What's In A Name (4 page)

The old man's fingers crawled over to the package, then spread over it like the legs of a spider. “I have only this.”

“And you say that you have had it for a long time?” Altman asked.

“I wrote it after the war,” the old man said. “It reminds me of what I was.”

Altman suddenly felt a spike of dread move through him, sharp and tingling, like an electric charge. Once again, he thought of the old man's mention of crime, and once again he wondered if the book was a confession of some unspeakable act.

“It is about the way things were in our country,” the old man said. A dark sparkle came into his eyes. “You remember how they were, I'm sure.”

Altman did indeed remember how things had been in Germany after the war, the rise of extreme parties, the street fighting, a country coming apart at the seams.

“Germany was headed for an abyss,” Altman said. “Communists and fascists attacking each other. The twin plagues. At the time, the direction seemed clear, and it was a very scary one.”

“Is that why you left?” the old man asked. “Because you were afraid of what might happen?”

“Yes,” Altman admitted.

“I left because of Elsa,” the old man said.

“Elsa?”

“She was so sweet,” the old man added. “So kind to me. She worked in the hotel.” He looked at Altman knowingly. “You know what that means?”

“I do, yes,” Altman answered.

“She was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Altman asked.

“They said it was a rich man,” the old man said. “A rich man who lived in Vienna.”

“I see.”

“It made me very angry that so sweet a girl should be murdered.”

“No doubt,” Altman said cautiously, now once again unaccountably tense in the old man's presence, like a man who suddenly sees a snake in the tall grass.

“A Jew,” the old man added. “The rich man from Vienna.”

Altman felt a wave of relief. He'd wondered if the old man had somehow thought his father the murderer. But luckily, he thought Elsa's murderer a Jew, which certainly removed his father from the list of suspects.

The old man nodded toward the package. “It's all in there. How I felt in those days.”

“So your book is a memoir?” Altman asked, now hoping to get away from the disturbing subject of a poor, heart-of-gold prostitute murdered by a sinister and stereotypically wealthy Jew.

“It is, yes,” the old man answered. “No one wanted to publish it. They said I had a silly name. Which is true. It held me back in those days after the war. You can't rise in the world if you have a silly name.”

Altman felt the normal urge to ask what this name was, but he could see that it still embarrassed the old man. “Well, at least things got better,” he said. “Germany came out of the darkness… unscathed.” He looked at the manuscript, the way the old man's hand was now stroking it gently. “So,” he said, “your book.”

The old man said nothing, his sadness so deep, his disappointment so fathomless, Altman once again felt a wave of pity sweep over him.

“I'd like to read it,” he said as he nodded toward the package. “Would you mind? You've said that has to do with Germany after the Great War, and I collect that sort of material. I plan to place my collection in an archive at some point. The collection of these… documents will be my legacy.” He sat back and smiled broadly at being able to offer the old man a little sliver of immortality. “Your manuscript would have a permanent place in history.”

The old man looked at the manuscript as if offering a long goodbye before his hand suddenly swept out dismissively, a gesture that suggest that at long last he had decided it had no value. “Take it then,” he said. He picked up the manuscript and handed it to Altman. “I have no use for it.”

“I shall treasure it,” Altman said. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” the old man said. He began to put on his raincoat. “Well, good night,” he said and with those words, struggled to his feet, then reached into his pocket.

“No, please,” Altman told him quickly. “It's my pleasure.” He patted the manuscript softly. “Payment for this gift you have made to history.”

The old man appeared quite touched by Altman's remark. “Perhaps my life might have some use, after all,” he said softly as he got to his feet.

“By the way, what's your name?” Altman asked.

Rather than answer, the old man simply waved his hand as if to dismiss himself from Altman's interest, or the world's.

“It is a silly name,” he said.

With that he drew on his coat with trembling hands, then with a soft nod, bid Altman good night.

Altman watched as the old fellow moved shakily down the aisle, then out into the night, the chill, the suddenly returning rain, all of which bestowed a deeper fragility upon his figure so that he seemed to Altman much like man himself, weak against the great forces that are arrayed against him, the ravages of time no less strong and ultimately overwhelming than vast social and economic forces no “hero”—Carlyle's magisterial language not withstanding—could alter or affect. Even so, one thing remained clear, this old man, along with millions of others, could have had it much worse. He'd fully expected it to get much worse on the day he left Germany. Most everyone had felt the same. The predictions had been terrible. That Germany would fall under the hand of dictatorship, that there would be yet another great war, one that, like the first, would engulf all of Europe, the whole world. He offered the forces of history a soft, appreciative smile, for they'd been kinder to the world than anyone had expected all those years go.

