Single to Westminster, via Berlin

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Prologue

Germany 1937

The promise of Adolf Hitler's voice immortalised by means of a recording device was the prize, and companies all over Germany had striven for the honour of being chosen. The Cologne technician had laboured for many evenings to arrive at what would be the final product, and he was not surprised when his Gruppenfuhrer section leader hurried in with the news that his work was to be included in the final list of equipment to be tested prior to the choice of recording device.

He had taken the early specification, and brought in an idea which would not be out of place in the solid-state devices of the present day, which was sector sampling. The specification also which required that the recording device should ‘faithfully and comprehensively’ gather all the nuances of the voice to be recorded., and brought in an idea which would not be out of place in the solid-state devices of the present day, which was sector sampling He had tried to explain his theories to an overworked superior, but had received the reply, Yes, yes, do whatever you wish, the only requirement is that we win. We must, and have the honour of recording our Fuhrer’s voice when he begins the series of hypothesis and remembrance talks which he has envisaged.

Shrugging his shoulders as he clattered down the metal staircase, Heinz Brocke determined that he would include his sampling techniques. He had more ideas which he been toying with, in order to present his company with the accolade of being the Fuhrer’s choice. The recording medium chosen was a special copper-chrome alloy tape, which was both incredibly thin and flexible, but also very strong and durable. The tape, a product of an alcoholic week-end spent with three other electronic technicians, when they had worked out both the composition and method of coating the tape, had proved to be the best in all the sample tests which had been carried out over an exhaustive cycle.

The recording and erase heads, another innovation brought in by Heinz himself, was already being talked about as a winner in mass produced devices which could make the Company’s name in a whole new area. He had determined that the response recording would actually produce a timbre or tone which would be the actual equal of the spoken voice, and thus far superior to anything which was being produced by their competitors.

Heinz’ Company was alerted that it was in the final selection and some Tthree weeks later, the ‘Rekorder’ was ready. it was an extremely tired but jubilant Brocke who carried the finished recorder, now mounted inside a hand-made polished oak case, into the halls of the Reichs Chancellery on WilhelmStrasse. He was met at a counter by an SS officer, who barked, You are Brocke, in the recorder tender list? This is the last to be delivered, open up please.

Knowing little of the paranoia which was beginning to afflict all of official Germany when it came to access to Adolf Hitler, he raised an eyebrow, and simply said, But its a recording device.

Open up speedily, or I will drop it, and you, from an extremely large height.

Certainly, anything for the Reich, anything. grabbing at the small toolbox always carried in his pocket, undid all the screws and laid the interior bare upon the counter.

Explain all the components, without exception. Treat me as though I know nothing. Managing to keep a straight face, Heinz listed all the parts, and their function. He was aided by the fact that there were no batteries or any large objects which could be mistaken for explosives. He had designed his amplifier section so that, the valves were all mounted on a raised metal bracket. , and He was only too happy to explain anything in detail which the SS man queried.

Finally, the officer barked, In that room there, strip and wait.

But I am not detailed to demonstrate anything to the Fuhrer, Standartenfuhrer. My director will be here in an hour to have the honour of meeting our Fuhrer, not I.

That’s just where you are wrong, little man. We decide who gains access to the side of Adolf Hitler. If someone is not expecting to get near him, he is the one we want, not some puffed-up moron who thinks he can dine out on the story of how he amazed the Fuhrer! Now do as you are told, and strip for a search.

Five very unpleasant minutes later, Heinz was knotting his tie after dressing, when the SS officer pushed his head through the door once more, Right, you, pick up your bits of machinery and follow me. Heinz grabbed his jacket, slung it on while grasping the precious oaken box with the ‘Rekorder’, as they had chosen to name the device, under his arm.

Scuttling after the Standartenfuhrer, whose jackboot heels slammed down upon the echoing marble floor, he passed through large rooms with staff seated at desks or studying maps. The advance, then the advance was briefly halted while the SS officer conferred with two other SS men seated before a desk, adjacent to large double doors. After a further wait, the doors were swung open, and the SS man twitched his head for Heinz to follow him inside. Seated at an ordinary desk, wearing the plain unadorned tunic which he had adopted as his day uniform, sat the leader of Germany, Adolf Hitler. He glanced up at the SS officer’s approach, then the gaze of a magnetic pair of eyes swung over Heinz Brocke’s face and features.

Heinz managed to throw his arm out at the approved angle, while whispering in awe, Heil Hitler.

The dictator’s grim face softened, a wintry smile appeared on the famous features. , and he arose from behind the desk, moved around and took a paralysed Heinz by the arm; Come now, Herr Brocke, I am just a man, as you are. Surely you are not afraid of me?

My Fuhrer, I am not afraid, who could be afraid of you? I am just a little tense, not being accustomed to moving in rarefied circles, especially circles which include our country’s leader."

Come, Heinz; it is Heinz, is it not? Some coffee for our technician, Standartenfuhrer. You are shaking like a water lily, you must learn to relax a little, Heinz. The persuasive powers of the Chancellor of Germany were lent in the cause of putting Heinz at his ease. So , and as he sipped his coffee, the recording technician found himself telling his Fuhrer about his wife and daughter, his house on the outskirts of Cologne, his hopes for the future of his country.

The SS officer, who had been standing in the shadows of the large office, moved forward, but the hand of his leader waved him back. We have tested all the other entries for the recording device, there is just yours left. Shall we set it up on the desk, Heinz? The technician searched for a power socket, plugged in the thin power lead, set the power switch to operate., then Clicked over the ‘run’ toggle and the tape reel commenced revolving. How do I, where is the microphone, Heinz? Where do I speak into, as it were? asked the German leader.

