Джеффри Арчер - Tell Tale - Stories

We climbed back on the bus and took the journey to Hartheim, where our young guide led us into a large soulless concrete building, where we entered a cold eerie room where time had stood still. He pointed to the holes in the ceiling where, he explained, the gas was released into the chamber, but only after the prisoners had been stripped and the doors locked. I felt sick, and didn’t have the courage to enter the final room to view the vast ovens that our guard told us had been built in 1933 soon after Hitler had come into power, and where the bodies of his innocent victims were finally turned into dust.

When Ben eventually emerged, he fell to his knees and was violently sick. I thought of his grandmother, and for the first time understood the “packed suitcase.” I rushed across to join my friend, surprised to find Mark Bairstow already kneeling beside him with an arm around his shoulders, trying to comfort a boy he’d never spoken to before.

I was delighted to follow Mark Bairstow as school captain, even if I couldn’t hope to emulate his style and panache. I worked diligently during my final year and, with the conscientious help of Mr. Costello, was offered a place at Manchester University to read history. I accepted the offer, even though for a Yorkshireman to cross the Pennines into Lancashire in order to further his education was tantamount to high treason.

By the time I graduated, I didn’t need Mr. Costello to tell me the profession I was best suited for. And if this tale had been about a schoolmaster, and the years of fulfillment he gained from being a teacher... but it isn’t.

I was teaching at a grammar school in Norfolk when my wife became pregnant, and I had to explain to her why she would have to travel up to Yorkshire to give birth to our son otherwise the lad couldn’t play for the county. Not that she had any interest in the game of cricket. It turned out to be a girl, so the subject was never mentioned again. However, I took advantage of being back in Leeds to look up my old friend Ben Levy, now a local solicitor, to suggest we spend a day at Headingley and watch the Roses Match.

Being Yorkshiremen, we were in our seats long before the first ball was bowled, and by the morning break the county were at 77 for 2. “A spot of lunch?” I suggested as I rose from my place in the Hutton stand and glanced up at the President’s box to see a face I could have sworn I recognized, despite the passing of time. But he was wearing a dog collar and purple shirt, which threw me for a moment.

I touched Ben on the elbow and, pointing to the box, said, “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes, it’s Mark Bairstow, the new Bishop of Ripon. Still loves his cricket.”

“But I always assumed he was destined to be the next chairman of Bairstow’s, the finest iron forgers in the county.”

“And therefore the world,” laughed Ben. “But when he went up to Cambridge, he changed courses in his first term and read theology. So no one was surprised he ended up as a bishop.”

Like Mr. Costello, I too organized an annual trip to Europe, and after excursions to Rome, Paris, and Madrid, I felt the time had come to return to Berlin and see how much the German capital had changed, since the Wall had finally come down.

I found the city was transformed. Only one small graffiti-covered section of the Wall still stood firmly in place, an ugly monument to remind the next generation what their parents and grandparents had endured, which they were now studying as history.

Dresden turned out to be a modern city of steel and glass, and you would have had to search Munich to believe the Germans had ever been involved in a war. And when we visited the Cuvilliés Theater, two of the boys showed the same excitement that I had felt when I saw my first opera.

When the final day came, I considered, like Mr. Costello, it was my duty to visit Dachau, as anti-Semitism was once again rearing its ugly head in my country. I was just as apprehensive as I had been the first time, although I tried not to let the boys and girls know how I felt. When the bus came to a halt outside the main entrance, I silently led the children through the even rustier gates and into the camp, and as far as I could see nothing had changed. My young wards spent some time staring at the names on the memorial wall, and when I saw the thirty-seven Levys, I thought of Ben. The huts remained untouched, and I could see the look of disbelief in the children’s eyes when they saw the water bucket at the end of the room. They would never complain again about their cramped dormitories.

Our guide then took us into the museum, where we studied the photographs of prisoners whose black-and-white striped pajamas hung on their skeletal frames, and of the bodies of lifeless men and women being dragged from the gas chambers to the ovens. There was even a photograph of Himmler to remind us who had carried out Hitler’s orders.

I felt sorry for our German guide, not much older than myself, whose sad eyes suggested that the Nazi era couldn’t be that easily cast aside, although like myself, he would have been born after the war.

And then the final stage of the tour, which I had been dreading. I still felt sick when I entered the gas chamber, but at least this time I had the courage to follow my wards into the building where the ovens were situated. I stared at the temperature gauges and switches on the wall and bowed my head. When I raised it again, my eyes settled on the large oven door, and I understood for the first time the journey one young man had taken before he became the Bishop of Ripon.

Adam Weston and Gareth Blakemore always met on a Sunday evening to share a bottle of wine and put the world to rights.

The venue never changed, only the wine, which was always vintage and selected by Adam. But then he was the proprietor of the Swan Inn, a popular gastropub on the outskirts of Evesham.

Gareth was Adam’s oldest friend, a successful lawyer by profession, with chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. He’d recently been appointed a QC, and he and his wife, Angela, lived in a Victorian pile at the the other end of the village. Gareth would usually drop into the Swan around seven, before traveling on to London. Tonight, he was late, very late, and Adam knew why.

Gareth walked in just after nine, looking tired and depressed. He gave his friend a weak smile, before seating himself on a stool at the far end of the bar. Adam uncorked a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and joined his friend.

“What is it?” asked Gareth after taking a sip.

“An underrated Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley that’s proving rather popular with my regulars.”

“I can see why,” said Gareth, taking another sip.

“How’s your week been?” asked Adam, aware there was no time to waste.

“You don’t want to know. Tell me your news, because it’s got to be better than mine.”

“We had a good week,” said Adam. “Greene King have offered me the opportunity to buy the pub, but at the moment I just don’t have that sort of money.”

“How much are they asking?”

“Two million. It’s a fair price, and the only stipulation they’re insisting on is that I continue to sell their beer for the next ten years.”

“That seems fair enough,” said Gareth, “assuming you made a decent return last year.”

“Turnover was almost a million, and after rent, rates, and taxes, I showed a profit of around ninety thousand, not including my salary.”

“Sounds like a worthwhile investment to me.”

“And I have plans to add another dozen or so covers in the restaurant. I’ve also got my eye on a chef who’s working at the Savoy. Tells me he’s sick of commuting up and down to London every day.”