The Schirmer Inheritance (8 page)

    As I told you, he informed me of Friedrich Schirmer’s death and I gave him a cautious account of my reasons for inquiring about the man. We then had some conversation which, as it concerned Johann Schirmer to some extent, I will give you as I remember it
.

    Father Weichs is, or was, a tall, fair man with a bony face and sharp blue eyes. No fool, I warn you. And nothing passive about him. My halting German set the muscles of his jaws twitching impatiently. Fortunately, he speaks English well, and after the courtesies were over, that was the language we used
.

    “I hoped you might be a relative,” he said. “He spoke once of an uncle in America whom he had never seen.”

    “Had he no relatives here? No wife?” I asked
.

    “His wife died about sixteen years ago, in Schaffhausen. She was a Swiss. They had lived there for over twenty years. Their son was born there. But when she died he returned to Germany. During his last illness he used to speak of his son, Johann, but he had not seen him for many years. Johann was married and he had lived with the couple for a time, but there had been a quarrel and he had left their house.”

    “Where did they live?”

    “In Germany, but he did not tell me where. The whole subject was very painful to him. He spoke of it only once.”

    “What did they quarrel about?”

    Father Weichs hesitated at this question. Evidently he knew the answer to it. What he said was: “I cannot say.”

    “You don’t know?” I persisted
.

    He hesitated again, then answered very carefully:
“Friedrich Schirmer was not, perhaps, as simple a man as he appeared. That is all I can say”

    “I see.”

    “De mortuis … 
the old man was very sick.”

    “Y
OU
have absolutely no idea then, Father, of the whereabouts of Johann?”

    “I regret, none. I looked among the old man’s things for the address of someone to tell of his death, but I did not find anything. He lived at the sanatorium for old people. The woman director there said that he received no letters, only his annuity every month. Will the son receive the legacy now?”

    I had been prepared for the question. At one moment I had thought of trusting this priest, but the habit of caution was very strong. I answered evasively. “The money is in trust,” I said, and changed the subject by asking what had happened to his belongings
.

    “There was little more than the clothes he was buried in,” he said
.

    “No will?”

    “No. There were a few books and some old papers—records of his army service, such things. Nothing of value. I have charge of them until the authorities tell me they may be destroyed.”

    Naturally, I was determined to go through these things myself, but tact was necessary. “I wonder if I might see them, Father,” I said. “It would be fitting, perhaps, if I could tell his relatives in America that I had done so.”

    “Certainly, if you wish.”

    He had made a package of the papers and put the dead man’s rosary in with them. I looked through them
.

    It was, I must tell you, a pathetic collection. There were old Swiss concert programs and catalogues of Swiss electrical trade exhibitions, an accountancy diploma from a
commercial college in Dortmund, and the autographed menu of a banquet held in 1910 for the German employees of the Schaff hausen plant he had worked in. There were letters from business houses all over Germany replying to applications for book-keeping posts. Dates from 1927 and on. The applicant had written from Dortmund, Mainz, Hanover, Karlsruhe and Freiburg, in that date order. There were the army papers and the documents connected with the annuity he had purchased with his savings. In expansive moments I have been known to contend that the apparently unimportant things a man keeps, the private souvenirs, the clutter he accumulates during his lifetime, are an index to the secrets of his soul. If this is so, then Friedrich Schirmer must have led a singularly uneventful inner life
.

    There were two photographs—the one you have seen of Johann and Ilse and another of the late Frau (Friedrich) Schirmer. I knew that I must have the one of Johann at all costs. I put them down casually
.

    “Nothing of interest, you see,” said Father Weichs
.

    I nodded. “But,” I said, “I wonder if it would not be a kindly action for me to take some remembrance of him back to his relatives in America. If these things are to be destroyed, it seems a pity not to save something of him.”

    He thought for a moment but could see no objection. He suggested the rosary. I immediately agreed and only brought up the matter of the photograph as an afterthought. “If, by any chance, it should be wanted, I could always copy it and return the original to you,” I said
.

    So I took it with me. I also had his promise that in the event of his learning anything of the whereabouts of Johann Schirmer, I should be informed. As you know, I have never heard from him. In the early hours of the following day, the German army crossed the frontier and began to advance into Poland
.

    
Well, there it is, my boy. My wife has been good enough to type it all out for me and I hope it will be of some use to you. If there is anything else I can do, let me know. And if you feel that you can, without betraying your firm’s confidence, let me know how you get on, I shall be more than pleased to hear. You know, the only one of all the Schneiders and Schirmers I got to know about that I really liked was that old Sergeant Franz. I imagine that he was quite a tough proposition. What happens to blood like that? Oh yes, I know that only certain physical characteristics get transmitted, and that it’s all a matter of genes and chromosomes; but if you do happen to run across a Schirmer with a beard like Franz’s, let me know. Good luck anyway
.

Sincerely
,
                                      R
OBERT
L. M
ORETON

George refolded the letter and looked at the accompanying sheet of paper with the answer to his questions. As he did so, the telephone by his bed buzzed harshly and he turned to answer it.

“Mademoiselle Kolin to see you, sir.”

“All right. I’ll come down.”

This was the interpreter who had been recommended to him by the Embassy.

“Miss Kolin?” George had said. “A woman?”

“Sure, she’s a woman.”

“I assumed you’d get a man. You know I’ve got to travel all over the place staying at hotels. It’s going to be awkward if—”

“Why? You don’t have to sleep with her.”

“Isn’t there a man available?”

“Not as good as Miss Kolin. You said you wanted someone we could vouch for if it came to getting the interpreter’s testimony accepted in an American court. We could vouch for
Kolin all right. We always use her or Miss Harle for important rogatory commissions, and so do the British. Harle’s on another job in Geneva right now, so we got Kolin. You’re lucky she’s available.”