My Fuhrer, the mike is built-in to the deck, your voice is being recorded as we speak.

So, what shall I say in order to test your little device, Heinz? Shall I recite from the pages of Goethe, or speak in prose the Story of Siegfried or Gotterdammerung? When your company sent in the application, it said there would be true images of my voice, shall we see if this is so? Hitler pointed to the toggle switch, and Heinz clicked it off, then rewound the tape to the beginning, glanced at his leader for approval, then hit the ‘play’ switch.

The words which came out of the little speakers set on the side of the ‘Rekorder’ were an absolute representation of firstly Hitler’s words, then Heinz’s explanations, then once again the words of the Reichsfuhrer himself, all completely indistinguishable from the original.

The SS officer, up to now with a sceptical smile on his face, had that same smile wiped off as though by magic. My Fuhrer, that is the best. We have listened to, and tested thirteen units, I swear that if I had not been watching, I would have believed it was your voice all along. It is almost real, in fact there is a certain depth to the recording which gave me a sense of listening to you in reality.

Hitler’s approving smile was like a gust of energy straight into Heinz’s metabolism. Herr Brocke, we will have to go through the formalities of writing to your company, but I think that you can tell your director, who is by now standing outside in the main office, that we shall be using your company’s services for the series of recordings I have envisaged. There is but one other item to cover, we would ask that you act as the recording technician for the whole time. , and Yyour services shall, of course, be remunerated at the rate laid down within your application. I want nothing for nothing, Heinz; a labourer is worthy of his hire.

The technician packed up his equipment, and floated out of Hitler’s office as in a dream, collecting his director as he moved, while just saying, We’ve got it. He wants us, and what is more he said it was the best. On the way to the railway station, he was bombarded with questions by the director, who was understandably annoyed about not being in on the demonstration with the German leader., but Heinz simply saidreplied, They chose me for security reasons; if I wasn’t expecting to see Hitler, so much the better.

The pair boarded the train, settled down for the journey to Cologne, and their return to their works and offices. In due course, the contract arrived for the use of the ‘Rekorder’ along with the services of Heinz Brocke during the recording sessions. By the time the sessions commenced, after being postponed five times in a row, it was nineteen-thirty-nine, and the pressures on Hitler’s time grew stronger, until even Heinz grew weary of the constant cancellations at short notice.

But the sessions did take place, with Adolf Hitler’s voice, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a rant, but always the same magnetic, hypnotic tones recording his thoughts, dreams and plans on that special tape, through that special recorder and even more special recording techniques which Heinz had dreamt up alone.

The war erupted, with calls for Hitler to be first here, then to travel there, and the session times were disrupted again and again. The hesitations at Dunkirk and Calais, the disastrous attack against Russia, the defiant declaration of War against America, all went as history tells. The tapes and ‘Rekorder’ were stored in the Cologne offices. The entire plant of which Heinz Brocke was so proud was bombed into rubble in late 1944, Heinz himself lasted until early April 1945, when he was shot as a deserter by an Gestapo contingent who didn’t like the speed at which he responded to their call for his documents.

The Third Reich ended in fire, death, butchery and blood. The desire for an archive of the Fuhrer’s thoughts and dreams was forgotten along with all the other detritus of a murderous twelve year reign of terror.

Chapter One

London Highgate Village

The television was blaring about the scenes of violence surrounding a ultra-right wing Party’s provocative marches through a small suburb of Manchester which happened to be almost totally Asian in population, but the swing of batons and the shouts of injured demonstrators failed to hold the attention of the occupants of the flat’s living room, intent as they were on other, more personal questions. Speak it in Twenty Sessions, that’s what we’ll call it. the words came from the mouth of a young man as he lay on a sofa, gazing out of the window towards the High Street in Highgate Village, a very expensive London suburb. Talk like a native? What do you reckon, Irene?

Irene, a slender brunette seated upright on a dining chair, slowly shook her head, No, we don’t want to talk about natives, gives the wrong vibes out; Twenty sessions, again no; that would make them think how expensive it might be. What we must think up is something which will pull the punters in, and re-assure them at the same time.

Well, we must get a name for the bloody thing soon, the painters are in right now, and they will need the words for the sign writer chop-chop. Think language school for pity’s sake, Irene.

Well, we should go for, er, or, howzabout ‘Speakit Kwikly’?

That’s it. Always said if you give it to the girls, they’ll see you right. I’ll get on to the painters right now. We’ll have to register that name with Companies House, won’t we?

Do that right now, so we can be certain it hasn’t been claimed by anyone else, called Irene. Clicking on the website as she spoke, she brought up the online registration pages previously saved, added the new name, and clicked it through for search and approval. Thirty seconds later, the reply came up on the screen, ‘All details confirmed, your credit card account will be debited for the full amount in Five days. Thank you.’ Irene glanced across at Peter Bennet, All we need now is your choice of German voice tapes, C.D’s and DVD’s. We’ve got Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Portuguese and French languages ready to go, all on reel-to-reel tape, cassette and multi-DVD format, so we are just about ready. You’re going across to Cologne, when, Thursday?

Peter hunched his shoulders, its a right pain in the backside going over just before the week-end, Irene. Couldn’t you get a change of flight, or booking, or anything?

Pete, you know as well as I do that our beloved agent set the whole thing up, so live with it. You might meet a beautiful German maiden to help while away the week-end. Stop moaning, Pete.

Rolling his eyes in despair, Peter Bennet accepted the inevitable, and left to catch a bus down into the centre of London. On arrival at to where the newly-acquired premises of the latest language school to hit the Capital he found the painters busywere being painted, together with electricians giving their impression of working to fit out the desks with the required power and data sockets. Talking things over with the foreman painter, Peter drew the required name out on a rather grubby piece of paper, shot it across to the lead man, asking, Can you do it in big block lettering in red on the white background?

