comfortable kitchen and Travers put the kettle on. Baker placed the briefcase on the table. “There it is.”
“Fascinating.” Travers examined the Kriegsmarine insignia on the case, then glanced up. “May I?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Travers opened the case. He examined the letters quickly. “These must be keepsakes, dated at various times in nineteen forty-three and -four. All from his wife from the looks of things.” He turned to the photos. “Knight’s Cross holder? Must have been quite a boy.” He looked at the photos of the woman and the two little girls and read the handwritten paragraph on the back of one of them. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?” Baker asked.
“It reads, ‘my dear wife Lottie and my daughters, Ilse and Marie, killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg, August the eighth, nineteen forty-four.’ ”
“Dear God!” Baker said.
“I can check up on him easily enough. I have a book listing all holders of the Knight’s Cross. It was the Germans’ highest award for valor. You make the coffee and I’ll get it.”
Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the icebox, had just finished when Travers returned with the book in question. He sat down opposite Baker and reached for his coffee.
“Here we are, Paul Friemel, Korvettenkapitän, joined the German Navy as an officer cadet after two years studying medicine at Heidelberg.” Travers nodded. “Outstanding record in U-boats. Knight’s Cross in July forty-four for sinking an Italian cruiser. They were on our side by then, of course. After that he was assigned to shore duties at Kiel.” He made a face. “Oh dear, mystery piles on mystery. It says here he was killed in a bombing raid on Kiel in April, nineteen forty-five.”
“Like hell he was,” Baker said.
“Exactly.” Travers opened the diary and glanced at the first page. “Beautiful handwriting and perfectly legible.” He riffled the pages. “Some of the entries are quite short. Can’t be more than thirty pages at the most.”
“Your German is fluent as I recall,” Baker said.
“Like a native, old boy; my maternal grandmother was from Munich. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, an instant translation into my word processor. Should take no more than an hour and a half. You get yourself some breakfast. Ham and eggs in the refrigerator, sorry, icebox to you, bread bin over there. Join me in the study when you’re ready.”
He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers’ copy of that morning’s London
Times
while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study.
Travers sat at the word processor, watching the screen, his fingers rippling over the keyboard, the diary open and standing on a small lectern on his right-hand side. There was a curiously intent look on his face.
Baker said cheerfully, “How’s it going?”
“Not now, old boy, please.”
Baker shrugged, sat by the fire and picked up a magazine. It was quiet, only the sound of the word processor except when Travers suddenly said, “My God!” and then a few minutes after that, “No, I can’t believe it.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is it, Garth?” Baker demanded.
“In a minute, old boy, almost through.”
Baker sat there on tenterhooks, and after a while Travers sat back with a sigh. “Finished. I’ll run it through the copier.”
“Does it have anything interesting to say?”
“Interesting?” Travers laughed harshly. “That’s putting it mildly. First of all I must make the point that it isn’t the official ship’s log; it’s essentially a private account of the peculiar circumstances surrounding his final voyage. Maybe he was trying to cover himself in some way, who knows, but it’s pretty sensational. The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”
“What on earth do you
“Fascinating.” Travers examined the Kriegsmarine insignia on the case, then glanced up. “May I?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Travers opened the case. He examined the letters quickly. “These must be keepsakes, dated at various times in nineteen forty-three and -four. All from his wife from the looks of things.” He turned to the photos. “Knight’s Cross holder? Must have been quite a boy.” He looked at the photos of the woman and the two little girls and read the handwritten paragraph on the back of one of them. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?” Baker asked.
“It reads, ‘my dear wife Lottie and my daughters, Ilse and Marie, killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg, August the eighth, nineteen forty-four.’ ”
“Dear God!” Baker said.
“I can check up on him easily enough. I have a book listing all holders of the Knight’s Cross. It was the Germans’ highest award for valor. You make the coffee and I’ll get it.”
Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the icebox, had just finished when Travers returned with the book in question. He sat down opposite Baker and reached for his coffee.
“Here we are, Paul Friemel, Korvettenkapitän, joined the German Navy as an officer cadet after two years studying medicine at Heidelberg.” Travers nodded. “Outstanding record in U-boats. Knight’s Cross in July forty-four for sinking an Italian cruiser. They were on our side by then, of course. After that he was assigned to shore duties at Kiel.” He made a face. “Oh dear, mystery piles on mystery. It says here he was killed in a bombing raid on Kiel in April, nineteen forty-five.”
“Like hell he was,” Baker said.
“Exactly.” Travers opened the diary and glanced at the first page. “Beautiful handwriting and perfectly legible.” He riffled the pages. “Some of the entries are quite short. Can’t be more than thirty pages at the most.”
“Your German is fluent as I recall,” Baker said.
“Like a native, old boy; my maternal grandmother was from Munich. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, an instant translation into my word processor. Should take no more than an hour and a half. You get yourself some breakfast. Ham and eggs in the refrigerator, sorry, icebox to you, bread bin over there. Join me in the study when you’re ready.”
He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers’ copy of that morning’s London
Times
while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study.
Travers sat at the word processor, watching the screen, his fingers rippling over the keyboard, the diary open and standing on a small lectern on his right-hand side. There was a curiously intent look on his face.
Baker said cheerfully, “How’s it going?”
“Not now, old boy, please.”
Baker shrugged, sat by the fire and picked up a magazine. It was quiet, only the sound of the word processor except when Travers suddenly said, “My God!” and then a few minutes after that, “No, I can’t believe it.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is it, Garth?” Baker demanded.
“In a minute, old boy, almost through.”
Baker sat there on tenterhooks, and after a while Travers sat back with a sigh. “Finished. I’ll run it through the copier.”
“Does it have anything interesting to say?”
“Interesting?” Travers laughed harshly. “That’s putting it mildly. First of all I must make the point that it isn’t the official ship’s log; it’s essentially a private account of the peculiar circumstances surrounding his final voyage. Maybe he was trying to cover himself in some way, who knows, but it’s pretty sensational. The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”
“What on earth do you
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