The Odessa File

‘First names?’

‘Rolf Gunther, sir.’

‘Do you have any identification on you?’

Miller looked nonplussed.

‘Only my driving licence.’

‘Let me see it, please.’

The lawyer, for that was his profession, stretched out a hand, forcing Miller to rise from his seat and place the driving licence in the outstretched palm. The man took it, flicked it open and digested the details inside. He glanced over it at Miller, comparing the photograph and the face. They matched.

‘What is your date of birth?’ he snapped suddenly.

‘My birthday? Oh … er … 18th June, sir.’

‘The year, Kolb.’

‘Nineteen-twenty-five, sir.’

The lawyer considered the driving licence for another few minutes.

‘Wait here,’ he said suddenly, got up and left.

He left the room, traversed the house and entered the rear portion of it, an area that served as his lawyer’s practice and was reached by clients from a street at the back. He went straight into the office and opened the wall safe. From it he took a thick book and thumbed through it.

By chance he knew the name of Joachim Eberhardt, but had never met the man. He was not completely certain of Eberhardt’s last rank in the SS. The book confirmed the letter. Joachim Eberhardt, promoted colonel of the Waffen-SS on January 10th, 1945. He flicked over several more pages and checked against Kolb. There were seven such names, but only one Rolf Gunther. Staff sergeant as from April 1945. Date of birth 18.6.25. He closed the book, replaced it and locked the safe. Then he returned through the house to the sitting room. His guest was still sitting awkwardly on the upright chair.

He settled himself again.

‘It may not be possible for me to help you, you realise that, don’t you?’

Miller bit his lip and nodded.

‘I’ve nowhere else to go, sir. I went to Herr Eberhardt for help when they started looking for me, and he gave me the letter and suggested I come to you. He said if you couldn’t help me no one could.’

The lawyer leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling.

‘I wonder why he didn’t ring me, if he wanted to talk to me,’ he mused. Then evidently he waited for an answer.

‘Maybe he didn’t want to use the phone … on a matter like this,’ he suggested hopefully.

The lawyer shot him a scornful look.

‘It’s possible,’ he said shortly. ‘You’d better tell me how you got into this mess in the first place.’

‘Oh, yes, well, sir. I mean I was recognised by this man, and then they said they were coming to arrest me. So I got out, didn’t I? I mean I had to.’

The lawyer sighed.

‘Start at the beginning,’ he said wearily. ‘Who recognised you, and as what?’

Miller drew a deep breath.

‘Well, sir, I was in Bremen. I live there, and I work … well, I worked until this happened … for Herr Eberhardt. In the bakery. Well I was walking in the street one day about four months back, and I came over very queer. I felt terribly ill, with stomach pains. Anyway, I must have passed out. I fainted on the pavement. So they took me away to hospital.’

‘Which hospital?’