The foreman pushed his hat back from his forehead, studied the writing, nodded wordlessly., then waved his henchman over; spread the note out on a table top, Paint the backing in now, give it a day to dry off, block the wording in and get Horace to do the necessary, O.K.?

With the most important job done, Peter next asked how things were with the electricians, received the usual nod of despair followed by, Yerr, we’re falling behind a bit, but if we work this evening, we can catch up. Accustomed as he was to the casual blackmail common to all tradesmen in inner London, Peter simply nodded agreement, knowing that without the extra payment, he would never see completion from this particular bunch of pirates, and since they knew that he was over a barrel as regards opening on time, they knew that the money would be paid.

As he conferred on the phone with Council staff who’se sole job, he was convinced, was to make things just that little more difficult then normal, As he spoke,, he pondered the wisdom of laying down a fairly large slug of money to back a belief that his knowledge of European languages could translate into a thumping profit for Irene and himself. He mentally totted up the outlay required to start this school idea from scratch, winced a little as he once again realised that the deed was done, and they had to spend the rest of the cash because it was too late to go back again.

Waving an arm at the painters in farewell, he crossed the road to the bus stop in order to hop the four stops to his next destination, the airline office where his tickets to Cologne lay. As he had already decided in his mind that he wasn’t going to enjoy the trip, his frustration communicated itself to the agent behind the desk, and his gloom deepened when he was told that ‘no, you cannot pre-book your seats, you will have to be first in line at Heathrow to do that.’ As his flight directions already called for a two hour timescale prior to actual check-in, he he gloomed as he studied his itinerary and realised that he would have to lose virtually the whole day from his plans. as he would be waiting around the blasted airport after travelling from his London home. He stuck the plastic wallet in his briefcase, nodded briefly to the agent, and exited the travel facility enraged at the dictatorial attitudes of the airline industry towards the people who paid their bills.

Arriving back at the flat in Highgate Village, Peter heard multiple voices as he swung up the steep staircase, and upon opening the door, saw that he and Irene were entertaining Irene’s family. Having forgotten completely about this particular, and, lets’ face it, unwelcome visit, Peter just had to smile bravely as he entered the lounge, inhabited as it was by Irene’s father, a middle-ranking civil servant who could also bore for England, Irene’s mother, a formidable person who ruled her local Conservative Association with a rod of stainless steel, and Irene’s brother, whom went by the term ‘gay’ but was actually as bent as a fish hook. Sighing inwardly, and cursing his bad memory which had not warned him of this long-standing descent by the ‘gothic hordes’ as even Irene called her kin, he strode forward, shaking Charles and Tim by the hand, and receiving the ritual air-kiss from Daphne while aiming himself by Irene, who was strategically seated by the window, ready, he mused, for a very quick exit! During the two hours which followed, Peter received the usual warning about not going into the language game from Charles, and at the same time a diatribe about why he wasn’t going into politics from Daphne, who fancied herself as a talent-spotter for the Party. As he and Irene had heard variations on both themes for the three years they had been together, nothing was new, but it served Peter as an object lesson in the simple art of ignoring someone completely while appearing to listen intently. Tim put his sixpennorth’ in as to why Peter never came to any of the parties to which they both were given constant invitations; answered of course by the simple reply of just being too busy with the start-up of the school.

Peter arrived home to find Irene’s parents had dropped by to invite the pair out for dinner, he evening finally arrived at the spot where Irene’s dad would invite the couple out for a spot of dinner, and a little drink, which was the signal for both but both Peter and Irene untruthfully to realised that they were due at a reception given by the suppliers of one of their software programs for the school. Receiving the expected reply to their invitation, the parents plus son departed towards their car and the drive into Hertfordshire, leaving Irene and Peter collapsing on the carpet, clutching each other, and promising never to turn into the people who had just left.

As the night closed in, Peter, who was relaxing on the bed, and leaning up against the headboard, stroking Irene’s hair as she lay beside him, suddenly asked, Has your mother always been into, well, politics?

Irene replied,Ever since daddy got his promotion in the Foreign Office, she’s made sure that he’s received all the back-up and leverage possible, goes to all the right parties, knows all the right people, makes me tired; here you aren’t thinking about a life in politics....?

Peter collapsed in giggles, God no, the last thing I would want to do is to get tied up with the sort of people who would be interested in national or local politics. My view of anyone who is involved, all due respect to your dear mama, my love is that its okay for them, but not for me.. No, my sweet, I was just wondering how your Mum and Dad actually got together?

They actually met at some tennis dance or function. Nothing to do with politics or government, Mummy used to be quite good with a racquet, and Daddy was hauled along to this dance to make up the numbers, and they met there. Sweet really; shocking how they turned out. The young couple suddenly became very interested in each other, and forgot all about Peter’s lack of interest in politics as they became totally absorbed in each other, and they slept the sleep of the innocent. Thursday morning dawned, Irene shuffled out of bed and into the bathroom, followed by a mildly hungover Peter. They kissed briefly as they passed, Peter chewing a slice of toast, and Irene demolishing a morning apple as she dressed.

Work loomed, and Irene made for the door, turning back to hug Peter as she made sure that he understood that she loved only him, and would wait impatiently for the Tuesday return of her best and only boyfriend. Peter dropped down to the local newsagents, bought all the broadsheets, and strolled back for a leisurely breakfast before girding himself for the trip to Heathrow and the flight out to Germany. The morning passed in a blur as Peter immersed himself in the nightmare which was airline travel, and seven hours later, found himself decanted on to the arrivals terminal concourse at Cologne airport.

