The German connection for me was simple enough. National Service with the old Royal Horse Guards, a little time with the Army of Occupation in Berlin, a lot more patrolling the East German border in Dingo scout cars and Jeeps in the days when the so-called Cold War was hotting up.
The area we patrolled was so like the Yorkshire moors that I always expected Heathcliff and Cathy to run out of the mist or the snow or the torrential rain for I can honestly say that inclement was a mild word to describe the weather in those parts.
The border at that time was completely open and, as a kind of police action, we were supposed to stem the tide of refugees trying to flee to the West as well as the gangs of black marketeers, usually ex-SS, who operated out of East Germany, using it as a refuge.
Our opponents were Siberian infantry regiments, hard men of the first order and occasionally the odd angry shot was fired. We called it World War Two and a Half, but when your time was up, you went home to demobilization. American troops doing the same work in their sector got three medals. We got nothing!
Back home in Leeds, as I started a succession of rather dreary jobs, I received a buff envelope from the authorities reminding me that I was a reservist for the next ten years. It suggested that I join the Territorial Army, become a weekend soldier and, when I discovered there was money to be earned, I took them up on it, particularly as I was considering going to work in London. There was a Territorial Army Regiment there, called the Artists Rifles, which the War Office turned into 21 SAS. When the Malayan Emergency started many members volunteered for the Malayan Scouts, which in 1952 became a Regular Army Unit, 22 SAS.
When in London job-hunting, I reported to 21 SAS with my papers and was enthusiastically received as an ex-Guards NCO. I filled in various papers, had the usual medical and found myself finally in front of a Major Wilson, although in view of what happened later, I doubt it was his real name.
‘Just sign here, Corporal,’ he said and pushed a form across the desk.
‘And just what am I signing, sir?’ I asked.
‘The Official Secrets Act.’ He smiled beautifically. ‘This is that kind of unit, you see.’
I hesitated, then signed.
‘Good.’ He took the form and blotted my signature carefully.
‘Shall I report Saturday, sir?’ I asked.
‘No, not yet. A few formalities to be gone through. We’ll be in touch.’
He smiled again, so I left it at that and departed.
I had a phone call from him about two weeks later at the insurance office in Leeds where I worked at that time, suggesting a meeting at Yates’ Wine Bar near City Square at lunchtime. We sat in a corner enjoying pie and peas and a light ale while he broke the bad news. I was surprised to find him in Yorkshire, but he didn’t explain.
‘The thing is, old son, the SAS can’t use you. The medical shows a rather indifferent left eye. Although you don’t advertise the fact, you wear glasses.’
‘Well, the Horse Guards didn’t object. I fired for the regimental team at Bisley. I was a crack shot. I had a sharpshooter’s badge.’
‘Yes, we know about that. At least two Russians on the East German side of the border could confirm your skill, or their corpses could. On the other hand, you only got in the Guards because some stupid clerk forgot to fill in the eye section on your records and, of course, the Guards never admit mistakes.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘Afraid so. Pity, really. Such an interesting background. That uncle of yours, staff sergeant at Hamburg headquarters. Remarkable record. Captured before Dunkirk, escaped from prison camp four times, sent to Auschwitz to the enclave for Allied prisoners considered bad boys. Two-thirds of them died.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Of course they’ve kept him at HQ Hamburg because of his excellent German. He married a German war widow, I see.’
‘Well, love knows no frontiers,’ I told him.
‘I suppose so. Interesting family though, just like you. Born in England, Irish-Scot, raised in the Shankill in Belfast. What they call an Orange Prod.’
‘So?’
‘But also raised by your mother’s Catholic cousin in Crossmaglen. Very republican down there, those people. You must have fascinating contacts.’
‘Look, sir,’ I said carefully. ‘Is there anything you don’t know about me?’
‘No.’ He smiled that beatific smile. ‘We’re very thorough.’ He stood up. ‘Must go. Sorry it turned out this way.’ He picked up his raincoat. ‘Just one thing. Do remember you signed the Official Secrets Act. Prison term for forgetting that.’
I was genuinely bewildered. ‘But what does it matter now? I mean, your regiment doesn’t need me.’
