BAVARIA & PARIS, 1950
A JOURNEY OF TRUTH
Alice and Steve stood poised in front of the knocker. Over the fence of the pristine, typically German chalet-style home she could see into the garden. A little girl of around eight years old was being teased by two teenage girls. The sound of laughter, especially that of a child, brought back her longing for her own two little girls, who had been left behind with their nanny. Standing for a moment watching them, Alice reached for Steve’s hand.
Two young men were also watching the girls, and beside them and under a tree sat a man in his forties – Herr Eberhardt.
Steve rang the bell on the door, an old-fashioned, black iron bell with a hanging cord, which had to be swung back and forth. The noise it made resounded around the garden. Herr Eberhardt looked up. His face held a question. From what Alice could pick up, he asked one of the girls to go and open the door to them and see what they wanted. The teenage girl, tall and very pretty-looking, gave them a relaxed smile.
‘Please ask your father if he will speak with me. I have come from England to see him. It is very important.’
It sounded so simple to say that she had come from England, but that didn’t cover all she had done to find this man. Wanted for war crimes, Eberhardt had not moved to one of the usual hideouts, such as South America, but had chosen to live here, on the Bavarian border, in a house nestled in the countryside. The decision had an arrogance about it. His war crimes were not many, for his position hadn’t called for him to commit atrocities, being more of an office job. He was not a priority in the hunt for war criminals, but there were proven crimes that could be traced back to his orders – not least that of the murder of Hélène d’Aguste, the maid who had brought Antoine’s message to Gertrude. Eberhardt had ordered her torture and hanging.
In the end it had been a journalist who had told Alice where Eberhardt lived. Dawson, an investigative freelance journalist, spent most of his time tracking down lesser war criminals. He had been a war correspondent, and their paths had crossed a few times. He knew of Alice’s quest and her belief that Eberhardt could clear Gertrude’s name. She didn’t ask how he had found Eberhardt, for she had been too elated to care.
Looking now into the piercing but mistrustful grey eyes of Herr Eberhardt put a fear in Alice. She had to handle this carefully, but how? Deciding that telling the truth was the only way, she said, ‘We have come to speak to you about Violetta.’
His face lost all its colour. ‘Ve vill speak in English. Vhat do you know of her – is she alive? Come in. This vay. This is my study. Ve vill not be disturbed.’
‘I am sorry, but Violetta – whose real name was Gertrude – is dead.’
‘No! No, no . . .’
There was a knock on the door and a child entered, calling her father’s name. Her appearance knocked Alice sideways. The girl looked so like her own eldest daughter. My God, is she Gertrude’s daughter?
‘Elsbeth, gehen und spielen. Alles ist in Ordnung. Der Vater wird bald sein.’
As the child left the room obeying her father’s command that she should do so, Alice asked, ‘Elsbeth?’
‘Yes. But tell me who you are, and vhy you are here!’
He listened as Alice told him her relationship to Gertrude, and how Gertrude had been killed.
‘But she vas not a traitor – she vas not.’ His hands cupped his head. Alice waited.
Steve sat beside her on the chairs that Herr Eberhardt had indicated they should sit on. His face held compassion, as did his voice, as he asked, ‘Herr Eberhardt, may I get you a drink: water or . . .’
‘Thank you, yes. Over there – vhisky. There are glasses in the cabinet. This is such a shock. I alvays hoped Violetta vould one day valk through the door. Now I know she never vill.’
‘Is Elsbeth her daughter?’
‘Yes. Violetta – Gertrude – gave her the name. Do you know of it?’
‘It is Gertrude’s mother’s name. She is German, though she lives in France with her son and his wife. Look, there is so much to tell, and to ask. It is a shock to me to know that I have a niece, and yet a wonderful shock, as it means a little of Gertrude lives on.’
‘And Elsbeth has a grandmother and an uncle, besides you?’
‘And cousins, for we have two girls. And Juste and Lil – that’s Elsbeth’s uncle and his wife – have twin boys. Mine are four and five years old, and the twins are three.’