He looked around, and found a large, jolly-faced man waving a sign which strangely enough said, ‘Mr. Binnit?’ Deciding that was as good an invitation as any, he walked forward, announced in German that he was Peter Bennet, the greeter’s eyebrows rose as he realised that this Englander actually spoke a civilised language, and met him with a hearty handshake. Klaus Oberholzer swept Peter’s luggage up with one hand, ushering his guest before him, out through the sliding doors, and into the biggest car Peter had ever entered. The German saw Peter’s eyebrows raised at the luxury of the vehicle, murmured, its a loan car, mine is in how you say, the dock?

Both men relaxed as the chauffeur engaged the gears, and the huge VW Phaeton drifted silently down the ramp, through the switchback curves and on to the freeway heading into Cologne proper. Did you receive the hotel listing I sent you, Herr Bennet?

Yes, I did, it sounds quite adequate for my needs. I gather that the whole city closes down on a Sunday, is that correct?

Unfortunately, yes, Herr Bennet, one of the unfortunate after-effects of a series of governmental decisions which are stifling any attempt to revive our economies. The ruling party was in a coalition with among others, a party with fairly rigid religious ethics. So, , and for their votes on some footling bill or other, they agreed to reinforce the Sunday trading laws. So, Sunday, as some Americans say, the sidewalks fold up all day.

Ah well, I’ll just have to accept it, Herr Oberholzer. Not that I don’t appreciate your home town, but I was hoping to review all the prospective tapes and DVD’s in the time allowed, but Sunday will just be a dead loss.

Well, Herr Bennet, we have tomorrow, Friday and Saturday, then Monday, that’s three days..., is that not enough time?

its just that I have a whole heap of things to do back in London, and I just hate the thought of doing nothing for a full day, that’s all.

The agent glanced at his travelling companion, then offered There are always the flea-markets down by the river. They’re strictly unofficial, and there are no guarantees on what you buy, but there is supposed to be a good atmosphere, and you may pick up a, what you say; a bargain.

After two full days of sampling and running German language training DVD’s and tapes, Peter awoke on the Sunday morning, and after a solid breakfast at the hotel, decided to take the agent’s advice, and visit one of these markets, mainly to fill some time in. As he walked, he reviewed what he had heard of the schooling selections so far, and was confident that he could wrap up the rest of the course selections by midday Monday, and grab a flight back that evening, saving himself a full day. He found himself following the directions given him by the concierge, found Lindtgasse, followed it down past the fish market and saw ahead of him the scores of temporary counters, trading shops and hundreds of German citizens all indulging in the hunt for the bargains which were alleged to be around.

Peter enjoyed crowds, and this one was no different to many others, with the possible exception that, being German, there wasn’t so much laughter and noise as in other countries. He strolled along, pausing at first a stall selling varieties of stamps, next to that he found a couple selling old musical instruments. He browsed around the stalls for maybe an hour, then feeling the need, he went looking for a stall selling coffee, soft drinks and possible a seat along with the drinks. Finding one after a few minutes, he bought a coffee and the inevitable roll stuffed with sausages, dropped on to a seat by a rickety table and demolished both roll and coffee. He lit up a cigarette, sat back while just enjoying the sunshine, and gazed idly around at the stalls within his line of sight.

He saw a sign, ‘Kleinigkeiten’ in Germanic gothic script, simply saying ‘Odds and Sods’ or at least the German equivalent of that very useful British expression. He levered himself to his feet, and idly wandered over to see what the German idea of a car boot sale really was. There was, in the short space around the stall, boxes, crates, old trunks and even a couple of hat boxes. Piled on the flat counter surface was the equivalent of a tidy person’s nightmare, with an old sextant lying across a set of ancient micrometers and scribing tools as a typical example. A seeker after the odd and outlandish, Peter commenced turning everything over, trying and in many cases failing, to establish what everything’s purpose was.

He completed his first rough scan of the counter top, then his eye was caught by a faded label on a metal suitcase on the ground underneath the counter, which simply announced ‘Rekorder’. He tried to open the case up, but the lock was jammed, he tried to lift it, but it was very heavy. He turned to the stall owner, nodded at the unopened case, and asked, What’s in here?

The response of Dunno, came from the owner, who hadn’t even turned his head.

How much do you want?

Ten Euros, take it or leave it.

Scratching his head a little in awe at the fiendish business sense of the ‘Odds and Sods’ trader, he pulled his wallet out, selected a ten euro note, and handed it over. Scrutinising the note, the trader ventured into speech, Had that for a while, still don’t know what’s in it, but you own it now. Good luck.

The weight of the case was such to make Peter lean over the opposite way just to balance himself while he staggered to the kerbside and, waved a wandering taxi down. He, slid the case into the back, got in the front and asked for his hotel, while still breathing heavily from the exertion of lugging an unaccustomed load even for a short distance. Arriving at the entrance, he asked the porter to give him a hand, and the resourceful man brought out a small trolley upon which the load was placed, and rolled it in to the lobby, across into the lift and then along to Peter’s room. Once installed on the luggage rack in the room, the porter nodded his head and disappeared back towards the lobby, and Peter started to try and open the heavy locks, but after a short while decided that he needed something a little more substantial than the tiny Swiss knife on his keyring, and decided to try down in the city the next day when shops would be open. He went down for his dinner after a sleep on the bed, ate well and went back up to investigate the joys of hotel television. Monday morning saw Peter in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, and was joined by Klaus Oberholzer in time for coffee.

Have you sorted the best of the tapes and DVD’s yet, Peter? asked the German, polishing off the coffee.

