The Memories Man

Chapter One

Germany 1937

The promise of Adolf Hitler's voice immortalised by means of a recording device was the prize, and companies all over Germany had striven for the honour of being chosen. The Cologne technician had laboured for many evenings to arrive at what would be the final product, and he was not surprised when his section leader hurried in with the news that his work was to be included in the final list of equipments to be tested prior to the choice of recording devices. He had taken the early specification, which required that the recording device should ‘faithfully and comprehensively’ gather all the nuances of the voice to be recorded, and brought in an idea which would not be out of place in the solid-state devices of the present day, which was sector sampling. He had tried to explain his theories to an overworked superior, but had received the reply, “Yes, yes, do whatever you wish, the only requirement is that we win, and have the honour of recording our Fuhrer’s voice when he begins the series of hypothesis and remembrance talks which he has envisaged!” Shrugging his shoulders as he clattered down the metal staircase, Heinz Brocke determined that he would include his sampling techniques, as well as more ideas which he had been toying with, in order to present his company with the accolade of being the Fuhrer’s choice. The recording medium chosen was a special copper-chrome alloy tape, which was both incredibly thin and flexible, but also very strong and durable. The tape, a product of an alcoholic week-end spent with three other electronic technicians, when they had worked out both the composition and method of coating the tape, had proved to be the best in all the sample tests which had been carried out over an exhaustive cycle. The recording and erase heads, another innovation brought in by Heinz himself, was already being talked about as a winner in mass produced devices which could make the Company’s name in a whole new area. He had determined that the response recording would actually produce a timbre or tone which would be the actual equal of the spoken voice, and thus far superior to anything which was being produced by their competitors. Three weeks later, it was an extremely tired but jubilant Brocke who carried the finished recorder, now mounted inside a hand-made polished oak case, into the halls of the Reichs Chancellery on WilhelmStrasse. He was met at a counter by an SS officer, who barked, “This is the last to be delivered, open up please!”

Knowing little of the paranoia which was beginning to afflict all of official Germany when it came to access to Adolf Hitler, he raised an eyebrow, and simply said, “but it’s a recording device!”

“Open up speedily, or I will drop it, and you, from an extremely large height!”

“Certainly, anything for the Reich, anything.” grabbing at the small toolbox always carried in his pocket, undid all the screws and laid the interior bare upon the counter.

“Explain all the components, without exception! Treat me as though I know nothing!” Managing to keep a straight face, Heinz listed all the parts, and their function. He was aided by the fact that there were no batteries or any large objects which could be mistaken for explosives, the valves were all mounted on a raised metal bracket, and he was only too happy to explain anything in detail which the SS man queried. Finally, the officer barked, “In that room there, strip and wait!”

“But I am not detailed to demonstrate anything to the Fuhrer, Standartenfuhrer! My director will be here in an hour to have the honour of meeting our Fuhrer, not I!”

“That’s just where you are wrong, little man. We decide who gains access to the side of Adolf Hitler, if someone is not expecting to get near him, he is the one we want, not some puffed-up moron who thinks he can dine out on the story of how he amazed the Fuhrer! Now do as you are told, and strip for a search!”

Five very unpleasant minutes later, Heinz was knotting his tie after dressing, when the SS officer pushed his head through the door once more, “Right, you, pick up your bits of machinery and follow me!” Heinz grabbed his jacket, slung it on while grasping the precious oaken box with the ‘rekorder’, as they had chosen to name the device, under his arm. Scuttling after the Standartenfuhrer, he passed through large rooms with staff seated at desks or studying maps, then the advance was briefly halted while the SS officer conferred with two other SS men seated before a desk, adjacent to large double doors. After a further halt, the doors were swung open, and the SS man twitched his head for Heinz to follow him inside. Seated at an ordinary desk, wearing the plain unadorned tunic which he had adopted as his day uniform, sat the leader of Germany, Adolf Hitler. He glanced up at the SS officer’s approach, then the gaze of a magnetic pair of eyes swung over Heinz Brocke’s face and features.

Heinz managed to throw his arm out at the approved angle, while whispering in awe, “Heil Hitler!”

The dictator’s grim face softened, a wintry smile appeared on the famous features, and he arose from behind the desk, moved around and took a paralysed Heinz by the arm; “Come now, Herr Brocke, I am just a man, as you are! Surely you are not afraid of me?”

