Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

He paused at the door. The two men were still talking. He put his

ear to the door.

‘Sometimes I wish I too were a Jew,’ Schröder was saying.

‘You don’t really mean that,’ Konrad Taub replied.

‘Actually I do. I could at least hold my head high alongside my

friends who are being victimized. As it is, our nation is being divided, into the persecutors and the persecuted. Those who choose

not to become involved fall into the first category. We need people like you, Konrad.’

‘And you too, Albert.’

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‘But I do not oppose publicly. You do. You put yourself in the way

of danger for the sake of your fellow men. That is a particular sort of bravery.’

‘Or foolishness. And I’m quite careful. I sense my limits when I’m

writing.’

‘You go right up to them. You and Renate are courageous people.

You’ll be remembered in history.’

‘Perhaps for struggling pathetically against the inevitable,’ said

Konrad. ‘With words. Laughable. Now, you’re sure you’re happy

with me passing on the information you’ve given me?’

‘You’ll pass it on anyway. And yes, of course I’m happy. Anything

that impresses on them the seriousness of the situation. And of

course I will do more. Whatever is required.’

‘We need to consider networks. We need to think about what

damage can be done to the war effort.’

‘Whatever’s necessary. It’s too late now for half- measures.’

‘You’re a brave man, Albert, whatever you say.’

He turned his spite on them. These self- congratulating, self-

deluding fools, with their politics. His own father. Pathetic. Disgusting.

Thinking they could change the shape of things. Whatever their

fantasies, the real world was arranged rather differently. He knocked on the door, opening it hesitantly.

‘Father . . .’

‘Heavens, is that the time?’ said Konrad. ‘We must be getting

home. I have another meeting this evening.’

‘And I must get ready for the party,’ said Schröder. ‘Goodnight,

Konrad. Goodnight, Hans.’

2

The snow had stopped by the next morning, though it remained

bitterly cold. There was a layer of ice on the inside of the bathroom window when he rose at six and went through the ritual of his

morning wash as swiftly as he could.

His mother was already in the kitchen, standing by the small

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range. She poured him coffee and he wrapped his hands around the

steaming bowl. She took a bobbing egg from the pan and placed it

on his plate, along with two slices of rye bread and a generous portion of butter. He accepted them without thanks.

‘Where’s Father?’ he asked.

‘He’s left already. He has a meeting.’

He ate in silence as she watched him.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing. You’re growing up quickly, that’s all. You’re not a little boy any more.’

He grunted and asked whether there was any cheese. He was

always hungry these days.

‘How are things at school, Hans? Are the boys still on about your

father?’

‘No, not really. They got bored with it.’ This was a half- truth. He had discovered strategies to reduce the abuse.

‘We’re on the right side, you know.’

‘I know. You’ve explained it enough.’

‘But if it gets too difficult at school you must tell us. We need

to talk about it. I may have to go and see Herr Professor Wolff

about it.’

‘No need,’ he responded gruffly, and thought with grim humour

of them speaking to his headmaster. What good did they think their

seeing Wolff would do? Konrad Taub, the pinko journalist regarded

with suspicion speaking with rumoured deputy Gauleiter candidate

Hermann Wolff ? Did they see some meeting of minds here? He had

his own means of sorting out the situation which did not require

their interference.

‘It’s all right. There’s no problem. My marks are all right, aren’t they?’

He knew they were. His parents were both intellectuals, that

term bandied about these days in disgust. At least it would mean

that the basic equipment for achievement was there. What he did

with it depended on him. He certainly would not be wasting his

potential in the same way as his parents on lost causes of one kind or another.

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‘I may be out when you get back, Hans,’ his mother said. ‘I have

a meeting in Neukölln. I’ll leave the key with Frau Schärner next

door.’

‘All right,’ he grunted, not interested.

He walked to school through dark streets. The glint of dawn had

yet to appear. The snow’s soft fluffiness had gone. Now it was fro-

zen and compacted underfoot. The thoroughfares had been cleared

efficiently but the pavements and walkways remained covered. As

least this meant there was no black ice. The hardened snow was

treacherous enough, but navigable. Vapour billowed from his nose,

and he heard himself inhale and exhale as he made his steady pro-

gress. The Jewish grocers at the corner of Wilhelmstrasse had again been burned overnight. Embers glowed and a group of callow

Brownshirts not much older than he was joshed with each other

and kicked at the smouldering remains to keep warm. Their voices

echoed in the muffled white cityscape.

Inside the school he felt instantly warm. The pipes and radiators

clicked and ticked as he made his way to the secretary’s office. Most boys would have been turned away sternly: not Hans Taub. She told

him to return at the end of school, at one fifteen.

The morning dragged. Latin was followed inevitably by math-

ematics, and then chemistry and German. Hans excelled in all of

these subjects, the primary reason why he remained popular with

his teachers in spite of his dubious parents. He gained a measure of respect too from his fellow pupils by helping them with their work.

At the end of school his classmates rushed out. Someone’s uncle

had been told by someone who had a brother in the Gestapo that

the Jewish jeweller at the top of Blumenstrasse was about to be

arrested and that the Brownshirts would be in charge of looting and ransacking. There was sport to be had, and just possibly the odd

watch to be acquired.

Hans remained in the building and sat waiting in the outer office

for admission to the principal’s study. He was reminded of a conversation the previous week with Herr Professor Wolff in the same

room.

‘I can understand why you are eager to join the Hitler Youth,’

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Wolff had said, ‘but we need to consider the effects. I am sure you do not want to cause a rift with your parents. In any case, I think there may be better ways for you to serve the Reich. I am sure the

Führer would prefer you to assist in different ways. There will be

time for glory in the future.’

He had made his choices accordingly and now had a proposal to

make. It was perilous but it was the only way out of the mess cre-

ated by his idiot parents.

‘Come in, Hans,’ said Wolff, a studious university professor and

senior Party member who had been parachuted into his post after

the dismissal of his unreliable predecessor three years before.

Another man stood in the room, altogether less bookish and more

practical.

‘May I introduce Herr Weber of the Gestapo.’