The only thing we’re really short of is technical German, to be honest, Klaus. You know, the type of language used in engineering offices. If an Englishman comes across to Cologne, I want him to feel comfortable in conversation with the guys he is visiting, have you got anything on the stocks which might suit the bill?

We have access to one group of tapes and DVD’s which might fit your requirements, but the rights to sell, or even lease, are a bit expensive; is that a problem, Peter?

No worries, Klaus, we just bump the basic lesson price up to meet the extra. If there is some guy who needs to learn technical German, his company is usually footing the bill, so they don’t twitch too much. Are they available?

The company which is marketing them is out on the road to the airport. If we go in to my office, we can sort out all the other leases and purchase requirements for the tapes and DVD’s which you have selected, and then we can drop down to the office where these tapes are, you can have a listen and make your mind up, then off to your flight and England.

Sounds good to, oh, Klaus, I’ve picked up a bit of extra luggage, and it will be over the flight baggage limit. I bought a blind bundle at a market stall yesterday, I haven’t been able to even open it. Suppose I’ll have to dump it.

Peter, don’t worry, we will ship it out to you by air freight, and then you can play with your, what you say; blind bundle. Only sometimes does your German worry me a little. You translate from the English vernacular into German and expect everyone to understand. Still, you’re better than the average Englishman, they don’t even speak English very well.

Come on, Klaus, let me get packed, get someone to lug this case downstairs and we’ll get away to this office of yours. Peter Bennet left Cologne airport at two in the afternoon, saying farewell to Klaus and confident that his newly acquired case would be travelling along behind him within the fearsomely efficient grasp of Lufthansa Cargo.

Three days later, Peter was wishing that he hadn’t hurried back from Germany quite so quickly. The electricians, while carving channels in a wall to accept their conduit, had discovered asbestos, the whole building was sealed off while the landlords made arrangements for specialists to clear it all away. The language school was on hold, Peter was wishing he had more hair so he could tear it out quicker and the only happy person around was Horace, the sign writer. He was able to get his work finalised without interruptions from any other trade.

Irene had dragged Peter away from the shell which was the school building and threatened him with no sex at all if he didn’t relax a little. Sitting in the flat, clutching a beer, he stared glumly up at Irene, What are we gonna’ do, love?

Look, sweetheart, I know that your money is tight, if you would only agree to me lending you a bit from my own, Irene stopped as she saw his face turn to stone.

I will not borrow any cash from you, or your parents, and that’s flat. The stage payments are provisionally stalled, so I don’t have to pay anything more out for the work done so far. The insurance is taking the strain for the lease payments on the computer equipment and all the furniture; really there isn’t a problem with money. its just that I hate being stalled like this. We’re three weeks away from what should be our opening day, the adverts have all got to be changed, the guys who are going to be doing the initial interviewing and placements have all got to be placed on hold, I’ve not got half the list done and I feel like getting drunk.

Irene was just about to say, ‘yes, let’s all get pissed’ when the front doorbell rang and Peter’s case was rolled up the stairs on a dicky little barrow with three sets of wheels. The barrow was what caught Peter’s eye, and he was rhapsodising about the design until the delivery man grinned nervously, and asked him for a signature. As Irene escorted the driver down the stairs and outside, Peter studied his find. It was slightly larger than a normally-sized suitcase, painted a dull green, with substantial locks at three places on one side of the lid.

Peter, knowing that the locks looked strong enough to defy a hammer attack, went for the opposite side, and simply filed the top off the hinge pins. He placed a pin wedge against the clean edge and tapped the pin out of each hinge without breaking the paintwork. He lifted the lid back against the lock hinges, and found everything covered in an old blanket which he quickly removed. The case had been purpose built to accept the contents, with wooden separators all barriered with rubber, keeping the main items in place. Peter edged up a finely polished oak box about fifteen inches square, and about the same deep, and lifted it clear of the case. He set it down on the blanket on the carpet, searched around and found the key set on the inside of a support, clicked the lock open and lifted the lid. Opened for the first time in sixty years, Heinz Brocke’s pride and joy was revealed to the eyes of a puzzled Englishman. Irene sat down beside him, asking him what it was.

It looks like a tape recorder, but its not any sort of recording device that I have ever heard of, Peter muttered, while easing the clips away from the top of the case, look, these are valves, this is ancient; it must have been built round about the forties, middle fifties, somewhere around there. Transistors were starting to be used more and more, valve use fell away completely by the end of the sixties, mainly because they put out so much heat; but just look at the workmanship, the way those circuits have been put together. Look at the way this carrying box has been made, dovetail joints; every joint has been cut by hand. Somebody placed their heart and soul in hock to build this device. Wonder where the, ah; power source is European, see the pins on the plug. Let’s see what else is in this little treasure trove.

Peter pulled back the coverings on the other compartments and located twenty or so reels of tape clamped firmly within a section of the case. As he lifted out one after the other, he saw they were all labelled, ‘Archiv. H 03-11-39, and so on until H 07-02-44, which was the last one out of the box. The other case section held multiple spare valves, switches and other components for the main recording device, and it was so complete that Peter simply rocked back on his heels in amazement at his find. This must be some collection of readings or books or something like that. Look at the way whoever built this thing has made sure that there won’t be any technical reasons why the recording couldn’t proceed. its even got a tiny back-up power supply. Look, its a miniature generator-set. There must have been some overwhelming reason why the recording couldn’t be delayed by technical or machine breakdowns. Wonder who owned it?

Irene leant forward, prodding at something that lay at the base of the case, finally lifting a sheet of paper out with her fingers, " its all in German, Peter. Can you translate it and see what it says?