He started away then turned again. ‘And don’t forget you’re a serving member of the Army Reserve. You could be recalled at any time.’
What was interesting was a German connection he hadn’t mentioned, but then I didn’t know about it myself until 1952. My uncle’s wife had a nephew named Konrad Strasser, or at least that was one of several names he used over the years. I was introduced to him in Hamburg at a party in St Pauli for my uncle’s German relatives.
Konrad was small and dark and full of energy, always smiling. He was thirty-two, a Chief Inspector in the Hamburg Criminal Investigation Department. We stood in the corner in the midst of a noisy throng.
‘Was it fun on the border?’ he asked.
‘Not when it snowed.’
‘Russia was worse.’
‘You were in the Army there?’
‘No, the Gestapo. Only briefly, thank God, hunting down some crooks stealing Army supplies.’
To say I was shaken is to put it mildly. ‘Gestapo?’
He grinned. ‘Let me complete your education. The Gestapo needed skilled and experienced detectives so they descended on police forces all over Germany and commandeered what they wanted. That’s why more than fifty per cent of Gestapo operatives weren’t even members of the Nazi party and that included me. I was about twenty in 1940 when they hijacked me. I didn’t have a choice.’
I believed him instantly and later, things that happened in my life proved that he was telling the truth. In any case, I liked him.
It was 1954 when Wilson re-entered my life. I was working in Leeds, as a civil servant at the time, still writing rather indifferent novels that nobody wanted. I had a backlog of four weeks’ holiday and decided to spend a couple in Berlin because my uncle had been moved there on a temporary basis to Army headquarters.
The phone call from Wilson was a shock. Yates’ Wine Bar again, downstairs, a booth. This time he had ham sandwiches, Yorkshire, naturally, and off the bone.
‘Bit boring for you, the Electricity Generating Authority.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But only an hour’s work a day. I sit at my desk and write.’
‘Yes, but not much success there,’ he informed me brutally. There was a pause. ‘Berlin should make a nice break.’
I said, ‘Look, what the hell is this about?’
‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘You’re going to stay with your uncle a week next Tuesday. We’d like you to do something for us.’
Sitting there in the normality of Yates’ Wine Bar in Leeds with the muted roar of City Square traffic outside, this seemed the most bizarre proposition I’d ever had.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I tried to join 21 SAS, you said my bad eye ruled me out, so I never joined, did I?’
‘Not quite as simple as that, old boy. Let me remind you, you did sign the Official Secrets Act and you are still a member of the Army Reserve.’
‘You mean I’ve no choice?’
‘I mean we own you, my son.’ He took an envelope from his briefcase. ‘When you’re in Berlin, you’ll take a trip into the Eastern Zone by bus. All the details are in there. You go to the address indicated, pick up an envelope and bring it back.’
‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘For one thing, I remember from my service in Berlin that to go through on a British passport is impossible.’
‘But, my dear chap, your Irish antecedents earn you an Irish passport as well as a British one. You’ll find it in the envelope. People with Irish passports can go anywhere, even China, without a visa.’ He stood up and smiled. ‘It’s all in there. Quite explicit.’
‘And when I come out?’
‘All taken care of.’
He moved away through the lunchtime crowd and I suddenly realized that what I was thinking wasn’t ‘When I come out.’ It was ‘Will I come out?’
The first surprise in Berlin was that my uncle had been posted back to Hamburg, or so I was informed by the caretaker of the flat he lived in.
She was an old, careworn woman, who said, ‘You’re the nephew. He told me to let you in,’ which she did.
It was a neutral, grey sort of place. I dropped my bag, had a look round and answered a ring at the door to find Konrad Strasser standing there.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said.
He found a bottle of schnapps and poured a couple. ‘So, you’re doing the tourist bit into the Eastern Zone, boy?’
‘You seem well-informed.’
‘Yes, you could say that.’
I swallowed my schnapps. ‘What’s a Hamburg detective doing in Berlin?’
‘I moved over last year. I worked for the BND, West German Intelligence. An outfit called the Office for the Protection of the Constitution. Our main task is to combat Communist infiltration into our part of the country.’
‘So?’
