The Odessa File

‘No we don’t.’

‘Is there in Germany at all a newspaper-cuttings reference library that is open to an inquiry by a member of the public?’

‘No. The only newspaper-cutting libraries in the country are compiled and held by the various newspapers and magazines. The most comprehensive is reputed to be that of Der Spiegel magazine. After that, Komet has a very good one.’

‘I find this rather odd,’ said Miller. ‘Where in Germany today does a citizen inquire about the progress of investigation into war crimes, and for background material on wanted SS criminals?’

The lawyer looked slightly uncomfortable.

‘I’m afraid the ordinary citizen can’t do that,’ he said.

‘All right,’ said Miller, ‘where are the archives in Germany that refer to the men of the SS?’

‘There’s one set here, in the basement,’ said the lawyer. ‘And ours is all composed of photostats. The originals of the entire card index of the SS were captured in 1945 by an American unit. At the last minute a small group of the SS stayed behind at the castle where they were stored in Bavaria and tried to burn the records. They got through about ten per cent before the American soldiers rushed in and stopped them. The rest were all mixed up. It took the Americans with some German help two years to sort out the rest.

‘During those two years a number of the worst SS men escaped after being temporarily in Allied custody. Their dossiers could not be found in the muddle. Since the final classification the entire SS-Index has remained in Berlin, still under American ownership and direction. Even we have to apply to them if we want something more. Mind you, they’re very good about it; no complaints at all about cooperation from that quarter.’

‘And that’s it?’ asked Miller. ‘Just two sets in the whole country?’

‘That’s it,’ said the lawyer. ‘I repeat I wish I could help you. Incidentally, if you should get anything on Roschmann, we’d be delighted to have it.’

Miller thought.

‘If I find anything, there are only two authorities that can do anything with it. The Attorney General’s office in Hamburg, and you. Right?’

‘Yes, that’s all,’ said the lawyer.

‘And you’re more likely to do something positive with it than Hamburg.’ Miller made it a flat statement. The lawyer gazed fixedly at the ceiling.

‘Nothing that comes here that is of real value gathers dust on a shelf,’ he observed.

‘OK. Point taken,’ said Miller and rose. ‘One thing, between ourselves, are you still looking for Eduard Roschmann?’

‘Between ourselves, yes, very much.’

‘And if he were caught, there’d be no problems about getting a conviction?’

‘None at all,’ said the lawyer. ‘The case against him is tied up solid. He’d get hard labour for life without the option.’

‘Give me your phone number,’ said Miller.

The lawyer wrote it down and handed Miller the piece of paper.

‘There’s my name and two phone numbers. Home and office. You can get me any time, day or night. If you get anything new, just call me from any phone box on direct-dial. In every state police force there are men I can call and know I’ll get action if necessary. There are others to avoid. So call me first, right?’

Miller pocketed the paper.

‘I’ll remember that,’ he said as he left.

‘Good luck,’ said the lawyer.

It’s a long drive from Stuttgart to Berlin and it took Miller most of the following day. Fortunately it was dry and crisp and the tuned Jaguar ate the miles northwards past the sprawling carpet of Frankfurt, past Kassel and Göttingen to Hanover. Here he followed the branch-off to the right from autobahn E4 to E8 and the border with East Germany.

There was an hour delay at the Marienborn checkpoint while he filled out the inevitable currency declaration forms, was issued with transit visas to travel through 110 miles of East Germany to West Berlin; and while the blue-uniformed Customs men and the green-coated People’s Police, furhatted against the cold, poked around in and under the Jaguar. The Customs man seemed torn between the frosty courtesy required of a servant of the German Democratic Republic towards a national of revanchist West Germany, and one young man’s desire to examine another’s sports car.

Twenty miles beyond the border the great motorway bridge reared up to cross the Elbe where in 1945 the British, honourably obeying the rules laid down at Yalta, had halted their advance on Berlin. To his right Miller looked down at the sprawl of Magdeburg and wondered if the old prison still stood. There was a further delay at the entry into West Berlin, where again the car was searched, his overnight case emptied on to the Customs bench and his wallet opened to see he had not given all his West marks away to the people of the workers’ paradise on his progress down the road. Eventually he was through and the Jaguar roared past the Avus circuit towards the glittering ribbon of the Kurfur-stendamm, brilliant with Christmas decorations. It was the evening of December 17th.

He decided not to go blundering into the American Document Center the same way he had the Attorney General’s office in Hamburg or the Z-Commission in Ludwigsburg. Without official backing, he had come to realise, no one got anywhere with Nazi files in Germany.