‘This is all too much to take in. But you came here for a reason other than to tell me my Violetta is dead?’
‘Yes, I want to prove that she wasn’t a traitor. I want her to receive the posthumous award to which she is entitled, and I want a service to be held in her honour. But I cannot prove she is innocent without you. I have no other way than your testimony.’
‘But of course I vill give you a written testimony. I did not know until now that Violetta vorked vith the Resistance. I alvays had my suspicions, but they vere never proved. She never gave me any information. It disturbs me to learn that she vorked against me, used me . . .’
‘She loved you. It broke her heart to have to do what she did, and to deceive you. But, just as you and I worked for our countries and what we believed in, so did she. You have to understand that.’
‘I do. Though I have to tell you that I did not believe all the idealism of the Nazis. I spouted it, I obeyed orders, but in my heart I believed it wrong.’
Alice wasn’t convinced. This was said so many times by war criminals, and by any German they came into contact with. It seemed that none of them had wanted what happened to occur. She believed some of them, but not this man. He had proved his loyalties when he hanged that poor girl. Still, it wasn’t her purpose today to take Eberhardt to task over his war record.
‘You may have to testify on oath to a tribunal, is that all right? If I can get enough proof, the French authorities will set up a tribunal to clear Gertrude’s name.’
Beads of sweat ran down his face. ‘This isn’t possible. I vould do anything – anything – if I could, but you must know I can’t do that. But I am not afraid to speak the truth to you. Any British intelligence ve had came through someone who ve knew at first as Colonel Brown, but I came to know who he really vas. Our intelligence was very good. Ve knew a lot that you British never suspected. Brown’s real name vas General Vestlin.’
‘My God!’ The gasp had Steve moving to her side and asking, ‘are you all right, darling?’
‘Yes. It’s a shock hearing it confirmed after all this time.’
Squeezing her hand to give her comfort, Steve turned to Eberhardt and asked him, ‘Herr Eberhardt, are you prepared to let me record you saying what you know? And to give a written statement? I have a tape recorder in my car.’
Eberhardt’s hands shook. The whisky in his glass rippled. ‘Vill you tell the authorities vhere I am? No matter. It means more to me that I clear my Violetta’s – Gertrude’s – name. Yes, I vill do as you ask.’
Once Steve had the recorder set up, with a fresh tape on one spool, Eberhardt began.
‘Vestlin contacted me soon after the var with Britain started. He said he had vorked vith Herr Volf during the 1914–18 conflict and could be of even more use to us now, as he held a higher rank and vas actually vorking in the Var Office. He gave us information that helped us in many battles and thwarted many dissident attacks. He received a fortune – all paid into Swiss bank accounts. Though his contact with us dried up, ve did not know vhy, but assumed he’d been caught.’
Alice felt a bitterness tighten her chest. She had thought that when she finally proved Westlin’s guilt she would feel elated, but all she felt now was hatred and yes, despair, because innocent people had died for the crimes Westlin had committed, and because in the end he had still won a victory over her, and she would never see him face justice. ‘He took his own life. We were on to him, but we had no solid proof.’
‘I see.’
‘Is Herr Wolf still alive?’ Steve asked.
‘He is. Vhy do you ask?’
‘It is a long story, involving another of my wife’s relatives – her father. He too was wrongly put to death for being a traitor. He was framed by Westlin.’
By the time they had all they needed, Eberhardt had a grey tinge to his skin. His whole body shook, and sweat ran from him. ‘Vhat happens now?’
‘We will inform the authorities where you are. It will be up to them what they do, but no matter what you did in the past, what you have done today amounts to a great service to justice. Thank you.’
Hearing Steve say this unravelled a little of the knot that had tied Alice’s emotions. She looked at Eberhardt, but she did not see a man she could thank. She saw a young girl hanging from a tree.
‘Vill you give me some time . . . ?’
‘We cannot. We have a journalist with us. He is ready to contact the police the moment we have finished our business with you.’