He poured himself another schnapps. ‘You’re going over this afternoon with Germanic Tours in their bus. Leave your Brit passport here, only take the Irish.’
‘Look, what is this?’ I demanded. ‘And how are you involved?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re a bagman for 21 SAS.’
‘For God’s sake, they turned me down.’
‘Well, not really. It’s more complicated than that. Have you ever heard the old IRA saying? Once in, never out?’
I was stunned but managed to say, ‘What have you got to do with all this?’
He took a piece of paper from his wallet and passed it over. ‘There’s a crude map for you and a bar called Heini’s. If things go wrong, go there and tell the barman that your accommodation is unsatisfactory and you must move at once. Use English.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That someone will come for you. Of course, if everything works, you come back on the tour bus, but that would imply a perfect world.’
I said, ‘You’re part of this. Me, Wilson. My uncle’s not here, yet you are. What the hell goes on?’
I suddenly thought of my desk at the office in Leeds, the Astoria ballroom on a Friday night, girls in cotton frocks. What was I doing here?
‘You’re a fly in the web, just like me in the Gestapo. You got pulled in. All so casual, but no way back.’ He finished his schnapps and moved to the door. ‘I’m on your side, boy, remember that.’ He closed the door and was gone.
The tour bus took us through Checkpoint Charlie, everything nice and easy. There were tourists from all over the world on board. On the other side, the border police inspected us. In my case, my tourist visas and Irish passport. No problems at all.
Later, at lunch at a very old-fashioned hotel, the guides stressed that if anyone got lost on any of the tours, they should make for the hotel, where the coach would leave at five.
In my case, the instructions in the brown envelope told me to be at my destination at four. I hung in there for two boring hours and dropped out at three-thirty, catching a taxi at just the right moment.
The East Germans had a funny rule at the time. The Christian church was allowed, but you couldn’t be a member of the Communist Party and go to church – it would obviously damage your job prospects. The result was that the congregations were rather small.
The Church of the Holy Name had obviously seen better days. It was cold, it was damp, it was shabby. There was even a shortage of candles. There were three old women sitting waiting at the confessional box, a man in a brown raincoat praying in a pew close by. I obeyed my instructions and waited. Finally, my turn came and I entered the confessional box.
There was a movement on the other side of the grille. I said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ and I said it in English.
‘In what way, my son?’
I replied as the instructions in the envelope had told me. ‘I am here only as God’s messenger.’
‘Then do God’s work.’
An envelope was pushed under the grille. There was silence, the light switched off on the other side. I picked up the envelope and left.
I don’t know how long it took me to realize that the man in the brown raincoat was following me. The afternoon was darkening fast, rain starting to fall and I looked desperately for a taxi with no success. I started to walk fast, moving from street to street, aiming for the River Spree, trying to remember the city from the old days, but at every corner, looking back, there he was.
Turning into one unexpected alley, I ran like hell and suddenly saw the river. I turned along past a line of decaying warehouses and ducked into an entrance. He ran past a few moments later. I waited – silence, only the heavy rain – then stepped out, moving to the edge of the wharf.
‘Halt! Stay exactly where you are.’
He came round the corner, a Walther PPK in his left hand, and approached.
I said, in English, sounding outraged, ‘I say, what on earth is this?’
He came close. ‘Don’t try that stuff with me. We both know you’ve been up to no good. I’ve been watching that old bastard at the church for weeks.’
He made his one mistake then, coming close enough to slap my face. I grabbed his right wrist, knocked the left arm to one side and caught that wrist as well. He discharged the pistol once and we came together as we lurched to the edge of the wharf. I turned the Walther against him. It discharged again and he cried out, still clutching his weapon, and went over the edge into the river. I turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were at my heels. When I reached the hotel, the coach had departed.
I found Heini’s bar an hour later. It was really dark by then. The bar, as was to be expected so early in the evening, was empty. The barman was old and villainous, with iron-grey hair and a scar bisecting his left cheek up to an empty eye socket. I ordered a cognac.
‘Look,’ I said in English. ‘My accommodation is unsatisfactory and I must move at once.’