“My Fuhrer, I am not afraid, who could be afraid of you? I am just a little tense, not being accustomed to moving in rarefied circles, especially circles which include our country’s leader!”

“Come, Heinz; it is Heinz is it not?, some coffee for our technician, Standartenfuhrer. You are shaking like a water lily, you must learn to relax a little, Heinz!” The persuasive powers of the Chancellor of Germany were lent in the cause of putting Heinz at his ease, and as he sipped his coffee, the recording technician found himself telling his Fuhrer about his wife and daughter, his house on the outskirts of Cologne, his hopes for the future of his country. The SS officer, who had been standing in the shadows of the large office, moved forward, but the hand of his leader waved him back. “We have tested all the other entries for the recording device, there is just yours left. Shall we set it up on the desk, Heinz?” The technician searched for a power socket, plugged in the thin power lead, set the power switch to operate, then clicked over the ‘run’ toggle and the tape reel commenced revolving. “How do I, where is the microphone, Heinz? Where do I speak into, as it were?”

“My Fuhrer, the mike is built-in to the deck, your voice is being recorded as we speak!”

“So, what shall I say in order to test your little device, Heinz? Shall I recite from the pages of Goethe, or speak in prose the Story of Siegfried or Gotterdammerung? When your company sent in the application, it said there would be true images of my voice, shall we see if this is so?” Hitler pointed to the toggle switch, and Heinz clicked it off, then rewound the tape to the beginning, glanced at his leader for approval, then hit the ‘play’ switch. The words which came out of the little speakers set on the side of the ‘rekorder’ were an absolute representation of firstly Hitler’s words, then Heinz’s explanations, then once again the words of the Reichsfuhrer himself, and completely indistinguishable from the original.

The SS officer, up to now with a sceptical smile on his face, had that same smile wiped off as though by magic. “My Fuhrer, that is the best! We have listened to, and tested thirteen units, I swear that if I had not been watching, I would have believed it was your voice all along! It is almost real, in fact there is a certain depth to the recording which gave me a sense of listening to you in reality!”

Hitler’s approving smile was like a gust of energy straight into Heinz’s metabolism. “Herr Brocke, we will have to go through the formalities of writing to your company, but I think that you can tell your director, who is by now standing outside in the main office, that we shall be using your company’s services for the series of recordings I have envisaged. There is but one other item to cover, we would ask that you act as the recording technician for the whole time, and your services shall, of course, be remunerated at the rate laid down within your application. I want nothing for nothing, Heinz; a labourer is worthy of his hire!”

The technician packed up his equipment, and floated out of Hitler’s office as in a dream, collecting his director as he moved, while just saying, “We’ve got it! He wants us, and what is more he said it was the best!” On the way to the railway station, he was bombarded with questions by the director, who was understandably annoyed about not being in on the demonstration with the German leader, but Heinz simply said, “They chose me for security reasons; if I wasn’t expecting to see Hitler, so much the better!” The pair boarded the train, settled down for the journey to Cologne, and their return to their works and offices. In due course, the contract arrived for the use of the ‘Rekorder’ along with the services of Heinz Brocke during the recording sessions. By the time the sessions commenced, after being postponed five times in a row, it was nineteen-thirty-nine, and the pressures on Hitler’s time grew stronger, until even Heinz grew weary of the constant cancellations at short notice. But the sessions did take place, with Adolf Hitler’s voice, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a rant, but always the same magnetic, hypnotic tones recording his thoughts, dreams and plans on that special tape, through that special recorder and even more special recording techniques which Heinz had dreamt up alone. The war erupted, with calls for Hitler to be first here, then to travel there, and the session times were disrupted again and again. The hesitations at Calais, the disastrous attack against Russia, the defiant declaration of War against America, all went as history tells. The tapes and ‘Rekorder’ were stored in the Cologne offices. The entire plant of which Heinz Brocke was so proud was bombed into rubble in late 1944, Heinz himself lasted until early April 1945, when he was shot as a deserter by an Gestapo contingent who didn’t like the speed at which he responded to their call for his documents. The Third Reich ended in fire, death, butchery and blood. The desire for an archive of the Fuhrer’s thoughts and dreams was forgotten along with all the other detritus of a murderous twelve year reign of terror.

