Lawrence Durrell - Judith

For forty-eight hours after the explosion they worked at top speed to extricate and re-site all the equipment which had not suffered damage from the blast. Their offices they moved to the southern wing of the building. Carpenters and masons crowded them out for a while, building bookshelves and filing cabinets and walling-in safes. Yet at last they brought some order out of chaos and were able to resume the average routine of the normal working day. In all this excitement there had been no chance to see anything of Grete, for Lawton had worked until the small hours each night. Finally the work was done, however, and he was on the point of telephoning her when his door burst open and there she stood, newspaper in her hand. She looked strangely pale and moved, as if some experience had dazed her into speechlessness.

“Grete,” he said. “Come in.” Then he caught sight of the expression on her face and rose to his feet anxiously. “What is it?” She handed him the copy of the Jerusalem Post and pointed to an item. It read:

NAZI WAR CRIMINAL ADVISING EGYPTIAN ARMY?

Unconfirmed rumours circulating in Cairo suggest that Nazi General Günther Schiller, who could not be traced at the end of the war, is to be found in Egypt, where he holds the post of adviser to the Egyptian army in tank warfare. Schiller, it will be recalled, was one of the senior tank experts of the German command and at one time acted as Rommel’s Chief of Staff during the desert campaign.

Lawton read slowly through the message and then raised his troubled eyes to the girl.

“What is it all about?” he asked.

“It is my husband,” she said, and gave a cracked laugh which turned suddenly into a sob. She put her hand over her mouth and stared at him.

“I thought he was dead. Can it be him?”

“Your husband ?” said Lawton, still struck dumb by the idea. She nodded.

“But how?” he asked.

“The Party found out I was Jewish and ordered him to surrender me to the S.S. He obeyed. It was either that or disgrace. He was a professional soldier, you see.”

“He let you go?”

“He thought Hitler was a god.”

“Wait a minute,” said Lawton. An idea struck him. “I think we have a file on him.” He went to the wall safe and extracted a yellow folder from the “top secret” file. He riffled the pages for a moment, looking for what he wanted, and then gave a grunt.

“Better still,” he said. “We have a picture. Would you recognize it?”

It was not too clear a photograph, but it showed a man in civilian clothes walking beside an Egyptian army officer along some street in an Arab town.

Grete gazed dully at this with an air of stupefaction. “Yes, that’s him all right. He could never disguise those duelling marks.” She raised her head and stared at the blank wall before her in a fit of abstraction, while a million ideas collided with one another in her mind. Then she said, with a sudden fire but as if speaking more to herself than to Lawton:

“The only living soul who can tell me if the child is alive or dead.” She turned to Lawton then with blazing eyes:

“I must find a way to see him. Don’t you see, he’s the only one who knows.”

Lawton reflected for a long moment. “You could hardly go there, it would be too dangerous, and besides the Egyptians would never let you in.”

“Couldn’t you get him brought here through the office — extradite him?”

Lawton shook his head slowly. “Egypt is a sovereign territory,” he said. “The most we could do would be to deal diplomatically with them about it. Send them an aide-memoire telling them that he’s wanted in Germany and asking them to return him there. But you know the Egyptians as well as I do, he’s too useful to them. They’ll deny his existence altogether. Then what could we do? You see, from the file it’s obvious that he’s masquerading under the name of Schmidt and has a valid Swiss passport.”

“There must be a way!” she cried. “Please think of something!” Her voice rose hysterically, and he took her arm sympathetically, saying:

“Let me think it over.” He paused. “… If only he were here, it would be easy. I could get a warrant out for him in no time.”

He stopped, drew a deep breath and went on. “What I will do is this, I’ll send a signal to Cairo asking for more information.”

“What good would that do?”

He tried to sound cheerful. “You never know, we might unearth something new about him.”

“But I must see him, don’t you understand?” She burst out: “I must know about the child!”

He lit his pipe, saying nothing, and then, taking the file, he returned it to the safe. She watched him absently with an air of sullen resignation, but the faintest germ of an idea had already formed in her mind. Furtively she watched the fingers as they spun the lock of the combination safe. Five, six to the right, eight, seven to the left… it was not impossibly difficult to memorize. As the combination clanged home and the safe handle clicked into its socket, she turned and rushed from the room back to her own office. Breathlessly she jotted down the safe combination while it was fresh in her mind, and then sat very still for a while, thinking. Then she rose and crossed the room to examine her face in the mirror. She had gone suddenly very pale. “The news has aged you all at once,” she told her reflection. She left her office and walked down the long stairway, briefcase in hand; the door of the registry stood ajar and she put her head through it to ask a question of the duty janitor.

“What time does the post office shut?”

He looked at his watch and said: “Six, dearie. You’ll just make it.”

It was eleven o’clock that night when she put on her dark mackintosh and gloves and made her way down the winding streets towards her office again; but this time, instead of going to the front gate with its sentry-box, she took another route. She had a key to the back door; she reached it through an unguarded wicket gate, crossing the grass on noiseless feet. The building was deserted — she had picked her time. The night watchmen made a round of inspection every hour, and the patrol had just passed down the corridors of the annexe, testing all the door handles. She slipped down to the janitor’s office and possessed herself of the tagged keys to Lawton’s room. Quietly she walked into his office and turned on the desk lamp. The safe opened to her skilful fingers and she groped about in it until she came upon the dossier of NAZI WAR CRIMINALS IN HIDING. Then she sat down at the desk and copied out the contents of the file in long-hand. It took her almost an hour. Midnight was striking from the clocks of Jerusalem when she made her way back to her flat down the deserted street. It was too soon to expect David, for the drive from Ras Shamir was a long one; nor was she quite certain whether he would act swiftly on her telegram. He might, for example, be absent. She poured out a drink and sat down to wait a while; suddenly the phone rang.

It was David’s voice. “I was here in Jerusalem,” he said, “and your message was relayed back to me from the centre. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, and he sighed with relief.

“I’ll be round in ten minutes.”

At last he stood before her, staring at her with concern and curiosity.

“David,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind. I have decided to work for you.”

He stared at her. “How pale you are.”

“Am I?” She shrugged her shoulders and lit a cigarette. “And why have you suddenly changed your mind?” he asked doubtfully.

“I see you don’t quite believe me,” she answered. “Here, this will prove my bona fides . It is a secret MI file copy.”