“All right. How old is she?”

“Early thirties and quite attractive.”

“For God’s sake.”

“You don’t have to worry.” The Embassy man had chuckled in an odd way.

George had ignored the chuckle and asked about Miss Kolin’s history.

She had been born in one of the Serbian towns of Yugoslavia and was a graduate of the University of Belgrade. She had an almost phenomenal talent for languages. A British Major working with a relief organization had found her in a displaced-persons camp in 1945 and employed her as a secretary. Later she had worked as an interpreter for an American legal team doing preparatory work for the Nuremberg trials. When the team’s work had ended, one of the lawyers, impressed as much by her secretarial ability as by the fact that she was multi-lingual, had given her introductions to the International Standards Organization and the American Embassy in Paris and advised her to try to work up a connection as an interpreter and verbatim reporter. She had soon established herself. She now had a solid reputation at international trade conferences for the speed and reliability of her work. Her services were much in demand.

There were several women waiting in the foyer of the hotel and George had to ask the concierge to point his visitor out to him.

Maria Kolin was indeed attractive. She had the sort of figure and posture that makes inexpensive clothes look good. The face and features were broad, the complexion brown against sleek straw-coloured hair. Her eyes were prominent and heavy-lidded. The only make-up she wore was lipstick,
but this was boldly applied. She looked as if she had just returned from a ski-ing holiday.

Although she had obviously seen the concierge point her out to him, she remained staring blankly into the middle distance as George approached, and gave an unreal start of surprise when he spoke.

“Miss Kolin? I’m George Carey.”

“How do you do?” She touched the hand he held out to her as if it were a rolled-up newspaper.

“I’m very glad you could come along,” George said.

She shrugged stiffly. “Naturally, you would wish to interview me before deciding to employ me.” Her English was very clear and precise, with only the faintest trace of an accent.

“They told me at the Embassy that you were a busy person and that I was lucky you were available.” He put as much friendliness as he could into his smile.

She looked past him vaguely. “Ah, yes?”

George felt himself beginning to be irritated by her. “Shall we sit down somewhere and talk, Miss Kolin?”

“Of course.”

He led the way across the foyer to some comfortable chairs near the bar. She followed a little too slowly. His irritation increased. She might be an attractive woman, but there was no reason for her to behave as if she were fending off a clumsy attempt at seduction. She was here about a job. Did she want it or didn’t she? If she didn’t, why waste time by coming at all?

“Now, Miss Kolin,” he said as they sat down, “how much did the Embassy people tell you about this job?”

“That you were going to Germany to interview various persons there in connection with a lawsuit. That you would want verbatim reports of the interviews transcribed. That it might be necessary to attend later at an American Embassy to have these transcriptions notarized. The length of time for
which you would require me would be not less than one month and not more than three. I should receive my normal fees on a monthly basis, and all travelling and hotel expenses would be paid in addition.” She looked past him again, her head held high—a lady of quality importuned by a lascivious workman.

“Yes that’s about right,” George said. “Did they tell you which lawsuit it was?”

“They said that it was a highly confidential matter and that you would no doubt explain what it was necessary for me to know.” A faint, indifferent smile—men are such children with their little secrets.

“Right. What passport do you have, Miss Kolin?”

“French.”

“I understood you were a Yugoslav citizen.”

“I am naturalized French. My passport
is
valid for Germany.”

“Yes, that was what I wanted to know.”

She nodded but did not say anything. One could be patient with the slow-witted, but one was not obliged to pander to them.

Several sentences came to the tip of George’s tongue at that moment, most of them designed to bring the interview to an abrupt conclusion. He swallowed them. Just because she wouldn’t pretend to be stupider or more eager for the work than she really was, he didn’t have to insult the woman. She had an unfortunate manner. All right! Did that make her a bad interpreter? And what did he expect her to do? Cringe?

He offered her a cigarette.

She shook her head. “Thank you, I prefer these.” She brought out a packet of Gitanes.

He struck a match for her. “Are there any questions about the job you would like to ask me?” he said.

“Yes.” She blew smoke out. “Have you had any experience of using an interpreter, Mr. Carey?”

“None at all.”

“I see. Do you speak any German?”

“A little, yes.”

“How little? It is not a pointless question.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Well, I speak the German I learned at high school. I was stationed in Germany for a few months after the war and heard a fair amount of German spoken there. I can understand the drift of most conversations between Germans, but I sometimes misunderstand so completely that I might think I was listening to an argument about politics when what I was really hearing was a discussion of the finer points of chicken farming. Does that answer your question?”

“Very clearly. I will explain the point. When you are using an interpreter, it is not always easy to avoid listening also to the conversation being interpreted. That way confusion may arise.”

“In fact, it’s better to trust to the interpreter and not try to do the work for her.”

“Exactly.”

The barman was hovering in the background. George ignored him. The interview was as good as over and he did not want to prolong it. Her cigarette was half smoked now. When it had burned down another quarter of an inch, he would get up.

“I expect you know Germany pretty well, Miss Kolin.”

“Only certain parts.”

“The Rhineland?”

“A little.”

“You worked on the preparations for the Nuremberg trials, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“As a Yugoslav you must have found that very satisfactory.”

“You think so, Mr. Carey?”

“You didn’t approve of the trials?”

She looked down at her cigarette. “The Germans took my father as a hostage and shot him,” she said crisply. “They sent my mother and me to work in a factory in Leipzig. My mother died there of blood-poisoning from an infected wound which they refused to treat. I do not know exactly what happened to my brothers, except that eventually they were tortured to death in an S.S. barracks at Zagreb. Oh yes, I approved of the trials. If they made the United Nations feel strong and righteous, certainly I approved. But do not ask me to applaud.”