My Name is Eva(27)
After a tedious morning of report reading, with no exciting conclusions to be drawn, Evelyn was glad to be outside, even though she could hear the drone of traffic and the occasional screech of a motorbike above the cooing of the pigeons gathering near her feet. But there was freshly mown grass, there were bright red geraniums and blue salvias planted in rows, heads up to the sun, just like her, and this quiet little square did not appear to have been discovered by any of her colleagues, nor was it a haunt for comatose tramps at this time of day.
She had just started to glance at the paper and taken the first bite of her sandwich when she read his name. It jumped right out of the columns of print, slapping her across the face. At first she wasn’t too sure it was him, so she scanned the lists a line at a time. The bread felt like wet cardboard in her mouth and she struggled to swallow. And there it was, right there in the list of Birthday Honours, the name she could never forget: Stephen Robinson. It had been bad enough when he had been awarded an OBE a couple of years back, but for him to receive another distinction was simply too much. Order of Merit indeed. He must be swelling with pride and primping his prissy little moustache. ‘Awarded for merit,’ it said. Merit indeed. What merit was there in his brand of inhumane treatment?
Over the years, since leaving Bad Nenndorf under the cover of her phantom pregnancy, she had followed his career as best she could, but most of the time he had been abroad, where she could well imagine he had exercised his particular talents for extracting information. He’d been in Kenya in the 1950s, then Egypt and Aden, as far as she could tell. She’d often thought that their paths must eventually cross, at one or other official event, but he spent so little time in London and she’d never once seen him since the day she had left the interrogation centre under a cloud.
Evelyn forced herself to swallow her mouthful, then returned her now unappetising sandwich to its paper bag. Sometimes I almost forget, she thought, and then it all comes back again to taunt me, like a nasty buzzing fly that can’t be swatted. Hugh should be the one getting the honours, not men like Robinson. They should be giving them to genuine heroes, men who’ve shown humanity and courage, not heartless cowards who hide behind stiff authority and punishment.
She turned the page, hoping to find some good news to give her hope that there was still sense in the world, but to her horror there was another bleak story to make her feel that decent honourable men would never receive the recognition they deserved. Karl-Friedrich H?cker, sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment at the Frankfurt Auschwitz trial in 1965, for aiding and abetting a thousand murders in that terrible place, had been freed. ‘He’s only served five years,’ she muttered aloud, almost choking with rage. Five years for his dreadful crime, him and others like him. It’s just not right.
At the time of the Frankfurt trials she had been relieved that more war criminals had been traced and sentenced, even though in her opinion, and that of many other righteous people, the sentences were far too lenient for the terrible crimes they had committed. But at least they’ve been named, she’d thought. At least everyone will know what they did. And how can they ever lead a normal life again once they’ve been singled out as monsters? But she’d read and heard, one by one, that normal life was still theirs to claim. That monstrous dentist, Willi Schatz, didn’t even go to prison, she’d thought, fuming. He was arrested at his private practice in Hanover and they tried him, but couldn’t make the charge of selecting prisoners stick. And Dr Franz Lucas, convicted for gas chamber selection, only served just over three years. These sentences are nothing for what they did.
Evelyn sat with the folded newspaper and her wrapped sandwich on her lap. She had no appetite now. She couldn’t eat after reading this terrible news, reminding her that she had never been able to make amends, taunting her with the thought that whatever she had done to live well and do good could never atone for the evil that had been perpetrated. We had such hopes of Nuremberg, she thought, having followed the trial closely. Such great hopes. But was the task simply too great? There were nearly four thousand cases, but most were dropped and fewer than five hundred went to trial. Of those, about two hundred were executed and nearly three hundred received life sentences, but a few years later, nearly all of them had been released. How could that be fair?
She stood up and brushed down her skirt, although no crumbs from the barely touched sandwich had fallen on her crisp, striped shirtdress, then began slowly to walk across the little park. She felt so sick, so disheartened, but then she remembered the face of the distressed prisoner who had pleaded for her help. Pull yourself together, Evelyn. You must try harder, she told herself, you must find a way. You might not be able to deal with the Germans, but he will return to London. He is nearby. He may be only one of many who do not deserve to live, but he is the one you can deal with. You must find out more about him. Where does he go, what does he do in his spare time? Does he like music, theatre or opera? You’ll have your chance one day if you really try.
She came to a halt by the park waste bin and was about to throw her sandwich away, but then she stopped. She tore the offending pages from the newspaper, folded them and tucked them into her handbag. Then she emptied the paper bag onto the grass and a pigeon stepped forward and began pecking at the bread.
You don’t need it, she thought. You can manage with an extra couple of Rich Tea this afternoon when the tea trolley comes round. She bent down to pick up a crisp packet that had been dropped on the path and popped it in the bin with her sandwich bag, then she lifted her head and walked briskly back to the office.