London – Present Day Highgate Village

The television was blaring about the scenes of violence surrounding a ultra right-wing party’s provocative marches through a suburb of Manchester which happened to be almost totally Asian in population, but the swing of batons and the shouts of injured demonstrators failed to hold the attention of the occupants of the flat’s living room, intent as they were on other, more personal questions. “Speak it in Twenty Sessions, that’s what we’ll call it!” the words came from the mouth of a young man as he lay on a sofa, gazing out of the window towards the High Street in Highgate Village, a very expensive suburb of London.”Talk like a native? What do you reckon, Irene?”

Irene, a slender brunette seated upright on a dining chair, slowly shook her head, “No, we don’t want to talk about natives, gives the wrong vibes out; Twenty sessions, again no; that would make them think how expensive it might be! What we must think up is something which will pull the punters in, and re-assure them at the same time!”

“Well, we must get a name for the bloody thing soon, the painters are in right now, and they will need the words for the sign writer chop-chop! Think language school for pity’s sake, Irene!”

“Well, we should go for, er, or, howzabout ‘Speakit Kwikly’?”

“That’s it! Always said if you give it to the girls, they’ll see you right! I’ll get on to the painters right now. We’ll have to register that name with Companies House, won’t we?”

“Do that right now, so we can be certain it hasn’t been claimed by anyone else,” called Irene. Clicking on the website as she spoke, she brought up the online registration pages previously saved, added the new name, and clicked it through for search and approval. Thirty seconds later, the reply came up on the screen, ‘All details confirmed, your credit card account will be debited for the full amount in Five days. Thank you!’ Irene glanced across at Peter Bennet, “All we need now is your choice of German voice tapes. We’ve got Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Portuguese and French languages ready to go, all on reel-to-reel tape, cassette and multi-DVD format, so we are just about ready. You’re going across to Cologne, when, Thursday?”

Peter hunched his shoulders, “It’s a right pain in the backside going over just before the week-end, Irene. Couldn’t you get a change of flight, or booking, or anything?”

“Pete, you know as well as I do that our beloved agent set the whole thing up, so live with it. You might meet a beautiful German maiden to help while away the week-end. Stop moaning, Pete.”

Rolling his eyes in despair, Peter Bennet accepted the inevitable, and left to catch a bus down into the centre of London to where the newly-acquired premises of the latest language school to hit the Capital were being painted, together with electricians giving their impression of working to fit out the desks with the required power and data sockets. Talking things over with the foreman painter, Peter drew the required name out on a rather grubby piece of paper, shot it across to the lead man, asking, “Can you do it in big block lettering in red on the white background?”

The foreman pushed his hat back from his forehead, studied the writing, nodded wordlessly, then waved his henchman over; spread the note out on a table top, “Paint the backing in now, give it a day to dry off, block the wording in and get Horace to do the necessary, O.K.?”

With the most important job done, Peter next asked how things were with the electricians, received the usual nod of despair followed by, “Yerr, we’re falling behind a bit, but if we work this evening, we can catch up!” Accustomed as he was to the casual blackmail common to all tradesmen in inner London, Peter simply nodded agreement, knowing that without the extra payment, he would never see completion from this particular bunch of pirates, and since they knew that he was over a barrel as regards opening on time, they knew that the money would be paid. As he conferred on the phone with Council staff who’s sole job, he was convinced, was to make things just that little more difficult then normal, he pondered the wisdom of laying down a fairly large slug of money to back a belief that his knowledge of European languages could translate into a thumping profit for Irene and himself. He mentally totted up the outlay required to start this school idea from scratch, winced a little as he once again realised that the deed was done, and they had to spend the rest of the cash because it was too late to go back again! Waving an arm at the painters in farewell, he crossed the road to the bus stop in order to hop the four stops to his next destination, the airline office where his tickets to Cologne lay. As he had already decided in his mind that he wasn’t going to enjoy the trip, his frustration communicated itself to the agent behind the desk, and his gloom deepened when he was told that ‘no, you cannot pre-book your seats, you will have to be first in line at Heathrow to do that!’ As his flight directions already called for a two hour timescale prior to actual check-in, he gloomed as he studied his itinerary and realised that he would have to lose virtually the whole day from his plans as he would be waiting around the blasted airport after travelling from his London home. He stuck the plastic wallet in his briefcase, nodded briefly to the agent, and exited the travel facility enraged at the dictatorial attitudes of the airline industry towards the people who paid their bills.