It seemed wildly crazy, but to my surprise, he nodded and replied in English. ‘Okay, sit by the window. We’ve got a lamb stew tonight. I’ll bring you some. When it’s time to go, I’ll let you know.’
I had the stew, a couple more drinks, then he suddenly appeared to take the plates. There were half a dozen other customers by then.
‘Cross the street to the wharf where the cranes are beside the river. Black Volkswagen limousine. No charge, just go.’
I did as I was told, crossed the road through the rain and found the Volkswagen. In a strange way, it was no surprise to find Konrad Strasser at the wheel.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
I climbed in. ‘What’s this, special treatment?’
‘Decided to come myself. What was your score on the border? Two Russians? Well, you’re now an Ace. A Stasi agent went into the Spree tonight.’
Stasis were members of the East German State Security Police.
I said, ‘He didn’t give me a choice.’
‘I don’t imagine he would.’
We drove through a maze of streets. I said, ‘Coming yourself, was that in the plan?’
‘Not really.’
‘Risky, I’d have thought.’
‘Yes, well, you are family in a way. Look, the whole thing’s been family. You, the border, your uncle, me, the old Gestapo hand. Sometimes we still have choices. I did tonight and came for you. Anyway, we’re returning through a backstreet border post. I know the sergeant. Just lie back and go to sleep.’ He passed me a half-bottle. ‘Cognac. Pour it over yourself.’
The rain was torrential as, minutes later, we drove through an area where every house had been demolished, creating a no-man’s-land protected from the West by barbed-wire fences. Of course, the Berlin Wall had not been built in those days. There was a red and white barricade, two Vopos in old Wehrmacht raincoats, rifles slung. I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes.
Konrad braked to a halt and one of the men, a sergeant, came forward. ‘In and out, Konrad,’ he said. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘My cousin from Ireland.’ Konrad offered my Irish passport. ‘Pissed out of his mind.’ The aroma of good cognac proved it. ‘I’ve got those American cigarettes you wanted. Marlboros. I could only manage a thousand, I’m afraid.’
The sergeant said, ‘My God!’, thrust my passport back and took the five cartons Konrad offered. ‘Come again.’
The bar lifted and we drove forward into the bright lights of West Berlin.
In my uncle’s flat, Konrad helped himself to whisky and held out a hand. ‘Give me the envelope.’
I did as I was told. ‘What is it?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
I started to get indignant but then decided he was right.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. You told me I was a bagman for the SAS. I was given the job by a Major Wilson, but by a strange coincidence, you’re involved. Why is that?’
‘It’s no coincidence – grow up! Everything fits like a jigsaw. Let me fill you in on the facts of life. Twenty-one SAS is comprised of weekend soldiers, everything from lawyers to cab drivers and most things in between. A hell of a range of languages. Twenty-two Regiment, the regulars, spends its time shooting Chinese in Malaya and Arabs in the Oman and things like that. People in Twenty-one are odd-job men like you. You were coming to Berlin, it was noted. You were useful.’
‘And expendable?’
‘Exactly, and a coincidence that I was lurking in the family background.’
‘You probably saved my life.’
‘Oh, you managed.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll be back at that favourite ballroom of yours in a few days, picking up girls, and none of them will know what a desperate fellow you are.’
‘So that’s it,’ I said. ‘I just go back?’
‘That’s about the size of it. Wilson will be quite pleased.’ He finished his Scotch. ‘But do me a favour. Don’t come back to Berlin. They’ll be waiting for you next time.’
He moved to the door and opened it. I said, ‘Will there be a next time?’
‘As I said, Twenty-one uses people for special situations where they fit in. Who knows?’ For a moment he looked serious. ‘They turned you down, but that was from the flashy bit. The uniform, the beret, the badge that says: Who Dares Wins.’
‘But they won’t let me go?’
‘I’m afraid not. Take care,’ and he went out.
He was accurate enough. I went through a totally sterile period, then numerous jobs, college, university, marriage, a successful teaching career and an equally successful writing career. It was only when the Irish Troubles in Ulster really got seriously going in the early seventies that I heard from Wilson again after I’d written a successful novel about the situation. He was by then a full colonel, ostensibly in the Royal Engineers when I met him in uniform, although I doubted it.
