Second Violin (35 page)

‘
Ja, ja.
It is so. But you have never been back to Germany?’

‘Course not.’

‘Then you cannot possibly know. I was a prisoner of the Nazis for only a few weeks in 1933. The Oranienburg camp near Berlin. It is closed now, but worse have arisen in its place. The
experience was enough to make me leave for good. I was lucky that I could leave. Many who go into the camps are never seen again.’

Billy was thinking about this, but Rod could tell from the puzzled expression – he wasn’t getting it.

‘So?’

‘Perhaps Professor Klemper had been in a camp too. Perhaps his experience, like mine, was enough to drive him from his homeland. Perhaps the prospect of another camp, for that is surely
where we are headed, was enough to make death seem preferable.’

‘That’s . . . that’s just bleedin’ ridiculous . . . these aren’t yer Nazis these are English Tommies . . .’

‘And they are?’

‘Whaddya mean by that . . . they are . . . what they are.’

‘They are men with guns taking us to a camp . . . of which we know neither the name nor the location.’

‘Does that matter?’

Rod found Stahl’s words to him on the matter of camps rising unbidden to his lips. It had been a startling phrase at the time, a glimpse into Stahl’s vision of it all, and, more than
ever, it seemed appropriate.

‘
Nacht und Nebel
,’ he said softly but loud enough for all to hear.

There was a pause. Rosen looked at Rod expectantly. The two non-speakers stared straight ahead, Spinetti and Billy looked at one another.

‘What’s that mean?’ they said together.

Rod was about to tell them, when Hummel spoke.

‘Night and Fog, Billy. Not a phrase I have heard before but so resonant. So very resonant. I wish I’d thought of the phrase. But I have no gift for poetry. I almost vanished into
night and fog myself.’

‘See,’ said Billy, much to Rod’s despair. ‘I told you ’e’d come out with a mouthful sooner or later.’

They sat an age in a railway siding just outside Manchester. It was late afternoon now, but approaching the longest day of the year, and far from twilight. About half past
five, the train shunted slowly into Manchester Central – a building conceived in its black misery to make even St Pancras look cheerful. Rod stuck his head out of the window. A soldier was
patrolling right outside, ten paces up the platform, ten paces down, rifle slung over his left shoulder.

‘Is this it?’ Rod asked.

‘No, mate. It ain’t.’

‘In that case, is there any chance we could stretch our legs? It’s awfully hot in here and we’ve been cooped up since Derby.’

‘If it was up to me you could. But it ain’t, so you can’t. You just pop yer ’ead back inside. You’ll be on the move before you know it.’

Truer word was never. Before Rod could step back into the compartment, the carriage lurched and the train reversed slowly back out of the station. He staggered to his seat.

Billy Jacks said, ‘What’s ’appening?’

‘Not much. I rather think we just changed engines, that’s all.’

‘Looks to me as though we’re headed back to London.’

Fat chance, thought Rod, but he said nothing.

The train took a westward curve over points at the south end of the station and crawled in a lazy half circle around the centre of the city, across the Irwell and into Salford, into a landscape
of tall chimneys and soot-blackened mills.

By nine o’clock they were in a siding, pulled up at freight platforms next to one of the mills. At last the cry went up, ‘Everybody out.’ And, for the benefit of non-English
speakers, someone was running the length of the platform yelling in crude German, ‘
Raus
!
Raus
!’ Several hundred tired, cramped and dishevelled men stepped down from the
train – all with one question, ‘Where are we?’

Rod was the last to leave the compartment. He reached up for his bag, took it down and realised his was not the last. There was still an attaché case up there on the netting. Brown
leather, reinforced at the corners, with the labels of a hotel in Stuttgart and another in Paris stuck to it. It had to be Klemper’s. Who else’s could it be? And rather than leave it he
took it with him, half wondering if there might yet be someone to whom it could be returned. ‘Everybody has somebody’ was a truism of which he was beginning to doubt the truth. It now
seemed perfectly possible that Professor Klemper had nobody. That they, in their present captivity, were nobodies. That they could jump to their deaths alone and uncounted. It struck him as a form
of oblivion – death as a statistic, to have existed only never to have existed,
Nacht und Nebel
again – the saddest fact of death, that there was no one even to tell. He shook
the moment off – told himself he had a wife and two kids, both parents living, two sisters . . . to say nothing of an irritating little brother.

