The Odessa File

Miller went back to the hotel to ring Cologne Airport and book a flight to London for the following day, Tuesday, December 31st. As he reached the reception desk the girl behind the counter smiled brightly and pointed to the open seating area in the bay window overlooking the Rhine.

‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Herr Miller.’

He glanced towards the groups of tapestry-backed chairs set round various tables in the window alcove. In one of them a middle-aged man in a black winter coat, carrying a black Homburg and a rolled umbrella, sat waiting. He strolled over, puzzled as to who could have known he was there.

‘You wanted to see me?’ Miller asked him. The man sprang to his feet.

‘Herr Miller?’

‘Yes.’

‘Herr Peter Miller?’

‘Yes.’

The man inclined his head in the short, jerky bow of old-fashioned Germans.

‘My name is Schmidt. Dr Schmidt.’

‘What can I do for you?’

Dr Schmidt smiled deprecatingly and gazed out of the windows where the black bleak mass of the Rhine flowed under the fairy lights of the deserted terrace.

‘I am told you are a journalist. Yes? A freelance journalist. A very good one.’ He smiled brightly. ‘You have a reputation for being very thorough, very tenacious.’

Miller remained silent, waiting for him to get to the point.

‘Some friends of mine heard you are presently engaged on an inquiry into events that happened … well, let us say … a long time ago. A very long time ago.’

Miller stiffened and his mind raced, trying to work out who the ‘friends’ were and who could have told them. Then he realised he had been asking questions about Roschmann all over the country.

‘An inquiry about a certain Eduard Roschmann,’ and he said tersely, ‘So?’

‘Ah yes, about Captain Roschmann. I just thought I might be able to help you.’ The man swivelled his eyes back from the river and fixed them kindly on Miller. ‘Captain Roschmann is dead.’

‘Indeed?’ said Miller. ‘I didn’t know.’

Dr Schmidt seemed delighted.

‘Of course not. There’s no reason why you should. But it is true nevertheless. Really, you are wasting your time.’

Miller looked disappointed.

‘Can you tell me when he died?’ he asked the doctor.

‘You have not discovered the circumstances of his death?’ the man asked.

‘No. The last trace of him I can find was in early April 1945. He was seen alive then.’

‘Ah yes, of course.’ Dr Schmidt seemed happy to oblige. ‘He was killed, you know, shortly after that. He returned to his native Austria and was killed fighting against the Americans in early 1945. His body was identified by several people who had known him in life.’

‘He must have been a remarkable man,’ said Miller.

Dr Schmidt nodded in agreement. ‘Well, yes, some thought so. Yes indeed, some of us thought so.’

‘I mean,’ continued Miller, as if the interruption had not occurred, ‘he must have been remarkable to be the first man since Jesus Christ to have risen from the dead. He was captured alive by the British on December 20th, 1947, at Graz in Austria.’

The doctor’s eyes reflected the glittering snow along the balustrade outside the window.