The Schirmer Inheritance (12 page)

George sighed. “That all?”

“He adds: ‘Heil Hitler,’ and signs it.”

“Ask Frau Gresser if she heard any more about it from the army authorities.”

“No, she did not.”

“Did she make any attempt to find out more? Did she try the Red Cross?”

“She was advised that the Red Cross could do nothing.”

“When did she ask them?”

“Early in 1945.”

“And not since?”

“No. She also asked the
Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge
—that is, the war-graves organization—for information. They had none.”

“Was any application ever made to have him presumed dead?”

“There was no reason for such action.”

“Does she know if he married?”

“No.”

“Did she ever correspond with him?”

“She wrote a letter of sympathy to him when his parents were killed, but received no more than a bare acknowledgment from him. He did not even ask where they were buried. He showed a want of feeling, she thought. She sent a parcel soon afterwards. He did not trouble to write to thank her for it. She sent no more.”

“Where did his reply come from in 1942?”

“From Benghazi.”

“Did she keep the letter?”

“No.”

Frau Gresser spoke again. George watched her plump face quivering and her small, resentful eyes flickering between her two visitors. He was getting used now to interpretation and had learned not to try to anticipate the conversation while he waited. He was thinking at the moment that it would be unpleasant to be under any sort of obligation to Frau Gresser.
The rate of emotional interest she would charge would be exhorbitantly high.

“She says,” said Miss Kolin, “that she did not like Franz and had never liked him even as a child. He was a sullen, sulky boy and always ungrateful for kindness. She wrote to him only as a duty to his dead mother.”

“How did he feel about foreigners? Had he any particular girl-friends? What I’m getting at is this—does she think he’d be the kind of man to marry a Greek girl, say, or an Italian, if he had the chance?”

Frau Gresser’s reply was prompt and sour.

“She says that, where women were concerned, he was the sort of man who would do anything that his selfish nature suggested. He would do anything if he had the chance—except marry.”

“I see. All right, I think that’s about the lot. Would you ask her if we can borrow these papers for twenty-four hours to have photostats made?”

Frau Gresser considered the request carefully. Her small eyes became opaque. George could feel the documents suddenly becoming precious to her.

“I’ll give her a receipt for them, of course, and they’ll be returned tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her the American Consul will have to notarize the copies or she could have them back today.”

Frau Gresser handed them over reluctantly. While he was writing the receipt, George remembered something.

“Miss Kolin, have another try at finding out why Friedrich Schirmer left the business at Essen.”

“Very well.”

He lingered over the writing-out of the receipt. He heard Miss Kolin put the question. There was a momentary pause; then Frau Gresser replied with a positive volley of words. Her voice rose steadily in pitch as she spoke. Then she
stopped. He signed the receipt and looked up to find her staring at him in a flustered, accusing sort of way. He handed her the receipt and put the documents in his pocket.

“She says,” said Miss Kolin, “that the matter is not one which can be discussed in the presence of a man and that it can have no bearing on your inquiries. She adds, however, that if you do not believe that she is telling the truth, she will make the explanation confidentially to me. She will say no more on the subject while you are here.”

“O.K. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He rose and bowed to Frau Gresser. “Thank you very much indeed, madam. What you have told me is of inestimable help. I will see that your papers are safely returned to you tomorrow. Good day.”

He smiled affably, bowed again, and went. He was outside the apartment almost before Miss Kolin had finished interpreting his farewell speech.

She joined him in the street below ten minutes later.

“Well,” he said, “what was it all about?”

“Friedrich made advances to Ilse Schirmer.”

“To his son’s wife, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well. Did she go into details?”

“Yes. She enjoys herself, that one.”

“But the old man must have been around sixty then.”

“You remember the photographs that Father Weichs destroyed?”

“Yes.”

“He showed them to the wife.”

“Just that?”

“His meaning apparently was unmistakable. He also proposed in a veiled way that he should take similar photographs of her.”

“I see.” George tried to picture the scene.