Attempts to square the internees military-style into ranks of three amounted to nothing. Those that understood wouldn’t or couldn’t and those that didn’t understand outnumbered
those that did. So they slouched across cobblestones, through the makeshift barbed wire gates of the mill, more mob than squad, with a disbelieving infantry sergeant bellowing at them to
‘Shape up!’

As they passed under the main archway into the mill itself, Rod looked up and caught sight of the company name chipped into the stone lintel in big, cusped letters, all the boldness of the
nineteenth century caught in a font. He glanced off to his left and caught Hummel doing the same. Hummel could not resist a smile. The sign read ‘Friedrich Engels and Co.’ Perhaps
Hummel had the same thoughts Rod was having – did Engels write
The Condition of the English Working Class
here? Did he put his two penn’orth into the
Manifesto of the
Communist Party
here? And was his ghost watching as men were led beneath his name if not into chains then certainly into captivity? Hummel, he decided from the smile, had a sense of irony. He
wouldn’t bother trying to explain this to Billy Jacks.

It was poorly lit inside – naked bulbs dangling almost periloulsy to shed circles of light and shadow without creating enough of either to give anyone a clear sense of where they were. In
front of them was a row of trestle tables, manned by uniformed soldiers, who in turn were guarded by armed soldiers under the command of a corporal of the Lancashire Regiment.

‘Right you Krauts an’ Eyeties and what have you. Kit on the table and turn out yer pockets!’

This produced a prolonged hiatus as those that spoke English translated for those that didn’t.

‘Get a bleedin’ move on!’

A man four places ahead of Rod in the queue obediently put down a green oilskin case and began to rummage through his pockets. The case was flipped open, its contents roughly tipped out onto the
table. Rod watched this happen to one package after another, the length of the room. Saw the flash of movement as wallets and watches disappeared like a bad conjuring trick.

‘My God,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘They’re fleecing us!’

‘Fleecing,
ja.
’ He heard Hummel say, another colloquialism logged.

‘I thought it was an inspection . . . but they’re just confiscating anything
they want.’

A tap on the arm with the barrel of a rifle urged Rod up to the table.

‘Your stuff, on the table, now, Fritz!’

Rod had a firm grip on his own bag but saw Klemper’s snatched from him and plonked down, saw the soldier’s fingers fiddling at the latch. Calmly Rod placed a hand over his.

‘The case is not mine. And it certainly isn’t yours. Its owner died today. Would you steal from the dead?’

‘What? Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m the man in charge, and what you’re doing is theft.’

‘In charge? In charge o’what?’

‘In charge of this case. Now who’s in charge of you?’

Rod followed the man’s gaze, craned his neck to see the corporal approach.

‘What’s the hold-up ’Iggins? Keep the buggers moving!’

‘It’s this bloke, Corp. He say he’s in charge.’

The corporal was a little bulldog of a man, pigeon-chested and a good eight inches shorter than Rod. Rod stood up, stretched to his full height and drew on memories of being in the OTC at
school.

‘You, man. Who’s your commanding officer?’

‘You what?’

‘Stand to attention when you address me. I said, where’s your commanding officer?’

‘I . . . er . . . I er . . .’

‘Don’t fluster man, just go and get him!’

Slightly, but only slightly, to Rod’s amazement it worked. The corporal turned on his heel and vanished into an inner room of the mill. The soldiers at the table froze, every one of them
looking at Rod. The internees set up a susurrus of whispers in half a dozen languages, and they too stared at the big man who’d bellowed orders in the received pronunciation of the
King’s English. English and foreigner had but one thought between them – friend or foe?

The corporal returned, led by a captain of the Lancashires. The captain pointedly flipped the press stud on his holster, Rod just as pointedly flipped his Old Harrovian tie.

‘What’s going on here?’

Then his eyes flickered down to the tie, then up to Rod’s face, down to the tie and back again. The press stud was clicked back into place with his right hand and the left took Rod gently
by the elbow and steered him towards the edge of the room, where moonlight streaked in through a broken window.