She handed over the small sheet of paper to her boyfriend, who subsided onto the carpet, lay back against the sofa, and commenced reading slowly from the paper before him, " its a bit blurry, its all in pencil, and written a long time ago but listen,

Today will be possibly the last of the Archive recordings, we spent a week trying to locate where he was, and now they’re moving him again, and we’re not even half-way through the session.

Erm, bit smudged here,

We got another half-an-hour, but its no good, everything is against us finishing them, because we need calm and peace for the recording to work correctly, instead of which there are always demands on his time, and he says that they are more important than the memories. How could he say that? These are words which should go down in history, and I am pushed away by men who are not fit to wipe his boots, but they claim his notice because they demand decisions, and all I ask is his time to remember what his plans were?

Irene stared at Peter as he spoke again, more slowly this time,

I think that this is the end. We have been told that all the recordings are to be held, with the recorder, and the black coats will come and retrieve them when transport is available. There shall be no more sessions, no more chances to immortalise his voice, it has all been for nothing. I will be encasing all the tapes with the machine parts and the device, and store them in the vaults at the base of the office block.

Who is he talking about, Peter?

There has only been one man who could drag this sort of loyalty out of an unemotional German, one man who could sway a nation, sway a crowd of two hundred thousand the same way he gripped the minds of twenty frightened men in a beer hall in Munich. If I’m right, what we have found is the last will and testament, in his own words, of Adolf Hitler, Reichs Chancellor of Germany, second only to Joe Stalin as the biggest mass murderer this world has ever seen.

Irene stared at her Peter with a frozen look of horror, You mean that all those tapes are the speeches of that horrible man?

Looks like it. Not just speeches, sounds to me like he was trying to put down, in his own words, his philosophy of life, or death if it was him. Don’t know if I want to own anything which belonged to that character. Everything he touched turned to blood and death. I’ll get it burned at the incinerator. Don’t tell your dad about this, there are some people who would do a lot of nasty things to get their hands on ‘The life and times of Adolf’, in his own words as it were. Yes, I’ll pack it all up and get it burnt. He packed all the tapes back into their space, lifted the recorder off the table and slid the oak box into its own space, covered the whole with the old blanket, and closed the lid back, sliding the pins back into the hinges. Give me a hand, and I’ll swing it in under the staircase out of the way, Saturday morning I’ll get it across and burn it. its a memory of something evil, and fire is the only place for it.

Chapter Two

Glasgow Royal Infirmary Emergency & Out-Patients

London Highgate Village

The triage staff nurse stepped back from the side of the trolley where the latest casualty lay groaning, raised her eyebrows to the heavens in distaste, then moved forward past the trolley and into the Emergency area proper. We’ve got another from that rally march, the right-wing thing. Um, its the leader of the march, and he’s in a pretty bad way. Sally, take him to bay three please.

Sally, a buxom Nigerian nurse who normally came complete with a flashing smile, turned back towards the staff nurse, Mary, why me, I mean, can’t we just kick him back on the street as he would do to us?

Sally, just do as I ask, you know the rules, everyone who gets hurt gets treated here, no matter what they have done or preached, we don’t exclude anyone. Now move it, Sally, or else go on report and get suspended.

Shaking her head in despair, the black girl Sally moved to the head of the trolley, and manoeuvred it into the treatment bay. A trainee nurse stepped forward, helped lever the comatose patient on to the bed, and then the two girls commenced to cut the jacket and shirt off the badly bruised body which lay on the treatment sheets. Still furious, the Nigerian nurse was muttering to herself as they worked to clear all the blood-soaked clothing away from the man’s torso and legs. Finally, the trainee timidly asked, Sally, why are you so upset? Do you know the man?

Don’t you read the papers, don’t you watch any television, girl? That thing is Charlie Watson. Watson, the leader of the Blackshirt Revival party. The one who has preached that all people like me should be kicked out of Britain ‘cos we’re shiftless, and lazy, and soaking up the welfare. The one that’s been up in court fourteen times for inciting racial hatred, and each time he’s got off on a technicality. We’re supposed to heal him, and take care of him, and when he’s better, he’s going to be saying exactly the same as before, the fascist scum.

Staff nurse Riley is right, though; isn’t she? I mean, he may be all those things that you said, but we can’t pick and choose, can we?

The black sister looked over the bed at her young colleague, nodded her head and replied I know, I know; but it just makes me sick, having to treat this pile of garbage exactly the same as the ordinary people who come in here because they’re sick or hurting., oOrdinary people who don’t preach terrible ideas like this lump of sewage lying on the treatment sheets. I was just trying to, well, protest!. Right, he’s clear, let’s get one of the residents in and see what he wants us to do with the remains.

Henry Armitage, twenty-three years old, Emergency Resident and now on call for the seventeenth hour straight, pulled back the curtains and surveyed the wreck which was Charlie Watson’s face and body, He called for his mate, Cecil Warren, and they commenced a run-down of the immediately apparent injuries which had been dealt out to the Fascist leader. After about ten minutes, the pair stepped back, stripped off their gloves, and called for a porter to wheel the injured man around to the X-ray department. The porter moved up, took one look at the face, swollen though it was, and simply said, Sorry, doc, I feel a bad case of flu coming on. Can’t seem to shift it.

Armitage leant forward, gripped the porter by the arm and quietly said, Bullshit, mate. We don’t let personalities affect our work, and you aren’t sick. Try claiming undue pressure and the boys will make your life a misery. Now move it.

The porter glanced up at the determined face in front of him, realised he wasn’t going to win, nodded and swung the treatment bed around and headed for the X-ray rooms. Pushing through the double doors, he pushed the call bell and waited until the technician padded through from the main operating area. Handing over the treatment request form which listed sixteen areas which required separate films, he watched as the technician’s eyebrows rose almost vertically. My God, Kenny, what happened to this guy? He looks as though he’s been hit by a train.

