Prologue
9th October 1938 was the day that German Nationalism swept, like a tide of intolerance, over occupied Europe. Smashing windows and doors, lives and businesses, it crushed all opposition to the concept of Arian supremacy. Such was the devastation that, forever after, it was known as ’Kristallnacht’, or, the night of broken glass.
Heinrich Meyer was a Jewish student, studying medicine at the University of Vienna. When the maelstrom hit he was sitting quietly in a beer garden close to the faculty where he worked. There were other students there too, laughing, joking and enjoying life. There were several workmen and a single schoolteacher, a bus driver and a labourer. None of them felt insecure, for all of them were safely cocooned behind those old walls, which rose like dykes to protect them from the tempest that raged without.
Heinrich knew at once what was going on. It had been forecast for months, even years. His father had warned him back in 1936 that this would happen but he had felt that he knew better. Now his family was in England and he was left, alone, to face his fate. He knew that he could not run, for he would not survive outside - once they read his papers. His very name would betray him and send him to the trucks that, even now, were loading their miserable trophies, ready for their journey to oblivion.
Inside there was peace, at least for now, but soon the dykes would open and the real world would intrude. Once outside he would hear the noise of war, with all that that entailed. The trucks, with engines running, the soldiers, with their heavy boots and everywhere the voices, harsh Germanic voices, “Aussteigen, bitte. Ihre Papiere”.
[Papers, always papers] he thought, [How can I get the necessary papers?]
He looked around, searching for someone who was drunk, really drunk. Someone who was close to his age, someone whose identity he could steal.
[The barman – too old,] he thought. [The other interns – too many of them. The labourers – much too big, I’m not going anywhere near them. The teacher might be a prospect, so too might the bus driver in the corner – but he does not look drunk enough to me.]
Just then one of the interns rose from his chair and headed toward the toilet.
[Just what I need] thought Heinrich, [roughly my age, all alone, unsteady on his feet – he’s the one.]
Heinrich followed him out the back door and along a dark corridor that led to the rear of the building.
[Let him go to the toilet] thought Heinrich. [Bump into him as he comes out. With luck I can steal his wallet and be long gone before he realises what has happened.]
“What’s your game,” said the intern, as Heinrich rushed past him on his way to the loo.
“I’m sorry, Sir” Heinrich replied. “I didn’t see you in this poor light.”
“Didn’t see me, my eye,” yelled the intern. “You followed me out here.”
He reached out and grabbed Heinrich’s lapel. “Trying to rob me aren’t you?” he screamed. “I know your sort.”
Heinrich reached up, instinctively trying to break his assailant’s grip. His long, slender fingers closed around the intern’s throat. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
[I’ve killed him] thought Heinrich. [I only wanted to steal his papers, but now I’ve killed him. What on Earth am I to do?]
[You survive,] said his inner voice, [just as men have always survived. You take his papers, live his life and get as far from here as you possibly can.]
Things changed for Heinrich that night and, perhaps for others too. The New Age had arrived, and with it a new code of conduct – “do what you need to do in order to survive”.
When the Bosnian War was finally over, and my War Crimes Indictments had all been filed, I began to speculate upon my future, once more. Should I continue with my career in the Law? Or try, perhaps, to establish myself in some other occupation?
The Law was, of course, probably going to be my most profitable pursuit; especially if I chose private practice. I had made enough contacts to find myself a position in chambers, either here, in Europe, or even back in London. Yet I longed to do something else, something more interesting; possibly even exciting.
I could try my hand at writing, though it is hardly a lucrative occupation. You hear all sorts of stories in my line of work, though it difficult to conceive of a ‘ready made’ market for tales of brutality, rape and murder – especially when much of it has happened so many years ago.
I suppose that I could ’fictionalise’ the events a little; turn them into a modern day crime thriller in Central Africa or Uzbekistan or somewhere. All I would have to do is pick a lawless country and start the whole process off from there.
That would, of course, involve considerable research, travel to the country itself (which would incorporate some degree of risk); learning the morays of the local people, handling the authorities, the middlemen and the inevitable stand over merchants….
Perhaps I could come up with a safer form of employment – like journalism. Maybe I should contact Louise Bell and ask her if there is anything in Australia that I could latch on to, I am sure that she would put in a good word for me, if there was.
Mind you, I do not know a great deal about journalism, or even Australia, for that matter. Still, it might be worth a try….
……James Calthorpe