‘I know you,’ the captain said simply. ‘You’re one of the Troy brothers, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Rod. ‘I’m Rod.’

‘Johnnie Eynsford-Hill. I was two years below you at school. Your brother fagged for me.’

‘Well, if I ever get out of this den of thieves I’ll be sure to remind him.’

‘Look, old chap, would you mind keeping your voice down?’

‘Thief is thief even if I whisper it,’ Rod mock-whispered. ‘These men are robbing their charges. If you know about it and condone it, you’re as guilty as they are. If you
don’t know then you’re a poor excuse for an officer. But now your face comes back to me, “old chap”, you were a pretty poor excuse for a cadet, as I recall.’

The man blushed. Guilt seeped like a beetroot stain on a tablecloth.

‘I’ve come a long way since then. Sandhurst. Passed out well. Commissioned. And believe you me, I’d rather be in a combat regiment than in charge of this bunch of skiving
layabouts.’

‘Fine . . . prove it.’

Eynsford-Hill blushed again.

‘I find it pays to let them do things their way.’

‘One of us has to give an order. If not you, me. And if I do it and any of these “skiving layabouts” jumps to it, you’ll never have the respect of a British Tommy again.
Do it. Do it for your own self-respect.’

Eynsford-Hill turned to face the room. Rod took a step back to let him.

‘Right, listen here. All packages are to be examined. But you are only to confiscate anything that might be used as a weapon. Does everyone understand?’

The corporal saluted, a dozen begrudging voices said ‘Sir.’

Rod went back to the table. Picked up his bag and Klemper’s and stepped out of the queue. If they still wanted to search him he’d be amazed. Eynsford-Hill beckoned him back to the
window.

‘I do have a question,’ he said.

‘OK. I owe you that. Ask away.’

‘What are you doing here?’

They were led to the top floor, up five flights of winding stairs to a long weaving shed lit only by the moon through the rooflights. Even so, Rod could see what they were in
for. For eighty-odd men there seemed to be no more than twenty beds, none of which had mattresses. Most of the old machinery had not been removed and the accommodation was fitted in around looms
and cranks and over head cam-belts. If it weren’t for the filth, the litter and the neglect – puddles under the broken rooflights where it had rained the night before, broken wooden
bobbins everywhere – it was possible to believe the factory had shut yesterday merely to reopen as a prison today.

Rod turned to see the reaction in the others only to find they were all looking at him. He couldn’t quite decide whether the look was respect or desperation, then Billy Jacks
half-whispered to him, ‘Flashing the ole school tie to scare a bunch of Tommies shitless is one thing – worked a treat, if you ask me – but this lot need a leader, and
they’re lookin’ at you and you can’t say you didn’t ask for it. Toffs is as toffs does.’

‘Oh bugger.’

‘Just tell ’em what to do, ’Ampstead. They’ll listen to you.’

‘Er . . . er . . . right. Mr Jacks, go back to the British and tell them that we’ve none of us eaten for almost twelve hours and we’d appreciate rations issue.’

Jacks called him a bastard but set off for the staircase.

‘Now . . . beds. Is there anyone sick or lame?’

The translations moved swiftly and half a dozen hands went up.

‘Right – you get the beds. The rest go to anyone over sixty. Now . . . blankets. Mr Spinetti . . . back to the British, tell them we need more blankets.’

Slowly the men spread themselves out. A natural democracy ensued. No squabbles over who was sicker than whom. Or who was older than whom. It was a mess turning into an organisation. For a brief
hubristic moment, Rod felt a deluding flush of pride – then Eynsford-Hill was standing in front of him again, red-faced and trying vainly to hold in his anger. Spinetti and Jacks behind him,
pleased at the trouble they were causing.

‘You’re asking an awful lot, you know. It’s practically dark, it’s close to ten o’clock . . .’

Rod said, ‘Are you saying you have no rations?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Then break them out and feed the men. Are you saying you’ve no blankets?’

‘No we haven’t any more blankets. What you see is what there is. It’s all we’ve got. Troy, what you don’t seem to understand is that no one was expecting you.
You’ve been shuffled around in railway sidings half the evening while we found somewhere that would take you. We already have seven hundred and fifty men here! I’ll feed you, of course
I’ll feed you, but there’s not much more I can do.’