Arriving back at the flat in Highgate Village, Peter heard multiple voices as he swung up the steep staircase, and upon opening the door, saw that he and Irene were entertaining Irene’s family. Having forgotten completely about this particular, and, lets’ face it, unwelcome visit, Peter just had to smile bravely as he entered the lounge, inhabited as it was by Irene’s father, a middle-ranking civil servant who could also bore for England, Irene’s mother, a formidable person who ruled her local Conservative Association with a rod of stainless steel, and Irene’s brother, whom went by the term ‘gay’ but was actually as bent as a fish hook. Sighing inwardly, and cursing his bad memory which had not warned him of this long-standing descent by the ‘gothic hordes’ as even Irene called her kin, he strode forward, shaking Charles and Tim by the hand, and receiving the ritual air-kiss from Daphne while aiming himself by Irene, who was strategically seated by the window, ready, he mused, for a very quick exit! During the two hours which followed, Peter received the usual warning about not going into the language game from Charles, and at the same time a diatribe about why he wasn’t going into politics from Daphne, who fancied herself as a talent-spotter for the Party. As he and Irene had heard variations on both themes for the three years they had been together, nothing was new, but it served Peter as an object lesson in the simple art of ignoring someone completely while appearing to listen intently. Tim put his sixpennorth’ in as to why Peter never came to any of the parties to which they both were given constant invitations, answered of course by the simple reply of just being too busy with the start-up of the school. The evening finally arrived at the spot where Irene’s dad would invite the couple out for a spot of dinner, and a little drink, which was the signal for both Peter and Irene to realise that they were due at a reception given by the suppliers of one of their software programs for the school. Receiving the expected reply to their invitation, the parents plus son departed towards their car and the drive into Hertfordshire, leaving Irene and Peter collapsing on the carpet, clutching each other, and promising never to turn into the people who had just left!

As the night closed in, Peter, who was relaxing on the bed, and leaning up against the headboard, stroking Irene’s hair as she lay beside him, suddenly asked, “has your mother always been into, well, politics?”

Irene replied,”Ever since daddy got his promotion in the Foreign Office, she’s made sure that he’s received all the back-up and leverage possible, goes to all the right parties, knows all the right people, makes me tired; here you aren’t thinking about a life in politics....?”

Peter collapsed in giggles, “God no, the last thing I would want to do is to get tied up with the sort of people who would be interested in national or local politics. My view of anyone who is involved, all due respect to your dear mama, my love is that it’s okay for them, but not for me!! No, my sweet, I was just wondering how your Mum and Dad actually got together?”

“They actually met at some tennis dance or function. Nothing to do with politics or government, Mummy used to be quite good with a racquet, and Daddy was hauled along to this dance to make up the numbers, and they met there. Sweet really; shocking how they turned out!” The young couple suddenly became very interested in each other, and forgot all about Peter’s lack of interest in politics as they became totally absorbed in each others arms, and they slept the sleep of the innocent. Thursday morning dawned, Irene shuffled out of bed and into the bathroom, followed by a mildly hungover Peter. They kissed briefly as they passed, Peter chewing a slice of toast, and Irene demolishing a morning apple as she dressed. Work loomed, and Irene made for the door, turning back to hug Peter as she made sure that he understood that she loved only him, and would wait impatiently for the Tuesday return of her best and only boyfriend. Peter dropped down to the local newsagents, bought all the broadsheets, and strolled back for a leisurely breakfast before girding himself for the trip to Heathrow and the flight out to Germany. The morning passed in a blur as Peter immersed himself in the nightmare which was airline travel, and seven hours later, found himself decanted on to the arrivals terminal concourse at Cologne airport. He looked around, and found a large, jolly-faced man waving a sign which strangely enough said, ‘Mr. Binnit?’ deciding that was as good an invitation as any, he walked forward, announced in German that he was Peter Bennet, the greeter’s eyebrows rose as he realised that this Englander actually spoke a civilised language, and met him with a hearty handshake. Klaus Oberholzer swept Peter’s luggage up with one hand, ushering his guest before him, out through the sliding doors, and into the biggest car Peter had ever entered. The German saw Peter’s eyebrows raised at the luxury of the vehicle, murmured, “It’s a loan car, mine is in how you say, the dock?”

Both men relaxed as the chauffeur engaged the gears, and the huge VW Phaeton drifted silently down the ramp, through the switchback curves and on to the freeway heading into Cologne proper. “Did you receive the hotel listing I sent you, Herr Bennet?”

