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Authors: John Lawton
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simple coppers – I don’t think there’s such a thing as a simple detective.’
Siebert shrugged a little – the nervousness of his smile broadened into a grin.
‘I suppose I should be flattered. But tell me . . . it’s almost two in the morning. You have waited up in anticipation. Knowing it or not you were waiting for me and we are neither
of us destined for an early night or even an early morn, so tell me . . . what are you are plans?’
Rod knew he’d never be able to shake this bloke off. He even thought that the man might be telling the truth – that he was here to protect him, and if he was . . . why not take
advantage of the fact?
‘I was thinking that perhaps I should be in the Jewish quarter, across the canal. I think I’ll just roll up the map and get in a cab.’
‘Not tonight you won’t. There’s such a thing as cabman’s instinct. I doubt you’ll find a cab on the streets tonight for love nor money. They’re all staying
home. However . . . I have my car outside, or I should say I have a car, my own does not have Polizei written on each door . . . but tonight will hardly be a night when discretion pays. Shall we
go?’
Outside in the Kärtnerstrasse Siebert led the way to a big, black Opel Super Six. Rod slipped in next to him. It was old and smelly and the springs in the seat were shot, and it was deathly
cold.
‘I found it in the car pool,’ Siebert said, almost by way of apology. ‘Regret to say the heater does not work, but we’ll be fine.’
Rod did not think they’d be fine. It was a clear starlit night. They’d probably freeze to death.
§ 27
They crossed over the Danube Canal at the Franzens Bridge. Siebert had been right to choose a marked police car. The bridge was packed with SA men marching into Leopoldstadt by
burning torchlight, all brown shirts and black boots – so many Rod began to wonder if fascism hadn’t been started by an enterprising bloke in the clothing trade to shift several million
rolls of brown cloth. Faces flickering in the fractured light, half-glimpsed as though half-formed, hiding in the half-darkness. A few banged on the roof of the car – most thought better of
getting in the way of the police.
‘It’s bigger than I thought,’ Siebert said. ‘There’ll be some dead Jews by morning.’
Rod found his matter-of-factness alarming. But, then, coppers could be like that, and whilst he had refuted the notion that Siebert and his little brother might have a common bond in being
coppers, he had seen just the same near-amoral detachment in Frederick Troy. Not a blasé acceptance that such things happen, or that they cannot be prevented, but an apartness, a degree or
more of separation, a distinct lack of ‘there but for the grace of God . . .’
Siebert swung the car into a side street only a hundred yards or so past the bridge. Pulled up outside a small, brightly lit café – Bordoni Fratelli.
‘We’ll be alright here. They’re open all night, and only an illiterate would think it was a Jewish-run place.’
Rod thought it highly likely that the average Brownshirt – if anything like the ones he’d come across in Berlin – probably was close to illiterate. Instead, he said, ‘Why
do we need to be anywhere off the street? That’s where the action will be.’
Siebert pushed the glass door open and Rod followed. A man in a stiff off-white apron waved at him from behind the counter as though to a regular customer.
‘I mean . . . we have only to follow one of these gangs of –’
‘Trust me . . . you want action, you will get action.’
Rod was troubled by the simple truth buried in the statement.
‘Of course I don’t want action. I just –’
‘You just want to be there if . . .’
‘If what?’
‘Whatever. You want to see Jews beaten up? You will. You want to see shops looted in the name of politics? You will. Cheap thuggery dressed up as moral force? You will.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Giuseppe . . . an
Siebert shrugged a little – the nervousness of his smile broadened into a grin.
‘I suppose I should be flattered. But tell me . . . it’s almost two in the morning. You have waited up in anticipation. Knowing it or not you were waiting for me and we are neither
of us destined for an early night or even an early morn, so tell me . . . what are you are plans?’
Rod knew he’d never be able to shake this bloke off. He even thought that the man might be telling the truth – that he was here to protect him, and if he was . . . why not take
advantage of the fact?
‘I was thinking that perhaps I should be in the Jewish quarter, across the canal. I think I’ll just roll up the map and get in a cab.’
‘Not tonight you won’t. There’s such a thing as cabman’s instinct. I doubt you’ll find a cab on the streets tonight for love nor money. They’re all staying
home. However . . . I have my car outside, or I should say I have a car, my own does not have Polizei written on each door . . . but tonight will hardly be a night when discretion pays. Shall we
go?’
Outside in the Kärtnerstrasse Siebert led the way to a big, black Opel Super Six. Rod slipped in next to him. It was old and smelly and the springs in the seat were shot, and it was deathly
cold.
‘I found it in the car pool,’ Siebert said, almost by way of apology. ‘Regret to say the heater does not work, but we’ll be fine.’
Rod did not think they’d be fine. It was a clear starlit night. They’d probably freeze to death.
§ 27
They crossed over the Danube Canal at the Franzens Bridge. Siebert had been right to choose a marked police car. The bridge was packed with SA men marching into Leopoldstadt by
burning torchlight, all brown shirts and black boots – so many Rod began to wonder if fascism hadn’t been started by an enterprising bloke in the clothing trade to shift several million
rolls of brown cloth. Faces flickering in the fractured light, half-glimpsed as though half-formed, hiding in the half-darkness. A few banged on the roof of the car – most thought better of
getting in the way of the police.
‘It’s bigger than I thought,’ Siebert said. ‘There’ll be some dead Jews by morning.’
Rod found his matter-of-factness alarming. But, then, coppers could be like that, and whilst he had refuted the notion that Siebert and his little brother might have a common bond in being
coppers, he had seen just the same near-amoral detachment in Frederick Troy. Not a blasé acceptance that such things happen, or that they cannot be prevented, but an apartness, a degree or
more of separation, a distinct lack of ‘there but for the grace of God . . .’
Siebert swung the car into a side street only a hundred yards or so past the bridge. Pulled up outside a small, brightly lit café – Bordoni Fratelli.
‘We’ll be alright here. They’re open all night, and only an illiterate would think it was a Jewish-run place.’
Rod thought it highly likely that the average Brownshirt – if anything like the ones he’d come across in Berlin – probably was close to illiterate. Instead, he said, ‘Why
do we need to be anywhere off the street? That’s where the action will be.’
Siebert pushed the glass door open and Rod followed. A man in a stiff off-white apron waved at him from behind the counter as though to a regular customer.
‘I mean . . . we have only to follow one of these gangs of –’
‘Trust me . . . you want action, you will get action.’
Rod was troubled by the simple truth buried in the statement.
‘Of course I don’t want action. I just –’
‘You just want to be there if . . .’
‘If what?’
‘Whatever. You want to see Jews beaten up? You will. You want to see shops looted in the name of politics? You will. Cheap thuggery dressed up as moral force? You will.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Giuseppe . . . an
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