El Alamein by Jack Murray (spanish books to read .TXT) 📗

the Fuhrer gazing into the distance like a seer. He would have made a good fish wife, thought Brehme. It was clear that neither he nor Lerner would be able to toast their leader in their usual, barbed, fashion.

‘Peter,’ said Lerner somewhat nervously. ‘Thank you for making time.’

Brehme almost yelped in laughter at this. It was their private in-joke for a policeman who no longer had much to police. The look on Lerner’s face put Brehme on his guard. This late afternoon chat was unlikely to end in a shared whisky, a bit of gossip about the latest idiocy of the Nazis and a few ribald tales.

‘May I introduce Herr Keller.’

Tellingly he left the introduction at this. Keller, however, unlike many of the Gestapo he’d met, smiled and stood up. He held out his hand.

‘Please call me Ernst. I try to ensure that working relationships are as cordial as they are professional. After all, we are on the same side.’

‘Of course,’ replied Brehme sitting down and already concerned by the use of the word ‘working’. He shot a glance in the direction of Lerner. It was clear he was uncomfortable and somewhat put out that Keller had taken the liberty of breaking news to his police chief that, by rights, was his prerogative.

‘So we will be working together?’ asked Brehme, attempting to keep the tone light.

‘Yes. From tomorrow. Herr Himmler has decided that our network should expand to towns which either have, or are near to, universities.’

Brehme was incredulous. Ladenburg was a small town with a population that had declined by a fifth as a consequence of the war. There were few if any students here as most were living in nearby Heidelberg. He hid his surprise. Years of interviewing suspects, listening to lies, had given him a face that any poker player would have killed for. It made him able to ask the most outrageous questions and make the most ironic comments without the listener realising where his true thoughts lay.

‘There is a belief that Ladenburg is a centre of treason or espionage?’

Lerner almost choked when he heard Brehme ask this. Not because the question was absurd, which it certainly was, but because Brehme had made it sound like he was asking about the likelihood of rain that night. At that moment, Lerner understood just why Brehme had been such an effective policeman over these years.

‘This is a very good question,’ said Keller, getting serious.

No, it’s not, thought Brehme: it’s a ridiculous question and you are a moron.

‘Thank you, Herr Keller, sorry. Ernst. I’ve often felt that we must give greater attention to the smaller towns in this country. Spies and troublemakers are not going to parade themselves in big cities. No, it is the small towns of Germany which can become a hotbed of trouble if we are not careful.’

Keller slapped the table in a manner of someone who had just been validated.

‘I knew that you were just the man, sir, to understand the challenge we face.’

Lerner was, by now, gripping the table to stop himself laughing at the young Gestapo man. However, as ludicrous an individual as he was, Lerner had no doubt he would be dangerous if crossed. He exchanged glances with Brehme and the message was understood. Don’t push this too far.

For the moment, though, Keller was oblivious to the tacit understanding between the two older men.

‘Have you heard of the Edelweiss Pirates?’ asked Keller.

‘Yes, of course, everyone has. But they are just adolescents rebelling against their parents. They’re only good for getting young girls pregnant,’ said Brehme perhaps more dismissively than he’d intended.

This was, perhaps, a slight exaggeration, acknowledged Brehme to himself but not too far from the truth. He didn’t like what they appeared to stand for, but he doubted they existed in the town.

‘You must not underestimate these young people, Brehme. They are numerous, they are everywhere, and they are against the Fatherland. We know for a fact that they conduct violent attacks against the Hitler Youth. We also know that they help deserters and Jews and seek only to undermine our country. They cannot be allowed to flourish.’

‘So we will be working together?’ asked Brehme again.

‘Yes. From tomorrow. Is there an office that I can use?’

‘I’m afraid there’s only the one office, Ernst.’

‘Then we shall be like flatmates,’ said Keller brightly.

Brehme wasn’t sure if his own attempted smile didn’t look more like the grimace of man who has just stubbed his toe. There was little point in trying to object. All he could do was to make the best of a bad situation. Keller was an idiot. A dangerous one, undoubtedly but an idiot all the same. He, Brehme, had nothing to fear. His attitude towards the Nazi’s was one of forbearance and hope that it was a period that would one day pass in the nation’s history quickly enough for him to enjoy retirement, more time with his son and whatever grandchildren God would bring him.

It was almost six in the evening. There seemed little point in returning to the police station. Instead Brehme walked home. The house echoed to his footsteps. He glanced down, as he usually did, at a photograph of Manfred in his Hitler Youth uniform. He’d insisted on having a portrait taken much to Manfred’s embarrassment. A reminder to his folly. He went into his office to finish off the letter he’d started.

For a few minutes he sat and thought about what to write. There was no doubt the letters were being censored or, at the very least, read. He decided against mentioning his new ‘work mate’.

There was a news broadcast on the radio. He turned it up. They were describing a successful engagement in North Africa. He wasn’t sure how much he should believe about what was said. In the absence of anything else, at least it gave him reassurance that Manfred was alive and well. He took an atlas from the bookcase and opened it at North Africa while he listened to the broadcast.

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