“Yes, I did, it sounds quite adequate for my needs. I gather that the whole city closes down on a Sunday, is that correct?”

“Unfortunately, yes, Herr Bennet, one of the unfortunate after-effects of a series of governmental decisions which are stifling any attempt to revive our economies. The ruling party was in a coalition with among others, a party with fairly rigid religious ethics, and for their votes on some footling bill or other, they agreed to reinforce the Sunday trading laws. So, Sunday, as some Americans say, the sidewalks fold up all day!”

“Ah well, I’ll just have to accept it, Herr Oberholzer. Not that I don’t appreciate your home town, but I was hoping to review all the prospective tapes and DVD’s in the time allowed, but Sunday will just be a dead loss!”

“Well, Herr Bennet, we have tomorrow, Friday and Saturday, then Monday, that’s three days..., is that not enough time?”

“It’s just that I have a whole heap of things to do back in London, and I just hate the thought of doing nothing for a full day, that’s all!”

The agent glanced at his travelling companion, then offered “There are always the flea-markets down by the river. They’re strictly unofficial, and there are no guarantees on what you buy, but there is supposed to be a good atmosphere, and you may pick up a, what you say; a bargain!”

After two full days of sampling and running German language training DVD’s and tapes, Peter awoke on the Sunday morning, and after a solid breakfast at the hotel, decided to take the agent’s advice, and visit one of these markets, mainly to fill some time in. As he walked, he reviewed what he had heard of the schooling selections so far, and was confident that he could wrap up the rest of the course selections by midday Monday, and grab a flight back that evening, saving himself a full day. He found himself following the directions given him by the concierge, found Lindtgasse, followed it down past the fish market and saw ahead of him the scores of temporary counters, trading shops and hundreds of German citizens all indulging in the hunt for the bargains which were alleged to be around. Peter enjoyed crowds, and this one was no different to many others, with the possible exception that, being German, there wasn’t so much laughter and noise as in other countries. He strolled along, pausing at first a stall selling varieties of stamps, next to that he found a couple selling old musical instruments. He browsed around the stalls for maybe an hour, then feeling the need, he went looking for a stall selling coffee, soft drinks and possible a seat along with the drinks. Finding one after a few minutes, he bought a coffee and the inevitable roll stuffed with sausages, dropped on to a seat by a rickety table and demolished both roll and coffee. He lit up a cigarette, sat back while just enjoying the sunshine, and gazed idly around at the stalls within his line of sight. He saw a sign, ‘Kleinigkeiten’ in Germanic gothic script, simply saying ‘Odds and Sods’ or at least the German equivalent of that very useful British expression. He levered himself to his feet, and idly wandered over to see what the German idea of a car boot sale really was. There was, in the short space around the stall, boxes, crates, old trunks and even a couple of hat boxes. Piled on the flat counter surface was the equivalent of a tidy person’s nightmare, with an old sextant lying across a set of ancient micrometers and scribing tools as a typical example. A seeker after the odd and outlandish, Peter commenced turning everything over, trying and in many cases failing, to establish what everything’s purpose was. He completed his first rough scan of the counter top, then his eye was caught by a faded label on a metal suitcase, which simply announced ‘Rekorder’. He tried to open the case up, but the lock was jammed, he tried to lift it, but it was very heavy. He turned to the stall owner, nodded at the unopened case, and asked, “What’s in here?”

The response of “Dunno,” came from the owner, who hadn’t even turned his head.

“How much do you want?”

“Ten Euros, take it or leave it!”

Scratching his head a little in awe at the fiendish business sense of the ‘Odds and Sods’ trader, he pulled his wallet out, selected a ten euro note, and handed it over. Scrutinising the note, the trader ventured into speech, “Had that for a while, still don’t know what’s in it, but you own it now! Good luck!!”

The weight of the case was such to make Peter lean over the opposite way just to balance himself while he staggered to the kerbside, waved a wandering taxi down, slid the case into the back, got in the front and asked for his hotel, while still breathing heavily from the exertion of lugging an unaccustomed load even for a short distance. Arriving at the entrance, he asked the porter to give him a hand, and the resourceful man brought out a small trolley, upon which the load was placed, and rolled in to the lobby, across into the lift and then along to Peter’s room. Once installed on the luggage rack in the room, the porter nodded his head and disappeared back towards the lobby, and Peter started to try and open the heavy locks, but after a short while decided that he needed something a little more substantial than the tiny Swiss knife on his keyring, and decided to try down in the city the next day when shops would be open. He went down for his dinner after a sleep on the bed, eat well and went back up to investigate the joys of hotel television. Monday morning saw Peter in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, and was joined by Klaus Oberholzer in time for coffee.