That’s Charlie Watson, that is. He got caught up in a bit of a counter demonstration when him and his mob started winding through Drumchapel, chanting ‘nig-nogs out’, or something like that. Some of the locals decided that they had heard enough, got tooled up and went for him and his bunch of heavies. Seems like they took them by surprise. There are no other casualties besides him and his buddies. There are another four in here, fifteen down the road at the Western, and five more at the clinic up by the City Hall. The police are queueing up to ask him and his friends lots of questions, but I dinna’ suppose they’ll get many answers, This bunch never talk to the fuzz, they get their own back in their own time, vicious bag of scum, the lot of them.

The technician wheeled the prone form through to where the glinting machinery stood, and prepared his patient to be x-rayed for all the shots required by the medical men. He was engrossed in positioning the body for the twelfth shot of the series, when a groan escaped the lips of the body on the trolley bed.

Where am I?

You’re in hospital mate, I’m the x-ray guy, and you just lie still and I’ll finish taking your photies’ real quick.

The man living in the body attempted to raise himself up, then collapsed with a groan as he lost consciousness once more. The final shots were taken with all diligence, for the technician knew that his work was vital to the recovery of the patient, ,. and even if the patient was a twenty-four carat scumbag, he got the best at the Royal, whether he liked the nurses or not.

On his return to the Emergency treatment area, he was pushed by the same porter. , As his bed was wheeled down into one of the treatment rooms, the two doctors were already inside studying the shots via the computer screen. Looks like both knees will have to be re-set, he’s got six, no, seven ribs broken, his left shoulder is dislocated, there’s that fracture to the lower jaw, the rest of the stuff around his legs and stomach are just wound dressings, but I’m a bit concerned about this depressed fracture up here on the skull. its a bit deep for us to just lift it and cap it off. We should really get a second opinion on that one. See the blood spread on the film. Someone has got to go in and fix it. You and Sally get started on the wound dressings, I’ll contact, who’s on call this evening?

Laing, its Mr. Laing, I saw him about thirty minutes ago, so he’s still around.

I’ll get him paged.

About fifteen minutes later, with both young doctors busy clamping, tying and dressing Charlie Watson’s wounds a head poked itself around the curtain, and a deep voice asked, Was there something, Doctor Armitage?

Yes Sir. We have a wee problem with this man’s skull. If you have a look at the x-ray on the computer, I’ll be over in a sec. to have a talk, and see what you think.. Five minutes later, the young resident joined the consultant who stood before the wall-mounted screen, chin in hand, See what I mean Sir, its more than just a depressed fracture, but there’s not the damage behind which should be there.

Well, there’s the blood, but, as you say, it should be more widely spread than the bit that’s showing right now. Has this man’s relatives been informed?

No, sir, we have spent all our time setting right the various bits and pieces. But do you not recognise him, Mr. Laing?

The face is a little distorted with all that patchwork and bandaging to help camouflage it, is he someone that I should know of?

That’s Charlie Watson; you know, the English leader of that Fascist mob, the Blackshirt Revival bunch. He went head to head with a mob from Drumchapel, and came off second best.

"Hmmm, well, makes no odds, we’ll have to go in and find out why he’s not bleeding in the right place. Bit of a waste of our resources, but I suppose if we let it go, and he popped his clogs a week later, we’d never hear the end of it. Call the theatre level, tell them we require a full head trauma kit and we’ll go in, when, thirty minutes?

Aye, Mr. Laing, the shop is settling down a bit, and we won’t be missed.

The theatre team, warned that Laing was on his way up, had everything on top line, for Laing, as they well knew, took no prisoners, The patient had been brought up ten minutes prior to the surgeon’s arrival, his head was completely shaved, ‘not that there was a lot to take off’, as one male nurse said to his buddy, and he was already under the anaesthetic before the senior man and his young colleague arrived for their part in the evening’s activity.

Evening everyone, got him unconscious Gordon?

Sleeping like a baby, Mr. Laing. came the reply from the anaesthetist, seated round the side of the table, instead of the top, as that place would be taken by Laing and Armitage.

Okay, everyone, eyes down and look in. Pen,,,, Holes were swiftly drilled through the skull at a comfortable distance from the ugly depression, then a very flexible saw was passed through and fed back, allowing the surgeon to cut through the bone in easy stages, before finally lifting the fractured bone section of Charlie Watson’s skull away like a melon peel. Laing bent forward, and then quietly said, Dr. Armitage, your thoughts were absolutely spot on. One shard of the bone has actually pierced the brain itself, but the bleeding was stemmed by the sharpened side of the next piece to it. Good call, Doctor. these words were spoken while the surgeon was busy applying a high-frequency cauterising wand to the few bleeding points which were left after the main injury was repaired.

Think we’ll pull another x-ray, just to be on the safe side, and the portable x-ray unit was wheeled forward and aimed at the area which was under review. It was a great pity that the other injury to Charlie Watson’s skull was unnoticed by anyone, but understandable because the weapon had been a dart, it had fallen out from Charlie’s skull in the major fighting which had raged around Charlie’s march, and the bleeding caused had not been picked up during the inspection in the emergency room. That bleeding was minor, but the tiny pool of bloodit concealed a break in a nerve and synapse junction within Charlie’s brain., tThe changes resultant on this break would be vast, but they would not be noticed by anyone, least of all Charlie. The team ran smoothly on, with the bone sections ready to be replaced, the clips were set in place, and Charlie Watson would never know that his life had been saved by two Jamaicans, one Pakistani, two Scots, one Australian and one Nigerian.