He saw a shabby room in Essen and an elderly bookkeeper
sitting there pushing dog-eared photographs one by one across the table to where his son’s wife could see them as she sat bent over her needlework.

How the man’s heart must have beat as he watched her face! His mind must have seethed with questions and doubts.

Would she smile or would she pretend to be shocked? She was sitting still, absolutely still, and she had stopped working. Soon she would smile, for certain. He could not see her eyes. After all, there was nothing wrong in a little private joke between a father and daughter-in-law, was there? She was a grown-up woman and knew a thing or two, didn’t she? She liked him, he knew. All he wanted to do was show her that he wasn’t too old for a bit of fun and that, even if Johann was no good, there was one man about the house for her to turn to. And now the last photograph, the sauciest of the lot. An eye-opener, eh? Good fun? She still hadn’t smiled, but she hadn’t frowned either. Women were funny creatures. You had to choose your moment; woo gently and then be bold. She was slowly raising her head now and looking at him. Her eyes were very round. He smiled and said what he had planned to say—that subtle remark about new pictures being better than old. But she did not smile back. She was getting to her feet and he could see that she was trembling. With what? Excitement? And then, suddenly, she had let out a sob of fear and run from the room out to the workshop where Johann was decarbonizing that Opel taxi. After that, everything had become a nightmare, with Johann shouting at and threatening him, and Ilse weeping, and the boy Franz standing there listening, white-faced, not understanding what it was all about; only knowing that in some way the world was coming to an end.

Yes, George thought, a pretty picture; though probably an inaccurate one. Still, it was the sort of scene about which nobody could ever be quite accurate; least of all, those who
had taken part in it. He would never know what had really happened. Not that it mattered very much. Friedrich, Johann, and Ilse, the principal actors, were certainly dead. And Franz? He glanced at Miss Kolin marching along beside him.

“Do you think Franz is dead?” he asked.

“The evidence seemed conclusive. Did you not think so?”

“In a way, yes. If the man had been a friend of mine and had a wife and family he was fond of back home, I wouldn’t try to kid his wife that he might still be alive. And if she were crazy enough to go on believing that he wasn’t dead, I’d tell her as gently as I could to face the facts. But this is different. If we took the evidence we’ve got to court and asked for leave to presume Franz Schirmer dead, they’d laugh at us.”

“I do not see why.”

“Look. The man’s in a truck ambushed by these guerrillas. That Lieutenant comes along some time afterwards and has a look at the scene. There are lots of dead bodies about, but not the dead body of our man. So maybe he’s escaped and maybe he’s a prisoner. If he’s a prisoner, says the Lieutenant, then he hasn’t a hope, because the Greek guerrillas had the habit of killing their prisoners. ‘Just a minute,’ says the judge; ‘are you claiming that
all
Greek guerrillas operating in 1944
invariably
killed
all
their prisoners? Are you prepared to prove that there were no cases at all of German soldiers surviving after capture?’ What does the Lieutenant say to that? I don’t know anything about the Greek campaign—I wasn’t there—but I do know that if all these guerrillas were so well trained and so well organized and so trigger-happy that no German who fell into their hands was ever smart enough or lucky enough to get away, they’d have had the Germans pulling out of Greece long before the Normandy landings. All right, then, let’s alter the wording of the evidence. Let’s
say that Greek guerrillas
often
killed their prisoners. Now, then—”

“But do you think he is
not
dead?” she asked.

“Of course I think he’s dead. I’m just trying to point out there’s a whole lot of difference between an ordinary everyday probability and the calculated kind that the law prefers. And the law’s right. You’d be surprised how often people turn up when they’ve been thought dead. A man gets fired from his job and quarrels with his wife; so he goes down to the shore, takes off his coat, leaves it with a suicide note on the beach, and that’s the last seen of him. Dead? Maybe. But sometimes he’s found by accident years later living under a different name and with a different wife in a city on the other side of the continent.”

She shrugged. “This is different.”