“Have you sorted the best of the tapes and DVD’s yet, Peter?” asked the German, polishing off the coffee.

“The only thing we’re really short of is technical German, to be honest, Klaus! You know, the type of language used in engineering offices. If an Englishman comes across to Cologne, I want him to feel comfortable in conversation with the guys he is visiting, have you got anything on the stocks which might suit the bill?”

“We have access to one group of tapes and DVD’s which might fit your requirements, but the rights to sell, or even lease, are a bit expensive; is that a problem, Peter?”

“No worries, Klaus, we just bump the basic lesson price up to meet the extra. If there is some guy who needs to learn technical German, his company is usually footing the bill, so they don’t twitch too much. Are they available?”

“The company which is marketing them is out on the road to the airport. If we go in to my office, we can sort out all the other leases and purchase requirements for the tapes and DVD’s which you have selected, and then we can drop down to the office where these tapes are, you can have a listen and make your mind up, then off to your flight and England!”

“Sounds good to, oh, Klaus, I’ve picked up a bit of extra luggage, and it will be over the flight baggage limit. I bought a blind bundle at a market stall yesterday, I haven’t been able to even open it! Suppose I’ll have to dump it!”

“Peter, don’t worry, we will ship it out to you by air freight, and then you can play with your, what you say; blind bundle. Only sometimes does your German worry me a little! You translate from the English vernacular into German and expect everyone to understand. Still, you’re better than the average Englishman, they don’t even speak English very well!”

“Come on, Klaus, let me get packed, get someone to lug this case downstairs and we’ll get away to this office of yours.” Peter Bennet left Cologne airport at two in the afternoon, saying farewell to Klaus and confident that his newly acquired case would be travelling along behind him within the fearsomely efficient grasp of Lufthansa Cargo. Three days later, Peter was wishing that he hadn’t hurried back from Germany quite so quickly. The electricians, while carving channels in a wall to accept their conduit, had discovered asbestos, the whole building was sealed off while the landlords made arrangements for specialists to clear it all away. The language school was on hold, Peter was wishing he had more hair so he could tear it out quicker and the only happy person around was Horace, the sign writer, who was able to get his work finalised without interruptions from any other trade. Irene had dragged Peter away from the shell which was the school building and threatened him with no sex at all if he didn’t relax a little. Sitting in the flat, clutching a beer, he stared glumly up at Irene, “What are we gonna’ do, love?”

“Look, sweetheart, I know that your money is tight, if you would only agree to me lending you a bit from my own...”, Irene stopped as she saw his face turn to stone.

“I will not borrow any cash from you, or your parents, and that’s flat. The stage payments are provisionally stalled, so I don’t have to pay anything more out for the work done so far. The insurance is taking the strain for the lease payments on the computer equipment and all the furniture; really there isn’t a problem with money! It’s just that I hate being stalled like this. We’re three weeks away from what should be our opening day, the adverts have all got to be changed, the guys who are going to be doing the initial interviewing and placements have all got to be placed on hold, I’ve not got half the list done and I feel like getting drunk!”

Irene was just about to say, ‘yes, let’s all get pissed’ when the front doorbell rang and Peter’s case was rolled up the stairs on a dicky little barrow with three sets of wheels. The barrow was what caught Peter’s eye, and he was rhapsodising about the design until the delivery man grinned nervously, and asked him for a signature. As Irene escorted the driver down the stairs and outside, Peter studied his big find. It was slightly larger than a big suitcase, painted a dull green, with substantial locks at three places on one side of the lid. Peter, knowing that the locks looked strong enough to defy a hammer attack, went for the opposite side, and simply filed the top off the hinge pins, placed a pin wedge against the clean edge and tapped the pin out of each hinge without breaking the paintwork. He lifted the lid back against the lock hinges, and found everything covered in an old blanket which he quickly removed. The case had been purpose built to accept the contents, with wooden separators all barriered with rubber, keeping the main items in place. Peter edged up a finely polished oak box about fifteen inches square, and about the same deep, and lifted it clear of the case. He set it down on the blanket on the carpet, searched around and found the key set on the inside of a support, clicked the lock open and lifted the lid. Opened for the first time in sixty years, Heinz Brocke’s pride and joy was revealed to the eyes of a puzzled Englishman. Irene sat down beside him, asking him what it was.