We sat in the bar of an exclusive hotel outside Leeds and he toasted my success in champagne. ‘You’ve done very well, old chap. Great book and so authentic.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Not like these things written by television reporters and the like. Very superficial, whereas you – well, you really understand the Irish, but then you would. I mean, an Orange Prod, but with Catholic connections. Very useful that.’
I was aware of a sense of déjà vu, Berlin all over again.
I said carefully, ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing too much. You’re doing an appearance in Dublin next week, book signings, television?’
‘So?’
‘It would be very useful if you would meet one or two people for us.’
I said, ‘Nearly twenty years ago, I met someone for you in Berlin and nearly got my head blown off.’
‘Another side to that. As I recall, it was the other chap who took the flak.’ He smiled. ‘Interesting that. It never gave you a problem, just like the Russians.’
‘They’d have done worse to me,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t have joined.’ I took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘What am I supposed to do, repeat the performance, only in the Liffey this time instead of the Spree?’
‘Not at all. No rough stuff. Intermediary, that’s you, old chap. Just speak to a few people, that’s all.’
I thought about it, aware of a certain sense of excitement. ‘You’ve forgotten that I did my ten years in the Army Reserve and that ended some time ago.’
‘Of course it did, but you did sign the Official Secrets Act when you joined Twenty-one.’
‘Which threw me out.’
‘Yes, well, as I said to you a long time ago, it’s more complicated than that.’
‘You mean, once in, never out?’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Konrad said that to me in Berlin. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him for some time.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Very active. So, I can take it you’ll co-operate?’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?’
He emptied his champagne glass. ‘No need to worry. Easy one, this.’
No rough stuff? Easy one, this? Five trips for the bastard, bombs, shooting, glass on the streets, too many bad Saturday nights in Belfast until that eventful day when men with guns in their pockets escorted me to the airport with the suggestion that I not come back. I didn’t, not for years, and interestingly enough, I didn’t hear again from Wilson, although in a manner of speaking, I did, through the obituary page in the Daily Telegraph, his photo staring out at me, only he was a brigadier, not a colonel and his name wasn’t Wilson.
Dawn came over the Cornish coast with a lot of mist, as I stood on the little balcony of the bedroom at the Hanged Man. A long night remembering. My wife still slept as I dressed quietly and went downstairs to the lounge bar. She’d been right, of course. The German connection was what I needed on this one and that meant Konrad Strasser. I hadn’t spoken to him for a few years. My uncle’s death, and my German aunt’s, had tended to sever the connection, but I had his number on what I called my essential card in my wallet. Damp but usable. I got it out and just then the kitchen door opened and Zec Acland looked in.
‘Up early.’
‘And you.’
‘Don’t sleep much at my age. Just made a pot of tea.’
‘I’ll be in shortly. I’d like to make a phone call. Hamburg. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on the bill.’
‘Hamburg. That’s interesting. Early there too.’
‘Another older man. He probably doesn’t sleep much either.’
Acland returned to the kitchen, I sat on a stool at the bar, found my card and dialled the number. As I remembered, Konrad had been born in 1920, which made him seventy-seven. His wife was dead, I knew that. A daughter in Australia.
The phone was picked up and a harsh voice said in German, ‘Now who in the hell is that?’
I said in English, ‘Your Irish cousin. How’s Hamburg this morning?’
He lived at Blankenese on the Elbe. ‘Fog on the river, a couple of boats moving out.’ He laughed, still calling me boy as he always had. ‘Good to hear from you, boy. No more of that damned Irish nonsense, I hope.’
‘No way. I’m an older guy, now, remember.’
‘Yes, I do and I also remember that when you first met your present wife and told me she was twenty-five years younger, I gave you a year.’
‘And that was fifteen years ago.’
‘So, even an old Gestapo hand can’t be right all the time.’
He broke into a terrible fit of coughing. I waited for him to stop, then said, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course. Blood and iron, that’s us Germans. Is your wife still Wonder Woman? Formula One, diving, flying planes?’
‘She was Wonder Woman yesterday,’ I said. ‘Saved our lives.’
‘Tell me.’
Which I did.