“Not so very. Look at it this way. It’s 1944. Let’s suppose that Franz Schirmer is captured by the guerrillas but by luck or skill manages to get away alive. What is he to do? Rejoin his unit? The German occupation forces are trying to escape through Yugoslavia and having a tough time doing it. If he leaves his hide-out and tries to catch up with them, he’s certain to be recaptured by the guerrillas. They’re all over the place now. It’s better to stay where he is for a while. He is a resourceful man, trained to live off the country. He can stay alive. When it is safe for him to do so, he will go. Time passes. The country is under Greek control once again. Hundreds of miles now separate him from the nearest German unit. Civil war breaks out in Greece. In the resultant confusion he is able to make his way to the Turkish frontier and cross it without being caught. He is an engineer and does not mind work. He takes a job.”

“By February 1945 Turkey was at war with Germany.”

“Maybe it’s before February.”

“Then why does he not report to the German Consul?”

“Why should he? Germany is collapsing. The war is virtually over. Maybe he likes it where he is. Anyway, what has he to return to postwar Germany for? To see Frau Gresser? To see what’s left of his parents’ home? Maybe he married an Italian girl when he was in Italy and wants to get back there. He may even have children. There are dozens of possible reasons why he shouldn’t go to the German Consul. Maybe he went to the Swiss one.”

“If he had married, his army record would show it.”

“Not if he married someone he wasn’t supposed to marry. Look at the rules the Americans and British had about their troops marrying German girls.”

“What do you propose?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think.”

When he got back to the hotel, he sat down and wrote a long cable to Mr. Sistrom. First he set out briefly the latest developments in the inquiry; then he asked for instructions. Should he return home now or should he go on and make an attempt to confirm Franz Schirmer’s death?

The following afternoon he had the reply.

“
HAVING LOOKED UNDER SO MANY STONES
,” it said, “
SEEMS PITY LEAVE ONE UNTURNED STOP GO AHEAD TRY CONFIRM OR OTHERWISE FRANZ DEATH STOP SUGGEST GIVING IT THREE WEEKS STOP IF IN YOUR JUDGMENT NO SERIOUS HEADWAY MADE OR LIKELY BY THEN LETS FORGET IT
.
SISTROM
.”

That night George and Miss Kolin left Cologne for Geneva.

Miss Kolin had interpreted at conferences for the International Red Cross Committee and knew the people at headquarters who could be of help. George was soon put in touch with an official who had been in Greece for the Red Cross in 1944; a lean, mournful Swiss who looked as if nothing
again could ever surprise him. He spoke good English and four other languages besides. His name was Hagen.

“There is no doubt at all, Mr. Carey,” he said, “that the
andartes
did often kill their prisoners. I am not saying that they did it simply because they hated the enemy or because they had a taste for killing, you understand. It is difficult to see what else they could have done much of the time. A guerrilla band of thirty men or less is in no position to guard and feed the people it takes. Besides, Macedonia is in the Balkan tradition, and there the killing of an enemy can seem of small importance.”

“But why take prisoners? Why not kill them at once?”

“Usually they were taken for questioning.”

“If you were in my position, how would you go about establishing the death of this man?”

“Well, as you know where the ambush took place, you might try getting in touch with some of the
andartes
who were operating in that area. They might remember the incident. But I think I should say that you may find it difficult to persuade them to refresh their memories. Was it an ELAS band, do you know, or an EDES?”

“EDES?”

“The Greek initials stand for the National Democratic Liberation Army—the anti-Communist
andartes
. ELAS were the Communist
andartes
—the National Popular Liberation Army. In the Vodena area it would most likely be ELAS.”

“Does it matter which it was?”

“It matters a great deal. There have been three years of civil war in Greece, you must remember. Now that the rebellion is over, those who fought on the Communist side are not easy to find. Some are dead, some in prison, some in hiding still. Many are refugees in Albania and Bulgaria. As things are, you would probably find it difficult to get in touch with ELAS men. It is complex.”

“Yes, it sounds it. What real chance would there be, do you think, of my finding out what I want to know?”

Monsieur Hagen shrugged. “Often in such matters I have seen chance operate so strangely that I no longer try to estimate it. How important is your business, Mr. Carey?”