“It looks like a tape recorder, but it’s not any sort of recording device that I have ever heard of,” Peter muttered, while easing the clips away from the top of the case, “look, these are valves, this is ancient; it must have been built round about the late forties, middle fifties, somewhere around there. Transistors were starting to be used more and more, valve use fell away completely by the end of the sixties, mainly because they put out so much heat; but just look at the workmanship, the way those circuits have been put together! Look at the way this carrying box has been made, dovetail joints; every joint has been cut by hand. Somebody placed their heart and soul in hock to build this device. Wonder where the, ah; power source is European, see the pins on the plug! Let’s see what else is in this little treasure trove!” Peter pulled back the coverings on the other compartments and located twenty or so reels of tape clamped firmly within a section of the case. As he lifted out one after the other, he saw they were all labelled, ‘Archiv. AH 03-11-39, and so on until AH 07-02-44, which was the last one out of the box. The other case section held multiple spare valves, switches and other components for the main recording device, and it was so complete that Peter simply rocked back on his heels in amazement at his find. “This must be some collection of readings or books or something like that! Look at the way whoever built this thing has made sure that there won’t be any technical reasons why the recording couldn’t proceed. It’s even got a tiny back-up power supply. Look, it’s a miniature generator-set! There must have been some overwhelming reason why the recording couldn’t be delayed by technical or machine breakdowns. Wonder who owned it?”

Irene leant forward, prodding at something that lay at the base of the case, finally lifting a sheet of paper out with her fingers, “It’s all in German, Peter. Can you translate it and see what it says?

She handed over the small sheet of paper to her boyfriend, who subsided onto the carpet, lay back against the sofa, and commenced reading slowly from the paper before him, “It’s a bit blurry, it’s all in pencil, and written a long time ago but listen, “Today will be possibly the last of the Archive recordings, we spent a week trying to locate where he was, and now they’re moving him again, and we’re not even half-way through the session!” Erm, bit smudged here,’We got another half-an-hour, but it’s no good, everything is against us finishing them, because we need calm and peace for the recording to work correctly, instead of which there are always demands on his time, and he says that they are more important than the memories! How could he say that? These are words which should go down in history, and I am pushed away by men who are not fit to wipe his boots, but they claim his notice because they demand decisions, and all I ask is his time to remember what his plans were?’” Irene stared at Peter as he spoke again, more slowly this time,” I think that this is the end. We have been told that all the recordings are to be held, with the recorder, and the black coats will come and retrieve them when transport is available. There shall be no more sessions, no more chances to immortalise his voice, it has all been for nothing! I will be encasing all the tapes with the machine parts and the device, and store them in the vaults at the base of the office block.”

“Who is he talking about, Peter?”

“There has only been one man who could drag this sort of loyalty out of an unemotional German, one man who could sway a nation, sway a crowd of two hundred thousand the same way he gripped the minds of twenty frightened men in a beer hall in Munich! If I’m right, what we have found is the last will and testament, in his own words, of Adolf Hitler, Reichs Chancellor of Germany, biggest mass murderer this world has ever seen!

Irene stared at her Peter with a frozen look of horror, “You mean that all those tapes are the speeches of that horrible man?”

“Looks like it! Not just speeches, sounds to me like he was trying to put down, in his own words, his philosophy of life, or death if it was him! Don’t know if I want to own anything which belonged to that character. Everything he touched turned to blood and death. I’ll get it burned at the incinerator. Don’t tell your dad about this, there are some people who would do a lot of nasty things to get their hands on ‘The life and times of Adolf’, in his own words as it were! Yes, I’ll pack it all up and get it burnt!” He packed all the tapes back into their space, lifted the recorder off the table and slid the oak box into it’s own space, covered the whole with the old blanket, and closed the lid back, sliding the pins back into the hinges. “Give me a hand, and I’ll swing it in under the staircase out of the way, Saturday morning I’ll get it across and burn it. It’s a memory of something evil, and fire is the only place for it!”

© James Michael Cunningham, May 2005

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