God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.
--REINHOLD NIEBUHR
PROLOGUE
Berlin, September 1937
I remember how good the weather was that September. Hitler weather, they used to call it. As if the elements themselves were disposed to be kind to Adolf Hitler, of all people. I remember him making a ranting speech demanding foreign colonies for Germany. It was, perhaps, the first time any of us had heard him use the phrase 'living space.' No one thought for a moment that our living space could only be created if someone else died first.
I was living and working in the space we called Berlin. There was plenty of business there for a private detective. It was all missing persons, of course. And most of them were Jewish. Most of them murdered in back alleys, or sent off to a KZ, a concentration camp, without the authorities bothering to notify their families. The Nazis thought it was quite funny, the way they did that. The Jews were, of course, officially encouraged to emigrate, but because they were forbidden to take their property with them, few did so. Still, some people devised several neat tricks to get their money out of Germany.
One such trick was for a Jew to deposit a large sealed parcel containing various valuables, and labeled the 'last will and testament' of so and so, with a German court of law before going abroad for 'a holiday.' The Jew would then 'die' in a foreign country and have the local French or English court request the German court to forward the parcel containing his 'last will and testament.' German courts being run by German lawyers were usually only too happy to comply with the requests of other lawyers, even French and English ones. And in this way quite a few lucky Jews managed to be reunited with enough cash or valuables to start a new life in a new country.
It might seem hard to believe, but another neat scheme was actually devised by the Jewish Department of the Security Police--the SD. This scheme was seen as a good way of helping Jews leave Germany and, in the process, of enriching certain officers of the SD into the bargain. It was what we called the tocher, or Jewish peddler, scheme, and I first had experience of it as a result of the strangest pair of clients that ever came my way.
Paul Begelmann was a rich German Jewish businessman who owned several garages and car dealerships throughout Germany. And SS Sturmbannfuhrer Dr. Franz Six was the head of the SD's Jewish Department. I was summoned to meet them both in the department's modest, three-room suite of offices at the Hohen-zollern Palais, on Wilhelmstrasse. Behind Six's desk was a picture of the Fuhrer, as well as a host of legal degrees from the universities of Heidelberg, Konigsberg, and Leipzig. Six might have been a Nazi crook, but he was an extremely well-qualified Nazi crook. He was hardly Himmler's ideal-looking Aryan. Aged about thirty, he was dark-haired, a little self-satisfied around the mouth, and no more Jewish-looking than Paul Begelmann. He smelled faintly of cologne and hypocrisy. On his desk was a little bust of Wilhelm von Humboldt, who had founded the University of Berlin and who, famously, had defined the limits beyond which the activities of the State should not go. I guessed it was unlikely that Sturmbannfuhrer Six would have agreed with him there.
Begelmann was older and taller, with dark, curly hair and lips that were as thick and pink as two slices of luncheon meat. He was smiling but his eyes told a very different story. The pupils were narrow, like a cat's, as if he was anxious to be out of the SD's spotlight. In that building, and surrounded by all those black uniforms, he looked like a choirboy trying to make friends with a pack of hyenas. He didn't say much. It was Six who did all the talking. I'd heard Six was from Mannheim. Mannheim has a famous Jesuit church. In his smart black uniform, that was the way Franz Six struck me. Not your typical SD thug. More like a Jesuit.
'Herr Begelmann has expressed a wish to emigrate from Germany to Palestine,' he said smoothly. 'Naturally he is concerned about his business in Germany and the impact that its sale might have on the local economy. So, in order to help Herr Begelmann, this department has proposed a solution to his problem. A solution you might be able to help us with, Herr Gunther. We have proposed that he should not emigrate 'pro forma,' but rather that he should continue to be a German citizen working abroad. In effect, that he should work in Palestine as the sales representative of his own company. In this manner he will be able to earn a salary and to share in the profits of the company while at the same time fulfilling this department's policy of encouraging Jewish emigration.'
I didn't doubt that poor Begelmann had agreed to share his company's profits not with the Reich but with Franz Six. I lit a cigarette and fixed the SD man with a cynical smile. 'Gentlemen, it sounds to me like you'll both be very happy together. But I fail to see what you need me for. I don't do marriages. I investigate them.'
Six colored a little and glanced awkwardly at Begelmann. He had power, but it wasn't the kind of power that could threaten someone like me. He was used to bullying students and Jews, and the task of bullying an adult Aryan male looked like it was beyond him.
'We require someone . . . someone Herr Begelmann can trust . . . to deliver a letter from the Wassermann Bank, here in Berlin, to the Anglo-Palestine Bank in Jaffa. We require that person to open lines of credit with that bank and to take a lease on a property in Jaffa that can be the premises for a new car showroom. The lease will help to validate Herr Begelmann's important new business venture. We also require our agent to transport certain items of property to the Anglo-Palestine Bank in Jaffa. Naturally, Herr Begelmann is prepared to pay a substantial fee for these services. The sum of one thousand English pounds, payable in Jaffa. Naturally, the SD will arrange all the necessary documentation and paperwork. You would be going there as the official representative of Begelmann's Automotive. Unofficially, you will be acting as the SD's confidential agent.'
'A thousand pounds. That's a lot of money,' I said. 'But what happens if the Gestapo ask me questions about all this. They might not like some of the answers. Have you thought of that?'
'Of course,' said Six. 'Do you take me for an idiot?'
'No, but they might.'
'It so happens that I'm sending two other agents to Palestine on a fact-finding mission that has been authorized at the highest level,' he said. 'As part of its ongoing remit, this department has been asked to investigate the feasibility of forced emigration to Palestine. As far as SIPO is concerned, you would be part of that mission. If the Gestapo were to ask you questions about your mission you would be entirely within your rights to answer, as these two others will answer: that it is an intelligence matter. That you are carrying out the orders of General Heydrich. And that for reasons of operational security, you cannot discuss the matter.' He paused and lit a small, pungent cigar. 'You have done some work for the general before, have you not?'
'I'm still trying to forget it.' I shook my head. 'With all due respect, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. If two of your own men are already going to Palestine, then what do you need me for?'
Begelmann cleared his throat. 'If I might say something, please, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer?' he said, cautiously, and in a strong Hamburg accent. Six shrugged and shook his head, indifferently. Begelmann looked at me with quiet desperation. There was sweat on his forehead and I didn't think it was only as a result of the unusually warm September weather. 'Because, Herr Gunther, your reputation for honesty goes before you.'
'Not to mention your dedication to making an easy mark,' said Six.
I looked at Six and nodded. I was through being polite to this legal crook. 'What you're saying, Herr Begelmann, is that you don't trust this department or the people who work for it.'
Poor Begelmann looked pained. 'No, no, no, no, no,' he said. 'That's not it at all.'
But I was enjoying myself too much to let go of this bone. 'And I can't say as I blame you. It's one thing to get robbed. It's quite another when the robber asks you to help carry the loot to the getaway car.'
Six bit his lip. I could see he was wishing it was the vein on the side of my neck. The only reason