A day later, Charlie’s bedside was invaded by large policemen with cynical smiles across their large, distrusting faces. Much to their disgust, Charlie declined to make a statement, press for any charges to be brought against anyone, state why he was in the area in the first place, or do any of the things that a normal person would do if beaten the way that Charlie had indeed been treated. Mr. Watson, you’re not wanting to have us take any measures at all to find the people who did this to you? asked the most senior of the policemen present.

I must have fallen rather badly, tripped or something, and the rest of my lads must have been hurt trying to rescue me, is all, officers.

You are asking us to believe that twenty-four men, mostly big hard men, got as badly battered as you bunch undoubtedly were by falling all over themselves trying to rescue you from a fall?

Lads, don’t bother yerselves. It’ll get sorted out in time, The boys will just have to be more careful in future. Ask the nurse to bring in some cold water on your way out, Inspector.

The frustrated policemen marched out of Charlie’s room, and congregated in front of the main desk in ward fifteen. Don’t think we’re gonna get another peep out of that wee piece of scum. Guvnor, came the balanced view from a detective sergeant who had seen the damage done to the rest of the Revival contingent.

I think you’re dead right; they’re gonna save it up for a return match with the Drumchapel boys. Still, as long as they keep it amongst themselves. With that jewel of wisdom, the police investigation was brought to a conclusion ‘no further action’.

A week later, Charlie was on the mend, and able to take a gentle exercise walk outside, and there he met the first of his returning band of heroes, limping up on crutches, as Charlie was himself. Harry, howsit goin’?

Getting fit again, Charlie, gettin’ fit for a return match with some friends, when you’re ready and say the word.

No, nothing right now. We are going to give them bastards the impression that they’ve beaten us, we are going to let them get real cocky; then when we are ready, we’ll come back and lay them out on slabs. This last promise was made in the coldest voice Harry had ever heard exit from his leader’s mouth, and reckoned that Charlie was changing a little, and all for the good.

Nah, get the word across that once I’m out of this bloody hospital with its Paki nurses and nigger doctors, things’ll get back to normal fast. Takes me all my time not to try and crawl away when they come round to change the damn bandages, but I have kept my mouth shut, and tell the rest of the boys the same thing; no one rocks the boat until I say so. Then when we do decide to go for it, we’ll be in the driving seat, and we’ll decide who gets put in bloody hospital.

Another three days, and Charlie was discharged. He was met outside the main entrance by a gaggle of reporters and camera men, spoke with his usual double talk which nearly broke every specimen of law within the racial calendar, but not all the way, for Charlie was undoubtedly clever, and he was considering a new plan. He said, for the cameras, The loyal citizens of Scotland will undoubtedly come to their senses some day, and realise that they are being pushed out of the spotlight by a mongrel gang of rabid wolves. Now I specifically do not refer to the immigrant populations from Bangladesh, Pakistan, India, Jamaica, Nigeria and all the other places where nearly all the inhabitants have left to come and live here, because Britain’s such a great place, I refer to the bogus asylum seekers, the ones who have been tracked into our green and pleasant land by criminals and thugs. I refer to the layabouts who won’t get a job, but just lie back on the benefits that we have to pay for. I am talking about the bunch which has been let in by our spineless government under the biggest series of scams ever perpetrated against the people of this country. I refer to the visa scams, the language school scams, the student entry scams; but when the people do come to their senses, and we come to power, things may well be different. Remember that.

His outriders drove up in a big stretch limo, and Charlie waved to the cameras, said, To my loyal fans in Drumchapel, we’ll be around, count on it, then slid inside the vehicle and it pulled away from the hospital and headed south towards Charlie’s idea of civilization, London.

Charlie’s lieutenants were spread out along the bench seats of the limousine, and as he looked at them, Charlie smiled coldly; Right, while we’ve all been havin’ a rest, I’ve been thinking. Look at us, running away down the motorway away from the bunch of bastards who ambushed us. The rest of the boys are following on behind by train, but I know, we were out-thought and out-numbered, and that’s the last time any of that is gonna’ happen to any of us. We are goin’ to get a new way of doing things. We’re gonna’ be smarter than the rest, we are gonna’ be nationwide, we are not gonna’ be known as that bunch of Fascists, we have to er, what’s the word, erm, develop, that’s it; develop a set of beliefs that will go down well on the telly. The things what people see, the paintwork, the shell, that’s what’s goin’ to change. its gonna cost money, but cash has never been a problem as far as we’re concerned. The hard stuff will still go on, but we are going respectable, whoever was doin’ the hammering wasn’t us mate! The punters have come to bloody expect us to get stuck in; because that’s what we’re famous for. Well, it stops right now. Ideas, boys, that’s what I want to hear, bloody ideas.

There was silence in the big car’s interior, while the more inarticulate members of Charlie’s little coven got to grips with the message from on high. Harry finally coughed nervously, and asked, Who’s goin’ to do this, like, developing the beliefs lark, Charlie? I got two GCSE’s before the school kicked me out, and one was for bleeding metalwork. Carl here can’t even write his name; be reasonable, Charlie, who do you think is goin’ to sit down and help us look respectable?

I know who you are, and I know what you can do. That’s not what I asked. I want ideas, things to do to get us a bigger and better place on the political ladder.

The aforementioned Carl put his finger up, slowly. Why don’t we have a talk with Colin Gentry?

Now that’s what I call cooking. See, if Carl can think up an idea like that, we all can. Gentry, what a smashing notion. As all of Charlie’s junior crew had at least heard of the famous, or rather infamous Colin Gentry, and his loud and often condemned denunciation of the Holocaust Myth, as he called the Jewish Genocide, he was certainly a figure that would deserve at least exploring for political ideas which could be distilled from the flow which was regularly heard on late night TV