Schreiber's Secret by Roger Radford

pressure, for most features were the product of forward planning. Most were sat on for a few weeks unless they were topical. Some never made it into print at all. The only connection between Sonntag and recent events was the fact that both he and her deceased uncle were Jews who had apparently suffered at the hands of fascists. She herself was convinced that Uncle Joe had been the victim of some rightwing nut. No explanation, however, could alleviate the plight of Auntie Becky, who had been so dependent on Joe that finding herself having suddenly to fend for herself in a cruel world was trauma enough. Having sons like Jason and Bradley only made matters worse. Danielle believed her cousins were the most selfish children she’d ever known. She flinched at the memory of the times she had been forced to babysit for them. There was only a four-year age gap but the boys had been especially immature in their pre -teens and had made her life hell.  Forcing herself to forget the Hyams family for a while, Danielle’s mind drifted back to her night with Edwards. It had been so exquisite, spoiled only by the telephone call. She would have loved to have awokenin his arms, to have explored his body and her own feelings in that time of special tenderness. Still, she believed there would be opportunity enough for that. She would not agree to sleep with him again just yet, for she felt she needed a few days to herself. Recent events and the thought of the forthcomin g shiv a conspired to put a dampener on her ardour. She sighed and turned once again to face the VDU. The cursor blinked threateningly. It seemed to dare her to finish her article. She had barely concluded a sentence before her telephone rang.
    “Hello, this is Danielle Green.”
    “Danielle!” It was Henry Sonntag. She thought maybe he was phoning to remind her to send a copy of the interview tape.
    “Yes, hello, Henry. How are you? I’m just working on the article now.”
    “Danielle, please listen to me. Please do not publish the article.”  For a moment she was stunned. His voice was pleading, desperate, so unlike the strong character she had interviewed. “I don’t know, Henry. Why? What’s happened?”

“I cannot elaborate, Danielle. Please do as I say. You will never understand.”
    “But, Henry, it may not be so simple. How will I explain to my editor?”
    Danielle’s mind was racing with a hotchpotch of excuses.
    “Then hold fire for a while,” came the urgent reply. “There is so much you do not know. Maybe I can give you an even better story later.” Danielle felt she had been let off the hook, for Sonntag obviously did not know that the interview might be on hold for weeks. She was intrigued.
    “Okay, Henry,” she agreed. “But be in touch soon, okay.”
    “Bless you, my dear,” he said, clearly relieved. “I will, I will. Goodbye.”
    “Goodbye, Henry.”
    Danielle spent the next few seconds staring at the receiver. How extraordinary. She tried to analyse the resonance in Sonntag’s voice. It had been a mixture of excitement, entreaty, and stratagem. But most of all, Henry Sonntag’s voice had contained an element far more disturbing: fear.
     

    CHAPTER 5
    Theresienstadt
    Herschel Soferman felt cold. Very cold. Although only a dusting of snow lay on the ground, the external temperature was at least ten below. A biting wind increased the chill factor to an unbearable degree. It would have been bad enough for a well-fed and well-clothed citizen in normal times. For an inmate of the Small Fortress in a cruel and unceasing war, however, each gust carried with it the torture of a thousand needles.
    He was still alive, though how he had survived the past month was nothing short of a miracle. He was now a veteran of the place, for all the Jews who had entered this hell around the same time as himself were no longer alive. And to what did he owe his survival? To the whim of one Hans Schreiber, benefactor and torturer. And how had Schreiber