Eberhardt’s throat jerked. For a minute Alice thought he would vomit.
‘I have to go to the bathroom. Vill you vait here?’
Alice looked at Steve, who nodded.
They stood there, not speaking. Into the silence came the sound of the children once again. Elsbeth had an infectious giggle and a loud, screechy tone of excitement to her voice as she squealed with joy at whatever the others were doing to her.
A noise Alice had prayed she’d never hear again stopped the child’s laughter, and all other sounds and movement. For one moment it seemed as if the whole world had ground to a halt, as the aftermath of the gunshot reverberated around her.
SIX MONTHS LATER
The sun shone on the large group of French and English dignitaries and top military personnel, including General Bellows. It glittered on their medals, as it did on Alice’s, Steve’s, Lil’s and Juste’s medals, and very proudly on those worn by the grandmother and grandchild: the two Elsbeths. Elsbeth senior wore the medals of the love of her life, Ralph; Elsbeth junior wore those of her mother, Gertrude.
As the gun salute blasted out, birds took to the air in a squealing frenzy of fear, rising up over Paris and soaring high into the blue sky. Lil’s hand found Alice’s. Alice could feel it trembling with pride, but, she imagined, with fear too, for she thought the day would never come when the sound did not invoke this emotion in them. But today they stood tall – she and Elsbeth senior the tallest and the proudest, as the two people being honoured were so close to them.
As the beautiful but mournful tones of the ‘Last Post’ filled the space around them, two hands touched her back; those of Gillian and Florrie, conveying comfort. Alice thought of her mother, who had died suddenly just over a year ago, and wanted to mourn her passing, but at the same time she always held this picture of Louise and Westlin living in eternity together – two people who had done so much damage to others. A little inner voice said, What does it matter now? And she knew in that moment she could dispel the bitterness, because what was happening here would blot it out and negate it forever.
Mildred, lovely Mildred, came into her mind. She was now at rest. Oh, how they missed her. She would have been so proud today to have stood in the same group as the man who had done her wrong – Uncle Philippe – and to have looked him in the eye. A smile came to Alice at this thought, and she wondered what Mildred would have said to him. Well, she didn’t have to wonder really, as she had a good idea what Mildred would have said, so perhaps it was just as well that everything was as it was.
Steve walked forward towards the bearer of the small casket holding a memento of Gertrude. Taking the folded French flag from the top of it, he marched over to Elsbeth senior and presented it to her. She indicated that it should go to Elsbeth junior, who looked up and smiled as she took it into her outstretched arms. As Alice saw this, she had a fleeting moment when she thought of Eberhardt.
The ending of his life was a tragedy in one way, but in another his act had saved little Elsbeth and his other children from learning all that their father had done. One day they might take the trouble to find out, but at least it wouldn’t be in the glare of the public, nor would they have to suffer the agony of his execution day. This way it had been over without them knowing that it was going to happen.
Elsbeth was a happy child. She loved her grandmother, Elsbeth senior, and had settled well with her. All of her cousins loved her too, and Elsbeth spent many weeks with her older siblings, who now lived with an aunt, a sister of their father. Not what you would call a happy ending, for all they had ever known had been torn from them, but then the fingers of war that still clutched at the generations took no heed of people’s happiness. Alice wondered if they would ever lose their grip. If anyone would ever really be free again.
Steve turned and marched back to the bearers. Taking the folded British flag, he marched towards Alice. Her tears blurred his progress. She tried to swallow them back. Returning his salute, she took the flag and knew this to be the proudest moment of her life.
As they lowered the tiny symbolic caskets – one for her sister and one for her father – she read her poem, changed a little and with an added verse. Her voice was clear, the words soaring upwards and her heart filling with pride:
‘I was like a stone covered in moss
For time had stagnated me
The layers had locked in the pain of your loss
And I had to search for the key.
As time has given us the courage you showed
The lock is undone and I start anew
So let the world know the debt you are owed
And that I am, and always will be, proud of you.’