Letting it go

knew who it was as soon as he saw the little figure in the distance between the slender boughs of the palm trees that leaned lazily across his field of view. He watched him as he turned off the dirt-track that twisted its way across the dry cactus-sprinkled scrub-land to walk up the rocky path towards his house. It was the way the man walked that gave him away: the purposefulness, the tightness of the gait, the disregard for the hazards of the bleached dusty stones that made up the path's surface. Henry had always imagined that he would be younger, somehow.

An earnest young academic from some Polish university, dripping with anger and self-righteousness. This man wasn't all that much younger than himself - twenty years his junior, perhaps, a pale-skinned European in his mid-sixties, perversely dressed for the merciless heat of Thailand in a neat dark grey business suit, his figure long and gaunt, his silvering black hair thinning to near baldness beneath the little circular brown yarmulke that clung precariously to the top of his head. In his right hand he clutched a well-made black leather briefcase, held rigid against the rhythm of his long regular strides, like a precious icon carried in a religious procession.

Now that this moment had arrived, the moment he had imagined so many times, dreamed about so often, it seemed almost an anticlimax. Henry was surprised at how little he felt. Just a dull resignation, and a sadness. He had hoped that he might have been permitted to leave the theatre before the final act, but now he could see that it was not to be, and he knew that it was an indulgence he had no right to expect. In a way it pleased him that the issues were going to be addressed. Not put right of course, that lay far beyond his gift. No atonement was possible. All that he had to offer in reparation for his crimes was his miserable eighty-five-year-old life, a trinket so insignificant in the face of what he had done that its forfeiture would be almost a further affront to his victims. But at least the matter was going to be tidied up. That was better than nothing.

The man had reached the foot of the wooden steps leading up to Henry's veranda. He stood there for a few moments without speaking, staring into Henry's face with cold grey eyes that betrayed absolutely no emotion. It was Henry who broke the silence. "Why don't you come up? Take a chair?" he entreated politely.

The man climbed the three steps and lowered himself stiffly into the more scuffed of Henry's two wicker armchairs. Still staring blankly at the older man, he paused almost a full minute before he said anything.

"Do you know why I have come here?" he said at last in a voice that was as flat and emotionless as his stare. Henry noticed that he had an American accent. He felt a momentary crazy impulse to make a joke, to answer something like: You've come to read the water-meter. Or: You've come to read the gas-meter. That would be better! Oh yes, the gas meter: that would be suitably sick! But he didn't say anything. Instead he merely nodded.

Before he said anything else the newcomer opened his briefcase and carefully withdrew several neatly labelled manila folders, which he placed on the cracked glass top of Henry's coffee-table. "My name is Saul Abrams," he said quietly, "and you are Dr. Wolfgang Heinrich Muller. Or do you intend to deny that?"

Henry exhaled heavily and felt his shoulders drop. "Wolfgang," he mumbled abstractly, "yes, I knew him once. It was a very long time ago..."

The newcomer showed a trace of emotion at last. He spat out the question: "Do you deny that you are Wolfgang Heinrich Muller, a former Major in the SS at the Experimental Medical Facility at Treblenka?"

He paused so long that Abrams was on the point of repeating the question. "'Major' was an honorary rank," he said at last, "I only held that rank for the last few months of the war."

"So... It was you..." the man with the manila folders whispered, "It really was you....." He said it in the tone of someone who had waited for this moment almost as long as Henry himself had waited. He said it as though he hardly dared allow himself to believe that it had actually happened. "It was you," he repeated, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

Henry shrugged. "Well, Wolfgang was a clever ambitious young man in his twenties with a straight back and strong arms, and bright eyes..... and a lot of bad ideas in his head. And that young man grew into me. I wouldn't even recognise him now. I wouldn't know him if I bumped into him in the street. I don't remember a great deal about him. But despite all that, it is true that I am the man that he became. What do you want me to do? Should I cut my wrists? Will that make it all right?"

"No, Dr. Muller. That will not make it all right."

"I didn't think it would. I'm going to pour myself a drink, Mr. Abrams. Do you want one?" The other shook his head. "It won't be laced with poison, by the way," the old doctor added, "I'm not a great one for dramatic gestures."

He made his way to the modest cocktail cabinet and poured a generous quantity of brandy into a glass. Then he sat down again, nursing it on his knee. Abrams had taken a document from one of the manila folders and was holding it stiffly before him, but he was still looking at Henry. "Do you remember the total number of people who passed through the facility at Treblenka during the years 1944 and 1945?" he asked in a tone that was almost conversational.

Henry shook his head. "It's a long time ago, Mr. Abrams. A very long time ago."

"We have estimated about seven hundred and fifty. Does that sound to you like the right kind of figure?"

"If you say so." Henry's voice had become very quiet and his eyes, almost unblinking, were fixed on those of his guest.

"It's the best estimate we have been able to arrive at. And of those seven hundred and fifty people, or thereabouts, all ages, both sexes...... how many, would you like to estimate, are still surviving at this time?"

Henry shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Six, Dr. Muller. Just six, that we know of. Five women and one man." Abrams handed Henry the document that he had been holding. "These are signed and sworn statements from each of the six. You will notice that they have been translated into English. If you prefer I can let you see them in German or in the original Polish. Would you prefer one of those other languages?"

"It makes no difference," he said almost inaudibly, "I am acquainted with all of those languages. Although my Polish may be a little rusty." He fumbled around in his inside pocket to find his reading glasses and put them on. Such a cosy little scene, he thought to himself. For all the world like two old friends seated on the veranda, one showing his holiday snapshots to the other. How very civilised it all was.

"The allegations contained in these statements," Abrams continued in that same impenetrable monotone, "are of two kinds. There are specific allegations against you, and descriptions of the regime that these people witnessed at the Treblenka facility. The witnesses describe experiments in which human subjects were deliberately infected with life-threatening diseases, including typhoid fever, syphilis and hepatitis, and then used as guinea-pigs for the testing of novel drugs and treatment regimes. They allege that the percentage of subjects who survived these experiments was of the order of two or three per cent. Three of the women witnesses have also made allegations against you personally of repeated sexual assault. Are these allegations true, Dr. Muller?"

"Would it make any difference if I said no?"

"Not a great deal." He put the piece of paper down on the table and Henry picked it up and held it carefully, moving it in and out in front of his face to find the best distance.

Abrams watched him read the first sheet, turn the page, watched his head nod very slightly as he hurried to the end. "I suppose you want me to sign this?"