understood why the Nazis were prepared to murder to keep it a secret; he intended to find out.

  Although the sanatorium was just about in view from the inn, Demski was told that it was too far to walk, as pretty as the walk appeared, so he took a cab. The climb up the hill lasted about ten minutes. As the driver approached the entrance, Demski leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘I think I will walk from here,’ he told him.

  He paid the driver and watched the cab turn round and disappear back down the winding road.

  The walk up to the gate into the sanatorium was about a hundred metres. On one side was a high wall that looked as though it had been built as a retaining wall. Mounted high on the stone was a sign with the words, Schwestern des Friedens, Sisters of Peace, and an arrow pointing towards the gatehouse. Demski wondered what secrets the Sisters of Peace might be hiding. He nodded briefly and made his way up the slope.

  To his surprise, the gatehouse was empty. He walked through the pedestrian gate which looked as though it had never been closed and followed the road as it curved to the right beneath a canopy of trees. He paused at a small cottage, not much bigger than the hotel bedrooms he had been used to. There was a date etched into a plaque on the side of the cottage and an explanation that it was the original dwelling place of Sister Anselma, the founder
of the sanatorium. The date was 1820.

  He didn’t stay too long, but was now aware of a kind of peacefulness coming over him. It was hard not to feel a sense of tranquillity settling gently on his shoulders. He continued walking and followed the road as it curved and dropped into an area that had a shop and a small café. There were a few people sitting outside who waved at him as he walked by. He acknowledged them but didn’t stop because he could see just beyond the small, commercial area, and beyond an expansive car park, what appeared to be the main building.

  It was three storeys high and about a hundred metres in length. It was painted white, perhaps to give it an air of peace and tranquillity. He crossed the car park and walked into the main entrance, allowing the doors to swing shut behind him.

  On one side of the large hall was a reception desk. A nun was seated behind the desk. She looked up as Demski walked in and smiled.

  ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

  Demski listened for other noises in the background, but there seemed to be an amazing silence.

  ‘I hope so,’ he answered pleasantly as he approached the desk. ‘This may sound odd; but I’m trying to trace my grandmother.’ The lie fell easily from his lips.

  ‘I see. You think she may be here?’

  ‘Well not exactly. She may even be dead.’

  The nun’s mouth fell open. Demski put his hand up. ‘Let me explain,’ he said, and went on to tell of Eva Braun’s apparent escape from Berlin, but substituting his grandmother’s name, Rosmaleen Demski. It was something that Demski had come up with while he was trying to figure out the reason for the postcards. If, he reasoned, Eva Braun was fleeing from Germany, it would have made sense to have adopted a Jewish name. So why not the name of the woman who had been murdered in her place?

  ‘We would have to check our records,’ she told him. ‘But you would have to speak to Sister Maria.’ She picked up the phone and pushed a button. After a short while she spoke to somebody rapidly in French. She put the phone down and asked Demski to wait.