When I was finished he said, ‘My God, what a woman.’
‘An understatement. She can be infuriating, mind you.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
‘Absolutely marvellous.’
He was coughing again and finally said, ‘So, what’s it all about? A phone call out of the blue at the crack of dawn.’
‘I need your expertise. A rather astonishing story has come my way. I’ve got brothers, twins, born 1918, named Harry and Max Kelso. Father American, mother Baroness Elsa von Halder.’
He grunted. ‘Top Prussian aristocrats, the von Halders.’
‘The twins were split. Harry, the youngest, stayed in the States with his rich grandfather, who bankrolled the Baroness to return to Germany in 1930 with Max after her husband was killed in a car crash. Max, as the eldest, was automatically Baron von Halder.’
‘I’ve heard that name.’
‘You would. The Black Baron, a top Luftwaffe ace. The brother, Harry, was also a flyer. He flew for the Finns against Russia, then was a Yank in the RAF. Battle of Britain, the lot. More medals than you could shake a stick at.’
There was a silence, then, ‘What a story, so why isn’t it one of the legends of the Second World War?’
‘Because for some reason, it’s classified.’
‘After all these years?’
‘I’ve been talking to an old boy who’s past caring at eighty-eight so he’s given me a lot of facts, but the German side is virtually missing. I thought an old Gestapo hand might still have access to classified records. Of course, I’ll understand if you can’t.’
‘What do you mean if I can’t?’ He started to cough again. ‘I like it, I love it. It could give me a new lease of life, not that it matters. I’m on limited time. Lung cancer.’
God, but that hurt, for he was a man I’d liked more than most. I said, ‘Jesus, Konrad, leave it.’
‘Why should I? I’ll have such fun. I’m old, I’m dying, so I don’t care about classified information. What a joy. For once in a lengthy career in Intelligence, I can turn over the dirt and not give a damn. You’ve done me a favour. Now just let’s go over a few facts, whatever you know about the Black Baron, and then I’ll get on with it.’
A little while later, the aroma of frying bacon took me to the kitchen, where Zec had made sandwiches. I sat at one end of the table, drank tea you could have stood a spoon up in and ate the sandwiches and felt on top of the world.
‘Phone call okay?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ I told him. ‘A relative of mine. If anyone can find out the German side of things as regards Max Kelso, he can.’
‘You seem pretty certain.’
‘Oh, I am. He’s a lot like you, Zec. Seventy-seven, seen it all, has the right connections.’ I poured another cup of tea. ‘He was in the Gestapo during the war.’
He almost fell out of his chair laughing. ‘Dear God.’
I said, ‘You’ve told me everything you can?’
‘Of course not. Let’s see what you come up with, then we’ll look at any missing pieces.’ He got up. ‘Must check the beer kegs. I’ll see you later.’
After breakfast. I went to the end of the jetty, lit a cigarette and stared out into the fog, thinking about it all. Denise turned up about ten minutes later, in a huge sweater and jeans obviously intended for a man. She was holding two mugs of tea.
‘I thought you might like a wet. I’ve been on to Goodwood Aero Club. Bernie Smith’s flying down to pick us up.’
‘That’s good.’ I drank a little and put an arm about her waist. ‘Thanks!’
‘Bad night?’
‘The German connection. Things you never knew about. The border a long, long time ago. Ireland, the Troubles. It all went round and round.’ I hesitated. ‘You mentioned that cousin of mine in Hamburg, the one who’d been in the Gestapo.’
‘So?’
‘I phoned him earlier. He’s still in Hamburg. He has the kind of past that gives him access to things.’
‘Was he willing to help?’
I gave a deep sigh. ‘Absolutely delighted. Turns out he’s got lung cancer. He said the problem would give him a new lease on life, but not for long, I should imagine.’
She held me tight. ‘How rotten for you.’
How rotten for me? I said, ‘Let’s go back to the pub. You could do with some breakfast. Konrad will come up with something. Hot stuff, the Gestapo.’
He did, of course, performed magnificently and also died six months later. Pieced together from what he uncovered, and from what Zec told me, and from some researches of my own, this is what we found out: the true and remarkable story of the brothers Kelso.