‘In hell, I hope. But that is just wishful thinking. I did hear a rumour that she is in Russian hands and even that she may be put on trial. If that is the case, I will weep no tears for her. I have never been a vengeful person, Lieutenant Heck, but in the case of Miriam Berenbaum, I hope she gets her just deserts.’ Her eyes closed, her mouth tightened as she thought back to the horrors of the past. ‘Two of my closest friends, one a nurse, one a doctor, died because of Miriam Berenbaum, or Rabinowitz, or whatever her true name is.’

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

With the help of the driver who was at the aerodrome to collect Wilde, they found a small hotel in the southern suburbs of Nuremberg. The drive through the ruins of the city – ninety per cent of the buildings had been destroyed – was poignant for Wilde. He knew of its magnificent place in history. This was the birthplace of Albrecht Dürer and Johann Pachelbel, the site of the Reformation and the German Renaissance. Perhaps the most German of the country’s great cities. All brought to dust and ruin. It was said that the corpses of thirty thousand men, women and children were still unrecovered from beneath the rubble.

However grotesque Nuremberg’s recent history as the place where Hitler staged his menacing rallies, it was still a sad scene, especially for a historian.

Now at the modest little pension, Wilde stood beside the Russian at the front desk while he was checked in. The manageress, dressed in local costume, looked at them both with obvious suspicion, but she was clever enough to realise who was the victor and who the vanquished, and offered Borisov her best room. Her obsequious manner did not fool Wilde for a minute. This woman had been a paid-up Nazi and was not happy about the result of the war. The thought of having a Russian guest made her sick to the stomach.

Wilde accompanied him up to the allotted room, which was basic but clean. ‘Just stay here, Mr Borisov,’ he said, stressing the new name. ‘I’ll make contact with you as soon as I hear from Eaton.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Well, you’re a free man, but there may be those who recognise you.’

Wilde took his leave and the GI driver conveyed him through the ruins to the Grand Hotel near the Palace of Justice. This hotel – once the hang-out of Hitler and his gang during the Nuremberg rallies – had been damaged in the massive bombing campaign, but enough was still intact to provide comfortable lodging for the influx of lawyers, military men and journalists gathering ahead of the trials. It was still overly ornate with ugly, heavy German furniture, but importantly it had a cocktail bar.