Still captured in the warm glow of that smile, Altman glanced down at the manuscript, then, on an impulse, untied the string and read the title page:
Mein Kampf
by
Adolph Schicklgruber.

He smiled again.

Schicklgruber?

It was true what the old man said, Altman thought, it was indeed a silly name. But it wouldn't have mattered if he'd had a different one. The old man had hoped to change the world, but no single man could shape history. Only great forces could do that.

He glanced down at the manuscript again, smiled at the name. The old man had clearly blamed it for all his failure. He shook his head at so absurd an idea, for after all, he asked himself as he reached for his coat, what's in a name?

We hope you enjoyed this book.

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To find out about the series editors, click
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To discover more stories in the Death Sentences series, click
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For an invitation from the publisher, click
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About this Book

A rare book collector finds a manuscript that might have changed the course of WWI.

On the evening of November 11th, 1968, antiquarian book collector Francis Altman is giving a talk in honour of the anniversary of the Armistice Treaty. But his lecture takes a dark turn upon the haunting arrival of a classmate from his past. As the two men discuss their lives they realise that they are two sides of the same coin: both born and raised in Germany, but whereas Altman’s role in the war elevated his position, his comrade’s life was destroyed on the faceless, mechanized battlefields.

This strange encounter leaves Altman in possession of the man’s personal manuscript, his mysterious “life’s work,” whose contents could have changed the course of history...

Thomas H. Cook’s re-imagined history of the “dangerously spinning maelstrom” of post WWI is a contemplation on man’s ability to affect the world around him and brings to light the delicate relationship between circumstance, individual action, and destiny.

Reviews

Praise for Death Sentences

“What treats you have in store! All these stories show their authors to be masters of their craft.”
Ian Rankin

Praise for Thomas H. Cook

‘Thomas H. Cook writes with uncommon elegance, intelligence and emotional insight.’
The Times

‘
Sandrine
is a heart-breaking, heart-stopping love story as well as a taut, gripping courtroom drama, woven as masterfully and diabolically as a hangman’s noose. Nobody does it better than Thomas H. Cook!’
Judith Kelman

‘One of crime fiction’s most prodigious talents, a master of the unexpected ending.’
New York Times

‘From the compelling opening to the poignant resolution,
Sandrine
is a hauntingly beautiful and deeply moving novel that is at its core a story of a love both complex and enduring. Ingeniously conceived and elegantly written, it throbs with the suspense and insight into the human heart that we’ve come to expect of Thomas H. Cook.’
Anne D. LeClaire

‘Thomas H. Cook is a rare jewel of a writer, a powerful storyteller and an elegant stylist. If you are not familiar with his work, you absolutely should be.’
John Hart

‘Thomas H. Cook is a master of the psychological suspense novel.’
Sunday Telegraph

‘Thomas H. Cook writes like a wounded angel.’
Peter Straub

‘A tender love story in the form of a tense courtroom drama,
Sandrine
is mystery, metaphor, and morality wrapped together in a nifty package, a chance to observe grace (or treachery) under pressure. Thomas H. Cook’s elegant new novel offers all that great narrative pleasure. You’ll be baffled right up to the Wow of an ending. What a terrific story!’
Susan Isaacs

‘Thomas H. Cook is at his best here as he grabs the reader by the throat and doesn’t let go until the verdict is announced.’
Anne Hood on
Sandrine

About the Series Editors

O
TTO
P
ENZLER
is the proprietor of The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City and an Edgar-award winning anthologist.

I
AN
R
ANKIN
is the bestselling author of the Rebus series.

Also by this Author

Sandrine
How did Sandrine die?

There was no forced entry. She had been gradually stockpiling prescription drugs. A lethal quantity of Demerol was found in her blood. But did the beautiful, luminous Sandrine Madison really take her own life? The District Attorney doesn’t think so. Neither does the local newspaper.

And so Sandrine’s husband must now face a town convinced of his guilt and a daughter whose faith in her father has been shaken to its core. But, as he stands in the dock, Samuel Madison must confront yet more searing questions: Who was Sandrine? Why did she die? And why – how? – is she making him fall in love with her all over again?

A psychological thriller from a true master, Sandrine will hold you in its spell until its unexpected end.

Sandrine
is available
here
.

The Crime of Julian Wells
Haunted by the suicide of his friend, the true crime writer Julian Wells, Philip Anders starts to reread his books. And in their pages, he starts to glimpse a darkness that might drive a man to suicide.